Date: Fri, 24 Aug 2018 17:13:26 +0200 (CEST)
From: marin.giustinian@laposte.net
Subject: Venetian November

In the following story, all of the characters are totally fictive and the
setting is real. For whomever it would be illegal, immoral or prohibited
for any other reason whatsoever to read a story about love between two
young adult men is kindly requested to refrain from continuing. A free
picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon request at
<marin.giustinian@laposte.net>. This being said, I hope you enjoy the tale.

----------

VENETIAN NOVEMBER

by Marin Giustinian

----------

Prologue

Matt Chandler graduated from the Divinity School of Oxford, qualifying to
enter the priesthood of the Church of England. Being the last born son of a
wealthy, widowed mother, he had been obedient to her wishes to see him in
the pulpit. Now that the summer holidays were over and the deadline,
looming, he had returned to Oxford with his brother and Mother to be
received in a few hours by the Dean of Divinity. They were to review the
vacancies of clergy wherein he could begin his career. His mother and elder
brother were attending the interview too. He was in cold sweat when he
opened his notebook and began writing.


Oxford, September 12, 1850

God so help me! I know that I must face the blast of hellfire and
pandemonium that surely will explode when I announce to the Dean, to my
brother and especially to Mother that I do not want to join the priesthood
for the time being. I need time!

God is eternal, so I think He can wait a little longer to benefit from my
dedicated service! I shall plead my need to ponder on how I can serve Him
best and be true to myself.

I shall point out that it is fashionable for the young men of our rank in
society to go on a tour of the Continent before settling down. I know that
Mother is afraid of my going anywhere without the protection of a
chaperone, but I have decided otherwise and I must stand steadfast or live
in shame for the remainder of my days!

I am resolute to go to Venice, the magical city of my dreams. I am decided
to go by myself and pray that the enlightenment of the arts gives me the
wisdom needed to heed the reality of my true calling.


London, September 15, 1850

Well, Mother simply fainted when I announced in the Dean's office my final
intentions. The poor old Dean simply stuttered and mumbled something
supposedly appropriate and turned his attention to Mother, sprawled out on
the carpet, as my beloved brother fanned her, admonishing her to wake up
and behave.

I just stood there, unperturbed and wonderfully relieved. When Mother
shortly came back to her senses, she coldly glanced at me and only said,
"Matthew, that nonsense about Venice... we shall see, we shall see,
indeed."

Nothing more was said and I was hurried into the carriage, returning, in a
very tense silence, to London.

Once at home, Harold, my brother, consoled me, took my case in hand and
together we connived a strategy to undermine Mother's defence. After
besieging her positions for three days and nights, she finally surrendered
to my demand of departure, unwillingly accepting my steadfast conditions to
voyage alone with enough financial means to live correctly and study for at
least a year in Venice. We were back on speaking terms again with Mother
when she learned that there was an Anglican chaplain there, a graduate
himself, from the same Divinity School I attended. She also knew someone
who knew the General Consul of Great Britain in Venice. She told me that it
was mandatory I pay them both my humblest respects. She said she was going
to prepare letters of recommendations to both and that I should deliver
them upon my arrival. Thus, I suppose she imagined me under double
protection : God and the Crown!

My brother and I went out on the town to celebrate in a favourite pub of
his. He confessed that he was a bit jealous of my bravery and that I must
keep him posted regularly as to my adventures. We came home a bit tipsy and
I begged him to let me sleep in with him. I needed his warmth and affection
so much ever since Father had passed away and the perspective of leaving
home without him terrorised me a little. No, not a little ; I'm still
simply scared to death and marvellously excited about my forthcoming
departure! We cuddled. He held me tight, kissed my forehead and as I fell
asleep, he insisted on my preparing in detail my voyage.

I totally agreed with him. I must now study and plan everything, clear my
documents and guarantee my financial independence with the Embassy of the
Lombardo-Venetian Kingdom, constituent of the Austrian Empire to obtain my
visa. I read all I could find concerning Venice. While looking at a
Canaletto in the National Gallery, I overheard two blokes commenting the
painting. I struck up conversation and they said they had studied art there
the previous year. I told them of my intentions and one of them gave me the
address of a good lodging. There's so much to be done if I want to be ready
by October!


London, October 10, 1850

Tomorrow the big leap! The P&O has arranged passage on steamers via
Gibraltar, Malta, changing for Corfu and Venice. I have a decent purse full
of gold guineas which I can advantageously exchange for local currency
according to my needs. I've a passport and visa plus the obligatory letters
of recommendation for the British Consul General and the Chaplain Mother
gave me. I've been to the tailor's and have chosen my attire, packed my
trunk with my watercolours, pens and pencils, sketchpad, favourite books
and have alerted our coachman to drive me tomorrow at dawn to the docks for
departure on the outgoing tide. I have duly paid my respects to Mother and
before going to bed, I snuggled into Harold's. He grumbled a little, kissed
me and gave me his farewell blessings. I shall miss him terribly.

Yesterday, he gave me a beautiful box of fine stationary, just to remind me
of my obligation to write to him often. My few college mates have been
informed of my forthcoming departure also. I keep going over and over my
list, fearing having forgotten something important...

Now I must try to find sleep... if possible!


Onboard, November 2, 1850

While at sea, I felt absolutely no motivation whatsoever to write in my
notebook. But, now that we are arriving in Venice tomorrow morning, I'm so
thrilled and agitated that writing helps me keep calm. I paced the deck
until midnight, wishing the ship to haste even more. To be honest, the
voyage has gone by quite well except for the loss of five days in
Corfu. The coal hadn't been delivered on time and we had to wait. I was
blocked onboard, not having a visa for the Kingdom of Greece and not
willing to pay a fortune, bribing the officers to let me leave the
ship. Other than being annoyed by my own impatience, the delay was not too
much of a disaster. I did get a long letter off to Harold telling him how
much I miss him.

I fully appreciated having a cabin to myself aboard each of the two ships
on which I've voyaged. However, having to share the table in the dining
room, I found the other passengers close to unbearable, continuously
complaining about the conditions of the sea, dreading being overseas as if
leaving Britain was a punishing exile.

Fortunately, I enjoy my own company and find cruising the sea quite
stimulating. At any rate, the further I am from London, the better I
feel. The first day or two, I was a bit upset by a touch of seasickness,
but afterwards, when I became used to the motion, I found that water was my
element! I think that should be quite appropriate for a long stay in
Venice!


Venice, November 3, 1850

Dawn at last and Venice in view! The local authorities boarded the ship as
we entered the laguna and checked us all before we disembarked. Having
gathered my baggage, tipped the cabin boy and steward, I left the ship.

I immediately spotted a young and enterprising youth, probably no older
than seventeen, proposing his services as gondolier. He was crying out in
several tongues. I recognised English and hailed him. I don't know why, but
I immediately took to the lad and gave him the address I had of an inn on
the Fondamenta del Borgo in Dorsoduro. He smiled and said, "Milord. I live
close there. I know the boss. Let us go. Clean and decent for Milord... and
not expensive like hotel."

With the bags safely stashed in his gondola, I sat under the canopy,
awestruck by the sight that was unfolding before me. There was a light haze
on the slick waters. Dead calm! From the yards of the nearly immobile
ships, their sails were hanging limp and useless and the workboats, as well
as the black, sleek more rakish gondolas, slid by in a kind of uncanny
silence. The magic of Venice had already begun casting its spell on me. The
pale November sun reflected a pastel light on the passing buildings along
the quay. As we came closer to a more ornate building, my gondolier
announced, "The Palace of the Doges".

Of course, I recognised it from the paintings of Canaletto. The lazy
traffic of the boats became a bit more intense and the voices of the people
passing by could be heard echoing in the breeze. Crossing in front of a
boisterous canal opening into the city, obviously the Grand Canal, we
rounded a point and followed another very wide canal close along the
quayside.

"Tchaw (or something like that), Giacomo!" shouted a slim ephebe running
alongside our boat.

"Tchaw, Lorenzo!" replied, equally shouting, then my young gondolier turned
to me and said, "Good friend, Milord. He is beautiful. They make pictures
of him in Accademia."

"You are becoming too, if you don't mind me saying so. Can I understand
that your name is Giacomo?"

"Giacomo Stellin, Milord. For serve you!" he answered, with a slight bow
never breaking the steady rhythm of his rowing, "Soon arrive. Happy?"

"Yes, Giacomo... very happy!"

"Good happy, Milord!"

We turned into a small canal, then to the left and again to the right into
an even narrower canal. I was already desperately lost! A pedestrian quay
was lined with very different houses, each with its own design and yet all
were strangely harmonious together, not boringly identical like the new row
houses are in England.

"Here is 'locanda', Milord," proudly announced my gondolier as he leapt
ashore, holding out his hand to help me disembark, "I carry baggage."

With Giacomo dragging my trunk, we went into the tavern. The place looked
quite neat and clean. Art work was everywhere on the walls and the tiles of
the floor gleamed in the slanting light shining in from the rear garden.

"Guest rooms over," stated Giacomo, pointing to a staircase down which
hurried a smiling gentleman, obviously the innkeeper himself. Giacomo
blathered something to him as he looked at the family arms emblazoned on
the leather of my trunk. He then turned to me, bowed and addressed me in
English, "Welcome, your Lordship. My name is Armando. What can I do to help
you?"

"I should like to take room and board here for a while. Is it possible?"

"For Armando, everything is possible, my handsome, young Lord!"

With that, Giacomo, took over. The way they spoke using their hands made
things almost understandable! Giacomo then turned to me asking if the price
they quoted was acceptable. On London standards it was quite
affordable. Giacomo then stated that if I needed his services again, all I
had to do was tell Armando. He could have him fetched as soon as
required. They both carried my baggage up to the room. It overlooked the
garden saying that they had decided it was best for me and they were
right. It was perfect! I then asked, "And how much do I owe you, Giacomo?"

He bowed his head and quoted a very modest sum. I paid him, giving him a
generous tip.

"Grazie, Milord! Too kind! I serve for you, Milord, any time!"

"Very well. Now you can leave." I said.

Bowing again, he backed out of the room and darted down the stairs. Nice
fellow!

I flung myself on the bed, stretched and started to really realise I was at
last in Venice and very happy to be here... and very hungry also! I
undressed, went to the washstand and gave myself a thorough sponge bath,
dashed some cologne on and changed into some clean clothes before going
back down.

"Armando, I'm starving!"

"I have a remedy for that, Sir. Please be seated."

I thought back on my arrival. My young gondolier was strikingly becoming,
courteous and servile at the same time ; my room is correct, with lots of
light and judging from my refection, the food shall be wonderful. I dare
not mention the 'ombra' as they say, the 'shadow' or 'shade' as the
Venetians call their white wine. Ombra... It's devilishly tempting, indeed!
Dangerously delightful!

Adieu London, beer and noisy carriages with horse hooves beating the
cobblestones and above all, the stench of manure, garbage and low tide on
the Thames!


November 4, 1850

This morning, I decided to sleep in and go exploring some all by myself in
the afternoon. I walked to the Accademia, decided to visit that later and
then found my way over to San Marco. It wasn't that complicated. I just
followed the movement of the people and I arrived there.

What a fabulous sight! The basilica throned at the end of the
piazza. People were scurrying hither and yon, some stopping to talk. Some
small merchants were peddling their ware. The shops along the arcades were
rich and the cafés so tempting. I couldn't resist indulging in a hot
chocolate, seated alone at a tiny table in the window of the marvellous
decor of Florian's watching the people and pigeons come and go and I,
immobile, simply enjoying myself. Some of the people passing by smiled at
me through the glass window. I nodded back, being civil and distant as one
should be in such a theatrical situation. It was really a lot of fun.

I then went inside the Basilica and lost myself admiring not only the
mosaics and the ornaments but above all, I was enchanted by the shape of
the space. The domes were linked by thin, floating bridges and the scent of
incense went to my head when suddenly the chant of a group of whatever
they're called in the Catholic clergy soared and fell upon me. I started to
feel the surge of mystical emotions stir deep inside me as I was stirred as
a lad, attending mass in Saint Paul's. The distance I had taken with the
things of the church helped me savour once more their objective beauty.

As I was slowly walking back, still charmed by my experience in Saint
Mark's, I came across a tiny shop with only one window snuggled in between
two other more arrogant shops. Doll-like, dressed angels, about a foot
high, clothed in very fine fabrics, were hanging in the modest window. I
looked closer and was impressed by the way the angels and my gondolier
favoured. I saw in the back of the shop, under the light of an elaborate
lamp, a very aged gentleman working at his bench. I walked in. He greeted
me with a gentle smile. We were able to communicate enough in French for me
to understand that his name was Giuliano Ravagnan, "Artisan d'ange", as he
presented himself, angel maker!

One angel in particular struck my eye. I bought him without thinking. His
angels didn't have that effeminate sick smile like many of our
representations do in England. I never understood why most Englishmen say,
'she' when talking about angels. Angels aren't ships, they're messengers
and need the male strength to kill dragons and make Mary pregnant... My new
friend, the Venetian angel I bought makes me happy as a butterfly in May!

He is now smiling on me while I finish writing today's pages!


November 12, 1850

This morning I woke up to the sound of pouring rain outside. I'd been
intensely sightseeing this past week and decided that a bit of rest could
be useful. I stayed in, enjoying my bed and meditating my
angel-companion. Never had anything -- I almost wrote, anyone --
fascinating me more! How I yearned to be able to make one myself!

And why not!

The idea dawned on me to go ask Monsieur Ravagnan if he would accept taking
me in as a pupil. I could pay him for his time.

During the afternoon, the rain slackened and the idea imposed itself on
me. I went back to the angel shop!

The word gentleman took on its deepest meaning with Monsieur Giuliano
Ravagnan. He was a very cordial man. I told him how moved I was by his art
and that I wanted to take lessons with him to try learning it myself. He
listened and when I had finished he simply asked me to imagine a nude and
draw it. I immediately imagined Giacomo. I surprised myself seeing how well
I did. Monsieur Ravagnan agreed to take me on as a pupil for a very modest
rate, saying that I must be prepared to work hard and that it might take
longer than I could imagine in order to master the basic knowhow involved
in creating angels.

We shook hands. I told him that I am ready to stay as long as needed. I
should begin when I'm settled in somewhere. He gave me a list of the tools
I needed and the address to where I can buy them.

Oh my God, what have I decided? Probably it's the most modest and best
decision I've ever made! At least, I made it myself. Or was it my angel? I
must ask Armando to help me find a small apartment to rent.


November 17, 1850

Giacomo, my little gondolier, came into the locanda while I was having a
late breakfast. Useless to say that I was glad to see him. He was even more
'beautiful' than I recalled. He was delivering two ladies this time, both
English, from what I gathered. He asked how was I doing. I invited him over
to have coffee with me and he readily accepted.

I told him about the angel and my decision to study angel making. He looked
a bit surprised and when I said I was looking for a small furnished
apartment, he stood and did a little dance, chanting, "I know one now,
Milord! Come."

"Now?"

"Yes, come!"

He took me by the arm and pulled me with him under the amused eyes of
Armando. We went only four doors down and turned into a little walkway
giving onto a small courtyard a bit overgrown by weeds. There he pulled the
house bell and we were met by a little lady who greeted Giacomo with a
simile. They began talking, gesturing to me, saying things I didn't
understand at all.

Again, I let him take over. Even if I hadn't let him, he took over anyway!
The lady went inside and came back out with a key in hand. He then turned
and said, "Come see."

We followed the lady to the other door. She opened and we went into a small
one room lodging. There was a good coal stove, a table and two chairs, a
kitchen corner and a big bed. There was a spacious chest of drawers with an
ornate highboy standing against the back wall. With the two windows up
front, the space was very bright and cheerful. There was a pump for water
in the court and a lidded bucket used for a toilet which was emptied into
the canal. A perfect little "foresteria" : a lodging for foreigners,
wherein I could imagine myself living quite well. To top it off, it was
only a few yards from the locanda when I didn't want to cook. I agreed to
the lady's conditions and decided to move in after she had basically
cleansed and aired out the space and stocked it with fresh linens, long
white curtains on the windows and had coal and kindling, oil for the lamps,
candles, etc., delivered. I paid her for what she had to buy and gave her a
month's rent in advance. I should be moving in two days.

As we returned to the locanda, Giacomo asked, "Happy, Milord?"

"Yes, Giacomo, very happy. My first home of my own!"

"Must be good, a own house. I am glad, Milord, you here longer! Now show me
angel, please! He made you stay!"

We went up to my room and Giacomo looked at my angel, then he took him in
his hands and brought him to his lips and kissed him. He said
nothing. Placing him back on my desk, he just looked at me with the most
tender expression imaginable. It made me melt somehow.

"Giacomo, can I invite you to come with me to meet my angel-maker?"

"Yes, Milord! I need know him!"

It was such a simple and beautiful experience seeing Giacomo and Giuliano
together, talking, looking at the angels. When Giuliano caressed Giacomo's
cheek with infinite tenderness, it was as if he was creating the lad's
smile. It is a wonder when a man or a woman, achieving an advanced age,
express in their eyes and touch the essence of youth instead of the
bitterness of decrepitude. Giacomo, Giuliano and Venice are
identical. Everything is now becoming quite coherent.

Leaving the shop, I said, "Giacomo, I need to buy some tools. Here are the
addresses. Can you help me?"

"Of course Milord! We go."

We had finished before noon and I had a sudden urge to see the sea. "Let me
buy us something to eat and then you take me to the Lido. Is it possible?"

"We go to Lido, Milord!"

Giacomo went to straighten up the gondola as I took a basket of food from
the locanda and a bottle of wine. In the blink of an eye, we were gleefully
underway!

A sudden surge of vastness overtook me as we strode onto the strand, facing
the waves and wind of the grey November Adriatic. We walked side by side
like simple friends. At one point, Giacomo took my hand, saying, "I like
you Milord. You are fun!"

I was completely taken aback by such a spontaneous expression of
fellowship. I stalled in my steps. I was still holding Giacomo's hand, when
I uttered, "I like you too."

Was it the cold wind or a grain of sand or whatever... but my eyes shed a
tear as we both smiled at each other. Then I laughed, jumped and started
running, with Giacomo on my heels. He caught up and tackled me. I didn't
fall. We hugged, stumbling, giggling, dancing a very awkward waltz and then
both of us fell together on the sand. We just sat there an instant looking
at the waves, then I stood. I began whisking the sand off my frontside as
Giacomo brushed my backside. It then felt quite normal to seize Giacomo's
shoulders, turn him around and return the service.

Suddenly Giacomo shied away, exclaiming, "No! Milord! Not correct. I
serve. You master!"

"Forget that, Giacomo! Come back here and let me finish!"

He blushed and obeyed. We walked back to the boat in silence. During the
whole hour it took for him to row us back in the sunset, he sang. His voice
could have been that of angels, a warm voice with moments of treble pitched
intonations reminding me of his youth, his exuberance, his stamina
too. Maybe he hadn't sat for a long time on school benches but he was an
accomplished scholar of life. Yes, indeed, Giacomo, I like you a lot!

Returning home, I asked Giacomo how much I owed him. He looked hurt and
said, almost riled, "With friends it's free and I want help you move in
your new house too, Milord."

I replied, "But, I just want to pay you for the trouble I have caused you."

"What trouble? Fun with you!"

His indignation could be seen on his face. He looked down at his feet,
turned his head and then bluntly stated, stifling his anger, "Me, Giacomo
Stellin, work when I want money. Not when I have fun with friends. Not
work! Giving is not work! Friends give each other their time. They not sell
it. Giving is better than paying! You are a friend!"

 Then looking at me directly face to face, he sentenced, "Milord. You are
friend for me, you must learn what I tell you if I am your friend, too!"

His look was defiant, yet tender, touching, sincere. His words stabbed me
to the hilt.

"I'm sorry Giacomo. You are my friend too."

He just stepped up to me and hugged me. I melted. Then he released me and
said, smiling, "I go. Come later to help you move. Good-bye!"

"Good bye, and thank you, thank you for everything!"

There are so many simple, earthly things I have to learn, now that I'm no
longer sequestered in the perversion of elite schools, colleges and high
society where money or exchanges handle everything.

Enough for my notebook today! I'm dead tired and feeling a little confused,
even upset some. I need to take some time and let all that's going on in my
life sink in a little. I need to go lose myself some more in the city,
wander, wondering and let myself simply grow.

Oh Damnit! I've still have to make an appointment with the bloody Consul
and the Chaplain -- and write to Mother!


November 21, 1850

Moving day arrived. I was nervous, waiting for Giacomo. There was an
important thing to settle with him! Finally I heard him skip up the stairs
to my room and knock.

"Come in."

"Good morning, Milord!" he chirped as he opened my door.

"Come in and sit down," I said as I showed him the chair. He looked
surprised. I spoke slowly, almost solemnly, "My name is Matthew. Call me
Matthew and no longer Milord. Do you understand? It makes me feel old and
snobbish."

He, looked back at me in the eyes, a bit puzzled and answered, "If you
want... We are friends, but I just a simple work boy and you a Lord. Not
correct..."

Interrupting, I stated, "If I say so, it will be correct between us!"

Then, seeing Giacomo's dismay, my tone suddenly changed all by itself,
"Please, Giacomo, I beg you, just call me Matthew like I call you Giacomo."

He gave me a rather blank look, tilting his head. It was obvious he was
pondering the situation. Then he stood, smiled and said, "As you like,
Massew... " He tried again and still it came out Massew... "Oh, Milord, can
I say Matt?... Hard to make zuh-tsuh sound. May I then call you, Matt, if
no offence?"

Relieved, I replied, "I like that! Matt Chandler! That sounds snappy! Matt
it is! I think you're brilliant, Giacomo!"

He suddenly broke down laughing and stuttered, "Pardon me, but in my
language, 'mat' or 'matto' means crazy! Ha! Matt, matto!"

I joined in laughing too! "I agree, Giacomo, well said -- and if Matt means
Crazy, then crazy it is! Crazy Chandler, that's a dandy name for me now!"

"Me crazy too, you know! Due matti, two crazy companions we are!"

We shook hands, tapping each other's shoulder, giggling as we hugged for a
second time. He made me feel so good!

"Now, we go work, Matt?"

"Yes, Giacomo, let's go!"

We opened the apartment, cleaned and rearranged the furniture some. I took
the engraving of the Sacred Heart of Jesus off the wall and hung my angel
in its place.

As I unpacked, Giacomo was everywhere, sweeping, polishing, making the bed,
cleaning out the stove. It was a pleasure seeing him move around, light the
fire, fetch the water. By eleven o'clock, my modest little abode had become
a shining palace to me.

Giacomo was off to work. I wandered around in the apartment, wondering what
I could do next. The experience of doing all that humbled me, realising how
many simple things I don't know how to do. I don't know how to stoke a
fire, empty cinders, fetch my own water and even make coffee. I don't know
how to row standing. I feel crippled not knowing how to handle even the
smallest boat.

I went out for a walk. I was seeing Venice with other eyes. No longer being
a lodger in a locanda but having my own house to take care of, I felt more
like the Venetians and realised even more acutely how lacking I was of was
of their natural grace, subtle arrogance, humour and class!

When I see Venetians row, it is as elegant as dance. I did rowing as a
sport in college, seated in a row, looking backwards, pulling an oar,
sweating like a galley slave, imagining that there was some kind of stupid
glory going faster than the boat beside you. Here, it's the total
opposite. The princely presence of rowing, standing up, facing the prow is
grace, not brawn.

I have so much to learn from Giacomo. He is a pure Venetian! I want to
learn how to handle a boat like he does, light a fire, speak his tongue, be
spontaneous, kind and affectionate.

Other than money and book learning, I have, in fact, so little to
give. Nevertheless, my heart yearns to give of myself too. I just don't
know what I have of myself that is worth the giving! It hurts to know that
who I was and what I had in another world seems here to be vulgar and
futile.

Then, I scolded myself for indulging in such stupid self-pity. I
neutralised my feelings and thought. It then dawned on me that I could give
him practice in decent English and he could give me practice rowing. Giving
and giving without paying and taking!

That's a good idea! I feel much better now! I'll propose that to him the
next time we see each other. Now I must rest. My work with my Angel-master
begins tomorrow.

Enough writing for tonight!


November 25, 1850

My new home is wonderful even if I'm still a clumsy housekeeper. I'm so
glad the locanda is next door. If not, I could have poisoned myself doing
my own cooking! Also, there is a laundry women over on the Toleta. Without
her, I would look totally indecent!

My work at the angel shop with Giuliano is wonderful but the task seems
impossible. I must learn how to sculpt the angel heads in clay, bake and
paint them, whittle the members and wings in wood, sand and paint them and
make a wire body, wrapped in tow and sew the attire of the angel and starch
it to give the windblown effect. It will take a lot of time. Thank God,
time I have, time and will and a lust to learn!

Giacomo came by yesterday evening. I was so, so happy to see him! He came
without my solicitation, just for the pleasure and concern to see how I was
faring. I finally worked up my courage enough to tell him the feelings his
sharp comment triggered in me, tell him about all the things I have to
learn. I told him how much I wanted to share with him what I could,
starting with my sincere friendship.

He jumped on me, giving me a big smacking kiss on the cheek saying, "I am
happy already, Matt!"

We swung the deal : English lessons for rowing lessons.

All excited, he asked, "Begin lessons tomorrow?"

I told him that after working with Giuliano, I had to pay my respects to
the General Consul of Great Britain and the Anglican Chaplain tomorrow at
tea. Mother's orders! He broke out laughing, "My poor Matt... doppo doman
allora."

Seeing him bounce his hand, I understood, 'Day after tomorrow'.

"Yes, we begin day after tomorrow. We start with the boat at three
o'clock. Does that suit you?"

"Boat, Yes, until nightfall at four-thirty, then we study good English in
your house."

I asked him if I could draw some sketches of him too. I needed to work on
proportions for my angels. He understood and said he would be glad to do
that too. I said we could have dinner in my house together if he wanted.

"I bring cake!"

It was just as simple as that. Why do I always imagine things more
complicated than they really are?


November 28, 1850

My life completely changed last night. It is going to take a long time to
write all this down!

I'll skip writing about the tea with the Consul and the Chaplain. We
exchanged the regular, hypocritical banalities used in such
circumstances. Of course, I didn't tell them that I was delving in the art
of angel-making. Maybe I should have, just to see their faces.

Yesterday morning I was as if on wing. I began by settling with Armando the
dinner for the evening to come. He sold me a 'pasta fagiole' which I should
put on the stove to heat and two bottles of excellent sparkling wine to
keep on the windowsill to chill.

When I arrived at the shop, Giuliano noticed I was in a better mood than
usual. I told him that I was going to learn rowing with Giacomo and in
return I would help him in English. He smiled, putting his hand on my
shoulder and softly said, "Suis ton coeur, mon grand." (Follow your heart,
my boy!)

I was waiting for Giacomo by the canal when he came up. We were both
dressed really warm because a very light snow was beginning to fall. I had
gloves, fearing blisters on my hands with the oar. We went out into the
Giudecca canal and he had me replace him.

He spoke to me in Venetian at the same time he touched me, manipulating me,
correcting me physically. I have never been touched so much in my life. I
was a little startled to begin with, but I realised it was the best way to
learn.

I had problems keeping the oar in the 'forcola', the sculptured piece of
wood used instead of oarlocks, but for a first try, I didn't do too
bad. Giacomo laughed more at me than he shouted, but when it really became
too dark to go on and the snow began to fall a bit thicker, he replaced me,
patting me on the back, and took over. I was really relieved because my
hands ached and I was no longer very sure of my legs. We sped back to my
house as my 'professor' showed off all of his skills using the different
placings of the oar in the forcola, making the gondola literally skim on
the water.

Once in the house, I lit the lamps. Having shed our damp capes and bonnets,
Giacomo showed me the wonderful spice and fruit cake he brought. "My mother
made cake for us. Good!"

I graciously thanked him as he stoked the fire, adding coal, making the
stove hum. We enjoyed a hot coffee, settled at the table and began working
on correctly pronouncing the English he already knew. There was a lot of
work with the lips and the tongue between the teeth trying to make the
sounds of our preciously impossible English language sound correctly. We
must have looked like two monkeys making faces at each other as I strived
to show him how to pronounce my name. At one point he broke out laughing,
having spat on the table, with the 'th'.

"You must work much to row good, Matt -- but I must work more to talk good,
I fear!"

I had him repeat, "You have much work to do on your rowing, Mat-TH-yew, but
I fear I have more, to do to speak correct English."

He repeated the best he could and sighed. We laughed! The heat was
wonderful in the room.

"That's enough work!" I declared.

I heated the pasta-fagiole from the locanda and put a bottle of chilled
wine along with two glasses on the table. Giacomo was stripping his sweater
off, beaming when he saw me uncork the wine.

"Xe a festa, Matt! Semo matti!"

"And in English?"

"It is a feast, Mat-TH-yew! We are crazy!"

"Not yet enough, Giacomo!"

We ate laughing and drinking together. He asked me questions about growing
up in England. I asked him about growing up in Venice. We found that deep
down inside, we had a lot in common in spite of everything! When it came
time for his mother's cake, we no longer spoke. It was a pure splendour. We
put away the dishes and opened the second bottle.

"Are you ready to pose, Giacomo?"

"Like Lorenzo does at the Accademia?"

Not knowing what he meant, I simply said, "If you like."

As I was fetching my sketch pad, pen and pencils, Giacomo fed the stove
with more coal. He then sat on the edge of the bed, took off his shoes and
socks, then his shirt and finished by standing, dropping his trousers,
folding them neatly on the floor and looked at me in all his splendid
nudity.

"Like Lorenzo in the Accademia," he said, simply stretching out his arms,
"Feel good, no clothes."

I was already too hot, but when I saw the angelic vision in front of me
slowly reclining on the bed, taking a very elegant pose, I broke into a
sweat. The more I tried to be serious, the more my hand trembled. I poured
us a glass of wine each and handed Giacomo his. We toasted. Giacomo
exclaimed, "Ci viva! Long live us!" and we downed a gulp or two.

Like in a fever, I drew page after page in my sketch pad. My hand flew by
itself. Giacomo changed poses after each page. There was something magic
happening between us. He was reading my mind. I was travelling in his
body. Our souls were touching each other.

I asked Giacomo to stand. He was lithe as a gazelle, almost elfin. He too
was glistening with sweat, his lips a bit swollen, his ears and cheeks a
deep pink. His cock was hard, very hard, glistening in the lamplight. A
tiny, crystalline drop of slick oozed out of the tip and fell on the
floor. He lifted his arms, bending his elbows, grasping the back of his
neck and began a slow, swaying dance, humming to himself, his eyes lost in
some far off dream.

I stood, holding the pad in one hand, my pencil in the other and I came
closer to Giacomo's face. I began a portrait of him. He looked in my
eyes. I sketched like mad. I smelt his breath. I felt his heat. I too was
hard as a dagger in my trousers.

Giacomo calmly took the pad and pencil from my hand and put them on the
table. I just stood there, motionless, sweating, trembling, burning as if I
were made of bronze in the sun.

Then ever so gently, he unbuttoned my shirt and peeled it off my torso,
then unbuckled my belt pulling my trousers and johns down to my knees. He
coaxed me to lay on the bed, knelt and removed my shoes, socks and
pants. There we were, both nude, ecstatic, laying side by side, giggling
like naughty school lads.

"Now we are really same, Matt!"

"That we are, Giacomo. You are very beautiful! Bellissimo..."

"So are you, Matt!"

We were drawn together. An irresistible drive of fusion overtook us. We
grabbed each other, rolled over and over rollicking in the bed, kissing,
tongues seeking the deepest of our throats. We were grinding our slick,
straining cocks, now thrusting together in a trembling dance of lust.

I reached down and gripped Giacomo's perfect cock. It throbbed as he slowly
pushed and pulled in my fist. He took mine in hand and both of us, yielding
to male instinct, we brought each other to a grunting, shivering gush of
semen, splashing on our panting flesh. We entangled ourselves in a kind of
ferocious, heaving hug, smearing our cum-slick bellies and chests as we
kissed again and again, smothering our faces in each other's neck, our
pubic fleece drenched in the spicy scent of our unavoidable fusion.

We let the fire dwindle as we blew out the lamp and snuggled together under
the covers, spent and serene in our newly acquired status of simple
lovers. The angel smiled down on us as we shared a last kiss and blew out
the bedside candle.

As I awoke still in Giacomo's arms, this morning, I slipped out of bed and
went to piss. I pushed back the curtain and saw the abundant snow still
falling in the hush of dawn. I crawled back in bed to be kissed again by a
very sleepy angel in flesh and blood. I knew then that my life had totally
changed overnight.

"It's still snowing, Giacomo..."

"Snowing more?"

I mimed, shivering and with my fingers dancing down in a sweeping gesture,
"Yes, Snowing!".

"Nevica ancora! Dio mio!"

He jumped out of bed, ran to the window, peed while watching the silent
flakes float down. It was already more than ankle deep in the court. Since
the stove was hardly warm, he shuttered some, ran back and dove in bed to
be caught in my eager arms.

"Matt, amor! I stay in bed all day... with you. No work, because snow! Just
you and I, like 'anzoli d'amor'. Perfetto, no?"

"An-zoly-damor?"

"Sure, love-angels in Venezian. Boys making love we call love-angels here."

I had never considered lazing in bed with the lad I love, all day long, as
being angelical behaviour! That kind of virtue, I can understand!

I started to sit up.

"Stay in bed! I make fire and coffee. We eat more cake and make love
again!" he ordered as he scampered out of bed and began doing as he said.

It was a delightful sight, seeing him hasten around, nude in the milky
morning light. In less than I could imagine, the stove was humming, the
coffee steaming and a generous slice of cake in a plate was put in my
hands. He crawled in beside me and we enjoyed the most fabulous breakfast
in the world.

As the heat rose in the room, we discarded the covers and calmly cuddled,
writhing ever so gently together, rolling and kissing each other all
over. I could swear that the bed was moving like on a boat, cradling us
together. Taking our time and savouring every second, we finished by
partaking of a second creamy breakfast, swallowing to the very last drop,
the gift of semen we gave each other.

We joked and talked, learning to know not only each other as friends and
lovers but also as fellow bodies, living in identical flesh. We absorbed
each other's scent, texture, strength and sighs. Our ticklishness as well
as our deepest erotic awakenings were no longer a secret to neither. We
learned so very much about the miracle of simply being fully alive. Doing
nearly nothing we were just being ourselves with our desires, gladly
yielding ourselves to each other on that late November, snowy day.

By mid afternoon, it was decided that we should go check on the
boat. Giacomo insisted that I go with him to his house to meet his
family. I couldn't refuse. We bathed each other by the stove. I dashed some
cologne on both of us, making Giacomo do a little dance, with his cock
flopping around, as his special scent mixed with mine, spread throughout
the room.

Once dressed, we went outside, the world was just a slippery, sliding
universe of white. Some people trudged, cursing the snow. Others laughed,
playfully strolling. Giacomo's gondola was full, but with the 'sessola', a
kind of wooden scoop usually used to empty the rainwater out of the boat,
we were able to put it back in shape. The snow no longer fell.

"Second lesson, Matt!"

We rowed over to Rio San Trovaso and I awkwardly practised more oar strokes
under the smiling eyes of the people passing by.

"I feel ridiculous, Giacomo..."

"Continue! Soon you'll be admirable! That is my job to make you admirable!
Dai! Voga! (Come on! Row!)"

Stimulated by his confidence, I persisted and as the night was falling
again, I felt nearly able.

"Take us to my home, please, Matt. I be passenger!"

"At your service, Milord!"

Zigzagging a bit... even a lot, we made it somehow to Giacomo's house. I
was exhausted!

We were greeted by Giacomo's mother. His father was in the house too.

"Mama, Papa, Ecco Matt! Mi amor!"

I was startled. I whispered over to Giacomo, asking, "Did I understand you
said I was your love?"

"Am I not?"

"Well, yes but..."

"But what? Love is love! Basta!"

His mother, then his father laughed and hugged me and insisted I stay and
dine. His father took out a bottle of grappa and we toasted to the most
beautiful, budding, new love in all of Venice... I was still astonished by
such a joyously healthy, truthful reaction.

After dinner, we both said we needed to rest for our work
tomorrow. Giacomo's father had over-indulged a bit in the wine and was
already in bed and his mother looked a bit surprised that we did not stay
to sleep together. "Sempre benvento, figlio mio!" she said. I was almost in
tears having a mother call me 'her son'!

Giacomo walked me to the door, kissed me good night, groping my balls. I
swatted his hand and pinched his cock. We both laughed, saying, "A doman!"

My candle is nearly dead, but I had to finish writing. I'll pretext the
snow, arriving at the shop a bit late tomorrow.


December 24, 1850

It's been a long time since I wrote in my faithful notebook. There is so
much that could be said, but what for? Let me see what could be the
highlights.

My wonderful brother, Harold, acknowledged my letter telling him about
Giacomo and the angels. He congratulated me saying that for the time being,
Mother should not be informed. He said that the Consul had written,
praising her over her exceptional son. She was in heaven.

Up util now, Giacomo and I see each other every day and spend at least one
night out of three as love-angels, loving, I row well and his English has
notably improved. I told him about how we do Christmas in England. He
showed up yesterday with a branch of holly to put under the angel. God
knows where he found it.

We've decided to live together in my apartment. He's moving in tonight
after we attend midnight mass with his parents. We shall have one bed, I
hope, for always.

My work with the angels progresses very fast. Inspired by Giacomo, I find
new poses and elegant expressions. Giuliano says I can begin putting them
on sale if I want. His stock was nearly depleted for Christmas.

In fact, Giacomo is working less with his gondola and joining me doing
sculpture. He's very good at creating very beautiful heads. He also
sculptured a figurine of me in wax. We shall have it cast in bronze. We
could sell it in special shops. I am depicted with a very prominent cock! I
guess beauty is in truth! I'm like that often with Giacomo!

I have resumed painting also. With our angels, statuettes and paintings, we
can think about opening a little gallery during the coming year. More and
more tourists are finding their way here. I'm glad many are aesthetes and
appreciate Venice, but I admit, it scares me a little.

In such a short time, Venice has become very dear to me. I never cease
being touched by the fabulously contradictory strangeness of this
civilisation. Our kind of love shocks nobody. The Venetians say it's a part
of nature. Only water, love and light bring nature into the city as they
say. This conglomeration of marvels, this opulent display of beauty was
created in the mud of a swamp by people open to the real nature of humans
and to the world -- and they built a utopian life-style together, heeding
the power of beauty. As I still wander around, I discover more and
more. I'm surprised to see Muslims, Moors, Eastern Europeans, Jews and
Negros working and living together to make our unique city always greater.

I was raised believing that we, the righteous English, can bring culture,
salvation and industry to the world by colonial domination, never mixing,
never admitting that other cultures could be as good if not better than
ours, dreaming like morons that we are somehow a 'superior' breed. If we
are superior, how is it that in the name of Christ, our kind destroys the
lives of those who do not fit into our sick scheme of things?

Venice never sought to dominate the world. Venice prefers seducing it with
the force and the beauty of mixing the East with the West, the North with
the South. I'm living amidst a singular race of mixed races, brewing an
energy unknown till now. It is no wonder that the sole industry here is
that of transparency and light : glass, mirrors and chandeliers. The water
of the sea itself is the land of the Venetians. No need to conquer lands
when you connect them by trade and mutual exchange of each other's culture.

I realise that only a few decades ago, Napoleon Buonaparte, as the leader
of the uprising industrial and financial bourgeois class, raped Europe. The
Very Serene Republic of Venice, creating its fortune on trade and art,
instead of force and domination, was abolished, crushed and even slandered
by the upcoming dominant classes of nouveaux riches. Venice could have been
a precious guiding light for us all, if the greed and jealousy of those
coarse, rude wealthy mongrels hadn't, by force and conniving disruption,
crippled it.

Venice's particular philosophy of free love, beauty and elegance of which
the bourgeois were totally deprived, kindled their hate. Venice was crushed
by the French, then by the Austrians and soon, I fear, it shall be
swallowed up by the financial forces striving to unite Italy and install
the law of money. Should we dread the victory of vulgarity, wealth and
intolerance? I do.

Will our future be like the brutish bloke, unable to seduce the lovely
princess, could only manage to rape her? And once she has been debased into
disgrace, there is no other way out but to become his whore. Even if that
fatal issue is yet quite distant ; even if God preserves us from seeing it
come to be during our lifetime, Giacomo and I shall glorify in the smile of
our angels, the unique miracle of our Venetian November.

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A free picture album illustrating this story (pdf) is available upon
request at marin.giustinian@laposte.net