#;storico

[ilserenissimo-blog]

; Una serata all’Opera

@shimaguni

🇮🇹 Settembre 1937, Comune di Milano, Capitale Lombarda   Trains were a thing of marvel  Slow to start, constant, heavy chugging machines, almost impossible to stop when in full motion. The moment Veneziano had stepped onto one, decades before, he was overcome by a strange feeling of helplessness that if he even had a moment’s hesitation he knew it would be too late to go back - and even so, he could only sit in quiet amazement and let the monstrous serpent ferry him away, all the while leaving him behind as the world rushed by in the corner of his eyes, hopelessly out of his reach; streamliners were yet a new wonder of the modern world, faster still, and furious as they bellowed like steel-clad bulls in their powerful, unstoppable course.

  Mister Mussolini’s words still echoed in his mind from the previous day; a well crafted, optimistic and artfully diplomatic speech that he knew to be a sleek veneer concealing something unimaginable. He felt hollow, deaf to the rippling tremors beneath. He had to trust the State, didn’t he? Everything was in its strong hands. It’s what the people - most of them- wanted. It was the only certainty, a promise towards a better future, and they’d already achieved so much since the sting of their suffered humiliation, denied rights and struggling economy - and the latter had already proven to be a crucial key for the heaving unrest. For too long had the others broke promises and derisively crushed his pride, for too long had he suffered the claws of oppression, division, foreign rule. He had to show the world that Italian blood mattered, and centuries of its spillage were not forgotten, and could not be wiped out.   And for a while he’d truly believed it had been enough to be unified with his other half, his brother, to independence - but he had soon realised the bitter reality of things, that a unified state was not enough, no. It’s like his leader said, expansionism was the only way to keep up, to move forward, to survive in a world dominated by power-struggling empires, a world his own grandfather had created, and whose legacy he’d previously failed to commit to because he simply did not belong in it. 

   Hushed whispers were reaching his sluggish ears of a revolution, of an axis, of racial supremacy, of Italianità, of Abyssinia, Dalmatia and anti-semitism, and notions that caused for his gut to twist and churn with immense discomfort.  Mister Mussolini had promised him order, discipline, hierarchy, and yet everything felt like it was slowly spinning out of control. The train tore along the steel nerves of his country, trapping him helpless in the First Class cage of apparent dignity, and finite, ephemeral luxuries that meant nothing.

  New alliances were being forged, ever sought out of the war machine that was Europe, still churning despite the illusory safeguards of peace treaties. The world was a much bigger place now. Diplomacy and foreign relations were the oil that slicked the mechanism, and it was strange how changeable these could be - old enemies became friends, agendas changed and secret pacts were almost commonplace.   A warm light filtered through the windows of the great architectural wonder of Stazione Centrale’s arching dome, heralding the approach of Autumn. Milan was not his favourite city, but it was important to him. It was modern, industrialised, fashionable and efficient, an exemplary banner of Italian pride. He slowly walked along the platform of a newly docked train, its engine still hissing as the beast powered down. He felt uncharacteristically nervous, a feeling of unease coiling in his chest. Germany had yet to confirm his attendance, and he’d only really seen this far-eastern man a few times, and far between, but he’d fought by his side before and he’d supported his demand for a racial equality clause in the Covenant of the League of Nations. They were equals, and shared all the solid bases of friendship. That had to count for something, right?

  With a shuddering sigh and a resigned smile, Veneziano smoothed his fine suit jacket and prepared to meet and greet his esteemed visitor and his retinue at their diplomatic car, the world around him flurrying by in a blur as his ears rang from the cacophony of noises, and his rushing blood. 

[ilserenissimo-blog]

; Il Mercante di Venezia

 @saehete  ⚜ La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia, 17th century

  He woke up to the bubble and splash of the lulling waters, tickling his rousing senses like the gentle waves that ever lapped the enduring foundations of his palazzo. The seagulls’ cry keened sharply in his stirring ears, and he languidly rose from his bed, taking it as a sign to finally salute the now ageing morning that idly peeked through his open windows.   He stretched out with a groan, basking in the Italian sunlight like a contented cat before sluggishly commencing the rituals of his morning ablutions and dressing. He may have been relatively young compared to other millennials, but he was ever so slow to find his starting energy. He surveyed the orderly lines of galleys as they exited the Venetian porto into the Mediterranean and beyond through squinting eyes, still adjusting to the brightness of the outside world, and sighed forlornly at the thought of the exotic wonders that awaited the bold explorers within them. There was perhaps a little envy inside his heart, but he suppressed it. After all the time for adventuring seafaring had to give way for political and economical consolidation, and though he wasn’t overly fond of politics and warfare, he did have quite a few mercantile and diplomatic affairs to mind with the Doge.   It bored him numb out of his skull. He longed for the days when he could swoon over Marco Polo’s accounts, board a ship and sail into the unknown horizons of the far East or the promising West, exchanging thrilling tales with  worldly explorers. There was so much now that he was longing to see, and yet he was stuck playing an adult game he profoundly disliked, living in dread of yet another Ottoman conflict, and the rising bitterness of crumbling relations with the (not-so)Holy See. What a bother.   In a vain attempt at quelling his rising anguish, Veneziano liked to visit the magnificent Arsenale, Europe’s largest naval industrial enterprise; never mind that it was main source of wealth and power - it was his closely guarded, secret escape from the lavish cage of the beautiful water-bound Republic.  He liked to idly stroll along the enclosed dockyard with a buoyant grin on his face, immersed in the harsh smells and sounds of industry. He found himself surveying the impressively advanced assembly line and engineering of old and new outstandingly crafted vessels, from trading to warfare. So much had changed, and the world kept ever turning, leaving him with an irrational fear of being left behind.   But what he liked the most was to approach or be approached by foreigners as they disembarked their vessels, ready to trade or replenish their stocks and needs before setting off on another adventure. People from all over the world came there to see what was new in the seafaring trade. At times he would get careless, and attract some unwanted harassment, but he was quick to flee the unpleasant attentions. Often he would charm the merchants with his angelic allurement to ferry him around the lagoon as they recounted their journeys to him, sharing a basket of bread and dried fish, and for a short while he could simply bask in the caress of the pungent sea breeze in his hair and the refreshing splashes of salty water on his youthful face.   Perhaps he would get lucky today, and it would be worth the scolding he would later get from the stern Doge.