Sant’Angelo della Polvere: an islet in the Venetian Lagoon that I think no one bothers to put on the map anymore, an abandoned powder factory.
Once there was a Benedictine monastery, then a Carmelite monastery, then a fire consumed everything. The smells turned to ash. Ash moaned for a few centuries, then howled and the howl turned to gunpowder.
The sunken relics of this Sant’Angelo della Polvere, the Saint of Gunpowder, guard the powder room.
I go around the island, rocking myself in my boat, where – like once in Vasco da Gama’s cabin – I am overwhelmed by all the smells: pipe tobacco, tea, rum, your absence, wet sheets and hopelessness.
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