Venetian dawn (21.2.86)

I entered St Mark’s Square as the great clock struck six.  It was just before dawn, and a dark-grey light hung in the air.  No one was to be seen; I was the only movement as I crossed the stones.  I was the only sound.  I felt as if I had stepped on to the world’s greatest stage.

All of Venice is theatre.  Everywhere you go there are backdrops.  Along the canals the palazzi form an ever-changing display of forms that is strangely two-dimensional.  As you walk through the myriad back streets, along narrow alleyways, round sharp corners, you are constantly assaulted by the sudden view, the sight from a bridge, half a facade, teasing like a dramatic revelation.

And yet you are always a player, never part of the audience.  You cannot step back from this stage.  The only spectator is the sea.  The rest of us skulk down the passageways or across the small piazzas like minor characters in a never-ending play.

The most you can hope for is a soliloquy.  Around dawn, even the Venetians sleep.  There are only the buildings, which are not still because the water around them is never still.  There is the constant slow dripping, the waves that lap the stones, the weeds in the water.  You stalk this silent world like a villain in a pantomime, like a lovelorn swain in a vaudeville, like an outcast hero in a melodrama.  But Venice never takes you seriously.  It has history on its side.  It has seen the real thing for centuries.  Besides, who could ever hope to impress a city built on water?

Just after dawn, the first chorus enters.  The light by now has seeped through Venice like the water which reflects it.  Old women move silently, criss-crossing the city.  They carry brooms and mops.  They are the cleaners bound for an office somewhere.  They look more like witches or secret servants of the Night, tidying up yesterday’s loose ends, making room for today, but perhaps they are just stagehands, clearing the stage for the first scene before returning to the shadows which are their home.

After them come the men, the first workers who march out into the lightening air like a deputation from the people, charged with the prologue and waking the audience up.  They move briskly, with decision; some smoke, some whistle; all radiate an air of solidity.

Thereafter there is the first of many crowd scenes as men and women bustle about, and the wakening city gains momentum.  The plot now becomes too complex for mortal eyes; it is hard to tell who is the prima donna and primo uomo.  Perhaps they constantly change; perhaps all parts are equally important.  Besides, you too are part of it now that the first choruses are done and scene has been set.  You must join in or the prompter will be barking ill-temperedly behind you.

And so after seeing the city wake up, the stage swept and the day’s prologue announced, I made my way back through the bustling St Mark’s Square, which was flooded now with the morning sun’s glorious limelight.

(29.7.86)

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