Life in Venice

Life in Venice

Harry Buschman

“My name is Alessio. Alessio Di Payola, Father ... do you mind if I walk with you?”

“I’m not a Priest, Signor. I’m a Deacon – an accountant for the basilica.”

Signor Di Payola stopped in his tracks. “What a coincidence! An accountant you say. I’m an accountant too ... a sad profession the way the world goes these days.” Signor Di Payola paused a moment, “... do I address you as Deacon, Signor?”

“Signor is the proper address, Signor.”

“But you are dressed ...”

“Yes,” sighed the Deacon, “It is one of the mysteries of the church.”

The two men resumed walking. It was a lovely spring day in Venice, the first sunny day of the season. The winter had been long and wet, an inch or two of water still lay puddled in St. Mark’s Square.

“You may address me as Alessio, Signor Deacon. I do not have a title.” He hastened his step to keep up with the long-legged Deacon. “I am going to the bank, by the way ... a desperate journey, if you know what I mean.”

“These are desperate times, Alessio. Are you in difficulties?”

“My company, yes ... deep in the red. I must try and extend our loan. The interest! Mother of God! ... excuse me sir, I did not mean to offend ...”

“No offense taken, Alessio. Mother of God indeed.” He smiled sadly, “Another coincidence, I go for the same reason.”

Alessio stopped and looked at the Deacon incredulously. “St. Marks! In debt! Is it possible? But surely the donations, the tourists ... the Vatican treasures in Rome ... it’s not possible.”

“We live in the corporate world, Alessio. Have you any idea what the maintenance is on a thousand year old basilica? I have run the numbers and I have seen the ravages of time and weather! Last month we discovered mold on the faces of the statues of the Holy Family – rats in the crypts – the mighty organ pipes are completely rusted through.”

“I had no idea.”

“De-humidifiers. Sump Pumps. Electrification. Central heating ... there is no end to it. One thing on top of the other! There are law-suits pending from visitors who have slipped and fallen on the slippery floors. The Vatican doesn’t want to hear our troubles. They say they have troubles of their own.”

“Unbelievable! But wealthy donors – the tourists – don’t you pass the plate?”

“To whom, Alessio? There are no tourists. The hotels are empty ... when was the last time you saw someone riding in a gondola?”

“Now that you mention it ... I can’t remember. Then you are no better off than we. Both of us, the laity and the clergy, in the same boat ... prisoners of the recession.”

“The only profitable feature is the Friday night Bingo.” The Deacon pulled Alessio to the side of the square, and looking left and right he confided in a low voice. “As a member of the laity I’d like an opinion Alessio ... we are thinking of setting aside a space in the basilica for a casino. You know, three card monte, bunco ... twenty one ... that kind of thing. Do you think it will fly?”