are always giving him things. Sometimes a full uniform, sometimes just parts—like a hat, a jacket, and no trousers. He’s got uniforms from the army, the navy, the marines, the fire brigade, and the Guardia di Finanza, as he just told you. Lately I’ve seen him wearing a bright orange jumpsuit that someone at the gas company must have given him.”
“Not exactly a common hobby,” I ventured.
“No,” the man said, “his head is in the clouds. He’s in a dream state. Just as we all are at times.”
“Only more so.”
“True, but as I said, he’s not the only one. Our waiter here, for example. He dreams of being a soccer star. He’s obsessed by it. He can’t talk about anything else. At home the walls of his room are covered with soccer posters and banners and photographs of his heroes. Once in a while, you’ll see him give the air a sharp kick, as if he’s about to score a goal, and then he’ll pump his fist. If he were Mario, right now he’d be wearing knee socks, shorts, and a regulation jersey. That’s the only difference.”
I glanced inside the restaurant. A television set over the bar was tuned to a soccer game. The waiter looked at it as he passed.
“It’s the same with the families who’ve lived in palaces for generations,” the man went on. “They think it’s still three hundred years ago, when being nobility really meant something. Every artist you see setting up an easel around here—in their heads they see themselves as the next Tintoretto or de Chirico. And believe me, fishermen who float in the lagoon all day do not think only about fish. It’s the same with Mario.”
The man lowered his voice, as if to impart a confidence. “And, like some people, Mario sometimes forgets he’s only dreaming.”
As we were finishing our beers, Mario reappeared at our table with a click of his heels and a crisp salute. He had changed into fireman’s gear—black hat, black boots, and a long black coat emblazoned with eye-catching yellow reflective stripes.
“Bravo, Mario!” said the man at the other table.
Mario spun around to show us the words VIGILI DEL FUOCO, “Firefighters,” spelled out in reflective letters across his back. “When there’s a fire,” he said proudly, “they call me.”
“And you go and help put out the fire?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me, what did you do on the night the Fenice burned? Did you help?”
“I was in Do Mori when I heard about it,” he said, gesturing toward the restaurant. We all came outdoors, and we could see the flames from here.” He swept his outstretched hand along the panorama on the other side of the Giudecca Canal: the littoral of the Zattere, Santa Maria della Salute, the St. Mark’s Bell Tower, and the island of San Giorgio Maggiore.
“The sky was red,” he said. “Burning pieces of wood were flying overhead, all the way from the Fenice. I went home right away and changed into my uniform.”
“And then you went to the Fenice?”
“No. That night my . . . my colleagues were there instead. I had to be here to direct the helicopter.”
Mario reached into a voluminous pocket and pulled out a pair of bright orange plastic earphones. He put them on his head. In one hand he held a megaphone, in the other a pair of binoculars. Then, looking up at the sky above St. Mark’s, he fanned his arms in imitation of a ground-crew technician on the tarmac signaling to an airplane pilot. His motions were so exaggerated that he could just as easily have been taken for a man marooned on a desert island desperately trying to catch the attention of a passing plane.
“When the helicopter flew over the Grand Canal to pick up water,” he said, “I gave them the go-ahead!”
Mario went on waving his arms and staring up at the sky with a beatific smile on his
“Not exactly a common hobby,” I ventured.
“No,” the man said, “his head is in the clouds. He’s in a dream state. Just as we all are at times.”
“Only more so.”
“True, but as I said, he’s not the only one. Our waiter here, for example. He dreams of being a soccer star. He’s obsessed by it. He can’t talk about anything else. At home the walls of his room are covered with soccer posters and banners and photographs of his heroes. Once in a while, you’ll see him give the air a sharp kick, as if he’s about to score a goal, and then he’ll pump his fist. If he were Mario, right now he’d be wearing knee socks, shorts, and a regulation jersey. That’s the only difference.”
I glanced inside the restaurant. A television set over the bar was tuned to a soccer game. The waiter looked at it as he passed.
“It’s the same with the families who’ve lived in palaces for generations,” the man went on. “They think it’s still three hundred years ago, when being nobility really meant something. Every artist you see setting up an easel around here—in their heads they see themselves as the next Tintoretto or de Chirico. And believe me, fishermen who float in the lagoon all day do not think only about fish. It’s the same with Mario.”
The man lowered his voice, as if to impart a confidence. “And, like some people, Mario sometimes forgets he’s only dreaming.”
As we were finishing our beers, Mario reappeared at our table with a click of his heels and a crisp salute. He had changed into fireman’s gear—black hat, black boots, and a long black coat emblazoned with eye-catching yellow reflective stripes.
“Bravo, Mario!” said the man at the other table.
Mario spun around to show us the words VIGILI DEL FUOCO, “Firefighters,” spelled out in reflective letters across his back. “When there’s a fire,” he said proudly, “they call me.”
“And you go and help put out the fire?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“Tell me, what did you do on the night the Fenice burned? Did you help?”
“I was in Do Mori when I heard about it,” he said, gesturing toward the restaurant. We all came outdoors, and we could see the flames from here.” He swept his outstretched hand along the panorama on the other side of the Giudecca Canal: the littoral of the Zattere, Santa Maria della Salute, the St. Mark’s Bell Tower, and the island of San Giorgio Maggiore.
“The sky was red,” he said. “Burning pieces of wood were flying overhead, all the way from the Fenice. I went home right away and changed into my uniform.”
“And then you went to the Fenice?”
“No. That night my . . . my colleagues were there instead. I had to be here to direct the helicopter.”
Mario reached into a voluminous pocket and pulled out a pair of bright orange plastic earphones. He put them on his head. In one hand he held a megaphone, in the other a pair of binoculars. Then, looking up at the sky above St. Mark’s, he fanned his arms in imitation of a ground-crew technician on the tarmac signaling to an airplane pilot. His motions were so exaggerated that he could just as easily have been taken for a man marooned on a desert island desperately trying to catch the attention of a passing plane.
“When the helicopter flew over the Grand Canal to pick up water,” he said, “I gave them the go-ahead!”
Mario went on waving his arms and staring up at the sky with a beatific smile on his
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