Aqua Alta

RHYS BOWEN:  Isn't it strange how often something we are writing suddenly echoes an event in real life? I have written about murders and then read in the paper of one that was just as I described it.  And how many books have been written about pandemica? Eeek!
And now a scene in my new book (called The Venice  Diary/Sketchbooks/Keys/Legacy/Secret?Something. I'll let you know what marketing finally decides) could have been taken directly from recent headlines.  It is a time of Aqua Alta--high water. When the high tide from the lagoon rises over the streets and into first floor homes.

Venice has always flooded in the winter, but not badly until now. When I wrote this scene I tried to think what it would be like to have to wade through water to  get home, but the Venetians take it entirely as a normal event. If you see newscasts during the recent Aqua Alta you'll see people sitting on stools in bars with water below them, shops open with a foot of water inside.

My heroine, a new arrival in Venice doesn't find it so easy.

Here's an excerpt:

We managed to skirt around the side of the square without getting too wet and both ordered a bowl of minestrone soup, which warmed us up nicely. I was so glad that I could finally enjoy food again. We finished our soup, ordered coffee and a pastry and still the rain hadn’t eased up. Then we were conscious of a loud siren, blaring out over the city.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Aqua alta!” a man at the next table said, waving his arms excitedly. He got up in a hurry, left some coins on the table and ran out, his coat over his head.

“What does that mean?” Henry asked.

“I think it means that some of the streets get flooded. We should go home while we can.”

Henry nodded. He insisted on paying the bill. “Will you be able to get home all right?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine. I expect the traghetto is still operating,” I said. So we parted company. My raincoat and scarf were soon soaked through. The wind had come up, driving the rain in different directions, first hitting me in the face and then in the back of the neck. I reached the traghetto dock and found the gondola tied up with its cover on.  “Blast,” I muttered. I was now in for a long walk up to the Accademia Bridge before I could cross the Grand Canal.

I slogged on, feeling more and more frustrated as there is no such thing as a direct route in Venice. I had to retrace my steps to cross a canal, then constantly choose left or right instead going forward. Finally I reached the Accademia Bridge and had to battle both wind and rain, clinging to the railing as I made my way up the fifty two steps and the down the other side. When I came down to the little piazza it was already flooded. I waded through the icy water, feeling it lapping over my ankles. Other people trudged through it as if it was only a minor inconvenience--a woman carrying a laden shopping basket, another pushing a stroller with the child suspended just above the water level. 

I was now so cold I was shivering uncontrollably. Campo Santo Stefano loomed ahead of me. Not too far now. I stumbled into an unseen drain and fell forward. I would have gone flat on my face into the icy water if a passing man hadn’t grabbed me and hauled me to my feet again. I passed a bar and was amazed to see men sitting on stools, drinking and smoking while water lapped below them. It seemed that nobody else cared too much about the rising waters.

“Madonna!” Signora Bertolini exclaimed when I came into the flat and stood in the hallway with water dripping from my clothing.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I am making your floor wet.” I tried to unbutton my coat but my fingers were numb with cold.

She came up to me. “You poor child,” she said, and started unbuttoning my coat for me. “Let’s put it over the bathtub to dry,” she said. “And your shoes. So the aqua alta is already upon us, yes?”

I can't tell you what happens next,  but a major plot twist. That's one of the challenges of giving sneak previews: I want my readers to be surprised when they read the book. And in this book I've given myself an additional challenge: It takes place in four time periods and I want to reveal the story, bit by bit in each of them, constantly surprising the reader. I've written two and a half stories and then I'll have to find a way to put them together. Maybe it will be like the Tuscan Child and I'll have to lay out one set of chapters in my front hall and then decide where to add the chapters from other time periods (and pray there is no sudden draft!)

What do you think about books written in more than one time period? Does the jumping around annoy you?