The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (45 page)

“If you repented, they garroted you before the flames reached you. If you insisted on your innocence, or declared with pride you were a Jew and proud of it, you were burned alive.” She walked painfully back to her chair.

“Please, who was Elizabeta Bomberg?” Francesca asked weakly, her throat dry.

“Daniel Bomberg settled here in Venice in the early 1500s. He had a printing house. Just by chance, he made the acquaintance of Felix Pratensis, a converted Jew, who convinced him of the great need to print Hebrew books. He became one of the most important Hebrew publishing houses in the world. Hebrew books are still printed copying his typeface and page layouts.”

“He himself wasn’t…”

“Jewish?” She smiled. “No. He wasn’t. But Jews always say that they owe him the greatest of debts.”

“And Elizabeta?”

“Elizabeta Bomberg was one of his descendants. She was a dealer in rare books. So what she did was natural, even though many think she was a heroine.”

“What did she do?”

“You mean you
really
don’t know?!”

Francesca shook her head.

The woman peered at her quizzically, as if deciding whether or not to believe her. Then she turned her attention to the book, turning it over in her hands, then opening it. Slowly, with infinite care, she began to scrape along the binding with her fingernail.

“I think I’ll be going now. Thank you.” Francesca rose abruptly, snatching it back and checking it for damage. She walked quickly to the door.

“Please,” the woman begged, following her, placing a cool, restraining hand over Francesca’s. “You don’t understand!! Don’t go!! Let me explain. I think I can help you find your manuscript, the memoirs of Gracia Mendes.”

Francesca turned back, staring. “How did you know?”

“Please, you needn’t be afraid of me. Please sit down. I’ll explain everything.”

Suzanne took off her shoes and stockings, wading into the Rio di San Francisco with the matter-of-factness of Venetians used to dealing with high tides. The water was pleasantly cool on her hot, tired feet. She had been walking around for hours through the Accademia Gallery, the Museo Correr, the Museo Marciano, and countless other repositories of Venetian art treasures, retracing all the steps she’d taken when Renaldo was her teacher and she his brightest seminar student.

It was as if she were searching for a lost piece of a puzzle, an answer to a question, a tiny but indispensable part that would make the whole machine hum and buzz again the minute you plugged it in. She didn’t know its color, or shape, or how she would recognize it. But the same strange faith that had set her searching, comforted her that she would know it when she found it.

Or perhaps, perhaps, she was just torturing herself.

She couldn’t help it. She felt like a rag, twisted and twisted, all its loose fibers compressed into one simple, hard knot of longing.

She walked through endless
campi
and over lovely little stone bridges. And then, as suddenly and profoundly as coming across a loved one’s face in a crowd of strangers, she saw it in the distance.

The Church of San Zaccaria.

It was a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, its symmetry and balance so inhuman in its perfection, it left you yearning for something that nothing human could satisfy.

She walked up to the heavy wooden doors and opened them, walking in slowly. Her footsteps echoed and drowned in the cold, vast space of the great nave. At the far end, she saw the students gathered, their rapt faces turned toward the first altar on the left side.

And then, suddenly, there he was.

Renaldo.

She felt his presence like a hard blow straight to the stomach.

Nothing had changed. The same dark, unruly hair, the same clean, blue cotton shirt open at the collar. The same voice, too. She listened—that rough baritone, interspersed with snorts of laughter that slid so unexpectedly into soaring emotion full of hidden promises and sworn vows. It was a voice that had always hooked her like a drug.

Nothing had changed, she repeated. And yet, everything was different. She stared at him, feeling a strange sense of detachment. So many promises not kept. So many vows shattered like flung-down tablets of stone.

And suddenly all the excuses with which she’d comforted herself up until this very instant turned meaningless. For there was no way to belie the evidence of her own eyes. He was where he wanted to be, undamaged, going on joyfully with his life.

Her family had interfered. But it had been Renaldo’s choice to pick himself up and run. Something inside her, as weighted and immovable as thousands of tons of grain, suddenly shifted and groaned.

Why?

The answer to that was there, too, she realized, looking beyond him to the art he was describing. It was Bellini’s altarpiece. She studied the painting: the simple, elegant setting; the enthroned Madonna and child bathed in light; the serenity of wisdom from the standing figures of the saints. It was impressive. A fine example of Italian Renaissance art.

But nothing more. Not for her.

But for him, it was much more.

She looked at the deep, tender devotion in his eyes, at his cheeks and forehead flushed with feeling. For him, it was a sacred icon infused with holiness that sang to his soul.

She had never been able to hear that music. Both of them knew that. And until now, she had always been secretly ashamed of her deafness. But watching him now in this setting, she suddenly understood the truth: They were simply tuned to different wavelengths, created by their own unique histories.

She had finally heard the music meant for her own soul.

She had heard it in Gibraltar.

His students leaned toward him. How young they were! she thought, staring at a young woman’s supple back, her long, shining hair. The girl was holding a pen and notebook ready, not writing anything, but watching Renaldo’s every move as if he were performing some sacred ritual.

Suzanne withdrew into the shadows, transfixed by the girl’s face. It had a light in it, she thought, as beautiful as the light Bellini had shed on his Madonna and child. She was in love. All his students were. And all of them, she knew too well, thought it was with Renaldo.

It wasn’t. He was simply the receptacle. They were in love with beauty, with the passion of human creativity. It would take them a while to figure that out. But they would, sooner or later.

It had been the same with her own seminar class.

It had been the same with her.

She saw Renaldo glance at the girl with a swift, hidden smile and a flash of the intimacy she had once known so well.

She wiped the sudden tears from her eyes, then turned and walked quietly out the doors, closing them gently, but firmly, behind her.

35

Francesca walked out into the street, her eyes adjusting slowly and painfully to the flooding light. A sense of confusion and exhilaration overwhelmed her as she half-walked, half-danced over bridges and across canals. Finally exhausted, she sank down to rest.

Could the woman’s story possibly be true?

It had to be. No one could make up a story like that!

A cool breeze came off the water, carrying with it a gentle spray that anointed her flushed face. She sat there, breathing deeply, feeling washed by the light. She wasn’t tired anymore, she realized. On the contrary, she felt charged and almost voiceless with excitement as she reviewed all she’d learned.

She sprang up with nervous energy and began to walk again, savoring the magic of Baroque churches, fifteenth-century bridges, Gothic palaces, and sweet, hidden cloisters. Venice. It all felt like a dream, she thought, suddenly missing Marius terribly, wanting to share with him everything she’d learned; wanting to listen to all the odd and interesting facts he’d surely add. She wanted to let herself wander at his side on unbeaten paths toward hidden wonders everywhere.

She was surprised and inexplicably disappointed at how quickly she reached her hotel. She felt too restless to take a shower or rest, or even eat, almost afraid the moment she touched real life the magic would vanish, like a genie diving back inside his bottle.

For there was no question that the meeting with the woman in the blue dress had been nothing short of supernatural. The woman had to be a sorceress, Francesca thought. How else could one explain her uncanny ability to resurrect the pale ghosts of the past?

It had all seemed so real! The young girl in the dark torture chamber, the story of the manuscript—and of Elizabeta herself! Even now she wasn’t entirely free of the spell. She looked around her, almost expecting to see Nazis, to hear the vicious, hard stamp of goose-stepping marchers against the pavement.

She walked around the corner. There was St. Mark’s Basilica. The angels over the entryway seemed to wave their wings at her, beckoning her inside. She stared, dumbfounded, rubbing her eyes and blinking. The spell, she thought, wandering over the threshold as if compelled by some strange, irresistible force.

A vast chamber of amber light enveloped her. The incalculable riches of decoration, the indescribable artistry in every detail seemed to slap her down like an enormous wave. Like all medieval churches, it simply crushed you with its vaultingly ambitious but doomed attempts to contain the uncontainable: a concept of G-d.

She wandered, lost, trying to find some meaning, some reason for having entered. A group of people were waiting in line to see something called the
Pala d’Oro
. Not even sure what it was, she nevertheless felt a strange compulsion to join them.

She stood there, her confusion growing. Why am I here? she wondered, almost angry at her helplessness, her inability to simply leave. She looked toward the head of the line. A sudden shaft of light illuminated someone’s hair, turning it to reddish gold.

She stepped out, taking hesitant steps forward, trying to satisfy herself that it couldn’t possibly be…

“Suzanne?”

“Francesca?”

They stared at each other, until pushed forward by the line they found themselves in front of a mesmerizing tenth-century altarpiece. Their faces gleamed, touched by the golden, bejeweled glow of the
Pala d’Oro
. They reached out, needing the reassurance of each other’s solid, warm flesh, proof that they both weren’t dreaming.

“How is it…when did you…”

“My G-d, Suzanne! It’s you! You’re really here!”

“I wasn’t even going to come inside here! I had this strange vision, something almost dragged me.”

“Me, too!” Francesca exclaimed, flabbergasted. “You didn’t see angels’ wings moving, by any chance?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Isn’t this amazing, I mean, us finding each other like this! Did you know I was here? Did Gran tell you? This can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

Suzanne gazed at her. “I could have gone anywhere in Europe, and so could you…And yet both of us wound up coming to Venice and going into this place, just at this time. It’s…it’s like we were both guided here.” She shook her head. “What did Gran call it, a
memuneh?
”

“It won’t be the first spirit I’ve met on this trip! You wouldn’t believe the kind of day I’ve had. The kind of month! If something supernatural isn’t going on, then I’d like to know what is! It’s confusing and scary.”

The line behind them began shifting restlessly. A few Italian phrases, aggressively intoned, drifted their way.

“Let’s sit down somewhere and talk.”

They walked out into the light and the bustling crowds, stopping at a little coffee house with lovely pastries in the window.

“Florian. Isn’t that where Casanova hung out and seduced his women?” Suzanne said.

Francesca looked over the elderly, satisfied crowd of cream-cake eaters, none of whom looked remotely seduceable. “If it is, I’m sure it was a long time ago.”

They ordered cappuccino and a chocolate confection of obscene caloric content, then eyed each other carefully.

“What in heaven’s name are you doing here, Suzanne?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“
I’m
still looking for the manuscript,” Francesca said stiffly. “Tell me the truth. Did Gran tell you where I was? Did she threaten to cut off your funding unless you caught up with me? Really, Suzanne, of all the incredibly selfish things you’ve done to the family, dumping Gran and me, leaving us sitting like idiots in that restaurant waiting for you to come back…it took the cake. You should really learn to practice your promiscuity on your own time. How could you?”

“Didn’t you read my letter?” Suzanne countered, shocked at her accusations.

“Yes, I read it! And so what? You admit you’re better with helping strangers than helping your own family. Like admitting it somehow makes it all right!”

“Look, let’s get something straight: this whole family thing is a myth, as far as I’m concerned. Just because you’ve got some biological link with someone doesn’t mean you have to have anything to do with them if you don’t want to! If people treat each other badly, or simply don’t interest each other, why should their lives have to touch just because they have some genetic link they had no control over? At some point, you have to be together for the same reasons you choose to be together with your friends: because you enrich each other’s lives with love, caring, consideration. Otherwise, spending time with family becomes some miserable obligation you fulfill because some bully is holding a club of guilt over your head ready to clobber you.”