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Authors: Michael Moorcock
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resort.
Eventually the Turk who had run off returned. He seemed proud of himself. Everything was being done as if they were new to it. Was Kazakian again playing things by ear? With the Turk was a tiny old man in a black jacket and trousers, a dirty collarless shirt and bare feet. The old man seemed bemused, but cheerful enough. ‘ Buon giorno, signore, signora.’ He nodded with hesitant politeness.
I almost embraced the poor man. I was close to tears. For a little while I had suspected Captain Kazakian of putting us off on some convenient Greek island, but now I knew this was Italy! We were safe. Nearer now, a donkey brayed again. The old man turned and clucked into the darkness.
The Turkish seamen and the venerable Italian carried our luggage up the beach. Eventually I followed, supporting a tottering Esmé. We reached a narrow track and there stood a little cart, the donkey between its shafts. The cart had nets in it and a sack evidently containing fish. The old man moved the sack to the seat and began loading the trunks. When he had finished there was only room for Esmé on the board in front. We helped her up. She seemed to respond well to the little fellow’s murmuring voice. There is nothing more soothing to the nerves than the sound of soft, kindly Italian. The old man and myself stood together, watching the Turk return to his boat and shove off into the deeper darkness. Then, giving the donkey a sharp tap on its flanks, the old man led it up the track. I walked beside him.
He spoke nothing but his own language of which I knew only a few words. I told him I was grateful for his help and hoped we were not inconveniencing him. He did not understand but smiled and said: ‘Son contento che Lei sia venuto. ’ As if in reassurance.
I pointed ahead to where I could see a few lighted windows, wondering if perhaps we were closer to our destination than the Captain had told me. ‘Venezia?’ I asked.
He seemed surprised, but shrugged. I repeated myself a couple of times and he frowned. ‘Si. Venezia?’ He added several sentences which I could not understand. Then I said: ’ Dottore?’
He was agreeable to this. ‘Dottore? Si, si. Dottore!’ He motioned with his stick towards the lights.
‘In Venetia?’ I asked him.
This caused an unexpected reaction. He stopped in his tracks, looked up at me, waved his arms and began to cackle uncontrollably, bending over in his mirth. ‘Ah! Ah! Venezia! Ah!’
He became almost inarticulate with merriment as he tried to point towards the lights again. ‘No! La capisco! La città!’ He pointed with his stick as soon as he regained control of himself. ‘Otranto,’ he said.
I had never heard of Otranto and found the old man’s response to my mistake excessively humorous. The place was far smaller than I had hoped, with some winding streets, a ruined castle and several taverns. When we reached it a faint line of light had appeared over the horizon and an early cock was crowing from a red rooftop. Old and dusty, the town might have been Greek, judging by the Byzantine appearance of its main church, but from the look of its castle could also be Moorish. It was not what I had expected to find in Italy, this clearly defined mixture of architectural styles. It was almost as if Otranto had been invented by someone wishing to describe the national and historical influences of the past twenty centuries. Yet the whole was in fact not incongruous. I found it attractive. I would have thought it wonderful if I were not so disappointed at not finding Venice. It was, in fact, a small town, and could not have supported more than two thousand inhabitants.
We soon had a room, however, in a little medieval inn where a thin, cheerful woman took care of Esmé. I paid the old man with some of the silver left in my pockets. He seemed delighted. He and the landlord attended to our trunks. There were so many they half filled the tiny,
Eventually the Turk who had run off returned. He seemed proud of himself. Everything was being done as if they were new to it. Was Kazakian again playing things by ear? With the Turk was a tiny old man in a black jacket and trousers, a dirty collarless shirt and bare feet. The old man seemed bemused, but cheerful enough. ‘ Buon giorno, signore, signora.’ He nodded with hesitant politeness.
I almost embraced the poor man. I was close to tears. For a little while I had suspected Captain Kazakian of putting us off on some convenient Greek island, but now I knew this was Italy! We were safe. Nearer now, a donkey brayed again. The old man turned and clucked into the darkness.
The Turkish seamen and the venerable Italian carried our luggage up the beach. Eventually I followed, supporting a tottering Esmé. We reached a narrow track and there stood a little cart, the donkey between its shafts. The cart had nets in it and a sack evidently containing fish. The old man moved the sack to the seat and began loading the trunks. When he had finished there was only room for Esmé on the board in front. We helped her up. She seemed to respond well to the little fellow’s murmuring voice. There is nothing more soothing to the nerves than the sound of soft, kindly Italian. The old man and myself stood together, watching the Turk return to his boat and shove off into the deeper darkness. Then, giving the donkey a sharp tap on its flanks, the old man led it up the track. I walked beside him.
He spoke nothing but his own language of which I knew only a few words. I told him I was grateful for his help and hoped we were not inconveniencing him. He did not understand but smiled and said: ‘Son contento che Lei sia venuto. ’ As if in reassurance.
I pointed ahead to where I could see a few lighted windows, wondering if perhaps we were closer to our destination than the Captain had told me. ‘Venezia?’ I asked.
He seemed surprised, but shrugged. I repeated myself a couple of times and he frowned. ‘Si. Venezia?’ He added several sentences which I could not understand. Then I said: ’ Dottore?’
He was agreeable to this. ‘Dottore? Si, si. Dottore!’ He motioned with his stick towards the lights.
‘In Venetia?’ I asked him.
This caused an unexpected reaction. He stopped in his tracks, looked up at me, waved his arms and began to cackle uncontrollably, bending over in his mirth. ‘Ah! Ah! Venezia! Ah!’
He became almost inarticulate with merriment as he tried to point towards the lights again. ‘No! La capisco! La città!’ He pointed with his stick as soon as he regained control of himself. ‘Otranto,’ he said.
I had never heard of Otranto and found the old man’s response to my mistake excessively humorous. The place was far smaller than I had hoped, with some winding streets, a ruined castle and several taverns. When we reached it a faint line of light had appeared over the horizon and an early cock was crowing from a red rooftop. Old and dusty, the town might have been Greek, judging by the Byzantine appearance of its main church, but from the look of its castle could also be Moorish. It was not what I had expected to find in Italy, this clearly defined mixture of architectural styles. It was almost as if Otranto had been invented by someone wishing to describe the national and historical influences of the past twenty centuries. Yet the whole was in fact not incongruous. I found it attractive. I would have thought it wonderful if I were not so disappointed at not finding Venice. It was, in fact, a small town, and could not have supported more than two thousand inhabitants.
We soon had a room, however, in a little medieval inn where a thin, cheerful woman took care of Esmé. I paid the old man with some of the silver left in my pockets. He seemed delighted. He and the landlord attended to our trunks. There were so many they half filled the tiny,
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