Venice in January feels like a secret. The
calm before the Carnevale casts an eerie sense of solitude over the city and
brings with it a unique sensation of magical unease. In the past I’d barely
found the patience to tolerate - let alone appreciate - the invasive bustle of
summer, but as we walked down a familiar street with only the hollow beat of
our own footsteps against the hushed morning chatter of weary locals I found
myself longing for a crowd – feeling exposed and intrusive, as though it was a
secret we had stumbled upon uninvited.
On the edge of a vaporetto seat, watching
him stare in awe through a lens at the forgotten gondolas bobbing at their
posts, I wondered if he saw the ghost town. To me the Grand Canal was a winding
turquoise requiem; the mayhem of June and the masses of August had turned into
mist overhead, and although arguably more breathtaking in their absence, I saw
what was missing. He had no memories of crowded bridges and churning water, and
took no notice of the empty streets. With no way of knowing how welcome a departure
from blistering tourism winter must be, he had no reason to echo my feelings of
intrusion.
As St Mark’s Campanile extended, its peak
tinted a green so similar to that of the surrounding lagoon it may as well have
been a reflection, I began to feel as though we'd somehow overlooked some
essential ingredient of adventure. We'd wandered through alleyways and side
streets, found corners in dimly lit restaurants and made our way through enough
house wine to necessitate a conscious effort to stay as far away from the
canals as possible on each walk home. We'd made it this far completely
eel-free, so I
couldn't understand my uneasiness.
Witnessing
my boyfriend voluntarily cover himself in pigeons, and forcing out a
therapeutic “BASTA” in the direction of a street vendor who refused to remove
his roses from my personal space, I remembered something I had seen years
before.
Behind the two lions next to St Mark’s
Basilica, just off the square, is the entrance to a web of back alleys and
bridges. Extracting my contaminated companion from his new avian pals, a
glimpse of familiarity returned as what little sun had managed to battle
through the clouds disappeared and the open space became a maze.
In an alley less than two metres wide a
kaleidoscope of Murano glass beams through windows on either side as far as the
pathway extends, and amidst this sits a small wooden door. Baring the
inscription “Liber Venezia”, this was my solution and escape. The air
was musky and the room itself was barely wider than the street outside, but I
couldn’t have thought of a better use of space. Every wall was lined with
shelves, displaying row upon row upon stack of hand made stationery. Leather
bound books with individually tailored covers; monogrammed letterhead and wax
seals; watercolour paintings of the square, the sky and the water. As the
shopkeeper approached with a warm, indecipherable welcome, I remembered was it
was like to feel at home.
In a broken mix of English and Italian,
pointing with a weathered, ink-stained hand, he fondly explained the features
and intricacies of the leather, paper and cloth. I chose a brown wraparound
cover with smooth, sturdy pages, and after a few minutes of careful
consideration he delicately passed down a second book. A hand-stitched collection
of thick watercolour paper, bound in blue; it excited me more than my own,
imagining the things my favourite artist would fill it with. As he wrapped each
item individually, we spoke lightly and were given our choice from a hidden box
of personally illustrated bookmarks. With this final favour, a goodbye and a
sincere 'grazie mille' we stepped back out onto the cobblestones. Winding
quickly through the streets and bursting into the cold lagoon mist of the
square, I didn’t notice the vendors or the tourists or the space in between.
Settled
into a pair of bright yellow chairs in the shadow of the tower, I looked over
the piles of steaming cappuccino and cream, into an improvised workshop. I sat
and listened to the determined scratch of lead and watched as each glance
upward brought him back down more intensely, closer to those thick, textured
pages. I straightened up and looked out at what I could see of an island amidst
the veiled expanse of lagoon, savouring the landscape as a long-awaited
confirmation. Gondoliers ambled unrequired along the docks, the seasoned waiter
beside us shooed an approaching flock of pigeons away from a nearby table
without so much as wrinkling his tuxedo and I sat content in my chair as I
realised that the unease had dropped away and only the magic remained. Feeling
the chill as the shadows grew longer, I pulled my scarf up a little further,
unwrapped the leather, and finally felt like the secret was mine.
