Carnival

  Jacob Prytherch

  Carnival

  Text copyright © 2013-2014 Jacob Prytherch. All Rights Reserved. No copying or redistribution of this text may occur without the consent of the author. This is a work of fiction, all resemblance to actual people, names, places and events is coincidental.

  Special thanks to Kathryn Perkins and Bentley Drummle for editing.

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  Carnival

  February 13th, 1933

  “What will you eat?”

  The voice was as thick as soup, and rattled his skull with every word.

  “What?” he replied in English, although the question had been asked in Italian, flavoured with a dialect that he couldn’t quite place.

  “What will you eat?”

  He could feel the water around him, a belt of cold around his chest, rising quickly. He could see nothing in the darkness, nor place where the voice was coming from.

  “I don’t understand.” The laws of the situation escaped him, and he had no recollection about how he had arrived at such a dismal place, or more importantly, why.

  Laughter rang out around him, and he felt a fresh wave of turgid water splash against his face. He angled his chin upwards, reaching for air, before kicking his legs away from the flat surface he was stood upon, in order to stay afloat. His forehead slammed against stone, spilling a cascade of black stars into his mind. He fell back under the surface, and his mouth flexed open, receiving a torrent of water in return. He kicked again, holding his arms above him to cushion the impact, barely managing to squeeze his mouth and nose out of the water as he pressed his cheek against the roof. The water held no mercy, and continued to creep inexorably up his features.

  “Help me.”

  It was all he could think of to say before the water ran into his mouth, his nose, his lungs, and somehow the darkness became even deeper, a bruise filled to bursting with black blood.

  James awoke to the train’s whistle, shrill and piercing as it announced their arrival into Venice’s Stazione Santa Lucia. He licked his lips sleepily, and found that his face was pressed up against the window. Self-awareness rushed in like a tidal wave, forcing him back into his seat. He wiped a hand across his brow, found it moist with beads of sweat, and saw that there was condensation on the window where he had slept against it. Through the centre of this halo he could see the clustered bulk of his destination, Venice. The lights of the city twinkled like pearl, a tiara nestled over black velvet. It was a strange and unique city, as everyone knew, but laid out as it was against the oppressive clouds it reminded him less of a metropolis and more of a gargantuan creature surfacing from the depths, casting about itself with a multitude of tiny glittering eyes.

  He checked his watch. As he had expected, the train had failed to make up the ten minutes it had lost by departing late from Mestre. Try as he might, he knew that those minutes would cling to his thoughts like bats in the eaves.

  He looked down, and noticed that Charlotte’s letter was still open upon his lap. His eyes registered the words once again, and began to read of their own accord.

  “I do not wish to hurt you, but I must look to the future rather than the past. The world is changing and the spirit of it has embraced me...”

  His jaw flexed. He folded the letter up, before slipping it back into his jacket.

  When the train finally came to a stop, James disembarked into a bracing night, edged with the pervading damp of a melting winter. The station was almost deserted, from its tapering platforms to the left, to the modest metalwork and grimy glass panes of the main building to his right. As he pulled his suitcase on its casters towards the exit, he spotted various notices plastered to pillars, each proclaiming the progress of the plans to redesign the nineteenth century station. The fascist government’s pride in its nation was still catalysing many sweeping changes throughout the country, as Mussolini’s public works continued in full force.

  He walked out of the main doors and sighed in contentment as he caught his first glimpse of the famed Venetian canals, ripples glinting in the sparse street light as the brackish water flowed in from the wide expanse of the lagoon. Beautiful architecture lined the other side of the Grand Canal, archways and façades still magnificent despite their decay, behind which the dome of one of Venice’s many churches seemed to glow with iridescence. He looked to his left and spotted the imposing Ponte Di Scalzi, a bridge that granted access to the inner streets and canals, over which a few people were still wandering despite the late hour.

  He had always longed to visit the city during his residency at the Rosetta Gallery in Florence, but had never found or made the time. Since then his career had veered hugely from what he’d expected it to be, as if his life had been thrown off course by some celestial tempest. He was currently employed as the Illustrated London Times Italian correspondent, and thankfully he was not unsuccessful in this new career, as there were very few Englishmen employed by the paper who had such a strong grasp of the Italian language.

  The rain seemed to be light but possessed and insistent chill that began to soak through his green tweed coat, so he slipped back under the roof of the station before opening his suitcase, to save the contents from the creeping damp. He pulled out the cracked leather satchel that contained his work, all filed in meticulous order, and found his red notebook of contacts nestled at its centre, containing the phone number of his contact in Venice, Arduino Mancini. Apparently the man was a lifelong historian specialising in Venetian history, but James had become wary of such claims after visiting a so-called historical expert in Rome for a previous story investigating the sweeping changes throughout the country. The man had turned out to be little more than a Fascist party spokesperson, more concerned with extolling the virtues of the futuristic movement rather than looking to the past.

  When he had found out about a story opportunity in the city on the lagoon, he had jumped at the chance to write it, although the opportunity was also well timed with his rejection by Charlotte. If he’d had to see her eyes again, even after the letter, he had no doubt that he would have cast away his pride without a second thought and grovelled at her feet.

  That was not to say that the story wasn’t interesting in its own right. The fierce opposition to the Mussolini’s planned road-bridge connecting the mainland to the city, scheduled to be finished in 1933, was seemingly a last gasp attempt from traditionalists to try and halt an inevitability, and maybe an evil (James was no fan of the noxious fumes of auto-mobiles, and preferred the majesty of trains). There was no disputing, however, that the road would be a valuable source of income for the city.

  The way that the story had been described to him had seemed a little overly romantic – a city up in arms against the relentless march of progress – but the young, rebellious side of him hoped that he would find just that. Such a situation was never the case – it was usually an equal split with apathy – but he could still dream. If the people of Venice were truly united against the new roadway, he would make sure they were represented.

  He dragged his suitcase over to a rain dappled payphone and dialled the number. He hung up a minute later, grinding his teeth. No answer. Perhaps the man had already set off, and was simply running late. Or perhaps this contact is another charlatan. At least the fool in Rome showed up. We shall see.

  As he waited in faint hope for Arduino, blowing into his hands to keep the chill at bay, he looked at the front display of a small shop nearby which was still lit up from within despite the late hour. It was very compact, as all of the shops in the area were, and the multi panelled window was filled to the brim wit
h a wide assortment of knick knacks and trinkets, though the most interesting object by far was a dust covered mask, hidden in the furthest corner of the display. It was crafted of rippling cloth, with high cheekbones, a manic smile, and two dark eye holes glaring out at him as if the thing were being worn by the shadows. As he bent down to inspect it more closely, he spotted that there was a small folded piece of card underneath it, bearing the word “jester” in an overly decorative script. An apt name for such a leering fool.

  As he straightened back up, he caught sight of a shape to his right, and sucked in his breath in shock. A man was facing him, barely a foot away, his fleshy lips stretched into a wide grin. For some reason James hadn’t heard the stranger’s approaching footsteps, despite the solemn stillness of the night around them.

  “Signor Maynard?” asked the man in a cracked baritone. His face glowed in the light from the shop front. “A good journey?”

  “Indeed,” said James, as he brushed his coat down, though all it did was wipe the beads of drizzle into wet streaks. “Although the train arrived late. Ten minutes. You must be Arduino. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He held out a hand, which the short man shook warmly with both of his, whilst glancing about as if reminding himself where he was.

  “Likewise Signor. Come, my house is not far, you do not even have to cross the Grand Canal. Well, I say my house as if I am the owner, but there are others there. It is a small apartamento, you know?” He seemed to possess a nervous energy that stood on the edge between excitement and panic.

  James nodded, and tried to let the rain dampen his fizzing nerves, to prevent him chastising his host for being late. It would do little good, save to start the relationship off on the wrong foot. He was obviously more tired than he had thought. What I need is a stiff drink and a soft bed.

  He gratefully received both at Arduino’s residence, which was more extravagant James had expected. True, there was only one main room, a complex mix of lounge, dining room and library, but he still possessed two comfortable bedrooms and a well-stocked kitchen, along with a small but perfectly suitable wash room. James had breathed a sigh of relief when Arduino had revealed that his was the ground floor apartment, as the four storey set of apartments seemed to be precariously leaning to its right to the extent that it was almost touching the next building, though his host assured him that the skewed angle of the rooms wasn't as noticeable inside. The apartments would probably have toppled if there wasn’t a small corridor joining the two buildings together over an alleyway at the second floor, though James couldn't help imagining that the structure was suddenly going to buckle like an accordion under the pressure.

  After sharing a night cap of fine brandy, James settled down to sleep in the guest bedroom, finally feeling himself relax a little after the journey. As the rain splashed against the window above him, he reached an arm down and slid the suitcase a little further under his bed. If he didn’t look at the letter, he could almost believe it never existed.

  February 14th, 1933

  The morning was still overcast but James’ mood was buoyant. He was in a new city at the beginning of his story, safe in the knowledge that whatever the outcome of his investigation, it would still be a memorable few days.

  “A good sleep?” asked Arduino, setting the breakfast table with an amiable smile. He was dressed in a suit that seemed two sizes too long for him, yet somehow seemed to fit his shabby and playful personality.

  “Very good, yes,” replied James, sitting down and casting an eye over what was on offer. There was a selection of sliced cold meats, bread, cheese and a large pot of coffee that smelled divine. “You can speak in Italian, if you wish. I can understand most words.”

  “Nonsense, I welcome a chance to speak English again. It’s good to stretch the mind,” replied Arduino, filling a cup with some of the coffee. “You like cream? I’m sorry, I couldn’t get any English tea.”

  “No cream, thank you. To tell you the truth, I’ve never been a fan of tea,” lied James, hoping that he could find a way to relax the man. Arduino’s hand shook as he poured the coffee and the smile he was wearing seemed more of a rictus than actual contentedness. “Quite a selection of food. Is this a normal Venetian fare?” he asked as he forked a few slices of sausage into a cut bread roll. In between bites, he found himself arranging the cutlery into lines, as he did at home. As self-realisation washed over him, he slid his hand under his leg to try and halt the action. It had always infuriated Charlotte, along with many of his other habits: plucking wayward hairs and eyelashes, checking the time at regular intervals, fastidious neatness, and the criticism of her that came with it. She had tolerated it all, to an extent, but nothing lasted forever.

  “Probably not, but food is my passion,” said Arduino, his eyes blinking quickly. “I like to try new things, change my routine. Some of these meats are imported, salted in Bavaria. We have a man... there is a man, on the top floor. A retired military man from the... ah... Scwharze... the Black Forest, yes.”

  James nodded, taking a bite out of his sandwich. “It’s excellent.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Arduino, looking into the middle distance for a moment before taking a deep breath and turning his attention back to James. “So, let us talk about Venice. You are here because of the road, si? I must say, it will be hard to spend a lot of time with the people over the next few days. It is a busy time. I explained as much to the man, Signor Dawson. He insisted though, so... here you are.”

  “Here I am,” said James, lifting his coffee cup in salute. Arduino didn’t return the gesture, instead leaning a little towards him.

  “You don’t have to stay,” said Arduino, his eyes wide. Part of a smile still lingered, though it was visibly cracking. James leaned back a little in his chair, slightly disquieted by the man’s manner.

  “I hope this is not an inconvenience?” said James, before taking another bite of the bread.

  Arduino shook his head vigorously. “No, of course not. You’re welcome, welcome for as long as you wish to remain.”

  “I was wondering if I could start with you. Shall we get the ball rolling?”

  “Ball?” asked Arduino, looking puzzled.

  “Sorry. It’s a British saying. It simply means getting started.”

  “Ah. I have not heard,” said Arduino, reaching for an apple. He took a large bite, obviously enjoying the crunch of the flesh, and pointed the half devoured fruit at James with a glint in his eye, before swallowing and saying, “Ask your questions.”

  “Very well,” said James. He pulled his notebook from his satchel, and settled himself back in his chair. “Have you lived in Venice all of your life?”

  “From first breath, signor Maynard. You won’t find a more devoted Venetian in the city.”

  “I see. And has the city changed much in your time here?”

  “Changed? In what way?” asked Arduino.

  “Well, the most obvious example would be the regime change. Mussolini is, in some people’s eyes, quite the forward thinker. Others call him a despot. Surely the change in government has been felt here?”

  “Venice will always be Venice. I cannot speak for the rest of Italy, but there are certain things about Venice that will never change.”

  “Such as?” asked James, his pencil poised above his notebook.

  “The water. Venetians are born above the waves. It’s in our blood. We also value life. We celebrate. We know how to enjoy. These things are important, no matter what Il Doge may say.”

  “How does Venice compare in your eyes to the rest of Italy?”

  “I wouldn’t know, I have never left.”

  James was surprised. “You’ve never left the Veneto region? Or...”

  “Venice. I have never left the lagoon.”

  James sat back in his chair. “Why?”

  Arduino smiled, and took another bite of his apple. “Why not? What is out there, that isn’t here?”

  “Italy is a wonderful country. Surely is a privilege to live in su
ch a vibrant place.”

  “I am privileged to be Venetian, not Italian,” said Arduino with tight lips.

  James raised his eyebrows, and noted the response. “You clearly have pride in your heritage.”

  “Just so.”

  “So in that case, what is your reaction to the road-bridge that will be completed next year, linking Venice to Mestre?”

  “I do not like the idea.”

  “Why?” asked James. Getting definitive answers from Arduino was a challenge in itself.

  “Because change is not necessary.”

  “But surely the economic benefits are a strong argument for the road-bridge being the future of the city?”

  “Mr Maynard, please don’t take my words in the wrong way,” said Arduino, leaning forwards. His manner of speaking English was precise but some of his sentences seemed alien in their formation. “I am no fool. I can see the reasoning for roads, and money. I am sure that some of the younger Venetians would appreciate the idea, but I simply do not want the change. That is as simple as I can state it. If you dilute a fine wine with water, it becomes lost. Sometimes, being contained is a blessing. Mussolini can go to Hell.”

  Arduino leaned back into his seat and sighed, suddenly seeming a lot older than he had before. His final words had provided an obvious end to the conversation, and an end to the questions. Eventually the Venetian reached for his breakfast again and began to eat listlessly, carrying a shadow of his former energy. Outside, wind carried a lashing of raindrops against the glass. James could hear the man’s teeth as they bit their way through bread and fruit.

  The silence soon became too much for James. “This man, the German, you said he lives on the top floor?” he asked.

  “Si, Signor Weber. You wish to speak with him?” replied Arduino, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes. I am here to get the opinions of Venetians, but I would be very interested in seeing an outsider’s view also. It would provide an interesting contrast to the piece.”