Venice: I am not making this up

The flesh is mightier than the sword

March 12, 2015 4 Comments

The eye of God, the eye of the patriarch, nothing seemed to faze the good sisters.

Life under the Serenissima wasn’t all state occasions and visiting potentates. It was a whole lot of craziness, and often some of the main players were priests and nuns (separately and together).

I already knew that a good number of convents were forced-labor camps for generations of patrician Venetian women who, for whatever reason, didn’t win the marriage lottery. There were some cloisters which were notorious for having inmates who adhered closely to the “carpe diem” doctrine of the Church of Life. San Zaccaria, Ognissanti, Santa Maria Maggiore were only a few of the more notorious locations, and where this led is evident by what is sometimes found by men digging to lay new pipes or lines where convents used to be, viz.: a tiny skeleton. Not made up.

San Zaccaria, the Benedictine sisters thereof, built up quite a reputation over the centuries. The Venetian historian Sanudo records that on July 1, 1514, it having been decided (not by the nuns) to “close the parlor of San Zacharia for more honesty, the vicar of the lord patriarch Zuan di Anzolo di Santo Severino…went to accomplish this task with a few captains and officials; seeing that the nuns threw stones at them and forced them to flee…the patriarch himself went in person to accomplish this task. Then, by order of the Council of Ten, someone was sent to make windows.” Need to let some light in, and make it easier for others to see what’s going on. Theoretically.

But that was a temporary inconvenience. In the 17th and 18th centuries things were back to the way they’d been, if not more so. Persons of both sexes came to socialize, to conduct “brilliant conversations”; the nuns organized parties and masked festivities, and sometimes brought in puppet shows to amuse the children who tagged along with the brilliant conversers.

"Il Parlatorio" (the parlor), by Pietro Longhi, DATE TK. Not exactly the atmosphere one associates with cloisters. — “Il Parlatorio” (the parlor), by Pietro Longhi (late 18th century). The convent isn’t identified, but I don’t sense the atmosphere one usually associates with cloisters.

"Parlatorio delle monache di S. Zaccaria" (parlor of the nuns of S. Zaccaria), Francesco Guardi, 1746. (Ca' Rezzonico, Venezia). The central figure is not a nun, as far as I can make out. There is a puppet show in progress, which is nice. — “Parlatorio delle monache di S. Zaccaria” (parlor of the nuns of S. Zaccaria), Francesco Guardi, 1746. (Ca’ Rezzonico, Venezia). The central figure is not a nun, as far as I can make out. There is a puppet show in progress, which is nice.

The nearby church of San Lorenzo, like many churches, also had a convent attached to it. The convent is gone and the church is shut, which is too bad if only for the fact that it contains (or contained) the tomb of Marco Polo, who was buried there in 1324.

But the convent is what I want to talk about. Why not? Probably everybody in Venice talked about it. I translate the quaint but pointed style of Giuseppe Tassini, in “Curiosita’ Veneziane“:

“We hinted in various places at the almost general corruption that reigned in the old days among our nuns. But one can say that those of San Lorenzo just about took the prize in that competition.

“On June 16 1360 we find condemned to a year in prison and a fine of 100 lire Marco Boccaso, Zanin Baseggio, and Giuseppe di Marcadello for having fornicated, the first with a Ruzzini, the second with Beriola Contarini, and the third with Orsola Acotanto, professed nuns of that convent.

“A short while later, that is, on July 22, 1360, Margarita revendigola (a renter of sumptuous garb), Bertuccia, the widow of Paolo d’Ancona, Maddalena da Bologna, Margarita da Padova, and Lucia (a slave) were publicly whipped for having carried, as go-betweens, amorous letters and embassies to those nuns.

“As time went on, by the sentence of March 25, 1385, Master Nicolo’ Giustinian, physician, was condemned to two years and three months of prison and a fine of 300 lire, because he was making love to Sister Fiordelise Gradenigo, entering several times with false keys in the convent of San Lorenzo to join his beloved, with whom he had a son.

“Lastly, on June 21, 1385, Marco Gritti had to undergo three years in prison, for having entered the same convent for dishonest ends.

“And in the 17th century the dress of the nuns of San Lorenzo breathes worldly vanity. The proof is in Viaggio per l’alta Italia del Sereniss. Principe di Toscana, poi Granduca Cosimo III, descritto da Filippo Pizzichi. He, speaking of the convent of S. Lorenzo, which he visited with the prince in 1664, expressed himself thus:

“‘This is the richest convent of Venice, and there are more than 100 nuns, all gentlewomen. They dress themselves most elegantly, with white habits in the French manner, the bodice of fine linen with tiny pleats, and the professed wear black lace three fingers wide on the seams; a small veil encircles their forehead, below which their curly hair falls, beautifully arranged; their bosom is half-uncovered, and taken altogether their habit has more of the nymph than the nun.’

When the nuns looked in their mirrors -- I'm sure they had them -- I'm equally sure this is what they saw. (Detail of the Three Graces from "La Primavera" by Sandro Botticelli, 1482.) Even if they'd never seen the painting. — When the nuns looked in their mirrors — I’m sure they had them — I’m equally sure this is what they saw. (Detail of the Three Graces from “La Primavera” by Sandro Botticelli, 1482.) Even if they’d never seen the painting.

But before you start shaking your fist at the nuns, you should hear something about the priests.

I return to Tassini:

“We read that in 1391 Giacomo Tanto, the pievano (parish priest) of San Maurizio, who had agreed with Tommaso Corner to kill a priest named Giovanni … brought him to a house situated at S. Aponal in the Carampane, under the pretext of giving him ‘a fourth of Malvasia wine for the Mass’ and there, aided by a companion, he slew him.

“Both men returned to the Canonica, where the deceased lived, and stole all of his goods. When the crime was discovered, Tommaso Corner, who was absent, was sentenced on September 28, 1392 to perpetual banishment, and the pievano was condemned to end his life in the cage suspended from the campanile of San Marco on bread and water.” He was the first man recorded to have suffered this castigation.

caption will go here — This is the only representation of the cheba hanging from the campanile of San Marco. It is taken from the collection of abbot Jacopo Morelli (1745 – 1819) (drawn from “Giustizia Veneta,” by Edoardo Rubini, 2004).

The “cage” was the cheba (KEH-bah), which is occasionally referred to on admonitory plaques around the city as a possible punishment for breaking whatever rules are set forth on the plaque. It was reserved for ecclesiastics, or for anyone committing crimes in a sacred place. One source says that these crimes were usually “homicide, sodomy, blasphemy, and false witness.”

This cage was either permanently attached to the side of the campanile (examples remain in Mantova and Piacenza), or suspended from a beam inserted, as needed, into the bell tower’s wall. The condemned was put inside it and that was that. Night, day, rain, snow, hail, passing pigeons — he got it all. And a daily ration of bread and water, which is not nourishment; it is only a cheap way to prolong starvation.

But Giacomo Tanto’s stepmother felt sorry for him languishing there, and so she found a way (fancy way of saying “bribed”) to induce an official of the Signori della Notte (the Lords of the Night, or the Almost-Everything Police) AND the chief of the guards of the Piazza, to slip her disgraced stepson other victuals. Not steak, unfortunately, or polenta with seppie, or anything else of a remotely nutritious nature (eat more fruit), but frittelle, and sweet focaccia with walnuts and almonds, and powdered sugar, and other confections which undoubtedly kept his spirits up as he was expiring. She got caught, and the official of the Signori della Notte lost his job and was sent to prison for a year, and Giacomo went back to his daily bread until he died.

But his was no isolated case. In the “Incorrigible Priest” division of the league of renegade religious, we have a very strong team:

Don Francesco of San Polo (1518) was accused of sodomy and consigned to the cheba. Documents report that some kind soul gave him a gaban (gah-BAHN) to wear, to protect him from the elements, even though it was April. The gaban was a long loose robe with sleeves, made of thick rough fabric.

Don Francesco, having plenty of time to spare, devoted himself to pulling the gaban slowly apart, till he had a collection of strips which he tied together, and you know where this is going. On the night of July 1 he somehow managed to get out of the cage, and clinging to the long improvised rope he began to lower himself toward the pavement, and freedom.

But the rope ran out “a good distance” above the ground — enough of a distance to have rendered a fall more conclusive than the cheba.

So he just dangled there, hanging on, and yelling for help. The night guardians came running, retrieved him (I don’t know how — with a net, like the firemen?) and carried him off to prison where the walls would be less accommodating than the cage.

But speaking of being accommodating, we last hear that he was succoured in his new incarceration by the nuns of San Zaccaria who, if you’ll remember, were not exactly “flour for making Communion wafers,” as they say here. So their succouring almost certainly made everything better.

A cartoon satirizing the engineers considered responsible for the collapse of the campanile of San Marco, locked into the cheba. — A satirical cartoon skewering the engineers considered responsible for the collapse of the campanile of San Marco, showing them locked into the cheba (1902).

I’m skipping over a few others, such as don Francesco at San Stae (1502), and another don Francesco at Ognissanti (1505), who begot their heirs among the abbesses and their flock, to arrive at the star player: don Agostino of Santa Fosca.

Agostino’s collar did nothing to stem his love for life, among which were girls and gambling. He didn’t interfere with the nuns, amusing himself instead with the commercially available ladies, but that wasn’t his crime. He was tried and sentenced for having blasphemed while playing cards. It can happen, but it’s unpleasant to hear a priest give way to that extent.

He was the last person sent to the cheba. On August 7, 1542, he was taken, hands tied, to the stocks placed between the columns of Marco and Todaro, and left there for six hours. A sign on his chest described his crime and the punishment.

A sort of crown was put on his head, on which were depicted the devils to whom the priest had listened: “…they made me an emperor without an empire….I was crowned without being given a sceptre, wanting to punish me for my iniquity…”. Perhaps you had to have been there.

Then he was taken up and installed in the cheba, where he remained for two months, after which he was taken to prison for another ten months.

Leaving prison, he was banished for life, which meant leaving the entire Venetian territory, which would have cut out a large part of Northeast Italy, the eastern Adriatic coast, and chunks of Greece, including Crete. Still, that left plenty of other places where they must have known how to play cards and lose money.

Don’t imagine this is an exhaustive list. It’s just all I know so far. But looking around, I notice that the mortal sins have continued to flourish, so I leave you with don Agostino’s penitential warning: “Flee from gambling, do not blaspheme the saints, even less the Lord God…abandon playing cards, blasphemy and prostitutes…”.

I admiringly acknowledge the exceptional research of a personage named Giandri, whose website is marvelous reading (in Italian, alas for many).

Wrath of God? Not yet. — Wrath of God? Or is this just testing, testing, one two three?

Venetian History

The daily peregrination

March 9, 2015 19 Comments

I know there are people who hate the morning, but I don't understand them. — I know there are people who hate the morning, but I don’t understand them.

We are having perfect March weather (windy, chilly, sunny), which translates to perfect walking weather.

That’s a silly remark; it’s always walking weather here. But these mornings are much more appealing than some others. (August, I’m looking at you.)

So we are getting up and out the door early, when the streets are still almost empty and appear to be waiting just for us. Or if that’s a little too egotistical, they appear to be doing just fine without us. Or anybody. In any case, they look great.

Today we meandered as far as the Sacca San Girolamo, otherwise known as the “Baia del Re,” in remotest Cannaregio. And along the way, reminiscences sprang out. Lino doesn’t look for memories, they practically run into him.

Take, for example, the little, very old man who approached us as we sauntered along the fondamenta de la Misericordia. He was medium height, robust in a block-of-cement-like way, with a face that boasted three bright apples — his chin and both cheeks. His eyes were clear, if somewhat distant, and he was shuffling along very, very slowly.

He glanced at us both as we got nearer and somehow I had the impression that he recognized Lino. But no gesture was made, so we three continued on our way.

“You know who that was?” Lino asked me. I accept this rhetorical opener by now and resist making any sarcastical reply. I just wait.

“He was the coach of the national women’s volleyball team,” is the answer. Why would Lino know this?

“His job was driving the garbage barge in my old neighborhood,” so naturally they would have seen each other around.

“But he was also a kind of hoarder,” Lino continued. “I read in the Gazzettino that the neighbors finally complained about the smell, and the Public Health officers came to investigate and they made him move.” Like many trash-collectors, he not only nabbed good stuff that he could resell, but evidently also perishable items which, as we know, often get thrown away in medium-to-good condition. But then the organic matter began to go the way of all organic matter, hence the complaints.

“He moved to somewhere on the mainland,” was the conclusion. My next questions were fruitless. “I only know what was in the paper about that. It went on for months.”

But that remark wasn’t the conclusion. “I once offered him our family’s old Singer sewing machine.” It was an early foot-treadle model that his mother and sisters used to make all of his clothes for most of his childhood, “He gave me a 2-liter bottle of wine.” An excellent example of turning gold into straw.

How can it be that they ALL wash their clothes on the same morning? Do they tap code messages on the walls? — How can it be that they ALL wash their clothes on the same morning? Do they tap code messages on the dividing walls? Or it one of those pheromone things that women respond to?

We proceeded over the bridge and he pointed at one of the anonymous modern apartment buildings on the other side. In fact, he pointed to a particular door.

“Roberto used to go there for his piano lessons,” began the next chapter. I had met Roberto once; he was born blind, and we would encounter him strolling around Dorsoduro with his wife. In fact, I never saw him without her.

Robert was born at the corner of Lino’s courtyard and the main road near Campo San Barnaba, so they were always playing or hanging out together. (Roberto once told me that they would organize soccer games in their courtyard, and he was always the goalie. “They made the goal just a little bigger than I was,” he said. So cool.)

At least once a week, Roberto had to report for his piano lesson, and Lino and an undetermined number of friends would take him there, walking from Campo San Barnaba to the Baia del Re. “We’d wait outside while he did his scales, or whatever, and when he was finished we’d walk him home.”

“How long did that take?”

“Oh, I don’t know. An hour.” Tracing the route, I see they went about 2 km (1.3 miles) each way.

“His mother spent a fortune on him, with doctor’s visits and so many other things. His father unloaded flour at the Molino Stucky. He would stand by a chute, and the bag of flour would come down onto his shoulder and he’d load it onto the boat.” The bags of flour typically weighed 25 kilos (55 pounds). Does the term “herniated disc” come to mind? How about “chance fracture”?

“After a while, his mother sent him to an institute in Padova. These were common after the war, for children with various disabilities or injuries. Maybe they’d have picked up an unexploded mine. Or been kicked by a horse, or whatever.

“She thought it would be a good thing for him to have some time with his friends, so on Sunday my brother and I would take the train to Padova with her to visit him. We walked from the station all the way to the Prato della Valle.” That would be 2.6 km (1.5 miles) one way.

“There was still a lot of damage around, I remember, from the bombing. She’d buy us hot chocolate.”

The florist is playing a serenade to spring.

We walked under a large archway separating two streets, not far from the train station.

“See this archway?” he asked as we passed under it. You have to start a story with a question, it’s something Talmudic. Of course I said yes, and waited.

“One night during the war my father was walking home from the station” (his father drove a train with a coal-burning engine, so he was pretty much one color on his way home, the color being black. Not that that’s especially important to the story, I’m just setting the scene).

“It was late, and the curfew was on — nobody was supposed to be out — and he got stopped here by a group of patrolling Fascists.” One remembers that they were also known as the Voluntary Militia for National Security, and they too were wearing mostly black, but for a different reason.

“They asked him who he was, and where he was coming from, and where he was going, and why, and show them some identification now.

“He explained the situation, and after a few very tense minutes they let him go.”

I am not romanticizing the past, and neither is he. Washing in cold water and short pants winter and summer. No plumbing. No central heating. I’m not talking about the Middle Ages, there are plenty of people who remember how life was. But when I say it was a small town, I’ve said everything.

Of course we can all fit in here, if we cooperate and nobody gets all huffy.

Venetian-ness

Who you calling an alcoholic?

March 2, 2015 9 Comments

The images on this post will have nothing to do with Oliviero Toscani, wine, alcoholism, Benetton, or any other thing or person mentioned in the text. I don't have enough years left to seek images that could connect in any way with the theme here. — The images on this post will have nothing to do with Oliviero Toscani, wine, alcoholism, Benetton, or any other thing or person mentioned in the text. I don’t have enough years left to seek images that could connect in any way with the theme here.

There has been quite an invigorating exchange of views in the Gazzettino the past two weeks or so, when real problems didn’t intervene.

The bickering was set off by a comment made by Oliviero Toscani, the photographer-provocateur best known for his extremely edgy ads for Benetton. “Shockvertising,” somebody called it. His greatest joy in life, perhaps his entire reason for being, is to enrage and offend people, including the people writing his paychecks.

No, that’s not true. His GREATEST joy in life is to advertise himself, and with just a few well-chosen canards he got himself a deluge of free publicity. I acknowledge that by writing this post I am colluding in this regrettable mania of his, which almost convinced me not to write about it. But here goes.

If it matters, which it doesn’t, he’s not from the Veneto. He was born in Milan (Lombardia).

The opening shot was made in an interview on February 2 during a broadcast on Radio 24 in a known-for-satirical-jabs program called “La Zanzara” (the mosquito). The context or question wasn’t given in the report I read, but his zinger was that “The Veneti are a people of drunks and alcoholics. Poor things, it’s not their fault that they’re born in the Veneto.”

The Veneti (people from the Veneto) gave some thought to this, and concluded that they don’t agree.

The world is so beautiful when everybody gets along. Or when there's nobody at all. — The world is so beautiful when everybody gets along. Or when there’s nobody at all.

The counter-shots which followed were so many and varied that I have picked, trust me, only a few:

Luca Zaia, governor of the Veneto: “He should apologize,” adding a famous Veneto epithet, “Prima di parlar, tasi” (before you speak, shut up).

Arrigo Cipriani (Venetian restaurateur and icon): “I’ve always considered Oliviero Toscani a provincial, a phony cosmopolite; all of his provocations, even on multiracial themes, aren’t worth anything culturally. He probably had too much to drink before he made that statement.”

Lino Toffolo (Venetian comic): “It’s a little bit my fault.” He says this is because he made his career on television by caricaturing the Venetian as a drunk. “In films we were always depicted as servants, carabinieri, and dolts” (in Venetian, mone, which I will explain below). He continued with the pointed remark, in Venetian: “Se uno xe mona, lo xe tanto in dialeto che in talian” (If somebody’s a dolt, he’s one as much in dialect as in Italian”). I think he got that backwards, but you see what he’s saying.

“Alcoholic” and “mona” aren’t quite the same thing, but let’s keep moving.

“Mona” (MOH-na) is a very useful and versatile Venetian word. (Plural: Mone. MOH-neh.) Technically, it means a woman’s lady parts, but it is the daily word of choice for describing a person who is not merely a dimwit, but a very particular kind of stupid — an obtuse, mouth-breathing dork. An intelligent person can occasionally slip and commit a monada (the act perpetrated by a mona), but if the person him/herself is a mona, there’s little hope for him in the larger human sphere. A person could be a Nobel-prizewinning theoretical physicist, but in the realm of basic social skills could also very well be a mona.

One of the best examples of the usefulness of this word is a saying I’ve often heard Lino repeat, usually after the news of the death of some world-famous yacht racer who dies at sea, or world-famous Alpine guide who dies in an avalanche: “Mona chi se ciama bravo in mar/montagna” (Anybody who calls themselves expert at sea/in the mountains is a mona”).

In this case, our world-famous photographer has been dismissed with one of the most trenchant Venetian terms at hand. Because you could defend yourself by saying “I’m not an idiot,” but “I’m not a mona” just confirms that you are.

And it could have been left at that, but a few of the five million Veneti had something more to say.

Ulderico Bernardi, a sociologist and native of the Veneto: “The people at Benetton had to have been really drunk when they hired him. And” — he adds — “he also has gotten wrong the historical analysis. The stereotype of the drunken Veneto is not, in fact, ancient, seeing that Veneti and Venetians were considered the English of the Mediterranean, and that this people succeeded with a constant and intelligent effort to overturn the dramatic economic situation of a region that was among the poorest in Italy.”

A Veneto businessman named Remo Mosole from Breda Di Piave (Treviso) wrote to Toscani personally. “In my long working life, from the immediate post-war period to today, I have seen the Veneto rise from the blackest poverty to become one of the primary regions of Italy…Your affirmations have profoundly offended generations of Veneti… who worked humbly and firmly for their economic and social emancipation. Someone born in the Veneto today is not unfortunate, as you say, destined to the life of an alcoholic, but enjoys a level of well-being and health among the highest in the world.”

Beniamino Boscolo, Chioggia: “I think that an offense describes the person who makes it, and not the people it’s aimed at. Cin cin — to your health!”

Lino Narciso Giacomin: “‘Toscani: Veneti, a people of alcoholics.’ It’s as if one said: ‘Photographers, a people of mone.’ No! Only a few!”

Giovanni Gastaldi, Preganziol: “Everything has been said. I will add one pleasing and useful fact: In Italy, the Veneto Region, as of December 31, 2013, counts more than 134,000 active blood donors, with more than 127,000 donations. The Veneto is the third Region in Italy (behind Lombardia and Emilia-Romagna) for blood donations. Not so bad, considering the comments by the photographer. Good wine, good blood!”

Are we waiting to hear a resounding “Egad! What was I thinking? A thousand million apologies, it’s all a horrible misunderstanding and I should never have said any of those things!”?

Following is the photoshopped apology more or less extorted from Toscani:

“These can’t be the problems of you Veneti,” he started out. “I sincerely never thought that something said in an ironic and irreverent place like ‘La Zanzara’ could have this effect.” Seriously? He goes on:

“But by now that’s the way it is in Italy,” he said. “One gives greater weight to silly trifles than to serious things…. I was making a kind of photograph of the dialects of various parts of Italy. And among the tens of dialects, there was the Veneto. Listen, it’s not such a big thing to say that the Veneto, in his atavistic DNA, has a drawling way of talking, as in pain, like alcoholics. It’s that way!'”

That’s enough, you can stop now. No, he can’t: “But really, do you want to deny that this connection exists? Do you want me to pull out the statistics of the early 19th century when the Veneti drank even from early childhood? And let’s not forget that I said all this in a purely ironic context, on ‘La Zanzara.’ If I’d said that the Veneti are all sober, and don’t touch wine, I have the impression that I’d have made even more people mad. I ask to be excused by those who didn’t understand the ironic intention. I’ve received messages from many angry people, but also from some who have complimented me because, in the irony, there’s a little truth. And you know what I say? I’m going to ask to be excused by writing a book with all the insults I’ve received from Veneti, with their first and last names.”

“It wasn’t my intention to denigrate the Veneto. Perish the thought! It was irony even if, to say the truth, grappa, Prosecco, Amarone, Valpolicella, they’re all your wines, known in all the world. So let’s just close the subject with ‘But what the hell is he saying, that mona Toscani,’ and have a good laugh.”

"Don't know whyyyyy there's no sun up in the sky, stormy weather....." — “Don’t know whyyyyy there’s no sun up in the sky, stormy weather…..”

So why does Toscani persist in using an outdated stereotype? Lorenzo Marini, a colleague of Toscani’s who comes from Padova, suggests this: “The Veneti are the Calvinists of Italy, they’ve always thought about work, neglecting their image which is tied to their past as farmers and domestic servants. Therefore even when the reality has changed, the image has remained the way it was.”

If anyone would be interested in facts, studies last year revealed that the highest number of deaths related to the abuse of alcohol occurred in the regions of the Valle d’Aosta, Basilicata and Friuli Venezia Giulia, and the area around Bolzano (Trentino Alto Adige). No Venetians here.

But the thing has taken on a life of its own. On May 1-6, 2015 the Concours Mondial de Bruxelles, a vast international wine show, will be held in Jesolo just across the lagoon, and the mayor decided to make the most of all the hoohah by inviting Toscani to attend so he could taste all those amazing Veneto wines and “hopefully not get drunk.” Free publicity for Jesolo!

Toscani accepted. And he made a counter-offer, inviting Veneto Governor Luca Zaia and as many wine-makers of the Veneto as want to come to “Anteprima Vini,” a big wine event in Tuscany, Toscani being a board member of the Associazione Grandi Cru della Costa Toscana (Association of the Grands Crus of the Tuscan Coast), and also being a wine producer himself. Free publicity for Anteprima Vini! And his own label, whatever it is!

“My dear governor Zaia,” he wrote, “it’s not for encouraging a dispute between Veneti and Toscani (intentional play on words? “Toscani” also means Tuscans) but a round table, a modern Camelot of wine, culture, of congeniality and sobriety (but not too much).”

Time for the kisses and manly handshakes? Not even close. The Northern League (Lega Nord) has objected in the strongest possible terms to having him at Jesolo. “One invites Toscani only to publicly apologize to the Veneto,” snarled politician Daniele Bison. Free publicity for himself and his party! “I’m asking myself if the mayor was sober when he invited Toscani.”

Next up, the mayor of Musile di Piave, a small town eight miles (13 km) from Jesolo. He and his town council have approved a declaration that Toscani is “persona non grata” in Musile (pop.11,603). Free publicity for Musile! As if it needed it.

And in conclusion, a few people (not seeking publicity — maybe) took Toscani to court in Verona, formally accusing him of defamation. That didn’t get far.

“Toscani’s phrases don’t have penal relevance,” the judge declared.

“The stereotype of ‘drunken Veneti,’ like the great part of commonplaces, cannot reasonably be part of the crime of defamation,” the judge explained, “also because it’s applied to an indeterminate and impossible to determine number of persons. Therefore Toscani’s idea should be confined within the ignorance typical of commonplaces and doesn’t deserve to rise to the level of penality.”

His remarks may not qualify as penality, but they certainly qualified as a perpetual-motion publicity machine. With just a few little phrases (I liked the one about the “atavistic DNA”), Toscani created enough propaganda for himself — and so did enough other people, up to and including the judge — to choke all the horses of the Calgary Stampede.

Obnoxious, sure, but in the end he may not be such a mona after all.