The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (10 page)

Whether or not this practice ever did take place within the said premises and on that very night, I cannot, alas, confirm. I will leave this to our Jewish physician.

I will make every endeavor to see the Signora Contarini promptly and will delay my visit to Rolandino until the following day.

Yours in faith,

Antonio da Parma

Journal of Antonio da Parma

23 December 1422

No sooner had I dispatched my last letter to Almoro Donato that I set off to visit the Signora Catarina Contarini. Draped in a thick mantle, I hastened toward Canal Grande. The market still thronged with vendors as I crossed the Campo di Rialto, buried deep in somber thoughts. I had decided to take a stroll along the Canal Grande before finding a gondola that would take me to Calle Borgoloco in Castello.

A brisk walk ought to have brought respite from the turmoil that Venezia had since wreaked upon my mind, but I felt a growing uneasiness with every step. Almoro Donato’s spies were watching me. I now overlooked nothing–every whisper between the ordinarily loud Veneziani, every dark gaze in my direction.  Even now, as I crossed the bustling stalls, I scrutinized faces, glanced upon every shop keeper and paused at intervals to see if I was perhaps being followed.

As I crossed through a narrow
calle
strewn with refuse, I saw a man standing by the wall.  He was clothed curiously, head to toe in a dark leather and upturned boots made of the same.  As I approached, he spun about and strode to my left. 

“
Perdonami
,” he said, as his shoulder brushed mine. I turned, only to see his angular face peering in my direction. There was an uneasy moment as I gazed upon the scar on his cheek. 

Even now, I remember the bolt that ran through me. I think, also, a faint memory stirred from within but I paid no attention to this sentiment. The stranger in the leather mantle walked off, while I reached the other end of the
calle
.

I found the nearby
campo
pleasantly empty.  

In the renewed quiet, I now thought only of Almoro Donato. I was still stung by his encroaching morality. While I was not guilty of the crime attributed to Giacomo Contarini, there was in my latest dream something akin to his sin.  It unsettled me. And while I promised myself to abide to the Consiglio’s wishes and to visit the Signora Contarini, I was tormented. I found it unpleasant that the poor Contarini widow may have to endure accusations against her deceased husband.

Immersed in my thoughts and lulled by the sweet scent of oven breads from the nearby homes, I now ambled toward the lagoon. Not finding a gondola on this idle siesta hour, I ventured to walk further down the canal. 

My felt boots tapped hurriedly along the stone paving.  Again, I felt watched. I drew my black mantle close over my shoulders and pulled the collar of my doublet to level with my ears.  Was the iciness in my limbs due solely to the vanishing sun, or had a cold fear risen within me? 

As murky clouds cloaked the sky, I had a vague notion of the red bricks ahead, turning to pale rose. The market voices left me, or rather I had long left them, as the events of the last four days churned in my mind.  I ventured into an alley. 

In this narrow passage abutting the canal, little light shone. And there, beneath the stone arch adjoining two
casas
, a man in a full-length mantle stood tall, barring my way. He seemed to have been waiting for me. I suspected he had followed me all the way from San Polo.

“Signore! Who goes there?” I called out.

He advanced toward me. In silence, still.

My eyes adjusted to the dark. I discerned the sheen of a blue velvet
cioppa
beneath his cloak.  His well-formed legs were clad in tight black hose and an ominous foreign rapier hung at his waist. 

“You shall let me pass,” I warned. My hand had neared to a poisoned rondel which I always slip through my belt.

“Not till we have spoken,” boomed the voice, whose owner now raised his giant hand and, there, before my startled eyes, flashed my own gleaming dagger.

In disbelief, I felt round my waist. But where I’d hoped to find my only weapon, there lay only emptiness.

“How have you...?”

“We’ve not much time for pleasantries.  Retrace your steps, turn to your left and sit yourself in the black gondola at the end of the
calle
.”

Again, the voice commanded me. Having sized up my opponent’s limbs and height, and determined that he would have good use of his rapier, I could only obey.

He pushed me to a dark recess along the canal and began to loosen an old gondola, still pointing the blade at me.  His movements were decisive. There was, in his silent countenance, something polished, regal almost.  Beneath his ample mantle, the silk of his garments were of such refinement, that it was difficult to believe that I, Antonio da Parma, was now the foolish hostage of some dangerous
bravo
.

“Signore,” I began, uncertain of my claims but trying to appear unfazed, “you ignore who I am, it is certain. I should like to advise you that the
sbirri
will not be far in my footsteps and you shall soon find that the Wells of this city are not near as accommodating as this pungent alley.”

“Esteban.”

“Pardon?”

“My name, Signore, if you wish to make use of it. Now row.”

I eyed the oars foolishly. I had no doubt that even if I tried to leap out of the gondola, this
bravo
would have soon caught me. Resigned to the circumstances, I clumsily set about to stand on the stern as I had seen the proud Arsenalotti countless times and proceeded to steer our vessel as best I could along the canal.

“One would think you had been a gondolier all your life,” mocked my foe.

“Where shall we row to?” I asked.

“Where do you wish to go?”

“Castello.”

“Then row to Castello,” he intoned.

It seemed like a sensible suggestion.

So I pulled the oar and did what I had seen the gondoliers perform so well.  But maneuvering a gondola is harder than it seems. The brute eyed my pathetic attempts until we emerged from the dark alley...

And I saw his face.

Until then, I had already noted that he wore a white mask, cut off at the mouth. Beneath it, his lips were fleshy and firm, his gaze black and proud.  I had mistaken him for a Castilian on account of his name. But I was wrong.  A foggy mist blanketed our gondola, but I could still observe him as I oared toward Castello. 

Above the rim of his gloves, I could distinguish the ebony of his skin.

Dark as night.

“Signore, this can all end in your favor or mine,” he began, in his distinct accent which carried neither Florentine nor Venetian flavor.

“You waste your time, Esteban.  I have neither money nor possessions. You may kill me and appropriate my clothes. I see you have already taken my dagger. The rest should not be too difficult. But if you could spare me a savage death, I would be indebted. I only ask you to spare my face, so that my identity may be ascertained and that I may be buried in my native Tuscany.”

At those last words, he glowered at me with a cold fury.

“Do you even know who I am?” he asked.

“A coarse ruffian, no doubt. I am resigned to it.”

“Signor da Parma, you are mistaken.”

“And I see that you know my name. So you are a ruffian who employs spies.”

“It is my affair to know most people in Venezia. I am paid for it.”

“Ah, yes! Murder is the mean of astute merchants. And it does help one finance these fineries,” I said, as I signaled to the white ruffles of his sleeves. “But all the lace and silk cannot hide one’s true nature. What you choose to conceal beneath your mask and gloves are those very traits that compel you in your actions.”

He stood back to observe me. I could see he was amused at my discountenance. All the while I spoke, I wrestled with my stubborn oar, wiped my brow and puffed from the effort.  He was reflecting upon my words. I understood by his composure that he was not an impulsive man. He was the sort to act only after deep calculations.

“You do me great injury, Signor da Parma,” he replied. “And here I was thinking you might have that rare sensitivity which my old captain possessed.  These garments are my own, Signor da Parma. Shipped from Barcelona, long before he died. And yes, they were paid for by my master. It was the least he could do after I all but gave him my life. But these galley days are long past. Gone with his tragic death, are his merchant enterprise and the privileges we both shared.  Foolish Catalan.  Like a father to me, he was. But he sought a new life in this vile city and he paid the price. We both did.”

“Were he still alive, your master would die of shame.”

Esteban regarded me with a haughty glare.

“Venezia is unkind to men like me and I repay,” he boomed.

“Unkind? I may not know the story of your life, Signore, but I know this. You trample upon your master’s grave every time you set your rapier on unsuspecting victims. You have me by the throat like a common foe. ”

“Signor da Parma, I have observed you for days. And not once did it spring to my mind that I could skewer you with my blade. It has come to my attention that your employer is not to be trusted. Let me put it clearly to you. The men you serve
are
my enemies. And they are my client’s enemies.”

I looked at him with surprise. Esteban’s jaws were crisped taut. He lowered the blade and crouched before me, the injury in his eyes unmistakable.

“Signor da Parma, men such as you may see me as a savage without mercy but know this, know that in this untamed body that you so revile there is loyalty to only one man. The Señor Gaspar Miguel Rivera, my savior and friend, betrayed by vile conspirators. I vowed to leave no stone in Venezia unturned until I have restored his honor. For now, this spirited life of
bravo
is befitting. Venezia has stolen from me, and as I already have for the last six years, from her I shall thieve and on her I shall prey. But fear not.  These are not my designs for you. I do not wish to take your life, unless you betray me…or my client.  If it came to this, believe me, there is nothing that will stand between us. But enough of this discourse.”

He stood.

“I must tell you this truth, Signor da Parma. The men you work for, this Consiglio…”

“I entreat you to never speak of the Consiglio dei Dieci with evil designs in my presence.”

“Evil? Such an inflated term! Think you, that one such as I would know more than
they,
about evil? You fool yourself. Esteban del Valle has lived here long enough to understand. Dare I say, Signor da Parma, you are still a naive Florentine in their eyes. In your short visit to Venice, you have grown confident. You believe that you know her well? But are you prepared? Are you prepared for the evil of Venice?”

I stared at him, pondering over his words. What evil did he speak of? What had fate done to this Moor? His voice became suddenly grave as he fixed an implacable gaze upon me and continued. “The Consiglio dei Dieci, these men–they have for some time, been a curiosity to my client,” he said.

“I suspect your client has little to do with me. You are wasting your time.”

“That may be so but I am to watch you nevertheless. And you, Signor da Parma, you should watch yourself. No, I mean that. ”

“I am here to service the Republic. The matter I am investigating is not of your concern.  The Consiglio’s affairs are not for scrutiny. And certainly not by a ruffian such as yourself. You carry an Aragonese weapon. How do I know you are not a spy? For all I know, your client may well be employed by the King of Aragon. You entreat me to doubt the integrity of my employer. I shall do no such thing.”

“Yes, you shall. Because I have some profitable news for you.  But first, you must know a thing about me. Think you that I clad myself in fineries to impress the dead? My soul has been wretched and torn ever since my master passed to the next world. In my grief, I would better dress as a mendicant and wallow in the Wells of this city. But I’ll not let grief betray me of my right. Besides, the wealthy patricians who pay for my services expect certain form and that is the game I’ve since learned to play. All is appearance in Venezia, is it not
? La bella figura
, is the rule of the game.  Be grateful that my reputation as a reliable
bravo
has risen among high circles and that through my disguises, I have come upon some pertinent news that concerns you.”

We had neared Castello and he returned my blade which I slipped back around my waist. I eyed him expectantly as he stood, hand on his hilt without stirring.  A row of white teeth flashed at me as he smiled.

“Are you ready to listen?”

“I am listening. Be that as it may, I will not put faith in what a bandit such as yourself has to say.”

“As you wish. But would you suffer the bandit before you if he told you that a certain Lorenzo Contarini is soon to be murdered?”

At these words, I stifled a moment of surprise. Esteban neared me to better whisper.

“Not by me. But a certain patrician that I can alas, not name, desires him dead. You have met with the Contarini youth once, I believe. A suspect of your investigation, Signore? Or a victim...”