The gondolier refused to give his name. He was quiet, so very quiet. We, Elizabeth, my wife, and myself, assumed they would be like friendly tour guides. Chatting in a charming accent, informing us of the history of Venice, throwing in anecdotes. Not in this case. He wouldn't even look at us. So we entertained ourselves, waving at people on shore, taking note of the architecture, listening to music from the city's market place.
We'd been on our gondola for over an hour and both of us were getting hungry. It was time to return, especially with the sun going down. We didn't want to get lost trying to find our hotel. On three occasions we had passed other vessels and it seemed their gondoliers were singing and talking and laughing. Our sullen guy, tall, well over six feet, slim at the waist, wide shoulders, muscular arms and back, stared straight ahead, his aquiline profile ready to be sculpted.
Say, young man, I believe we should turn around and return. I spoke in what I thought was a firm voice. He ignored me. Elizabeth repeated my words, sounding perhaps a bit shrill. No response. It was dusk now; we saw no other gondolas. I thought he may have been deaf, so I stood up shakily and stepped toward him. Before I could open my mouth, he turned and faced me. His eyes were black oil spots; he slowly smiled, dropping his oar. Everything happened in slow motion. It took me a moment to see his incisors, two inverted pyramids, and I froze.
With his powerful hands on my throat and Elizabeth screaming, I told myself this is the part where I wake up.
Isn't it?
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