Daughter of Venice (4 page)

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

MIDDAY MEAL

M
other’s in the kitchen with Cook. So is Aunt Angela. Even Cara, the wet nurse and laundress, is in the kitchen.

Andriana and Laura and Paolina and I have spent the morning playing with the little ones in Laura’s and my bedchamber. Or, rather, Paolina and I played with the little ones, while Laura and Andriana worked on the girls’ hair. I’m used to putting my hair in braids, naturally, but the bun Andriana has fashioned on me is not a twist of braids over one another. Instead, it’s a clever smoothing into a large puffy ball. And it’s not in the ordinary place, on top of the head. No, the new style, according to Andriana, who somehow manages to learn these things, has the bun at the back of the head.

Aunt Angela comes into the room. “Don’t you look nice. And just in time. Come along, everyone.” The boys run past her toward the dining hall. Little Maria takes her hand.

Andriana looks Laura and Paolina and me over with a discerning eye. “Oh, I forgot something. The most important thing. We’ll be there in a few moments, Aunt Angela. I promise.”

“Hurry. Your father has announcements to make. He won’t tolerate delay.” Aunt Angela leaves with Maria.

Andriana picks up her hairbrush, and with quick, deft moves, she loosens a few strands of curls on both sides of Laura’s face, so they hang down beside her cheeks. “Isn’t that perfect?” she says happily.

And it is—the curls are of exactly the same thickness and length. I smile in admiration.

“Now, Laura, you do that to Paolina. I’ll do myself and Donata.” Andriana goes to the mirror and primps.

I stand beside her feeling foolish. After all, if Laura can arrange Paolina’s hair, then I should be able to arrange my own. I reach for a lock of hair at my temple.

“Don’t, Donata.” Andriana speaks gently. “You heard what Aunt Angela said. Father’s got important announcements to make. That’s why everyone’s cooking so much. It will be like a party. You want to look your best, don’t you?”

Andriana’s right; I’ll look better if she does my hair. It’s not that I’m clumsy. It’s more that I’m impatient about certain kinds of things—and hair is among them. I hold my hands behind my back to keep them from acting against my better judgment.

Andriana kisses me on the cheek and fixes my hair. I stare at the mirror transfixed. I look just like Laura—perfect.

We hold hands and walk to the eating hall. Giovanni plays on the floor with a carved wooden tiger that Francesco brought him from the Chinese market—Francesco is liberal with gifts; he loves the markets. But everyone else is seated. Even little Maria. Andriana and Laura and Paolina and I take our seats.

The table is strewn with delicate pea flowers. Our dining table always has flowers, but not in this much profusion unless we have guests. Cook has scattered rose water on the tablecloth. I feel pampered and happy.

Giò Giò, Cook’s primary helper, serves. An antipasto of
folpeti consi
—boiled octopus with parsley. Then a first course of rice with snails and raisins. And, finally, lamb, bitter chicory, bread with honey. It is, most definitely, a feast.

The boys talk together. The girls talk together. Mother instructs Nicola and Bortolo on their eating habits, as she does every meal. Maria looks from face to face silently. When she sees me looking at her, she waves. I wave back. Father waves at us both. Maria giggles. The air feels like a festival.

Cook comes in carrying a plate piled high with cookies of every type—
zaeti
and
amareti
and
baicoi
and
busolai
. He puts them in the center of the table, as always. And, as always, I immediately push them directly in front of Uncle Umberto, who loves cookies almost more than the small boys do.

I don’t know how I came to earn the privilege to be the one to push the cookies in front of Uncle Umberto. I’m sure that any one of my brothers or sisters would like to do it. But somehow everyone looks to me—and it has been this way as long as I can remember.

“Thank you, Donata.” Uncle Umberto’s blind fingers lightly tap until they find the biggest
zaeto,
his favorite. The rest of us wait, out of custom, full of happy expectation at the pleasure we know will cross his face as he takes a bite, and I realize that this is the right atmosphere for asking for gifts.

“Father,” I say. Everyone hushes. When Father speaks or when Father is addressed, everyone pays attention. “Do you know the mapmaker Jacopo de’ Barbari?”

“Indeed I do.” Father looks at Mother, then back at me. “Have you met one of his daughters?”

“Of course not,” Mother says firmly. “Donata’s friends are all noble daughters.”

“But I’ve seen one of his maps, Father. At the Brandolini home. It shows Venice from above, as though the mapmaker were flying. I think we should have a map like that.”

Father’s mouth curves up at one corner. “You do?” He leans across his plate toward me. “That’s quite a suggestion from a daughter.”

“I didn’t mean it as a suggestion,” I say quickly. Please, I’m begging in my head, please don’t sweep this away as an impertinence. “It’s more a hope,” I say aloud. “The map is beautiful. And Venice belongs to all noble families, after all.”

“Venice does belong to all noble families. It’s a good idea, daughter. We can think about it later.” Father looks across the table. “We have other things to talk about now.” He clears his throat. “In fact, though, I’m glad our . . .” Father pauses and looks at me.

“Donata.” I’m used to supplying my name, just as Laura is.

“. . . our Donata has so auspiciously brought up the fact that Venice belongs to us, and, hand in hand, we belong to Venice—facts that carry certain duties. Yes, I’m grateful to Donata, for this is precisely what I want us to focus on today.” Father’s voice assumes the tone of an announcement. “By the Venetian law of 1242, all sons share equally in the inheritance of their parents. You know this law well,” he says.

We nod.

“It’s a good law,” says Father, “because it ensures a kind of equality among brothers that engenders family loyalty. In some of the other city-states outside Venice, only the oldest son inherits. The rest must prevail on the generosity of the oldest or join the priesthood or set out on their own, which almost certainly dooms them to a life of meager means.”

Yes, Venice’s way is better, I think. More fair. For the boys, that is. For the boys it is truly a serene republic.

“So, as you well know, the natural result of this law is that only one son can marry,” says Father. “This is not law, but, rather, a tradition based on common sense. If every son married and had sons of his own, the family wealth would be squandered away to nothing in the span of a few generations. So only one son marries, and the rest live
in fraterna
—in a state of brotherly companionship—in the ancestral home, with plenty of money all their lives.” He looks meaningfully from one to the next of his sons, all the way around the table. “When these brothers die, their wealth passes to their nephews—only one of whom, in due course, will marry and have sons. And so it goes, on and on, conserving the wealth and protecting the family forever.”

Nicola grabs something from Bortolo under the table. Bortolo jabs him with an elbow.

“Excuse us, please,” says Aunt Angela. She gets up and lifts Nicola into her seat and takes his, placing herself between them.

Bortolo makes a face at Nicola across Aunt Angela.

The little ones are restless—and with reason. Nothing Father has said so far is news.

“Francesco is twenty-two,” says Father, “only three years from manhood.”

“Three years from when I clothe myself in a black gown,” says Francesco. “But I am already a man, Father.”

“I stand corrected.” Father smiles at Francesco. “In any case, it is time to discuss the future of this family, and, hence, the future of my sons.”

“And not just marriage, Father,” says Piero. “Our educations must be discussed. My best friend has already been attending university for years, but I’m still working with a private tutor, after thirteen years.”

“For good reason,” says Father. “By having you boys study at home, I have the chance to talk with your tutor and to watch you. I understand your different strengths. And you have the chance to find your own preferences.”

“How can I find a preference when the lessons are so easy?” Vincenzo says. “The tutorials bore me, Father. Completely.”

“I agree with Vincenzo,” says Francesco. “I learn everything I need to know by walking round the markets, listening to the traders.”

“You see?” says Father. “Francesco has just proved my point. He’s learned things about himself. Your friends, Piero, may already be at the university, but they are pursuing a course of study chosen for them, not by them. A good life is one of service to the Republic, and, thus, to God. But a happy life is one in which that service brings personal satisfaction as well. Your grandfather was wise enough to teach me this.”

“And your father is wise enough to teach you, in turn,” says Mother.

“Francesco,” says Father, “your words reveal what I myself concluded. Your strengths lie in the love of the hustle and bustle of the marketplace.”

Francesco’s eyes shine and he smiles close-lipped, with appropriate dignity. Father is saying what we all know is true.

“I see a future for you in exports, wheeling and dealing.”

Francesco nods, his smile wider now.

“You can have this
balestreria
—a position on a merchant ship. The government will endow part and I can pay the rest. This will give you a chance to learn the arts of Mediterranean trading.”

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” says Francesco.

“I thought so. I’ve seen you enthralled, listening to Uncle Leonardo’s stories whenever he comes home.” Father’s eyes grow very serious. “And I can see more in your future. Eventually, I see a place in the Senate committee that regulates foreign trade.”

Francesco’s immediate surprise turns slowly to glowing pleasure. With his willful ways, not a one of us imagined him rising higher than a minor magistrate.

“We need contentious souls to hold our strength abroad,” says Father, “and I know no soul more contentious than yours, Francesco.” He laughs.

The sense of celebration in the air makes us all laugh, even little Giovanni, playing on the floor again, who cannot possibly have any idea of what this conversation is about.

“To do this well, an education is needed. If you’re willing, my son, you’ll study law at the University of Padua beginning at the start of the next term. A year will suffice.”

Francesco gets up and comes to Father’s side. He kneels and kisses Father on each cheek. “I’m more than willing, Father. I see a purpose to my studies now. I will add to our family fortunes, you’ll see. I won’t disappoint you.”

“You never disappoint me, Francesco.”

Francesco goes back to his seat.

“Piero,” says Father.

Piero leans forward. His cheeks filled with color when Father spoke of the University of Padua. Though university study is not that common even among nobles, Piero has been wanting that openly for so long. Father has already committed himself to paying for Francesco’s
balestreria
plus a year of university. But he has to be willing to pay for Piero’s education, too. He simply has to be, or Piero couldn’t stand the disappointment.

“You’re a thoughtful scholar, though you’re but twenty.”

I watch Piero’s Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallows his anxiety.

“And you excel at teaching your younger brothers. They respect you.”

Piero lifts his chin, accepting the well-deserved praise. For it’s true: When Piero plays with the little ones, the game usually transforms itself into a lesson of sorts. Father has observed carefully, to notice this in him.

“But a year at the university wouldn’t serve you well.”

Piero’s face goes slack, as does mine. I don’t want him sad.

“You have a developed sense of both precision and justice. The combination makes you suitable to govern men, my son. You will practice your legal skills in the
Saviato agli Ordini,
then move on to the Senate, without a doubt. So, with your assent, I’ve arranged for you, as well, to start studies at the University of Padua. But your education, unlike Francesco’s, will take several years. You must be able to converse well with the heads of states in perfect Latin and Greek. You must know jurisprudence to the last detail. You must represent your family, your country, and God in the best way you know how.”

Piero sits a moment, clearly stunned. His future rolls out before us. Several ambassadorships, then a governorship. He’ll be like Uncle Girolamo. Or maybe even like Uncle Giambattista, who talks with the Pope himself. My skin prickles into gooseflesh.

Francesco laughs. “It’s perfect, Piero. I’ll rake in the ducats, and you’ll spend them.”

Oh, I hadn’t even thought of the money. Most ambassadorships are unpaid posts. So it will cost our family a lot.

Piero grins. “But my prestige, dear Francesco, will allow you to get that eventual post on the foreign trade committee.” He lingers teasingly over the word “eventual.”