We’re in the middle of a Venetian traffic jam. In front of us is a man with a teensy-weensy dog and an outsized box of pizza. To either side are looming buildings, crumbling balconies and shuttered windows. And above us is a narrow slice of evening sky.

Carefully, all seven of us manoeuvre around man and dog and pizza, and hurry to the mouth of the dim alley. This leads onto a tiny stone bridge and a deserted square flanked by a silent church and handsome, medieval houses. My daughters pull out cameras and iPods. Our friends exclaim that every corner of Venice is postcard-perfect. But my husband looks around with furrowed brows. At least three more alleys radiate from the square, and it’s impossible to know if any will take us to the restaurant we’re seeking.

Perhaps it’s the sense of being in a bewildering maze. Or perhaps it’s the sinister, glittering green water of the canal. But suddenly, I’m transported to another Venice — the dank, haunted city that we encounter so often in books. The place that Henry James describes as the most melancholy of cities because it is “the most beautiful of tombs”.

This is a Venice of death and broken hearts. The backdrop for gothic romances about cruel counts, passionate beauties and eerie catacombs. Where Commissario Guido Brunetti fishes out sodden bodies from watery graves in Donna Leon’s bestselling detective series. And Edgar Allen Poe’s narrator hears a chilling cry at midnight as he paddles along the drowsing Grand Canal. Where the devious Countess Narona murders her husband and hides his severed head in Wilkie Collins’ The Haunted Hotel . And cholera stalks its victims amidst marble and frescoes in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice .

It’s easy to understand why writers are fascinated by this improbable city of fairytale bridges and mysterious canals; crumbling palazzos and cobblestoned streets. We’ve done our research and know that Venice is made up of 118 islands linked by 400 bridges. But the reality is both more picturesque and more unsettling than we had imagined. There are no cars, no buses, no motorcycles. The rare traffic light blinks at the intersection of canals rather than roads. Glittering carnival masks with vacant eyes and sly expressions gaze out from every tourist trap. The alleys follow their own whims and fancies — curving, twisting and looping like a tangle of spaghetti. Little wonder that travel books and blogs always list “Getting lost in Venice” as a “must do”. It’s easy, it’s free and it’s going to happen whether you like it or not. Especially because most Venetians resent the tourists who are turning their city into a “theme park,” and are not particularly forthcoming with help and directions.

So we’re relieved when we finally fetch up in a bustling piazza filled with bakeries and boutiques. The unease that’s been nipping at my ankles for the last 10 minutes disperses. My daughters buy a long, pink rope of marshmallow from a redolent patisserie. I examine a goggle-eyed owl of Murano glass. We find not just our restaurant but also a supermarket — though you would never associate exotic Venice with something quite so mundane. And as we pile our basket with breakfast rolls stuffed with sweet cream and wobbles of fresh mozzarella, those shades of murderous dukes and star-crossed lovers are banished for the moment.

Over the next two days, we linger over lemon and cherry gelatos, wander through piazzas full of American tourists, munch strawberries in the Rialto Market and watch as elegant Nonnas shop for octopus and orchids. Of course, we also see the sights. “The stone bridge of the Rialto, the wooden bridge at the Accademia, the great, grey dome of the Salute, the columns and bell-tower of San Marco, the pink and white confection of the Doge’s Place pass over us or by us one after the other; and all so luxuriously, so predictably, so languidly, so swiftly, so astonishingly that there is something about it that is disturbing, almost gluttonous,” wrote Vikram Seth in An Equal Music , and we follow his literary trail.

But there are moments when I slip from the bright, expensive Venice of pizzerias and shoe shops and tiramisu into that dark, decaying city of the imagination. Our apartment in an old palazzo overlooks the Frari Church and the State Archives with its firmly shuttered windows. At night, the moon casts a pale glow over the ancient spire and grey square. Neither the rustle of trees nor the roar of traffic relieves the deep silence. And all around us waits the alluring labyrinth, in which so many fictional acquaintances have lost their way and their lives.

For example, Mary and Colin take a wrong turn in The Comfort of Strangers , that creepy masterpiece by Ian McEwan. Lost and exasperated by this holiday misadventure, they accept help and hospitality from the dapper, talkative Robert and stupidly wander into a web of perversion and horror.

As do John and Laura in a chilling short story by Daphne du Maurier called ‘Don’t Look Now.’ The incident at the heart of the story is so utterly credible that it plays in my head every night when we set out for dinner in that crisscross of anorexic alleys.

Like so many tourists, John and Laura are seeking a restaurant. The husband believes he has mastered the art of navigating Venice. The wife is jumpy. Neither realises that with every step they are heading towards their doom:

There were two canals ahead, one bearing right, the other left, with narrow streets beside them. John hesitated. Which one was it they had walked beside the day before?

You see,’ protested Laura, 'we shall be lost, just as I said.’

'Nonsense,’ replied John firmly. ‘It’s the left-hand one, I remember the little bridge.’

The canal was narrow, the houses on either side seemed to close in upon it, and in the daytime, with the sun’s reflection on the water and the windows of the houses open, bedding upon the balconies, a canary singing in a cage, there had been an impression of warmth, of secluded shelter. Now, almost in darkness, the windows of the houses shuttered, the water dank, the scene appeared altogether different, neglected, poor, and the long narrow boats moored to the slippery steps of cellar entrances looked like coffins.

‘I swear I don’t remember this bridge,’ said Laura, pausing, and holding on to the rail, ‘and I don’t like the look of that alleyway beyond.’

Seconds later they hear the cry that will seal their fate.

We’ve all taken a wrong turn in a strange city. We’ve all wondered if our hotel is haunted. But somehow in Venice — especially if you are a paperback aficionado — it’s easy to believe that a wrong turn can lead to the lair of a killer. Or a swish hotel hides evil secrets. That is both the magic and malady at the heart of this beautiful, declining city.

Travel Log

Getting there

You can fly into Venice from Delhi or Mumbai on Turkish Airways, Lufthansa or Swissair. Remember that you will land on the mainland and then take a bus to the island city. After which you will have to drag your luggage to the hotel—as Venice is car-free. So travel light.

Stay

The city is geared for tourists and dotted with delightful apartments and palazzo-hotels. Choose something away from the tourist-infested San Marco area.

Tip

Eat gelatos, visit the markets and churches and enjoy a ride down the Grand Canal in a vaporetto.

Shabnam Minwallais a journalist and author of The Six Spellmakers of Dorabji Street

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