The entire place was filled with such paintings-on its walls, its ceilings, on panels 
and canvases stacked against each other-towering pictures full of ruined buildings, 
broken columns, rampant greenery, distant mountains and an endless stream of busy people 
with flushed faces, their luxuriant hair and gorgeous clothing always rumpled and curling 
in a wind.
  
  It was like the big platters of fruit and meats that they brought out and set before 
me. A mad disorder, an abundance for the sake of itself, a great drench of colors and 
shapes. It was like the wine, too sweet and light.
  
  IT WAS LIKE the city below when they threw open the windows, and I saw the small black 
boats-gondolas, even then-in brilliant sunlight coursing through the greenish waters, 
when I saw the men in their sumptuous scarlet or gold cloaks hurrying along the quays.
  
  Into our gondolas we piled, a troop of us, and suddenly we traveled in graceful darting 
silence among the facades, each huge house as magnificent as a Cathedral, with its narrow 
pointed arches, its lotus windows, its covering of gleaming white stone.
  
  Even the older, sorrier dwellings, not too ornate but nevertheless monstrous in size, 
were plastered in colors, a rose so deep it seemed to come from crushed petals, a green 
so thick it seemed to have been mixed from the opaque water itself.
  
  Out into the Piazza San Marco we came, amid the long fantastically regular arcades on 
both sides.
  
  It seemed the very gathering place of Heaven as I stared at the hundreds milling before 
the distant golden domes of the church.
  
  Golden domes. Golden domes.
  
  Some old tale had been told to me of golden domes, and I had seen them in a darkling 
picture, had I not? Sacred domes, lost domes, domes in flames, a church violated, as I 
had been violated. Ah, ruin, ruin was gone, laid waste by the sudden eruption all around 
me of what was vital and whole! How had all this been born out of wintry ashes? How had I 
died among snows and smoking fires and come to rise here beneath this caressing sun?
  
  Its warm sweet light bathed beggars and tradesmen; it shone on princes passing with 
pages to carry their ornate velvet trains behind them, on the booksellers who spread 
their books beneath scarlet canopies, lute players who vied for small coins.
  
  The wares of the wide diabolical world were displayed in the shops and market 
stalls-glassware such as I have never beheld, including goblets of all possible colors, 
not to mention little figurines of glass including animals and human beings and other 
filmy shining trinkets. There were marvelously bright and beautifully turned beads for 
rosaries; magnificent laces in grand and graceful patterns, including even snowy white 
pictures of actual church towers and little houses with windows and doors; great feathery 
plumes from birds I couldn't name; other exotic species flapping and screeching in gilt 
cages; and the finest and most magnificently worked multicolored carpets only too 
reminiscent of the powerful Turks and their capital from which I'd come. Nevertheless, 
who resists such carpets? Forbidden by law to render human beings, Moslems rendered 
flowers, arabesques, labyrinthian curlicues and other such designs with bold dyes and 
awe-inspiring exactitude. There were oils for lamps, tapers, candles, incense, and great 
displays of glistering jewels of indescribable beauty and the most delicate work of the 
goldsmiths and silversmiths, in plate and ornamental items both newly made and old. There 
were shops that sold only spices. There were shops that sold medicines and cures. There 
were bronze statues, lion heads, lanterns and weapons. There were cloth merchants with 
the silks of the East, the finest woven wools dyed in miraculous tints, cotton and linen 
and fine specimens of embroidery, and ribbons galore.
  
  Men and women here appeared immensely wealthy, feasting casually on fresh meat tarts in 
the cookshops, drinking clear red wine and eating sweet cakes full of cream.
  
  There were booksellers offering the new printed books, of which the other apprentices 
told me eagerly, explaining the marvelous invention of the printing press, which had only 
lately made it possible for men far and wide to acquire not only books of letters and 
words but books of drawn pictures as well.
  
  Venice already had dozens of small print shops and publishers where the presses were 
hard at work producing books in Greek as well as Latin, and in the vernacular tongue-the 
soft singing tongue- which the apprentices spoke amongst themselves.
  
  They let me stop to glut my eyes on these wonders, these machines that made pages for 
books.
  
  But they did have their chores, Riccardo and the others-they were to scoop up the 
prints and engravings of the German painters for our Master, pictures made by the new 
printing presses of old wonders by Memling, Van Eyck, or Hieronymus Bosch. Our Master was 
always in the market for them. Such drawings brought the north to the south. Our Master 
was a champion of such wonders. Our Master was pleased that over one hundred printing 
presses filled our city, that he could throw away his coarse inaccurate copies of Livy 
and Virgil and have now corrected printed texts.
  
  Oh, it was such a load of information.
  
  And no less important than the literature or paintings of the universe was the matter 
of my clothes. We had to get the tailors to stop everything to dress me properly 
according to small chalk drawings which the Master had made.
  
  Handwritten letters of credit had to be taken to the banks. I was to have money. 
Everyone was to have money. I had never touched such a thing as money.
  
  Money was pretty-Florentine gold or silver, German florins, Bohemian groschens, fancy 
old coins minted under the rulers of Venice who were called the Doges, exotic coins from 
the Constantinople of old. I was given a little sack of my own clinking clanking money. 
We tied our "purses" to our belts.
  
  One of the boys bought me a small wonder because I stared at it. It was a ticking 
watch. I couldn't grasp the theory of it, this tiny ticking thing, all encrusted with 
jewels, and not all the hands pointed at the sky would teach me. At last with a shock I