Masked men and fire-eaters

A crack like gunfire sends the pigeons skittering away across Piazza
San Marco. Viewed from the loggia of the ducal palace, the square is a
teeming mass of people, swarming like multi-coloured ants. The queens
and kings are the masqueraders, strollling calmly through the hubbub in
their own fantasy worlds of grace and elegence. Their gloved hands wave
condescendingly at the crowds who flock round them, their eyes peer
unseen through the black holes in their masks. Their paparazzi flock
around them; "Here!" "S'il vous plait!" "Grazzia!". They give a nod, a
theatrical pose with a little girl. Their admirers give them a reason
for being; tomorrow they return to their ordinary lives but here and
now they are the stars of the carnival, monarchs who reign supreme in
their small islands or magic.

The air is torn by a second stinging slap. The only space in the piazza
not filled with people is a single large circle. In the centre a man
whirls, swinging a long knotted rope. He flings his body around,
increasing his speed as his face grows red with exertion, until the
rope rends the air with another crack. The crowd cheers, another man
takes his place to become a human spinning top.

A small stage is wrapped up in the fog. A small woman glides upon it,
changing the masks upon her painted face to become whoever she chooses.
She weaves her tale to an entranced throng, their eyes fixed on the way
she sways and twirls, her arms raised to caress the mists of the lagoon
then swooping forward, pulling her cloak around her as it flutters like
the wings of the sea birds. Her voice creates magic, fear, joy as she
calls out her narrative. For those to whom her language is a mystery,
her sinuous movements and glorious disguises become perfect camera
fodder. Some simply wait and listen, allowing her voice and movements
to fill them with wonderous incomprehension.

The dark of fog transmutes seamlessly into the dark of night. The
masqueraders take to the winding city streets. Hundreds of sparkling
lights tranform the Rialto into a gothic fairyland. The jugglers and
fire-eaters display their pyrotechnic mastery, dancing with flames,
leaving glowing trails through the night. People move to the sound of a
jazz band whilst drinking Campari and sparkling wine. The crisp voice
of the singer fills the small square. Some shuffle their feet or tap
their hands to keep time; couples whirl across the square, eyes locked
together as they writhe and sway. A few streets away finds revelers
jumping up and down to a lively Balkan tune, or sipping beer from a
small tent in the centre and watching the silent gondalas glide by. The
lovers inside absorb the sights and sounds as periferals, a perfect
background to their togetherness.

Midnight sees the crowds dispersing. Batons wrapped away, to be thrown
again the next day, instuments nestled warmly inside their cases. A
small party gathers around a Rastafarian and his stereo. Revellers
stalk the streets, looking for further entertainment. Flustered bar
staff breathe again, and close up, to ready themselves for the next
round tomorrow. Masks sit on bedside tables and ballgowns hang in
wardrobes as the fantasy slumbers.