As a small boy, at his mother insistence, his father had brought him to the Carnevale. Astride his father’s shoulders, Beppe was slightly afraid, as the lanes and alleyways swarmed with crowds of revellers and jostled them. His little arms tightened around his father’s forehead for balance as they negotiated the chaos. His father would point out the different characters. “Il Dottore’ is the one with the pointed snout. He carries herbs in the long nose to prevent him from catching the plague.” Arlecchino was the funny acrobat and Beppe liked him best. “And these two are ‘Gli Inamorati’ who often quarrel and bicker, but love each other, just like Mamma and Pappa, eh?” Beppe’s father had chuckled. Beautiful, mysterious and garish caricatures loomed out of the foggy February air, masques frozen in mid-squeal. Lush velvets and brocades rustled past him in a swirl of colour and fragrance. And the noise! There was laughter, musicians vying with each other, foreign mouths babbling, firecrackers, vendors and gondoliers shouting at the crowd. He was glad he was up on his Pappa’s shoulders for he felt he would surely be lost and trampled if he were on foot. On every step, bridge and window-ledge sat a painted harlot, a dandy, a jester. Musicians tooted and plucked and argued in song. He remembered clearly smells of candied apples, roasting meats and warming punch as people went wheeling past them. String quartets arm-wrestling with shouts of buffoonery as street performers tumbled and fluted, competing for coins from the crowd. Beppe’s favourite part of the day out was the tranquillity Basilica dei Frari, the quiet church on the way home where his father stopped to pray. Beppe sat with his hands joined, swinging his legs as his father knelt in meditation. Great pillars towered overhead, crowded with cherubs and angels, making him crane his neck as his eyes tracing the intricate depictions of biblical tales. Great warriors, guardians of faith and righteousness watched him as he leaned into his fathers’ side for warmth. Outside, the streets crashed onward in a noisy clatter and whoop of festivity, but inside it was quiet and cool and he felt safe. There was no hurry here. Centuries of contemplation had left its print on the atmosphere. Humble, head-scarved women stole in, softly moving around the Stations or kneeling at the candle-stalls, whispering long-practiced prayers, giving thanks to God. The silence would be broken momentarily by a cough, a confessional door banging or creaking shoes, only to close around them again. Getting up to leave, his father wrapped his still-warm tobacco-scented scarf around Beppe’s neck and hands, but Beppe didn’t mind the cold and loved the journey home on his father’s shoulders. As they walked through the quieter alleyways and over the off-beat bridges, they would play ‘I Spy’. Pappa always let him win. Turning into their own alley, he could smell his mother’s lamb stew cooking. Standing at the fireplace smiling, she had her arms outstretched to him as they opened the door. It is every Venetian’s duty to make the best of the Carnevale for the visitors, but it makes refuse-collecting even trickier - twice the rubbish, twice the traffic on the waterways and five times the people! Most Venetians are justifiably proud of their beautiful and ancient home. Rarely would you find a citizen deliberately vandalising or scattering rubbish about. It was an understanding
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