DIARY
Mid-March is a good time to be in Venice, during the uncertain transition from winter to spring. At one moment, the skies are Canaletto blue, then suddenly the mists sweep in from the Lagoon and steal across the Piazza, turning clear light into ghostly luminosity, adding to the enchant- ment. The city is still relatively empty. Dur- ing Carnival, as for most of the summer, much of Venice is blockaded by human traf- fic jams. It is wiser to pay one's visit when there is still a nip in the air but not yet too many cameras clicking on the ground.
Ihad come for an annual conference, which is usually a sunny review of great and good topics, despite my attempts to insinu- ate grit into the oyster. But this year, some of our sessions took on a chiaroscuro tone. The Italian contingent was on edge, because of immigration. I had noticed one change. Venice now has its Big Issue salesmen, in the form of Africans festooning the pavements with handbags of dubious provenance. But I saw no attempts to harass passers-by, and it could be argued that such activities are in the high Venetian tradition, redolent of the days when merchants from every known nation would bring their wares to the Rialto, long before the city's gentle decline into a heritage site. But the bagmen make the Ital- ians uneasy, though their real fears are reserved for the Serbs and the Albanians.
A, our Italian friends seem to have their own horror stories: of muggings, bur- glaries, prostitution; above all, of the help- lessness of the authorities in the face of Balkan gangsters. The Albanians who are pouring across the south-east coast no longer use rafts or rowing-boats. These days they arrive in fast motorboats which can outrun the customs' patrol craft. Once on land, some of them have taken to shoot- ing up banks from armoured cars. The port of Bari now has a Wild West flavour with more serious crime in one day than used to occur in an average year.
This is all happening just as Italians have become accustomed to a certain cautious optimism. The old corrupt politicians have been swept away, the economy was progress- ing and Euro federalism was gaining momentum. The Italian elite has long since looked to Europe to take the necessary tough decisions on budget deficits, et al., which the Italian political system seemed incapable of doing, and it all appeared to be working. Now, however, there are renewed grounds for anxiety. Thoughtful Italians used to fear chaos from within; now it is chaos flooding across the frontier. This BRUCE ANDERSON
added an intensity to our discussions on JOrg Haider. The Brits could be dispassionate: to us, Herr Haider is a curiosity in a far-away country, to whom the EU has responded with a mixture of hypocrisy and hysteria. But the Italians find the whole business deeply unsettling. To them, Austria is a country just across the border, also with an immigration crisis and an unexpurgated fascist past, which is now inviting Europe to revisit the foul rag-and-bone shop of the political mind.
From St Mark's city to St Mark's Gospel. When Jonathan Aitken was first arrested, he whiled away the hours in a police cell by reading that gospel, and was moved as never before by its narrative of the Passion. Pride and Perjury (HarperCollins, £19.99) is a moving account of suffering and faith. In one respect, it is especially persuasive: on the gap between belief and unbelief, the way of the world and the way of the Cross. Those of us who cannot believe are much more comfortable with the Church to which Jonathan used to belong: 'the Church Reti- cent'. He recounts the tale of the man who, being pressed by a lady salvationist as to whether he was saved, answered in the affir- mative in order to shut her up. It did not work. 'Then why are you not dancing in the streets and singing aloud praises to God?' she inquired. 'Because, madam, I consider it I'm sorry, Marlin can't come out to play today, but he says he's got a window at 3 p.m. on Wednesday.'
to be such a close-run thing that I thought I had better keep quiet about it.'
Jonathan Aitken is as sophisticated a man as one could ever meet, yet ultimately he is on the lady's side. He even found comfort in Holy Trinity, Brompton, the cathedral of the happy clappies. On my sole visit to HTB, whose clergyman are said to be so impres- sive, I heard a sermon of mawkish, trite banality, delivered to a congregation afflict- ed by a suburban version of St Vitus' dance. How can anyone find Christ among the elec- tric guitars? But Evangelical Christians hear with different ears and see with different eyes. Jonathan's account of his beliefs reminded me of Caravaggio's 'The Calling of St Matthew'. Christ, in shadow, points at Levi, sitting at a tavern table. Levi, startled, gestures at himself as if to say, 'Who, me, guy?' yet he is already changing into Matthew. There is a transcendent otherness about serious Christianity, to which Jonathan Aikten's book gives powerful testimony.
Guardian journalists speak with differ ent tongues. In order to deflect that newspa- per's interest in HMG's relations with the Saudis at a sensitive moment, Jonathan Aitken told a lie, which then spiralled out of control. As he is the first to admit — he is unsparing on himself in his book — he should not have done it, and he does not contest the justice of his prison sentence. But throughout the Aitken affair, the Guardian and other papers showed a reck- less disregard for the truth. One lie led Jonathan to disgrace, bankruptcy and gaol. A score of lies won the Guardian renown, self-satisfaction and press awards. Jonathan now regards his 'sword of truth' speech as the acme of hubris: perhaps so. But 'the can- cer of bent and twisted journalism' to which he referred does exist, and is documented in this fine book. It is not only in literature that tragic heroes deserve our sympathy.
Apropos of the criminal justice system, I heard a delightful story last weekend. In the 1840s the Ditchley estate was owned by an Irish peer, Lord Dillon. He had invited a few friends to help him cull his partridges, and a good day's sport had ensued. As they returned to the big house for refreshments, the aristocrats encountered a party of yokels who were already well-refreshed. 'Where have you fine fellows been enjoying your- selves?' inquired his Lordship. 'Am my Lord,' came the reply, 'us 'ave been over at Little Piddington, watching the 'anging.' `Christ,' said Lord Dillon, bringing his hand to his face in horror, 'I've got that man's reprieve in my pocket.'
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