The Dogs of Venice - Hardcover

Rowley, Steven

 
9798217047604: The Dogs of Venice
Hardcover
ISBN 13: 9798217047604
Verlag: Putnam Pub Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

AN INSTANT USA TODAY BESTSELLER

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Celebrants and The Guncle, a heartwarming story about finding oneself in one of the most romantic cities on Earth.

After months of planning a romantic holiday getaway in Venice, Paul is blindsided when his five-year marriage suddenly unravels. Fueled by heartbreak, Paul endeavors to take the trip alone.

Soon after arriving in Italy, he notices a small, scruffy, self-assured dog trotting alongside a canal with the confidence he so desperately wants for himself. When their paths cross again, Paul feels compelled to learn how his new four-legged friend thrives on his own. Amid the food, sights, and welcoming people of Venice, Paul’s journey culminates in a magical encounter that leads him to feel real connection—to a dog, to a foreign city and, most importantly, to himself.

Capturing Steven Rowley's signature wit, insight, and indelible characters, The Dogs of Venice offers another timeless story of love lost, and independence found—a holiday tonic for the soul.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Steven Rowley is the New York Times bestselling author of Lily and the Octopus, a Washington Post Notable Book; The Editor, an NPR Best Book of the Year; The Guncle, winner of the Thurber Prize for American Humor and Goodreads Choice Awards finalist for Novel of the Year; The Celebrants, a Today Show Read with Jenna book club pick; and The Guncle Abroad. His fiction has been translated into twenty languages. He resides in Palm Springs, California.

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It was a trip Paul and Darren had planned together, Venice at Christmas, an idea cooked up while dining at Alice, a dark and moody Italian joint in New York's Greenwich Village. Alice is Italian for anchovy, one of Italy's most popular fish, something they'd learned on a previous vacation to Rome. They spent the better part of the year planning and dreaming, saving and studying, until three weeks prior, while they were admiring Bergdorf's avant-garde Christmas windows, of all things, Darren announced their marriage was over."This isn't working," he'd said. Convinced his husband was talking about the window display, Paul covered one eye, then turned his head sideways to see if that helped."I think it's the Pegasus . . . es." Pegasi? "There are too many of them." The winged creatures frolicked and kicked and were covered in mirrors like disco balls. "In Greek mythology, they sprang from the blood of Medusa when Perseus cut off her head, but I have a hard time believing that many horses could stampede out of one woman's neck." But Darren wasn't talking about the windows. By the time the departure date for their trip rolled around, he had already acquired moving boxes from the U-Haul on West 23rd.Stunned, Paul forced himself onto the plane anyway, thinking what Darren needed was time alone; surely after a day or two he would come to his senses and maybe even make it to Italy in time for Christmas."Next to an empty seat. Do you always have such good luck?" asked a male flight attendant with an easy smile just after the plane's doors had closed and everyone had taken their seats. Up until that moment, Paul had his eyes trained on the aisle, thinking Darren might reconsider."Actually, I was supposed to take this trip to Venice with someone. But . . ." Paul couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence. Not that he needed to; heartbreak was written across his face.The flight attendant twisted his mouth to one side but later brought him a free bottle of wine and leaned in to whisper, "My gondolances," causing Paul to stifle a groan. The in-flight magazine had an article about New York at Christmas, and he tore out the page with a photomontage of the city's store-window displays and used it to spit out his gum. The woman across the aisle glared at him, and Paul glared back until she returned her attention to her book.Paul arrived in Italy via Paris, JFK to Charles de Gaulle to Marco Polo, before a water taxi ferried him briskly across the Laguna Veneta, a bay in the Adriatic Sea. Even with the extensive directions the rental company had provided, the loft Darren had booked was almost impossible to find, hidden behind an arched cutout in a crumbling wall that opened to a private cobblestone walk. Paul was so lost in the fistful of printouts he clutched tightly in one hand, studying digital photos altered with red arrows ("idiotproof," Darren had described the directions when they were first emailed), he almost wandered right into a canal when the walkway came to an unannounced end. Dusk had given way to darkness, and the canals were almost black and hard to see. It reminded him of when they last had to buy a new TV. The salesman was pushing a QLED, as it had the blackest blacks with multiple dimming zones. "Sometimes black can be too black," Paul had said at the time, and he said it again to himself now. He took a few steps back from the edge until he came to a door adorned with a coppery knocker, an ornate lion's head, and used it to rap three times.After a minute of quiet pierced only by water lapping against the walkway, he heard footsteps and a stodgy woman whipped open the door. "Due people," she said when she saw only Paul standing there. In her wrap skirt with a tea towel stuck in the hem, breasts sitting right on her waist, she looked not unlike Mama Celeste from the frozen pizza commercials of his youth."Do people what?" asked Paul, confused, looking over his shoulder to see if he had the wrong door; this was already a mistake. Darren was the one who had brushed up on his Italian using an app while Paul had studied maps and made lists of things for them to do."Due. Due," she said, annoyed, before holding up two fingers."T-two," Paul stammered, finally understanding, and was embarrassed again anew. "Change of plans. I'm afraid you're stuck with just me." And then he added, "Uno," as he held up one index finger, hoping that he wasn't confusing Italian with remedial Spanish.Mama Celeste looked at him with great skepticism, like he might have just drowned his companion in a canal; in the moment, he would consider it. "Morto?""Dead? Good heavens, no. We broke up. Divorce." Paul fumbled for his phone and the language translation app he had at the ready, as the word left a distaste in his mouth. It was the first time he'd said it aloud. "Divorzio." It sounded only slightly less grim in Italian.The woman's pursed expression relaxed. Her face sagged with pity, the corners of her mouth heading south like her breasts. "Morto is better." Paul didn't argue as she ushered him inside, showed him the loft, and gave him a key. It was spacious and worn (but shy of dilapidated), filled with dusty books in Italian and English. On the table was a panettone and a bottle of wine with a card. The kitchen had the fanciest espresso machine he'd ever seen, and there was an oversized chair that he could lose himself in while he enjoyed his morning coffee. In short, it was exactly as Paul had dreamed. As soon as the woman left, he ripped open the card hoping it was from Darren, but alas the cake and the wine were a gift from the rental company.Paul awoke the next morning with no message from Darren. Given that it was year’s end, even his office was leaving Paul be; he was able to clear his inbox in a matter of minutes. It was when he snapped his laptop closed that he first saw the dog from the loft’s picture window, which overlooked one of the city’s quieter canals. The animal trotted along the narrow walkway on the far side of the water with an enviable nonchalance, its brindled scruff a perfect match for the cobblestone, a white stripe running down its nose looking extra bright in the morning sun. Unleashed and alone, the dog moved with assurance and purpose, ignoring an old man with a cane carrying a bakery box headed in the opposite direction. It scampered up and over a small footbridge, as if this were part of a daily commute, before disappearing out of sight. He then struggled with the apartment’s complicated espresso machine, which hissed and spit steam and grounds. He took a few sips of an undrinkable sludge. At home, Darren had always made the coffee, as he was the earlier riser; Paul was already failing to perform simple tasks on his own. Feeling sorry for himself, he leaned in the window, waiting for the dog to return. It didn’t, but something about the dog left an indelible impression.Later, when he gathered the courage to venture into the city, he noticed several more of these street dogs; with no cars in Venice, they seemed to enjoy the run of it. None were leashed and only one he encountered was muzzled. There were very few rules regarding dogs, it seemed. Animals apparently weren't allowed in markets, but even that seemed negotiable to the Italians; while buying a bottle of Soave and a selection of local cheeses, Paul had witnessed a corgi patiently waiting for its owner by the checkout and no one appeared to mind. Outside another shop in the Campo Santa Margherita, a small pooch demanded the complete attention of a security guard, who was more than happy to oblige. These dogs seemed to rule the roost. But there was something about his dog's shabby confidence, the one that had passed his apartment, that stirred an awakening in Paul. It was so comfortable in its own skin and possessed such command; he could easily picture the dog waiting nightly in an alley behind a sleepy bistro for the chef to reveal from under a cloche a...

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Verlag
Putnam Pub Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 13 
9798217047604
Einband
Gebundene Ausgabe
Anzahl der Seiten
80
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

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