Caryl Phillips - The Nature of Blood

And then, only some few weeks past, one among the doge's most trusted senators eventually rescued me from this dull routine of isolation. He was a senior man who was rumoured to be held in high esteem by his peers, and I imagined that he must have often observed me on the many occasions when I visited the Doge's Palace in search of an audience. I suspect that, on this particular occasion, the trusted senator must have taken pity on me because, before I was able to engage a boat for my return journey, his messenger sought me out and delivered his master's request that I might, that same afternoon, visit his residence. This would be my début inside a grand Venetian home and I immediately determined to present my person with a dignity and charm which might befit the occasion. Sadly, I judged myself to have failed, for, although I endeavoured to behave in a manner which might endear me to my generous host, the look of boredom which marked his face, from the moment I crossed his threshold to the moment I left, caused me to feel certain that this invitation was one that would never again be repeated. When, a few days later, his messenger called upon me with another invitation, this time to dine and meet his good lady wife and children, my first thought was to wonder whether some prank was being played at my expense.

I had taken care of how to dress and hold myself on my first visit, but clearly this second visit would require special attention to every detail. I therefore decided to spend a good portion of what money I had accrued on acquiring a new costume in order that I might dress myself according to the Venetian fashion, as opposed to that of my native country. A great number of strangers from various exotic corners of the known world had, over the years, chosen to reside in Venice. However, the Venetian aristocrat remained confident about the superiority of his traditions over those of any other, and, while exterior display of a different culture was tolerated, I was learning that such stubbornness was unlikely to aid one's passage through society. This second invitation from the senator afforded me the opportunity to make a larger statement about the manner in which I might henceforth conduct myself in this great republic. In my quieter moments, I had often wondered if a marriage of the finest of my own customs with their Venetian refinement might not, in due course, produce a more sophisticated man. Or, if not this, perhaps such a conjunction of traditions might at least subdue a portion of the ill-feeling to which my natural state seemed to give rise.

I woke early on the morning of my second invitation to the senator's home with my mind in a state of disarray. I soon found myself paring the floor of my chamber, but I remained unable to locate the source of my anxiety. There were many reasons why I might feel concerned about the uncomfortable predicament that ensnared my present life, but I found this particular visitation of melancholy intensely troubling. As I looked out over the moonlit Grand Canal, which lapped pleasingly against my wall, I realized that my best course of action would be to dress and wander the cold, dark streets in an attempt to calm my nerves. It had, after all, long been my custom to explore the strange regions of this enchanted city, often mistaking the way, probing the network of back streets and the complex labyrinths of alleyways in search of both new and familiar landmarks. At night, when abandoned to serenity, her breathing light and regular, Venice presented herself as a sleeping babe upon whom one might spy with proprietorial glee.

I dressed quickly and soon found myself on the wintry Rialto bridge, from whose vantage-point I was able to watch a lean cat scurry noiselessly into a blind alley. I had grown extremely fond of the city under the moon, for it was at such moments that I truly appreciated the full grandeur of her silent majesty. Only the occasional tolling of bells trespassed upon the night, but their song, together with the sister sound of water swirling and sighing, created the most wondrous accompaniment to the silence. And then, of course, there was the moonlight, which produced spellbinding patterns as it struck the water, illuminating buildings here, and withholding its light there. Some corners of Venice appeared to have been specially chosen to be blessed with this celestial gift of light and shadow. I smiled after the cat, safe in the knowledge that the cat's response to me was not tinged with ambiguity. Fear was a reliable emotion. Constant and undemeaning. And then again, I remembered that it had been nine months now since I had happily entered Venice in that most magnificent manner: by sea. I passed through the lagoon, which enabled me to observe the towers and turrets of the city rising above the distant mist, and all around me, on the low-lying islands, I could discern the outlines of monasteries, forts and small villages. With the sea behind me, I clipped forwards at a good pace, until the city began to show herself. First the mouth of the Grand Canal, then the majestic sweep of the buildings, and then the people: Venetians. I saw them walking slowly, heads bent, going about their business as though thoroughly unaware of the privilege of living among such overwhelming beauty. These people seemed sternly unconcerned with anything beyond the narrow orbit of their own lives. I remembered.

I remembered. I had led the fighting men of my own people for many years, and had also served in battle as a General for several other nations, both Christian and heathen. But now I was confidently arriving in Venice, summoned by the doge and his senators to lead the Venetian army whenever the Turks declared their intent. But where was the party to meet me? The fanfare? The escort of lavishly attired gondoliers that were widely known to welcome dignitaries? It appeared that I would have to make do with the spectacle of the city herself turning out to greet me. I stared down at the waters flowing beneath the Rialto bridge, and I wondered if my new costume might convince some among these Venetians to look upon me with a kinder eye. It was this desire to be accepted that was knotting my stomach and depriving me of sleep, and in my distress I had once more fled to the only person I could rely upon in these circumstances: the city herself, which had remained ever faithful to her enchanted promises. Thin scarves of fog began to drift across the Grand Canal, and then in the distance, through the dank morning mist, I saw a gondola moving slowly towards me and I imagined a passenger propped up in the back, under the canopy, perhaps another victim of a troubled mind. I watched as this black gliding object, lightly powdered with snow, approached as though a heavenly vision, and then it slipped beneath the bridge and out of sight. This was my cue to turn and walk back to my lodgings. It would not be wise to find myself at the senator's dinner fatigued through a lack of sleep.

Later that same day, at a little before five o'clock, a boatman called to me from the canal that was my front highway. My Venetian attendant, without the vaguest hint of a smile or gesture of affection, brushed my new attire in the insolent manner to which I had become accustomed. I turned to him, half-hoping that he might find it possible to wish me good luck on my evening's mission, but, as ever, he chose to remain silent. I descended the half-dozen steps and climbed aboard a particularly large gondola, one that was heavy with ornaments and whose cushions bore the most fantastic embroidery. The gondolier nodded a terse greeting, which I took to indicate his disapproval of having to propel his vessel to my unfashionable lodgings in order to convey a passenger whom he no doubt deemed unworthy of transportation. I nodded back a greeting in his direction, and then settled into the well-upholstered seat. We swung out wide and into the main traffic of the canal, and I noticed that the setting of the winter sun threw a weak light on the water, a light that was held rather than reflected. Despite the heavy traffic, I felt as though I alone, in all of this great city, had an appointment to occupy me this evening. Others seemed to be idling away what remained of this day.