by Mia Jain The sun was almost completely down. Its lingering rays drew wild streaks of orange and pale pink across the western sky and traced golden lines along the roofs of stucco buildings, so that their exteriors looked curiously enameled, despite their apparent age. I had finally finished setting up the props for this evening’s performance and was rewarded with the luxury of sitting down and resting my tired limbs. The audience had yet to arrive, and Fabiano, for the first time since I knew him, looked too preoccupied to bark orders at everyone else. He was pacing the backstage, frantically rehearsing his lines in vehement whispers under his breath. The two other apprentices – the one playing the role of the fat vicar and the one playing the noble lady, were both standing by at the edge of the stage, looking incredibly pale under thick layers of make-up. Alone and perched on the highest rung of the ladder set at the back of the makeshift stage among heaps of spare costumes, headdresses, buckets and stools, I was offered a prized, if not grand, view of the entire Southern side of the Piazza San Marco, complete with all its beauty and vigor. From my vantage point, crowds could already be seen congregating at the edges of the piazza. People masquerading in gowns and wigs and sporting masks of every shape and color streamed steadily towards the basilica like small rivulets feeding into a great lake. Acrobats on stilts were juggling pieces of fruit amid the jostling horde. There were dukes and beggars, minstrels and exotic princesses, and for once, nobody cared who was with whom. There was also the fire-eating man in his black-and-white poncho and ludicrous bowler’s hat, drawing gasps and laughter from amused onlookers. Behind him flowed the Grand Canal, colors of the sinking sun reflected ghostly in its slightly rippling waters. My shoulders were aching from carrying the boxes and wooden planks out of which tonight’s stage was crudely constructed, and my eyes were watering in the cold wind. But even so, I focused my sight on the scene below, squinting through the brilliance of the setting sun, waiting. The first gondolas had now reached the water’s edge. Men and women dismounted, looking splendid and slightly menacing in lustrous cloaks, their faces hidden beneath masks with a protruding bird’s beak. The sight of this procession made my heart contract and my spirits soar. My left hand instinctively tightened its grip around the small leather pouch tied around my waist, causing the metal instrument inside to let out a soft tinkle. At last, at long last, the show was about to begin. Fabiano apparently thought so, too. Watchers occupied three-quarters of the seats, which was distinctly better than how we had done for the past 12 months. I could see him quivering with excitement as he peered through the gap in the draperies. Obviously, he felt that this was his big chance to show the people of Venice how brilliant his plays really were. But I had more important things to do than hang around and be a shrub, and I was quite sure that no one would miss me once the performance began. So making sure that the playwright was busy curling his moustache in a hand mirror, I took the chance and slipped out of the back tent, seizing a feathered musketeer’s hat on my way past the hangers and ramming it onto my head. The moon was out by now, a misty, silvery orb hanging bright against the night sky, surrounded by scattered pinpricks of light that turned out to be stars. I made my way through the milling crowd, all dressed in elaborate clothing and trying their best to look ostentatious. One man’s mask had three faces on it, each displaying a different expression. I passed knights and queens, clowns and phantoms. Most people didn’t even bother to name their disguise. A few laughed when they saw me, and I became suddenly aware of how conspicuous I must look, in my worn apprentice’s shirt and breeches, with a bright feathered hat sitting atop of it all. I hastily tucked my plait under the hat and pulled the wide brim lower so that my face was concealed in shadows. But this tactic also interfered with my range of vision, and I nearly knocked into a couple who were busy making out at the mouth of the canal. The big-mustached man – I think he was supposed to be Captain Hook – caught his giggling companion before she could topple into the water and turned to ogle at me. “Who ye supposed be, eh, mate?” He guffawed. The woman beside him let out a derisive hoot. They were obviously both drunk. Probably married, just not to each other. Not wanting to complicate matters, I simply answered with “Sorry, sir,” dipped my hat, and scrambled down the steps by the water’s edge. The drunken couple’s laughter followed me all the way into the tunnel, reverberating off the moss-topped walls. The lagoon was relatively empty compared to two days ago, when it had been packed full of people hoping to catch a glimpse of the Regatta. But there were still a few stragglers around at this time of day, most of them drunken men, wandering through the shafts and singing. I stole my way through the familiar labyrinth of canals with the furtive air of a thief, avoiding people’s gazes and slipping slightly on the wet ground. I was unusually adept at maneuvering through this underground section of the city and could draw a map of all of Venice’s 36 canals on the back of my hand, for it was where I came to hide every time Fabiano blew his temper, which was often. And it was under these circumstances that I came across the secret passageway leading to one of the bell towers near the basilica last summer. Even back then, I was sure that this knowledge would come in useful one day. And I was right. I was going to get into that tower tonight. Now. The journey was easier than I could have imagined. The abandoned channel was deserted as ever, and the only sound was the faint drip-drop of water from the ivy-covered ceiling. The statue of a winged stone lion stood at the end of the waterway, its ruby eyes glinting through the layer of dust that had settled over the years, its majestic marble body scarred by time and erosion. Without hesitation, I clambered on top of the stone lion’s back and stood on the tip of my toes, hands raised and fingers outstretched, until I felt the chain of rusted metal hanging from above. I grasped and pulled, and the latch fell open, revealing the hidden tunnel that would take me straight into the bell tower. After I had pulled myself through the hole, all that was left to do was to climb. The city guard were all at the piazza, and the few who remained behind were either too intoxicated to see clearly or happy to let me through for a florin or two. The guard at the foot of the entrance to the terrace actually took off his hat, waving jovially at me. So about half an hour later, I found myself standing on the patio of the pyramidal spire of the tallest construction in the city, looking down upon the Piazza San Marco, whose sparkling lights gave off a warm glow, like giant candles on an iced cake. Above me stood the resplendent statue of Gabriel, the Archangel. His sword arm raised, jutting into the vast night. The wind was fierce up here, it whipped my face and I lost my hat in the space of a mere seconds. It disappeared over the edge of the terrace, but I wasted no time to see where it fell. I didn’t come here to admire the scenery. Time was running short. The giant face of the clock across from where I stood told me that I had exactly two minutes left before the “real festivities” began.
I pulled opened the pouch at my waist and pulled out a curiously shaped mechanical device that, upon closer scrutiny, resembled a metal bird. A dove. I had never seen anything like it before, but trusted that it would do its work. It was a present from Drago, the master inventor of the city, specifically designed for today’s purpose. I held the dove with both my hands and was surprised at its lightness. Its metallic wings rest soft and cool against my palm. After winding it up with a coil spring as Drago had instructed, I proceeded to wait. The whole city seemed to hold its breath as the hands of the clock crept slowly towards the giant number twelve. Then, at long last, when the bells chimed midnight, fireworks went off from what seemed like every corner of the piazza. I had to duck as one of them sailed straight past my left ear and exploded in the dark canvas above, showering me in pink sparks. Seeing this as the cue to let go, I opened my arms and thrust the bird into the night. At first, I thought it was going to fall and hit someone on the head, but then it opened its wings and soared, with astonishing grace, over the bell tower and down across the square where the crowd was gathered. Its tail lit up like a phoenix’s, leaving brilliant trails of flames in its wake. People gasped and stared in wonderment as it glided over their heads, its flaming tail brighter than any burst of firework they had yet seen. Like a dream. A wishing star. Leaning over the balustrade to see the bird making its stunning course across the lagoon, I felt ready to cry, to shout into the night, and a few tears actually made appearance at the corners of my eyes. Bless old Drago and his crazy inventions! The people would see this. Not the breathtaking costumes or the grand parades, perhaps. But they would see this. Leone at the workshop, who must be busy making another pair of shoes. My friend Junipa, whose damaged foot confined her to a wheelchair. Everyone from the ghetto. Even though I haven’t been home for over a month, I know that Mum would be in the laundry shop, working her way through the massive pile of clothing. And little Angelico. Angel, whose curly golden hair framed his face like a halo. Angel, who had the courage never to cry, no matter how hard things got. Angel, who wanted to see the celebrations so badly and to whom I promised a special treat and surprise. I could just imagine him sitting up in bed right now, leaning out the bedside window, his small face breaking into an exuberant smile as he sees the extraordinary fiery device fly past, rosy patches appearing on his pale cheeks. Fabiano would probably make me pay dearly for my little detour when I returned. But no amount of cold, exhaustion or fear of the master’s whip could hide the wide grin that split across my face. Despite all that has happened and what awaits me when I get back on the ground, in this precise moment, I was perfectly content. After all, it was Carnival. a
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May 2024
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