Desire in Venise

Laundry never fully dries in Venice. For three days now Thomas has been hanging his wet socks and taking them down in the morning still damp. For three days he has been stepping out into the fog on Calle Carera with frozen feet, even though the sun is shining.

What is he still doing here? His plan had been to visit the Serenissima for a week, to recover a bit of anonymity after the Mantua fiasco. That was a month ago. The landlord has lowered the rent several times, visitors have grown scarce. When he goes out now, he can hear his own footsteps.

Yesterday, before crossing the canal to head home, he stopped to let a man walking at a brisk pace step onto the bridge. His beautiful curly golden hair fell lightly onto his shoulders, his leather coat was open, revealing muscular thighs. The man took a drag on his cigarette, looked Thomas straight in the eyes as he exhaled softly, then passed him.

 

That night in bed, Thomas tried to imagine the man’s thighs, his strong thighs scissored around his head. Did he follow him? He remembers now. He turned into a dark alley, then another, following the smell of tobacco. Left, then right, and a tourist approached him: “What time does Venice close tonight?” The alley opened onto a piazza, the smell of tobacco drowned in that of kebab. He found himself facing the horses of St. Mark’s Basilica. They say they were stolen from the Ottomans, that they once belonged to a hippodrome. They say St. Mark himself was stolen too. That neither the saint nor the horses are from here.

He doesn’t remember clearly how his socks ended up soaked. For several days now, bluish water has been lapping at the steps of his apartment; the bridges sit in an overfilled glass of milk—his feet must have slipped.

 

The next morning, Thomas is woken by a strong smell of cigarettes. What brand did the man on the bridge smoke? He goes out to buy a pack—his first since New York. He crosses the Giardini to catch the boat to Torcello, but the whole lagoon smells. There may be something in the water.

Santa Maria Assunta is the oldest church in Venice. Thomas admires the dome covered in gold leaf, from which the figure of Christ emerges. Jesus’s face unsettles him, his hair cascading around his face, curly golden hair. The church smells of damp stone and cement. When he comes out, winter night has already fallen. The pallor of the crumbling walls blends into the pallor of the sky.

Thomas orders a pistachio cornetto at a shop still open. When he bites into it, the only sensation he registers is a creamy texture, cold and foggy. What did he say to the shopkeeper as he left the flooded store? Should he have said Buon Natale rather than Buon Anno? On the piazza, an accordion plays Rasputin.

 

Tuesday. Ambulance boats speed through the canals, a “6th Avenue” sign planted there. The last tourists drag their suitcases over the paving stones—what a racket. Is the subway always this loud?

Thomas walks past the Arsenal, where three funeral boats are moored, standing ready for a parade. Behind one of them, his back turned, a man in a long leather coat and a hat stands still. Thomas instinctively grabs his pack, lights a cigarette, walks slowly toward the man, who finally turns around. He is the wrong age. What is he doing so close to the canal—can’t he smell what rises from it? He may belong to one of those families whose names were written in a golden book in the time of the doges. He may be part of that breed of Venetians who will never leave.

Thomas decides to visit a museum. At the Scuola Grande di San Marco, old surgical instruments are on display, including two rods that prevent the patient from bending the knees. Thomas imagines a thigh fitted into one of the instrument’s sockets, then another. A cold draft makes him shiver. His feet are still wet.

When he steps out onto the piazza, Thomas sees a man who may be from Bangladesh stuffing a large plastic bag with “I love Venice” caps.

 

Thomas dreams. The lion of St. Mark is perched atop a column in the piazza. He clings to the column and climbs step by step; there are notches to place his feet. From the top, the city seems small, as if the houses and churches all had only one floor. When he turns around, his eyes meet the lion’s stare. His hands slip. Thomas falls.

He wakes in a sweat, the room flooded with the strong smell of sewage. The living room is covered in water. The clothes Thomas pulls on stink.

He grabs his coat and starts running. He boards a half-submerged boat. At the station, it is still empty—the first train leaves in two hours. He decides to walk along the tracks.

On the strip of land connecting to the mainland, several buses pass him without stopping. What if Thomas is making a mistake? The first Venetians had fled into the lagoon for a reason. For centuries they fought Genoa at sea rather than on land.

He thinks of Marco Polo locked in a Genoese prison. Did he too have golden hair? Is he buried in Venice?

He turns back, removes his coat, and disappears into the fog wrapping the city. When he reaches Cannaregio, the kebab vendors have closed. He sits down in a café.

A man with golden hair and a long leather coat stands with his back to him at the counter, drinking his coffee alone. A woman enters; the man stands. The man and the woman kiss for several minutes.

Thomas rushes out of the café. A black cat sits in the window. Severe faces line the street. They hang from façades, above doorways, in shop windows. All bear the same grimace, features warped by an intense emotion.

The familiar smell finally rises from the canal, carried by the wind. He breathes deeply and lets the cold pass through him—first for a few seconds, then for long minutes, until the damp wind penetrates his thighs.

He sits at the edge of the canal and removes his water-filled shoes, turning them upside down to empty them. The water from the shoes blends completely into the milky blue of the canal. Thomas removes his trousers and plunges his legs into the water. Tremors seize him, at first light, then violent, culminating in a final convulsion.

Thomas closes his eyes and grins.