And the whole thing could be done right there on the spot. The mess would be no problem. There were ways of dealing with it. And afterward the boy's own colleagues in the employ of the Nettezza Urbana would dispose of the remains. There would have to be a number of plastic bags, but all of the bundles would be quite small. He would simply tie them shut at the top and place them tenderly outside the doors along the fondamenta, and in the morning the good workers of the city would pick them up, along with everybody else's plastic bags, and cart them to the nearest canal.
One of the things that had charmed Henchard from his first days in the city was the smoothly working perfection of Venetian civic arrangements. All the problems of life in a watery metropolis had been solved long ago. Since there were no fields, no orchards, no cows or pigs or chickens in this city of stone, everything had to come from the mainland. And of course since there was no extra land anywhere for the disposal of rubbish, every scrap of refuse had to be removed by boat. Henchard had seen rubbish carts hoisted over the seagoing boats of the Netturbini on the edge of the Riva degli Schiavoni, he had seen their bottoms fall open and the debris tumble out. He had seen the fully laden boats chug away into the lagoon.
Out there somewhere, far from the city, they dropped their cargoes. And then, freed of their trash from yesterdayall their smelly garbage and used diapers and tin cans and empty bottles and occasional severed heads and arms and legsthe citizens of Venice could begin the day as fresh and spotless as newborn babes.
Of course the hole in the ceiling would still be a problem. It would call for heavy-gauge chicken wire, a trowel, and a bag or two of plaster of Paris. Non c'e problema. Nothing to it.
*5*
"We are renting the top floor," said Homer to the little girl, trudging after her up the stairs. "Siamo quiwait a minutesiamo qui per visitare Dottor Bell. Dov'eoh, sorry, hold it a sec." Homer ran over the possessive pronouns in his head. "Dov' e il suo appartamento?"
The child seemed not to have heard. She clumped ahead of them, bent nearly double under her backpack. Homer and Mary followed, lugging their baggage up the steps. On the level surface of the pavement in the square, the little wheels had made it easy to drag the suitcases, but hoisting them up a flight of stairs was a different matter. Mary and Homer struggled and heaved.
At the first landing the little girl stopped and took out another key. Instantly the door was flung open. A woman stood in the doorway and began scolding the child in a torrent of Bostonian English. "Ursula, you are a very inconsiderate little girl. Did it occur to you that your grandmother might have something important to do? Where have you been?"
Silently the child edged past her. Only then did the grandmother notice the man and woman climbing the stairs half a flight down. She stared at them blankly and began to close the door.
"Oh, please, ma'am," said Homer loudly, "perhaps there's some mistake. I spoke to Doctor Bell on the phone yesterday from Concord, Massachusetts."
The woman glowered at them through a crack in the door.
"Oh, Homer," said Mary, embarrassed, "it must be the wrong address. Can you tell us, signora, if Doctor Samuele Bell lives here?"
At last the face of the grandmother lost its grumpy expression and wreathed itself in smiles. She opened the door all the way. A queenly graciousness replaced the chill. A plump hand was held out in a gesture of royal welcome. "Professor and Mrs. Kelly, of course. Do, do come in."
Homer dragged his bag up and up, wanting to say, It's not Professor and Mrs. Kelly, it's Professor Kelly and Professor Kelly, but he held his tongue.
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Dorothea Wellesley. I am an artist. Do come in." But she was still standing in the doorway, a plump elderly woman in a Laura Ashley dress.
Move out of the way, woman. Mary and Homer bumped their bags up the last few steps to the landing and stood there, breathing heavily, two exhausted Americans who had just hoisted two hundred pounds of baggage skyward against the downward pull from the center of the earth.
At last Mrs. Wellesleyartist, grandmother, and obviously the mother-in-law of Samuele Bellstepped aside and they were permitted to enter. At once there was another blockage.
"My art, you see, is here on the wall. This is a portrait of my beloved daughter."
A respectful mortuary pause was required. Mary and Homer supplied it, their book bags dragging from their shoulders, their fists gripping the handles of their suitcases.
"In Venice one can only walk in the footsteps of the masters." Mrs. Wellesley backed up slowly, delivering a lecture on every painting along the corridor. They were apocalyptic scenes in violent colors, the Virgin and child in flames, the crucified Christ in a bonfire, a conflagration of church steeples, a manger scene like a fiery furnace, a robed figure burning at the stake.