erii histon’.rnYet who, even in the ideal world that isrnVenice, a plate that in a most benignrnsense is something like a eentun’ behindrnthe times, can possibly understand whv arnfabiilonsly wealthy bachelor spends hisrndavs photocopying documents and poringrnover book catalogues, when it was hisrnown old man who had started the VenicernFilm Festival and he could be spendingrnhis balm’ carefree nights bragging to decolleternstarlets in tapestried ballrooms byrncandlelight? As Arkady Belinkov oncernsaid, “I testifv under oath that there arernno cireumstances in which the humanrnsoul is less immanent than the costliestrnkind of sausage.” Rare indeed are thosernwho would so testify alongside the Russianrnw riter, especially if the casting for thernrole of tlie costliest sausage is done thernFlolKwood way. Certainly none wouldrnescape socieh’s ridicule.rnHence, I sometimes think, Giovanni’srnheay’-hearted American accent when hernspeaks English, an accent I thought I hadrnneer heard, and would almost certainlyrnnever ha’e thought of as admirable, untilrnI met him. It is an instinctive wav ofrnputting distance between himself andrnwhat he sees as the social quagmire of anrninolnntarily modernizing Italy, somethingrninto which his own secretiy belovedrneit’ must vanish one day. Because notrnonlv is the dream of the world becomingrnone big Venice, prosperous islands in arnplacid Uigoon, not any closer to being realizedrnthan in his father’s time, but on therncontran-, it is more and more like the restrnof the gross and turbulent modern worldrnthat the uniersal cih is destined to become.rnNow that I think of it, it occurs to mernthat I hae heard that desperately Americanrnaccent before, the first time from thernmouth of a family friend in Moscow whornhad spent many years in Siberian concentrationrncamps. Jack’s parents, AmericanrnCommunist Party stalwarts in thern1930’s, had lived all their lives in thernUnited States thinking of themselves asrnRussian and eentually emigrated to thernSoviet Lhiion with their teenage son,rnwherevipon all were promptiv arrested.rnJack used to tell how in his youth inrnChicago he would say “Russian!” whenrnasked about his nationalit}’, and how, onrnthe night of their arrest, the question wasrnput to him again in Lefortovo prison.rn”And I barked back: ‘Amer-r-ican!'”rnThe next time I heard it, in a somewhatrnmore comical context, was in a bitrnof dialogue from Preston Sturges’s PalmrnBeach Story, in which Rudy Vallee, plavingrnthe reclusive John D. Hackensaekcr,rnIII, meets a disheveled Claudette Colbertrnin the sleeping compartment of a train.rnThe next day, after he has bought her arndiamond bracelet for each of her newrndresses with “bracelet-length sleeves”rn(“Eet eez all the rahge!” exclaims thernvcndeuse), she demands to know why arnmillionaire should be found travelingrnbv train in anything less grand than arnstateroom. “Staterooms,” replies RudyrnVallee, “are un-American.”rniAi I said, it is not easy for Venetians tornunderstand whv il Conte does not spendrnmore time in the Palazzo Volpi. If itrnwere, perhaps he would.rnAndrei ‘Navrozov is Chronicles’rnEuropean correspondent.rnLetter FromrnWisconsinrnbv Sean ScallonrnStanding for Patrn”We don’t have anyone else from therntiiird congressional district. We need vournto fill out our slate,” said the voice on tirernother end of the phone, a dispatcher fromrnPat Buchanan’s national headquarters.rn1 couldn’t believe it. The third districtrnof Wisconsin stretches over a sizable portionrnof the western part of the state,rnsprawling from the Illinois border northwardrnalong the Mississippi to the Minncapolis-rnSt. Paul metro area. They couldrnnot find Buchanan supporters in Melrose,rnIndependence, Mt. Flope, LarnCrosse, or Fan Claire? No desperaterndain’ farmers or blue-collar laborers bare-rn1′ hanging on against globalism’s onslaughts?rnApparently, tliere was onlv me. Headquartersrnhad gotten my name from a volunteerrncard I signed at a Twin Citiesrnfundraiser last fall just as Pat had announcedrnthat he was leaving the RepublicanrnParty to join the Reform Party. Irnwas willing to do some work in my sparerntime here in northwest Wisconsin, a.k.a.rnthe Indianhead. I had neither the desirernnor the cash on hand to drive to Milwaukeernon such short notice.rnBut they obviousK needed help, and Irnhad offered my services, regardless of cirenmstance.rnA strong desire to do my partrnfor the cause (along w ith the promise ofrnreimbursement of trael costs: My fatherrnwould be proud) made me decide to go.rnI remembered m’ mother’s tales of volunteeringrnfor Robert Kennedy in Indiana;rnmy own generation seems to havernno ideals to fight for beyond our self-indulgences.rnI wanted stories to tell myrnchildren and grandchildren.rnWhat I will tell them is hard to say.rnWas this tiic start of something big, or justrnmore political factionalism of the kindrnthat third parties often engage in?rnThe convention was part absurd andrnpart old-fashioned frontier democracy.rnBrawls and fisticuffs were commonrntiiroughout the early 19th eentun,’, sometimesrnover great issues of the day, otherrntimes over where to locate the town flagpole.rnSuch behavior lasted throughrnmuch of the 20th ccntur’, before televisionrnmade raucous politics taboo.rnAfter surviving an April storm thatrndumped eight inches of snow on Milwaukee,rnI arrived at the Radisson Hotel-rnAirport. I was disappointed. Surely thernWisconsin Reform Part conventionrnshould take place in a grand hotel, reminiscentrnof the great conentions ofrnyester’ear!rnI should have known things were fish}’rnright from the start: The ten-dollar fee Irnpaid at the registration table ouK- allowedrnme to be a spectator. I was not a memberrnof the Reform Part’. That would cost anotherrn$15. Even if I had been a member,rn1 would have had to wait six months tornhave any sav on part’ leadership, rules, orrncandidates. The state chairwoman, arnpoor man’s Ann-Margret, read a letterrnfrom Minnesota Gov. Jesse “The Body”rnVentura, who left the partv earlier thisrnyear because it had become “dysfunctional”rn(that is, out of his control). All thernwhile, Muzak drifted down through thernspeakers, drowning out the voices of thernstate part}’ leaders at die podium.rnAlthough Buchanan campaign officialsrnassured us the would take care ofrnthe voting rules, the realization was settingrnin that I had wasted nn time. Thesernrides, which had been enacted in arnFebruar}’ meeting that nobody botheredrnto tell the Buchananites about, were intendedrnto legislate against opportunism,rnwhich is about as effective as legislatingrnagainst immoralih’. Thus the paradox ofrnthe Refonn Party: It cannot grow withoutrnlULY J 000/35rnrnrn