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Authors: Barry Unsworth
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In any case, was he not doing this for his Madonna, his stone lady? It was a chivalric exploit he was engaged in, an adventure . His key and torch and the rubber-soled shoes he chose to wear were the accoutrements of knighthood. Knights were not supposed to worry about the odds against success.
All the same, emerging on to the fondamenta , he obeyed to begin with a certain impulse of timidity, taking a direction away from the church, towards the Grand Canal. He had to wait for the dark, he reminded himself. And there was food to think about. As he reached the San Marcuola landing stage a vaporetto came in, its bows making fiery way through the bronze sheen of the water. On an impulse he got on and bought a ticket to the Rialto. There were not many passengers at this time of evening, between work and pleasure; a few people who had perhaps been working late and a group of German tourists who had probably come down from the station – they had their luggage standing beside them. All these people stayed on the covered section of the deck and Raikes was on his own standing at the stern rail.
It was chilly out on the water and Raikes turned up the collar of his raincoat, watching across the glinting surface the marvellous succession of buildings over on his left, beginning with the Renaissance splendours of the Palazzo Vendramin; then church, scuola, palazzo in superb procession, their fronts faintly flushed in the dying light – again he thought how processional Venice was, how everything one did here seemed to fall into some recognizable ritual. Of course it was because Venice had not changed much, only decayed. This dirty noisy boat of theirs followed a time-hallowed triumphal progress, showing itself to the façades, which paraded themselves in turn. Like many ardent, lonely people Raikes possessed a strong vein of melancholy, and now he thought how sad it was, how very sad, this endless celebration of its own beauty the city indulged in, so long after the glory and energy had departed. It was something that could not be translated into human terms without heart-sickness – love diminishing in the midst of protestation.
The vaporetto passed under the Rialto Bridge and deposited him at the landing stage. He walked back, crossed the bridge and found a small restaurant about halfway along the Fondamenta del Vin with a view over the water. Here he sat over a half-litre of Grignolino and a pizza quattro stagioni watching the flush gradually fade from the buildings opposite. The brick darkened, the stone paled, the water took on its leaden-rose hue – even tones of colour had their own ritual here. Then the lights began to come on, destroying the delicate melting equipoise of slate and rose on the water; lanterns on the marking poles out in the canal, the triple-headed street lights along the fondamenta , the prow lamps of gondolas.
It was half dark when he left the restaurant. He crossed the bridge again and lingered for a while in the Campo San Bartolomeo in front of the statue of Goldoni. There was a pigeon on the playwright’s jaunty tricorn hat and another on his shoulder. Through the gathering darkness he looked down, Venice’s favourite son, streaked with pigeon droppings, blackened by corrosion, the genial cynicism of his expression still showing through. Humorous, indulgent, gregarious – Raikes found it difficult to imagine a man more different from himself.
It was after nine o’clock, and quite dark, when he let himself in through the side door into the baptistery. He used his key to lock the door again from the inside, wincing nervously as the key repeated its grating sound in the lock. His torch played a wavering beam over the base of the Romanesque font, and in a sudden shaft he saw turbanned profiles of adoring kings, the patient back of a donkey, angels’ wings. It was a strange experience to see these fragments of the Christian story so briefly and tremulously illuminated. A faint light from the street
All the same, emerging on to the fondamenta , he obeyed to begin with a certain impulse of timidity, taking a direction away from the church, towards the Grand Canal. He had to wait for the dark, he reminded himself. And there was food to think about. As he reached the San Marcuola landing stage a vaporetto came in, its bows making fiery way through the bronze sheen of the water. On an impulse he got on and bought a ticket to the Rialto. There were not many passengers at this time of evening, between work and pleasure; a few people who had perhaps been working late and a group of German tourists who had probably come down from the station – they had their luggage standing beside them. All these people stayed on the covered section of the deck and Raikes was on his own standing at the stern rail.
It was chilly out on the water and Raikes turned up the collar of his raincoat, watching across the glinting surface the marvellous succession of buildings over on his left, beginning with the Renaissance splendours of the Palazzo Vendramin; then church, scuola, palazzo in superb procession, their fronts faintly flushed in the dying light – again he thought how processional Venice was, how everything one did here seemed to fall into some recognizable ritual. Of course it was because Venice had not changed much, only decayed. This dirty noisy boat of theirs followed a time-hallowed triumphal progress, showing itself to the façades, which paraded themselves in turn. Like many ardent, lonely people Raikes possessed a strong vein of melancholy, and now he thought how sad it was, how very sad, this endless celebration of its own beauty the city indulged in, so long after the glory and energy had departed. It was something that could not be translated into human terms without heart-sickness – love diminishing in the midst of protestation.
The vaporetto passed under the Rialto Bridge and deposited him at the landing stage. He walked back, crossed the bridge and found a small restaurant about halfway along the Fondamenta del Vin with a view over the water. Here he sat over a half-litre of Grignolino and a pizza quattro stagioni watching the flush gradually fade from the buildings opposite. The brick darkened, the stone paled, the water took on its leaden-rose hue – even tones of colour had their own ritual here. Then the lights began to come on, destroying the delicate melting equipoise of slate and rose on the water; lanterns on the marking poles out in the canal, the triple-headed street lights along the fondamenta , the prow lamps of gondolas.
It was half dark when he left the restaurant. He crossed the bridge again and lingered for a while in the Campo San Bartolomeo in front of the statue of Goldoni. There was a pigeon on the playwright’s jaunty tricorn hat and another on his shoulder. Through the gathering darkness he looked down, Venice’s favourite son, streaked with pigeon droppings, blackened by corrosion, the genial cynicism of his expression still showing through. Humorous, indulgent, gregarious – Raikes found it difficult to imagine a man more different from himself.
It was after nine o’clock, and quite dark, when he let himself in through the side door into the baptistery. He used his key to lock the door again from the inside, wincing nervously as the key repeated its grating sound in the lock. His torch played a wavering beam over the base of the Romanesque font, and in a sudden shaft he saw turbanned profiles of adoring kings, the patient back of a donkey, angels’ wings. It was a strange experience to see these fragments of the Christian story so briefly and tremulously illuminated. A faint light from the street
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