On the Shores of the Mediterranean. Eric Newby

hour or so, except at weekends or on days of festa, old and young suddenly disappear indoors, many of them having to get up what is in winter horribly early in order to get to work on the terra firma, leaving the Piazza and other places of passeggio to visitors and to those making a living by catering to their needs.

      Tonight the passeggiata was definitely off. The pigeons had long since given up and gone to bed – that is if they had ever bothered to get up in the first place, and the only other people on view were a few dark figures with mufflers wrapped round their mouths, hurrying presumably homewards, some of them coughing as they went. The only people, besides ourselves, who were not on the move were a lunatic who was sitting at the feet of the Campanile gabbling away happily to himself, and a pretty young girl, dressed in a smart, bright red skiing outfit, to which even the Venetians could not have taken exception, and those après-ski boots with the hair on the outside, that make the occupants look as if they have forgotten to shave their legs. She was leaning against a pile of the duckboards the municipality puts down in various parts of the city when an acqua alta is expected, listening in on her earphones and reading Fodor’s Guide with the aid of a pocket torch.

      ‘Hi!’ she said, removing her earphones and switching off, at the same time displaying a mouthful of pearly white teeth that had not been near a capper’s. ‘Would you mind repeating that? I didn’t get it.’

      ‘We said, “Good evening, it’s a rotten night”.’

      ‘Yes, it certainly is a lousy night. This is my first time in Venice. What an introductory offer! My sister and I came down this afternoon from Cortina. The son of the guy who runs our hotel there gave us a lift but once we got out of the mountains we couldn’t see a thing, not even Treviso. It was like being out in the boondocks. It’s brilliant in Cortina. My sister’s back where we’re staying, not feeling so good. I guess we should have checked out on the weather. We’ve got to go back tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be better tomorrow. I haven’t even seen a gondola yet.’

      ‘There are some over there,’ I said, ‘moored by the Molo. But you have to watch your step. We nearly fell in.’

      ‘I’ll check on the gondolas on the way back to the hotel,’ she said. ‘I was just boning up on the Piazza San Marco, about it being beautiful at all times of day and night and all seasons of the year, one of the only great squares which retains a feeling of animation when there are very few people in it. Personally, I don’t think this Fodor person was ever here in a fog. He says bring plenty of color films. What a laugh! Personally, I think it’s kinda spooky, what with that poor old guy over there hollering away to himself and that bell going on all the time. Why, it wouldn’t surprise me if we saw some old Doge.’

      It wouldn’t have surprised me either, standing where we were in the heart of Doge-land in freezing fog listening to a bell on a buoy making a melancholy noise somewhere out in St Mark’s Basin.

      What is strange, if not spooky, about Venice is the feeling of impermanence brought on by the thought that not only are the waters constantly rising in it because of the general increase in the levels of the oceans brought about by the melting of the polar ice, but that the city is at the same time sinking because the re-routing of rivers has deprived it of alluvium and because of the enormous amount of water and methane gas that until recently was being drawn out of the subsoil in the Industrial Zones. So that one day, quite suddenly, without warning, just as the Campanile collapsed, so too will the wooden piles that support the buildings of the city, of which there are said to be more than a million beneath Santa Maria della Salute alone, suddenly give up supporting them and allow the city to disappear for ever.

      Much of the city is crumbling as well as sinking. Everywhere leprous walls and rotting brickwork proclaim the fact. Much of it is also abandoned, empty. Great palazzi on the Grand Canal – many of them built as warehouses in which the merchants lived, as it were over the shop, some of them big enough, now that there is no merchandise, to house a hundred persons – have watergates through which the merchandise used to pass which look as if they have not been opened for a hundred years. The steps leading up to them are covered with long green weed which sways in the wash of motor boats and water buses. Inside, the vast room on the piano nobile is lit, if at all, by a 40-watt bulb. Sometimes another, equally feeble light in a room high up under the eaves proclaims that there is a resident caretaker. This feeling of emptiness extends far beyond the confines of the Grand Canal. You can feel it up in the Quartiere Grimani, in the territory around the Arsenale, in the Ghetto with its enclave of the Venetian equivalent to skyscrapers hemmed in on all sides by water, and in the alleys of San Tomà where the cats of Venice reign supreme and there is scarcely a dog to be seen.

      But then, just when you begin to experience a sense of horror at being alone in this dead city, you are treated to a series of glimpses – through windows that are invariably barred – of a family sitting around a table to eat risotto alle vongole, risotto with clams, which is being brought to it in a cloud of steam, of children doing their homework, of someone working late in an archive, of a man and a girl kissing, of an old couple watching television, like a series of realistic pictures hung in the open air on walls of crumbling brick and flaking stone.

      Deciding that we needed a drink, we walked to Florian, which is under the arcade of the Procuratie Nuove on the south side of the square.

      Florian is the oldest café in Venice, opened by someone called Floriano Francesconi in 1720, and it has a faded and beautiful elegance all of its own which if once destroyed one feels could never be repeated, but perhaps it has been restored: Venetian craftsmen are wonderfully adept at making copies of the antique and then ‘distressing’ them, which is the expression used in the trade for making things look older than they are.

      Tonight, the rooms in Florian overlooking the Piazza, with the innumerable mirrors, the painted panelling and the alcoves barely large enough to contain one of the little cast iron tables, were empty. The Venetian dowagers, ample or emaciated and certainly rheumaticky, rheumatism being an endemic Venetian disease among the aged, who would normally be here at this hour sipping tea or hot chocolate and talking about death and money, sometimes with equally ancient male contemporaries, were all at home, being cosseted by equally ancient maids, fearing if they went out prendere un raffredore, to catch a cold, or worse. The majority of visitors who come to Venice in the hot weather rarely enter these rooms, preferring to sit outside in the Piazza, where there is more action.

      Tonight, what action there was was in the bar, which is about as comfortable as most bars have become in Italy, which means that there is hardly anything to sit on. In it three men and three girls were standing at the bar drinking Louis Roederer, which is a terrible price in a shop in Italy and an unimaginable price in such a place as Florian, where anything, even a beer, costs at least twice as much as it would in a more modest establishment.

      The men were dressed in tweed and grey flannel. Two of them had camel-hair coats draped over their shoulders and the third wore a double-breasted herring-bone coat. All three of them wore Rolex watches and beautifully polished black or brown moccasins with tassels, one of the badges of the well-off, or those who want to be thought well-off, everywhere. All were over forty, possibly nearer fifty, with dark hair so uniformly and stylishly grizzled that I was tempted to ask them if they had barbers who grizzled it for them. They had typical Venetian faces: prominent, rather Semitic noses, the calculating eyes of shopkeepers, which in fact was probably what they were, shopkeepers who looked as if they might be involved in slightly questionable activities but nothing that would normally lead to actual prosecution, and if it did, and was successful, would only involve a fine which they could afford. Hard faces, softened for the drinks with the girls; the faces of men not easily amused, or much given to laughter, unless in the form of some carefully controlled internal convulsion; the faces of men who were by nature slightly condescending, omniscient – to put it bluntly – know-alls, courteous, suspicious, contemptuous of outsiders, enjoying being in the position of being able to observe others, but not enjoying being scrutinized themselves.

      The girls were in their middle twenties. All three wore wedding rings, in addition to other loot, on their fingers. What were they, we both wondered. These men’s mistresses, other men’s wives? They might, just