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Notturno Veneziano

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I close the door. But what has happened? A magic spell? My pains have vanished at the touch of his hands, he has mystic healing powers, this doctor, I must keep his name in mind, in case I need it again. I look at his card: Dr. G. Della Cananea.

Someone called G. Della Cananea? But what G.? Why does he hide his name? I try think of a literary character, maybe one of those described in a J. Roberto Wilcock work - The Temple of the Iconoclasts, or the Book of Monsters, for example ... It's the most delusional thing that has ever happened to me. Cananea, ‘Canaanite’, might imply demoniacs... perhaps that’s the point, does that surname recall the Gospel episode of the Canaanite woman, a gentile woman, who turns to Christ to beg him to exorcise her devil-possessed daughter...?

I am conscious that I was reticent about telling the whole truth to the doctor, but how could I have told him that during the night I had been possessed by a horde of wild beasts, or demons, raped, and crucified? He found no trace of this surreal violence on my body, and neither did I, apart from the pain I was still feeling before his miraculous touch - and yet there was that rag in my throat... I pick it up, it's my panties - still wet, soaked with my saliva, or whatever else I dare not think. Surely he would have listened to me carefully, then he’d either have had me admitted to neuropsychiatry, or else he would have absolved me of my sins – his looks and manner seemed more like those of a saint than of a doctor...

But of the lightning that entered the room, there’s not a trace. My laptop is on the desk, still open, but switched off. Even though I'm still scared, I turn it on, I check the list of files, looking for videos and photos – disappeared! I check my smartphone too, the files are gone! This is a real mystery. I am tempted to go along the corridor that leads to my room, open the window overlooking the river, and throw these ghost-holders that my computer and phone have become into the muddy water. Instead I decide to delete them in a violent way: I remove the SIM from the phone, switch it on with the batteries, and put it in the shower with the back open. I open the jet, a crackling announces the discharge of the short circuit, a faint puff of steam confirms that the water has crept into the vital parts. As soon as I can extract the hard drive and destroy it with a hammer, I’ll do the same with the computer as with the phone.

For today I will not be able to do anything but use the landline phone. I call the architect to warn him that I will not be able to come out.

'Hello architect.'

'How is my ballerina?'

'I'm not too well today, last night the wind blew open the window of the room, I didn’t notice, so I got cold and now I’ve got a temperature.'

'I'm sorry. Do you need anything?'

'Yes, please - the rain has wetted my smartphone and computer, they’re drowned, they won’t work anymore. I need a new phone, but I just want one of the old ones that don’t cost much, without all those functions that only cost money and are no use. I recovered the SIM, so I won’t need a new number.'

'Do you need any medication?'

'No, thankyou, the Emergency Service Doctor has already been, he left me some antibiotic capsules, and he gave me an injection. Now I just have to stay in bed, I'll call you tonight, there's no rush ... '

'Get well! I’ll be waiting for your call.'

'Thanks, see you later.'

The drug that the doctor used for the injection is having its effect, I feel overcome by a sudden drowsiness, a numbness that is invading my body and my mind, I give myself up to it...
 
Ethereal images emerge in the dream that comes with this agitated, feverish sleep. I am on stage, dancing to the sound of dissonant notes, a barbarous, ancestral melody played by a sharp-tuned bassoon, a Lithuanian folk-song from Stravinsky's Rite of Spring. Other dancers are with me, the old men are observing the pagan rite of the earth-worship with lewd expressions, the girls are dancing in their mystic ring, the slow, tense melodic sequence that will culminate in the choice of the elect, the maiden who must be the sacrificial victim. But the image is confused, on another stage, in another theatre, a dancer is dancing to the same wild rhythm, but she is alone, naked, she is moving as if commanded by invisible threads, a doll, a puppet.

Even the action of our dance no longer corresponds to the original choreography: when the ancestors are invoked, the evil spirits of the forest appear, their faces covered with fearsome wooden masks, the girls run away, and I remain alone surrounded by monstrous beings, my only salvation is to dance, to dance without stopping...

While I swirl in my dance, the other ballerina’s body, on the other stage, appears to me simultaneously, in an alternate time-frame - during the demonic dance, every pirouette has horrible consequences for the girl who is dancing in the other theatre...

They stretch their deformed arms toward me, the bloodthirsty spirits of the forest, like gnarled branches, their hands grab at my costume, tearing it away, grasping my limbs, like thorny branches wounding my flesh; on the other stage the naked dancer is screaming in pain, while her body distorts in an unnatural way, yellow vomit spews out of her mouth, body fluids are spreading everywhere, and then her body is literally broken in half, torn apart, splattering blood, urine, splinters of bone...

When I finish the dance, my double is lying on the floor, her body a shapeless, unrecognizable mass. And all has been carried along by the tragic sonority and paroxysmal rhythm of the sacred dance of the Chosen One! To dance is dangerous, it is clear now what dance and magic can do if brought together...

But the sacrifice is not yet consummated: the unclean beings drag me away into the woods, they bind me naked to the trunk of a fir tree that rises high on an overhanging rock. My body is now in their power, I cannot resist their brutal violence. Overwhelmed, with no strength remaining, I give myself up. Then the violence subsides, and the trunk is cut with an axe, I fall, still tied to the tree, towards the sharp rocks at the bottom of the cliff.

Yet I do not crash onto the rocks, but fall on the pavement of the street in front of the Teatro dell Antico Ridotto. It is night, storm clouds are veiling the sky, one can glimpse the light of the moon filtering through the clouds. An icy wind whips my naked body, I flee away towards La Fenice, but the evil spirits of the forest bar my way - now they are armed with long, dark daggers...

Pursued by the monstrous beings I run through the Castello district, towards the Arsenal, but from there I have no more escape routes, they will soon catch up with me... and it will be my end...

A blinding flash strikes a short distance ahead of me, I can not see anything, I do not know where to flee... As if by magic, after the dazzling from the intense light fades, I see scattered on the ground the smoking, shapeless remains of bodies burnt by lightning. But the lightning has also struck the lion statues guarding the entrance to the Arsenal, and now they have come to life, they are chasing me now... I flee again. I trip and fall , one of them is upon me, I feel the claws strike me from behind...
 
'Miss! Miss Gabriella! What's up with you?"

'Ah! Thank Heavens it’s you!"

The caretaker's wife has come to bring me a cup of tea and biscuits, she’s come in with the key she uses when she cleans the room.

'I was scared ,' the woman tells me in a trembling voice 'you seemed to be having convulions!'

'A nightmare, a terrible nightmare, I was about to be eaten by a lion.'

'It’s lucky you’re here, and not at the Arsenale!'

‘Why? I was at the Arsenale ... '

'Madoneta mia!' She makes the sign of the cross.

'What has the Arsenale to do with it?'

'There’s a terrible legend that hovers over the lions of the Arsenale ...'

'What does this legend say?'

'It is a legend that speaks of death, but also of magic...’

Apart from the winged Lion of San Marco, there are four other very famous lions in Venice, the beasts that guard the Arsenale. The most celebrated, the Lion of Piraeus, boasts an illustrious history. This lion statue was in fact at Piraeus, the port of Athens, presumably from the first or second century, it was so famous that the Italians called that place Porto Leone. It is also known for the vandalism that Scandinavian mercenaries inflicted on it, engraving elaborate runic inscriptions on the body of the statue.

It was transferred to Venice following the seizure of Athens in 1687 by the naval commander Francesco Morosini, during the wars against the Ottoman Empire. The Venetians besieged and raided Athens, and the famous Lion became part of the war booty. An illustrious piece of loot, it was set up as a symbolic guard of the Arsenale di Venezia, the ancient complex of shipyards of the Serenissima, symbolically the most important place during the golden age of the Venetian Republic. Next to it were placed three more originally Greek lions, including the ancient Lion of Delos, the Lion of Hephaisteion and a fourth of more modest size.

‘Well, they say that in the early 1700s a very strong storm struck Venice. The next morning the torn bodies of two men were found in the vicinity of the Arsenale, they seemed to have been mauled by beasts. They tried to find out if some wild animals had escaped from a fair or circus, and men kept watch on the area, but nothing came to light. People were beginning to be afraid. The surveillance of the area was entrusted to Capitano Giustinian of the Marina.

After a week, there was another storm, and once again, when the bad weather had passed, the body of a man, this time a certain Jacopo Zanchi, was found. The inhabitants of the Arsenal area were increasingly frightened, and the widow Zanchi did not improve the situation by making a scene out in the streets. The woman's screams drew the attention of a well-known merchant and moneylender of the neighbourhood called Foscaro, who came to the window and threatened the woman, wondering aloud where such behaviour would end.

The next stormy night. Giustinian further increased security, and after six nights, during a storm, he decided to lurk hidden next to the entrance of the Arsenal. What happened before his eyes was truly black magic: Foscaro materialised alongside the lions, with thunder and bright flashes of lightning. He touched one of those runic inscriptions scratched on the body of the Lion of Piraeus, reading it aloud: a bolt of lightning struck the statue, which came to life. One, two, three lions came to life, and attacked the widow Zanchi who was passing right alongside with a friend.

Only then did Capitano Giustinian intervene, striking old Foscaro on his chest. At that point the storm ceased, and after a blinding flash the lions were found back in their places. Only the head of one of the lions had remained 'alive', and the captain cut it off: the head of one of the statues is now not the original. The widow survived, but was interned in an asylum, unable to recover from the terror that now possessed her.'
 
'And what about the head that had remained “alive”?'

‘They say it was thrown into the sea, in an unknown place... but so many strange crimes have been committed since then, during storms, here in Venice!'

'That’s certainly not a tale to cheer me up!'

'It's right to be afraid ... But drink your tea now, and take the capsules the doctor gave you. He told me to check every six hours to see how you are.’

Now it's late, almost dark, I cannot ask the architect to come and bring me the new phone, but I’ll call him.

'Hello.'

'Oh, at last - I've been waiting for your call all the evening. How are you?'

'I slept. The injection had a strange effect, I fell into a restless, but very long, sleep. Have you found anything?'

'Yes, there’s a store that collects all the surplus from the various phone shops, all the obsolete models, and sells them to old people who have difficulty using the new smartphones. I found a pretty one, I hope you like it, should I bring it? '

'No, take it easy, I don’t need it just now, thankyou. Have you spent much?'

‘Absolutely not, a ridiculous figure. But I don’t have to come?’

He’s being persistent, he’d like to spend the night with me, I can read him by his tone of voice, but with this half-bronchitis, I’m a disaster.

'Thanks for your kindness, but I don’t need it, it's better if I'm quiet here. I've already taken an antibiotic capsule, the caretaker's wife comes to see if I need anything, I'm being cared for. What are you doing tomorrow?’

'Lunch with the family as usual, then if you want I can come to you.'

'I still don’t know how I'll be, I'll call you back. Happy Easter, and don’t binge or you’ll get fat!'

'Happy Easter to you, and don’t stuff yourself with those pills that burn your brain!'

'See you soon!'

'See you!'

In a short time the antibiotic is taking effect, my eyeIids feel heavy eyelids, I’d like to resist sleeping, I’d like to think... I lose the battle...
 
These dreams brought on by the fever and the medicine are really strange: I see myself in the Orphanage of the Sisters of Charity, but it is empty, I am alone, wandering along the corridors, opening the door of each room, looking for my companions in misfortune, but I find none of them, only disorder in the bedrooms as if they have been suddenly abandoned. But why?

I go downstairs to the small, empty theatre, but the curtain opens, the music strikes up of Stravinsky’s "Petrushka", the tale of the Moor, the Ballerina and the poor Petrushka, victims in the hands of the Charlatan, puppets of the Russian carnival . The three puppets return, to live their legendary lives...

Dancers and puppets, a combination that has been interpreted in countless ways over more than a century. Here, in this "Petrushka", the story moves away from the original, and takes me to another dimension. The tone is set by the prologue, music for string orchestra, and now there are six Pretrushkas with light, transparent costumes, their face covered by gauze on which their facial features are just showing. They shuffle the cards for a mysterious game. With every round, every time the cards are dealt, it seems that time is going backwards, and I find myself a little girl again in my house with my parents...

At first, children love their parents, later, they judge them, they never forgive them and they take their revenge. The immense resentments of which adolescence is capable, however impalpable, have a sophisticated cruelty, they contain a destructive germ. There are only mirrors in my childhood home, nothing is more illusory and labyrinthine than a mirror. These mirrors are placed everywhere and appear covered by muslin veils that now seem to imitate a luxurious evening gown, now they are transformed into a second skin, into a trap to snatch you if... I don’t want to suffocate! And all the while, implacably, I hear in the background the tick-tock of a clock, which, given the situation, could just as well be the machinery of a time bomb...

If this is a bomb, it seems ready to shatter my family, with their spurious wealth. My mother and I, and, in the background, the figure of my father - increasingly absent - and a girl who, instead of looking after my education, spends her time sewing clothes. At least my mother scolds her for this, seeing that I do not even come up to her expectations...

To announce her entry into high society, my mother decides to throw a ball, to which she invites all the 'nobility' she knows. Such excitement! Worldly luxury, furtive kisses in the moonlight, whispered conversations... My imagination is galloping, but my mother freezes me. She cannot allow me to ruin the party, I'll have to stay in my room. If I really want to participate in the event, I will do it by writing and sending out the invitation cards. And here's my revenge: I tear up all the envelopes except one. Nobody will come to the party, and my mother will believe she has been snubbed - it is the beginning of an inexorable descent, and her agonised spasms shake my family from the inside, where our destinies are mapped out before the final turn, it was the moment, the imperceptible instant, at which our fates crossed on the path of life: I was about to take flight, while she was sinking into the shadows - but we did not know it. My father had fled to South America, and had sent no news of himself, and my mother had gone off with a new lover...
 
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Easter Sunday

A warm, gentle hug brings me back to reality after this journey back in time with my memories, it is the caretaker’s wife, she’s who brought me breakfast, a cup of tea and a slice of columba pasquale (Easter cake).

'Have you rested well, Miss?'

'Well enough, thanks, no scary nightmares, just a strange dream.'

'I looked in, it was about one o'clock in the morning, I saw you were sleeping peacefully, I didn’t dare to disturb you. Now take the antibiotic, one every twelve hours, as the doctor said.'

'How nice to have a guardian angel watching over my sleep, the last one who did that was my grandmother.'

'Not your mum?'

'No, my mother thought only of herself, never a hug, only scolding... and then she went off with a lover.'

Poor soul, you had a sad childhood.'

'Sad, yes... when my grandmother died I was taken to an orphanage. I was twelve.'

'Life is cruel sometimes.'

'I would say it's always cruel ...'

'True – when I think of what happened to your... your poor boyfriend.'

'For me it seems like a persecution ...'

'Courage, you have to be stronger than bad luck - but today it's Easter, you have to be happy.'

'For me there’s no longer any happiness...'

'Oh! Oh! Away with these black clouds, here’s the sun! ... '

and she pulls back the dark curtains from the window. I smile at her, how much goodness in someone I scarcely know.

'... I’ll come back to bring your lunch, around noon.'

'Thank you, you’re so good and kind.'
 
And again I’m in the tunnel of sleep, dreams and nightmares, of the phantoms that torment me. I find myself in the House of the Countess, now she is dressed like a lady of the eighteenth century, and I am dancing naked, then, when the music is interrupted, I stop, balanced, but the tension is too great, I fall to the floor disastrously.

Punishment is not long in coming: kneeling on a chair, my behind well-exposed, lips pursed, waiting for the whiplash... one, two, three .... nine and ten. Salt tears wet my cheeks, a my legs are trembling continuously, a weak moan, a flash of teeth that I cannot control. My pride as a dancer wounded, laid low.

But Baba comes to take me away, into the large bathroom with mirrors on all the walls and the ceiling. She spreads the ointment on my wounds gently, they are almost like burns from a hot iron. Then, sweetly, she starts to lick my quivering sex, her tongue exploring the most hidden recesses, I am almost crazy with pleasure and arousal, I am at the peak of pleasure, at the climax of orgasm... but it all vanishes, I awake. But I'm surprised, upset, I'm masturbating, a self-stimulation so deep that I’d almost think impossible, my hand plunged in up to the wrist, and from my vulva flows moisture that wets all around. Frightened by this weird situation, with my heart in my throat, I quickly clean myself with the hem of the terry bathrobe that is lying on the chair next to the bed.

What is happening to me? What are these antibiotic capsules causing in me? Are they so powerful they’re affecting my behaviour? What's in them? Unanswered questions...

Again I'm captured by sleep. Now I find myself surrounded by a thronging crowd of old men dressed in antique fashion. I’m pulled, grabbed by the few clothes I’m wearing., they’re soon ripped, only a few shreds remain to cover my trembling flesh. They’re dragging me towards the base of a large rock, in a sort of desert, I’m barefoot, sharp stones are hurting my feet. They throw me to the ground in front of what looks like a prophet or high priest.

'Stone her! Stone the filthy bitch!' yells the crowd.

'What do they accuse you of, woman?' Asks the prophet.

'I do not know,' I reply, terrified.

'She masturbated in the temple! She’s possessed! Stone her! Stone her! ' chorus the Elders.

'Did you do this?' the prophet asks me.

'No, I've never done that ...'

'Liar! We all saw you ... ' they yell again.

Then the prophet pronounces: 'He who is without sin, let him cast the first stone.'

Immediately I am struck by a torrent of stones, unbearable pain, deafening noise.
 
I wake up with a start, sitting up in the bed. Someone is knocking at the door.

'Come in!'

It is the wife of the caretaker bringing me my lunch. In addition on the tray there are a parcel and a chocolate egg.

'How are we getting on? Everything okay?'

'I don’t know, maybe I’m still feverish ...'

'Oh yes, I’d say so, your forehead is still very hot.'

'Who was the doctor who visited me and gave me these capsules?'

'Dr. Gnaro.' (Gnaro? That’s what young men are called in Brescia, like ‘dude’!)

'What a strange name, I've never heard it - maybe that's why he’s Dr. G. Della Cananea on his business card.'

'But he's a young doctor and everyone says he cares for his patients very well.'

'I don’t doubt it, but maybe I’ll suffer a little with these medicines. Tomorrow we’ll call him again. I’ve only two capsules left now, one for tonight and the other for tomorrow morning.'

‘The architect called by, he left me the parcel and this chocolate egg - there's a note for you.'

I open the envelope, 'Get well soon! I hope the phone is to your liking. Call me, Stin.'

Stin is the nickname that people use in place of his real name - he is Augustus, some call him Augustine, others simply Stin. Dear architect, how kind, I love dark chocolate!

Lunch is good, simple invalid food, plus another slice of columba pasquale, two pears poached in wine, and a cup of coffee that the caretaker’s wife went to get while I was enjoying a piece of the chocolate.

'If you need anything just call me, I'm here all day with my husband,' the dear lady says.

'Thankyou! I’ll keep quiet here under the bedclothes.’

She closes the door, the automatic lock clicks shut.

As soon as the SIM is inserted my new mobile phone, an incoming SMS announces:

'Nous l’avons trouvé.'
 
Laconic message sent by Madame Chloé. When did it come? I look at the date: yesterday, Saturday, March 31st. But who will be the Romeo on duty? I feel a strange sense of nausea, I wish Madame were here, I would like to dance to get rid of this cloak of sad thoughts. Healed from this disease that is chaining me to this bed, I would run ot through flowery meadows, I would love to bathe in the clear waters of a mountain lake...

But if reality has the colour of dreams, for me now reality is darker than a moonless night. My dreams are darker than reality, and sleep possesses me without resistance...

I'm in a theatre, one I’ve never seen before. I’m lying on the network of sticks that form my cross, but I'm tied, my wrists, my ankles, my throat, naked, my thighs apart. And the dancers approach, naked too, their faces covered by cat-like masks, the Venetian 'gnaga'. Their penises are erect, ready to rape me. They kneel around me, they begin to caress my body that quivers in fear, but with pleasure too. With their hands they explore every inch of my skin, they slip between the hidden folds of my moist, throbbing sex.

Then, parodying a vigil around my corpse, they are holding long lighted candles, which they hold above me, dripping the melted wax onto my skin. I scream in pain at the contact of the liquid heat, which soon flows together, forming a hard crust that imprisons me.

Two of them, with long rods that serve as spears, introduce the tips of their weapons into my vagina and my anus, they rape me like a beast, wounding me, while another introduces his penis into my mouth that is wide in my scream of pain. I am prey to their fury. I try to escape the violence, but as one moves away another comes, then all of them together, I find myself penetrated by two, three, four cocks at the same time, while with other hands dilate my sex and my anus, squeeze my breasts till jets of milk spurt from my nipples.

I am prey to a diabolical possession at the same time I am experiencing the acme of repeating orgasms. Covered with their semen spread over me, I try to receive it in my throat with my mouth open, my tongue out, like a mad hashish-taker swept by obscene desires. As my torment continues my ecstasy repeats itself. Now the succubus of this horde of demons has violently entered my brain, I can no longer stop my eruptions, more and more abundant and close together, in a continuous whirlwind of orgasms that shake all my poor members. I would love it all to cease, yet I also want to endure it endlessly, the pain and pleasure of this torture!

At the height of ecstasy, when it seems my brain is about to explode, I wake up moaning, I'm masturbating furiously, wet with sweat and vaginal fluid, the 'sperm' that I’m ejecting with every contraction of the muscles in my abdomen and groin.

Whatever is happening to me? Why this madness? Am I in the grip of a drug that intensifies my sexual desires to such an extreme? Perhaps the antibiotics do not only act against bacteria but have side-effects that interfere with normal signals processed within the brain?

But what are dreams made of? Nothing is more insubstantial than a dream. Yet we believe in dreams because they seem true even if we know very well they are not so. And we strive to interpret them, indeed, the world being as it is, everyone wants to take possession of our dreams -preachers, philosophers, fortune-tellers, tuppenny-ha’penny psychiatrists like Sigmund, everyone wants to give meaning to our dreams, because they want the key that will take possession of us, they want the picklock to break into our minds, our certainties, our thoughts, our own lives - they want us as their slaves.

Dreams are of the same substance as matter, QED. Fears and dreams are identical, same pasta, same sauce. Yes, because it is a matter of matter if a tablet that has to be taken to cure bronchitis causes all the turmoil that I have now experienced. Fear is material, you feel it, it enters your body, you cannot get rid of it any more - it's a virus, it's a creature that gnaws away inside you, a worm that chews at your brain, little by little, like a disease, like senile dementia. It makes our brain matter into a sponge corroded by an acid that nullifies its ability to regenerate itself.
 
Now it's evening again, and I haven’t even phoned my dear Stin, if only to thank him for the phone he sent me - but I don’t want to disturb him on this day of celebration, even though it might be important for me to be able to talk as much as I need so as not to fall into the darkness of despair... for me there is no party, there is only this nightmare from which I cannot free myself.

The caretaker's wife knocks on the door, it's time for dinner, but it's also time to take this disturbing medicine.

'How are we getting on? It’s time to check your temperature, I’ve brought a thermometer."

'I was sweating a lot, now I feel different, it seems the fever has decreased.'

I put the thermometer under my arm and wait.

'Only 37.2, there’s no more fever.'

'I would like to stop taking this antibiotic ...'

I dare to protest, but no luck.

'But it’s done you good, there’s just two more capsules, one now and another tomorrow. If you’re free of the fever, we’ll the doctor on Tuesday morning. Now you’d better have some dinner."

It’s a light broth, tastes good, reminds me of my dear grandmother. Then a slice of hot cooked ham and a boiled potato with a little oil; a baked apple sprinkled with a little sugar that has melted to form a light crispy crust. That's all, my great Easter dinner.

'I’ll stay here tonight, with my husband, I don’t want to leave you alone. If you need anything just call me!'

'I hope to sleep better, as the fever seems to have passed.'

'Goodnight and sweet dreams ... I'll see you later if you need anything ...'

'Thankyou, it's a real pleasure to have someone watching over my sleep. Goodnight to you and your husband."

After I’ve washed, and e-made the bed, I put on a clean nightie. I'm still waiting to go back to sleep, knowing that with it will come my 'friends', the ghosts ...
 
Dream, or reality?

I am dressed in eighteenth-century clothes, but like one of the Carampane, the prostitutes of the Republic of Venice, my breasts completely naked and my skirt open in front, wearing a wig of blonde hair, all hanging curls, adorned with coloured ribbons and strange jewelry, my face powdered blush-red, lips red. I am also wearing shoes with high heels and soles. In the company of other youngsters, facing the balcony of our house of pleasure, awaiting customers who come to look for a little 'affection', or simply to escape the boredom of staying at home with a wife who no longer allows sex for fear of falling pregnant for the umpteenth time. This profession of ours is well-regulated, with an important social function, but not without risks, especially diseases, but theft and violence too...

In the San Polo quarter near the Ponte delle Tette, the houses of pleasure are mostly run by a single family, the Rampani, they own the largest number. This is a real red light district, near the bridge several brothels, called Cà, overlook the way, from where the girls look out of the windows ‘displaying their wares'. The government of the Republic has imposed on the girls who practise this profitable profession, a duty to show their breasts to passers-by to entice them; homosexuality is very common among the Venetians, and the government is looking for ways to combat it.

Today some young foreigners have arrived, lured by curiosity to see these places in the hope of finding whichever girls most attract their attention. They are greeted with shouts of jubilation, we show off our graces, hoping to grab the best, possibly with purses full of silver ducats or even gold zecchini, not just worthless copper bagattini like the penniless Venetians bring, who only come here to trouble us and make fun of us.

So each of us finds her cock of the night, but while, in the privacy of the alcove, the love they’re paying for is served, a noise from the ground floor of the 'doll's house' throws us all into a panic. The gendarmes of within and without the city are raiding in search of a killer who they think has hidden here. The bodies of two half-naked lovers have been found near the Rio Marle. The man had been stabbed with an unidentified object, in the bag that was hanging on his belt there was an envelope containing a strange white powder, while the woman’s body, despite being out of the water, seems to have died of drowning – a very strange detail...

An elderly man who lives nearby, questioned by the captain of the gendarmes, testifies that he has seen a man dressed in black enter our brothel - but at least four of the young foreigners here are dressed in black. The interrogation to which we are subjected by the second officer of the gendarmes is an excuse to manhandle us, to make a useless search under our skirts, to rummage in the drawers, knock down our things in search of the murder weapon, obviously unobtainable. It would be much more profitable to look for it in the waters of the canal.

So the four young men dressed in black and the four girls who were lying with them are arrested and taken to the old prisons, not far from the Doge's Palace. I dare not think what tortures my poor colleagues will be subjected to ... to confess what? That they gave themselves to those who came to look for a bit of fun, and moreover were authorized to do, paying heavy taxes to enrich the Republic, relieving us of most of the proceeds of our humble profession.

So today we have worked without getting our wages, the young foreigners who were not arrested have run off without paying, and we are left asking ourselves about who the two murdered lovers might be, and who the murderer...

One of the girls, Judith by name, says she recognised the drowned woman, even from a distance, and the man who was with her could be, in her opinion, a well-known moneylender who lends only to women, from whom he claims, in addition to interest, unnatural sexual relations. The poor woman would then be doubly a victim, first of the usurer and his strange cravings, and then of the murderer - but there is the incongruous fact that she was found drowned, yet out of the water.

Judith is desperate, she begs us not to talk to anyone about what she has said: if it should come to the ears of the gendarmes, we could all end up in jail being interrogated, and torture is the premier method to get gossip, maybe absolutely false, just to be able to bring some unjustly accused wretch onto the gallows. Now it is more important than ever to avoid talking, spies sent by the magistrates will get into our brothel as customers, no problem, and they will spy on all of us, and unfortunately even walls have ears - we are absolutely in danger...
 
l'bogo said:
'I am dressed in eighteenth-century clothes, but like one of the Carampane, the prostitutes of the Republic of Venice, my breasts completely naked and my skirt open in front....'
Click to expand...
View attachment 616331
#1 lady in green 'Oooh I say Sir, you're wearing your pants just like I've got my skirt!'
View attachment 616332
#2 gent in middle: 'Cazzo! The troia's made me split my flies!'
gent on right 'Mioddio, mine's sprung out too!'

(Grazie Markus for the Italian vocab!)
 
In Venice no-one is talking about anything else. A regular customer, a gentleman of the Venetian nobility who favours my company, and who is always aware of intrigues going on in the Palazzo Ducale, reveals to me during our get-together some chilling details that had emerged during the investigation: the murdered woman was the wife of a court lawyer, who had betrayed her with a young prostitute. According to the results of the autopsy, she had experienced sexual intercourse shortly before she died - and in her anus, a pig's shin bone had been found. The bloodstained murder weapon had been found among the roughcast of building works along the Rio Marle, not far from where the bodies were, it was a large pair of shears used in a tailor's shop. The usurer, a certain De Zan, was also an alchemist who sold strange products that, according to him, would enhance the sexual performance of those who used them...

Meanwhile, Judith, more and more terrified, has received a letter threatening her with death if she dares to talk about what happened. I suspect she may be the young lawyer's lover - will he turn out to be the murderer?

The days pass in a climate of increasing tension, then Judith receives a terrible new letter, which says that details of the crime are getting around that only she could have known. Soon she will suffer the revenge of a mysterious ‘Congregation’...

And alas the threat proves true, the following day Judith is found under a bridge on the Fondamenta delle Zattere that overlooks the Canale della Giudecca. brutally murdered with violent deep stabs into her vagina.

Nobody comes to the 'dolls’ house' to spend a few hours in our sweet company, we are literally starving, it seems that a curse has been laid on us all...

But the Venetian nobleman does not neglect me - today I get a message inviting me to go to Calle dei Ragusei where he has a little garden with a tiny house. I know what delights him: my dancing naked while he plays the violin, and then he takes me in all my orifices, and if I had any more he’d use those too. After satisfying his desires he offers me a lunch that I almost devour, so hungry am I.

His latest intelligence, first-hand as ever, reports that the murdered woman, the wife of the lawyer, had fallen into the clutches of the usurer, who had been forcing her to make an exhibitionist show of herself in public, to walk naked through the streets dressed only in a black cloak, to submit to the violent embraces of those who met her during these perambulations, day or night. The demands of this leech were becoming more and more humiliating, until she being approached by passers-by to masturbate them or suck their penises. She could no longer resist, being subject to the blackmail of the usurer, who threatened to make her name public, revealing an affair she was carrying on with some shady characters of the Venetian underworld.

This poor woman, whose name was Flora, confided in a lover, a young artist who portrayed her graces in admirable paintings, and sold those works in the unofficial markets in the little piazzas. The painter was soon in the hands of the Captain of the Gendarmes because the story had been blown by an old woman, who had revealed the relationship between the young man and Signorina Flora. The magistrate's interrogations bore fruit, but too many high-ranking people were involved in this murky business, and too many girls, even from good families, were discovered to be giving themselves to occasional prostitution with important figures of the Government of the Republic - it is rumored that the Doge himself is involved in the scandal!

This painter’s atelier was in fact the fulcrum of a real organization, the notorious Congregation, and poor Flora had naively put herself into the wrong hands, on the one hand her artist lover, on the other the usurer. And the lawyer – what was his part in all this intrigue?

For now, my noble lover does not have enough information. Increasingly worried about the fatal events that may follow from stirring in the snake-pit of Venetian life, he offers to hide me in his small property: according to him it is too risky for me to go on living in the 'dolls’ house', black clouds are gathering over it...
 
What have the girls who were arrested revealed, along with the four young foreigners dressed in black? Under torture things are revealed that have nothing to do with the facts about which they are being questioned, just to stop the torment. They cannot realise that instead the situation is getting worse, Pandora's box has been opened, nothing will be able to stop the wrath of divine judgment that is about to strike Venice...

In the 'dolls’ house' the situation goes from bad to worse. One of the few girls still there is found dead in the cellar, the one which is flooded at high tides to prevent too much pressure on the walls and external doors. She is bleeding, her wrists cut, it seems be a suicide. I get to hear this news from Marzia, one of us, who, I do not know how, knows the dove who is concealing me. She has come away in fear of being questioned by the gendarmes who are going to investigate this further death, she does not want to be tortured, she knows too much, she was even involved in the orgies that took place at Palazzo Cornèr, the residence of the Doge’s family... bad business...

I'm very worried, now, I'm risking my life, even if I haven’t done anything, apart from giving a little affection to my adoring Venetian nobleman, but I dare not send Marzia away, even knowing that, in giving her shelter I am putting my benefactor in danger too. We shall share the food and the bed, the spirit of solidarity is too strong among us. We hug each other on the bed, trembling with fear, our ears tense to catch the slightest suspicious noise. In the insomnia caused by tension we exchange kisses, caresses, moaning like suffering souls in purgatory, unaware of being observed by the Venetian nobleman who has come in by the water gate (the secondary entrance overlooking the river) – he has arrived in a gondola as soon as it has got dark.

Summoning us from the labour of love, on the edge of sleep, the tremulous glow of a candle appears from the darkness of the stairs. Terrified we cling together, we dare not utter a word, each fearing the worst. We cannot decide which would be worse, the ghosts or the gendarmes? The faint light of the flame approaches, the creaking of the wooden stairs leads one to think that it is not a ghost, it would not make any sound, nor the gendarmes, they would make a lot of noise running up the stairs...

The gaunt figure of our noble landlord's face appears, illuminated from below with an appalling effect; he looks at us with a mocking smile, almost pleased to have caught us in this sinful intimacy. He knows Marzia, there is no need for introductions or explanations, it is obvious why she is here, seeking refuge and protection - but also a little food. And he is willing to grant what is desired, provided it is repaid. She undresses, slipping under the sheets of our bed. We know our profession as courtesans very well, he does not need to ask, our bodies, and the delights they offer, now belong to him...

The faint light of dawn filtering through the slatted shutters of the window makes its way into the shadows. Everything now appears much more normal, if one can speak of normal, given the events that brought us here.
 
Our host brings hazelnut and chocolate cakes and prepares a tasty drink, prerogative only of the aristocrats, whose fabled miraculous and aphrodisiac virtues are celebrated among the ladies: a powder dissolved in very hot water. Marzia is enthusiastic, it is enough to overcome her reticence, now she tells everything she knows about the nights of orgy in which she participated. These were held in the Casina delle Rose, not in the Palazzo Cornèr, where too many prying eyes could have seen. The roll-call of participants - nobles and ladies, prelates and abbots, courtesans and castrati - is impressive; it seems that no-one in Venice is innocent, no one excluded, not even the Doge, who is married to his cousin, nor his relatives who are bishops and cardinals, all are involved in the scandal.

Marzia is a river in flood, my noble protector is noting everything. I'm afraid something serious is going on, a conspiracy against the Doge? He is guilty of having waged a disastrous war against the Ottoman Empire, of having lost Morea and the all the most important commercial centres in the Eastern Mediterranean. The Treaty of Passarowitz has been the most burning humiliation for the Republic, the beginning of its decline. It is incredible how the fate of a world power passes through the alcoves of a brothel, and the thighs of the courtesans. But I still cannot understand what the role of this Venetian noble may be, is he a conspirator or a spy? What is certain is that I am now aware of dangerous secrets, and my very existence is hanging from a fragile thread. It seems the idea of dying in your bed here in Venice these days is a will o’the wisp...

Late at night, our Custodian returns to collect his rent for the protection that he is granting us. It hardly seems true that the two of us just to have to satisfy the desires of a single lover, when we ordinarily have to suffer, at the same time, the assaults of far worse assailants.

He has come back with grim news: one of the characters that Marzia mentioned among the most assiduous participants in the orgies in the 'Casina delle Rose' has been found by some fishermen, slaughtered and burned, the remains abandoned on a strip of unoccupied land beyond the Isola della Giudecca. Marzia knew him well, he was one who had always been generous to her, she is crying sadly. Now all that remains is to wait for the name of the next victim, hoping not to be the first on the list.

After the first investigations carried out following the discovery of the burned corpse, our Venetian nobleman tells us, a young man, a student at the University, has been found with a wounded hand. He could not explain in any credible way how it had happened. Pressed with questions and threatened with torture, the young university student, delusional, had accepted responsibility for the most recent murders, of Judith and of the party-goer of the 'Casina delle Rose', but not for the double murder of the usurer and poor Flora, the lawyer's wife. According to him, he was motivated by profound jealousy, he was infatuated with young Judith - another one for the gallows.

But there is still no solution to the riddle of the first crime, the one that has hatched all these events. Marzia knew that Judith was the object of this student’s morbid desire, but she never would have thought it would have come to this, the horrible killing of our companion and of that scoundrel who frequented the orgies, and who had deceived Marzia too. Our benefactor is recording all the information he picks up in a notebook that he keeps in the inside pocket of his jacket, in neat, minute calligraphy, but with incomprehensible signs. It seems more and more evident that someone is deciding the fate of victims and perpetrators: the Congregation.
 
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