Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕

As we cross the square his tongue doesn’t let up for a second, he lapses into Venetian dialect if anyone tries to approach me, keeping the other man at a proper distance, putting a hand to his chest to indicate that the stranger belongs to him, and that no one else is to touch him.

‘Follow me, signore, in just a moment we’ll be at the Rialto and the Fondaco dei Tedeschi, the German Warehouse. There you can change all your money, conduct your business, all that. But if you want a good deal, I’m your man: I’ll give you fifty ducats for thirty-two regular-weight florins.’

St Mark’s Square doesn’t seem like part of a city, it’s more like a great salon in some palace or other, the covered deck of a huge vessel, the mainmast being that robust campanile, wide at the base and narrow at the top, and the clock tower the fo’c’sle, beneath which we are now passing, with two admirals perched at the top ready to ring the big bell.

‘This is the headquarters of the Procurators of Saint Mark, great magistrates of the Republic, the Procuratoria it’s called. Now we’re about to pass the Mercerie, the haberdasheries if you like, you want to buy fabrics? Spices? I can tell you where to buy them and where to sell them at a good price. You want to do some business on the Rialto? Then stick with me, and don’t get involved with the dealers, dreadful people, my most noble lord, dishonest people.’

I’m not sure if I’ve understood everything the boy has said. When he talks he looks straight ahead, without turning his neck too much, in a language that I can barely make out, and in the midst of an indescribable confusion of faces and voices. I stammer an encouragement to set off, and in a moment I find myself fifty yards behind him, nose in the air, like a cork in a stream. I study the faces of the people crowding these narrow streets of shops and stalls; I listen to the dialects and the stranger cadences, one language that sounds Slavic to me, another that I would guess was Arabic.

All at once this cobbled street takes me far from the world that I have known so far. I have inhaled the fragrance of spices on other occasions, at other times I have inhaled tobacco smoke, but never before have I had such a sense of finding myself at a crossroads of possible places. A souk in Constantinople, a port in Cathay, a way station in Samarkand, a fiesta in the streets of Granada.

‘So, my great lord, do you want to buy something? Ask me, I’ll advise you.’

The guide has joined me again, and is tugging me violently by an arm. He studies me with a strange expression, and I almost have the impression that he’s beginning to doubt my mental capacities.

‘You see, eccellentissimo? In all the cities in Italy, this here is called a piazza, here in Venice you call it a campo, and the roads, and the streets, are narrow calli, that’s a fondamenta along the canal_,_ and that’s a salizada, that’s a ruga…’

The street reappears on the water, where it meets an imposing wooden bridge. From the number of ships moored on the banks of the canal, to the right of the bridge, and the incessant traffic of goods being loaded and unloaded, we really seem to have reached the commercial heart of La Serenissima.

‘The Rialto, signore!’

A splendid wooden bridge, the upper part of which can be opened to allow the bigger ships to pass underneath.

On the right an enormous loggia, its outer walls painted with frescoes that stretch the whole length of the house.

‘Painted by Giorgione, your eminence, and by his pupil Titian, you know him? No? A great wonder, signore… Famous painters, Titian is painting the Emperor.’

In the inner courtyard, the vague murmur rising from the commercial negotiations consists of at least four different German dialects. People from the North, blond heads, bushy moustaches, and beers being poured.

‘The Fondaco dei Tedeschi, most noble one, for your business. Banks, agents, wealthy people. You see that agency down there? Fugger, the biggest bankers in the world, I know the agent, I can introduce you if you like, signore, he’s my friend, I find whores for him, and he’s teaching me your language…’

‘If I’d wanted to meet Germans I’d have stayed in Germany, don’t you think?’

‘Quite right, signore, business isn’t so interesting, pleasure is better, isn’t that right? Lovely ladies…’

‘I’ve got to sort out a place to stay. Decent bed, decent food.’

‘Somewhere you don’t want to stand out too much? Of course, magnifico, no sooner said than done, come on, I’ll take you there, a discreet place, good cooking, good beds and good women… Very good women, no questions asked, Corte Rampani, in San Cassiano, come on, it’s not far, past the bridge, donna Demetra will be delighted to meet you, an important signore like yourself.’

‘Calle de’ Bottai, my magnificent lord, we’re almost there.’

‘There are whores all over the place. Do the women in this city practise any other trade?’

‘Nothing quite so lucrative, sir. The Council wanted to confine the brothels to Corte Rampani, but there wasn’t room for them all so, as you might say, they closed an eye, you know? So, here is the Caratello Inn. I will announce my lord to donna Demetra.’

The two girls standing on the threshold say something in Venetian, big smiles and breasts peeping out through their scanty clothes. It’s a house made of wood and plaster, three storeys high. On the door there is a sign showing a small barrel — a caratello. The guide slips inside, leaving me in the company of the young whores.

‘German?’

I give them a small bow, which they both return. The younger-looking one tries to find words in my language.

‘Merchant?’

‘Traveller.’

She translates for her friend and they laugh together.

She reveals an ample breast. ‘You want some?’

In the nicest tone of voice that I can find: ‘Not now, my dear, I need to rest these old bones.’

She may not have understood, but she shrugs her shoulders and covers herself up again.

The little clearing in the forest of houses is interrupted by a bridge, apparently too slender to carry the weight even of two men. The muddy canal runs placidly beneath. I realise I have lost all my bearings, we’ve crossed an endless maze of streets, bridges, squares, and I’m almost certain that we haven’t gone in a straight line. That’s something you can’t do in this city.�

The guide points to the door, beckoning to me to enter.

A big space, a tavern, with enormous barrels lined up against the wall, a big fireplace, and tables in the middle.

A woman in her forties comes towards me, and I bow to her; raven hair and a sharp profile, exotic features redolent of the Mediterranean.

‘I’m Donna Demetra Boerio. Young Marco tells me you’re looking for somewhere to stay. You are welcome here.’

She turns to me, speaking a strange but comprehensible language, it’s cultivated Latin, which suggests that she’s done a considerable amount of studying, although her greeting was in German.

I opt for Latin: ‘I’m Ludwig Schaliedecker, German. I’d like to stay here for a few days.’

‘Stay as long as you like. We have capacious beds and the rooms aren’t expensive. Marco told me you’d left your luggage at the way station. Don’t worry, I’ll send the boy to get it, you can trust him, he’s been working for me since he was a child.’

Things are starting to look up, and I manage a smile.

‘When the luggage gets here, I’ll pay for the room in advance.’

*

Toothless Marco drops the bag on the cobbles and wipes the sweat from his eyes with his sleeve.

A gold ducat immediately banishes the exhaustion from his face.

‘Thank you, most munificent lord, thank you a thousand times over. If I can be of any other use to you, just ask for me and you will always be satisfied.’

‘For the time being all I need is some directions. There’s a place I have to get to.’

His face lights up: ‘Tell me, tell me, sir, I know the whole of Venice, there’s somewhere you want to go? I’ll take you there whenever you want.’

‘Not right now. You know Andrea Arrivabene’s bookshop?’

‘Arrivabene the bookseller, of course, sir, it’s in the Merceria.’

‘At the sign of the Well?’

‘Of course, most noble lord, not a long way on foot, just beyond the Rialto. You want to go there?’

‘Tomorrow. Now I want to rest.’

He leaves, bowing several times.

From the little window I can see the big domes of the Cathedral and the campanile. So that’s where I disembarked, away over there. And somehow or other I’ve crossed the labyrinth of this strange city that now separates me from St Mark’s. I wouldn’t know where to start if I wanted to go back the way I had come. Doubtless I’d find myself a few yards away from that enormous church without being aware of it, and end up who knows where. And that’s exactly the prevailing sensation: that you could go on walking endlessly without ever getting anywhere, or else finding yourself in places you’d never imagined, hidden places. Wonders await you behind every corner, at the end of every alleyway.�

Venice. Merchants, whores and canals, alongside frescoes, churches, palaces, building sites. Perna was right: you inhale contrast and possibility in the humid air of these streets.

The bed is spacious, my legs need to rest. It’s not that far from the Cathedral to here, but there’s all that going up and down bridges, all those twisted streets. The first thing to do is to get hold of a boat.