A Death In Venice

Watching An Endangered Species

Occasionally, if you’re lucky, you might catch a glimpse of one of these rare creatures. They are different in habit than the species most commonly seen in this environment. They stand more upright, their plumage seems of higher quality, in general they carry less body weight, and they don’t seem to feel the heat like the invasive species found in this location does.

They say there are no locals left in Venice.

That’s the received wisdom and you’d be forgiven for thinking so. The streets are clogged with tourists. The stores are filled with tat. The waiters hail from distant continents. But if you’re lucky, you may still catch sight of a few real Venetians in their natural habitat.

If you want to have the best chance of seeing them, you should visit Venice during the Redentore festival.

Redentore

Venice is definitely a festival town. The Film festival. The Biennale. The Carnevale. Fundamentally, though, these are all festivals aimed at non-Venetians, at least these days. But the Redentore is the festival that means most to the locals.

Antonella, the owner of the lodgings where we stay when in Venice, told me about it a few years ago. She explained its history, and how special it has always been for her family. She spoke with such pride that I just had to experience it for myself. So this year I made that happen.

The Redeemer

Festa del Redentore dates back to the 1500s when a church was built on the island of Giudecca to give thanks to God for deliverance from a terrible plague, and it takes its name from Christ the Redeemer on whose feast day it is held.

Every year since then, on the third weekend of July, a votive pontoon bridge has been built, crossing from the Zattere in Dorsoduro, to the Chiesa del Santissimo Redentore on Giudecca. Centuries ago, the Doge and his senators used to process over the bridge, and the custom stands, despite the lack of a current Doge. From the Friday evening to the Sunday night, streams of Venetians (yes, ok and some tourists) make their way over the water to pay their respects to the Saviour.

A pilgrimage

It’s a weird feeling walking across the bridge. The church dominates the view ahead, and you keep your eyes on it as you walk, occasionally being thrown to one side by the movement of the bridge, like being on a ship at sea. After all, the bridge is floating. There’s a sensation of being a pilgrim, of walking in the footsteps of many thousands of others over hundreds of years who’ve trodden this path.

This is particularly true now, with COVID only just in the rearview mirror, we have a feeling of gratitude that we got through it, and sadness for those we lost to our modern plague, just as others must have felt all those years ago after the Black Death.

Finally, you arrive at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the church. A group of Jesuit monks stands at the huge door, welcoming everyone. I felt like an interloper. A gawker. I would have liked to take photos but it felt so wrong. I nodded to the monks and entered the church.

An angelic swell of choral music filled the whole place, spiraling up to the heavenly dome. The space was entirely lit with candles. A group took Holy Communion down at the altar. We sat at the back and I made a silent prayer.

After a while we left, making our way out through the door and onto the steps, where there now felt to be a festive air. We walked back across the bridge to our lodgings.

Part-aay!!

Boom, boom, boom.

It’s 2 am and the party next door is in full swing. The juveniles of the species perform their mating ritual. I knew there would be noise. It’s a festival. I pull the covers over my head and go to sleep.

The big day

Morning, and coffee on the balcony, overlooking the canal. But something is different. The palazzo across the canal seems to be alive with activity. I’ve been coming here for years and I’ve never seen anyone go in or out before.

But now, the windows are thrown wide, a ducal standard flies atop the flagpole on the roof, and there, at the water door, is a silverback, wearing the mix of colours that only the truly rich, the genuine old money, can pull off. He directs his staff, who are unloading his launch, and re-enters the house.

At the party house next door, a beautiful young female in her twenties waves and hollers at passing boats. She knows those people. Another local. Soon, a gondola pulls up and delivers food. Or something anyway. Uber Eats by gondola. This girl is connected.

On Zattare, the votive bridge is still thronged with pilgrims, but now boats are moored alongside the quays.

The boats are moored both on the Dorsoduro side of the canal, and all the way along the bank on Giudecca as far as the Belmond Cipriani, where golden chairs are set out in ranks facing the canal in preparation for tonight’s fireworks. Uniformed flunkeys hover, chasing away tourists like me who don’t seem up to Belmond standards.

Back at our lodgings, we sit on the balcony. This is the best view of Venice. Usually, we spend the day watching hoards of tourists zip up and down in water taxis, seeing nothing, photographing everything. Or their cousins, tourists in gondolas, cringing at the gondolier’s singing, taking selfies, unaware of their surroundings.

Today the view is different. Water taxis and gondolas are far outnumbered by locals in all types of boats, all headed towards the San Marco basin. Brightly coloured rowing teams. Families with balloons. A catamaran that would have fitted into any gay pride parade, with its sexy sailors dancing and singing.

Boat after boat after boat. The Venetian Beverly Hillbillies, all piled up together on the roofs of garbage boats and delivery boats. The procession of locals in their boats lasts for hours.

The aristocratic dinner on the rooftop terrace of the palazzo across the canal is underway. One of the guests was so gauche as to take a photograph of the view. They won’t be invited back.

It gets dark, it’s very late. The boats are still coming, and it’s nearly time for the grand fireworks. There’s a commotion next door and the people from the party house begin to spill out into their high-powered, black boats. These are the new alphas. The girls, on four-inch Aquazzura heels, teeter down planks to the boats. Coked to the eyeballs, they all whizz down to the San Marco basin, just as the fireworks begin.

After the fireworks (which, naturally, were spectacular), all those boats that spent all day travelling past our balcony have to make their way back home. For hours, so close together it’s a miracle they don’t crash, they pass by, the inhabitants tired out now.

The party people are back, and one of the girls dances on the boat, turning the music up loud, but her boyfriend turns it down, keen not to attract unwanted attention.

Eventually, everything is still.

The distinctive noise of a police boat comes and the cops rush by. “Oh no” I think.

Tonight the “boom…boom…boom” of the music is too frantic. It feels like the festival should be over.

Ciao, Bella

Sunday. The body of a young male has been pulled from the canal. A local boy, trying to impress two young females with his fast boat. Too fast. The locals pray, and a minute of silence is held. The relatively sedate regatta wraps up the festival.

By Monday, the flag no longer sits atop the palazzo. Only the secretary remains, closing up. The party boats are gone. The locals are absent, replaced by holidaymakers in short shorts and baseball hats.

The beautiful people have gone back to their hidden places, unseen by most visitors, but still here, or returning annually to the place of their birth.

That endangered species. The Venetian.

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