Venice, 1967
I didn’t watch the performance. I didn’t see anyone else from the circus. Tim had arranged a lease on an apartment for me and the first few days I stayed inside. He’d gone to the market to stock up on food for me, so I managed. On the third day, he came to see me.
‘You haven’t been out? At all?’
‘No.’
‘This beautiful city, and you’ve been cooped up here. What did prison do to you?’
‘It isn’t that.’
‘Angelina came by. She said you weren’t in.’
‘I was in. I heard her.’
‘So why didn’t you—’
‘I don’t want to see them. That life is gone.’
‘Goblin, we love you.’
‘I can’t face them. I can’t go out until the circus is gone.’
‘Are you going to be alright?’
‘You don’t need to worry.’
‘But I do.’
‘I know you do. I’m fine.’
‘You’ll go out when we’re gone? You promise me?’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing the city.’
‘You’ll love it, G. I know it.’
He hugged me.
‘You’ll keep in touch, won’t you? You’ll write?’
‘I will. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.’
‘I want you to be happy. You’ll be okay, won’t you?’
‘You don’t need to worry.’
We kissed and he was gone, the circus was gone, and the next day was the start of my new life.
The sky was light blue, the sun was blinding. I wandered the labyrinthian streets without a map, getting lost, reaching dead ends, doubling back. I weaved my way through the city, finding myself in wide open squares and busy thoroughfares. I sat outside cafés, sipping coffee and listening to the lively gabble of tourists and the rapid-fire Venetian dialect of the locals. Continuing my walk, I wandered down dark narrow streets that led to small canals that were hidden from the sun. Only minutes away from the bustle and noise, I was enveloped in the mystery of dark, crumbling buildings and the gentle lapping of water.
I stopped for lunch at a café hidden down one of these narrow streets, before making my way to San Marco. The mid afternoon sun scorched the square as it heaved with tourists. I joined the long queue to the Campanile. From the top of the tower I could see right across the jumbled rooftops of the city and out across the lagoon to the other islands. Seeing the city from above, it felt even more impossible, vulnerable to the sea that surrounded it.
After the Campanile I bought a map and made my way through the streets to the vaporetto stop that serviced Burano. I sat at the back of the vaporetto and looked across to San Michele, the cemetery island. I watched Venice recede, listening to the sound of the engine and the churned-up water.
I wandered through the streets of Burano, admiring the brightly coloured houses, petting the many cats. I bought a lace bookmark to send to Tim. I watched the sunset over the lagoon; the boats bobbing past, the birds dipping and diving for fish. I thought of Cornwall and the story I told to Angel about the kraken who reached up for the sun, pulling it down, swallowing it whole, nursing the warmth in its belly before spewing it up in the morning. I watched the sun disappear and sought warmth for my own belly; a glass of wine, a hot meal.
I found a restaurant full of rowdy locals. I took a table outside, enjoying a simple seafood dish for dinner. Each table had a candle and I watched the warm light dance on their faces. The group burst into song off and on, little fragments.
I knew if I was to stay here I’d need to learn Italian, but I was happy in my ignorance – no small talk, nothing expected of me. I was silent, observing. This was the first time I’d ever been alone, properly settled and alone. When I travelled to Cornwall I had Monsta. In Cornwall I had Monsta and Corporal Pig and Angel. On the journey to London I had CP. When ma disappeared I had a family of animals.
I was afraid, as I sat there listening to the locals. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to be truly alone, but I knew that I wouldn’t be alone for long.
I said, ‘I am alone and I am home,’ raising my glass to no one, to the locals, to the island, to Venice, to the moon that was creeping up above the buildings. All those years of travelling, all those years on the road, I never thought I could feel at home in one place, but here it was; these people I couldn’t understand, this magical crumbling land that was sinking into the sea. I couldn’t imagine belonging anywhere else. I knew if that’s how I felt, then David would too. If he’d been travelling the world by sea and found Venice I knew he couldn’t leave. He had to be here and I would find him.
On the vaporetto journey back to my apartment, I watched the moonlight shimmer across the black lagoon and I thought of David, lying on his bed, dreaming of escape, dreaming of the sea. I thought of the creatures beneath those waves – fish monsters, mermaids, krakens, sunken treasure.
‘I’ll find you, David,’ I whispered to the sea.
Tim had given me my circus earnings to get myself settled and I got by for a couple of months. I bought some language books and tapes, teaching myself some basic Italian, embarrassing myself at the local market as I stumbled through fragmented sentences. The stall holders would laugh and shake their heads at me, replying to me in Italian that was too fast to follow. I was tempted to forgo these regular humiliations and shop exclusively at the supermarkets, but I always went back. After almost three months, the stallholders would greet me warmly and they were soon helping me, teaching me new words. One of the fish merchants, Benito, could speak English all along.
‘What’s Italian for “asshole”?’ I said.
He smiled, raised his hands in supplication. ‘I was helping you,’ he said.
‘You enjoyed laughing at me.’
My Italian was hesitant and fragmented for the first few months and while I was able to make myself understood I found it hard to follow replies and couldn’t hold a conversation. My circus earnings were running out and I wasn’t able to get a regular job with my poor Italian, so I started busking as a clown. Our circus acts were all developed for a group, so I had to adjust to being solo, adapting some of Horatiu’s mime work. I kept up with my writing, but my pitches for articles on everyday life in Venice were rejected by UK newspapers and magazines and I had little success with short stories. I was still running short, so I asked Benito to help me write a poster advertising myself as a dog walker. This was a real success and I was soon breaking even.
I had my routine. I had coffee at home then picked up the dogs I was looking after. As I walked them I put up ‘missing’ posters of David, layer upon layer as previous posters were defaced, torn, weather-beaten.
I was soon picking up strays and injured pigeons and my apartment quickly filled with dogs and cats and birds. The first dog I rescued, Montgomery, was the only one I named. I said to the others, ‘You can have your own names that only you know.’ It was partly to keep me from becoming too attached – I couldn’t afford to keep them all and there was always more to pick up. Monty stayed with me but I tried to find homes for the others, so there was a constant stream of animals coming and going. A number of the animals were rejected several times – too small, too big, too old, not the right colour, too much work, too ugly, too ill. I liked to think it was us who rejected them; I vetted the potential people thoroughly and anyone who wasn’t suitable was promptly ejected, often followed by a stream of my well-practiced Venetian swearing: ‘Chi ta cagà! Col casso. Ti xe via de testa. Va a cagar sule ortighe! Ma va’ in mona.’
In the evening I’d go to a local bar, where I’d write. Gio, the owner, would come in now and again, checking in with the manager, ordering a drink and talking with the regulars. His English was basic, but much better than my Italian, which was still fragmented. He was small, corpulent, with a genuine warmth and a mischievous curl of the lip. Gio soon learned of my collection of animals and my love for pigeons. When I told him my name he looked disgusted and said, ‘What kind of name is Folletto?’