River of Shadows

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A steady downpour descended from the skies. The big lamp over the boatman’s clubhouse, put there as a beacon for the dredgers which navigate by memory, in the dark, could hardly be made out through the raindrops bouncing off the main embankment alongside the river.

“Foul weather,” Vernizzi said.

“And no sign of a let-up,” Torelli said, without raising his head.

The two had been sitting facing each other over a game of briscola which showed no sign of reaching a conclusion.

“How high has it risen?” Vernizzi said.

“Twenty centimetres in three hours,” said the other, keeping his eyes on the cards.

“By morning the waters will have covered the sandbank.”

“And the current will be tugging at the moorings.”

There were games at all four tables, but play was more desultory than usual since the rain and the rising river were distracting the boatmen. At intervals they could hear the groan of the capstan at the nearby jetty as someone laboured to haul the hulls of the boats out of the river. The continuous dripping of the rain, splashing gently, sounding like a man peeing against a wall, was an undertone. It was the fourth day of rain, falling at first with the fury of a summer storm and then with greater persistence. Now a kind of mist was descending and a breeze was gently ruffling the surface of the pools of water outside the clubhouse. Old Barigazzi appeared at the doorway, his hat and oilskin running with water. A draft of cold air swept across the room, and behind the bar Gianna shivered.

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