The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (24 page)

She gave a furtive glance around the room and appeared anxious. It was impossible that anyone would have ventured in this infernal
sottoportico
but for some strange reason, the old hag had determined that we had best speak softly. She looked at me with foreboding.

“
La cimaruta
è molto vecchia
. Very old. Each one of its charms is an old amulet. My people, the ancient people of Tyre, once knew of some of them.
La cimaruta
is meant for protection, protection from spells. And…it has been known to give second sight.” Her face lit up as she pronounced those words.

“The branches, the rooster, the crescent moon–what do they all mean? And that serpent? Is it evil?”

She fixed me with her black eyes.

“Listen well. The rooster protects her from the evil.  The dagger is her strength. It points to the moon to give her light. The crescent moon are the forces that live in her.
La luna
, she is very important. It is the sign of the
janara
.”

I felt a tug in my chest. “
La luna
! Yes, of course. Diana, the Moon Goddess!” I eyed the pendant with renewed fascination. “And the serpent? What of the serpent?”

“Wisdom...but, together with
la luna
, it can stir evil. And here, the key–the key to all knowledge. I told you, it is a powerful amulet.”

“And what is this flower?”

“
Verbena
. The tears of Isis. Also for her protection.”

“Protection from what?”

“You ask too many questions.”

“Was she really a
janara
?”

“
Si
. Do not doubt her. She was a priestess for the Queen of all witches, a very powerful witch, Signore. And me? I did what she wanted, of course. I made for her the other pendant. For her little one.”

“There are two? Two pendants?”

“
Si
. Two of them in Venezia. She wanted another one, another one for her little girl. She told me of many, many evil persons in Venezia. Me, she said, I am safe with the
cimaruta
, but my child will face great danger. Great danger, she said.”

“What danger?”

She grew indignant.

“From the
jettatura
! What do you think?”

“Old wives’ tales. Superstitions.”

“Foolish widower. You are in love with a ghost,” she spat.

I bit my lips. “And how would you know what is in my heart?”

“The owner of the pendant you hold, she is dead!” she went on.

I stepped back.

“I know this,” I replied, taking care to conceal the disappointment in my voice. “Thank you for your time. I shall leave—”

“But the other one…”

I froze by the doorway. My heart skipped a beat as though suddenly rejoicing. I listened on, wanting her to speak and tell me more.

“The other one, Signore—”

She did not finish. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her body shook. Then she came to and raised a withered palm to her head as though parting from saddening memories. A pained expression contorted her face.

“
Donna
maledetta!
The poor child… It is so sad. Oh, Signore. So sad…”

She seemed exhausted. She sat herself on a Mamluk couch and rocked back and forth in silence.

I remained by the door, waiting for her to reveal more of the second pendant. Who did she mean when she spoke of the poor child? I had since learned that Magdalena’s child had drowned but the crone was responding strangely.

“What about the other pendant?” I asked.

“Stolen from her!
Donna maledetta!
The poor child…” She shook her head once. She was trembling from ire. “Thieves! Thieves!” A harrowing expression possessed her face. She froze. Her eyes looked up in sheer terror. “Please go. Signore, you must leave. You must go now!”

Against my will, I resigned myself to abandon the old silversmith. At least for now.

As I emerged from the
sottoportico
, I held the pendant tight in my palm. I could feel its sprigs and its charms scorching my flesh but I did not care. The visit had confirmed what I knew of Magdalena. The Napoletana possessed powers of witchcraft. She could divine and she could protect herself.

Yet, as I left the Arsenal, it was not this new knowledge which revived me.

No. It was the senseless words the old crone had repeated when she had first spoken. 

She is here! She is here! Constanziaca! I have seen her!

These words echoed in my mind, thrilling my being, until I, the somber mood Florentine with the dark gaze, I found myself running through the
calli
with a smile on my face.

And I knew not how and why, but somehow, I felt at peace.

I felt, without a doubt, that she was truly here.

Journal of Antonio da Parma

31 December 1422

In the early morning of Saint Sylvester, I set off to meet Esteban in a hostelry, off Salizada dei Greci. It was a
calle
to the east of the San Zaccaria Parish. The lodgings were one of twenty. This particular one was tended by Greeks who seemed to have settled the area in great numbers. It offered food, linen and plenty of beautiful women. Esteban himself was dressed like a pilgrim and gesticulated in Castilian toward me as soon as I approached. I took his cue and nodded with a smile as he led me inside.

I noticed that Esteban paced our small room. He seemed a little tense, until finally a woman slipped her head in and, having ascertained who we were, gracefully stepped in.  Under one arm, she held a wig of fine white hair which would soon have me transformed into Almoro Donato.  She spilled the contents of a large satchel onto the bed to reveal clothing, waxes, paints and facial pomades. Also in her possession was a bucket of water donated by our host.

No sooner had she deposited these items than Esteban took her in his arms and dragged her to him by the waist.

“Blanca
mia. Luce dei miei occhi
,” he murmured, inhaling the nape of her exposed neck.  Then he placed a hungry kiss on her lips as though I was not in the room.

“Allow me to introduce you to Blanca,” he said, turning to me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Blanca has a talent for disguises.” He smiled in her direction. “
Si, si, donna, sei un tesoro
.”

She gave a cheeky pout of her carnation lips and mock-curtsied.

In a few moments I understood that the woman who stood before me was a common prostitute. Though she was in her thirties, she was exceptionally beautiful, of satin white skin, expressive eyes and high cheekbones. Her oval face was dotted with no less than three strategically placed false moles and the black taffeta of those
mosche
did wonders to enhance the pearl-like quality of her skin. Her rich red hair descended in bountiful locks down her bare shoulders. She wore no gold chains around her neck but two amber beads dangled from each earlobe. What she revealed of her ample bosom which flounced at the rim of her low cut silk dress, was enough to confirm my suspicion.

We observed each other–I, wondering where I had seen her before and she, possibly assessing the judicial world that I had come from. There was a mutual tension arising from the sudden manner in which our respective identities had been revealed.

“I shall leave you to it then,” said Esteban with a wicked grin. “I must hasten and find you a trustworthy gondolier, Signor Donato!” And before I could protest, he had left us. 

I did not resent him for long. I was intrigued by Blanca’s noble movements and the manner in which she set out to complete her assigned task.

She began by spreading a greasy substance on my face. She had soon covered my forehead, temples, nose, chin and eyes. Satisfied, she soaked strips of cotton cloth in water and pasted them across my face, pressing them down to contour my features. 

“I shall now use a different cloth,” she said. “The gauze has been impregnated with plaster. Please do not open your mouth. Try to be still.”

Soon my face had been covered by three layers of such cloth. I felt the damp stiffness and dared not breathe nor speak. Still the lingering scent of damask hung about me with each of her fluid movements. At last she had finished and I heard her sigh.

“Now we shall wait until it dries, Signor da Parma.”

It astounded me that her voice was so polished despite her profession.

After moments that seemed to me eternity, she reached forth and began to cautiously pry the dried plaster from my face. I felt the whiff of cold air upon my liberated features and gazed in astonishment at the mask before me. With a sharp dagger, she trimmed off the edges of the mask and pierced the sides to make little holes.  She began to rip further strips of cloth. For a moment we said nothing until she broke the silence.

“You are an admirer of Esteban, I can see it. He is so handsome, isn’t he?” she whispered in my ear as she wiped traces of plaster and wax, off my face.

“I have never met a man such as him.” I replied curtly, closing my eyes under the contact of her skin.  She had nearly finished.

“I will now fashion this mask into the portrait of Almoro Donato. It will be perfect, you will see. The man has a large hooked nose, not as noble as yours…”

She began to hum as she worked. I had closed my eyes and I felt, much to my discomfort, that there was a quality in Blanca’s voice that was known to me. Now she began speaking of her first encounter with Esteban.

“Women who run the risks of my trade to make a living are at the mercy of dangerous men. I am glad I have Esteban. He protects me. Ever since I have met him, three years ago, I have always felt safe. Most men are frightened of him.”

I understood that Esteban had taken on a role of her protector and lover.  It was common for prostitutes to have recourse to a bandit for their own security. Blanca continued to speak and I grew frustrated, wondering where I had heard her voice.

“Shall I tell you a secret, Signor da Parma? I was nearly abducted three times. Twice I fought them off. The abbess, that is how we call our madam at the whore house, she helped me run off the second time. She burst into the room and told the client he was no longer welcome. The third time was harrowing. I thought I would be dead, Signore. We were in the gardens and there was not a soul in sight. The man was intoxicated. He held a knife to my face and threatened to cut me. I had never felt so frightened in my life. I screamed and wrestled him, until Esteban heard us and fought him off. He gave the man a great fright but spared his life. I shall tell you something else. My would-be abductor was a lawyer, married, with three children. At present, he does almost anything for Esteban.”

“But you no longer engage in your trade, now, do you, Blanca?” I asked, unsettled by her tale.

“I may be Esteban’s companion, Signore, but I earn my own living,” she proudly replied. “A woman like me fends for herself. She needs no one.”

Yet there was an uncertainty in the tone of her voice.

“Esteban and I have made a pact,” she added.

“A pact?”

“That he will take me with him to Aragon, to be his wife, on the condition that I were to desist from my trade. It is my dream to leave Venezia with him and Esteban says that one day, we shall. But three years have passed and he shows no signs of leaving. What do you think, Signore? Do you think I should trust this handsome
bravo
?”

“He appears fond of you.”

“Oh, he is! That is the reason he wishes me to see no clients. But how should I know that he is serious at all, when here we are, still in Venezia, with Esteban still preoccupied with his affairs.”

“There is yet time, Blanca. Perhaps Esteban is not yet ready to leave for Aragon.”

“Time! You both employ the same words. ‘We have all the time in the world, Blanca. Just allow me to finish a task that remains unfinished.’ His words. Men!”

That voice…

“What do you think, Signore?”

I looked to the mask. My features were no more. She beheld a crude face with a hooked nose, sallow cheeks and hooded eyelids. It was a modest beginning. She had yet to apply the paint and pomades. Under the torch lights, the resemblance would be complete.

Blanca peered into the courtyard below. The sun had not yet set. It gave off rays that lightened her locks. She turned to smile at me.

That hair…

I could no longer sit still, aghast by my own sentiments. I was determined that her voice had a distinctly familiar quality and I would not rest until I had ascertained the fact.

“Have you always been a
meretrice
, Blanca?” I asked.

“Why do you ask?”

“Your manner, perhaps. They are the manners of a well-bred patrician.”

“Do you think courtesans incapable of good breeding?”

“That is not what I meant.
Perdonami
.”

Her shiny black eyes gleamed with a sudden understanding.

“A woman has to survive,” she answered simply. But she was suddenly less sure of herself.

She began to apply the paint and make up onto the Almoro mask, occasionally raising her eyes to meet mine.

As for me, I had finally identified the voice. And each time Blanca raised her inquisitive eyes in my direction, I could see that my insistent gaze troubled her. I must have appeared eager to give voice to the question that burned my lips.  At present there was not a doubt in my mind.

“Is the nunnery of San Lorenzo such a terrible place, then?” I asked.

She froze.

The startled expression upon her face did not lie.

“How do you know about me?” she spat. She had been blending paints. She was still holding her brush, but now her hand trembled.

“Only what your sister told me,” I whispered.

A furious blush caught her cheeks. I could see the shame mounting in her with the quivering of her lips. I knew I had gone too far.

“I am gravely sorry…” I began.

“You know nothing, Antonio da Parma. Do not judge me!”

“I visited your sister, Catarina. You resemble her very much, Blanca. I simply had to know.”

“Resemble her?” Her lips trembled into a pout. “She abandoned me. Just like my own parents. She ceased responding to my letters. For weeks… Months! Months went by… I received nothing from her. I had to survive, you understand? You will not speak of this. You will not speak of what I have become, either to her, or to the Ca’ Contarini. And never to the Canal!”

“Please understand, I have no wish to be a thorn in your side, Signorina. We are bound by our mutual silences,” I said, referring to the ruse I would soon adopt to enter the palace.

She looked in bitterness to the window, avoiding my eyes. The flaming red of her hair was highlighted once again by the winter sun.

“Do you know why my father locked me in a convent? You will think what many others believe—that the Canal possessed only enough fortune to afford one dowry and that it was Catarina who was lucky enough to be given in marriage. Yes, there are many who think that. But they are wrong. If only that were true. You see, Antonio, my family had immense wealth. So much wealth that it would have displeased them to see their daughters wedded to any man whose class and wealth did not exceed their own. Catarina’s husband satisfied their whims for social standing.  As for me, I was courted by the less fortunate.  The truth, Antonio, is that the Canal would not allow me to marry beneath our class. I was sacrificed to God to let it be known that no unmarried man existed who could win me. I became a token of the Canal wealth.  No more, no less.”

She gave a half smile. “Forgive me, Antonio. I should not have raised my voice at you. You are Esteban’s friend. I wish you to know that I did all I could to keep happy in the convent, but it all became too much in the later years. With my sister’s neglect, I grew poor. I was a drain on the abbess. I was not the only one in San Lorenzo to meet this end; there were many of us. They would have sold our flesh to visiting gentlemen in the end. You seem surprised. But it is true. 
Nonnas
have become prostitutes. My entire family forgot me, Signore. What would you have me do?”

“How long ago was this?”

“Five years.  The last time Catarina saw me, it was six years ago. I was so relieved to see her. She took me outside. She fussed over me. How she fussed! And then, nothing. I never understood it. When she sent no word for months, I understood that I was alone. And do you want to know something, Antonio? I took matters in my own hands. Do you think I have always been in high spirits, resplendent with health, the way you saw me with Esteban? With passion in my voice? No, Signore. I was a sad twenty year old, gaunt and lonely. Even my bosom had shriveled. I was dying inside, rotting away in a convent. All because my own father had wanted to rise in the eyes of others. 

“One night, after I had drafted another letter to Catarina despite her refusal to respond to many others, I was about to trim off my hair, as I had done for years, but an idea came to me. ‘No, Blanca,’ I told myself. I would leave it to grow long and prosper. I would flaunt my beauty and reap of it. I had seen how the visiting abbot occasionally stared at me with languorous eyes. For months, the other young nuns had shared what they believed–that they suspected he held a secret passion for me. As for me, I feigned ignorance, running away from an act I had never known. For months, the abbot’s lust filled me with repulsion.

“But on the night I chose to let my hair reach my hips, I had also made a decision. I wanted to be like
them
. Those
meretrici
who often visited and befriended us. They were charming and witty.

“They were free.

“They were empowered by the knowledge that they had a hand in their own destiny. I wanted to spend the nights out with them, into the streets, as some of the
nonnas
did.  I longed to enjoy the nights and the ducats that came of them. I had planned to dress as a man for the privilege of attending Carnivale and to be alive in the merry dance of Venezia.