The Secret Gongs of Venice

by Abby Eckleben (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

I didn't expect to find Italy

Venice in August. A hubbub of tourists, feet thumping stone, languages clashing and clanging down alleys, the smell of fresh dough and canals, suncream and sweat. Venice in August never stops. Infected with visitors who jostle through its ancient streets, it buzzes with a feverish excitement. It was my first real trip, paid for and planned by myself and a school friend. Pennies pinched, we bought Italian rail tickets, checked into the cheapest hostels, called a handful of granola breakfast, and splurged on daily gelato scoops. Venice was the first stop on our tour. That first day, we woke up with yawning enthusiasm, a little stale from the stuffy hostel, but keen to explore. All the sights to see and scenes to photograph fuelled us, until the morning's energy gave way to sore feet and heavy limbs. As our energy fell, the heat rose, and we wilted (English as we were) in our sun-creamed skin. We looked for a place to sit, to take a breath away from the stifling mass of sightseers. We tried cooling our feet in a canal, but were chased away by a local. We tried a rare patch of grass, but the stalks prickled and poked us, tougher than we were used to. We considered a café, but every place was at capacity. So we wandered on, riding the tide of the crowds, ignoring our aching feet and shortening tempers. After a time, we decided to play a game of rock, paper, scissors at every turning to decide our route, hoping to take advantage of the city's unique layout and split off from tourists headed for the busiest piazzas. A turn here and a turn there a few times over, and we found ourselves ambling into a quiet courtyard that resonated with strange music. The music came from a curious instrument covering one wall: an arrangement of self-playing gongs, tuned in a haunting harmony, drummed at random, perhaps prompted by the breeze, perhaps by each other. I looked at my friend, sharing quiet delight at what we had found. We took our seats on an opening in the opposite wall, bridging the courtyard and its neighbouring canal. The gongs rang out, soft yet strong, thrumming through the air. Even as they rang, each note blending into the next, they spread a deep quiet. Every few notes, one would ring on a little longer, fading, fading, threatening the end of this unnatural performance. And then a mallet would fall; another gong would sing out. We watched gondolas carry chatty tourists to and fro; we didn't talk. The gongs' song seemed at odds with Italy's vibrant spirit and the tourists' pep. They seemed to echo from somewhere else: from a distant Roman past, from the bones of this old city who had seen so many people come and go. Modern Venice was there still, bustling beyond the courtyard walls, yet we seemed removed. Soon, we would rejoin the bustle. But for now, we paused, resting, quietly thrilled with our unexpected find.