The Venetian (12 page)

“It is one thing to eagerly ferret out a deal lucrative enough to bring greater prestige to the family, and quite another to defy the laws of the State. Surely you see that.”

Tomaso gave his son a sharp look. Paolo was finding it difficult to not challenge his father, even now. He wondered if his resentment would ever subside.

“What other explanation is there? And what of this Signore Lanzi of whom you speak? A risk taker you said. Could he not have led Ciro to his death through his reckless enterprising?”

Paolo was silent. He had no answer. While he was convinced of his brother’s inability to take part in such schemes, he had no alternative explanation. And the manner in which he was killed pointed clearly in the direction of his father’s suspicions. He needed more information.

Paolo slumped against the back of the bench. A butterfly settled lightly on his leg, blue and orange, raising and lowering its wings as though testing their efficacy. Such a delicate thing Paolo thought. He could tear the insect’s wing from its body with the barest of efforts.
We are all but a moment from ruin.
The butterfly flew off hastily as though it suspected what had been playing through Paolo’s mind.

Fifteen

C
encio da Riva was drunk. He had not intended on becoming so, but the lithesome young servant girl only seemed to venture his way when his glass was empty. The sight of her graceful limbs, and all the ways in which he imagined himself to be tangled up in them, served as far better entertainment than the talentless troupe of actors his noble host had hired for the evening. And so, to continue enjoying the supple curve of her breast and her perfectly heart-shaped bottom, he was forced to drink glass after glass of wine until he felt as if his eyeballs were filled with juice like two bulging dolcetto grapes. A sacrifice to be sure, but what could one do?

Such a circus! This young noble, Alessandro Bonifati, whose family had not been heard from for some time, collected guests like a menagerie. The content or quality of the entertainment did not seem to interest him, only that he had at least one of each type of guest present so as to have an impressive assortment on hand. Actors (no matter that they were terrible), publishers, politicians, musicians, merchants, and of course, at least one or two lovely courtesans (of the honest variety). Interesting though, since da Riva had heard that the Bonifati star had been descending precipitously in recent years. In addition to falling victim to some very murky investments and a 10,000 ducat fine for some vaguely described “political misconduct” (as if one would even expect such a charge to exist in Venice), the elder Bonifati had once been one of the three
Avogadori del Comun
, constitutional authorities who had lost power just as the Council of Ten was acquiring it.

He wondered then how this noble, whose family name was half submerged and still sinking beneath the aristocratic waters of the Republic, managed to maintain the family palazzo, threadbare though the furnishings were, on the Grand Canal and suddenly host such a lavish, if ill-conceived, gathering.

The lovely servant girl was once more headed in his direction he noticed, and indeed he had an empty glass. Amazingly, the ravishing creature seemed to divine this fact before he did himself as if he were the only guest she was attending. Was that a mischievous smile playing across her lips, so enticingly shaped like Cupid’s bow? And why was he wasting these precious moments speculating on vexing questions about unsavory nobles when he should instead be exercising his imagination as to the many pleasures he was sure to enjoy later with the pretty young thing now approaching?

***

MERDA!
THESE ACTORS
were awful. Alessandro Bonifati rubbed his temples as the troupe droned on. Would this cursed evening never end? He quickly cautioned himself to check his mood, and his tongue. That is why he took no wine this evening. There was too much at stake. In truth he was grateful, and quite fortunate to find himself the host of this little party, annoying as it was. Tonight was the first step in reclaiming his rightful place in Venetian society. Normally he would revel in such a gathering, but it was the first such event since the start of the long decline his family had suffered. Those he had counted among his friends and allies in the nobility had deserted his family at the first signs of difficulty, and yet here they all were, enjoying his hospitality as though nothing had happened. He hadn’t realized how very sordid the nobles could be until he was no longer one of them. And yet, and yet. He would do anything to find himself once more among their ranks.

The powerful gentleman had offered him a chance at redemption, one he could not refuse. And for quite a small price he had to admit.
Gabriele
he called himself, no surname. How mysterious! The fact that he was required to do anything at all however was a crime. His father had brought the family to the brink of ruin with his schemes. But it wasn’t the acts themselves that enraged Alessandro. After all, every man had the right to try and make his family a little richer, a little more indispensable to the Republic in the eyes of those in power. No, it was not the acts themselves; it was the clumsiness with which his father had carried them out. It was disgraceful, and they had all, he and his mother and two sisters, nearly paid the ultimate price. Well, it was up to him now. His father was dead these three years and could thankfully no longer cause any mischief for the family.

Alessandro scanned the room. The acting troupe, thank heaven, had concluded their most recent mutilation of a Roman farce and were taking some wine. With any luck the loss of their faculties would improve the performance. A light breeze was blowing in off the canal, stirring the candlelight. Shadows danced upon the walls like revelers from the
Carnevale
. A lovely courtesan entertained a small group of politicians with her mastery of language and literature. Their eyes sparkled like glass in the candlelight, whether enraptured by her wit or her barely contained breasts Alessandro could not tell. A knot of traders huddled in the corner, plotting the latest in an endless stream of schemes to accumulate ducats. It truly was Venice in miniature, the endless pursuit of pleasure, power, and wealth.

Ah, and then there was the true business of the evening. Alessandro spied the luscious little servant girl refilling the merchant’s glass yet again. How could the man still be conscious? He would make sure to have a word with her. Alessandro could not have him falling asleep. The gentleman was quite clear. The merchant must leave the palazzo on his own. Oh but she was a natural, that little vixen. At this point the poor man would bark like a dog if she had asked him.

Very soon the evening would be over and Alessandro would get his reward, a rather generous reward he had to admit given the simple thing he had been asked to do. Yes, but it had been much less generous at the outset hadn’t it? He had made the bargain so much sweeter by negotiation, a skill his father had never been able to master. After tonight, the Bonifati name would once more begin its ascension and would climb higher than his father had ever dared dream.

The gentleman had offered him a position as a staff member of the
Pien
Collegio
. Not a member of the
Collegio
mind you, but rather a committee secretary or archivist. It was an insult. While the Bonifati name no longer played upon the lips of the most powerful men of the Republic, it was still a noble name. Such positions belonged to the Venetian middle class used to augment the bureaucracy. True, a nobleman would only hold his position for six months or a year while a lower bureaucrat could serve in the same office for decades, quietly building his fortune, but there was nothing to be done about it. Alessandro would serve the Republic in a role befitting his ancestry or the gentleman could find help elsewhere.

But there were too few positions protested his new patron. Counting the
Collegio,
the Council of Ten, the five resident ambassadors, the governors of leading cities and islands, the members of a few principle Senate committees, and a handful of naval officers, there were but sixty key positions filled by noblemen in all the republic, with perhaps an additional 40 or so in flux due to pending retirement or other transitory circumstances. And there were nearly 2,500 noblemen of office holding age—most of whom had
not
been disgraced, the gentleman was gracious enough to point out. Bristling at the man’s insolence, Alessandro responded curtly, saying the ambassadorship of Madrid would be quite agreeable. The gentleman had laughed then, a screeching sound like some nocturnal raptor, that chilled Alessandro’s blood. It was a sound he never wished to hear again. He had gone too far he realized, asked for too much. Perhaps he wasn’t so unlike his father after all. He hoped for the sake of his family that the bargain was salvageable. It was, of course, and in the end, they settled on a ministerial position in Turin. Not quite as grand as he had hoped, but respectable nonetheless. All had been forgiven. After all, this was Venice, and the gentleman would have been disappointed had Alessandro not vied for the most prestigious position for himself. It only reinforced the fact that he had truly chosen the best man for the job.

“Your father could have learned a thing or two from you,” Gabriele said. Alessandro, unable to suppress a knowing smile, most definitely agreed.

***

THE GIRL WAS
gone. Curse it! He had endured the evening—and yes, endured was indeed the proper word for it—only for the promise of what surely awaited him afterward. All evening she was never more than a glance away, and now nowhere to be found. So like a woman.
Ah well,
he thought philosophically, swapping profound disappointment for sober resignation as only a man truly in the drink could do. It was just as well. It would certainly do his reputation no good if he were to arrive at the beautiful moment and be unable to perform due to an excess of wine. No, better to let the memory of him and lost opportunity linger with her until her blood boiled with desire. He had no doubt that there would be other chances to bed the girl in the future, especially now that this Bonifati fellow seemed to be on the rise once more. And the next time, he assured himself, she would perform no such disappearing trick. As a soon-to-be prosperous trader, he was far too tempting a prize for her to pass up twice. He grunted. And if that rogue Lanzi ever returned from Alexandria, that prosperity would be closer than ever.

He thanked his host for a memorable evening and paid his respects to the remaining guests. Bonifati had smiled warmly at him, thanking him for attending, and wishing him a most pleasant evening, which in truth was now early morning.
Would he be all right getting home?
Did he perhaps require a gondola?
Thank you, a generous offer, but no.
It had been a moonless night, but the way was bright here along the Grand Canal. How like a string of jewels the palazzos looked, blazing with a thousand pinpricks of light on the opposite bank. Boats tethered to their mooring poles bobbed in the water, their lanterns leisurely swaying back and forth.

Cencio did not relish his walk home. It would be quite a way with the available light, now so prevalent, rapidly diminishing the farther into the jumble of Venice’s streets and alleyways he ventured. For a brief moment he wished he was less pragmatic than many of his fellow traders. At the barest taste of success, they would take the few ducats in their pockets and rush off to find a fashionable residence as near the canal as they could afford to proclaim to the Republic that they were men of means, and that others would do well to include them in their future plans for profit. No matter that they would find themselves grievously overextended and thus unable to receive guests as they would have nothing left with which to furnish their newly acquired homes. This was of no consequence however. They could claim the rigor of pursuing their fortunes to excuse their lack of hospitality, for a time at least. It was enough to have a proper address to casually mention during conversation, but at some point they would be required to participate in society in order to solidify their positions. They had no concerns on that count either. They would flourish soon enough. There was certainly no shortage of ego among them.

Cencio chastised himself for his moment of weakness. True, he would be home sooner this night had he followed the example of his rash and impatient colleagues, but he would one day reach a position they never would. He would not reside
close
to the canal, but
on
it, with all the prestige that accompanied such an address. And so he waited. He would accumulate his fortune until he could afford a grand palazzo outright, which given his current plans, would not be too long from now, without the blade of debt hovering over the exposed flesh of his neck. He would be the equal of the nobles, with a fortune, though attained through commerce rather than lineage, which could not be ignored. And all the snickering would be silenced as his fellow traders continued to mortgage the future of their children in order to maintain their precarious status, a status which in truth only existed in their own minds.

Setting off, da Riva mapped the circuitous route home by memory: the Riva del Carbón to the Calle Bembo, passing the convent of San Salvador, across the Rio Fuseri to the Calle Fiubera, skirting San Zulian, through a dizzying series of vermin infested alleyways he long ago learned to navigate by smell (refuse at the head of the maze, rat droppings throughout, and brackish water at the exit), and finally to sleep, with the waters of the Rio di San Zulian murmuring a damp lullaby. The fetid smells and moist walls did not discourage him. On the contrary, their offensiveness only fueled his ambition, and this night would find him dreaming of a glorious career that had only just begun.

By the time he heard the soft lapping of the Rio Fuseri, the night had become impenetrable, with the soft light of dawn still some time away. The firelight from homes and scattered lamps and lanterns had all but disappeared. The lack of light combined with the water in the air and the vast amount of wine in his blood made everything seem heavy, as though he were stumbling clumsily beneath a blanket. It seemed a good time to stop for a moment. A low stone wall, perhaps three feet tall bordered the path along the canal. A small grove of poplars stood opposite the wall, a pleasant respite of green amid the sheer cliffs of continuous buildings fronting the narrow waterway. A small flight of six stone steps descended from a break in the wall to the water.