The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (20 page)

My child stirred in my belly. I had a sudden thought.

“Luca!”

He returned to my bed side.

“Luca…did you stay with him all night?”

“
Si,
Signora.”

“And…did you see…” I was a little embarrassed by the question. But I had to know. My fear had resurged in me and a terrifying idea devoured me. I sat up and stared fixedly at the bashful Luca, who shriveled with discomfort. “Luca, tell me what she was like, the woman he chose… Was she… did she have red locks like mine? Was she fair in complexion like me?”

I saw by the animated glow in his eyes that he’d understood what I wanted to know. Had my husband sought me or had he sought, on that night, to forget me. I waited, holding my breath for the answer.

Luca pursed his lips.

“Signora, it was late. I did not have a torch. I could not see well from that distance. She was up on the bridge when he took her inside. Her breasts did not glow in the moonlight. She may have been a Southerner. I think…she was a dark haired
carampana
.
Si
. Long black hair,
signora
.” He bit his lips upon seeing the scowl on my face. “Perhaps it was red, too. I cannot remember.”

Liar, I thought. And I collapsed back onto my pillow, too shaken with grief to say anything further. I stared ahead in silence, refusing to look at my slave. Luca left immediately after, with his head bowed in shame.

Erotic images of Giacomo lying with someone who resembled Magdalena sent waves of fury through me. It was not enough that he’d imagined her face while lying with me earlier this year. He had now found someone in her image so that he could play at making love to his Napoletana.

I wanted to cry. The intensity of the past months had reached its climax. I had been defeated. My heart raced with anger. I knew what I wanted to know. He wanted her. He had always wanted her.

I was wracked with a jealousy so intense, that when the first pangs of childbirth tore through me, it was resentment, more than bodily pain, which carried my screams. The mid-wife was surprised when she found me determined to give birth. I wanted my child to live. I had to be strong, strong like Magdalena. But stronger.

Antonio, what else is there to say? You wanted proof of Giacomo’s innocence from the crime of which he is accused. Giacomo’s only crime is toward me, his wife. For the years that followed, Giacomo’s desire for me diminished until we slept no more with each other. This only inflamed gossip and I dismissed servants numerous times to quell the voices. But to no avail.

From Luca, who remained discreet as ever, I knew that Giacomo saw
carampanas
almost every month but they were all dark haired women, women who would give him the illusion he craved and could never have.

When I finally set Luca free, he refused to join a gondolier guild. He remained my faithful servant until he left us three months ago.

Magdalena died three years after she gave birth. It ought to have relieved my anxieties but it did not return Giacomo’s devotion to me. The rift between us grew for years afterwards until Giacomo saw me only as the mother of his children and the creditor to which he owed four thousand ducats for the use of my dowry, as decreed by dowry law. Even his new dogs were granted more tenderness than I.

We remained estranged until this year, when he was murdered. But in all this time, no, Antonio, Giacomo Contarini never desired a man. He desired Magdalena Visconti with every fiber of his loins and every breath of his soul. I saw how he wept when Magdalena’s child drowned six years ago.  It was as though he had loved everything about Magdalena.

This is the confession I promised you, Antonio. Now, between us, you must read this diary and see for yourself, this
janara
I have spoken about. Perhaps she, too, will cast her spell on you.

I remain your friend,
avogadore
. Please safeguard my confession. Have pity on me.

Yours in faith,

Catarina Contarini

Journal of Antonio da Parma

27 December 1422

Today, I read and reread Catarina’s remarkable confession and having done so, I then burned the candlelight over Giacomo’s diary.

The first thing I endeavored was to retrieve the ink portrait.  In it, Magdalena appeared much younger than in the painting hanging in Francesco’s atelier.

I had only met Magdalena in dreams yet I experienced a tightness in my chest as I laid eyes on her.

It is at once strange and pleasurable, this sadness one feels, when in the face of beauty. Could it arise from a pining for something we have once known and long to regain? Or perhaps the realization of our own submission to a being that consumes us, even as it evades us and will never be within reach. 

Those lips, that delicate nose, those languorous eyes beneath strong brows. Her hair seemed to rest on naked shoulders, as though Giacomo had taken liberties with his model. With the pout of her moody lips, she appeared to speak out to the artist, reaching out for him with her eyes, always with her eyes—calling him to bare his soul.

Giacomo had possessed a secret talent. He had admirably captured the light behind her. It descended on her hair like a sensual caress. I deduced that at the time of drawing, Giacomo must have regarded her as a muse, an idol to be worshipped. It was evident that he had drawn her while in Verona, during the days of their courtship. The details he had carefully reproduced of the pendant round her neck hinted to the length of time he must have spent with her. 

I reached for the pendant which I had taken from Rolandino’s corpse and had since wound round my neck by way of a leather cord.  I compared it to the pendant in the portrait. Every aspect of that silver charm had been reproduced with careful attention.

Branching out from each of the rue’s six stems, I could discern the proud crest of a cock, a dagger, the curve of the crescent moon, the coil of serpent, there, a key and finally, hanging from the last stem, a tiny flower that looked to be vervain.  Giacomo had traced them all.

Long into the night, when Carnivale revelers had dispersed and I could no longer hear the murmurs in the
campo
, I abandoned myself to the tarnished pages of Giacomo’s journal. I lay on my back, stretched upon my bed, reading every line, forgetting Catarina’s tale of jealousy and discontent.

I dived selfishly into Giacomo’s secrets. I was now, in a fantastical sense, his rival. I wanted to discover all he had known and felt about Magdalena Di Napoli when she had been the young woman in Verona. Who was this woman? From whence had she come? What perfume had she worn when he had embraced her? What of her dreams?

But there was nothing in these pages to satisfy my curiosity. Giacomo was meticulous, ordered, obsessed with figures and a plain bore.  He had none of that insight which I had seen in Lorenzo, none of that passion even toward his own wife.

There was something about Giacomo’s diary that in fact did not concur with my idea of a youth once enamored with a Napoli enchantress. And yet I perused these pages again and again and could not find what I searched.

I saw lines and lines of stock accounts for silk, spice and sugar, empty pages, then more lines.  There were pages of notes about meeting dates and places with the likes of Ubertino, Guido, Balsamo and of course, Rolandino. There were more empty pages and then occasional notes about what Zanetta had done or said today and how fanciful and extravagant this new generation of adults were becoming. He was, however, not as scornful toward Giovanna as he had presumably been during the banquet on the night of his death.

Again, I saw evidence of a strategic nature. Calculations, sailing dates, interest rates. The only hint to the man’s inner life, the only sign of his admission to guilt in a loveless marriage was a self-promise repeated on several occasions “to avoid the
carampanas
”…

Courteous, orderly and conscientious—so unlike the Giacomo I had heard and seen on the day of Francesco’s murder. So unlike the Giacomo who had inflamed the spirits of his associates and lured them into the vilest murder this city had ever seen.  Upon reading his journal, it would be preposterous to advance that he had ever murdered anyone.

How could this be so?

I stared at the flickering candle light with bemusement. Again I flipped through the pages in disbelief.  Who was Giacomo writing for?

It dawned on me. Giacomo must have suspected that his possessive wife, cloistered for hours in the Ca’ Contarini, would herself endeavor to retrieve his journal. A forgetful moment, one mishap on his behalf, was all it would take for the journal to secretly fall into her avid hands. There had been no locks, nothing to safeguard those pages. Surely Giacomo was not so careless. 

Yet evidently, this diary would have tempted any patrician wife. The more I pondered over this, the more I grew certain that Giacomo had taken deliberate measures to place in this diary, only the thoughts he could bear others to uncover. I was certain that he had written it
for Catarina
.

As for the self-reproaches relating to the
carampanas
, they served as a formal apology to her.  If he had never brought himself to seek her pardon in person—an omission which Catarina’s long term grief and emotional confession had confirmed—it seems he had at least employed his own diary as a means for expressing his increasing regrets for her to find.

And she had found it. She had read it. Perhaps many times. Like me, she had unveiled nothing that resembled a devotion to Magdalena. Nothing, save for that portrait.

Exhausted, I lay Giacomo’s journal to rest on my chest and looked to the ceiling. Something about that diary nagged at me. I remained dissatisfied, convinced that something was amiss.

I was so distracted by my numerous conjectures that at first I did not notice a distinct odor emanating from the pages. It was an organic and unusual smell that I had, at first, not noticed, but which became all the more conspicuous now that the pages sat right beneath my nostrils. 

I picked up the diary and sat up. I opened it once more and raised the pages to my nose. I was not mistaken. The odor seemed impregnated into the pages. Almost as though…

“Giacomo, you most cunning artist!”

I leapt from the bed. I had spoken his name in recognition of his perfid secret and all at once, a rush had come over me.

I turned to the empty pages. I saw that they were old and had been inserted into Giacomo’s diary. I realized that none of them belonged in this journal. 

And there was something else.

They were not at all blank.

I detached one of them and raised it to the flame of my candle. Within a few moments, the ink, which I knew to have been sourced from the milk of a Tithymalus plant, glowed to a charred color and I discerned Giacomo’s familiar scrawl.

Our most meticulous merchant had resorted to invisible ink.

Before long, the page had browned with dense lines of feverish writing that not only ran furiously across to fill every space, but down to the side, as though an overflowing gush of emotions had possessed Giacomo’s quill.

Swept by an urge to read all that those secret pages contained, I tore each one from their binding and, being careful to preserve their order, I brought the invisible ink scrawl to char above my candlelight. I felt the increasing pace of my heartbeat as each page revealed the passionate frenzy of Giacomo’s most secret and forbidden thoughts.

At last, I would discover more about Magdalena and the young woman she had once been.

Diary of Giacomo Contarini

1399 – 5 June

A magical summer day in Verona and a charm to make one sing of love. I have learned more than I ever thought was possible.

She assures me she is not a
strega
. She denies having cast a spell on me. When I tease her and point to her pendant, she presses it beneath her fingers and refuses to speak of it.

Perhaps she fears that I will tell on her secrets. I understand her silence. In Milan, almost ten years ago, a woman was tried by the Milanese Inquisition. She had been foolish enough to admit that she belonged to a society of witches.

I’m only sporting with her. To me, it is all folklore. I do not believe anything of those witches and their rituals. It all matters little. I love only the warm ring of her voice and her impossibly canine teeth when she smiles. If she be
strega
, I will let her cast her spell. If she be a whore, I will take that and be content.

I pine for her bare shoulders and the scent of damask on her skin.

There is a strength in her that I do not see in the young Catarina. It invigorates me.

1399 – 15 July

She says I am childish and perhaps I am. We have not made love even though I know she has a reputation. She has never refused herself and many a patrician boast of having laid with her.

They are without honor dispensing their secrets for all who care to hear and inventing, like cunning liars, for the glory of their manhood. But to ride over her hips and savor her lips would drive any man to boast. 

Yet I am torn. Why does she refuse me? When I part her legs and drive my manhood into her, she will never cry out another name than mine. All the whores of Venezia have assured me that I am well formed and the Napoli girl will soon know the same.

1399 – 29 July

There is not a passage of my mind that has not her name carved upon it.

For days, I could not study.  I absented myself from classes and appointments just to be by her side. I still know little about her. Where does she come from? Why is she so unlike the women of the Veneto?

Firstly it has come to my attention that her name is not Magdalena Di Napoli but Maddalena Di Benevento. A small detail, but it piqued my curiosity. Why would she conceal her real name?

I had never heard of Benevento, so I spoke of it to my Theology professor. At first he was reluctant to respond. He demanded why I was so interested in the place. 

“Giacomo, Giacomo, the Padua library is rich with wondrous treasures. And here you are asking me about a place in Napoli, a little place that a Venetian patrician like yourself should not even care for. Come, come,” he said as we traversed book shelves in the hundreds. “There is so much you could be studying. We have one of the richest collection of Byzantine works.”

“My Greek is not so good,” I replied.

“Yes, but there is so much here to fill your mind, Giacomo. There are books from as far as Constantinople, codices gathered from the East in both Persian and Arabic. Why would you want to read about the little commune of Benevento?”

I insisted. I replied that I knew someone from there, nothing more.

Benevento, he told me, is an ancient city only a day’s journey from Napoli. It is reputed for its beautiful women. He caught me nodding as he said those words. I wondered what he had intuited of the glow in my eyes. Then he grunted before continuing.

“Benevento.
Si.
  It was a most prosperous place before the time of our Lord Jesus. Our Roman ancestors had a name for it. They called it, Beneventum. A mysterious name that was. The
site of good events
. Why would they call it this, I ignore it. Maybe for good luck? These days it is now mostly known for its eerie legends. Giacomo, why are you smiling like a child? You are not considering venturing there, I hope? You still have months of study.”

“It sounds like a magical place,” I said.

“I hardly think so. For all I know, before the Romans renamed it, it was known as Maleventum. A name of most evil augury…”

“The
site of bad events
?”

“A most befitting name. The Romans, it seemed, had it wrong. By tolerating existing pagan practices, they only encouraged what should have been left well alone.”  He paused to scratch his beard. I sensed the discomfort in his next words. “When Christians finally reached the city of Benevento, years later, it had become a festering cesspit of evil. Now, Giacomo, I must leave you…”

“Tell me about those legends,” I said.

He gave me a piercing glance. One that I will not forget.

“What is this new interest, Signor Contarini, and in what manner does it relate to your course? You run the risk of losing your head with your new fancies. You’ve no idea what you are playing with. For your own good, I would refrain from spreading word about that place and the cult of Diana.” He bit his lips.  I realized he had said too much.

“The cult of Diana?” I asked, a wink in my eye.

“By the Saints. Now I have spoken more than your young ears should hear. Well if you must know, and only for the purpose of your education, the Romans knew of a cult, there. In Benevento. They called it the cult of Diana. Of course it is a much older cult. A cult of pagan origin. It existed long before. And now—”

“Older? How much older?”

“They call it the
vecchia religione
,” he hissed. “Now leave it alone, Giacomo. I will see you in class, tomorrow. Do not linger.”

1399 – 4 August

It was no use. I lingered over his words for days.

I understood that Magdalena had changed her name to Di Napoli when she had traveled to the north. The reason was evident. A young woman from Benevento and so far away from home could only raise superstitions. I repeated her name—Maddalena di Benevento. It had a magical sound to it but I was not satisfied. I wanted to grasp her meaning; to know more about her.

I had to know all.  I thought of nothing else. If Magdalena had belonged to the cult of Diana, then what had it meant? A delicious nagging tormented me. It was as though by knowing about her, I could reach closer and closer.

I assembled all I could find from the Padua library.  I consumed the old parchments well into the night. I neglected my early classes.  It occurred to me that I had not even left the library overnight and that no one knew I was still here.

After peering over many documents, nothing came to me. Nothing except an old story about night wanderers.

The Christians of Benevento despised what they saw of the
vecchia religione.
First, there were the fertility rituals of the ancient times. Those that partook of it gathered around a certain walnut tree which the Christians believed to be evil. But what they most feared, was the night wanderers.

The night wanderers. Even the name fired my imagination.

Little is known about these night wanderers.  The cult of Diana is a closed secret.  But it was thought that with the aid of certain magical herbs, a woman who partook in the Society of Diana, a Dianara, could wander into the crossroads. She wandered by day or in dreams.

The crossroads was the world neither here nor there, where ghosts and the devil lurked.

Upon reading this, I have asked myself whether Magdalena was a night wanderer. I could not imagine what it meant. A part of me distrusted old legends.

Since learning about the rituals of Benevento, I have entertained sinful dreams. In these dreams, where I would rather dwell than face my boorish tutors, Magdalena stands before me, naked. She whirls round a walnut tree, her hair floating like mist above her shoulders, chanting songs. I near her. Upon my head, I wear a goat mask with large horns. I take her by force. She offers herself to me. It is a most pleasurable dream and I can testify this by the copious amount of fluids that escapes me in the morning. By Jove, my witch, I feel a man when I am with you.

Who are you mysterious Dianara? And why do you fill my nights and my days? One thing is certain—if all Benevento women are as enchanting as you are, then Veneto men are doomed.

A pox on me.  I must return to my philosophy. Aristotle, how you bore me, old cunt. But, the Napoletana, ah, yes!  She is a delight for my mind.

She is magical and dangerous but I love everything about her.

1399 – 9 August

She is evil and has stolen my heart. But I will not rest until she is mine. I wish for time to renew itself so that I could hold her once more, trace her scented curves beneath my fingers, paint her, paint her still, until I have known every part of her skin.

1399 - 14 August

I am unable to eat. I have been in my lodgments for a week fuming over an incident.

I took to Verona the other day and found Magdalena cold. When I asked her what she suffered, she explained that she had dreamed of a raven and that it descended upon my heart to peck at it. I told her that it was kind of her to dream of me and that she need not concern herself for my heart, that it was in good hands. To which she merely cast a dark glance upon me and said that she would no longer see me.

“What is this? You would not see me ever again on account of a dream?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “On account of the deeds you plot. You are a man of designs, Giacomo, and you are incapable of love.”

What am I to make of all this? Magdalena sways to her dream in a single night and I am tossed away. Who does she take herself for? The Sybil? Unlike the Cumaean prophetess, the Napoletana is no virgin.

It is all a lie and she has deliberately shrouded her reasons in mystery. What does she truly see in me? Has someone drowned my name in mud? Has someone told her of Catarina? To hell with Catarina. I would have forgotten all about Catarina if the Napoletana had opened herself to me. I would have worn the brunt of my parents’ scorn and took it upon myself to wed a woman without a dowry.

Haven’t I spoken of my devotion? Magdalena has already heard of my designs! She knows the passion in my heart and yet the witch rejects me? She rejects me! Giacomo Contarini, son of the most illustrious patrician families in Venezia, rejected by a whore.

1399 – 3 October

I cannot write, I cannot paint. The saints have neglected me to date. For barely two months, I withdrew from her, to sting at her ungrateful heart and what do I learn yesterday? A slimy Milanese has insinuated himself into our courtship! And the word is out that she invites him into her sister’s home. By Jupiter, I would say he has taken my place. What does she see in Francesco Visconti? What does she see in that lout? I would have given her everything. She would not have found a better lover than I.

1400 – February

I am neck deep in soul destroying study so why am I so pleased today?

I have discovered some favorable news this morning about Francesco Visconti’s affairs. Favorable to me, one who watches for the opportune moment. If I play my cards right, the Milanese stands to lose a fortune. I will speak to my parents about my new estate venture. They are certain to offer good advice.

You took what was mine, let’s see how you thrive when I have cut you dry. We will see, then. We will see who has the last laugh Francesco.

1405 – January

Barely five years into my marriage and she is returned to torment me.

Why have you come into my life when I had made my peace? And why, oh why, do you persist with your devotion to that lout? After all these years, surely you would have learned that he is incapable. A man who cannot manage his affairs is not a man. It is no use sitting at church with all your gold around your neck Magdalena, I know that Francesco has not a ducat to his name. And now that you live in misery and that he has planted his odious seed into your womb, I find him even more detestable.

I will not be made to beg for her love. There is no bridging of the sea that separates us now.  I belong to Catarina. I will remain distant. I will look down upon their miserable domestic arrangement.

1406 – October

The saints spare me from tearing this place apart. I am so out of myself that I know not what I said to Catarina. As I write, my hands are still trembling with rage. But if I do not write, I may destroy this very
casa
.

Oh, I knew that the atelier was well furnished. I knew for months that Magdalena had been at work and that the Milanese lout reaped the profits of her art.  It infuriates me to see his smile whenever our paths cross. Does he think I ignore the providence in his life? Were it not for Magdalena, he would have wallowed in his dire lot and remained useless. I take comfort in her new fortunes and in the birth of her daughter but his misplaced arrogance is more than I can bear.

Yet, I was prepared to face defeat.

But nothing, nothing prepared me for what I learned today, that my own Catarina had been making visits to see the Visconti! She has done so four times since she recovered from her labor. Four times! She brings them gifts, she tells me.