I’m back in my hotel room after a very disconcerting evening
and feeling more than a little concerned for my welfare. My night out on the
town in this most magnificent of cities started well enough with a stroll to
the Rialto, where I bought a mask from one of the stalls to provide a suitable
disguise just in case I might have attracted the attention of any undesirables.
I then crossed over the Rialto Bridge to visit a
trattoria I know to be among Venice’s
very best. The prospect was so pleasing and the view from the bridge so
beguiling I paused to take a snap with the new phone that my agent Barry
insisted on me buying. You’ll recall that my old one ended up in the Grand
Canal, but let’s not revisit unpleasant memories – read the book if you want to
know why.
Here’s the result:
I must say it’s a lovely photo. If I hadn’t chosen a career
as a top international TV chef I can quite see that I could easily have joined
the elite in the photography biz. But fate has a way of diverting our talents
at its own whim, doesn’t it? Ah, well.
After the usual show of delight from the staff at my arrival
at the said trattoria I settled down to the serious matter of making choices
from the menu. There were all sorts of things I would have liked to try but in
the end I thoroughly enjoyed some splendid sarde soar, followed by some equally
splendid spaghetti alla puttanesca. All the above was accompanied by a superb
2007 Brunello Di Montalcina (not cheap, but I figured I could pass the bill to
the Italian rozzers as I was in the city at their request).
Sad to say, the dessert – tiramisu – wasn’t up to my old pal
Walter’s standards. You’ll remember Walter from his appearance early on in my
book ‘Travels with Truelove’, if you’ve had the good sense to buy yourself a
copy yet (come on, people! It’s not like it’s expensive!). Anyhow, the tiramisu
would have had Walter shaking his head in dismay, but by then I’d consumed the
best part of the bottle I’d selected and was feeling far too mellow to kick up
a fuss about it. Gordo might have done, I dare say, but I eschew his cheap
theatricals. I communicated my disappointment more subtly by leaving a smaller
tip than I might otherwise have done.
I don’t know what it is with me but with a full belly and a
few glasses of red swilling around the system my next thought always seems to
be for the ladies. I thought I might try my luck among the tourists who would
no doubt still be milling around St Mark’s even at this relatively late hour,
or see who was waiting to be dazzled by my repartee at Harry’s Bar, so I
crossed back over the Rialto and ambled cheerfully down the busy alleyways in
that direction.
Then I got this funny feeling that I was being followed. You
know how it is – somehow you just know. I had put my mask back on when I left
the trattoria, just to be on the safe side, but I still had this nagging
sensation that I was being watched as I sauntered through the evening crowds. At
first I tried to ignore it, but the sensation just wouldn’t go away. As I
crossed one of the footbridges I risked a quick glance over my shoulder and
snapped a rapid shot with my mobile, just in case my suspicions were correct
and I could show it to the Italian police when we met up. This is what I caught:
My heart skipped a beat, I can tell you! As you can see,
though I admit it’s not my best photographic work, there were two figures
behind me, two men dressed in carnival costume with black cloaks and masks. One
of them made a pretence of looking at his mobile, but the other was staring
directly at – me!
I quickly averted my gaze, turned away and hastened on to St
Mark’s, hoping to God they weren’t coming after me. If this pair was indeed
following me perhaps I would be able to lose them in the crowds there.
No two places are very far apart in Venice and soon I was stepping out into the
wide piazza before the basilica and the Doge’s Palace. It wasn’t as busy as I
would have liked, but the open space and number of people taking photos
reassured me. If I was being tailed by a couple of mafia hoodlums they wouldn’t
try anything underhand when there were other people about, many of them taking
photographs.
I fumbled with my mobile phone once more and switched on the
camera mode. I wasn’t certain I had caught my pursuers in the previous shot and
thought it might be a good idea to take another photograph as a back-up. If
anyone was actually following me, one of the Vanni mob perhaps, a decent shot
might help the rozzers to identify them. I paused and looked up at the bell
tower, then made a pretence of photographing it before swiftly turning to point
my camera behind me and pressed the button. This time I was sure I had got them:
They were there, all right. They had their phones out as
though interested in taking pictures like any other tourist, but it was very
clear that the only object of any interest to them was yours truly. Now I was
certain that they were following me.
There was only one thing for it. Whenever circumstances
threaten to overwhelm me, and there is no woman at hand to soothe my troubled
brow, my solution is always the same. Head for the nearest bar. In this case my
choice of retreat was Harry’s Bar on the waterfront nearby.
I half-ran past the Doge’s Palace, shouldering Japanese
visitors out of the way as I hurried along the crowded pavements towards my
goal. I didn’t dare to turn to see how close my pursuers were, but it was a
safe bet they weren’t far behind.
Harry’s Bar, if you don’t know it, was a favourite
watering-hole of Ernest Hemingway, but on this occasion sampling one of their
cocktails couldn’t have been further from my mind. I crashed through their door
with a grateful cry, attracting looks of alarm from all within. Without pausing
to explain my haste I rushed through the bar and into the kitchens at the back.
The staff backed against their stoves as I hurtled on past them. They knew me
pretty well here, of course, and it was probably no great surprise to them to
encounter an internationally renowned chef behaving like a panicked rhino in
their midst. It’s just that amusing chap Tremayne Truelove up to his usual
antics, they’d be saying to one another. Never mind him, he’s English.
I didn’t stay to renew acquaintances but sped for the back
door. I was gambling on my pursuers hesitating for a moment before coming into
the bar after me and being unaware that I knew the place well and that my plan
was to get to the back door in record time and then disappear into the night
before they realised what I was up to.
And so it turned out. Luckily for me, as I emerged into the
night once more there was no sign of the two masked figures coming round the
corner to cut me off. No doubt it would occur to them eventually that there
might be another way out of the place but my speedy exit had outpaced them. I
dived up the nearest alley and hared back to the safety of my hotel as fast as
I could.
And that’s where you find me, huddled up on my bed in a
state of panicked terror. My frame of mind was not improved when, a couple of
minutes ago, I risked a quick look out of the window to check the alley outside
and took another furtive snap.
Not encouraging, I think you'll agree...
And now someone’s knocking at the door. I suppose I’ll have
to answer it. It’s probably room service asking if I want a late-night snack or
something – they know how important food is to me. I’ll see them off and then
phone Barry for his advice (though it’s usually rubbish). Or maybe I should
contact the Italian police…
Better answer the door before they take it off its hinges. High
time I pulled myself together. I’m not really frigh
