The Venetian (9 page)

But this time Paolo’s former position would serve a purpose. He was to confront a wine supplier about a troublesome trend of dilution in his product over the last few months. As the Arsenale inspired a sense of awe and represented the secret power of government, Francesco was sure to have pointed out to the supplier that not only did his own merry nature mask a heart of ruthlessness in the ways of business, but that he had access to those close to the seat of power. Surely a wine supplier could not expect to cheat a man who employed none other than the
Canever
of the Arsenale itself.

Paolo had been unable to sleep the night before and set out early, hoping to quell his restlessness and clear his mind. It was too early to call on the supplier, and remembering his conversation with Chaya and Bercu from the previous day—and his own discomfiting lack of awareness as to their circumstances as Jews—he decided to seek out the old man’s pawnshop and see for himself the way of their world. He had been surprised when the moneylender mentioned his pawnshop, thought him only a moneylender. ‘I dabble’ he had said to Paolo when asked, giving Paolo’s own words back to him with a smile.

He found the place easily enough, the residents of the Cannaregio amiable, if not a little wary, directing him there. He thought on Bercu’s comment that the pawnshops must have their entrances on streets with little traffic so the nobler of Venice’s residents could enter without fear of notice. Such a way to live and be perceived by those who require your talents but refuse to acknowledge your worth. It seemed with each passing day his field of vision was growing a little wider.

He found Bercu rearranging a variety of items in the small shop, preparing for the day’s business. Paolo entered with a small bow.

“Bongiorno signore.”

“Ah,” Bercu smiled seeing Paolo enter, seemed genuinely pleased by the visit. “Bongiorno Signore Avesari. Come in. Come in.” He waved Paolo in and offered him a chair of fine craftsmanship, one that was apparently for sale. “Please,” he gestured to the chair. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink perhaps.”

“No, thank you signore.” Paolo sat. “I hope I am not intruding. I am out on business for Francesco.” Bercu wrinkled his nose at the merchant’s name. “I was restless and left too early to call on him and thought I might stop and say good day to you.”

“Of course you do not intrude,” Bercu said, waving away the notion. “It is a pleasant surprise, but I fear Chaya is not here at present.” There was a smile in his voice and Paolo felt the color rising in his cheeks. “I hope you will still consider remaining. I have very much enjoyed our conversations.” Paolo nodded.

“So, what do you think of my emporium?” Bercu spread his arms wide and smiled in a way that both acknowledged the shop’s lack of grandeur while communicating the sense of esteem in which it was held by its proprietor.

“I think it a very fine shop signore.”

“You are most kind. So,” the older man began, rubbing his hands together in the manner Paolo had come to understand meant he was ready to engage in conversation, “what shall we discuss today?” His eyes danced with expectation.

There were many things Paolo wished to discuss. He wanted to know more about Chaya, but could only do so by indirect means. He was also curious about the life they led as Jews in Venice. Uncomfortable a topic as that may be, it would undoubtedly be best to speak of it in Chaya’s absence so as to maintain a more…peaceful environment. There was the as yet unanswered question of Bercu’s obvious distaste for Francesco, and most intriguing of all, the old moneylender’s knowledge of Ciro’s murder so soon after it had happened and his obvious reluctance to speak of how he came about it.

Not knowing how to tactfully broach any of these topics, Paolo put off the question by taking in the entirety of Bercu’s pawnshop, barely needing to turn his head as he did so. It was small, but ordered in such a way as to be quite pleasing to the eye of a potential customer. Bercu had acquired a large amount of merchandise, clothing and various types of household goods and furnishings, all of which were arranged in such a way that suggested discovery rather than simple browsing. The inevitable useless space that all buildings possessed was utilized to great effect, making each turn of the head or sweep of the eye a minute adventure with the promise of unexpected reward.

“You have fine merchandise.”

“Yes,” the moneylender acknowledged without pride, appraising his inventory thoughtfully. “When we were given the opportunity to open shops such as these, it was to sell
strazzaria
, literally rags. But, clever Jews that we are,” he said with a mirthless smile, “we expanded to include items of various utility and unique interest. It is not uncommon in fact for me to sell a trinket or two to a foreign diplomat or even a government official in preparation for an affair of state. Of course the type and quality of merchandise in the city’s pawnshops is as varied as the type and quality of the shop owners themselves.” Now his smile held the smallest taste of vanity. “I would like to think that this establishment’s distinctiveness owes in some small part to that of its proprietor.”

Paolo smiled. Bercu was a man of keen intelligence and yes, pride, and such men did not suffer well their ill treatment by those ubiquitous Venetians possessing higher social status and lower character. In order to survive, he knew, such a man required reminders of his worth, and if he didn’t receive it from others, he would simply provide it himself.

“It is not difficult however to acquire fine and unique pieces. After all, we sit at the crossroads of the world. Silk, spices, carpets, pearls, and precious metals stream in from the East while we send salt, wood, linen, wool, velvet, amber, coral, and fine cloth to Egypt, Anatolia, the Levant, and Persia.” He stopped, taking a deep breath, playing at the exhaustion he daily endured harnessing the embarrassment of riches showered upon the city.

Paolo laughed, rising from his seat. “Come, it seems you are the one that requires a chair.”

“No thank you signore. I prefer to stand, always prepared for the next opportunity.” He waved him back down. “Sit, please.”

“You have much from the East here,” said Paolo, appraising the shop once more.

“Oh yes. Without the East, Venice would not exist.” Paolo raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Come, come Signore Avesari, surely you are not among those whose vision does not extend beyond our beloved lagoon?” He looked at Paolo, narrowing his eyes in mock appraisal. “Is it possible that I have misjudged you?” His tone was playful but, having come to respect the moneylender for his intelligence, Paolo felt the sting nevertheless. Bercu could see he had unintentionally struck a chord, continued in a softer tone. “Our magnificent maritime republic my friend, La Serenissima, would likely have remained a poor fishing village had it not been for the trade with our eastern brethren.”

Paolo, knowing his ignorance had given the now excited moneylender his opportunity to instruct, settled comfortably into his chair. Although the topic concerned none of the questions he had hoped to answer, he nevertheless looked upon the discussion as one worth having. Answers to questions, like much of the merchandise before him, were often found in the unlikeliest of places.

“Venice’s fortunes have been linked with the East at least since the eighth century when the Republic began trading with Alexandria,” Bercu began. “We are the gateway to the Levant and beyond. And above the goods we offer, we have historically provided a far nobler service. We have given them a taste of the West as a home to visionary men of commerce rather than a place peopled by blindly zealous crusaders.”

“You doubt the noble motivation of the Crusades?” Paolo smiled, communicating his own distrust of that long ago enterprise. “Because you are a Jew?”

“No my friend,” the moneylender smiled sadly. “Because I am a man.”

“Well,” said Paolo, changing the subject, “it is just as well that enduring conflict did in fact end. Otherwise you may not have such fine wares to sell.”

“True. While trade with Venice is a relatively minor aspect of the Mamluk and Ottoman economies, it represents fully half the Republic’s revenues. Still, we were important enough to be the only Christian city to appear on Ibn Khaldun’s fourteenth century world map.”

Bercu saw Paolo’s questioning look, and smiled. He enjoyed dropping these small bits of temptation. It was how he had taught Chaya, leaving tantalizing clues with little context that set her curiosity ablaze. Avesari showed an interest beyond the typical Venetian who believed the very heavens moved in accordance with their own whims. “Ibn Khaldun was an Arab historian from North Africa and is credited with being a forerunner to the study of societies and economics.”

“Ah. I am beginning to see how sheltered we are here in the lagoon. Apparently the sun does not rise simply to warm Venice.”

“Quite a radical view, I know. In fact, many of our Italian words come from the original Arabic. Doana and tariffa, trade terms for customs and duty, as well as goods such as sofa, divan, and damasco.”

“Yes, but what of publishing? Surely Venice is the capital of that trade?”

“You take an interest in publishing? Indeed. And you are correct. But pray Signore Avesari, what do the Venetian publishers publish? Muslim treatises on medicine, philosophy, astronomy, and mathematics. Among other things of course. I do not mean to suggest that the Republic owes all to the East. Only perhaps more than we are willing to admit. Or should I say ordinary Venetians. The merchants know very well the value of our Muslim trade.”

“And thanks to you I shall join them in that knowledge.” Paolo smiled.

“You mock me my friend” Bercu chided playfully with a wagging finger. “But yes, the Republic was to be the new Alexandria. The campanile tower at the Basilica of San Pietro Castello was erected in homage to the famous Pharos, Alexandria’s ancient lighthouse. We have always been pragmatists my friend. Muslims, at least for the merchants, were understood simply as figures in the wider world with whom it was necessary to do business. Even during the Crusades, we continued trading with our Islamic partners. Such, shall we say, disagreements eventually end, and it is always wise to maintain that which acts as the foundation to society, don’t you agree?”

He looked inquiringly at Paolo. Wars of savagery in which millions perished could hardly be called ‘disagreements’ in Paolo’s view. “You take the long view of things I see,” he responded.

“Indeed. I see by your expression, oh yes, you cannot hide such a thing from an old merchant like me, that my characterization of those bloody conflicts is rather coldhearted. Yes it is, but it is the only way I can keep from weeping at the senselessness of it all. If I were to think on the slaughter with a man’s heart rather than a merchant’s mind, I would never rise again.” He smiled sadly. “In fact, as I am sure you know, Venice turned the fourth crusade into an opportunity to attack the Byzantine Empire, their brethren, and
not
the Muslims.” Bercu chuckled at the absurdity of it all. “Even when Rome placed restrictions on trade with Muslims, Venice circumvented the bans by trading through Cyprus and Crete.”

“You mentioned the Mamluks earlier. They are a strange lot.”

“They are indeed. But they are necessary to the Republic’s survival. Our navy protects their coasts while they remain our key trading partners in the East, controlling the vast stretch of the Levant. It was only a few years ago that the Mamluk envoy Taghribidi arrived from Cairo for treaty negotiations lasting a full ten months. Such a length of time is most unusual. I wonder what it portends.” The creases of his well-lined face seemed to deepen all at once. “Unlike the insatiable Turks,” he continued, “they harbor no aspirations to wrest control of the Eastern Mediterranean.”

“Was Constantinople not enough?”

Bercu laughed bitterly. “Do you believe that a people willing to sacrifice what the Ottomans did to conquer Constantinople would also be willing to stop there?”

“But the Mamluks. I do not understand them.”

“They are a strange lot as you say.”

“They are slaves, stolen from their homes and families and sold into a life of endless war. Do they assimilate so easily? Do they not despise their masters? Do they not miss their homes and families?”

“Such are questions I cannot answer. It is a matter of reference. We cannot conceive of such a life, and as such, we cannot answer those simple questions because they are based upon a way of life that is wholly alien to us.”

Paolo seemed unsatisfied by the moneylender’s evasive answer. “I believe you have missed your calling signore. The tongue-twisting labyrinth of the law may be better suited to your talents.” He smiled briefly before realizing that the law, like virtually every other profession, was forbidden to Jews.

Bercu didn’t seem to notice. “Why, you of all people signore should appreciate Eastern influence. The Venetian glass trade began as a challenge to the great glassmakers of the Levant. They had no equal in all the world, and the Republic set out to copy Muslim designs. Our artisans built upon the styles and materials of Islamic craftsmen, inventing and perfecting new techniques, and the Ottomans in turn utilized the newly established Venetian expertise in their own work.”

Paolo’s face darkened at the mention of the glass trade. It was no exaggeration to say that it was the source of all his life’s pain.

Bercu, normally so self-assured in conversation, faltered. “I am sorry signore. That was unthinking of me. Please accept my apologies.”

Paolo nodded, silently accepting the gesture. “It is alright, thank you. But since you bring it up,” he continued, “I am interested to know how you came to be aware of my brother’s murder so quickly. And why, if I may be so bold,” Paolo said lightly, trying to mask the challenge in his voice, “you seemed so vague in your response to my obvious surprise.”

“Why, to not intrude upon your grief of course signore,” Bercu responded formally, his honor affronted.

Paolo smiled. “I would expect that a moneylender and merchant of your stature would be more accomplished at…artifice.”