not earth or rock but rather the soft mud of the Venetian lagoon, a substance that tended to shift over time, subtly changing the alignments of the buildings above. This meant that the terrazzo floors of Cinta’s apartment had ripples running through them while some of the door frames were so crooked that it was impossible to shut the doors. So alive was the apartment that it even possessed its own language: at all hours creaks, groans and sighs would emanate from its corners as if to express changes of mood.
