The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (19 page)

“I looked askance at the
condottiere
’s fine sword and licked my lips. I had seen mercenaries at the port in my childhood and while I shuddered at the thought of war, I longed to seize one of these beautiful weapons and learn their secret arts. But I was still hesitant. ‘You seem a little old to speak with such temerity,’ I said.

“‘Aha! But you are wrong, my young friend. I am a pupil of Dardi. One of the greatest masters in Bologna. His knowledge of the martial arts is a privilege to possess. Age is no hindrance to my swordsmanship.’

“I squirmed and rubbed my cheek nervously.  ‘Why me?’ I was convinced that Gaspar Rivera could not possibly want an inexperienced boy as his trade partner. ‘I do not belong in Venice,’ I added. It was a lie. I knew from a young age that, in truth, I did not belong anywhere. Barcelona was my home but I had long felt a sense of my own difference. Only in the arms of my mother, whose gentle humming of Arabic tunes had soothed my cries for more nights than I could remember, did I feel a belonging, one that had since eluded me.

“Gaspar warmed to my fears. He gave me a friendly tap on the shoulder. ‘In Venezia Esteban, masks are worn almost every day. If it is your face that haunts you, and yet, I cannot see why it would, then rest assured that you may conceal it as you please. But money, Esteban,’ he said, resting his eyes firmly upon me. ‘Money is
everything
in Venezia. Understand, that in the Republic, a man’s worth in the eyes of others is governed by only one thing. And that, Esteban, in our age, is the Veneziano ducat. Mark my words. Your fate shall be glorious.’

“Now you may wonder what he saw in me and how he chanced upon the knowledge of my wealth.  That is not the purpose of my tale. But at this point in his life and ever since his extraordinary voyage to Tunis, Gaspar Rivera had acquired an unparalleled desire to see the world as far as the Levant. It was as though he were impelled by a great force of the universe and no one could stop him. 

“But I’ve not told you, Antonio, of the venture we set out to build for the next fifteen years.  Fifteen years, during which we submitted to Venezia’s taxes and at last, became rightful citizens.  Gaspar had the idea to hire a brig and set up a small merchant enterprise that would, in time, double as a tour guide for escorting pilgrims. Until we became citizens, we would be unprotected by the
muda
and at the mercy of pirate attacks.  The success of our endeavor hinged on funds, but Gaspar had nothing to his name. He had spoken to the
compagnia
who held his contract.  They had agreed to his usage of a brig that would eventually become his, but protection and maintenance of the crew and the creation of his merchant enterprise required more ducats than he could afford.  That is where my wealth was a blessing.

“And that is how I sailed along the pilgrim routes, as far as Candia, Corfu, Cyprus, Ragusa and then on to Jaffa and Egypt. Once in Jaffa, the pilgrims could take a mule onto Jerusalem.

“Once, I asked Gaspar about the nature of his desires. ‘What do you feel when you shore up on another land?’

“He replied this. ‘In truth, I have lived too long in an armor. To be defenseless, to let oneself be vulnerable to other men’s beliefs and mores, this is a joy. Esteban, when we are not at sea, I see that you have developed a taste for the masks of Venezia. Every day, I note your ever growing love for the parody of silks and velvets. We have been, now, twelve years together. I have seen you grow into the man you are and still, you elude me. Who are you really behind your masks? Perhaps in the little life I have left, I will discover it. But it matters little. One day, no doubt, you shall find yourself. That is what matters. You shall recognize yourself as an entity that exists beyond the fabrics and costumes that you use unsparingly, beyond the endless painted faces that have shielded your own.  And when you find yourself, it will be possible for you to lose yourself. At the present, for me, it is the same. In losing myself to another’s land, I experience a delicious self-effacement, over and over again, and ultimately I rejoice in a sense that we, all of us in this world, share an essence that transcends beyond our diverse ways. I find this human essence immensely comforting. Do you understand, Esteban?’

“And that was Gaspar Rivera. A man like you have never met,” said Esteban as he sighed.

“How then, did he find the time to fulfil his contract if he was taken by pilgrim tours and trade,” I remarked, fascinated by his story.

Esteban looked grim.

“I come to it. For years, I noted that Gaspar often absented himself for days on various ports. I never questioned him until much later when I discovered that he had planned his itinerary for a dual purpose.  It soon became clearer to me to what intent he set out on foot in those foreign ports, alone, without a word, only to return days later, broken, his eyes haggard behind a veil of terror.  He would sit listless at the bridge, looking out to sea, his hands still trembling.  I never asked questions because every time he saw me, he broke into a smile and nodded. If in that smile, there was love, I did not know of it but, Antonio, I always felt reassured when I saw it. Gaspar’s spirit was the spirit of our brig. And when we sailed, we may as well have flown.

“But Gaspar’s spirits were to be broken. First in Corfu, then in Candia, I saw him return on the ship with blood upon his shirt and sword. And I learned of why.  I learned of his secret. The navy, it seemed, had always had good use of him, even as he set sail with the pilgrims. The Venetian navy had even sent him as far as the Levant. Why, you ask? To hunt down and assassinate those men they could no longer trust. He was their henchman. On occasion, the
compagnia
even carried out the evil designs of the Consiglio dei Dieci.  The arms of the Consiglio dei Dieci reach out further than Venezia, Antonio.  The enemies of the Republic cannot hide. Run, exile yourself, they will find you. You look surprised. Don’t be.”

“Why did Gaspar not break his bond with the
compagnia
, if it tormented him so?”

Esteban reflected for a moment. A veil of sadness passed across his face. I watched him down the last of his wine before he responded.

“They owned him. All of him.  If he abided to this cruel
contrata d’assento
, it was not for greed.  Gaspar survived, marrying what he loved with a duty he had soon learned to hate.  And he did it because if he were to rescind the
contrata
, he would have lost everything and failed his financial promise to me. Had he not fulfilled his duty, the young urchin from Barcelona would have found himself penniless, preyed upon by just another vulture.  Now you see, don’t you? Gaspar honored his duty because he owed me, Antonio.  And again, I understood this only too late.

“But there is more.  Three years before his death, there was a lightness to him. He told me how happy he was.  He said that he had secretly declined to murder a man suspected of spying on the Republic.  He had warned him and helped his escape. He told me he had never once felt so pleased with himself.  Alas, the
compagnia
learned of it.  They did not act upon it, but they bided their time. When Gaspar died, he never received what was due to him. They are claiming ignorance of the
contrata d’assento
. It is like the document never existed. They have refused to cede the brig and the ducats they owe him. His fight has become my fight. My only recourse, now, is the copy lodged within the palace chancellery. Antonio, will you find it for me?”

I bit my lips.

“I could not. If I did, I would be in breach of my services to the Signoria.”

“You need not fear for your life, Antonia da Parma. But would you be prepared to do this?”

I chose to ignore his question. At the present, it was I who felt betrayed by the Consiglio. I was prey to a growing doubt and a fear that it was certainly they who had dispatched the assassin from the gardens.

“I cannot give what you want, Esteban,” I replied firmly.

Esteban seemed taken aback, but as always, I could not read his masked face.  And yet, I had a sense that he was staring right at my neck where the pendant lay and which, at this very moment, felt hot on my skin.

“It is late,” he said at last. “Perhaps we should speak of pilgrims and faith the next time we meet.”  He handed me a card with the name of a restaurant in the Piazza, finished his ale and then walked out without uttering another word.

I glimpsed by his silence that Esteban was still thinking of the chancellery and of my refusal.  I also saw that he would not give up until I had accepted to help him.

Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma

27 December 1422

After my first encounter with Magdalena, I redoubled in my efforts to have Giacomo’s child, fearful of losing him. I consulted healers, sickened myself with sweetmeats and took in herbal concoctions to aid pregnancy. My efforts were in vain. A few weeks later, I learned that I was already pregnant. Soon, my child was growing inside me, reminding me of my husband’s love and the life we were creating together.

My jubilance did not last.

In the months that followed, I overheard that Magdalena and Francesco had settled in Santa Croce. They had made the parish of San Giocomo dell’Orio their home and it was said that they were rarely seen attending the sermons. And one day I had a curious conversation with one of the ladies at mass.

“
Cara mia
! Catarina, you are a showing already! I am pleased for you,” she cajoled as she reached to feel the small bump below my waist.

This pregnancy was easier than when I first bore Lorenzo at sixteen. I felt stronger and more confident. In truth, my determination to carry this child to its birth was spurred on by my rival.  I glowed with pride as my friend went on. The women in the parish were overly supportive as they had heard of my miscarriage the year before. They gifted me with printed images that would inspire a healthy birth.  I soon beheld prints, set in gilded frames. They depicted the Madonna and the Child, or else golden-lock angels cavorting in the heavens.

“Pray that your little child is as beautiful as these dear babies. Keep these images close to you in every room of your house, and look upon them. Keep away from gargoyles and all ugliness. Do not, in your state, touch your husband’s dogs or look upon their beastly faces. Your mind must behold beauty daily, Catarina, so that your child may be as precious.”

“You are no longer young, you must be careful. Do not exert yourself, Catarina. Remember to rest and keep to your bed in the coming months. I hear the Napoli woman is out in the streets of San Polo in her seventh month. She is depraved.”

One word about Magdalena and my curiosity stirred.

“She sets out alone?”

“Accompanied at all times by her gondolier, Maffeo, but she never rests. She is mingling for a trade, they say. Speaking to the wives of each guild leader; doing what she can to save her husband’s honor. I overheard from a friend that a lace maker in Burano is her latest acquaintance. They say she is helping her husband with his new enterprise.  God help us if we now must commerce with a Napoletana.”

My voice rose in indignation.

“But surely she must tire herself. Does she not care for her unborn child?” I scorned.

“It appears not. The woman is possessed. Up early and in the Rialto from the early hours. To hear the way she carries on with one errand after another, one would think her womb is dry,” she went on. 

The morality in her tone gave me instant comfort. It pleased me that the women in my parish, my world, found fault in Magdalena. It never occurred to me, in that moment, that my fascination with Magdalena might be fuelled by jealousy.

There was much to reproach in the Napoli woman’s reticence for attending mass and her refusal to remain at home while with child. What sort of a woman would do this? Only one with a dubious morality. Still, with every visit to mass, I admit that I grew more and more curious about her.

My curiosity was not the only thing that had risen. I was passionately in love with Giacomo. At thirty-one, he was in his virile prime. He had grown a stately beard to mourn the loss of our second child last year and had since not reverted to his clean shaven appearance. I loved the way the hair on his temple met with his beard like a classic Greek God. I was discovering an increasing desire to lay with him. Often, I would watch his naked shoulders. I would sense a rising heat between my thighs and I longed for him to take me.  I know what you will think,
avogadore
. It is a mortal sin to seek pleasure and chastity is a virtue. Why would I lie with my husband when I was already with child? You must understand my position in those days. I had seen desire in his eyes for another woman and every occasion I had to prove to myself that this desire was for me, I took it.  In the first three months of pregnancy, we made love almost every day, sometimes twice a day.

Each time, I saw in him the same renewed energy that I had witnessed following our first meeting with the Visconti. But as the months went past, I found him to be less responsive.

“We should perhaps let you rest. We may do harm to the child,” he would say.

Often, I succeeded in reassuring him that the child was strong in me and that all was well. This was true. I did not suffer from nausea or tenderness as I had with Lorenzo. And so he would relent.

But in the fourth month, Giacomo told me he would not lay with me until the child was born.  I was hurt.  In my bitterness, I found myself more and more fascinated with Magdalena. It was an anxious need to know all there was about her. 

I attempted to keep my interest subtle so as not to raise suspicion. Had anyone suspected that I saw Magdalena as my rival, my pride would have been damaged. No one knew of Giacomo’s past love affair with Magdalena. They all assumed she was a complete stranger to me.  I wanted to keep it that way.

In the parish meetings, I heard that the candle light in the Visconti home had been seen numerous times to burn during late hours and that both her and her husband were at work well into the night. What were they up to?

“They have purchased an old atelier. They are planning to create masks,” had insisted the oldest lady in the parish as though it were an outrage. “One would think there is enough obsession with Carnivale in this city without strangers further encouraging it. My gondolier travels past their home at night. He affirms that the Visconti are receiving shipments of materials almost every day. He has seen it all arrive—gold paint, silver paint, gems, laces, damasks and brocades, leather and beads. The Magdalena is a sharp woman.”

“Where did they find such a large sum of money?” I asked, my senses suddenly awake. “Francesco Visconti is not a wealthy man. He cannot afford the gold paint, let alone the expensive lace and gems. And what about the silk?” By now my voice was tinged with anxiety.

“That is the question on everyone’s lips,
cara mia
. And to think that the mask makers do not have a guild. Magdalena Visconti can do what she likes. There are no rules, no standards for her art. Heaven forbids she preys on the
popolani
with overpriced artless trinkets.”

I was not listening. “But…how could she have financed the atelier in the first instance?” I heard myself repeat, barely breathing.

“That is a mystery, Catarina.  The Milanese and his
strega
are doing very well, are they not? Perhaps the Magdalena has used her witchcraft to find some gold. Isn’t that what everyone in Venezia secretly wishes for? The Napoletana is a clever one. But I pity her husband—
a man without money is a corpse that walks.
”

“I hear she is a cunning merchant. She saw how the
popolani
are demanding more elaborate masks these days. Who wants a plain
bauta
, when you can have pearls and rubies and feathers and what not? Everyone wishes to look his best.  They want a work of art on their faces. They want to be the first to wear this and that color. No one wants to be seen wearing the same masks as the year before. The Napoli woman understands that. It would not surprise me if she made a profit,” added another childhood friend.

“But who, who would lend her such a sum?” I repeated, dismissing claims of witchcraft and ignoring my friend’s rigorous appraisal of my rival. I was tormented. I needed answers.

They both stared at me without responding.

“Catarina, you look flushed. See how you have agitated yourself. You should remain at home on Sundays. Let the priest visit you. Here,
cara mia
, let me take your hand and escort you to a carriage.”

Following my fellow parishioners pressing concern, I did not attend church in the last two months of my pregnancy. I was alone at home, bed ridden on most days. Having little to do apart from ordering the servants, I was plagued with thoughts about how Giacomo passed his time when not in the presence of his trade partners. I grew eager to discover where he set off to daily and the persons he saw outside his merchant affairs. Incessant questions ran through my mind. Had he called upon the Visconti since their settling in Santa Croce? Had Magdalena given birth? I forced myself to think of pleasantries and stared at length at my cupids. 

I devised a plan, if only to keep my soul from unrest. I asked my loyal Slav gondolier to tell me all he knew about Giacomo’s whereabouts. The slave was mine but he sometimes oared Giacomo along the canal when Lorenzo borrowed his father’s gondolier. I vowed to free him and set him up with a gondolier guild within my second child’s fifth birthday if he could tell me everything about Giacomo’s whereabouts. It became our little secret. I felt guilty for my mistrust of Giacomo but I had a rising suspicion that it was he who might have come to the Visconti’s financial aid on Magdalena’s request. 

I have asked myself this question for years. Had my husband come to Magdalena’s aid? Had he parted from ducats in the hope of gaining her favor? Such was my suspicion.

This suspicion grew all the more with each passing day, since Giacomo was no longer lying with me. We slept in separate beds for fear that he would harm the unborn child.  Having set Luca to watch my husband gave me some peace of mind. Each day, Luca returned with no significant news to give me.

The first of the
descos da parto
arrived from friends. They visited in the last month of my pregnancy, bearing these beautifully decorated wooden trays of the sort that are meant to safeguard the birth and ensure that my child would be strong. On gift trays that seemed to come daily, I received jars brimming with poultry soup and sweetmeats.  I gorged myself with sweetmeats. The gifts were so regular that I began to dream of offal.

It was always the same dream. A swarming mass of human offal lay in the Visconti atelier surrounded by a sludge of blood and wherever I stood, I could heard the tinkling of Magdalena’s metallic charms close by. There was no escape. I would awake in sweat, breathing heavily, horrified of falling asleep again.

And still, more
descos da parto
came, more wooden trays with colorful depictions of cupids and little children, or else triumphant processions inspired by Petrarch’s poems. My bedroom walls were adorned with these and everywhere I looked, cherubs and beautiful children stared down at me. Some of these trays were gorgeous and set in gold. One of these had an inscription to bless me and my unborn child. It read, “May God give health to every woman who gives birth and to the child’s father. May the child be born without fatigue or danger! I am a baby who lives.”

All these images had soothed me in my first pregnancy but this time, they did nothing to calm my spirits. Only Luca could have brought me the news I so badly wanted, but every day, he returned with nothing.

At the end of my pregnancy, I was sick to tears of gifts.  The more I received them, the more I grew apprehensive of losing my child. The reality of its impending arrival became vivid and the cold fear of childbirth set in. By then, I was weighted down with at least six coral amulets to protect my unborn child and myself from any
jettatura
. The fear of such persons was the reason I saw no one outside close relatives and servants.

My family believed that one of our neighbors, unfortunate as it was, was cursed with the ability to give the evil eye and cast evil spells sometimes to the detriment of other people’s health. It was not their fault. But this
jettature
may have been the cause of the loss of my dead child a year earlier. It was best that I remain secluded from such persons.

One evening, when Luca did not come, I sent the maid to call for him. The maid ushered him in. He was hesitant. I knew from the fearful expression on his face that something had happened to Giacomo.

I raised myself up on my pillow.

“Luca, you must tell me everything. Remember our agreement.”

He advanced timidly into my bed chamber and cast a fearful glance in my direction.

“My master took to the San Cassiano district last night,” he admitted sheepishly.

I emitted a sigh of relief. I knew that my husband could not have held back for much longer. Of course, I felt the sting, the pain of knowing he had visited a
meretrice
. But in his sin toward me, it was still better than if he had visited the Magdalena.

“Signora, man are weak and prone to the demons of the night. If the signore cannot be with his lovely wife while she is with child, he will seek another woman. But it means little. You understand?”

I emitted a delightful laugh. I found Luca’s short sermon endearing. I stretched out in my bed and relaxed, caressing my unborn child with one hand under the covers.

“Do not concern yourself for me, Luca.
Grazie
. You may go,” I said, dismissing him gently.