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It is indeed special. You can taste the entire life of the pistachio nut, its shell, its kernel, the tree, the sapling, the seed, the sun on the back of the hand of the african planting it. You don't have time to eat it there, so you lick it, smiling, as you walk stationwards. First you lick it into the pointed shape of a venetian arch. Then, when it has melted a little, into the shape of the Doge's hat.
Of course you get lost, despite the map. You wander through alleyways
and little winding streets that turn out to be cul-de-sacs or finish in
water. In the twilight figures pass you, as though in a masquerade.
- A beautiful red setter with a silver chain, like one of the dogs in
the background of Venetian paintings. It looks at you.
- A thin pale woman dressed in layers of semitransparent white
fabric which floats behind her, ghostly.
- The dog's owner, a young man in sunglasses and Armani, who arrives
from around a corner. He talks angrily to the dog and slaps its face,
you hate him, you understand that you hate him not principally for his
cruelty but because he is too good-looking. Far too good-looking.
- A group of Buddhist monks in sandals with shaven heads who bow to
you.
- A young man with black curls flowing to his shoulders, a long curved
nose, shapely legs, and dark skin. He has large gold rings in his ears.
- A Venetian with two Americans who turns as he passes you and says
in english in your direction "your friend is in great danger.." and
then turns back to the Americans to finish the phrase "..of tiring
himself out by trying to see too much in one day".
- A gentleman with a wise face dressed all in black except for a
white collar, the collar is an Elizabethan ruff.
- A little boy in a black mask with a water pistol.
- A furious man, purple-faced with rage, carrying an enormous bowl of
flowers.
You find where you are on the map. You are in Calle degli Assassini, street of assassins. As you walk towards the station the smell of the drains is like a musical note so low that you hear it not through your ears but as a vibration in your bones. You reach the station as the hour comes to an end. From the window of the train which crosses the lagoon towards the mainland, Venice seems a work of fiction, an operatic illusion, all velvet filigree masks brocade stabbings and murano glass, invented after eating an over-rich licorice cake.
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