he laughs, now they both laugh and, still laughing, they go back to polishing the brass of their gondolas. Such are the gondoliers. How many times at the "turning of the canal" they insult each other to death, but then, as soon as the gondolas approach, they act as if they had never spoken, never seen each other. They know that it is not good to overdo it closely: a stroke of the oar can land one in the canal.
The waiter brings two glasses of tomato juice. In addition to being distracted, she also looks annoyed and I know why: out of season the outdoor tables are put on for those Venetians who like to chat while seated not to bother going inside and outside the bar, not to cash in a few more lira. And a kindness among fellow citizens.
"This tomato is good," I say, taking a sip.
"Have you written any other poems?"
"I mostly made 'sketches'"
"Your 'sketches' are excellent. No one has ever made me such a perfect portrait. Stomach included."
"Too bad the lions in your comic look like cats."
"I'll take you to Africa with me so you can study lions up close. We'll go to Africa, but for real."
"I like to 'travel' with you. Last time we went to Pamplona, no mistake, under Kilimanjaro. But I..." I sighed "I can only take you to a second class table."
"My culture also has gaps: what does second-class table mean?"
"Now I'll explain. To be chic in spring you have to sit at the tables near the Clock Tower. The closer you are to the clock, the better. In August you have to leave Venice because there are too many tourists. In September you sit on the opposite side, at the Florian, in the tables on the right, towards the Napoleonic wing. If Marcellina V., who is always far to the right, rounding the r, says 'Sit here,' you must be happy because it is a privilege to sit at her
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