by Paul Theroux
Another Fellini episode occurred the next day in Rimini. I was walking along one of the main streets and a bus lurched to a halt, and the passengers began banging on the windows. The driver had barricaded them in by locking the exit door, and a crowd gathered around the bus to watch the passengers arguing and struggling to get out. The police were summoned, and so were the ticket collectors from a nearby bus stop. There was fury inside the bus.
Ten African girls were gesticulating and howling in Italian. Then the doors opened and some old women got out. The African girls were still yelling at the driver. The police questioned them. “Where’s your ticket?” “Don’t touch me!” “We’re all together!”
An Italian dwarf in a silk suit, smoking reflectively, stood near me to watch.
“What’s up?”
“Tickets,” he said.
The crowd grew around the bus, and now the African girls were screaming. They were Somalis or Sudanese or Eritreans, from the old Italian colonies and mission stations. It was hard to tell where they came from because they were so thoroughly urbanized, each one in an expensive wig and tight pants and heavy makeup—purple lips, glittering mascara. It was a showdown, and it went on for about twenty minutes, but at the end the girls were triumphant, and they screamed abuse at the spectators and waved their bus tickets and swore at the driver. The police shrugged. The bus drove off.
Not all encounters between Africans and Italians are so jolly. The Violence Observatory, a Rome-based organization that monitors such incidents, reported that an average of at least one attack a day on foreigners was recorded in 1993, and the figures were higher in 1994. These were stabbings, shootings, beatings. All it took to provoke such an attack was a single episode—say a carload of Moroccans running down an Italian girl (as happened the same month at the Tyrrhenian resort of Torvavianca)—and local people began assaulting any darkish foreigner they encountered. A few months after I saw this odd encounter in Rimini a fire destroyed a barracks housing hundreds of farmworkers in Villa Literno near Naples. The victims were mostly Africans, who are now Italy’s tomato-pickers.
A satirist like Fellini, merciless and impartial, would have had something to say. And I began to think once again that the great justification for traveling the shore of the Mediterranean, if such a justification was necessary, was that the foreground—these sudden strange encounters—was much more interesting than the Roman amphitheaters and the ruins.
• • •
From Rimini I took a branch line train inland to Ferrara, via Cérvia and Lido di Savio, detouring around the enormous low-lying delta of the Po. The train stopped everywhere, picking up old people and noisy schoolchildren in this tucked-away part of Italy, all farming communities, crammed with fig trees and vineyards and fields tangled with artichokes.
I stopped in Ferrara and took a taxi to the nearby village—so it seemed from the map; it was called Dodici Morelli, it was just a crossroads, some houses, a thicket of hedges, a small church.
“There is not much here,” the taxi driver said.
“My grandfather was born here,” I said. “My mother’s father.”
“Bravo,” the man said. “He did the right thing—went to America!”
“He used to write poetry,” I said.
“Bravo.” He said it with feeling.
It was a short trip by train from Ferrara to the little station at Rovigo. On the way a Portuguese couple in my compartment quarreled with the conductor. The woman had injured her arm, she said. The conductor doubted her. He asked her to fill out a declaration. The woman did not speak Italian. I gathered that she was drunk.
“Why you write I push de doors? I no push de doors! Geeve me, you dunno!”
“In Venice you go to police.”
“Why? No! I no go! I escape from theese man!”
I stepped from that screaming into the green fields of Rovigo and caught another branch-line train, even smaller, the spur to Chioggia by way of the tiniest Italian villages I had seen so far, the farms and settlements that feed the appetites of Venice. It was a happy discovery: in the midst of all the celebrated cities, this obscure corner, reachable on a little rattling two-car train. The land was as flat as Holland, it had the look of a floodplain, and garlic and onions and lettuce sprouted from it.
At the end of this branch-line railway was the small ancient seaside town of Chioggia, the last, most southerly island in the chain of narrow barrier islands that form the eastern edge of the lagoon of Venice. The lovely city hovers in the distance like a mirage on water, dreamlike spires and domes in the mist.
• • •
Chioggia is Venice with motor traffic. As a consequence it is scruffy and noisy, not livelier but more chaotic—few tourists, lots of locals, only dogs and children in the backstreets, and only one hotel that I could see. I was not planning to stay. I had arrived early enough in the day to look around and then leave. With no splendid image to live up to, a rather ordinary town on the water, Chioggia was restful and pleasant. There were concerts and events advertised, but it was obvious that Chioggia had constantly to defend itself against the taunts of people who compared it unfavorably with Venice.
I left my bag with the ferry captain of the Clodia at the main quay and then walked from one end of town to the other, and across bridges and along the small canals. After lunch, I followed a nervous and exhausted bride and groom who were having their pictures taken; the family trailed behind, with gently mocking friends, and onlookers, and all the while the bride’s white gown and long train dragged through the mud of the quay.
I bought an antique postcard with a 1935 postmark in Chioggia, not for the picture—of Trieste—but the message: “You are always in my thoughts. Infinite kisses.” (Sei sempre nei mei pensieri. Baci infiniti.) Such tender sentiments lifted my spirits.
Workers from Chioggia commuted to the Lido on the Clodia. Anything but an easy trip, it was cheap but exhausting, over an hour and a half, involving ferries, buses, and in places legging it. The whole affair of transfer had the laborious efficiency of Italian travel. The ferry crossed to Pellestrina Island, where at the quay a bus was waiting to transport the ferry passengers to the north end of the Pellestrina. This island of somewhat recent, somewhat ugly houses and green meadows, and football fields, and schools, could have been almost anywhere in coastal Italy, except that the lagoon to the left and the seawall to the right were reminders that it was unusually slender and low-lying. The soil was sodden and waterlogged, with that unnatural reclaimed look that Holland has, hardly land it seems so fragile and false, more like a raft or a carpet, not terra firma but something more easily drowned.
Arriving at the village of Santa Maria del Mare, the bus rolled straight onto another ferry, the Ammiana, which had been waiting there at the north end of Pellestrina. This new ferry, with the bus on board, plowed into the lagoon and took us a half mile to the south end of the Lido, another long and narrow island. The bus drove off the ferry ramp, with us on it, and after a while we arrived at the Lido water taxi station.
The Lido was residential; it is for people who want tree-lined streets, and cars, and the chance to swim. As a barrier island, on the sea, it acts as Venice’s shoreline; the word lido means “shore.” Several hotels of the Lido are extravagantly grand, on their own Adriatic beaches; there are also many small hotels, and the usual boardinghouses. Today a rough sea was battering the beach of the elegant Hotel des Bains, where Von Aschenbach leered at lovely little Tadzio, and contemplated the meaning of life, in Death in Venice, the ultimate low season narrative. Perhaps the masterpiece would have been more aptly titled Death on the Lido, since the Lido bears no resemblance at all to Venice.
I considered staying at the Hotel des Bains or the Excelsior, but thought better of it. Apart from the fact that rooms were too expensive, I also felt that I would be isolated from the life of the Lido, in a gilded cage. Sometime in the future, when all I had to do was read a book, and not write one, I would return and stay there. It seemed to me t
hat the greatest Mediterranean comforts were available at those grand hotels on the Lido, but at a price, about $600 a night. On the lagoon side of the island, I found the sort of ordinary hotel that in Italy was usually clean and pleasant, and the next morning I realized I had chosen well.
The first thing I saw the following day, as I walked down my side street to the lagoon, was a great flotilla of boats. Decked with pennants and banners, they were high-sterned wooden watercraft, larger and more elaborate than gondolas, with gold trim and bright paint, the lead boat with a tall crucifix instead of a mast and others carrying statues of saints, all of them manned by crews of oarsmen who were rowing them across the lagoon from Venice to the Lido. They bobbed busily in the early-morning sunshine.
I had arrived at a good time, the Feast of the Ascension (the Festa della ’Sensa in Venetian slang), the day of the annual ceremony of marriage with the sea, Ceremonia dello Sposalizio del Mare. In former times, the Doge threw his ring into the lagoon and a young fisherman dived into the water and grabbed it. These days it was a regatta, followed by a mass at the Chiesa San Nicolo al Lido (“Here the Emperor Barbarossa stayed before his meeting with Pope Alexander III in San Marco in 1177”—but perhaps we knew that already).
The ceremony was a ritualized blessing, the pretty boats with their bunting and flags and ribbons all fluttering in the wind, drawn alongside the embankment; the muscular oarsmen still panting from the effort of the long row, their eyes lowered, standing in their splashed costumes, their caps doffed. A mass followed this, just like the sort of happy mass that followed a wedding ceremony. I associated this amount of piety and time with the sort of weddings I had preferred in my days as an altar boy: there was usually a tip afterward from the harassed father of the bride. Tips and tokens were passing to the oarsmen who were like acolytes at this ceremony. The so-called marriage of the sea “commemorated the Conquest of Dalmatia in A.D. 1000,” my guidebook said: oars and pennants and blessings on this shore for almost a thousand years.
I took a water-bus from the Lido to Venice proper, and approaching this city in the sea, glittering in brilliant sunshine, I began to goggle, trembling a little, feeling a physical thrill and unease, in the presence of such beauty, an exaltation amounting almost to fear.
Venice is magic, the loveliest city in the world, because it has entirely displaced its islands with palaces and villas and churches. It is man-made, but a work of genius, sparkling in its own lagoon, floating on its dreamy reflection, with the shapeliest bridges and the last perfect skyline on earth: just domes and spires and tiled roofs. It is one color, the mellowest stone. There is no sign of land, no earth at all, only water traffic and canals. Everyone knows this, and yet no one is prepared for it, and so the enchantment is overwhelming. The fear you feel is the fear of being bewitched and helpless. Its visitors gape at it, speechless with admiration, hardly believing such splendor can shine forth from such slimy stones.
Language cannot do justice to Venice and nothing can detract from its beauty. It floods regularly; its marble is damaged and decayed, its paintings rot, it has stinking corners. Its canals are green, some of it looks poisonous, it is littered, it teems with rats which not even the masses of Venetian cats can cope with. The graffiti on ancient walls and on church pillars—I noted Berlusconi is Doing Harm and Berlusconi is the Assassin of Democracy—is almost incidental. People still live in Venice, children play in its backstreets, where families turn the cranks of pasta machines, men congregate to smoke, women scorch tomatoes. In the alleys beggar women cradle their children and hold signs: Please Help My Family—Ex-Yugoslavia. Even the fact that Venice is actually sinking, and might one day be destroyed if not disappear altogether, gives it an air of fragility and drama, a passionate mortality.
The outdoor pleasures of Venice—walking, traveling on the water-buses, gloating over the architecture—are as intense as the indoor pleasures of browsing among the masterpieces of painting and sculpture. Both are hopeless too, because there is not enough time to see everything you want. To use my time, because I was just passing through, I made a project for myself. I looked for paintings in churches and galleries where the sea was specifically shown—the sea battles, the blessing of fleets, the sight of canals and gondolas in the background of religious pictures, the mythology of the sea. The best by far was in the Ducal Palace in St. Mark’s, Tiepolo’s “Venice receiving the Homage of Neptune”—the lovely woman personifying the city, La Serenissima, reclining while the ancient grizzled god empties a great hornlike shell of its treasure of gold coins and jewels.
At the western edge of Venice, towards the quays where the largest ships are moored, and next to the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, is a large medieval and mournful-looking prison. Being in prison in Venice seemed to me like the classical definition of Hell—that you are near Heaven but denied it absolutely.
That was also how I felt when I had to leave Venice, on a crowded train to Trieste.
All the way to Trieste I caught little glimpses of the sea, and after the train climbed to Aurisina in the hills that funneled the famous Bora wind into the city, I had a panoramic view of the enormous notch in the Adriatic, called the Gulf of Venice on the map. It was the last gasp of Italy—you could almost spit into Slovenia from a window on the left side of this train.
The late-afternoon sun, misshapen by the risen dust, lost its lightness and its gold, and thickening, growing orange as it descended, began to break slowly, the white sea dissolving the sun’s rich pulp.
With a little shudder the train, with far fewer passengers, stopped at Trieste’s South Station. I walked out and sensed that I was no longer in Italy. It hardly looked like the Mediterranean anymore.
Trieste was once the noble port of Austria, and it still looked to me like Vienna-by-the-Sea. The city still had those gray Hapsburg buildings, every one of them looking like the headquarters of an insurance company (and that included the Church of St. Anthony the Thaumaturgist), sloping up from the port, in austere and forbidding terraces. The structures of Trieste have big flat faces. It is a city of apartments and suites, not private houses, nor any small stucco dwellings on backstreets. No chickens, hardly any cats; all the dogs on leashes, like its sister cities in northern Europe, composed of seriousness and gloom and the fragrance of sticky pastries. It is the city closely documented in the novels of Italo Svevo, Confessions of Zeno, the ultimate account of a man trying to give up smoking, and Senility, the story of an infatuation. Svevo’s friend James Joyce urged Svevo to call the latter book As a Man Grows Older.
Joyce lived in Trieste off and on for about seven years, and wrote most of Ulysses there, gave English lessons, fell in love with one of his students. Sir Richard Burton, one of the world’s greatest travelers, was British Consul here in Trieste towards the end of his career, and while his wife Isabel worried about the welfare of Trieste’s stray cats and overworked donkeys, Burton had worked on his books. They also spent time up the line at Villa Opicina. The Burtons liked Trieste so well they eventually colonized seventeen rooms in one of these large apartment blocks. Sir Richard filled it with his spears and his dueling swords and collections of pornography and incunabula; he wrote a dozen books, including his translation of The Arabian Nights; and here in Trieste he died.
It was just a few hours by train from the incandescent lightness of Venice to the lugubrious gray of Trieste, but of course being in the Mediterranean was all about surprising transitions. Indeed, ever since arriving on the Adriatic shore I had been anxious about my next move, the onward journey to Croatia. I had seen the ferries leaving for Split from Bari and Ancona. “No service to Dubrovnik,” I was told. None to Montenegro. I guessed the reasons why. The thought of going there preoccupied me; I knew a bit about it, just enough of the atrocities of its war and its recent devastation so that images of it invaded my dreams. Trieste was safe, but Trieste was a more serious place than any I had seen, and it seemed to be preparing me for something grimmer.
Just at dusk the city
was almost empty of pedestrians. I walked the length of the port and then back on the inside streets, and found a place to stay.
“So what brings you to Trieste?” the clerk asked.
“I was curious about it,” I said, and thinking of the writer who had made the city real to me, I added, “And I have read Svevo. In English, though.”
“It is better to read Svevo in English. He’s too confusing in Italian.”
Italians were full of compliments, even here at the edge of Slovenia. The Spanish were too restrained to praise, the French too envious and uncertain, the Corsicans too proud. For the more generous and extrovert Italians, praise was normal, words cost nothing, so the flow of daily life was eased. I had lost an important ticket in Venice. At first the ticket collector mildly scolded me by clucking, but when I said, “I am a cretin—I am really stupid,” he said, “No, no—it is usual to lose a ticket, don’t be hard on yourself.”
More urgently than I intended I said to the hotel clerk, “I want to go to Croatia. Do you know anything about traveling there?”
“Nothing,” he said. “But sometimes we get the refugees.”
I saw some the next day—panhandlers holding politely worded signs, and disoriented families with bags and boxes idling at the port. After the Venetian capriccio, this sobriety. The Triestini themselves were taller than Italians I had been seeing, and paler, and rather laconic. It was a city of suits, a businesslike place with an air of solidity and prosperity.
James Joyce had been that most enigmatic of refugees, a literary exile in Trieste, sitting out the First World War in a Triestine apartment and writing his masterpiece about Dublin. But he had come there earlier. From 1904 to 1906, fleeing Ireland, practicing “silence, exile, cunning,” he was an English teacher in Trieste’s Berlitz School, while writing short stories. After a brief absence he returned to Trieste in 1907 and gave private English lessons. One of his students, Hector Schmitz, was middle-aged (Joyce was a highly excitable twenty-five-year-old) and a businessman, yet when Joyce showed him an early draft of his short story “The Dead,” his student brought out two novels he had written under his pen name. He told Joyce that they were old hat—he had published Una Vita, twelve years before, and Senilitá in 1898. The young Irishman declared him a neglected genius. Senilitá especially pleased him.
