again.
‘But besides all that, we have one great advantage over other folk. It’s also our great scourge. I’m talking about the tourists, of course.’
He nodded approvingly as a chorus of laughter went up from the crowd.
‘As we know all too well, there is no one on this planet who wouldn’t like to visit our city if they could, and no one who has done so who wouldn’t like to return. Over twenty million such “guests” come to call on us every single year, and what do we see for it? Next to nothing! Most of them spend less than a day in the city, and the few who stay longer are serviced by international hotel chains whose profits end up in Paris or London or New York. Such tourism is like the aqua alta, flooding the whole city, making normal life impossible and leaving nothing but shit behind!’
A loud burst of applause greeted this sally. Dal Maschio raised his hand for silence.
‘But if we dam that flood, my friends, it will generate enough hard cash to provide the basis of a vigorous and stable economy! Tourists pay an average of fifty dollars a head to visit the Disney theme park outside Paris. How much would they be willing to pay for the privilege of visiting the most famous and beautiful city in the world? At present they walk in free, as if they owned the place! Anyone intending to visit the New Venetian Republic would require a visa, for which we would charge… What shall we say? A hundred thousand lire? That would ensure the New Republic an immediate, guaranteed annual income of two thousand billion lire!’
There were gasps from the audience. Dal Maschio shrugged coyly.
‘That’s not bad, is it? In fact it’s well in excess of the gross national product of several emergent nations. But for us it’s only the beginning. Far from being an idle dream, independence is the only policy which can realize the unlimited potential of our unique city. But we must not fall into the trap of complacency, my friends. Do not waste your votes just because you believe — absolutely correctly, mind you — that our victory is a foregone conclusion. Let us not merely win these municipal elections, but win them massively, decisively, with an overwhelming landslide which sends a clear signal to the morally and economically bankrupt regime in Rome! Let’s force them to call elections at a national level in the immediate future, so that we can liberate ourselves once and for all from the burdens which have weighed us down for so long, and begin at last to forge our own destiny in this unique and incomparable city state!’
Dal Maschio turned away. It seemed the speech was over, and scattered applause broke out. Then, as though struck by a sudden inspiration, he grasped the microphone again and continued with hoarse vehemence.
‘Fifteen hundred years ago our forefathers gathered here, on the bleak mudbanks of the lagoon, seeking refuge from foreign domination, from oppression and servitude. They turned their back on the mainland and, over the centuries, made of this inhospitable and unpromising site a city which is one of the wonders of the world. They never bowed to emperor or pope but always held their own course, owing allegiance to no one but always seeking to further the interests of the Republic. Maybe they weren’t always too particular about the methods they used or the people they allied themselves with, but for over a thousand years they made the name of Venice respected and feared. If we wish to be great again, if we simply wish to survive, we must follow their example — as Europeans, as Italians, but first and foremost as Venetians!’
The applause which followed was lengthy and enthusiastic. From the fringes of the crowd some wag yelled ‘Self-rule for the Giudecca!’ but this sarcasm was swamped by repeated ovations for Dal Maschio and his associates.
Zen was just wondering how he could attract Tommaso’s attention when a pair of youths wearing NRV armbands appeared at his elbow and urged him to join up. One was short and chubby, his soft baby-face features contradicted by a small slot of a mouth and hard, shifty eyes set rather too close together. His companion was older and slighter, with a small moustache, long oily perfumed curls and wrap-around sunglasses tapering to a point at his ears. Zen declined their exhortations to ‘stand up and be counted’, and when they persisted he told them that he was there to meet Tommaso Saoner.
The elder of the two activists looked at him sharply.
‘Are you called Zen by any chance?’ he demanded.
‘No, it was my father’s name.’
The born-again Venetian did a double take, then shook his head to show that he had no time for jokes.
‘Tommaso told us to look out for you,’ he said curtly. ‘Come this way.’
The pair moved off, shoving their way roughly through the crowd. The podium was now darkened, and volunteers were already beginning to dismantle the structure. Under one of the plane trees whose roots made the paving warp and buckle like choppy seas, Ferdinando Dal Maschio was meeting his public. He greeted them familiarly, as though each were already an old friend, a member of the family. It was an impressive performance, all the more so in that it looked entirely natural.
Stationed around Dal Maschio and unobtrusively controlling access to him stood a ring of his lieutenants, including Tommaso Saoner and a chubby man with watchful eyes whom Zen recognized with a shock as Enzo Gavagnin. The elder of the two youths went up to Saoner and spoke to him briefly. Tommaso looked over to where Zen was standing and waved him to approach.
‘Well, Aurelio, what’s your verdict?’
Saoner’s face was flushed, his pupils enlarged, his movements jerky and his breath rapid. Zen recalled what Cristiana had said about politics being a drug. In different circumstances, he would have assumed that Tommaso was drunk.
‘Good turnout,’ Zen replied shortly.
But Tommaso was not so easily put off.
‘And Dal Maschio?’ he asked eagerly. ‘What did you think of him?’
Zen shrugged.
‘He’s a natural politician.’
That got through.
‘Stop beating about the bush, Aurelio! Are you with us or against us?’
Zen eyed him with mock alarm.
‘Is there no other choice?’
‘Not for someone like you, a Venetian born and bred! You heard what Dal Maschio said. We have only a few years left, a decade or two at most, to save the city and everything that makes us what we are!’
‘I thought the speeches were over, Tommaso.’
Enzo Gavagnin wandered over to join them. He nodded curtly at Zen, then turned to Saoner.
‘Friend of yours?’
Tommaso glanced at Zen.
‘He used to be.’
Gavagnin detonated a bright yellow gob of spit on the pavement.
‘And now?’
Tommaso Saoner shrugged suddenly and forced a smile.
‘Oh, Aurelio’s all right. He’ll come round in the end. The logic of our arguments are inescapable. There is simply no other viable response to the problems we face.’
He took Zen’s arm and steered him away from the menacing attention of Enzo Gavagnin.
‘Come and meet Andrea.’
Tommaso led him out of the dispersing crowd, right across the campo and under a low portico leading under the houses. The caged lamp on the whitewashed ceiling cast the pattern of a gigantic spider-web on the ground. A small courtyard narrowed to a blind alley ending at a small canal. The tide was high again, the water lapping invisibly at the steps. Zen felt a surge of relief that Bettino Todesco was on duty at Palazzo Zulian. All might not yet be well, but at least the worst had been averted.
Eight houses faced each other across the yard, not counting the upper storeys built over the portico. Tommaso stopped at the last on the right-hand side. The plastic nameplate above the bell read DOLFIN.
‘I don’t know if he’s home,’ Tommaso murmured. ‘He doesn’t have a phone, so we’ll have to take our chances.’
‘What makes you think he knows anything about Rosetta Zulian?’ asked Zen.
Tommaso shrugged and rang again.
