The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (23 page)

He was interrupted by the attendant bringing forth an enormous leek and goat cheese pie. We had ordered braised pork cutlets and a well-seasoned plate of
Sarde in saor
to complement. Despite Esteban’s unsettling proposition, my mouth already watered at the prospect of sweet and sour fish. Our little banquet looked all the more appetizing now that my heart pounded with excitement.

We waited for the attendant to be out of earshot before resuming our plan.

Esteban cut through his pork with a sharp swipe of his knife. He swirled the meat in its jus and took a taste with his eyes closed.  I had soon brought him back to reality.

“Signor Del Valle, you would have me impersonate Almoro Donato! Why, Esteban, you think me enamored of death? I may as well stand between those two granite columns and offer my neck to the executioner.”

He shot me a dark glance.

“In the sunlight, that may be. But not under the pallid glow of flambeaux. And if you remain in the darkness, only the outline of your face, nay, of your mask, shall be seen. I know what I speak of.”

“And I say that it cannot be done.”

“Deny it if you will. But what shall you say when I tell you that I, myself, have attempted this very farce.  Antonio, one keeps away from the bright lights and the illusion is complete.  The spell only works in the night, but it works.”

“Very well,” I said. “If I do as you say, we may have a chance. Do you think I can do it? Enter the palace unrecognized? Find Gaspar’s contract and deliver it to you?”

Esteban gulped down more wine. “I believe you can, Antonio. You would know the Nuevo Palazzo back to front whereas I do not. You are familiar with the whereabouts and operations of the Consiglio. Your confidence is all I await. We will take this chance whenever you are ready. I know where to find a resembling wig and a Consiglio attire. Leave that to me. The rest is up to you. When do you think it can be done?”

He noted the frown on my brow as I remembered something. “What day is it?” I asked.

“30 December.”

“Then we have no choice,” I said. “It must be done tomorrow.”

“Why so soon?”

“It must be tomorrow night. The Council of Ten members were elected in September this year. They took their post at the end of September. Each of the members is appointed for one year. Every month in that year, the members elect three Capi.”

“Three what?”

“Three Capi. They are the Heads of the Council and have judicial authority. It is a regulation that the Capi may not leave the palace during the entire month—for fear that they may be bribed, you understand? During this month, none of them can leave the palace.”

“I gather that Almoro has not yet had his turn at being Capi.”

“Precisely. In October, they elected Victor Bragadino, Roberto Mauro and Petro Duodo. In November I believe it was Bartholomeus Donato, Petro Lauredino and a certain Marcus whose last name eludes me. Almoro was not Capi in October or November. Now we are in December and you saw him walk outside the Palace…”

“Damnation.”

“My predicament exactly. Tomorrow is the last day of the month. In January they will elect the three new Capi. My guess is that Almoro will be one of them. He will be confined to the palace for one month. It is therefore too dangerous to wait until January. I cannot be him while he resides in the palace. It would arouse suspicion. He may even see me himself! If we have to do this, it has to be tomorrow.”

“But in such a short time, how will you master the Venetian tongue?”

“I will do what I can. I have all afternoon to make practice.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

I nodded.

I left Esteban shortly after the tournament ended.  A bullfight was set to begin.  There were now more men and women in the Piazza and all remnants of propriety had been dissolved. I frayed myself a passage beyond the offensive crowds and sought a gondola.

It had not surprised me how eager Esteban had been to execute our plan. I took it merely as his desire to regain his wealth.

What Venetian citizen would refrain from such a prospect?

***

Letter from Esteban del Valle to his client

It will be tonight. Tonight, our agreement is complete and my engagement shall draw to an end. 

In a week, I shall sail to Aragon.

Your loyal servant.

Back in my new lodgments, I mentally rehearsed the Venetian tongue with its childish tonalities.  I amused myself while impersonating Almoro’s shuffle. As I hunched forth, the large pendant dangled before me and struck me on the chin.

A sudden urge took hold of me. One strange desire it was, one with no name, not even a face, save this silver rue that I could not part from. The urge was strong. I knew by my lack of resistance that my afternoon’s acting rehearsal was forever ruined.

Digging feverishly at my throat, I beheld the talisman and rested it in my palm so that it filled almost half of it. For a while, I lay in bed to examine it.  Unsettling desire it was.  It bore her face, the face of a ghost that had long vanished and yet its presence seemed near, so near that I had only to reach out, to reach out and grasp it.

I longed to unveil the secrets of this pendant.

Without hesitating, I draped myself in a woolen cloak and set out for the Arsenal.

In the cramped living quarters that lined the shipyards, was the realm of the Arsenalotti, a bellicose people who for years, had given Venezia its sailors, its marine carpenters and shipbuilders. They were a thriving lot, thanks, in part, to the favor of the noble classes who were their principle clientele. They were the firemen of Venezia and among them were also generations of gondoliers and an elect group of men who served as bodyguards to the Doge. They kept among themselves, intermarrying and monopolizing their trade.

Here, even the women, unlike their patrician sisters, were hard at work.  In these parts, there was no idle basting under the sun in the quest for golden locks. The Arsenalotti women were far from sheltered. They moved with great freedom, setting about their work, or running the stalls in the garden markets which spilled onto the Eastern side of the Arsenal.

The women held their own. They were the sail makers, the crafty artisans and the rambunctious retailers. Here, perhaps, lay the root for this odd belief that Venetian women were hardier than their men.

I passed a maze of shops and wine houses. When I had ventured deep into a narrow
calle
, a lithe woman, donning a cotton dress of many colors and draped in a black shawl, ran to me. She pressed her bare hand to my mantle, her green eyes eager for a
zecchino
. I started.

“Pick a card from the
tarocchi
! Pick one, Florentine. And the second one and the third!
Vi dirò la vostra fortuna
. You will see,” she cheered, as though promising wondrous things. “Let Zara read your future, Signore.”

A fortune teller? One who had somehow recognized my origins! I shuddered to think of the task that lay before me tomorrow night. If I could not fool these people into believing I was a Veneziano, then perhaps there was no hope.

I gaped at the gilded cards brandished in my face. They were numberless and hand-drawn. On one side, they depicted some obscure iconography that I’d never seen before. At first, I had mistook them for Mamluk cards. Those, I knew, were forbidden, at least in Florence.  But the ones Zara held up were different. They looked to be foreign. She shuffled them with her knotty fingers and presented them to me, face down, a wily expression beneath her hooded pupils.

I hesitated. Fortune telling was illegal and invited papal scorn…

Holding my breath, I reached for a card.

“Now the second one, Florentine!
Vi dirò la vostra fortuna
,” she urged, with her oddly Castilian accent.

I obeyed, presenting three cards, drawn from the
tarocchi
pack.

“Now, we will see. We will see. But first!” She eyed me expectantly. “
Zecchino
.”

I handed her another coin.

“Alas, Florentine!” She shook her head. She showed me a depiction of a staff-bearer in a high hat. It appeared to be a priest of some kind. 

“This is your past, Florentine. Tradition. Tradition has been your lot. You bring wisdom and fear in your path and you never stray from your path. What are you afraid of, Florentine? What are you afraid of?” 

The second card seemed to startle her. I saw that it depicted a golden crescent beneath which two dogs were howling.

“La Luna! Confusion!” she sighed, her eyes suddenly ablaze. Then she pressed my cloak with frantic urgency.  “Give me more money! Money now, before anyone sees us,” she hissed.

“You wretched woman. Be gone!”

I scrambled out of the
calle
, while her hand still clung to my cloak.

“A little
zecchino
for the pretty Zara and she will take away your confusion. You are unsure of the path, Signore. Si! Signore
, vi dirò la vostra fortuna. Vostra fortuna
!”

Appalled, I stumbled back onto a fruit vendor who protested with such fury that Zara was startled.  Her cards slipped from her hands. As she leaned forth to gather her pack, my third card was revealed. For an instant, I remained stunned, staring at it, not comprehending. Then I turned away, running through a dark
sottoportico
and into the next
calle
.

It was here, Esteban had assured me, that I would find the charm makers and those who peddled gifts to the touring pilgrims before they set out to the Levant. Beside a broad stall, selling both silver and cheap metal jewelry, sat a little girl in a dirty dress. She was tossing about a set of dice. Children in rags played with little wooden dolls and fought with improvised wooden swords. I ventured into the next alley which I knew from the bustling crowds was frequented by more pilgrims. 

The delicious aroma of roasted chestnuts wafted in the cool air.  Beside the chestnut vendor, I noted a dilapidated stall where hung all manner of coral and silver amulets. These looked large and promising.

I peered under the curtained awning, my face still covered by a leather
bauta
.

“Do you make one like this?” I asked in a broken Venetian accent. I flashed the silver pendant into a young girl’s face. She shook her head.

“Where can I find one of these?” I repeated.

She eclipsed herself and emerged again with her mother; a woman veiled from her head to toe with kohl-lined eyes. The Mamluk woman examined me in silence then reached forth to my neck.  A reddish dye stained her fingers down to her palms and wrists, yet I let her cradle the pendant as she inspected it thoughtfully. It seemed to intrigue her but she shook her head with a scowl.

“Do you know where I can buy one? Like this?” I asked again.

The woman merely waved me away. She did not seem to understand me. And then the little girl gave a tug on her mother’s veil and this one craned her neck to take in the whispered words.

At once, the Mamluk woman nodded. As she could not leave the store for decency’s sake, her child took me by the hand and led me to the end of the street. We meandered toward the northern port, in what seemed like a cluster of narrow alleys, thick with Arsenalotti, until at last, we had reached a dead end
calle,
smelling of incense and amber. Here, the cold of the lagoon stung at my eyes.

I was distracted by a flight of doves pecking the ground at my feet and when I looked again into the infernal
campo
, the little girl seemed to have disappeared. To my left, in a narrow
sottoportico
dampened by moss and ferns, her slight silhouette moved in the darkness. I could still hear her lithe footsteps flit away into the distance. I stooped to avoid hitting my head then stepped cautiously inside, reaching for the grimy walls to avert a slippery fall.  I ventured deeper, where the light had ceased to shine.

“Where have you gone to, child?” I called. My voice returned to me in an eerie echo.

“I am here.”

I halted. In the doorway, on my right, was the shadow of an old crone. The little girl stood by her side, solemn and satisfied with her guiding skills. Much to her delight, I took out a coin and handed it to her. With a joyful sigh, she dashed out of the
sottoportico
.

“What do we have here?” said a gleeful voice. “A stranger from the Tuscan lands. What has brought you here, stranger?”

I had never seen a woman so utterly deformed as the one that stood before me. She was maybe five feet tall, her stout form swathed in a torn shawl of various hues. She stared insolently at me, her eyes as black as the night. But it was the wart like appearance of her wrinkled skin, her hirsute protruding chin and her sagging cheeks, that horrified. She seemed like a diseased spirit, carrying with her all manner of ills. I stared with fright at the bulbous formations on her giant hands whose fingernails were torn and shriveled beneath swollen fingertips.

I reached for the pendant with trembling fingers and held it up for her to see.

“Greetings, Signora. I wish to know if you have seen this pendant.”

Her narrowing eyes rested on the silver rue with its six dangling charms. She grunted and curled her upper lip. If she had teeth, one could not see them. It would seem that this woman knew of her horrendous appearance.  Perhaps she had chosen to hide, deep in the entrails of the port, where the superstitious Venetians, whose sensitivities were soon appalled by anything that did not meet their standards for beauty, would never be offended by her presence.

“Signora,” I persisted, stepping into the doorway closer to her, despite my fear. “I need to know if you have seen this pendant before.”

“And what if I have?” she snapped.

“I want to know what it means.”

She examined me as though to gauge whether I might survive a further encounter with her. At last, she relented.

“Come in.” She moved aside to let me pass. She seemed to sniff out my clothes as I entered.

I crept forward, ever hunched, into the den of this old devil. The smell of burning silver and other metals reached my nostrils. I could see from the ornaments in her abode that she had been at work and could fashion silver jewelry like the very best smiths of the city.

“Now,” she said, hands on her wide hips, “let me see what you have brought here, Signore.” And before I could respond, she gave a startle. “You are a widower,
si
?”

“I…”

“
Si, si
… I see you now. Come closer. Into the candle light. Come! Closer, don’t be shy. A widower. You are searching…searching for your one true love!”

Without warning, she emitted a hardened cackle and eyed me with a mockery I could not stand.

“
Si
, Signore, your true love!” she gloated.

Her eyes widened abruptly and she began to whisper.

“Signore. I know where she is! I know!
She is here! She is here!
Constanziaca! I have seen her!”

“Signora, I don’t know anyone called Constanziaca,” I muttered, pulling away from her grip.

“I have seen her!”

“What are you babbling about? Signora, have you or have you not cast your eyes on this pendant before?” I shouted, shoving the silver before her frenzied face. At once her childlike expression disappeared and she roared at me.

“Of course I have seen it! I made one just like it!”

I was taken aback.

“You have?”

She stepped away and began to move around inside her little one-room house as though she was suddenly weighted down by memories and refused to mention them. Her hands probed the couch, the rugs, the spoons and silver pieces as though every touch could revive the past and send images to her failing mind.

“
Si
, Signore. I made one like it. Many years ago…for a beautiful woman. So beautiful. She found me just like you did. She came to me with the
cimaruta
. One just like this one.”

“The
cimaruta
… Wait. Who was this woman?”

She stared at me and slowly, her thin lips curled into a sinister smile. “A
strega
from Napoli.” The jagged row of her blackened teeth sent a chill through me. But it was nothing compared to the chanting in her voice when she whispered the next words. “You believe in witches, Signore?
Si
. I know you do! Or you would not be here.”

“Tell me about this woman.”

“I don’t know her by name. But… She wore the
cimaruta
every day. To keep her safe, Signore and…to give her the second sight.” She smiled. “You understand?”

I gave a frown. Her black eyes shone as though they were welcoming me into the gates of hell.

“
Guardalo
,” she said, pointing her crooked finger toward the rue’s branches. “Look carefully. Each of the branches has its own power. You may believe this is just a silver adornment but the pendant lives.  It carries its own life force.”

“Do you…do you know what it means?”

“
Si,
Signore. I do.”