A few days ago this simple notice was stuck on the glass of the front door of the Trattoria alla Rampa del Piave. That’s the exactly joint three steps from the fruit and vegetable boat and, more to the point, is by the balustrade where Sandro Nardo would sell his fish.
He was no amateur just out making a little extra money — I don’t know that he had any other source of income. In any case, he was always out, night and/or day, depending on whatever conditions were most favorable for a reasonable haul.
And then he’d weigh and bag whatever he’d caught, and in the late morning he would come and pile the bags on the balustrade. He wasn’t there every day; it seemed kind of random. Monday was often a good day to find him, as the fish shop is closed on Mondays. And the balustrade was a prime spot, being at a sort of crossroads as well as a point where the street narrows dramatically. It slows people down enough to give them time to glance, at least, at what he had caught.
We didn’t often buy from him — his prices were no bargain — but we rarely resisted when he had seppie because it’s not easy to find them fresh.
We went to his funeral at the church of San Pietro di Castello. It’s a big place, but it was crammed; I’m sure the entire neighborhood must have been there. This was impressive, though not entirely surprising.
What truly surprised me was Nicola (probably not his real name, but the one he goes by). He’s a wiry, gristly bantamweight Romanian man who showed up in the neighborhood some years ago. At first he seemed to be just an anonymous mendicant who had installed himself between the fish shop and the vegetable boat. Tourists passing — there used to be lots, all aiming for the Biennale — would make their contributions.
Then gradually he wove himself into the neighborhood net, doing odd jobs, mopping boats, helping with the loading and unloading of the fruit/vegetable boat, and so on. By now everyone calls him by name, and he reciprocates.
But now we’re all at the funeral. The service is over, and the casket is being wheeled out to the canal where the hearse is waiting, rolling along a paved walkway lined with everybody from within the radius of a mile. Nicola is standing near us, all by himself, clutching his baseball cap, and he looks stricken. I have no idea what his interactions with Sandro ever were, but they must have been important because he is weeping. A lot of people are sad, but he seems to be the only person in tears.
Having nothing else, he wipes his eyes with his baseball cap.
You couldn’t make a memorial plaque big enough to match that.
9 Comments
A wonderful tale, Erla. I know the spot well, and feel how
sad that funeral must have made you. Was the cause covid?
I was told that he had had an operation for some heart problem (he’d had them before), but caught some infection in the recovery area and that was the end. A year ago Covid hadn’t yet made its appearance, if we can remember that far back…..
Seeing that beloved, familiar place in Castello, and reading your tribute made me very homesick for your city and sestiere, Erla. Thank you.
I thought a lot about whether to write about this or not — people generally not being in the mood for sad things — but it was too much a neighborhood thing to let it go. I’m glad you approve, though sorry about the homesickness. I think we’ve all got it for some place.
You are such a fine writer, Erla. Every moment in your post is so alive. Thank you for sharing the intimate textures of your city.
Beautifully written,as always, Erla. Of course I didn’t know any of the people involved but I was momentarily brought into this community as it was a wonderful story about real venetian people. The line about Nicola wiping his eyes with his baseball cap almost made me reach for a hankerchief.
The part about the last Castellani also made me think, not only about Venice but everywhere, people are, for good and bad, abandoning the habit of beeing born, raised, married and enterred all within walking distance so what is actually a real Castellani, or equivivalent in other cities? It is heartwarming, anyway, to hear that the close-knit neighbourhood communities do exist and a drink could be a good way to remember that, and Nardo, the fisherman, of course.
All the best from Stockholm. Stay safe and healty!
/Andreas
At first I thought that the idea of offering a drink to somebody’s friends on the anniversary of his/her death would be a superb custom to adopt (well, it’s not even a custom here, but you know what I mean). Then I realized it would only work in a place like this, where the bartender actually knows who the person’s friends were. Otherwise, it could easily spiral out of control!
Thanks Erla, for this special view of your neighbors. I’m so touched. Love your attention to detail.
As usual, the splendid but intimate “Insider touch” we all recognise as yours. It is always touching to see the notices at Vaporetto stops, especially, for some reason, on the Lido, so mush more meaningful than brief newspaper notices in local papers here in Britain – and even those are becoming fewer and fewer. Last week, a chance comment by an friend was the first that I’d heard of the recent death of someone I used to know very well, who lived quite close at hand.
Such a lovely idea, the “Anniversary drinks” to someone’s memory.
Thank you again, Erla.