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- Ешь, молись, люби
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So
we
find
each
other
there
in
Venice
,
and
Linda
frowns
at
our
map
of
the
city
,
turns
it
upside
down
,
locates
our
hotel
,
orients
herself
and
announces
with
characteristic
humility
:
"
We
are
the
mayors
of
this
town
’
s
ass
.
"
Her
cheer
,
her
optimism
-
they
in
no
way
match
this
stinky
,
slow
,
sinking
,
mysterious
,
silent
,
weird
city
.
Venice
seems
like
a
wonderful
city
in
which
to
die
a
slow
and
alcoholic
death
,
or
to
lose
a
loved
one
,
or
to
lose
the
murder
weapon
with
which
the
loved
one
was
lost
in
the
first
place
.
Seeing
Venice
,
I
’
m
grateful
that
I
chose
to
live
in
Rome
instead
.
I
don
’
t
think
I
would
have
gotten
off
the
antidepressants
quite
so
quick
here
.
Venice
is
beautiful
,
but
like
a
Bergman
movie
is
beautiful
;
you
can
admire
it
,
but
you
don
’
t
really
want
to
live
in
it
.
The
whole
town
is
peeling
and
fading
like
those
suites
of
rooms
that
once
-
rich
families
will
barricade
away
in
the
backs
of
their
mansions
when
it
gets
too
expensive
to
keep
the
maintenance
up
and
it
’
s
easier
to
just
nail
the
doors
shut
and
forget
about
the
dying
treasures
on
the
other
side
-
this
is
Venice
.
Greasy
streams
of
Adriatic
backwash
nudge
up
against
the
long
-
suffering
foundations
of
these
buildings
,
testing
the
endurance
of
this
fourteenth
-
century
science
fair
experiment
-
Hey
,
what
if
we
built
a
city
that
sits
in
water
all
the
time
?
Venice
is
spooky
under
its
grainy
November
skies
.
The
city
creaks
and
sways
like
a
fishing
pier
.
Despite
Linda
’
s
initial
confidence
that
we
can
govern
this
town
,
we
get
lost
every
day
,
and
most
especially
at
night
,
taking
wrong
turns
toward
dark
corners
that
dead
-
end
dangerously
and
directly
into
canal
water
.
One
foggy
night
,
we
pass
an
old
building
that
seems
to
actually
be
groaning
in
pain
.
"
Not
to
worry
,
"
chirps
Linda
.
"
That
’
s
just
Satan
’
s
hungry
maw
.
"
I
teach
her
my
favorite
Italian
word
-
attraversiamo
(
"
let
’
s
cross
over
"
)
-
and
we
backtrack
nervously
out
of
there
.
The
beautiful
young
Venetian
woman
who
owns
the
restaurant
near
where
we
are
staying
is
miserable
with
her
fate
.
She
hates
Venice
.
She
swears
that
everyone
who
lives
in
Venice
regards
it
as
a
tomb
.
She
’
d
fallen
in
love
once
with
a
Sardinian
artist
,
who
’
d
promised
her
another
world
of
light
and
sun
,
but
had
left
her
,
instead
,
with
three
children
and
no
choice
but
to
return
to
Venice
and
run
the
family
restaurant
.
She
is
my
age
but
looks
even
older
than
I
do
,
and
I
can
’
t
imagine
the
kind
of
man
who
could
do
that
to
a
woman
so
attractive
.
(
"
He
was
powerful
,
"
she
says
,
"
and
I
died
of
love
in
his
shadow
.
"
)
Venice
is
conservative
.
The
woman
has
had
some
affairs
here
,
maybe
even
with
some
married
men
,
but
it
always
ends
in
sorrow
.
The
neighbors
talk
about
her
.
People
stop
speaking
when
she
walks
into
the
room
.
Her
mother
begs
her
to
wear
a
wedding
ring
just
for
appearances
-
saying
,
Darling
,
this
is
not
Rome
,
where
you
can
live
as
scandalously
as
you
like
.
Every
morning
when
Linda
and
I
come
for
breakfast
and
ask
our
sorrowful
young
/
old
Venetian
proprietress
about
the
weather
report
for
the
day
,
she
cocks
the
fingers
of
her
right
hand
like
a
gun
,
puts
it
to
her
temple
,
and
says
,
"
More
rain
.
"
Yet
I
don
’
t
get
depressed
here
.
I
can
cope
with
,
and
even
somehow
enjoy
,
the
sinking
melancholy
of
Venice
,
just
for
a
few
days
.
Somewhere
in
me
I
am
able
to
recognize
that
this
is
not
my
melancholy
;
this
is
the
city
’
s
own
indigenous
melancholy
,
and
I
am
healthy
enough
these
days
to
be
able
to
feel
the
difference
between
me
and
it
.
This
is
a
sign
,
I
cannot
help
but
think
,
of
healing
,
of
the
coagulation
of
my
self
.
There
were
a
few
years
there
,
lost
in
borderless
despair
,
when
I
used
to
experience
all
the
world
’
s
sadness
as
my
own
.
Everything
sad
leaked
through
me
and
left
damp
traces
behind
Anyhow
,
it
’
s
hard
to
be
depressed
with
Linda
babbling
beside
me
,
trying
to
get
me
to
buy
a
giant
purple
fur
hat
,
and
asking
of
the
lousy
dinner
we
ate
one
night
,
"
Are
these
called
Mrs
.
Paul
’
s
Veal
Sticks
?
"
She
is
a
firefly
,
this
Linda
.
In
Venice
in
the
Middle
Ages
there
was
once
a
profession
for
a
man
called
a
codega
-
a
fellow
you
hired
to
walk
in
front
of
you
at
night
with
a
lit
lantern
,
showing
you
the
way
,
scaring
off
thieves
and
demons
,
bringing
you
confidence
and
protection
through
the
dark
streets
.
This
is
Linda
-
my
temporary
,
special
-
order
,
travel
-
sized
Venetian
codega
.
I
step
off
the
train
a
few
days
later
to
a
Rome
full
of
hot
,
sunny
,
eternal
disorder
,
where
-
immediately
upon
walking
out
into
the
street
-
I
can
hear
the
soccer
-
stadium
-
like
cheers
of
a
nearby
manifestazione
,
another
labor
demonstration
.
What
they
are
striking
about
this
time
,
my
taxi
driver
cannot
tell
me
,
mainly
because
,
it
seems
,
he
doesn
’
t
care
.
"
’
Sti
cazzi
,
"
he
says
about
the
strikers
.
(
Literal
translation
:
"
These
balls
,
"
or
,
as
we
might
say
:
"
I
don
’
t
give
a
shit
.
"
)
It
’
s
nice
to
be
back
.
After
the
staid
sobriety
of
Venice
,
it
’
s
nice
to
be
back
where
I
can
see
a
man
in
a
leopard
-
skin
jacket
walking
past
a
pair
of
teenagers
making
out
right
in
the
middle
of
the
street
.
The
city
is
so
awake
and
alive
,
so
dolled
-
up
and
sexy
in
the
sunshine
.
