Across the Bridge of Sighs: More Venetian Stories
Jane Turner Rylands
Language: English
Pages: 368
ISBN: 0375423419
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In these twelve wry, captivating stories, Jane Turner Rylands returns with more tales about the mysterious day-to-day life of Venetians, in which the conflicting forces of progress and tradition are very much at odds.
Once again we become insiders, let in on the attitudes and habits of characters from all strata of Venetian society—from very different backgrounds and neighborhoods—in one of the world’s most unknowable cities. Rylands makes us understand the subtle hierarchies of this Byzantine society with all its robust snobberies. The unique quirks, petty rivalries, and jealousies that lie just beneath the city’s elegant veneer are brilliantly observed.
Unforgettable characters from Rylands’s first collection make return appearances in several stories, and many new figures are introduced. An unscrupulous former race-car driver unveils a plan to save Venice; a fiendish son plans an aphrodisiac dinner; superstition and a possible curse add to a family’s very contemporary troubles over the restoration of their ancient palazzo, where a struggle ensues between decline and change.
As always with Rylands’s stories, we are easily drawn into this sophisticated but ultimately small-town world, and we come to understand the eccentricities of its citizens and the fragility of their future. In Across the Bridge of Sighs, Jane Turner Rylands evokes the poignant and lively world of one of our most cherished cities with all the power of a master storyteller.
beside the bricks. “What on earth is that?” she asked. “It’s marble,” said old Antonio. “I had a terrible time breaking through it. But I’ve done it now. I’ll go and fetch the window from the carpenter.” When he came back that evening with the window, Moceniga Dan was in a state. “Antonio! Didn’t you see as you came in? The window cuts through the arch above the great portal just underneath the point!” When she had positioned her worktable in the center of the room, she failed to take into
issue of it since he himself felt a little uncertain how to behave. The truth was that Beau’s beloved son, Bingo, had never in all his twenty-three years incurred his father’s serious disapproval—not even when Beauregard and Carmenina were divorcing, and Bingo, merrier than ever, romped back and forth between his parents proffering useful information in exchange for praise, affection, sports cars, holidays, apartments—in short, anything his tiny heart desired. Now, at the express invitation of
awhile before her husband had another project for her and she should take a break and get married. Maybe we could get her interested in the Count.” “That’s an idea,” said Bingo, getting up from the table. He surveyed the recipe books on the shelf over the sideboard. He took down three cocktail manuals: Six O’Clock and All’s Well, Promising Preludes, and Low-ball Highballs. “Time for some research,” he said, putting the books on the kitchen table and sitting down again. “Could you make me another
awhile before her husband had another project for her and she should take a break and get married. Maybe we could get her interested in the Count.” “That’s an idea,” said Bingo, getting up from the table. He surveyed the recipe books on the shelf over the sideboard. He took down three cocktail manuals: Six O’Clock and All’s Well, Promising Preludes, and Low-ball Highballs. “Time for some research,” he said, putting the books on the kitchen table and sitting down again. “Could you make me another
She looked around. This was a new world of opportunism and benessere that had nothing to do with her. Under pressure from the lawsuit, she had started to take account of prices. Everything here was a bargain. Soon she had covered the bottom of the cart. She went on to the meat department, and the canned goods, olive oil, detergent. The prices were ridiculous. She could see why people made this terrible journey. And she could see why the carts were so large. If you could get enough, you wouldn’t