One night in Venice … we were sitting outside Florian’s Café in the Piazza San Marco. Being Sunday, the tables were full while the great passeggiati – evening walk – was in spate, passing and repassing, whole families down to small children, girls, arms interlaced, young men who gave soft wolf whistles after them, soft because of the music. There is another café opposite Florian’s and, when Florian’s orchestra had a rest, the other café took over, the crowd surging over to it across the Piazza. It was a warm summer night with a full moon, fit for music and the light hubbub of voices. Florian’s orchestra began to play arias from La Traviata. As they began, ‘Ah, fors’e lui che anima’ from somewhere among the tables a voice rose, soprano, full, beautiful, matching or outmatching the night. In England, or for that matter in France, no-one would have taken much notice but the Italian crowd at once came to a stand-still, hushed – even the carabinieri stood fixed, their long swords still as ‘sol-in-ga ne’ tu-mul-ti, sol-in-ga ne’ tu-mul-ti …’ the voice sang. When it came to an end, a ripple, a vast contented sigh passed far over the Piazza until the applause came. ‘Brava! Brava!’ She sang again. Then it was over. ‘She might have been Callas,’ whispered James. We never knew. << less