Nostalgia
Release date: August 15, 2023
Available for purchase at The Bookstore of Gloucester
August 23, 2023
©Bing McGilvray
By Peter Anastas
CHAPTER 23 of Nostalgia— Excerpted by permission
Benjamin Anastas, who was instrumental in the posthumous publication of his father’s book, provided the following introduction to the excerpt published here:
Nostalgia, Peter Anastas’s final completed novel, is a work of the ‘speculative real,’ a prophetic history of Gloucester that shows what happens in America’s oldest fishing port when the forces of economic development set off a building spree, with high-priced condos going up across the harbor and obliterating the livelihoods of working people. Rob St. John, the novel’s protagonist, is a recently widowed foreign correspondent who returns to the city of his origin to find Gloucester transformed into a maritime-themed playground floated by the tourist economy. He becomes ensnared in the story of economic upheaval and interviews the people who saw it all happen.
Nostalgia distills a lifetime of thinking about Gloucester and its future into one startlingly moving and perceptive novel. And it asks the question: How did a city like Gloucester, known for the fierce independence of its citizens, come to give its soul away?
23.
BOOK LAUNCH
Location: Cultural Center at Rocky Neck
Thursday, September 7, 7:30pm
Book launch hosted by Gloucester Writers Center will feature Ben Anastas along with friends of Peter Anastas and assorted Special Guests providing recitations. This is certain to be a spirited book launch! Information.
“It’s a billion dollar view!”
The remark came from one of Noah’s guests on the harbor cruise, interrupting Rob’s concentration on the white houses of Gloucester as they rose magically from the Boulevard, not unlike Canaletto’s sun-shot paintings of Venice.
He’d been introduced to Rob as a prominent developer, this visitor who assigned a value to what had welcomed generations of fishermen as they entered the harbor after grueling and often unprofitable trips.
Bart Commoner was his name, and he’d recently acquired two full blocks of single-family and duplex houses on the Boulevard.
“How did he manage that?” Rob had asked Noah.
“He made them an offer they couldn’t refuse,” Benson said.
“But those are families who traditionally pass their property on to their children and grandchildren. It’s the only wealth they have.”
“Not anymore,” his host replied dryly.
“I don’t get it,” Rob said. “Two blocks of Gloucester people bought out just like that—for what?”
“Condos—what did you expect?”
Commoner and his wife were one of three couples Noah had invited aboard this small private schooner. The Hallelujah had been built in the same Essex, Massachusetts boatyard that launched many of the major fishing vessels during the era of sail. Except that this smaller duplicate was employed for tourist cruises up and down the harbor, on the hour; an unvarying tour in which paying passengers were encouraged to join in raising and lowering the sails, if there was wind enough to fill them and propel the ship forward. Otherwise, it depended upon its engine, which it was doing now in the breeze’s lull as they rounded Ten Pound Island.
Like Noah and his wife, the other guests were casually dressed in expensive resort clothing, the men in linen shorts and tailored shirts, the women in shorts also, or dresses that floated around them in the breeze. No one wore boating shoes. And the crew kept a discrete distance except to offer chilled white wine and Brie. Rob noticed that the wine was an excellent Sancerre.
“Don’t be taken in by these people.”
An attractive dark-haired woman approached Rob as he stood in the bow reflecting on the years he’d sailed these waters, the brilliant blue of the sky, the stillness of the water sheet now parted by the schooner’s steadily thrusting motion.
“I don’t really know them.” Rob turned to notice that she looked to be in her forties, an un-tinted thread or two of gray in her hair that was slightly askew from the breeze. She was wearing black linen slacks that hugged her legs, gold high-heel sandals on her feet, probably Zanotti. Her lipstick was so dark a red it verged on purple.
“That’s the way they wish it,” she said in perfect Italian.
“You’re Italian!”
“Roman,” she said. “Ti ho reconosciuto subito.” She used the familiar address, as was now the custom. “I have been one of your faithful readers. When Noah said that you would sail with us, I was delighted.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Does it seem unlikely that a Roman matron would suddenly appear on the deck of a ship in Gloucester, Massachusetts?”
Rob heard just the hint of a Roman accent in her Italian.
“I know what you’re listening for,” she laughed lightly.
“If you want to know, I am originally from Milano.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Your Italian is very fluent,” she said. “Or should I say you speak excellent Florentine, with a touch now and then of Bologna?”
“My wife—”
“I understand she was born in Prato. We actually met at one of her openings.”
Her gaze was frank.
“I am sad for you. There is nothing so terrible as the loss of a partner.”
Rob shook his head, in surprise at this unexpected encounter, and as a sudden short stab of pain came over him at the mention of Carla.
“May I ask your name?”
“I am Daria. My husband is the man over there with the blue shirt and the gray mustache.”
“And his name is?”
“Walter. He is not Italian. We met in New York.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“I worked at Sotheby’s.”
“There was a gallery I often visited in Milano. A friend from Florence owned it.”
“Ah, yes, Numero. Fiamma Vigo also had a place in Rome. But she found herself overextended. You will recall that she shut down and began to sell from her house in Florence.”
“It was on the Costa San Giorgio. I attended a party there. She represented my friend Carlo Podestà.”
“One of Scanavino’s most promising students,” Daria said excitedly.
“He was coming into his own when they found the tumor on his brain. Is it true that he left a wife and a small child?”
“I knew Carlo and Marion before they were married,” Rob said.
“We lived in the same pensione in Via Ricasoli. I wrote the catalogue essay for his first show in Florence.”
“We have much in common.” Daria laughed heartily, prompting some of the other guests to look in their direction.
“You’ve found each other, how wonderful!”
Noah’s wife approached them with a platter of cucumber sandwiches.
“I was telling Daria how much Noah and I have enjoyed knowing you,” Helen enthused. “I was certain you two would have a lot in common.”
“And we do,” Daria said.
“So I’ll leave you to it.” Helen backed away smiling.
Before he could continue their conversation, Daria gave him an appraising glance.
“What are you doing with these people?”
Her directness startled him.
“I met Noah in a café—”
“I know all that,” she spoke impatiently. “I’m asking a more fundamental question.”
“Are you saying that they don’t seem my type?”
“I’m telling you I was shocked to learn of this liaison.”
“It’s a small town—”
“Don’t make excuses. You are too worldly for that.”
“What can I say then?”
“You can admit to the fact that you are looking for something from them, just as they are hoping to make use of you.”
Daria continued to confront him, her eyes shining, her hair flying in the wind.
“You can confide in me,” she insisted. “We will probably never see each other again.”
Rob finished his wine, motioning to the crew member to retrieve the glass.
“Since we are in a truth telling mode,” he said. “Let me begin with a question you may know the answer to. In describing how that prominent group of waterside houses was acquired by Mr. Commoner, Noah said that an offer had been made the owners could not refuse.
Does that mean what I think it does?”
Daria’s eyes shined conspiratorially. “My dear St. John. After living in Italy for all these years, are you trying to tell me that you do not understand a threat of that nature? Clearly the owners were advised that it would be to their advantage to sell in case of an unaccountable event. It could be posed as an environmental issue, or an impending change in FEMA’s Flood Insurance Program. But the substance is the same.”
“That’s what I assumed. But why would you want to exchange such confidences—”
“You mean with someone I do not know?”
“Precisely.”
“It is because I do know you.” She removed her sunglasses, revealing the blackness of her eyes. “After reading practically everything you have published how could I not know you?”
“It’s only journalism.”
“And you mean to say that I cannot read between the lines? Or that I have not quoted your analysis of the Montesi case for years?”
Rob laughed.
“Let us just say that we met advantageously,” Daria said. “Two people who have something in common beyond a language.”
“I assume you mean la politica?”
“You could say that. But I think you have an idea about what I am trying to tell you. Or would you like me to spell it out?”
“Sto attento.”
“I, too, am in a compromising situation,” Daria said. “I met the Bensons at an auction. Having newly gained means, they wished to acquire art—”
“And they needed guidance. Even with Helen’s background.”
“You are following me.”
Daria replaced her sunglasses.
“We became friends, so to speak. It was through them that I met my future husband. He was developing one of the midtown towers.
The new owners needed art. They needed a lot more than art, to be truthful. It was enough that I was brokering art.”
“Allora?”
“As you know from your wife,” Daria went on, “when you are dealing with art at the highest levels it is not simply a question of transaction. There is a subtler dynamic involving galleries, auction houses, museums, collectors and those who mediate. To tell you the truth, I got in rather deeply and it was my husband who extricated me.”
“So there were obligations—”
“Obligations upon obligations.”
“And what does this have to do with Noah and Helen and your being in Gloucester?”
“Ever the reporter!” Daria laughed. “Let us just say that many of the same people who trade in art also deal in real estate, as they do in Italy. In the same way that they act to acquire a desired art object they move to seize a block of houses that may have been in families for generations, or an entire neighborhood, demolishing it, if necessary. And they move subsequently to build what will enable them to repeat the process again and again. A hotel, for example. It does not matter which laws or ordinances might stand in their way, or questions of architecture or traditions. There is nothing they will not do to remove a potential obstruction. Do I make myself clear?”
Nostalgia is available exclusively at The Bookstore of Gloucester through the launch period.
She lowered her voice, with an unreadable smile plastered on her face. It was in case they were being observed, Rob knew immediately.
“You will also discover soon that Commoner is a developer of casinos. He was a partner in the creation of the gambling and entertainment complex that was recently built near Boston. I do not need to tell you where that money comes from or the politics that were involved in developing a casino on such a questionable site.”
“So this money is in Gloucester now, too?”
“It is,” Daria said. “And it will continue to be.”
Peter Anastas (1937-2019) was a writer, teacher, activist and social worker who spent his life immersed in the preservation of Gloucester, Massachusetts and its cultural heritage. His publications include Glooskap’s Children: Encounters with the Penobscot Indians of Maine (Beacon Press, 1973), the novella Landscape with Boy (Boston University Fiction Series, 1974), the memoir At the Cut (Dogtown Press, 2002), and the novels Broken Trip (Glad Day, 2004), No Fortunes (Back Shore Press, 2005) and Decline of Fishes (Back Shore Press, 2010). His collection of newspaper columns A Walker in the City: Elegy for Gloucester was reprinted by Lost & Found Elsewhere: The CUNY Poetics Document Initiative and Dogtown Books in March. Nostalgia, his last completed novel, will be published in August by At the Cut Books.
“Jazz,” a chapter from Anastas’ unpublished memoir From Gloucester Out is one of 15 feature articles published in the July 2023 COSMOS Culture Folio — Read here.
