A Bouquet of Venetian Roses

The smell is what he noticed first

not the statues, the pigeons or vendors

It was the smell that seemed to rise from the very ground

It was the smell that seemed to fall from the sunset haze

Until he realised it came from the water

The water that came from everywhere

From beneath the houses

From under the streets

Even the people seemed to be of it

Always clambering around with such ease

From one gondola to the next

He took a pensione called the 'Moderna'

Though it was not that modern

Taking a pensione was was the english thing to do

As was fitting in

And he tried his hardest to fit in with his fellow guests

Eating the english cuisine with the war veterans at sundown

Listening to Vivaldi on the gramophone with the students at the bar afterwards

He listened to their conversations and tried to relax

He drank the scotch imported from his home

He drank to relax but it was just like home

He felt none of the promised relief

None of the joy that his doctor had sworn he would feel

He went to bed and put his head on the pillow

A victim of his own disillusionment

A victim of yet another hope vanquished

And outside the Venice night thudded

It shook and it vibrated

The people they talked and laughed and shouted

And he slept poorly, fitfully, unforgivingly

Cursing his doctor

Cursing this city

In the morning he awoke and bathed

He looked at him self in the mirror while shaving and saw nothing that he wanted to see

His only distractions were ruminations

that the hairs on his upper lip were the most annoying to shave

One day he thought he would grow a moustache

And damn the fashions of London's business set

He got dressed and let his highly polished leather shoes slowly lead him down

down the well worn outer steps from his room to the inner courtyard

and out to the breakfast area

There were few people there it being so early

He helped himself to the toast and the tea

He nodded hello to the elderly women who sat at one end of the room

The students who all sat together gossiping sat at the end

He sat at a small table and looked out at the street

It was full of things he wasn't expecting to see

Women with bibles rushing past women with wine bottles

Men with cigarettes slowly meandering past youths with cigarettes

Pigeons slowly rising up from the cobbled ground to the curved architecture

and statues so many statues

some small unobtrusive ones hidden on the corner trellises of buildings

others, grand, huge, staring down at the mortals who go about their day to day business

all were naked and all were grand and he felt something in his heart

Something he had not felt since he was a youth

He looked down at his tea and then back up

He looked over at the breakfast buffet

The students were all drinking coffee

He walked over to the buffet and poured one

walking back he could smell the rich odour

He knew this is how it would taste

Rich, thick and alien

New, like the whole scene playing out before him

He took a sip and felt it pour over his tongue

His tongue which for years had only hot black tea

It was like what he thought the plague would taste like

The black death in one big gulp

He nearly choked and spat it out

His body was not prepared to take this foreign beverage

But he would not be defeated

And finished it

With a few of the students looking at him

Some even laughing at him in good spirits

This man who did not belong there

Looking pathetic and desperate

And frightened to even look them in the eyes

He stood up an emotion started stirring

It was not anger it was not depression

It was merely the end of his holiday

He didn’t belong there

He was a fool for thinking he could go to a foreign land

A land of foreigners to get enjoyment

Why would he a stranger to even himself

Expect any comfort from a strange land

He stood up to leave when a student entered

He was only entering to exit

Carrying a few canvases and brushes

The student looked at the Man

And asked him if he was making his way to the piazza

For some unknown reason the man said yes

The student smiled and asked if he would mind

Taking a canvas for him

As he had far too many to manage

The man still reeling from the coffee

Didn’t even think before he accepted

And they were out the door

Down the steps

Under a blue sky

On a well worn cobble-stone road

Passing the people of Venice

Crossing the bridges

That in their own turn crossed the canals

Those pretty canals

And he found himself holding a blank canvas

And looking all around him

Until he was at the Piazza

Here the student took the canvas

Gave him his thanks

And walked to a small group of other students

The man looked around him

The Piazza was full of life

Full of history

Full of the past

Full of nonchalance for the future

He did not notice that most were looking back at him

This strange and awkward man

Peering around him like a lost hare

The older artists all saw him and started sketching

And the pickpocket’s eys trailed him like hawks

An easy target on a slow day

He walked back to the student

He asked if he could perhaps buy a coffee and watch him paint

The student nodded his acquiescence

The student knew that if he refused

The man would no doubt be robbed on the way home

So the man sat there

On the steps of a grand building looking out

Across to the bridges and the buildings

To the people and the statues

And watched the students paint

He did not listen

He only listened to the thus in his heart

And he thought he heard it beat a little louder

The day finished and the student and he walked back together

They were silent until the steps of the pensione

When the student asked if he would like to do the same

The very next day

The man nodded and agreed

And it was the course of many days

Walking to the piazza

Watching the events

And walking home

Until one day the student said he was to leave

A sad day the man said

So the student gave him a painting

He also gave him a blank canvas and some paints

He told him to start painting what he himself sees

So the next day He walked to the Piazza alone

And sat by the other artists

He noticed some local artists

Some older gentleman all sitting down

Drinking wine

With a vase at their feet

Filled with Venetian roses

They were painting it

He sat behind them and watched them

He dare not paint it

For fear of failure

For fear of them seeing his insufficiencies

One of them turned around and gave him some wine

He smiled and lit a cigarette

Another of the men said something in Italian

It seemed he wanted a cigarette

The man handed one over

The day wore on

The men painted their stroked with a lazy easiness

And smiled at each other

And criticized each other

And laughed at each other

All while the suns rays slowly wilted the Venetian roses

At the end of the day they packed up and moved on

The man walked back at the Pensione

He decided not to return

Breakfasting the next day a butler came

He had a visitor

It was one of the old artists

He was to escort him to the Piazza

They walked

The whole time the old man talked his dialect

Not caring that the man in his care could not understand

They returned to the same spot

With a fresh bouquet of Venetian roses

And the same old men

And they all sat down

This time a man with a friendly face came to him

He put a brush in some paint and gave it the Englishman

The Englishman looked at the canvas

He decided that to make any sort of mark

Would be better than making no mark

He dabbed on the oil

The smell filled his nostrils

And before he knew it he was drinking the wine

Drinking the light

Drinking the people

Drinking in all and everything around him

He went day after day

Only returning in the evening

With resentment at the sun for falling

So slowly and surely

Every day the canvas got fuller

The flowers got brighter

The summer got closer

The words that he heard he could distinguish

It was no longer the mumbled prayers of a shrouded religion

But a sect he could almost grasp

A brotherhood that he stood on the edge of

And the canvas would get fuller

The flowers would get brighter

His dreams were now not just of England now there were images of Venetian women

Of canals and cobblestones

He was becoming his own canvas and his life was the roses

And everyday the canvas got fuller

It was not too long before the canvas was completed

The proudest moment he had ever experienced

And he bought a case of wine to celebrate with his friends

And a thank you note to send to his Doctor

And they were all there when he hung the painting

Up on the wall

Of his newly bought Venetian Villa

His painting of a Bouquet of Venetian Roses