The City of Falling Angels by John Berendt Read Free Book Online Page B

discussed the middling quality of the Fenice’s resident company in recent years, especially the orchestra. “It’s a shame the Fenice had to burn,” one said to the other. “A pity it wasn’t the orchestra.” A young woman, arriving at the hall out of breath, made her way toward a young man who had saved a seat for her. “I haven’t told you where I was the night of the fire,” she said as she slipped into her seat. “I was at the cinema. The Accademia was showing Senso. Can you believe it? The only movie that has a scene shot inside the Fenice. Visconti made it look like the 1860s, so it was lit by gas lamps. Gas lamps! Little fires inside the Fenice! Then afterward I came out and saw people running and shouting, ‘The Fenice! The Fenice!’ I followed them to the Accademia Bridge, and then I saw the fire. I thought I was dreaming.”
     
     
    Several of the Fenice’s immediate neighbors had come to the meeting and were adjusting in various ways to living in the shadow of a ghost. Gino Seguso said that since the fire, his father had been spending most of his time at the glassworks, turning out vases and bowls to commemorate that awful night. “He’s made more than twenty so far,” he said, “and he continues to prepare more quantities of molten glass. My father said only, ‘I have to make them,’ and we have no idea when his passion will run its course. But the pieces are beautiful, every one of them.”
     
     
    Emilio Baldi, the owner of the Antico Martini restaurant, gloomily estimated the losses he would suffer for the months, if not years, during which the view from his restaurant would be a noisy construction site instead of a lovely square. “There has been one hopeful sign,” he said, managing a weak smile. “We had eight tables of diners when the fire broke out, and naturally everybody took their coats and left in a hurry. Since then seven of the eight have come back and insisted on paying their bill. Perhaps that means things will turn out all right eventually.”
     
     
    I took a seat beside an elderly English lady who was showing the couple in front of her a little square of painted canvas the size of a postage stamp. It was charred around the edges.
     
     
    “It’s a piece of scenery,” the lady said. “Isn’t it sad?”
     
     
    “We found it on our altana,” her husband chimed in. “We live at Palazzo Cini and were having dinner at the Monaco. Suddenly the waiters seemed distracted and went away from the dining room. We asked if there was anything wrong, and they told us there seemed to be a fire near the Fenice. We went up to the roof of the Saturnia Hotel, which has a splendid view of the Fenice. The fire was right in front of us, so close that Marguerite’s fur coat was singed. A little while later, as we walked home, clouds of sparks blew overhead.”
     
     
    “Terrifying,” said his wife. “The next morning our altana was covered in ash. Christopher found this little square of burnt canvas. It had blown all the way across the Grand Canal.” She wrapped the charred relic in a handkerchief and put it back in her purse. “I don’t suppose we shall ever know what opera it came from.”
     
     
     
 
THE MEETING WAS OPENED by the general manager of the Fenice, Gianfranco Pontel, who wept and swore he would not sleep soundly again until the Fenice was rebuilt and back in operation. Pontel, a political appointee with no musical background, said he saw no reason to resign, as several people had publicly demanded he do.
     
     
    Following Pontel, one official after another came forward to bewail the fate of the Fenice, pray for its resurrection, and absolve himself of any blame. As they spoke, high above them on the coffered ceiling, legions of tormented souls languished in Palma Giovane’s Cycles of Purgatory, in silent mockery of their every word.
     
     
    Mayor Cacciari, his black hair tousled, came to the microphone. The day after the fire, he had announced that the