The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (13 page)

She glared at me. I spat at the portrait and muttered the word, “
Strega
.”

Giacomo went mad. He suddenly turned to me. He leapt at me. He struck me then and there.

I never understood it.

Before midnight, we left. We left Francesco as he was.

But wait. That is not all. She…the witch, she has followed me since. I saw her the next morning when we visited the Contarini to break the fast. I saw her again, in my carriage, before we arrived at the marquis’
casa
. I saw her twice eyeing Ubertino at the evening banquet. Do you think I am mad, Antonio?

I told myself, “Rolandino, this is bad. This is very bad.”

I knew I was cursed. We were all cursed.

Don’t you see? They have all died, Antonio.

Rolandino is dead to the world now. The forgotten of Venezia find their ends in the Wells and none exist to mourn them. But you, Florentine, you will not fail me. I understood from the moment I met you in Santa Croce that you were afraid for Francesco Visconti. You feared that something would happen to him.

I can tell you that no horror you imagined or feared for him has not already come to pass.

If you truly are a man of justice, you will see for yourself.

You must find his body. Find his body promptly. Bury him. Bury him and end her wrath.

Your fool,

Rolandino

Journal of Catarina Contarini

24 December 1422

The
avogadore
is an intriguing man.

He is not like the self-important patricians one meets in the Piazza San Marco. Nor is he of the sort one finds whispering in the Piazzetta–those disciples of the Signoria, enveloped in black mantles, avid for power and who lurk round the palace with their grave airs.

He is past forty yet still handsome. He has the soft curls of the Florentine and wears his dark brown hair not too long, barely touching his shoulders. He is rather tall and elegant, almost noble beneath his blue mantle. He does not allow himself fancy dress and keeps to a carmine silk shirt beneath his velvet doublet. His olive skin is a darker shade than that of the white haired patricians.  I take it he has come from a country breeding.

All his manner denotes calm, yet he has a piercing gaze beneath thick eyebrows and often that gaze can frighten a little.  He is often silent. There is much he does not say.

During his visit, he was exceedingly observant. He spoke fast without the mirth of the Venetian, without the excess frivolity of gesture. He has not mastered our nonchalant gaiety, our joyous affectation and he is like an open book, at times.  One can read him well. Too well.  Yet he has an economy of movement that was impressive. 

There is also, unless I am mistaken, a certain sadness in his eyes which makes him somewhat endearing.

When he entered our internal tiled courtyard, he seemed distracted almost immediately. Now that I remember, the two adult dogs howled loudly upon his arrival and I had to hush them before I could attend to my visitor. I think, as with all foreign visitors, the
avogadore
was also taken aback by the confined spaces of this cold house. It is always misleading for foreigners. They are ever so enthralled by the oriental beauty and sumptuousness of our Venetian
casas
and their apparent wealth when seen from the canal, only to realize, when they enter, that we are practical souls at heart. Too practical at times.

“
Avogadore
, welcome to my home,” I said. “Please forgive my absence yesterday. I had a pressing desire for
confession
.”

“There is no need to apologize, Signora Contarini,” he said with a quick bow.

We remained awkwardly silent for a moment. I for one, was cognizant that I had not greeted a man alone since my marriage. A moment of vanity struck me as I wondered what he must have thought upon seeing me. I had worn my mourning dress and in red velvet, I know that my face must have seemed older, perhaps older than he expected.

In the days following Zanetta’s death, I had not even bothered to pluck my brow and today, faced with the unsightly pores along my hairline, I had chosen to drape a turban along my forehead.  At least the coils of my hair were tightly wound and respectable.

The
avogadore
had not said a word. He continued to examine the family gathering room as I ushered him inside. His eyes lingered over our regal lounge chairs and the Persian rug from Constantinople.

He noted with great curiosity the thick velvet drapes, heaped on the table. I rushed to gather the fabric and placed it on a divan, away from view.

“It is tradition,” I explained. “These red drapes are part of the mourning ritual. They are to be hung on the windows of every room.”

He gazed around him and I understood his preoccupations at once.

“If you think this place is a dark place,
avogadore
, then I must tell you, it will soon be darker still.”

He nodded at my solemn declaration. He seemed to understand my distress at such a time. His roving eyes rested on the green garland that I had made the day before. I explained that Zanetta was a virgin when she died, and this garland would be wrapped around her neck tomorrow, during the burial ceremony. The bodies of my husband and child would be paraded through the streets, their faces and feet bare, while I howled openly to show my grief. And beneath the marble stones of our church, the corpses of Santa Maria Formosa would be once again stirred to make way for the members of my family.

The Florentine said nothing. Even if he found it appalling that we should bury our dead under our very churches, he did not say so.

“Do you wish to show your respects?” I asked, offering to bring him into Zanetta’s room upstairs where the bodies lay, draped in silk. I had gone into that room so many times already. I could not detach my eyes from her. I could not let her go. He read into my eagerness but shook his head.

“No. That will not be necessary, Signora.”

“Will you come to the procession? I know all this must seem at odds with your…inquest, but I gracefully extend you this invitation,
avogadore
. You will see that we are a good family and what has befallen us is unspeakable.”

“I would be honored. But I do not believe it would be appropriate.”

“Nevertheless our parish would welcome you,
avogadore
.  Forgive me, to which parish do you belong to?” I asked, as I poured rose water into his glass.

He seemed rather confused by my question, so I reassured him.

“Forgive me, I do not know how it is in Firenze. Here, everyone can name their parish. Your parish is your home and pride. Almost five hundred years ago, there was a parish in each little island of the lagoon.
Si
,
si
, if it were not for the bridges across the Rivoaltos it would be as though we each lived in our own separate island.”

I went on to explain that in Venezia, we all know quite well to which parish we belong and that our communities are closely knit and that we hold processions as part of the parish. It was only pleasantries. I was terrified of his silences.

The
avogadore
replied that it was a most honorable tradition and mumbled something about his own church in Tuscany, but he spoke so fast, that I forgot the name.

I ventured to ask him if he was truly a Roman Catholic, which was my way of jesting, as he did not seem in the least preoccupied by church attendance or parish affairs. My humor is dark at times and I thought I had gone too far and offended him. Strangely he did not look in the least offended.

His answer took me by surprise. “My father used to say that I could not verily belong to the Christian Church.”

“And why not?” I asked.

“On the day of my baptism, the priest collapsed with chest pains.”

“Oh, Signore! What grievous news.” I crossed myself. “Did he live?”

“Unfortunately not. He was taken ill for two days and, as he was not replaced for weeks, my baptism could never be completed.  My parents thought the deed was as good as done and they soon forgot about it.”

He noted my discomfort.   “I hope this revelation does not displease you, Signora. What is it? Have I shown disrespect?”

I could not look into his eyes.

To hide my turmoil, I turned away, seizing two porcelain plates from the servant. I then sent her back to the kitchen. He regarded me with such insistence that the platters rattled under my grip. I emitted a brief smile.

“I am sorry. It is nothing.” Could he hear the quaver in my voice? “I pray that your soul is saved, Signor Avogadore. As for your baptism…you must know that we have a belief in Venezia. We say that those whose baptisms are left unfinished…can see the dead.”

As I said this, I recovered from my previous emotions. A vague sense of pride overwhelmed me, as I placed the plate of sugar-dusted
fritoli
and the almond milk on the table. I expected my Florentine guest to marvel at our delicacies or to compliment me on the beautiful ware imported from the east, but to my surprise, Antonio Di Parma had stiffened in his seat.  He clutched the armrest and stared cautiously in the distance as though pondering over something.

“I hope you like my
fritoli
, Signor Avogadore. You came at the right moment,” I said with a tinge of irony. “It is a specialty from here during Carnivale. This is my mother’s recipe. I soak the raisins in syrup long before frying the dough. Zanetta used to love them. She was always fond of cinnamon.” I was near tears as I spoke.

But he did not hear me. The
avogadore
seemed unaware that I had spoken at all. He was not even seeing the plate before him.

Then he emerged from his thoughts and sunk his spoon into the almond custard. Almost immediately, he replaced the almond
dolci
on the table as though finding it disagreeable that we should eat sweets in a time of mourning, and he gave me one of his forceful glares.   “And what about you? Do you believe this, Signora?”

“Believe what?” I asked.

He gazed straight into my eyes. “That one such as I, that one who has not been baptized, can see the dead?”

His face was flushed. I trembled despite myself. I ignore if he was insulted by my previous remark on the subject of his incomplete baptism or if he sought to test my faith.

“I believe in Jesus our Savior,” came my reply. “But I am a feeble, superstitious soul like all women in Venezia. If you tell me you have seen a ghost,
avogadore
…” I held my breath.

“I told you no such thing.” His manner seemed cold.

“Yes, but even so, even so. If you confessed as much, I would believe you,” I confided, shaking with fear.

To which the
avogadore
nodded and evaded my questioning glance. He leaned into his cloak to retrieve a journal where I understood that he scribed notes. I knew he would not speak of the matter again, even though I could see that I had perturbed him before with my superstitious beliefs.

“Where is your son, Catarina?” he asked me, suddenly. He was hurried once more.

“Lorenzo is not here today. He is calling on Daniela Di Moro. She is a writer,” I added proudly.

“I must speak with him, Signora. It has come to my attention that his life may be in danger.”

Oh, that I had not known what I know. The
avogadore
’s words felt like an ice cold blade through my shoulders.

The loss of Giacomo had been a blessing in its own way. And the relief I feel today will be revealed to none. But if I grieve, I grieve for her. My Zanetta. My poor sweet Zanetta.

And now, the
avogadore
spoke of Lorenzo…

I was furious.

“Why are you saying this to me?” I lashed out, bursting into tears. “Why do you come here, to the house of a mourning woman, to give me such news? Isn’t it enough that I have lost my husband and my daughter? Isn’t it enough that I am to grieve two loved ones?”

“Forgive me, Signora but I must see Lorenzo. The matter cannot wait.”

“I told you that he isn’t here!” I almost shouted.

He stared at me.

“Catarina…” No words came out. “Forgive me. It is something I must do.”

“Could you not have waited until after the funeral?”

“If it pleases you, Signora. But we must be cautious. What has befallen your family may be part of some political designs. As your son, Lorenzo may be in danger…” He paused.

I think he paused deliberately to see if I would respond. But there was nothing I could say. I rose and took away the
dolci
in haste, a little stung by his refusal to eat. Everything hurt, even the
avogadore
’s rejection for sweets.

I disappeared into the kitchen where I remained for longer than I wished, wiping away my tears. I wondered how I would once again face the stern
avogadore
with the handsome face and not collapse under the weight of emotions. This
casa
had seen too much. I feared that I could shoulder no further. And yet somehow, I regained my strength and returned to my guest. I found him in the same manner in which I had left him.

“What do you believe,
avogadore
? Do you think that Rolandino Vitturi was in his right mind when he murdered my husband?”

He was no fool, the
avogadore
. I understood it by his response.

“Rolandino may have murdered your husband,” he said. “But whatever his motive, it does not explain the other deaths. The other deaths remain a mystery. And you would agree that it is inconceivable that your husband would set out to murder his own child. Pardon me, Signora, but something vile, something wicked is at work, here. It baffles the spirits. The web is large and whoever spun it has grand designs we know nothing of.”

Oh, he was no fool.

Yet I hated him for saying that. It only reminded me that I was alone. I was alone with my fears.

“Signora. There is something else.”

“What now? Haven’t you said enough?”

“Signora…” He bit his lip. I quickly understood that he was about to speak on behalf of the Consiglio. I am familiar with their ways now. Nothing surprises me.