The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (2 page)

Vide attraverso il mondo interno

e il mondo esterno,

a destra ea sinistra,

sopra e sotto,

prima di lui e dopo di lui.

Antonio

Journal of Antonio da Parma

19 December 1422

He dreams on a gondola as it glides in silence. Sound asleep he lies, beneath a fiery dawn, while the palace’s Eastern wing rises above and casts golden shadows upon his face.  

This is how I may have appeared to my guide as I drifted off, while he strained with the oar, drawing us closer to the Ducal stones, closer, beneath the towering Campanile, closer to this monstrous Republic of galleys with its islands and canals, into the heart of this lagoon fortress gilded by the sun’s first rays and past her mansions of Istrian stone, whose glorious facades looked on, across a sea of silk and glistening foam.

Curious, isn’t it? How I saw her. 

I would see her differently now.

Daughter of Venus, Venezia, you rose from nothingness. The memory of you…

How could this not be my first diary entry?  For it was that day, as I arrived in Venezia, that I experienced my first vision.

She was standing on the Rialto Bridge. I write, standing, but now that I remember–and it is hard to recall after all that has transpired since–I think, yes... I think she was floating. I swear that I never once saw her feet touch the ground.  I remember the fluttering hem of her gown and the way it thinned into a vaporous mist. I remember that I crossed myself and whispered the names of the saints upon seeing her face for the first time.

She stood alone. She was watching me. 

And I, I saw only her.

She seemed to have eluded the vanity of Venetian women. Perhaps she did not live in our times. She cared not for the blonde locks they coveted, had not shaved her forehead in the new fashion and wore no silk, nor jewelry.  Her hair–I crossed myself again–for it was night, and her black locks were like the manes of a
strega;
insolence upon her shoulders.

Oh, the dark beauty of that face.

I saw, even from afar, the longing eyes beneath their sultry lashes and the parting of her lips as she whispered.  She resembled those Southern women or perhaps those forbidden beauties of Constantinople into whose eyes one dares not stare too long, for fear of some lurking evil.

It struck me at this instant. I ignore how, it struck me that this woman was a harbinger of some fateful event, one that I was soon to encounter, here, in Venezia. 

The sun rose, filtering light through the
rios
, casting flames upon her black hair. My gondolier’s vessel meandered through the lagoon. Light shone on the Canal Grande. 

Still in dream, I gazed at her form but she drew away. No, she floated away, vanishing to the other side of the bridge. And as the morning rays bathed Rialto Market, not a trace of her remained.

The loss of her wounded me. Abandoned by the unsettling vision, I rose from my slumber. I awoke to the stern Ducal Palace looming over our gondola.  It lay still.  As silent as its secrets.

Later that morning, I spoke of my vision to Almoro Donato, member of the Consiglio dei Dieci.  He told me what I did not want to hear.

“Antonio. Antonio, you grieve, my friend. But it must end. Yes, don’t you see? You must find a new wife,
si
?  With so much beauty in Venezia, a man like you—“

“
Basta
. I am already past the fourth decade. I care not for another wife. It was not her I saw in the dream.  The woman, there was something about her—”

But he interrupted me.  I think he has studied me carefully over the years. I suppose his position demanded it. It was under his recommendations that Venezia had appointed me, a Florentine, for the second time. The Consiglio dei Dieci had a well-earned reputation for respecting nobody’s secrets and my employer was a master spy.  He gave me that look of wariness, that short disapproving glare which I remembered from years before.

“Ah, Antonio, see how you drift again. Your preoccupations always lead you into visions. But remember your place,
avogadore.
  I will ask you to prepare for your future role within the
commune
, yes? We will have none of
that
in the Republic, will we?”

He looked at me again.

“Will we, Antonio?”

I may have shrugged my shoulders but the foreboding manner of his words taunted me, even then.

As we crossed inside the palace’s entrance hall, I waved away my unpleasant feelings. I cast aside my dream.  Already Venezia tugged at my soul but I attributed my ill-feeling to his sermon.

“Tommaso Mocenigo is very ill,” he explained, gesturing gravely toward the Doge apartments to our left. “He has been confined to bed for weeks already. When the New Year commences next March, do not be surprised if the patricians are called upon to appoint a new Doge. It is not known how many months Tommaso has to live but I feel his time is near. And between you and me,” he whispered, “our young procurator, Francesco Foscari, would want this time to be nearer still.” He cleared his throat. “Antonio, the Consiglio would prefer it if you remained in Venezia until then.”

I started. “Until March?”

His eyes narrowed. I understood that I had little choice.

I calculated that I would remain in Venezia until at least the commencement of Lent.

And the realization struck me.

Carnivale is upon us; diabolic days where madness surges and unfolds, unrelenting. Where the masses of Venezia, the
popolani
, forget themselves into debauchery and descend ever deeply into the odious core of their fettered being. Carnivale, a season of obscene songs and erotic dance, when the masked rival for attention while making believe they are free.

I never long so dearly for the rolling hills and scented valleys of Tuscany as when I find myself in the Republic during the infernal period of Carnivale.

I refrained from sharing my thoughts and moved inside the Consiglio dei Dieci gathering room for my briefing.

It was after my visit to the palace, when my gondolier had led our boat through the nation of Santa Croce, that I encountered the first abomination.

I think it is where it all began and at the time, I saw it as yet another manifestation of the baseness of Carnivale. I did not heed the veritable meaning of what I saw.

My gondolier had followed the Canal Grande and entered into the San Polo
sestiere
. We skirted the already buzzing Campo San Polo to our right and turned into the
rio
just prior to Campo San Giacomo dell’Orio. I was eager to arrive at my lodgings which thankfully were only a few blocks away. But as we passed one of the wooden bridges in nearby Santa Croce, I noted a curious gathering.

The first thing I saw was that there were five princely gondolas moored in the canal at the foot of an old two-story edifice. Those gondolas of the sort that shame the doge, or if you like, those that brave sumptuary laws, with gilded framing and billowing awnings– the entire structure decorated in the most ostentatious manner so as to announce to all those less fortunate that wealth and power are parading by.

I squinted.  In the center of the nearby
campo
, a curious scene unraveled before my eyes. The proprietors of these alluring vessels stood around an old man with long gray hair. Furious shouts carried to my ears. I gestured to my gondolier who oared with renewed fervor toward them. 

As I stepped onto the courtyard, a hostile band of young patricians in bright red
calza
and black pleated tabards, turned to me. I counted seven of them but did not wince.

Why is it that men when they gather before injustice grow paralyzed, or else turn to their basest impulses? Baseness was what I witnessed on that day.

Ignoring the youths, I observed the five merchants, for that is what they were, silken dressed in their princely
cioppa
, save for two of them who went about in their pristine doublets and embroidered linen shirts. They did not see me. Their attention remained riveted toward the old man who cowered before them.

I whispered questions at passer byes, but the little I derived only frustrated me.

“It is Giacomo Contarini and his partners,” expressed a sour faced banker as he hastened past, his nose half-buried in his books.

“Giacomo who?”

“Giacomo Contarini,” repeated the man in a hushed tone, waving me away. By his manner, I understood that the said merchants possessed influence and were not to be thwarted. Still, the band of youths eyed me from afar, standing proud, in a show of their manhood.

One of the youths stepped forth, striding with a certain arrogance.

“Who are these merchants? Can you name them?” I asked.

The young man gave a mocking smile.

“See the handsome one? The signore with the black silk mantle and the pearls on his hose– that is Balsamo Morosini, Giacomo’s nephew and one of the best negotiators in Venezia. And, the skinny dark one with the
bauta
mask, that is Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s partner.”

“Who is the fat one?”

“Ubertino Canal...and in the scarlet hose, that’s his brother, Guido Canal. Brokers.  Two of the best in Venice.”  He gave an insolent stare in my direction. “And you, Signore? What is your affair, here?”

I glowered at him. From behind, two of the youths dug a hand into their doublet and I knew that they would soon reveal a weapon if I were not careful.

“I am only passing through,” I replied.

I observed the merchants with a growing weariness, wondering what torment they would wage upon the old man. Ubertino’s egg-shaped head glistened with sweat. He looked angry.  The old man had buckled to his knees.

“Someone should stop this,” I found myself muttering under my breath.

“Why?” asked the youth, ogling me with depraved eyes.

“They will teach that Milanese a lesson!” spat another.

I resigned myself and paced toward the merchants.

Seeing me approach, the old man turned.

They had called him the Milanese as though he were vermin. And I knew from the tone in their voices that it was not so much the man’s origins that bothered them, but the bitterness they nursed toward strangers. Strangers who differed. Perhaps the Milanese never went to church. Or perhaps unlike the men of the parish, he did not take part in yearly ceremonies.

Francesco was his name. Francesco Visconti. Days later, when it was too late for me to come to his aid, I would understand that he was the kindest, most soulful man in Santa Croce. But now, what did I know of him? I had only just arrived in Venezia. 

He was still on his knees.  I could discern from the gold paint on his fingers and shirt that he was an artisan by trade. But I paid no heed to it. Not yet. What did I care for masks and trinkets on this unsettling moment?  Instead I stared into his face, hoping to unveil something to make sense of the dishonor of that day. In full light, I stared. I am ashamed to say I wanted to know if Francesco was the brute who might deserve such trashing before I decided to step in.  The Saints help me, I wanted to know if he deserved my involvement before I gathered my courage, pitiful
avogadore
that I am. 

As the proud Giacomo towered above him and dispensed chilling threats, I stared, paralyzed at old Francesco.

You know that emptiness in a man’s eyes, when they are tired, when they have known loss, when all they have loved has long been taken from them. Once they sought for help, and realized there was no one at hand. So they have long stopped seeking it.  It is the same light I saw in gray-haired Francesco on that afternoon.  His tender eyes welled with tears, yet the tears never fell, because he was out of breath from fear.  Because as he pleaded, pleaded for more time–and by that, I knew, he owed ducats, so many ducats–Giacomo signaled to the corpulent Ubertino.

At this, a cry rose from the old man. 

“I promise you… I promise you I will pay soon! I promise!”

I stared in disbelief.  Age is sorrow and sorrow is age. Ubertino sent a merciless blow into the artisan’s chest.  Francesco buckled in sobs.

I did nothing.

If one is a wealthy merchant in Venezia, one has arrived to certain underhanded powers, you see. And the five men who jeered and gesticulated were such powerful men.  I could tell from their hosiery, the weave of their fabrics, the expensive make of their clothes, even the sound of their heels on the courtyard.  All these warned me that I should remain still before this matter. In truth I was timid because I knew not which senator was in league with these men and sought their influence among the ruling Venetian elite. So I did nothing.

The dark Rolandino was now speaking with the youths who eyed me with increasing contempt.

Perhaps someone, in the darkest night could denounce this merchant, this Giacomo Contarini and his friends, by slipping a denunciation to the Consiglio di Dieci. But here? Outside? In the daylight? Would I have interceded when the course of event was already set in motion?

“How much?”

It was my voice.  I had dared to speak up after all.

The merchants did not answer. The Canal brothers looked to my direction with scowls upon their faces.

“How much does this man owe?” I repeated, mildly comforted by the law vested in me. I sought to initiate a discourse and perhaps dissipate the fury that had overcome these men.

“You would do well, Signore, to keep to yourself on this matter,” came Guido Canal’s sly voice. He did not even look at me as he spoke. He gestured in my direction with a warning finger.

“Does the signore have a name?” intoned the sinfully handsome Balsamo, from afar. His long chestnut mane shook as he spoke. He eyed me with near erotic disdain, awaiting my answer.

“Antonio da Parma.”

“Da Parma,” sang Balsamo. “Da Parma, Da Parma…” He had recognized my Tuscan origins. “We have not yet sorted our affairs with the
mascheraro
,” he mocked. 

He had a self-assurance that I found grating, one that had no doubt arisen from his privileged background and a long string of successful negotiations.  Still I discerned a certain rashness in his character.  “You may wait,” he added, admitting no retort.

I felt the anger mount through me but could only stare. I knew I had not seen the worst of these men. Something about Balsamo’s tone told me he spoke for Giacomo, or else he would not have dared voice their common intent.

Wait for what? What could these men seek from an old man?

All this time, their leader, Giacomo, did not once acknowledge me.  What I saw of him was the back of his fur-lined mantle. He had fixed a brooding gaze onto the
mascheraro.
 

The aged man lowered his head. He waited, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched forth, as though in shame.  I saw at once that he was broken. Or perhaps something which he had sensed was to come had broken him.

Balsamo paced around him, clicking his heels like a fierce Andalusian horse.  He chewed at his cheek with a provocative pout and occasionally fixed me with venomous intent. I had a sense that Balsamo felt himself aroused at the thought of being watched, no matter his disgraceful behavior. The Canal brothers seemed to be waiting for a sign. Giacomo stood still.

A menace hung over the courtyard.  A black crow flew overhead. Its croak cleaved the wretched silence.  I grew more agitated and stepped forth.

“Signori, my name is Antonio da Parma.  As
avogadore,
it is my conviction that this matter can be settled with the respect owed to the signore.” I had gestured toward the
mascheraro
, who upon hearing my words, slowly lifted his head to face me.  For an instant, I glimpsed the gratitude in his eyes.  I cherish that moment.

“Signori, it is full daylight,” I continued. “Have you no consideration for the people of this humble parish? I entreat you to desist, at once.”

Ubertino pounced forth, gloves in one hand. Before I realized what was happening, the violence of his blow left a red mark on Francesco’s teary face.

“Signore!”

My protest had no effect. Ubertino showered another two blows at the artisan. Giacomo Contarini still had not faced me.  But now, he raised a warning finger in my direction, as though to silence me. I was startled by a glimpse of his masked face. There was a flaming determination in his eyes. It burned with a rage that I could not fathom.

“Antonio?”

It was Rolandino. He strode toward me, a condescending grin on his mole-dappled face.

“Antonio da Parma, yes? This man, this old wretch, he owes me, he owes us all. It is the gold on his masks, he says, the pretty gems and the feathers.  Lies! We know better. I know he deals with the Jews. Ten percent here, fifteen percent there.  He is getting fat on our ducats.  What do you think, eh? Has this old goat eaten up our ducats? Or is he mocking us? I tell you, it is best you leave now, Antonio.”

“I will not—”

A thunderous voice resounded. “Antonio!”

It was Giacomo. He had spun round to finally face me, the irritating Tuscan stranger. His regal mantle of Alexandrian velvet made his powerful shoulders seem twice their size. He observed me carefully. There was a mad glint in his hooded eyes. I could see now that he wore a gold Volto mask.  Beneath, was an unsettling wall of hatred. Yet just as suddenly as he had called out, his voice instantly softened.

“Antonio, I don’t want to offend you,” he said in a genteel manner. And then he stopped short. He nodded to the youths. Without hesitation, the seven young men stepped toward me. Four of them had seized a dagger.

Rolandino smiled at my distraught expression.

“You are not from here,” he observed as the youths approached. “But you are not haughty like that Milanese. The old wretch thinks he is superior to us all. Playing with our generosity, like we are fools. Days become months and months become years while we wait for this wretch to pay. I tell you something, Antonio. Rolandino does not like to be taken for a fool.  The
mascheraro
, he makes a fool of me? He pays.”

“What will you do? Will you vow to abide to lawfulness?”

“Rolandino does not promise anything,” he said. Then he gestured to the youths.

“You will find the
sbirri
at your doorstep if you—”

I could not finish. Two young men had seized my arms and begun to drag me away.

Rolandino laughed.

“
Avogadore
, this does not concern you,” he called out. “Don’t look so worried, Florentine!”

Then he laughed again.

I wrestled to free myself of the youths, but a menacing dagger was thrust upon my face. Four men gripped me, forcing me into a narrow
calle
. Avoiding the busy thoroughfares, we descended into several empty alleys, down a small flight of steps, then past a
campo
and into a tiny courtyard strewn with refuse.  I no longer recognized this part of Venezia. When we had reached the darkness of a gritty
sottoportico
, the youths released me.  I felt a painful thud as I was pushed violently against a filthy wall.  A sharp blow to the stomach folded me over. I gasped. Further blows came down until I fell unconscious.