584
WRIGHT MORRIS
their ways. In Venice invisible ties bind them to visible ways of
living. This moral climate has little to do with morals, but a great
deal to do with Venice. It is not an urban jungle. It is still a family
community. The eye of God sees all, and in Venice it is still open.
The freedoms of Venice are freedoms from, rather than for. From
murder, death on the highway, the next Olympics, fallout-and-in
shelters, cholesterol checkups, and that friendly visit from your insurance
man.
That one might live in Venice-as some 400,000 do-is apt to
be
too wild a thought for the tourist to stomach. Isn't it unreal? Doesn't
it seem out of this world? It does indeed.
It
is why we are here. Not
as much out of this world as we would like, but we like what we can
manage.
Time
magazine ticks at the kiosk, but the stones of Venice
are slow to change. It is the citizen, not the city, that changes its face.
But one does hear of much skulduggery underfoot. The tearing down
of this, the building of that, with a skyway to bring the tourist to the
Piazza.
It
means money, and the smell of money is in the air. And
more. Just this week my wife came back from shopping with some
stamps. For letters? No, these stamps were for free. An award, no less, a
regalo,
for merely buying something. I needn't tell you the color of
these stamps, but I will. They were fresh spring green.
You should feel at home-and most Americans do. One said as
much to me just the other night. You know what it's like, he said,
and I did. It was like "old times." The good old late forties. We were
in the Piazza, where a carefree crowd-the Piazza will make
most
crowds carefree-wandered about as if fearing they might find a way
out. Bands played, and more Venetians than tourists sat drinking Coca
Cola, or lapping up ice cream. Things were looking up--Iooking up
in a familiar way. A veneer of affluence-never mind how thin-gives
the city a shimmering gloss. It is what one sees in the shops. It is
all
one sees. A new breed of merchant princes stands in the wings. Their
women dye their hair, walk their poodles, and their children threaten
life on velocipedes.
If
Venice offers much that is new to the poodle,
the poodle offers much that is new to Venice. And challenging. The
great charm of this city is that man can saunter unmolested by Vespas,
hotrods, and Ferraris-he can still saunter, but at his own risk. One
weather eye had better be cocked on the stone at his feet. In the
narrow alleys, the broad
fondamentas,
and across the brooks too broad
for leaping, the uncurbed dog testifies to the new regime. With the
poodle conspicuous waste comes to Venice.
