That picture I showed of the people outside the church for the funeral of Renzo Rossi and Natalino Gavagnin yesterday? I unwittingly took it too late. The florist’s tags on the flowers said the funeral was at 11:30, so I went home for a few minutes. When I returned, the ceremony had already started and I thought everyone standing around was waiting for it to begin. I definitely did not grasp the scope of the event.
Turns out there were SIX HUNDRED MOURNERS inside the church. There evidently wasn’t even enough space for air, which is why these folks are outside. Breathing.
Today the sun rose on a sunny, breezy, pleasant morning. Somebody in the canal just outside had tied up his motorboat while loading things for a happy day out with the family.
The man’s friend was passing on the fondamenta. “Hey!” the man called out. “Did you make your will?”
Friends outside the basilica of San Pietro di Castello await the arrival of Natalino’s and Renzo’s caskets.
Today was a big one for funerals. I realize that funerals do not make summer beach reading, but they are not scheduled for anybody’s pleasure or convenience. I certainly had no intention of writing about bereavement with the sun shining outside, but here we are.
One was at the basilica of SS. Giovanni e Paolo (for the record, NEVER referred to by Venetians as “Zanipolo”) of an important, famous, probably rich man named Cesare de Michelis (deceased August 10. Sorry you have to rely on google translate to read his biography). The world remembers his heft in the realm of culture; me, I remember that his house was right under/behind our first apartment near Santa Marta. He had a few Brittany spaniels who were somewhat deranged by boredom, so they barked a lot. The garden contained a glorious double-cherry tree whose resplendent blossoming completely filled one of our windows. His daughter often would come home at or about dawn, clanging the iron gate just below our bed. Reveille! But this post isn’t really about him.
Presenting a striking contrast to what must have seemed a sort of state funeral were the obsequies for Natalino Gavagnin and Renzo Rossi (58 and 63 years old, respectively), bosom buddies, from just over the bridge. Here in the depths of Castello, important rich people are somewhat thin on the ground, but they were certainly better-known than De Michelis, half the neighborhood having gone to school or work or just hung out with them since childhood.
Renzo Rossi and Natalino Gavagnin. (Published in Il Gazzettino and La Nuova Venezia, and elsewhere).
On the night of August 3, these inseparable friends got the boat ready and went out fishing, as they loved to do. But they were hardly alone; in the summer the lagoon is far from empty. Plenty of fatal accidents occur, often involving young people in their boats, zooming with life and horsepower, who don’t turn on their lights or in any other way demonstrate the awareness that there might be solid objects in their path. One such object was Natalino and Renzo’s boat.
Around midnight, two young (mid-20’s) couples were returning from dinner riding in a fairly substantial motorboat with a 150-hp motor, and they ran into the two men. In point of fact, the autopsies appear to confirm that the boat actually went over the two fishermen, judging by the fatal injuries inflicted by the fast boat’s propeller.
The driver said he didn’t see their lights, but at the last minute swerved in a failed attempt to avoid collision. Though some have said that they were not going especially fast, the force of the swerve threw his friend 30 meters (98 feet) out of the boat. Maybe it depends on what you mean by “going fast.”
Renzo was taken by ambulance to the hospital, where he died more or less on arrival. Natalino, who died immediately, was borne away by the incoming tide, and was recovered around 1:25 AM near the Morosini Naval School at Sant’ Elena. The two young couples had various minor injuries. The legal proceedings will continue, of course, but that’s not the story.
The traditional “cushions” of flowers can cost several hundred euros. I counted 14 of them but I think there were more that I missed.From “Your friends at Veneziana Motoscafi.” (Renzo was a former vaporetto pilot who had worked several years as an independent water-taxi driver.)From “Your colleagues at the hospital.” (Natalino was a retired nurse.) These are certainly beautiful, but of course not needing to see them is even more beautiful.Your colleagues have taken time off work, sent the flowers, greeted the widow — staying for the funeral mass itself is often too much to ask. Besides, all that makes you thirsty.Libations being offered at the nearest bar.
The other day Lino began to retrieve a poem from his bottomless memory bank — I don’t know what made him think of it, but in his day the teachers crammed poetry into their little students’ heads, some of it quite classic and sometimes very long. Now seems like an appropriate occasion to bring this poem back (translated by me).
“Imitation” by Giacomo Leopardi (1798-1837)
Far from your branch, poor, frail leaf,
Where are you going?
From the beech tree where I was born
The wind divided me.
Turning, from the forest to the countryside,
from the valley to the mountain, it carried me.
Perpetually desiccated,
I go as a pilgrim, and ignore everything else.
I go where everything (goes),
Where naturally
Goes the leaf of the rose,
And the leaf of the laurel.
Lungi dal proprio ramo, Povera foglia frale, Dove vai tu? – Dal faggio Là dov’io nacqui, mi divise il vento. Esso, tornando, a volo Dal bosco alla campagna, Dalla valle mi porta alla montagna. Seco perpetuamente Vo pellegrina, e tutto l’altro ignoro. Vo dove ogni altra cosa, Dove naturalmente Va la foglia di rosa, E la foglia d’alloro.
Here the deceased is remembered by all, as noted, by the nickname “Spagheto” (“Chiam.” is short for “chiamato,” or “called”). In Italian the word “spaghetto” means “twine,” or “string.” (Lots of little ones are obviously called spaghetti even if you eat them rather than tie them. Even food gets nicknames.)
Nicknames grow spontaneously here, like the shrubbery sprouting from the bridges. (I think I’ve mentioned this in other posts.) They’re not like stage names; you can’t plan them, and you can’t nickname yourself. Something just happens and voila’ — you’ve got a nom de guerre for life, and not only you but, as you’ll see shortly, also your descendants.
On our way to the nicknames we need to detour through the numbers of the Neapolitan “smorfia,” or scheme by which items are assigned a particular occult number; the purpose of this is to facilitate your translating elements of your dream last night into numbers which you will use to play the lottery.
I was in Naples some years ago and dreamed of a flying rainbow-colored turtle, so being almost certain of having received a mystic message which would soon be translated into cash, I went to the lottery-shop and a wizened lady behind a window looked up the numbers corresponding to flight, turtle, and rainbow. I played them and I won, almost immediately, nothing. But the numbers are sacrosanct so it obviously wasn’t My Day and so, I ask myself, why did I bother playing? For the same reason everybody plays, to one degree or another. Because you NEVER KNOW.
The classic number I remember best is 47: “Morto che parla” — Dead man who talks. Immortalized in an unforgettable instant in the film “Gli Onorevoli” with the incomparable Toto’, who is running for office and yells out his condominium window for everybody to vote for him by checking box 47. Voices from hundreds of surrounding windows bellow “Morto che parla!”
Or 8: “Otto fa culo, otto fa porco, otto fa marinaio” — Eight makes butt, eight makes pig, eight makes sailor. Lino says this sometimes, and I’m not taking this one any further.
If you want to read the list from one to 90 according to the usage in Naples (where fortune-telling is as basic to life as bread), here’s a chance to learn some new Italian and also some Neapolitan.
And so we come to the number 14, which is why I brought up nicknames. Lino has an ancient cousin who was telling me the other day that her father was called “Fourteen.” (She didn’t say “nicknamed,” which would have helped.) Someone trying to place her would say “Oh — you’re Fourteen’s daughter.” I, in my innocence, thought he was the fourteenth child, which 90 years ago wouldn’t have been totally improbable. I’ve known people of a certain age named “First,” or “Second,” and there was even “Decimo” — tenth. Useful for the parents, probably scarring for the children, but really efficient.
But when I asked Lino later if her father had been the 14th child, he laughed. “Heavens no,” he said. “Her father was always drunk. Fourteen stands for drunk.” (Certainly better than nicknaming him “Drunk.”) It even has a sort of affectionate little fillip to it, as in “We all know, but he’s our guy.”
Francesco Scarpa was known as “Oscar.”
In another case, there is a certain tightly-wound guy who is known in all the rowing clubs he’s belonged to (he keeps getting moved on) by the nickname “Cagnara” (ka-NYA-ra). It means a quarrel, of the sudden and belligerent type. I suppose that’s an affectionate term, in its way. Maybe in this case it also serves as a warning label for people who’ve just met him. He might volunteer at the hospice, he might adopt 20 Patagonian orphans — he’ll still be Cagnara because of something that may well have happened 50 years ago.
This is Khufu carved in ivory. Doesn’t look much like Lino. (photo: Chipdawes)
There are also plenty of names which you can’t explain. Lino went to work at the airport when he was 15, and at some point (maybe even his first day) he was dubbed “Cheope” (kay-OH-peh). It means Cheops, as in the pharaoh Khufu. He still has no idea why, but that was his moniker and he could decide whether to respond or not, but there would be no substitutions made.
One of his co-workers was dubbed “Piangi” (PYAN-jee). It means “whiner,” “complainer,” “crybaby.” This person was obviously in the habit of communicating in laments of various grades. Did this person hate the nickname? Too bad. He should have thought of that sooner.
There’s a gondolier nicknamed “Cinese” — “Chinese.” He’s not Chinese. Another gondolier with a perfectly banal baptismal name is known by all as “Cicciolina” (chih-cho-LEE-na), which was the stage name of a certain Ilona Staller, a Hungarian-Italian porn star. Two generations of the Dei Rossi family of gondoliers/racers have been known by their nickname “Strigheta” (Strih-GHE-ta), or” little witch.” And so it goes: “Five lire.” “Mosquito.” “Pastry.” “Raft.”
Lino added, “What about Burielo?” “What does that mean?” “I have no idea.”
I saw the lightning-flash birth of a nickname last Saturday. Our little group had a new addition, the French boyfriend of one of the girls. He was introduced as “Gaby,” and hearing this, Lino’s brain bounced and he immediately responded “Gabi ocio!” (GAH-bee OH-cho). This is Venetian for “Have an eye,” meaning “Be alert! Pay attention! Watch out!” and similar warnings. It was evidently his Venetian destiny to be known this way, and that’s how Lino addressed him for the rest of the day. If the kid lived in Venice, that would almost certainly be printed on his death notice.
Tattoos are everywhere, but it’s a bit unusual to see a cross on a chain tattooed on an ankle — and even more to see the phrase “mea culpa” written beneath it. (Sorry for the bad quality; I only got one shot with my phone before he walked away.) This is the ankle of a prisoner who belongs to a group whose members are reaching the end of their sentence and are working during the summer as dock-masters on the vaporetto docks to help manage the crowds. When you reflect on his being a convict, and that the inscription is Latin for “my fault,” all sorts of possible sobriquets come to mind. Or he may not have had one at all. I hope he isn’t going to spend the rest of his life being referred to as “mea culpa.”
A few years ago the Italian postal service made an exception to the rules by allowing mail to be delivered in Pellestrina if the address bore the addressee’s nickname. This was vital, because there are basically four last names in Pellestrina, and not all that many different first names, so nicknames help everybody understand who’s being talked about. The letter-carrier could spend all day going door to door looking for the right Marco Zennaro (made up) if you didn’t write the nickname to clarify things. Plus this would help you avoid leaving letters at the wrong house, where they could be read by the wrong persons, which in a small village with only four last names would be equivalent to standing at your front door shouting somebody else’s private news to the entire street.
For the record, if I have a nickname, I’ve never heard it. Hope I don’t have to discover it on my death notice.
No idea if this pair has a nickname (separately or together). Maybe they’re twins? Maybe it’s Crash and Eddie?
* It’s an American joke: “I don’t care what you call me, just don’t call me late for dinner.”
I was in a friend’s apartment one evening not long ago, which gave me the chance to (A) stop and just look out the window at a snippet of Venice I’ve never seen from this angle and (B) observe a snippet of behavior so bizarre that it might well have qualified as performance art. More performance than art.
Water, gondolas, so far so normal. Photographer, photographer’s assistant (Uncle Fester, in the background), and model. Also tres normal. But wait…Morticia’s feet are in the water. With her sandals on. The tourists in the gondola are completely oblivious. Maybe they think this is some quaint Venetian custom: The Bathing of the Sandals.Feet cool and refreshed, but the sandals will never stroll again. Salt water is the end.
