This is a question unanswered. And it will remain that way, if I have anything to say about it. I was asked to follow and photograph her… I didn't ask why, this was just one of these cases… You know what I mean… the money was so good, there was no time for questions… And also, because I thought it would spoil my fun to know about it beforehand. It would be very easy to say that she was just a mad woman visiting again and again an abandoned hospital in Venice. It sure would be an easy assumption. But as I was watching her, day after day, I felt drawn to her, to her energy and personality. Being crazy was just too easy, too simple… In my mind she was an alien actor, a person from another world, stranded here, for unknown reasons. The only way to connect to her home was to perform again and a again a mysterious ritual - the movements and their significance where known only to her. I saw her move silently, harmonically, smoothly, gracefully in her mysterious, strange "dance", in a surreal but mesmerising choreography. And I stopped thinking. I stopped wondering, as well. All I did was hope, wholeheartedly, that she'd get back home, soon.
That was "Il Mister's" dream… They called him "il Mister" because you could see him walking around in misty Venice, with Aloha, his faithful dog and a camera (sometimes, also, a gigantic tripod)… His friend, Andreas F., -another enigmatic and legendary figure of Venice- gave him that name, but nobody remembers why. Except me, of course. The truth is that nobody knew what "il Mister" was doing in Venice either. He and his friends, a group of men and women that met regularly in a mysterious place they called "Azerbaijan", were shrouded by mystery. Were they spies? Were they photographers? Were they secret guardians of the galactic balance? My mission was to find out… And I did. But you will not. Not from me, anyway... In my job, secrecy and discretion are essential for survival. All I can say is that I followed him all the way to Central Park. I went to see him play tennis. I didn't though. All he did was smoke. Well, smoking in Central Park is not all that bad, I thought…
Andreas F. knew how to frame people… He was really good at it… Andreas F. was a legend. Venice was his playground and a digital Nikon his weapon of choice. Sometimes someone would hire him to frame someone with an analogic camera, especially if they wanted the framing to be slow and painful… He was presice and methodical, he never left loose ends. If you wanted the job to be done, you'd hire Andreas F. Women adored him, men were intimidated by him. Of course, Andreas F. was not cheap... He wouldn't get out of bed for less than half a million dollars... Andreas F. worth every penny of it. The framing was clean, smooth, silent. All that was left when he was finished was the smoke of his cigarette… Marlboro, they said… But who really knew what brand of cigarettes Andreas F. smoked? It was the 31st of May… It was my birthday… I had no money, no job, no hope for the future. Venice was hot, humid and dangerously seductive… An old connection of mine I happened to meet for a spritz the day before, had told me a rich Venetian woman was willing to give 2 million euros to anyone who would frame Andreas F. I could ask for the reasons, but I didn't have to… I said I would do it. I needed the money, I had nothing to loose and I really wanted to know what brand of cigarettes Andreas F. smoked… Even if it was the last thing I saw… It wasn't difficult to track him… I wasn't new to the job… I won't bother you with the details… The framing worked. All I had to do was to hand over the card and collect the money. But life wouldn't just be so sweet for me… As I looked away from the vaporetto that would take me to Punta Sabbioni, I saw him framing me. I didn't feel a thing. He really was smooth. He really was merciful. I throw the card in the Canal Grande. I sat down. As I started to feel the effects of the framing, the san Marco square was already a blur. It was pointless to hold on to reality. As Venice was fading away, I saw the headline in tomorrow's papers: "Who framed Andreas F.?"… My eyes were closed. All I could see was cigarette smoke. Good bye Venice…
Having spend endless amazingly lazy summer days reading noir and mystery novels on the beach, I thought the beach should itself be noir, for a change…Thankfully, the few people that were around me that day, didn't notice… And like so many noir novels, that day started softly, warm and breezy and ended tempestuously, abruptly and lonely…
... She didn't know she was the kind of girl you meet in a film noir's hot summer day passing through a gas station or a general store, the kind of girl you ask for directions, or if she has seen the guy you're looking for… She didn't know she was the sunny kind of girl that fate had put in that particular spot as a last effort to make you abandon the search and go back… Because if you are a film noir hero, when you find what you're looking for, you wish you didn't… Her name was Sunday and that proved that there are no coincidences...
