The Midwife of Venice (20 page)

She needed to return the child to the palazzo, to tell the Conte of his brothers’ actions. She looked down at her dress and at the child. Both of them were covered in blood.

And then she remembered. Her entire body started to shake as though with fever. The Conte and Contessa had already left for Ferrara. There was only Jacopo at the
palazzo. She had not saved the child only to deliver him back to one who would finish the job Niccolò had started.

With Matteo in her arms, she hurried back to the shop and found a bucket of water and a clean rag. She wiped the baby’s face and hands. As she began washing herself, her legs began to tremble so violently she had to ease herself to a squatting position on the floor. She tried to smooth her hair and fasten it with hairpins, but the pins tumbled from her hand.

As she stared into the bucket of pinkish water in front of her, she asked herself where she could go. Who would take her in? She could not remain in the ghetto with this noble child, in his linen swaddling bands, wrapped in a blood-spattered silk blanket embroidered with the di Padovani crest. If the
Prosecuti
discovered Matteo in her
loghetto
, the
campo
would run red with Jewish blood and Hannah would be as guilty as if she had wielded the knife herself.

She must hide until the Conte and Contessa returned—but where? The only person Hannah knew outside the ghetto would never give her sanctuary—or would she?

H
ANNAH STOOD IN
front of Jessica’s house overlooking the Rio della Sensa pleading in vain with Matteo to cease his hungry wail. She clutched him, jiggling and cooing in a frantic manner that attracted the curiosity of a water carrier struggling along under a yoke of pails. At least she had managed to scrub the blood from Matteo’s face. As she had made her way through the streets of Parochia San Alvise, she had stolen an ill-fitting dress and cap from a clothesline and stopped briefly to change into the clean garments, stuffing her bloody
cioppà
into her bag next to the birthing spoons.

She jerked the bell cord of her sister’s home. The ring echoed along the Fondamenta della Sensa and throughout the house. Her stolen clothes made her appear Christian—or as Christian as she was capable of looking, given her strong profile and black eyes. Her feet remained bare and they were frozen to the bone. It was fear, her trembling arms and her knees which would not stop shaking, not her foolish clothing, that made her as conspicuous as if she were sitting in the men’s section in synagogue.

Matteo continued his crying. She reached inside the neck of her dress, touched the silver amulet, and brought it to her lips. The amulet was warm from her body, and she took comfort from it—but of what use would a
shadai
be now?

The house was pretty, as Jessica had said, with elegant arches in Istrian marble and fine stone tracery giving a lacy appearance to the facade. On the second floor the facade was a bas relief of the Annunciation. Thank God, she thought, the street level has no wall shrine with votive candles and a figure of a scourged Christ, just a ham hung in the window for all to see, a silver cup suspended under it to catch the dripping fat. Backing up a couple of steps and craning her neck, she glimpsed an
altanà
on the roof with a wisteria vine spilling over the rail. Shifting drowsy Matteo to her other arm, she rang the bell again.

When a maid finally opened the door, Hannah said, “Tell your mistress Anni is here.” This was the nickname Jessica had given her when, as a child, Jessica could not pronounce the letter
H
. The young maid, no doubt
suspicious of this bare-footed late-night caller wearing an ill-fitting dress, closed the door and left Hannah standing on the step while she went to speak to her mistress.

Hannah felt the eyes of dozens of homeless men and women passing by, desperate for a doorway to sleep in for the night. They stared at her: the dishevelled woman cowering there, clasping a screaming baby.
Please hurry
, Hannah silently prayed. She looked down and noticed a cut on her wrist that was still bleeding. In her haste she had neglected to bind it with a rag. She licked off the blood. A bloodstain the size and shape of a hummingbird marked Matteo’s blanket. She refolded it to conceal the spot. If Jessica refused to admit her, Hannah might as well surrender herself to the
Prosecuti
now and be executed as a witch.

Hannah’s arms ached and she transferred the now-sleeping baby from one arm to the other. Finally, when the bells of San Marco chimed signalling midnight and Hannah was about to steal away, to go God knows where, the maid returned, stared for a moment at Matteo, and ushered them into the house, up the stairs, and into a bedchamber almost as grand as the Contessa’s.

Three weeks earlier, when Hannah had seen Jessica on the Grand Canal, it had been dark, lit only by the gondolier’s lantern, which had cast deep shadows. Now Jessica sat in the glow of dozens of candles in front of a mirror while her lady’s maid arranged her hair in curls. Her dark hair was swept high off her forehead and cascaded down her neck and around her shoulders. Jessica’s skin was like the velvety skin of a peach. When Jessica was a child,
Hannah had been tempted to take a nibble of one round cheek to see if juice would flow.

Jessica’s back was turned to her, her eyes fixed on her own reflection in the mirror behind her dressing table. “You have come to apologize for your rudeness? It is the only excuse for your visit I can think of.”

Hannah swallowed hard. Matteo lay still in her arms. She carefully placed her bag on the floor in front of her. Then she said, “I have no place to stay. I am asking you to give me shelter. I know I have no right to ask, but it is for a few days only.”

Jessica fussed with a tiny pot on the table in front of her for so long that Hannah thought she had not heard her. Finally she replied, “You would not understand the intricacies of a
toilette
. You have never taken any trouble with your appearance, other than to fling on your rumpled clothes from the night before. Do you still hang your entire wardrobe on a single hook behind your door?” She twisted her head to look over her shoulder as the maid applied a beauty mark to her back. “I would not be seen looking like you. You, with your pale face and oversized dress with the bodice pouching out.” She wriggled a shoulder to test whether the sequin was securely affixed. “Now you carry a bundle in your arms. Of what? Rags? Is this the new fashion?”

Although Jessica had hardly glanced at her, she seemed to know the minute details of Hannah’s appearance. Hannah could think of nothing to say. Her sister’s cold confidence always had a way of making her feel foolish. With one look or negligent wave of her hand, she could
make Hannah feel clumsy, unable to stand straight, unsure of what to say or do.

“I know my words wounded you. I spoke cruelly, and I apologize,” Hannah said.

“I wonder that you have the audacity to ask anything of me, let alone that I take you in.” The maid, a young girl of about fifteen, teased a tress of her mistress’s dark hair, secured it with a pearl on a silk thread, and pretended not to listen. “Out of curiosity, this costume of yours—what role are you playing? A shepherdess? A penitent on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela? If so, you lack the requisite clamshell around your neck, which can be remedied. I may have one around the house I can give you the loan of.” When Hannah made no reply, Jessica said, “Oh, of course!” She clapped her hand to her forehead, careful not to disarrange her hair. “A laundress! That would explain the bundle.” She picked a stray hair from her gown.

Hannah felt a fool in spite of her growing anger. She used to change Jessica’s swaddling bands; now she had to beg her little sister, first for forgiveness, and then for shelter.

Matteo whimpered and arched his back, demanding food.

Her sister whirled about in her chair to stare. “What in God’s name was that? Have you managed to bear a child at last?”

“The child is why I am here, Jessica. I come because I have no one else but you to turn to for help.” Hannah was unable to keep her voice steady.

“You despise me and think I am immoral, and now you want my help?”

Jessica waved the maid out of the room and closed the door. She rose from her dressing table and bent over for a look at the baby, lifting the coverlet out of the way. Matteo waved a foot at Jessica. Reddish-blond wisps clung to his head; his eyes were shockingly blue.

“Are you mad? Have you lain with a gentile? This is a Christian child.”

“He is a Christian, but he is not mine.”

Matteo was crying, loudly now, his face red with fury. He waved his fists in the air.

“Was your need for a child so great that you stole him?” Jessica leaned closer to Hannah to be heard over Matteo’s screams.

“He is in danger,” Hannah said. “His uncle was trying to kill him. I need stay only a few days until his parents return.”

“You dare to bring this child to my house? You risk my life!” She peered at the tiny form screaming in Hannah’s arms. “Holy Mother, can you not shut him up? My neighbours will think I am castrating a cat.”

Hannah said, “This is the newly born di Padovani infant.”

“Sweet Jesus, not just any Christian child but a noble one. I know the family well—two of the sons anyway.”

“His uncle was going to murder him in the ghetto and place the blame on me. The whole of the ghetto would have suffered the consequences. Does that not mean anything to you?”

“I am no longer a Jew,” Jessica said. “Fortune has smiled on me. I have prospered. I have my pretty house, my patrons. I work hard and am skilful at what I do. I have a
wonderful plan for amassing my fortune, but now you show up with a screaming brat to spoil it all.”

As Jessica strode to the window, she tripped on Hannah’s bag, which clinked. She paused. “And what is it you carry in that ratty sack of yours?” Before Hannah could stop her, Jessica reached in and drew out the unclean birthing spoons. “My God! What are these filthy things?”

Hannah felt the blood rise in her cheeks. She replied, “A tool of my trade. Birthing spoons.” Seeing her sister’s disgust, Hannah explained their purpose in more detail than required.

Jessica gave a shudder and dropped them back into the bag. “You should have been born a man,” Jessica said. “You remind me of Papa. Remember his tiny pincers for picking up gemstones?”

Hannah nodded in acknowledgment. Matteo had given up hope of food and fallen silent. Hannah placed him on Jessica’s velvet canopied bed, trying not to imagine the acts that had taken place on the red coverlet.

The memory flooded back of Matteo on the
shochet’
s table with Niccolò standing above him. “I saved this child from his uncle. Niccolò had the baby in the ghetto abattoir and was holding a knife to his neck.” Her lower lip began to tremble. “I killed him, Jessica. I killed a man. I kept stabbing him with the
shochet
’s knife. Once I began, I could not stop. Then I dragged him to the canal and dumped his body. Maybe that makes me a witch—but what else could I have done?” She unwrapped Matteo and showed her sister the stain over the embroidered crest. “This is Niccolò’s blood.”

Jessica said, “Holy Mother of God.”

Matteo began to cry again. Fat, round tears dripped down his cheeks and he held out his arms to Jessica to be comforted.

“Do not cry, my son.” The words seemed to fall naturally from her lips. “You will be fine.” She wiped his tears away with the hem of her skirt. As Jessica bent over him, rearranging his blanket to bind him more snugly, Matteo grabbed her finger and clung to it. Jessica’s face softened.

“You are no witch,” she said, looking up at Hannah. “You are my sister.” Jessica watched as Matteo tugged her finger into his mouth. “These two brothers are well known to my colleagues. Mine is as gossip-filled a profession as yours. Niccolò is—was—hot-blooded, always getting into fights. He was easily influenced by the older one. Both are gamblers and have, no doubt, borrowed heavily from the moneylenders in the ghetto. Now it is Jacopo you need to fear. You can wager that he will not give up until you and this child are dead.”

Hannah told her how Jacopo had demanded her two hundred ducats in exchange for the birthing spoons, and how she had managed to escape with her payment stashed in the bottom of her bag.

“The bastard, taking advantage of your desperation. These noble sons are all the same. Vain and reckless. No doubt he owes everyone from his cobbler to his valet.”

“I regret involving you.”

Jessica picked up Matteo and held him to her shoulder, jiggling him for comfort. “Who else could you have gone
to? Neither of us has acted as we should. We have taken turns inflicting deep wounds on each other. Sometimes I have played the tethered bull; sometimes you have. One thing is certain: we have both suffered.”

“What should I do?” Hannah asked.

“Return the baby,” said Jessica. “Now, before it is too late. Sneak him back into the palazzo.”

“But I cannot. The Conte and the Contessa are in Ferrara.”