The Seduction of Water (24 page)

I remember that the last time I heard this introduction I was glad I’d have enough time to get upstairs to Harry’s suite to “borrow” the registration book. Now six centuries seem a lot to get through before dinner.

Gordon covers the fifteenth-century background—the guilds, the rich merchants, increased interest in fashion and jewelry—and then calls for the first slide, Botticelli’s
Allegory of Spring
. As soon as the lights go out I feel something brush against the back of my neck. I flinch, imagining that a bat has blundered into the room, but then I realize it’s Hedda Wolfe, in the row behind me, smoothing the chiffon swag hanging down my back.

“Nice dress,” she says.

I sigh, tired of the damned dress. No wonder I don’t remember my mother wearing it. It’s the kind of dress that wears you.

In my irritation, I’ve lost the thread of Gordon’s lecture. He’s describing the headdress popular in the fifteenth century, the
ferronière
. Instead of the stiff crowns worn in the fourteenth century, the
ferronière
was a loose band, usually of pearls but sometimes mixed with other gems, that held the hair back and draped over the forehead. He shows us a slide of a Filippo Lippi Madonna who wears a single rope of pearls on her forehead. The pearls and the Madonna’s skin are equally translucent.

Her image fades into the screen, replaced by a portrait of a noblewoman by an artist whose name I miss. She’s wearing a lavish pearl headpiece, pearl earrings, and ropes of pearls at her neck. Even her dress is studded with pearls.

“The
ferronière
was often part of the bride’s parure. Pearls were seen as the perfect adornment not only for the Virgin Mary but also for brides, because they represented purity and chastity. A pearl
ferronière
might be handed down as part of a bride’s dowry, traveling, therefore, from mother to daughter. Such a gift was given to Catalina della Rosa, the only daughter of wealthy Venetian nobles in the late fifteenth century.”

The richly adorned noblewoman disappears and the thin, stern face of a child takes her place. She isn’t wearing any jewelry.

“This is Catalina at age ten. Although the child of one of the richest men in Venice she had already, at this age, pledged herself in secret to the convent of Santa Maria Stella Maris. Unfortunately for Catalina, her parents had other plans for her.”

Gordon goes on to show us portraits of Catalina’s father, her mother, and the Venetian gentleman she was betrothed to at age fourteen. I’m so caught up in the plight of poor Catalina—who studied Latin, Greek, and Hebrew in secret and wore a hair shirt under her silk dresses to mortify the flesh—that I don’t at first notice Phoebe standing outside the French doors hissing my name. I try to ignore her, but she just gets louder. Afraid she’ll ruin Gordon’s lecture, I get up and step into the courtyard.

“That’s my mother’s dress,” Phoebe says as soon as I’m outside. “I want to know where the hell you got it.”

I’m about to hotly deny Phoebe’s allegation when I remember that it had occurred to me earlier that the dress could have been left behind by a guest. Vera Nix did stay here. Still, Phoebe’s tone annoys me. She’s speaking to me as if I were a maid caught wearing her mistress’s clothes.

“What makes you think that? You could hardly remember it; you were an infant when she died.”

Even in the dimly lit courtyard I can see Phoebe’s face turn red. I hadn’t meant to offend her—after all, it’s not her fault that her mother died when she was still a baby—but I realize that when Phoebe speaks about her mother she manages to create the impression that she knew her. Maybe she feels as if she did, having worked so closely with her journals, and the reminder that she really didn’t know her mother diminishes her role as her biographer. I’m beginning to see how seriously Phoebe takes that role and I’m also beginning to wonder if I want to become as obsessed with my mother as Phoebe is with hers.

“There’s a picture of her wearing it at The Stork Club,” Phoebe tells me, resting a hand at her throat protectively, almost as if she’s feeling for the pearls a woman would wear with such a dress, only her neck is bare. “And it’s described in a society column. I believe it’s a Dior.”

“Well, this dress is a Balenciaga,” I tell her, “but I’d be happy to discuss the dress’s provenance after Gordon’s lecture . . .” I use the term
provenance
to make her see how silly the whole issue is, but I’ve forgotten how humorless she is.

“It’s not the only thing your mother stole from my mother,” she says, “which I believe you’ll see when you find your mother’s third book . . .”

“I’m beginning to think there isn’t a lost manuscript,” I tell her.

“Maybe you just haven’t looked hard enough because you’re afraid of what you might find.”

I sigh, exasperated by the argument. “Phoebe, if you’re so sure there is a manuscript, why don’t you look for it. I’d grant you free run of the place but you’ve already given it to yourself.”

Phoebe’s eyes widen and for a moment I’m afraid I’ve gone too far, that she’ll ruin Gordon’s lecture with a scene, but she turns without a word and leaves the courtyard. Apparently she has no intention of sitting through Gordon’s lecture.

Back in the library I try to pick up the thread of Gordon’s narrative, but he seems to have strayed from the story of Catalina della Rosa. Instead he is discussing a seventeenth-century painting depicting
The Marriage of the Sea
—a Venetian festival celebrating Venice’s conquest of Dalmatia and subsequent maritime dominance. I lean back, thinking that perhaps I can get Hedda to tell me what happened to Catalina. Was she forced to give up her Latin and Greek to marry the Venetian nobleman? But Hedda’s chair is empty.

Before I can scan the room to see where she moved, the sound of Catalina’s name draws my attention back to Gordon.

“Catalina’s marriage was to be celebrated at this festival. Here I usually show the bridal portrait of Catalina in her full parure, but tonight I will beg of you your patience and forbearance. I have a little surprise planned.”

Gordon tugs on the right end of his bow tie and the right side of his mouth lifts in a half smile as if it were connected to his neck apparel. I notice that he exchanges a quick look with Natalie, who is seated in the front row, beaming proudly at Gordon. Perhaps this is why Phoebe is in such a state—she’s jealous of Natalie, not my dress.

“Catalina’s marriage ceremony was to take place directly after the nuptials between Venice and the sea, the culmination of which occurred when the reigning doge tossed an elaborate wedding ring into the waters off the Lido, reciting as he did the formula
’Desponsesumus te, mare, in signum veri perpetuique dominii.’
Which translates to ‘We wed you sea, in the sign of our true and perpetual dominance.’

“Imagine,” Gordon says, pausing to look up at his audience, “the crowd’s surprise when the young bride, Catalina della Rosa, rose from her place of honor beside the doge and, tearing her costly
ferronière
from her hair, tossed the pearls and diamonds into the sea, uttering in flawless Latin
’Spondeo me, Domine, in signum tui veri perpetuique dominii.’
A slight variation from the original formula, which means ‘I pledge myself, Lord, as a sign of your true and eternal dominion.’ And then—” Gordon pauses again, laying his hands flat on top of the lectern and leaning forward. “—she threw herself into the sea.”

A rustle moves through the audience, like wind moving through trees, as we all imagine the young girl, so desperate to avoid an arranged marriage, drowning herself. I can almost picture the heavy silks dragging Catalina down to the bottom of the sea, and I find myself tugging at the tight seams of my dress and brushing the chiffon swag off my back where it clings to my hot skin. There’s something too, almost familiar about the story, something about that image of pearls sinking under the water . . .

“Much to Catalina’s disappointment, however, she didn’t drown. She was fished out of the water rather ignominiously and packed off to the family palace where she suffered no more than a bad head cold. The fact that their daughter would rather drown than marry the man they had chosen for her failed to impress the della Rosas. Plans for her marriage continued apace until a remarkable incident—a miracle, many believed—occurred. On the day Catalina’s marriage was to take place the pearl
ferronière
washed up at the convent of Santa Maria Stella Maris—the very convent Catalina had pledged herself to in secret. When the mother superior of the convent told Catalina’s parents of this miracle Catalina was finally granted her wish. She was able to enter the order of Benedictine nuns, where she lived out her life in scholarly pursuits, the details of which would require more time than we have tonight.

“Instead, let us turn back to the pearl
ferronière
, whose miraculous reappearance saved Catalina from a loveless marriage. What became of it? Because it was considered the agent of miraculous intervention, the della Rosas gave the
ferronière
to the Convent of Santa Maria Stella Maris, where it was placed on the brow of a statue of the Virgin Mary. Now, you might think it odd to adorn a statue of the Virgin Mary with such an elaborate piece of jewelry, but remember, the use of the
ferronière
as an adornment for the Madonna was not without precedent.”

Here Gordon flips backward in his slide collection to the Lippi Madonna.

“Of course the della Rosa
ferronière
was more elaborate than this one. It had diamonds, as well as pearls, and a large emerald tear-shaped briolette, but these features were readily absorbed into the iconography of Mary. And remember, this convent was dedicated to Mary Stella Maris—Mary, Star of the Sea—a metaphor for the Virgin going back to the thirteenth century. What better adornment for a statue of Mary Stella Maris than pearls, which come from the sea, and a sea-green emerald, bright as a star? Unfortunately the statue was destroyed during the war, but we do have a fifteenth-century painting by an unknown artist that we believe was inspired by the statue, depicting the della Rosa
ferronière
.”

Gordon has to flip through several slides to get to the picture. Of all the paintings he’s shown tonight this one is probably the least remarkable as a work of art. It looks like half a dozen portraits of Mary you might see on devotional cards, the colors cartoonish, the figure of the Madonna somewhat lumpish, the composition awkward. She’s sitting on a rock in front of a vista of sea and sky, looking for all the world as if she’s on a picnic at the beach. What takes my breath away, though, is the ornament in her hair. A net of pearls and diamonds holds back her hair and drapes over her forehead, ending in a tear-shaped emerald.

“As you can see, not only is the face of Mary copied from Catalina’s portrait, the
ferronière
is the same one worn by Catalina della Rosa in her bridal portrait.”

The portrait of Mary shifts to the right side of the screen and on the left side appears the portrait of Catalina della Rosa in her bridal parure, her green eyes set off by the enormous emerald briolette resting in the middle of her forehead.

“And the same,” Gordon says, signaling for Natalie to turn on the lights, “as the necklace worn by our gracious hotel manager, Miss Iris Greenfeder.”

As the lights go on the audience turns toward me.

“Perhaps if you’d stand up . . .” Gordon is saying, but I’m already up and approaching the screen where the two images have grown paler in the light.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?” Gordon asks me. “Natalie noticed it first when I was showing her the slides for the show.”

“Is that the original della Rosa
ferronière
?” a woman in the audience asks.

I turn around and find myself the focus of the room’s attention.

“No, not at all,” Gordon explains. “The original della Rosa
ferronière
remained in the convent of Santa Maria Stella Maris until the outbreak of the Second World War. We think the abbot hid the necklace in the catacombs below the church to keep it from the Nazis, but unfortunately the church was bombed in the last days of the war and the necklace was not found in the rubble. The abbot had been killed by sniper fire only hours before the church was destroyed. Most authorities believe it was destroyed, but there is another theory that the
ferronière
was removed from the church and hidden in a villa south of Venice that belonged to a descendant of the della Rosa family. I’m in the process of researching that possibility . . .”

“Where’d you get that necklace, Miss Greenfeder,” one of the restitution claims lawyers asks me in a rather challenging tone of voice. It’s the second time tonight I’ve been accused of wearing stolen property. Fortunately Natalie Baehr comes to my rescue.

“It’s only glass and paste,” she says, standing and turning to address the crowd. “I copied it from a description in a story that Professor Greenfeder’s mother wrote.”

“Well, then,” the lawyer asks, “where did your mother see the necklace—if it’s been missing since the war?”

I turn to Gordon for help. I can see that his “little surprise” isn’t going as he had anticipated, but he maintains a calm I wouldn’t have thought him capable of. “We don’t know,” he says, “but I imagine she saw a copy of the Stella Maris Mary, which is widely copied and hung in churches dedicated to Mary, Star of the Sea.”

“Yes,” I say, the pieces finally coming together, “there’s a St. Mary Star of the Sea in Brooklyn. My mother had me christened there because that’s where she was christened.”

“There we are!” Gordon says to me, and then, turning, addresses the room. “We’ve solved at least one mystery of provenance tonight. The provenance of an image.” Gordon lays his hand on my elbow and with his other hand motions for me to return to my seat. I feel like the volunteer in a magic show dismissed from the stage. I sit down, too dazed to follow the rest of Gordon’s lecture.

When the lecture is over I follow the rest of the guests out to the terrace, which has been set up for predinner cocktails. I should be checking to make sure everything is running smoothly in the kitchen and dining room, and that Harry’s plans for the fireworks are in place, but instead I take a glass of champagne from the bar and sit down in Half Moon. I sit in the semicircle that faces the hotel and look up at the glowing facade. It looks like a fairy-tale palace tonight, illuminated by the floodlights Harry had installed just last week. The chandelier on the second-floor landing is ablaze with candlelight, each crystal drop glittering like a tear.