The Venetian (10 page)

“Indeed. Not when it comes to a man’s life however.” Bercu sighed, resigned to the conversation. “It is believed, as I imagine you know, that this murder had a specific purpose, one that touches the very heart of the Republic.” Bercu spoke with an air of apology. “Such a thing remains hidden for a very short time, particularly from those involved in the very thing to which it is so entwined.”

Again the circuitous language. It was maddening. “Meaning?”

“Meaning commerce, trade. Money.” Bercu held his hands out in a plaintive gesture as though acknowledging this fact aloud made it all the more lamentable. “This was very clearly a message…”

“Yes, yes, the guild,” Paolo cut in impatiently. “So my father says.”

“You doubt this?”

“It seems beyond belief, the barbarity of it. And for what? Is Venice not rich enough?”

Bercu looked at Paolo in the way he had looked at his daughter when she had been raging about justice. Paolo flushed. He knew what the moneylender was thinking. He was naïve, an innocent.

“God and money my friend. Both drive men to do evil.”

Paolo considered the statement. “I must ask you,” he began quietly, still partially lost in thought, “if your position provides you with such advance knowledge of goings on, were you not then perhaps privy to rumors and speculation regarding my brother’s activities, those activities which supposedly brought this horrific retribution upon him?”

Bercu was uncomfortable, yet did little to hide it from Paolo. “There are always rumors my friend.”

Paolo waited for him to continue but he didn’t. “Surely you have more to say than that.”

Bercu chose his words carefully, as though physically selecting them from a box. “I am a moneylending Jew, two qualities that on any given day could lead me to ruin, exile or even death. I hear rumors, but I do not engage in their spreading. It would be ill-advised for a man in my position.”

Paolo felt a wave of exasperation flow over him. Was he never to know the truth? He tried to remain calm, to think, but “please” was all he could manage to say.

The moneylender sighed once more. He had come to like this young man, a boy really. “There has been much talk of late,” he began slowly, “of craftsmen, particularly glassblowers, who have been dissatisfied with their, shall we say, financial position. It is a difficult thing, I can only imagine, to be celebrated throughout the world for your creations, and yet treated like a prisoner in your own country.” It was true, Paolo remembering times as a child when his father and other glassblowers had been paraded past visiting dignitaries like prize pigs. “True, some of the glassblowers of Venice do enjoy a certain amount of societal privilege, their children able to marry into nobility and the like, but a gilded cage is still a cage, is it not?”

“Yes it is. I have used the same term to describe it myself,” Paolo said, remembering his conversation with his father. “And are you saying that my brother Ciro was among those who were dissatisfied?”

“That I cannot tell you. You must understand that this disgruntled faction did not emerge on its own. It was fomented, stoked like a flame, if you would forgive the analogy. I am no poet.”

“Stoked? By whom?”

“There was apparently a group of independent traders who, through their travels, came upon the realization that there was much money to be made by
sharing
the secrets of Venetian glass with the wider world.” Paolo again noticed the moneylender’s discomfort. “With that very same group acting as middlemen, of course.”

“Of course. A lesson learned at the knee of the mightiest middleman on earth.”

“None of this is substantiated you understand,” Bercu was quick to add. “It has been my experience that in such matters, perhaps one rumor in a hundred turns out to be true.”

“Yes,” said Paolo, “but all it takes is one.”

Thirteen

I
n the seven years that Paolo was estranged from his parents, he remained in occasional contact with his brother, the frequency of which, now to his great regret, dwindled as the years had passed. Ciro, Paolo remembered, had been very pleased when Tomaso had appointed him as the
Fattori
, the glassworks’ representative to the merchants. It had been an unusual thing, to have the
Fattori
be a glassblower. It placed the more social aspects of the business in his hands. While his father continued to be the face of Avesari e Figli, Ciro was given the responsibility of cultivating the relationships critical to the expansion of the business.

In the course of these responsibilities, Ciro had come to know and socially associate with many merchants, traders, and investors. Speaking with Paolo, he would never tire of recounting the perpetual whirlwind of commerce he witnessed—grain, wine, silk, spices, slaves, glass, metal, armor, wool—all swirling in and out of Venice from the four corners of the earth, the glorious Republic at its epicenter, the eye of the beautiful storm. While Ciro enjoyed working with the glass, he ravenously consumed the commercial circus into which he was thrust by way of his position as a noted glassmaker. The dealing, the fortunes made and lost, the intrigue—it captured his imagination. While he would never have the means, or the courage, of men to whom such vast amounts were but pieces on a game board, he could still be a part of that exciting world through the much safer conduit of tangential association.

Having found common ground, the brothers would talk long into the night, each regaling the other with stories of their oft overlapping passions, commerce and technology. Ciro tantalized Paolo with spice-scented tales of adventure while Paolo described in loving detail the technical miracles of the Arsenale. His visits with Ciro served as a kind of proxy for family gatherings he hoped would one day be possible. Paolo would never know whether it was pride or hope that kept him from finding out. Had he actually attempted to reunite again with his father and been unsuccessful, that hope could be lost forever. He knew how easily the two of them were able to find that most vulnerable of spots in the other and attack it. It seemed not even to be a matter of intent. So he continued to meet with Ciro, putting off his brother’s pleas for reconciliation, saying he wasn’t ready. But soon, very soon.

***

PROVING TO BE
even more efficient in the accomplishment of the various tasks assigned him by Francesco than he let on, Paolo found himself with more and more time, and he had not the patience to sit and wait for the Council of Ten to bring the matter of his brother’s murder to a close. He didn’t trust the council, and he certainly didn’t trust the deputy. He shuddered at the memory of his meeting with that evil imp. Rather than spend the afternoon hours mired in the prison of his disconsolate thoughts, Paolo decided to see what he could ascertain of Ciro’s activities that could give him some indication as to why he was killed. At the very least it would be an effective guard against his growing despondency.

The stretched rectangle of the Campo San Bartolomeo was the place that Ciro most loved to be. A roiling stew of color, culture, and tribe, the piazza was the epicenter of Europe’s spice trade. Merchants just returned from Alexandria and London would exchange bales of pepper, nutmeg, and cardamom, and an equal bulk of gossip about backroom deals on cinnamon from Damascus or the surging price of ginger. It was here that he collected the bits and pieces he later stitched together to form the adventurous tapestries he so enjoyed relating to Paolo. What he couldn’t gather from gossip, he filled in with his own imagination, which of course never included the endless monotony of a sea voyage or the pestilential conditions of “exotic” locales.

Ciro never spoke of his love of the place to his father however, knowing Tomaso’s feelings on the spice trade. Instead, he played the long-suffering and devoted heir to the family business, doing what was necessary to extend his father’s legacy, but preferring always to be in the shop by Tomaso’s side, bathing in sweat at the crucible’s edge. In a life of unwavering obedience to his father, for Ciro, his secret admiration of the spice trade and the men who waged it was a gratifying, but safe, rebellion.

Paolo was unfamiliar with the square. He had been there before, once, but successfully navigating it under the circumstances was another matter entirely. Long and narrow, it felt more like a large courtyard than a square, hemmed in on all four sides. The square, named for the church of Saint Bartholomew, the chapel of the Germanic community of Venice and imperceptibly nestled among the other buildings, was the center of the most lucrative trade on earth. Traders and merchants stood about in small clusters talking in low tones. Paolo had seen the image before him clearly enough from conversations with Ciro, but he had never actually been in the square while business was being conducted. The scent of spice engulfed the place, mixed by a gentle breeze swirling through the square like a chef’s spoon. The sun, past its zenith, illuminated the upper floors of the building on the eastern side of the square, bathing it in a warm ochre light.

Paolo ambled through the space, feeling that same sense of suspicious eyes upon him that he had so keenly been aware of in the Jewish quarter. He needed information, yet realized he didn’t have a plan as to how to get it.

He overheard small scraps of conversation as he walked, murmurings of cardamom, saffron, cinnamon. A tight group stood at the far end of the square, out toward the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. Having been rebuilt only a few years ago after a devastating fire, the much newer warehouse sparkled like a shiny gem among dusty relics. Members of the group were casting furtive glances in Paolo’s direction so, having no other plan, he walked toward them. They were in obvious discomfort as he approached, and he took no small amount of pleasure in the fact. He walked up to the four men, bowed slightly, and endured a silence that stood one beat too long before speaking.

“Signori, I could not help but notice you looking in my direction, and thought I would oblige you by coming over.” He smiled graciously, silently thanking Francesco and his endless errands, if for nothing else, then forcing him to become more comfortable in awkward circumstances.

The men glanced at one another. They hadn’t expected him to walk over and speak to them so…directly. Finally the one nearest Paolo spoke. “Forgive us signore. We meant no disrespect. We knew your brother. Only slightly,” he quickly added. “We were very sorry to hear what became of him.” He lowered his eyes, whether to convey sorrow or hide an alternate truth, Paolo couldn’t tell.

“Thank you.” Once more Paolo felt at a disadvantage, encountering someone unknown to him yet aware of his business. Had they seen him and his brother together? “I am sorry, I do not know your…”

“Ah, I must ask your forgiveness once more,” the man responded, flustered. “I am Matteo de Mezzo. And may I present Alfonso Mare, Flavio Moro, and Piero Volpe.” Each man nodded in turn, bemused looks on their faces. They stood there, shuffling their feet, wondering where this would lead.

Paolo appraised the four men. They seemed unlikely friends, at least physically. As a child, he had noticed how those of similar physicality would congregate to one another, the strong to the strong, attractive to the attractive. It made sense of course. It was in man’s nature to be drawn to those who were similar, a means of identification and protection. But these four seemed to be chosen at random from a hat and thrust together. It was certainly their mutual business interests that had drawn them into one another’s company.

Volpe was short and stout, possessing a baby’s chubby face that seemed to be trying desperately to cultivate a goatee beard. Undoubtedly he sought the respect facial hair would give him in matters of business. Paolo thought the stray hairs seemingly placed at random upon his face only enhanced the problem.

Flavio Moro was tall with a wide chest, a thick mane of dark hair swept back across his head, one who may have, in a different set of circumstances, preyed upon the unfortunately put-together Volpe. His face was lined from exposure to the elements. He looked as though he would be more at home commanding one of the ships rather than investing in its cargo.

Alfonso Mare was as tall as Moro but possessed half his girth. Stooped at the shoulders, his gaunt frame resembled a question mark. His pinched face held a perpetual expression of distaste, his downturned mouth looking as though it would fall from its place should his crumpled features unexpectedly relax.

Only de Mezzo seemed the very image of a spice trader, or at least how Paolo had imagined a spice trader might look. He was of average height and weight, dressed well, and of an obvious well-to-do background. His auburn hair was on the longish side. He had long lashes and full lips and would have been considered pretty had his jaw been less square.

“So, you know my brother?” asked Paolo

“Knew…of him is probably more accurate,” de Mezzo said awkwardly. No one missed the fact that Paolo was still using the present tense.

Paolo shook his head ruefully. “Yes, of course. It is all still so fresh. Sometimes I forget.”

“We are very sorry signore. He seemed a good man.” The other three men still hadn’t spoken, and did not look particularly eager to do so.

“How did you come to know of him?” Before they could answer, Paolo realized that he had actually not been invited to join their gathering. “I am sorry. I have intruded upon your conversation,” he continued, somewhat embarrassed. He did not offer to leave however and waited for the invitation to proceed.

“Please, you must not apologize. You were invited by our careless glances.” He smiled apologetically. “Your brother was seen here often, usually in the company of one or two of our colleagues. We will often confer with members of various trades here in the city in attempts to expand the market for our wonderful Venetian goods. It may not seem so at times, but we do deal in commodities other than spice.” He smiled, sniffing the breeze as he said this to acknowledge the exotic scent in the air. “As a glassmaker from one of the most respected families of the trade, your brother was no stranger to those wishing to court him.”