“The architect Giovanni Battista Meduna understood that, for Italians, opera is more than just what happens on the stage. The whole experience of going to the opera is a gradually unfolding ritual that begins with the anticipation, getting dressed for the evening, then coming to the theater, and then entering the place where the main event is going to happen. As with any ritual, whether it takes place in a temple, an arena, or a theater, the setting is part of the experience.
“Meduna planned the décor of the auditorium so there would be a crescendo of ornamentation. This was the plan: From the orchestra, your eye would be carried upward through the foliage of the magic garden to the wonder of the sky, represented by the shades of blue in the ceiling and the light of the central chandelier, which is Apollo—Apollo being, as I said, the god of the sun. All the other figures in the auditorium belonged to the cult of Dionysus and Bacchus and the woodland spirit of arcadia, because that’s really what the place was meant to represent. There was even a satyr above the stage. The theater was like a clearing in the forest, an enormous outdoor gazebo with the sky above. The audience was immersed in nature, relaxed, preparing itself for the performance, waiting for the music of Apollo—opera—so they could observe and learn. This was the iconography of the Fenice, and this is how the theater should be read.”
“I would guess,” I said, “that you’re opposed to the idea of building a modern interior inside the existing shell of the Fenice.”
“Yes, of course, and it really isn’t a question of aesthetics. It’s a question of preserving the Dionysian experience that Meduna created for the spectator in the auditorium. The lights in the theater were never completely turned off, even during the performance. They were dimmed to a soft glow, so the spectators could still see the images. The images kept them company. You might have gone to the theater alone, but you still had company. This is a relationship that modern theater does not care about. The focus today is completely on the stage. The show is sacred. Everyone must be quiet and watch. Modern theaters are sterile places that have great acoustics and great visibility—but no decoration. You no longer have any company.
“A new Fenice should have state-of-the-art air-conditioning and modern equipment backstage to move scenery, but it really must retain the Dionysian theater hall.”
“Because Venice is a Dionysian city?”
Lovato laughed. “Look around you! Look at this shop. Look at the people passing in the street. Carnival is a celebration of the magic, the mystery, and the decadence of Venice. Who would want to lose that?”
THE BRIEF LULL WAS OVER FOR VENICE. Carnival had begun. Narrow streets that had been easily passable for the last few weeks were now solid with tourists, shuffling along in masks and fanciful hats with bells. Venetians no longer had Venice all to themselves, but at least there was the saving grace of a buoyant, lighthearted spirit. The partygoing masquerade rolled through every quarter of the city. It spilled into shops, museums, and restaurants, and floated along the canals on gondolas, water taxis, and vaporettos. Even the taste buds rejoiced with the reappearance of the Carnival pastry, frittelle—small, sweet fritters studded with raisins and pine nuts and, if one chose, filled with zabaglione or vanilla cream.
Into this madhouse vision of eighteenth-century Venice slipped an unassuming figure who was joined by Mayor Cacciari and a mob of reporters and photographers. Woody Allen had come to Venice to pay his respects to the city he loved and where he and his jazz band were to have given a concert two weeks hence to reopen a renovated Fenice Opera House. Instead, he said, he would now give a concert at the Goldoni Theater as a benefit for the Fenice. Mayor Cacciari took Woody Allen into the ruin of the Fenice. Allen stared at the bare, horseshoe-shaped brick shell. The only traces of the golden tiers were five rows of evenly spaced holes in the wall where beams supporting the balconies had once been inserted.
“Terrible,” he said. “Terrifying. It’s total devastation. It’s unreal.”
The sense of unreality deepened as they emerged from the theater into the midst of the gaily costumed Carnival throng. Neither man had any idea how much more unreal it would soon become, until Felice Casson issued a warrant citing Woody Allen for trespassing.
{6}
THE RAT MAN OF TREVISO
TWO TIERS OF TALL GOTHIC WINDOWS WERE ABLAZE with candlelight as the Lauritzens and I approached the landing stage of Palazzo Pisani-Moretta. The Carnival ball was already in progress. Costumed men and women stood on the balconies above us, drinks in hand, looking out over the Grand Canal and the glimmer of lights reflected on the night-blackened water.
“The façade is late-fifteenth-century Gothic,” said Peter. “Notice the especially fine examples of quatrefoil tracery above the windows of the first
piano nobile.
They’re derived, as you’ve no doubt already surmised, from the Doge’s Palace.” Peter was wearing a long black cape and a black mask.
“Trespassing!” said Rose. “Think of it! How horribly embarrassing for Woody Allen. But Casson was quite right to do it, you know, if he really means to find out what happened at the Fenice.” Rose’s hair was combed in an upsweep, with a string of pearls laced through it. She wore a bejeweled black satin mask and an evening dress that was a column of black chiffon. “He’s one of the few honest, incorruptible prosecutors we’ve got left. A white
knight!
I just pray he doesn’t suddenly self-destruct like all the others.”
“Then, in the eighteenth century,” said Peter, “the strong-willed Chiara Pisani-Moretta redecorated the palazzo at enormous expense, all while laying siege to the courts, hoping to have her brother declared illegitimate so she could spend
his
share of the family patrimony on the palazzo as well.”
Rose lifted the hem of her gown in preparation for stepping onto the dock. “But, I mean, one does feel sorry for Woody Allen,” she said. “First his jazz concert gets burned out of the Fenice; then he’s arrested for dropping by as a gesture of sympathy.” Rose became distracted by a man in a green mask who was alighting from one of the water taxis ahead of ours. “Oh, Peter, look. That’s Francesco Smeraldi.” Then, turning to me, she said, “He’s a poet nobody reads, because as soon as he finishes a poem, he locks it in a bank vault. He used to teach writing and poetry to schoolchildren until it was found out that he—”
“No, no, Rose, you’re wrong,” said Peter. “That’s not Francesco Smeraldi at all. It’s—”
“Well, how can anybody tell with that mask he’s got on! All I can see is a mouth and chin. Anyway, whether that’s him or not, Francesco Smeraldi did fall out of favor when it was discovered he’d taken a group of children on a tour of loos to read the graffiti!”
At the water entrance, we stepped onto a carpeted platform flanked by two flaming torches and walked into a cavernous entry hall with large, gilt-framed lanterns hanging from dark beams. A monumental staircase at the far end led to the first
piano nobile
and a vast center hall with ceilings richly frescoed in the rococo style. The room was illuminated by nine huge glass chandeliers and six sconces, all of them aglow with masses of tall white candles. Tonight every room in the palace was lit exclusively with candlelight.
The crowd numbered several hundred. The din of their voices had the excited, high-pitched sound of people enjoying the release from stiff formality that masks and costumes conferred, even though most of the people were recognizable despite their masks. There were kisses on both cheeks, overheard snatches of conversation—“skiing in Cortina,” “up from Rome,”
“bellissimo!”—
and waves of the hand to friends glimpsed across the room.
We stood at the center of the room, attended by white-jacketed waiters circulating with trays of wine and pink Bellinis. The Bellinis were authentic: Tonight’s party was being catered by Harry’s Bar, the establishment that invented the drink, a combination of prosecco and the juice of fresh white peaches.
“This palazzo was vacant for over a century,” said Peter. “It was without central heat, plumbing, gaslight, or electricity until 1974, when it was lovingly restored. The remarkable thing is that the detailing is not only original but intact—the frescoes, the mantelpieces, the stucco ornamentation. It took three months just to clean the floor, and what has emerged from the grime is a brilliant example of eighteenth-century terrazzo in perfect condition. As I always say: Nothing preserves like neglect.”
“Alvise!” Rose called out to a shortish, florid-faced, bald-headed man who was walking in our direction at a regal pace. He lifted Rose’s hand and nodded toward it, then shook hands with Peter.
“Now, Alvise Loredan is someone you must meet!” Peter said as he introduced me. “Count Loredan is a quintessential Venetian and a member of one of the oldest patrician families.”
Alvise Loredan fixed his gaze on me and beamed. He had an aristocratic hooked nose, jowls, a fringe of hair, and a solid jaw that in profile I could imagine adorning a coin.
“There have been three doges in my family,” he said in English, holding up three fingers. “Three!”
“Indeed,” said Peter, “and Alvise is too modest to tell you, so I will: One of the Loredan doges was Leonardo Loredan, the sixteenth-century doge whose magnificent portrait by Giovanni Bellini is arguably the finest Venetian portrait ever painted. The pity is, it hangs in the National Gallery in London rather than here in Venice.”
Loredan nodded. “My family goes back to the tenth century in Venice. Loredans won every war they ever fought in, and they fought in all of them. This is very important! If the Loredans hadn’t defeated the Turks, first in 1400 and then in Albania, the Turks would have crossed the Adriatic, occupied the Vatican, and wiped out Christianity!”
Count Loredan was alternating between English and Italian now.
“In the state archives,” he said, “there are letters between popes and the Loredan doges using the familiar
tu
form of address. They were on the same level, both princes. I have copies. I can show you. I have a copy of a letter from Henry VIII to Leonardo Loredan, calling him ‘our dearest friend.’ It’s all there. This is very important!”
“And,” said Peter, “as for Loredan palaces . . .”
“There are several in Venice,” the count said proudly. “Palazzo Loredan in Campo Santo Stefano, where Napoleon established the Venetian Institute of Science, Letters and Arts. Palazzo Corner-Loredan, which is part of the Venice town hall. Palazzo Loredan degli Ambasciatori, which the Holy Roman Empire rented from my family for many years as its embassy to the Republic of Venice. Palazzo Loredan-Cini in Campo San Vio; it was the home of Don Carlos, the pretender to the throne of Spain. And . . . did I say Palazzo Loredan in Campo Santo Stefano? Yes, I said that one . . . Napoleon . . . the institute . . . very important. The most famous one is the Palazzo Loredan-Vendramin-Calergi, where Richard Wagner composed
Parsifal
and died. It is now the Municipal Casino.”
“And it’s a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture,” said Peter. “You can tour it and, while you’re there, try your luck at gambling. But we can’t go with you, legally. An old statute still on the books forbids residents of Venice to enter the Municipal Casino. But we can ride by it on the vaporetto and see the Loredan family motto carved in stone on the waterside façade: NON NOBIS DOMINE NON NOBIS—‘Praise us not, O Lord.’ It’s a declaration of humility by a very powerful family.”
“The sign of the Loredan,” said the count, “was inscribed in many places around Venice. It’s at the Rialto and even carved into the façade of St. Mark’s. This is very important! The basilica is a most prestigious place. But because of the corrosion from pigeon droppings, you can’t see the Loredan insignia! It’s a paradox. Squalid pigeons are the symbolic heroes of democracy! They are the heroic warriors in democracy’s crusade to obliterate any vestige of historic nobility and grandeur.”
Loredan raised an index finger. “I have written a book about democracy. It’s called
Democracy: A Fraud?
Democracy disgusts me. It makes me sick!” He delivered this sentiment forcefully but without any lapse of affability. As he warmed to his topic, he abandoned English and was now speaking entirely in Italian.