The Venetian (11 page)

Paolo nodded knowingly. He wondered if these men knew more about his family than they were letting on. “And with whom among your colleagues did he typically associate, if I may ask?”

“Well,” said de Mezzo, wrinkling his brow in concentration, “there was Valerio Zen. But only out of necessity I assure you. He is a most disagreeable man.” He looked to his cohorts for assistance as he ticked off the names on his fingers. “And then there was…Maurizio Gamba, and, yes, Abramo Lanzi. Mostly Lanzi though. I believe they spent time together outside of business as well.”

Paolo frowned. This man seemed to know much of his brother’s doings while only knowing ‘of him.’

Correctly interpreting Paolo’s expression, de Mezzo hastened to add, “We are a relatively small community signore. Everyone tends to know everyone’s business, which can sometimes make it difficult to turn a profit.” He laughed at his joke, the only one to do so.

Paolo smiled. He believed him. While the men were quite obviously uncomfortable, it was not due to some hidden treachery. They were speaking to the brother of a man who had been horribly murdered. If they had done so without discomfort, perhaps Paolo would have been more suspicious.

“Lanzi is an ambitious man signore.” Afraid of having come off as insincere, de Mezzo seemed eager to provide more information. “There is no end to his schemes, all honorable I am sure, but he is known as a risk taker. What is the saying? One whose reach exceeds his grasp, yes? He has chided his fellow merchants on more than one occasion for our timidity. The world is there for the taking, that sort of thing.”

Paolo seemed to consider this and bowed once more. “Thank you gentlemen for your time and candor. I do apologize for my intrusion. If you would be so kind however before I take my leave, could you tell me where I might find Signore Lanzi? I would very much like to meet an acquaintance of my brother for whom he had such high regard. You understand of course.”

“Yes, yes of course,” de Mezzo replied, again looking uncomfortable.
What have I said now? They certainly are a skittish lot of hens
thought Paolo.

“I am sorry signore. Signore Lanzi traveled to Alexandria on a pepper buying trip.”

“Ah.” Paolo was beginning to feel frustrated. “And when is he expected to return?”

“But that is just the thing signore. He never did return.”

Fourteen

T
he mile and a half stretch of ocean between the Molo of San Marco and Murano, the Venetian lagoon, seemed endless to Paolo. The flat-bottomed skiff, powered by two oarsmen with arms the size of poplar trunks, pushed its way through the water like a mule knee deep in snow. His mind was a jumble. What had Ciro been involved in? How well had he really known his brother? Not well certainly. Long conversations seemingly infused with meaning, however infrequent, had tricked Paolo into believing he had the measure of his brother. How presumptuous, to think that his bits of memory coupled with whatever Ciro chose to tell him could form a true picture of the man.

The Isola di San Michele loomed ahead. The island’s namesake, the San Michele in Isola church, glittered at the water’s edge. Rebuilt nearly 30 years earlier entirely of salt-white Istrian stone, the church seemed to absorb the sharp light of morning and glow with its own divinity. Saint Michael the Archangel, the slayer of Satan, for whom the church was dedicated, weighed the souls of man on Judgment Day. Paolo wondered if anyone involved in this gruesome enterprise would survive that trial.

The water was rougher this far out, the placid waters of the Grand Canal bearing little resemblance to the tiny white capped waves lapping at the skiff’s hull. The sun, weak but still warm on Paolo’s face, the fervent cry of the gulls, and the sound of the slapping water would have created an altogether agreeable mood at any other time. But Paolo was off to see Tomaso, wanting to discuss what he had learned at the Campo San Bartolomeo. It was not a discussion he was looking forward to. Something had broken in his father, and he feared the trip would be a wasted one at best, a disaster at worst. He did not know how to communicate with the man. When they had been at odds all those years ago, at least he had known what to expect. Now there was nothing in his life, his father included, that could be predicted with even a shred of certainty. He wondered what would become of them when this was all over.

As the skiff approached Murano’s own Grand Canal, Paolo’s apprehensiveness grew. How would they navigate this labyrinth, so like Venice itself? Who could they trust? No one it would seem. Paolo ran through the names in his mind of those who had, in one way or another, become connected to this awful business. They consisted of those he did not trust at all on the one hand, and those who were too dangerous to trust on the other. He was tempted to confide in the moneylender, but knew it was only due to the kindness he had shown Paolo, and that surely was not reason enough. Paolo was slowly coming to the realization that his faith in the nature of man could easily be rewarded with calamity. It was a lesson he was learning day by day. Again he was overwhelmed by his lack of control. As frustratingly confined as his world had been as a child, it had also been one of security. Day always followed night and his father’s temperament, while rigid, had at least been consistent. There was little he could count on now.

The skiff slowly drifted through the pass of San Nicolo. Imperceptibly it changed direction as the oarsmen shifted their oars in a concert of precise movements, equal parts chore and performance. The boat made its way through calmer water to the Rio dei Vetrai. Paolo climbed up onto the wharf and paid the men, thanking them for the smooth crossing. Walking across the Ponte San Pietro to the other side of the narrow canal, Paolo stopped to gaze upon the waterway as it twisted off to his right and the Fondamenta dei Vetrai that followed it, the blue-green water like a curving sheet of glass.

He sighed. How many times had he and Ciro scampered across this small bridge as boys? He had never expected to return to this place. The buildings looked small and cramped, barely able to stand, as though they were drunkards holding each other up—if one toppled so would they all. Around the curve of the canal, just out of sight was the glassworks and his father’s home, his own home once, and Paolo felt his feet rooted to the bridge. Why must he be here? Why had this happened? The images of Ciro, conjured by Tomaso’s words, flashed before him. Paolo winced, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, knowing that shutting them would do no good.

He crossed the bridge and followed the canal toward his father’s house. Every doorway and window, every lantern post along the way seemed to have a memory to share, and Paolo silently cursed Ciro for bringing him back here. Before long he reached his father’s shop. The massive wooden doors, unlike everything else along the canal, actually seemed larger to Paolo now than when he was a child. So like the doors to a fortress they were, and the endless games of battle he and Ciro had played flashed in his mind. What better place for them after all than an impregnable fortress with its very own moat! And there was never a shortage of barbarians to vanquish. The canal/moat was full of them, and those “mindless hordes” who knew his father (which was just about everyone) played their parts with aplomb, in rare instances even falling dead into the canal after being pierced by imaginary arrows.

He knew that his father had not been in the shop since the murder and so approached the small door next to the workshop’s entrance. Paolo stared at the two side by side, the metaphor plain. The two doorways told the story of his father well—one overwhelming, the other unassuming. The shop, the business was everything, his dream and legacy. His home, while still of value, seemed to occupy a much smaller space in his heart. Paolo knocked, a tentative sound, echoing his own desire to be elsewhere. He heard movement inside, moving away from the door. He knocked again, harder. “Father, it is Paolo. Please, open the door.” The shuffling paused, changed direction.

Tomaso opened the door slowly, shielding his eyes and squinting into the sharp light. It creaked on its hinges. In all his days in that house, Paolo had never once heard the door make a noise, his father always insisting the hinges be greased with animal fat.

“Paolo? Is that you?”

Paolo was stunned. His father seemed to have aged once more, ten years in a matter of days, his shrunken form even more decrepit than when he had last seen him. His skin, spotted and nearly translucent, was drawn tight over his skull. And again, just as before, Paolo felt his anger drain away. He knew it wasn’t right. His father had been the cause of so much pain, his frailty now could not wash away the suffering of all those years. But all he felt was pity. Pity for what his father had become, and sorrow for what all of their lives had become.

“Father,” Paolo said softly, as though speaking too loudly could do Tomaso harm. “May I come in?”

Tomaso hesitated before stepping aside. Paolo walked past him into the murky vestibule, stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. “I…have not had a chance to clean,” said his father.

The house, neat and tidy for as long as Paolo could remember, was a wreck. It was as though the canal had risen to flood the house and then receded, leaving every manner of refuse floating in its waters behind. The smell was unbearable. “Father…”

Embarrassed but not wishing to acknowledge it in front of his son, Tomaso roused himself. “Come, I have not been outside today,” he said hurriedly, pushing Paolo back toward the door. “We can talk as we stroll.”

What an odd thing to say thought Paolo. He could not imagine anything he wished to do less than take a leisurely stroll. Still, he allowed himself to be maneuvered out the door. After all that had happened, he knew he didn’t have the strength to sit in the house where he had grown up, to see it in such a state. He wondered if the decline had begun after his mother’s death or Ciro’s. He suspected it was recent since Ciro had never mentioned it to him, although he was coming to learn that his older brother had apparently kept much from their conversations. His father had had such grand plans for the family, and it had all come to this. He felt on the verge of weeping.

Tomaso didn’t notice Paolo’s expression, anxious as he was to get him away from the house. “Come, come, let us walk along the canal.”

Paolo took in the scene, was struck by the pleasantness around him. The warm sun, the soft gurgle of the canal, an interior artery and thus much smaller than Murano’s main channel. A strong leap could put a man halfway across. A dog lay sleeping in the sun beneath a window box filled to bursting with fragrant violets. How safe and lovely a place the world seemed. He wished with all his heart that he could go back to being ignorant of what lay just beneath that sunlit surface.
We are, all of us, suspended by a thread
.

Tomaso said nothing, was content to walk in silence. “Father,” Paolo began, “I went to the Campo San Bartolomeo yesterday. I spoke with a man, a Signore de Mezzo. Do you know him?” Still Tomaso remained silent, an imperceptible shake of his head the only response. Paolo noticed how fragile he seemed, his skull looking no thicker than an eggshell. “He knew Ciro,” he continued, “and knew him to frequent the square on behalf of the business.” Tomaso looked at Paolo, a moment’s confusion, nodded again.

“Yes,” he mumbled. “The traders.” Paolo waited for him to continue but he merely resumed his silent shuffling.

“This de Mezzo mentioned one man in particular with whom Ciro seemed to have spent much of his time, a Signore Lanzi, Abramo Lanzi. Do you know the name?”

“No.”

“Quite the risk taker apparently, this Lanzi.” He was about to continue when he realized that his father was crying. Tomaso tried to keep it silent, but couldn’t. His shoulders quivered with the effort and he hunched forward as though trying to fold his body in on itself and envelop his despair.

They had reached a small open area where the crush of buildings abruptly ended, replaced instead with a few small cypress trees and finely crafted benches. Vibrantly hued butterflies flitted among the trees, propelling themselves with the peculiar jerking movements Paolo always found so contrary to their beauty. He led Tomaso to the nearest bench, helped him sit, alarmed that his hand nearly went all the way around his father’s arm.

Tomaso took several deep breaths, wiped away his tears. “I am sorry Paolo.”

“You need not apologize Father. I miss him very much as well.”

Tomaso shook his head, slowly at first, then with increasing ardor. “No, you do not understand. This is my fault. It is all my fault.”

“Father, surely, you take too much upon…”

“No!” Tomaso’s eyes blazed for a moment and just as quickly dulled, a fire suddenly extinguished. “No my son,” he said softly. “I brought this upon him as if I had wielded the knife myself.” This time Paolo didn’t speak. Passersby glanced at the two men on the bench, averting their eyes when Paolo looked back.

Tomaso sighed. “He was always under too much pressure.” Paolo waited, knew it was not the time to mention the immense pressure Tomaso had placed on him as well. He wondered cynically if one had to die for the man to acknowledge his mistakes.

“He knew you were the gifted one, and suspected that I was disappointed, being left with him alone, once you…chose your own path.” The distaste in his father’s voice was clear, Paolo realizing that Tomaso didn’t just blame himself for Ciro’s death, but Paolo as well. “He would never be the glassmaker you would have been, we both knew that, and so he tried to make up for it in other ways. I thought that by appointing him
Fattori
I could relieve some of that pressure, but it only seemed to intensify. It became a way for him to heap even more anxiety upon himself. I fear he took chances he should not have, hoping that one day he would strike a deal that would take the business farther than you, or I, ever could.”

Paolo struggled to accept the line of reasoning, wished it away, but knew it very well could be true. He tried to detach himself from his own anger. There would be time for that later. “But Father, what you are suggesting was not in Ciro’s nature.” It was absurd, his very argument proving the point. Ciro could not even find the strength to challenge his own father, let alone defy authority on the scale that Tomaso was suggesting.