The Venetian (20 page)

The grand
palazzi
soon faded into the mist and the crowded streets of Cannaregio emerged from the gloom. The rain had slowed and Paolo’s footsteps were loud without the torrent to muffle them. Again he became anxious, feeling exposed. The stooped buildings of the quarter huddled together as though for warmth in the damp. They seemed apparitions, old ghosts turning away, wishing only to be left alone.

Paolo found Bercu behind his counter, tidying up a hidden shelf.

“Signore Avesari! You are soaked to the bone! Come in, come in please.”

He rushed to the door, escorted Paolo in. The shop was bathed in shadow, the grey day settling on the moneylender’s merchandise like a dirty sheet. Fat beeswax candles were placed strategically throughout the shop, casting a warm glow on the finer pieces. The rest of the room, the corners and farther reaches, were temptingly just out of reach. Paolo unconsciously retreated from the shadows.

“Come, sit my friend.” Bercu pulled out a stiff backed chair and placed it near a candle, gently pressing Paolo into the seat. “A horrid day to be out. Whatever brings you to my door must be serious indeed.” Bercu’s expression was solemn, but his eyes danced with curiosity.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Paolo began, but Bercu waved off the apology.

“Please, don’t be silly. What can I do for you? Some spiced wine and a blanket perhaps?” Without waiting for a reply, Bercu disappeared behind the dark curtain into the small room where he and Paolo had spoken before, quickly returning with a small cup and a thick blanket. Paolo accepted the cup, wrapping his hands around it as Bercu draped the thick blanket over his shoulders. He soon felt the chill receding. Again he noticed the warmth of the man, a perpetual willingness to comfort. Was it genuine? It was one thing to discuss the plight of the Jews, the clownish behavior of Francesco, or even the gossip surrounding Ciro’s death, none of which could get a man arrested. But did he dare confide in him now? He was a fugitive, an enemy of the State. He had defied the most powerful and feared group of men in Venice, men who could destroy a man’s life without so much as a crumb of remorse. A man in the moneylender’s position would be a fool to help him.

Paolo hesitated, unsure. He wanted to confide in him. If ever he needed a friend it was now. But he did not want to expose Bercu to risk. That he was here at all was danger enough. And still he did not know if he could trust him. He had struggled with the question before, decided then that he had had no choice, but this was different. It was no longer a theoretical question. This was life or death.

“Signore Avesari,” Bercu began softly, touching his arm. “Paolo. It is clear that you are in some distress. Whatever I can do to help, I will. You can be sure of that.” Paolo was again drawn to the man’s eyes, with little effort able to convey wisdom and sympathy, empathy and understanding.

“I…I do not wish to involve you signore. It is…dangerous.”

Bercu let out a bark of laughter, surprising Paolo. “Dangerous you say?” His smile was infectious and Paolo, despite the grimness of his mind, felt the upward curl of his own lips. “My friend, my entire existence is dangerous. My business, my family, my very way of life hangs by a thread, one so slender I am amazed with each sunrise that it is as it was the day before.” He shook his head, the smile gone. “As a Jew in Venice, I do not know any other way to live.” He clapped his hand on Paolo’s shoulder, smiling once more. “So stop wringing your hands and tell me your tale of danger, eh?”

Relieved but not entirely convinced, Paolo nodded, recounted all that had happened— the council, the tattered noble trying in vain to be inconspicuous, what had happened at his father’s workshop. He had experienced it all in a frenetic rush, barely able to comprehend what had been happening before the next calamity befell him. Now he heard himself recite the story in a steady flow, the events stitched together, someone else telling the tale. By the time he had finished, ending with his frantic flight through the storm, the enormity of what happened had sunk in; the weight he carried many times that which he could ever hope to bear.

Bercu remained silent for some time. Paolo feared that in his bravado, the moneylender had underestimated the danger carried to his doorstep and was reconsidering his offer of help. His body tense once more as it had been in the skiff, Paolo readied himself to throw off the blanket and disappear into the mist.

But to his great relief Bercu smiled instead, though sadly, put a hand on his shoulder. “I must admit, I was not expecting such a tale of intrigue.”

Paolo began to rise. “This was a mistake. I will…”

Bercu gently pressed him back into the chair. “No my friend, you misunderstand. I would not offer help and so callously rescind it at the first mention of trouble. I gave you my word, and if my word cannot be trusted, then I am nothing. Please do not take my silence for reluctance. The more complicated the danger, the more complicated the solution, no? I was simply thinking.”

Sitting back down, Paolo looked up at the moneylender. Bercu began to speak, although not it seemed to Paolo. Staring at the far wall of the shop, he seemed to be running through the thoughts in his mind, putting it all into a logical sequence. “We need to get you out of sight, obviously. But where? Somewhere here in Cannaregio. They don’t like coming to the Jewish quarter unless they need saving through our financial acumen or they mean to expel us from the city, two things that have happened frequently in equal measure over the years.” A thought seemed to occur to him. “How much have you spoken to Francesco about your dealings here?” Paolo sensed that Bercu wasn’t really asking him a question. “I do not trust that enlarged oaf. He would reveal all he knows quite easily if threatened I have no doubt. The council will not rest until you are found, so you cannot stay in one place for very long, no matter how secure.”

Bercu set his eyes, looked at Paolo. He had come to a decision. “Chaya will look after you for the moment. There is no one else we can trust. The council will want to know from Francesco everyone you have had dealings with in the course of your employment, and they will come here, whether he suspects that you have sought me out or not. I must continue about my business as though nothing has changed so as to not arouse any suspicion. I can do that as long as I know you are safe. I do not believe Francesco is even aware of Chaya. He has rarely deigned to visit me himself, nor has he ever so much as asked after any family that I may have, such is his distaste for our race.” Bercu smiled grimly. “On occasion such bigotry works in our favor. I fear it is not an arrangement that can be sustained however. Only until I can think of a more lasting alternative.” His gaze softened and he spoke now in a quieter tone. “And I will of course tell you the moment I hear of what has become of your father. There will no doubt be rumors.”

Paolo felt the beginnings of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and tried to hide his immense relief. “I do not know what to say signore. You are putting yourself and your daughter at great risk. For what reason, I confess, I know not. More than ever I know now that we exist only at the whim of powerful men. You have a life, one which could be taken all too easily.”

Bercu nodded. “And there my friend is your answer to why I help you.”

Twenty Three

“
S
o, welcome to Venice, my Venice. It is a city of illusion, beautiful one moment and ugly the next. No, that is not quite true. It is beautiful and ugly all at once, contingent only on your perspective; even more dangerous than someone who changes back and forth from friend to enemy depending on their mood. One can at least learn to read moods. But how do you protect yourself from the enemy that pretends to be your friend? Do you still love La Serenissima?”

Paolo lamented the fact that Chaya still seemed to hold him in contempt, despite what had happened, despite her own father’s good will toward him.

He must have had a pathetic expression on his face because her tone softened as she continued. “I am sorry for your troubles. But now you understand why I rage against the hypocrisy of these people.”

“By these people you mean me.”

“Bah. You are not Venetian. You are naïve. You cannot be truly Venetian unless you are duplicitous. Oh do not look so hurt. It is a compliment.”

“If you were not a Jew, if you were a member of a family in the Golden Book with all the trappings of nobility, would you still rage against the injustice of the Republic?”

“But I am a Jew, and I have no time for hypothetical supposition. I cannot pontificate as my father does for intellectual stimulation. I am too busy being oppressed.” A small smile played across her lips. She realized she was becoming dramatic.
Did she know how beautiful she was?
He did not know how he would endure this time with her.

They sat at a small table near the kitchen in Bercu’s modest apartment on the second floor of the peeling four-story building, a plate of crusty bread and a dish of olives between them. Climbing up the narrow stairs Paolo had feared the structure would collapse, the creaking so pronounced. The moneylender had given strict orders that he stay inside at all times until they could formulate a plan for what to do next. It was his second day in hiding, Paolo still unsure how Chaya felt about the task she had been given.

“Despite being naïve I am still a Venetian, and I am sorry you are being forced to endure the company of one whom you so despise. As you might imagine, I would rather it not be so.”

“Stop. Yes, you are a victim, but you need not play at one so blatantly.”

He smiled now, enjoying the banter. “I take it, as a Jew, your persecution is far nobler than my own.”

“It is true of course.” She returned the smile, though it seemed to Paolo she was trying not to. “Perhaps my sentence will not be so unbearable. You seem to have a sense of humor. We may have lively debates after all, despite your ignorance about the true nature of your fellow citizens and what they are capable of.”

“A higher compliment I could not have hoped for.”

Chaya’s expression, playful only an instant earlier, turned somber, as though she were afraid of what was transpiring. She was letting her guard down, something to be avoided for reasons she alone knew.

“You do realize there is no way to clear your name. Once you have been branded by the council, it is done.” She continued, hesitant, not wanting to say the words. “And as an enemy of the State, death is assured.” This Paolo knew. There were only two punishments in Venice, banishment or death, the death sentence carried out by either strangulation or drowning.

He said as much, wishing to spare her having to say the words. “Quite convenient, the drowning I mean, given the nature of our fair city.” It was false bravado and they both knew it. Chaya’s expression didn’t change. She had a look of hopelessness, as though she were remembering someone already dead.

“Tell me about your mother,” she said abruptly, feeling no need for subtlety in changing the subject. Paolo silently thanked her, although this new subject was nearly as painful.

“My mother.” Chaya saw the sadness in Paolo’s eyes and cursed silently. In her haste to avoid the unpleasantness of his situation, she unthinkingly prodded something still sore and tender. He didn’t seem to mind however. He spoke softly with the hint of a smile, his eyes focused on nothing in particular. He was remembering. “She bound our family together,” he began slowly, “loved us without limit, and when she was gone, there was nothing left to hold us. There had been a break between my father and me before her death, but even so, never once had I felt that I would never see her, or my family reunited, again. She had always been the strong one, and I knew as long as she was there, we would all somehow find each other again. But then she died, and we were lost.”

“I’m sorry.” Paolo nodded, turned away, the tears beginning to form. He fought them back. “No,” Chaya said gently. “Let them come. I suspect you have not given your grief the time it deserves.”

He continued, his voice thick. He spoke in a monotone, absorbing the words as he said them. “I had seen my brother on occasion over the years, but those meetings became less frequent. It was odd. One would think that a mother’s death would draw the remaining members of the family more closely together, but it seemed to do the opposite with us. I saw my brother less and less frequently, and of course never saw my father. He blamed me for my mother’s death. I hated him for that but was secretly afraid that it might be true.” Paolo brightened for just a moment. “But we have found one another again.” Just as quickly however a darkness settled, his eyes hooded as he thought of his father’s fate. His head drooped and he ran a coarse hand through his hair. “Everyone is gone,” he mumbled.

“We do not know that yet Paolo. Your father may still be alive.” It was the first time she had said his name.

“If he is, he soon will not be.” Chaya didn’t respond. She knew he was right. “My mother understood better than my father why I left, why I couldn’t work as a glass blower. I wondered if she ever spoke to him about it, explained it to him for me. He wouldn’t have listened of course. He never did.”

“And I am sure she knew that. It is difficult,” Chaya ventured, “for a woman to contradict a man, point out the unsound reasoning of his position, particularly when that man is her husband. Even when it concerns her son.”

Paolo grinned. “Apparently not for you.”

“No,” she laughed. “Apparently not for me.”

“And what of your own mother? I have not heard mention of her.”

“She died as well.”

Now it was Paolo’s turn to offer condolences.

“Yes, thank you. In childbirth. She died in childbirth, delivering my brother, who lived only a few hours. I was eight.”

Paolo nodded, knowing how devastating the loss of his child must have been to Bercu. But losing a son also meant losing a legacy. His daughter could never hope to succeed him in his business.

Chaya noted his reaction. “Yes, my father nearly did not survive. Like all fathers, he only wished to pass on what he had built to his son.”