from Ray and Coleman.
On the stern of one of the boats, Ray saw MARIANNA II . None of the boats had a canvas cover.
Coleman looked around. Only three or four young Italian boys were in view, huddled in their coats, not far from the ticket-booth of the vaporetto, twenty yards away. The ticket-booth was closed, Ray had noticed. He looked out at the lagoon for an approaching vaporetto, but saw none. It was 1.20 a.m.
“Damn Corrado. He’s probably gone home,” Coleman mumbled. “Well, let’s go. We don’t need him, anyway.”
Coleman stooped on the wharf, went down a short ladder and got himself awkwardly on board, into the pit at the stem.
Coleman was going to drive it. Ray recoiled at once, sought for an excuse, a good excuse to get out of going, and, realizing both the difficulty and the absurdity of having to invent an excuse to protect his life, he smiled with amusement and felt blank. “You’re going to drive it?” he asked Coleman.
“Sure. I drove it all day. Corrado just comes along for the ride. He lives on the Lido, but I don’t know where.” Coleman was fishing keys out of his pocket. “Come on.”
I can stand up to him , Ray thought. Coleman wouldn’t catch him a second time by surprise. If Coleman tried, he might have the pleasure of hitting Coleman, at least, of knocking him out. Anyway, retreating now would be blatant cowardice, and Coleman would gloat. Ray stepped aboard. A low brass rail ran around the stem, and the boat had a covered cabin where the controls were.
Coleman started the motor and backed out cautiously. Then the boat turned, and they picked up speed. The noise of the motor was unpleasant. Ray turned his trench-coat collar up and buttoned the top button.
“I’ll head for the Giudecca Canal! Put you off somewhere on Zattere!” Coleman yelled at him.
“Schiavoni’s okay!” Ray yelled back at him. He was sitting in the stern on the low seat. It was certainly fast transport, but it was cold. Ray started into the cabin for shelter, just as Coleman turned from the controls and moved towards him.
“Got the wheel set!” Coleman said, jerking a thumb behind him towards the motor.
Ray nodded, keeping his hand on the cabin door-top for balance. The boat was bouncing about. In view of the buoys around, not to mention possibly other boats, Ray did not think it very safe to set the controls. He looked ahead anxiously, but saw nothing between them and the bobbing lights of the mainland of Venice. Coleman bent and turned sideways to Ray to relight his cigar. Ray started into the cabin again, and Coleman came towards him, so that Ray had to step back, but Ray still kept his hand on the cabin top. Then Coleman, with the cigar between his teeth, lunged against Ray with his whole weight bent low, catching Ray in the stomach. Ray fell half over the gunwale, but his right hand caught the slender brass rail. Coleman hit him in the face with his fist, and shoved a foot in his chest. Ray’s right arm was bent awkwardly, and his grip was broken as his weight swung over the side.
Ray had a sickening backward fall for a second, then he was in, wet, sinking. When he had struggled up to the surface, the boat was many yards away, its buzzing motor faint in his water-clogged ears. His shoes and his trench-coat were pulling him down. The water was icy on his body, and already he could feel the approach of numbness. He cursed himself. It’s what you deserve, you ass! But his body, like an animal’s body, fought to keep afloat, to gasp for air. He tried to remove a shoe, but couldn’t without his head going under. He concentrated on keeping afloat, on finding a boat to hail. The water was outrageously rough, as if the sea itself had taken up Coleman’s cause. He saw no boats anywhere. Venice looked farther away than it had from the boat, but the Lido was still farther, Ray knew. One of his ears popped and cleared of water, and then he heard a bell faintly. A buoy’s bell. For several seconds, he
On the stern of one of the boats, Ray saw MARIANNA II . None of the boats had a canvas cover.
Coleman looked around. Only three or four young Italian boys were in view, huddled in their coats, not far from the ticket-booth of the vaporetto, twenty yards away. The ticket-booth was closed, Ray had noticed. He looked out at the lagoon for an approaching vaporetto, but saw none. It was 1.20 a.m.
“Damn Corrado. He’s probably gone home,” Coleman mumbled. “Well, let’s go. We don’t need him, anyway.”
Coleman stooped on the wharf, went down a short ladder and got himself awkwardly on board, into the pit at the stem.
Coleman was going to drive it. Ray recoiled at once, sought for an excuse, a good excuse to get out of going, and, realizing both the difficulty and the absurdity of having to invent an excuse to protect his life, he smiled with amusement and felt blank. “You’re going to drive it?” he asked Coleman.
“Sure. I drove it all day. Corrado just comes along for the ride. He lives on the Lido, but I don’t know where.” Coleman was fishing keys out of his pocket. “Come on.”
I can stand up to him , Ray thought. Coleman wouldn’t catch him a second time by surprise. If Coleman tried, he might have the pleasure of hitting Coleman, at least, of knocking him out. Anyway, retreating now would be blatant cowardice, and Coleman would gloat. Ray stepped aboard. A low brass rail ran around the stem, and the boat had a covered cabin where the controls were.
Coleman started the motor and backed out cautiously. Then the boat turned, and they picked up speed. The noise of the motor was unpleasant. Ray turned his trench-coat collar up and buttoned the top button.
“I’ll head for the Giudecca Canal! Put you off somewhere on Zattere!” Coleman yelled at him.
“Schiavoni’s okay!” Ray yelled back at him. He was sitting in the stern on the low seat. It was certainly fast transport, but it was cold. Ray started into the cabin for shelter, just as Coleman turned from the controls and moved towards him.
“Got the wheel set!” Coleman said, jerking a thumb behind him towards the motor.
Ray nodded, keeping his hand on the cabin door-top for balance. The boat was bouncing about. In view of the buoys around, not to mention possibly other boats, Ray did not think it very safe to set the controls. He looked ahead anxiously, but saw nothing between them and the bobbing lights of the mainland of Venice. Coleman bent and turned sideways to Ray to relight his cigar. Ray started into the cabin again, and Coleman came towards him, so that Ray had to step back, but Ray still kept his hand on the cabin top. Then Coleman, with the cigar between his teeth, lunged against Ray with his whole weight bent low, catching Ray in the stomach. Ray fell half over the gunwale, but his right hand caught the slender brass rail. Coleman hit him in the face with his fist, and shoved a foot in his chest. Ray’s right arm was bent awkwardly, and his grip was broken as his weight swung over the side.
Ray had a sickening backward fall for a second, then he was in, wet, sinking. When he had struggled up to the surface, the boat was many yards away, its buzzing motor faint in his water-clogged ears. His shoes and his trench-coat were pulling him down. The water was icy on his body, and already he could feel the approach of numbness. He cursed himself. It’s what you deserve, you ass! But his body, like an animal’s body, fought to keep afloat, to gasp for air. He tried to remove a shoe, but couldn’t without his head going under. He concentrated on keeping afloat, on finding a boat to hail. The water was outrageously rough, as if the sea itself had taken up Coleman’s cause. He saw no boats anywhere. Venice looked farther away than it had from the boat, but the Lido was still farther, Ray knew. One of his ears popped and cleared of water, and then he heard a bell faintly. A buoy’s bell. For several seconds, he
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