Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

  She turned to smile at me. ‘As you can see, the icon is Byzantine in style. Infatti it was brought here from Heraklion in Crete – a city that is famously associated with A-sa-sa-ra-me.’

  She arched an eyebrow at me: ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She is the Minoan goddess of snakes.’

  Turning away, Cinta knelt to say a prayer and light a candle while I wandered off by myself and went to look up at the great dome. As I was staring into that cavernous hollow, the church’s bells began to peal. In the past I had always taken that sound to be an expression of joy and celebration; I remembered now that bells were also rung in warning, when great danger is in the offing. It was as if a voice were crying out from the past to remind the world that the limits of human reason and ability become apparent not in the long, slow duration of everyday time, but in the swift and terrible onslaught of fleeting instants of catastrophe.

  Then I felt Cinta’s touch on my elbow.

  ‘We are very lucky today,’ she whispered, leading me into the circular nave. ‘The centre of the church is usually roped off, except on 21 November when thousands gather to celebrate the festa of the Madonna della Salute. Only then are we allowed to approach the navel of the church, which is, for me, also the omphalos of my world.’

  She pointed to the floor where lay a circular rose mosaic of flowers entwined around a few words of Latin. She whispered in my ear: ‘Remember these words, caro, think of them whenever you despair of the future: Unde origo inde salus – “From the origin salvation comes”.’

  High Water

  As we were stepping out of La Salute, Cinta said: ‘Now that we are in this part of the city, there is something else I would like to show you, something contemporary. You must not miss it.’

  We turned right, crossed a small square, and came to a narrow pathway, flanking a low, freshly painted building.

  ‘This is the old customs house,’ said Cinta. ‘It was built at about the same time as La Salute. When I was a child it was a dilapidated old place. But some years ago it was restored by a Japanese architect, and now, like every other building in the city, it is an art gallery. You should take a look: I’m told they have an interesting show on right now, of modern art.’

  The path we were on ended abruptly at a triangular headland.

  ‘This is the Punta della Dogana,’ said Cinta. ‘Customs House Point. As you can see, the two main thoroughfares of Venice meet here, the Grand Canal and the Giudecca Canal.’

  Directly ahead of us lay a striking vista of St Mark’s Square and the lagoon beyond.

  ‘Let’s go in,’ said Cinta. ‘The show will be closing soon.’

  We stepped inside to find ourselves in the midst of a dramatically lit exhibition space. On display were some rather dull installations, which most of the viewers had chosen to ignore in favour of a work that was positioned at the far end of the gallery.

  We had to wait a while before we were able to make our way through the crowd that had collected around the exhibit. When at last we got there we found ourselves looking into a long, brightly lit tank of water: it was like a large aquarium and submerged in it were several long, tentacle-like forms, coiled around each other. They were covered with tiny metallic scales of brilliant, parrot-like colours. Viewers were encouraged to interact with the piece by touching it and stirring the water. With every touch the tentacles would undulate and uncoil and change shape – and the lighting was so ingenious that the writhing forms seemed almost to come to life.

  Cinta and I were both quite taken with the piece. She looked it up in the catalogue and gave a little laugh. ‘Why,’ she said, ‘it’s an old friend!’

  ‘The artist?’

  ‘No! The creature – il mostro.’ She showed me the title: ‘Il mostro di Punta della Dogana – The Monster of Customs House Point.’

  The write-up in the catalogue explained that the piece had been inspired by an old Venetian legend about a monster that had its lair beneath the embankment of the Punta della Dogana.

  ‘Weren’t we there a couple of minutes ago?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cinta laughed, tugging at my elbow. ‘Come – let’s go back and see if we can spot the creature.’

  She led me out of the gallery and went straight ahead, to the point where the two big canals met. The tide was coming in and the water was only a couple of inches below our shoes.

  ‘Over the centuries,’ said Cinta, ‘there have been many reported sightings of il mostro, in different parts of the Venetian lagoon. Some say that a giant squid – perhaps a whole famiglia – had moved into these waters. The last sighting was in the 1930s, and the two fishermen who reported it claimed to have seen the creature near the Punta della Dogana. That was how the story grew that il mostro lived here.’

  Cinta dipped the tip of her shoe into the water that was lapping against the embankment.

  ‘But tell me, Dino,’ she said, with one of her playful smiles, ‘does this look to you like a place where a mostro would live? At the busiest point in the city’s network of canals? With so much traffic going by?’

  She pointed to the vaporettos that were roaring past us.

  ‘No! that’s a tale only tourists would believe. This cannot have been the place where it lived.’

  I glanced at her face and saw that her eyes were sparkling mischievously.

  ‘No, Dino,’ she said, leaning closer. ‘When I was little I knew for a fact that il mostro lived on the other side of the city. My uncle had seen it, you see.’

  She tapped my arm and started walking briskly. ‘Come, Dino,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you the story while I take you to the place.’ She gave me a wink. ‘And when we get there I’ll show you some real monsters too.’

  I could tell from the febrile brightness of her eyes that she was in one of her moods and that I had no choice but to follow.

  * * *

  Cinta’s grandfather, on her father’s side, had been a fisherman. Although neither of his sons had followed him into the trade they had both liked to fish, especially Cinta’s uncle Ruggiero, who would often go out to the Fondamente Nove to try his luck.

  The Fondamente Nove is the kilometre-long embankment that runs along the city’s north-eastern edge. Being a good distance from the main streets and piazzas, it remains to this day one of the least frequented parts of the city. Back in the 1920s it was a dark, lonely place with splintering piers. This made it peculiarly well suited for catching squid and cuttlefish: a lantern would be hung over the water and the creatures would come floating up to the light, needing only to be scooped up with a net.

  One night Cinta’s uncle Ruggiero, then a teenager, went to the pier with an expensive new gas lantern that the family had recently acquired: he smuggled it out of the house without his father’s permission, thinking that the bright light would fetch him a good catch.

  He was right: squid and cuttlefish came up in swarms when he hung up the gas lamp; his bucket filled up in record time. But as he was bending down for one last scoop his net was suddenly snatched out of his hands. He waited for it to float up – it had a wooden handle – but it didn’t reappear. It was as if some large and powerful creature had caught hold of it and carried it away.

  But how could that be?

  Ruggiero hung the lantern on a hook, lay flat on the pier and stared into the water, thinking that the net had snagged on something – but instead of the net he saw two little shining discs, deep in the water; they seemed to reflect the light back at him, like the eyes of a cat. The discs began to grow larger as he watched, as though they were rising towards the surface.

  That was enough for Ruggiero to take to his heels – abandoning the lantern, he sprinted down the pier. He hadn’t got very far when he heard a splash and a sizzling sound. Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the lantern had been pulled off its hook and dragged into the water: it glowed faintly for a moment before sinking below the surface.

  ‘I heard the story many, many years later of
course,’ said Cinta. ‘I was just a child and it caught my fancy. For a long time I was desperate to see the creature. My friends and I would go there sometimes, to that exact spot, with torches and lamps.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘We never saw anything. By that time electricity was everywhere. People said the lights had driven the creature away.’

  * * *

  The story was told with many interruptions because we were passing through streets that were so narrow and crowded that Cinta and I could not long remain in step. And of course every once in a while Cinta would bump into an acquaintance which would lead to a chat, introductions and so on, which delayed us still more.

  Our progress was so slow that the sun had already set when the Fondamente Nove came into view, in the distance. We were now in a neighbourhood of tunnel-like lanes and crooked little houses, many of which seemed to be abandoned or uninhabited. It was clear at a glance that this had once been a working-class area.

  Veering suddenly to the right, Cinta stopped in front of a small two-storey house that was leaning sideways at a giddy angle. ‘This was where my father’s family lived,’ she said. Raising a finger, she pointed to a tilted window. ‘My nonna would sit there every evening, watching people go by. My zio Ruggiero lived here all his life. His son, my cousin Altiero, grew up here but he moved away after his marriage – Gisa is his daughter.’

  She looked up at the dimming sky. ‘It was at this time of the day that zio Ruggiero would go to fish.’

  Turning around she led me out of the lane and down the street, to the Fondamente Nove. It was almost dark now and lights were winking on the surrounding islands; the silhouettes of innumerable spires and towers could be seen outlined against the twilit sky.

  But the embankment, and the buildings that lined it, were all dark. ‘Do people live in this neighbourhood?’ I asked.

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Cinta. ‘I think most of the buildings are abandoned…’

  She was interrupted by the wailing of a siren, in the distance.

  ‘Ah!’ said Cinta, cocking her head. ‘It’s a warning, for the acqua alta, the high water. There will be a flood tonight.’

  The water was now only a couple of inches below the level of the pavement. I glanced along the embankment, in both directions. There was no one in sight, so far as I could tell, but it was hard to be sure, in that crepuscular light.

  ‘Shouldn’t we head back now, Cinta?’ I said.

  She laughed. ‘Beh! We’re already here and there’s still time.’ She started to walk briskly along the embankment. ‘Come along. Who knows? Maybe il mostro will rise with the flood.’

  She stepped on to a narrow wooden pier that extended some ten metres into the water. On either side of it, rising high above the pier’s wooden planks, were tall timber pilings made of pairs of logs that were fastened together with rope.

  Cinta walked to the end of the pier, holding on to the rails that flanked it. On reaching the end she turned back to beckon. ‘Come, caro, come – don’t be afraid, we are there. This is where my zio Ruggiero saw the mostro.’ She patted a pair of pilings. ‘This is where he hung the lantern.’

  Pulling out her cellphone she turned on its flashlight and shone the beam into the water. ‘Come here, Dino,’ she said. ‘Where’s your phone? Turn on your light.’

  Stepping to her side, I shone my cellphone’s light into the watery darkness, which was now just below the surface of the pier. The two beams formed rippling circles on the murky, greenish brown water.

  ‘Alas, the mostro of the lagoon does not want to be seen,’ said Cinta with a chuckle. ‘So I will show you a different kind of monster, much more dangerous.’

  Turning slightly, she shone the flashlight beam on the piling beside her. ‘Here – look!’

  I saw that her beam had landed on a section of the piling where a concave indentation had been carved neatly into the wood.

  ‘Look closely,’ said Cinta, ‘and you’ll see the monsters.’

  Turning my own flashlight beam on the piling I saw that the surface of the indentation was pitted with holes, like the inside of a book that has been attacked by termites. Then suddenly I realized that there was something alive inside the piling, not just one but many; they were wriggling, moving.

  Pulling out a hairpin Cinta dug into the indentation, picking at the rotten wood. Suddenly one of the creatures plopped out and fell on the pier, near our feet. I managed to move my flashlight beam quickly enough to get a look at it. It was about two inches long, the colour of congealed coconut oil. Its tapering body widened into a funnel-like mouth that was ringed with tiny filaments.

  It was so hideous that it was difficult to believe that it was real.

  In a moment it slithered away and fell into the water.

  ‘What is it?’ I said to Cinta.

  ‘A shipworm. A friend of mine who works in the municipio brought me here a month ago to show me these creatures and the damage they are doing: it was he who made that cut in the wood. More and more of these are invading Venice, with the warming of the lagoon’s water. They eat up the wood from the inside, in huge quantities. It has become a big problem because Venice is built on wooden pilings. They are literally eating the foundations of the city.’

  We turned our cellphones on the pilings again and focused the beams on the worms, wriggling inside the wood. Cinta knocked on a log with her knuckles. ‘From the outside it looks saldo, doesn’t it, really solid? But inside it is probably hollow.’

  She was still speaking when the rail we were leaning on slipped sideways, catching us both off guard. As we snatched at the rail our cellphones flew out of our hands and vanished into the water.

  I heard a creaking sound and shouted to Cinta, ‘Quick! Move to the other side!’

  No sooner had we moved than a section of the rails toppled over and fell into the water, tearing chunks of wood out of the pilings and exposing its hollowed-out interior. We watched in horror as a mass of squirming shipworms came pouring out of the broken logs. They fell on to the pier and came swarming towards us.

  I grabbed Cinta’s arm: ‘Run! Run!’

  But the worms were all over the pier now. We had taken only a few steps when Cinta stepped on them and slipped. I tried to catch her as she tumbled forwards but was unable to arrest her fall. She let out a scream as we both fell on to the planks.

  And then the worms were swarming over us – our legs, arms, faces, heads. It was as though the earth itself had sent out ten- tacles to touch us, to feel the texture of our skin and see whether we were real.

  We were thrashing about, clawing at the worms, when a wave swept over the pier, washing most of the worms away. When the water receded I heard Cinta moaning softly.

  ‘What is it, Cinta?’

  ‘It’s my leg and my ankle; they hurt molto, molto.’

  ‘Do you think you can stand up?’

  She made an effort to push herself up and then collapsed with a grunt of pain. ‘No. Non posso.’

  I put my arm around her and glanced at the water. It was rising fast now; I knew we didn’t have much time – soon we would be marooned.

  ‘Wait here, Cinta, just for a minute.’

  Struggling to my feet, I looked at the shore to see if it might be possible to get Cinta to the end of the pier and back to the Fondamente Nove. But the embankment was itself under water now and a section of the pier was leaning heavily to one side: even if I were able to get over it myself I knew there was no way I could get Cinta across. Even to try would be to risk having her fall in the water – and in her present state, she would be helpless.

  The lights of the city were glowing in the distance and things seemed to be carrying on much as usual, despite the flood. I could even hear a band, playing somewhere far away. But our immediate surroundings were in complete darkness; there was not a single light to be seen nearby.

  A tide of disbelief washed over me as I stood in the ankle-deep water, looking at the illuminated spires in the distance. How
was it possible that in this most civilized of cities we should be so utterly alone and helpless, so completely at the mercy of the earth?

  Cinta was mumbling now; I caught the word ‘Madonna’ and knew she was praying.

  It had been so long since I prayed that I did not know who to pray to. When I knelt beside her and shut my eyes the image that appeared before me was that of an open palm sheltered by a cobra’s hood.

  ‘Look!’

  It was Cinta, tugging at my elbow. ‘Guarda! Over there – laggiù. Look!’

  Following her finger I spotted a dim glow, like that of a candle. It seemed to be coming from one of the abandoned buildings on the Fondamente Nove.

  ‘I think there’s someone in there,’ said Cinta. ‘Maybe a senzatetto or a squatter. They may be able to help. Why don’t you try shouting?’

  I cupped my hands around my mouth: ‘Aiuto, per favore, aiuto!’

  There was a moment’s silence and then a voice rang out: ‘Dove sei? Che succede?’

  Although the words were Italian the voice was not; in fact it sounded somehow familiar.

  ‘Bilal naki?’ I shouted in Bangla. ‘Is it you, Bilal?’

  ‘Hã! Yes.’ He sounded startled.

  ‘It’s me, Dinanath Datta. I talked to you the other day. I’m stuck on a pier and my friend is badly hurt. Can you call an ambulance or something?’

  ‘Of course!’

  I saw that the water had risen to Cinta’s waist now.

  ‘Taratari – please hurry, Bilal.’

  A couple of minutes went by before I heard Bilal’s voice again. ‘An ambulanza will be here in a few minutes. Do you want me to come over there to help?’

  ‘No,’ I shouted back. ‘There’s nothing more you can do. It’s lucky for us that you were here. Grazie! Grazie mille.’

  ‘Prego,’ he said. ‘I’m glad I could help. But one thing please: don’t tell anyone about where I was. This is our secret place.’

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry!’