STALKER

Chapter 75 - 25th February, 1721 - Venice Part 3

I couldn't help but feel that something significant just happened, was destiny once again playing tricks on me. While I was busy thinking I lost sight of her, him in the crowd. I chuckled to myself. I thought my own time had some questionable social norms but this place made me feel like I was taking an advanced course in weirdness.

Things went from the ridiculous to the sublime, I turned and looked towards the beautiful façade of the Basilica, maybe I should spend some time cleaning out my soul. Jesus in all his glory looked down at me from the carved archway, sitting on his golden throne surrounded by angels. Was that a pissed-off look he was giving me? I live my life along the lines of Blaise Pascal's philosophy. It's not something you want to get wrong but my newly acquired talents were making me wonder. I walked through the carved archway imagining  Jesus was glaring at me as I went.

It hadn't occurred to me that the interior would be as dark as it was. It wasn't a church where space was wasted on stained glass windows, the interior walls instead were covered in Biblical scenes.  But the small arched windows that ran around the base of each of the five domes gave a dramatic effect. The shafts of lights hitting the gold mosaic tiles, bouncing off them, and bringing the images on domes to life. The gold mosaic ceiling and walls must be a sight on holy days when the Basilica was lit up by the huge chandeliers that hung down along it's spine.  I have to see this place in my own time.

There was a large Rose  Window to one side of the main body of the church and I decided to head in that direction, sit and plan my next move. There were a few chairs placed in front of a rood screen, and behind the screen was an elaborately decorated altar.  

The building had the hum that all sacred places have, a strange sort of silence you don't find anywhere else. 

Huge candelabras lit up the main altar, but where I was sitting there was only a tiered brass stand holding dozens of prayer candles and a censer burning a heavy rather unpleasant incense.  My nose was having a hard time coping with 1800s odours. The Basilica had a distinctive smell of dampness, incense, and smoke. I wondered if everyone in Venice after living here for a while simply lost their sense of smell.

There was no one else in the little chapel so I took the opportunity to take some photographs. The rows of candles illuminate the screen made for a great shot. I walked to the stand and found a couple of empty spots to place the little candles I'd bought. I wedged them in and tried to remember the prayers mum taught me. As she would say once a Catholic always a Catholic.

Sometimes, I feel like destiny is leading me around by my nose. As I stood searching my memory for even the first line of a prayer I noticed tiny crosses had been left on the screen as offerings.   I pulled out mine from my tote bag and went to place them with the others.  It was then that I noticed a dark shape on the floor.   Curiosity got the better of me and I went to have a look.  I  took off my gloves.  In the dim light, I couldn't see it properly until I bent and picked it up.  It was a red leather-bound prayer book, with pretty gold embossed lettering. I opened it and suddenly image after image ran through my mind. I had to force myself to cut off the connection so I could control myself and then slow down the scenes and watch them play out properly. I had accidentally found what I wanted.

Returning to the chair, I relaxed and placed my palms on the book, my fingertips tingled. The sensation gave me a thrill, I was going to be able to converse with the locals, buy, sell, barter, and maybe find and properly thank a certain gnaga-wearing crossdresser.

In the silence I let my mind go, slowly moving along the images.  It didn't take long to find the possible owner of the prayer book in conversation with several other parishioners standing more or less on the spot where I was sitting.   Three old women, with thick velvet cloaks, lace trim on their wrists and around their neck, powdered and rouged faces.  Their thin fingers weighed down by large gaudy rings.  I listened to  their chatter, gossip mostly, who had been seen passing the offerings plate but not putting in a single soldi and it went on, boring as batshit but it was exactly what I needed.   After 10 minutes the language had settled in me.  When I thought about it I could see it in it's written form and after clearing my throat of the usual tightness I whispered to myself.