Halloween over Florence: THE MARKET OF GHOSTS Severino lived in the bell tower on the hill — the one next to the ancient Basilica of San Miniato al Monte. Every evening, at sunset, he would lock the gate at the base of the entrance stairway and before climbing back up, he would pause to watch Florence color itself amber. And so he did today as well. The tourists had left. Time stopped and silence became sacred again. Through the rusted bars the city stood there motionless — perhaps since forever; with its red roofs, marble facades and the Arno flowing between its stones like a glittering silver ribbon. Domes and towers trembling with light, almost suspended in the air, as if everything and everyone were holding their breath waiting for twilight — and for the night that would cover it with shadows, stars and dreams. One more glance, then he turned on his transistor radio that he had found a few years ago and the notes of Duke Ellington's 'Don't Get Around Much Anymore' filled the autumn evening. Silence may be sacred for the monks, but for Severino music was more so. Seven, his raven, didn't need to be called and at the first notes launched himself from the cypresses of the cemetery above, circled in front of the imposing facade of the Basilica and suddenly glided down along the stairway, to land gently on his left shoulder. "Hey Seven, had a good day?" "Yes. Could have been worse — Let's settle for that." At which, Severino smiled, turned up the radio's volume and began climbing resolutely toward le Porte del Cielo, while Jazz music echoed among the ancient stones. Nine years ago, on this same day in the month of October, the Olivetan monks residing in the Abbey found a child on the steps of the Basilica. He was there, wrapped in fog, silent as the night, eyes curious as the wind, without name and without past. They called him Severino — I don't know why — and he grew up among prayers and silences. He played in ancient rooms and discovered his world, surrounded by books, tombs, art and mysteries never revealed. At night a raven and a black cat accompanied him, illuminated by the moon, in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, wandering among imposing crypts and motionless statues that whispered memories and mysteries. But on Halloween nights the whispers transform into screams and endless laments. Secrets manifest themselves, legends become reality, and dreams disguised as nightmares knock on doors lit by candles. And that full moon night was precisely this night: October 31st — and remember, whether you believe in spirits or not, nothing changes: the ghosts will come. And Severino was up there, right there waiting for them to arrive. Leaning out the highest window of the bell tower, calm, looking at Florence from above. While Thelonious Monk's 'Round Midnight' played on his radio, he watched — tapping time with one foot and waited. At the second of the twelve strokes of the midnight bells, something began to happen. On the Arno formed a dense fog that pulsed with spectral green. It began to rise and slide slow but inexorable over the bridges like fingers of cold hands of impatient ghosts. It slid over the Ponte Vecchio and rolled through the streets of Oltrarno until reaching San Niccolò, where it climbed up the hill swallowing everything it found in its path. When it reached the gate of San Miniato, it slipped through the bars and climbed up the stairs until it covered, like a high luminous tide, the entire square in front of the church. It climbed up the marble facade and wrapped also the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, covering the entire hill in a cloak of mystery. Then slowly, as if by enchantment, the fog began to dissolve rising toward the sky and when the last cloud melted into the night air, the square was no longer empty. Small jack-o'-lanterns with flickering lights floated in the air smiling with teeth of fire. Black candles sprouted from nowhere, illuminating spectral stalls full of everything and nothing. Bats that seemed made of paper but were alive fluttered among the lights with wings of black velvet, while autumn leaves danced without wind, sparkling with gold and copper. Pumpkins of every shape filled the stands, some carved with funny faces, others covered with silver spiderwebs that shone like threads of moon. Witch hats swirled in the air like flying umbrellas rotating slow on themselves. Roasted chestnuts perfumed the air with cinnamon and mystery, while small dancing skeletons tinkled like ice bells. And finally in the Cimitero delle Porte Sante, the Portal opened. Like every Halloween, for centuries, spirits from all over the world congregated in Florence for their annual meeting. A spectral river of ghosts poured into the square, each heading toward their own stall, and each with their impossible merchandise to sell or trade. The spirits had arrived and Severino observed them from above. A carnival of other worlds, made of sounds, colors and unimaginable stories. The deserted square had tran
