When Vivaldi’s concerto ended, a handful of servants mounted a wrought-iron grille across the stage to hide the next performers from the audience. It was the turn of the choir from the Conservatorio dei Mendicanti, mainly made up of orphan girls who were being brought up as nuns and taught by the best singing masters of the city. Their renown had spread across Europe and visitors flocked to Venice from abroad, but the girls never showed their faces and usually sang in the convent churches, hidden behind the metal grates. Only on very rare occasions, and for a considerable price, did the Conservatorio allow them to perform in public. There were those who said that the girls’ beauty was out of this world, and others who swore that many were fat and ugly or disfigured by the pox. Whatever the truth, no one could argue with the fact that they sang like angels.
The choir launched into a multi-voice cantata by Benedetto Marcello and Marco again lost himself in thought.
One thing had been weighing on his conscience. He should have done it earlier, but before Christmas there had really been no reason why Annetta should continue to wait for him in her small apartment behind the church of San Rocco.
He had gone to see her two days earlier, and in the end no explanation had been necessary because she already knew and understood.
‘I will miss you, Your Excellency,’ she’d said, with tears in her eyes. ‘But I knew that it would come to an end. You must go your own way and make yourself a family, and I never imagined that I would become a Pisani.’
Marco had been quite moved and felt almost ashamed as he gave her the papers which his bankers had drawn up earlier. She would be assured of an annual income that would be more than sufficient.
‘I cannot accept,’ she had said in a low voice. ‘You never did so before, but now you’re treating me like a . . . as a—’
‘No, Annetta,’ Marco had interrupted. ‘It’s precisely because you are not one of them that I want you always to be able to hold your head high without having to rely on others.’
In the end Annetta had accepted, but nonetheless Marco still felt guilty.
Yet now he had the good fortune of having Chiara in his life. He had gone to see her as soon as he could and just yesterday, on Christmas morning, he had offered her the family ring chosen by his mother. ‘I am delighted that you’ve found a woman worthy of wearing it,’ Signora Pisani had said as she pressed it into his hand.
On seeing the ring, Chiara had fallen silent. ‘Does this mean we’re engaged?’ she had asked at last.
‘Yes, Chiara,’ he’d replied, somewhat taken aback by her lukewarm response. ‘It’s not a new ring because it belongs in the family. But my wife never wore it, if that’s what’s worrying you. I’d never do anything so crass.’
‘No, that’s not the problem. It’s only that . . . you should have asked me first whether I agreed. I’ve not even met your parents yet . . .’
That was how Chiara thought: true to character and the most independent woman in Venice.
‘Chiara,’ he had replied, ‘I love you. You love me. Will you be my fiancée?’
‘Yes. But what’s the hurry?’
‘Because tomorrow evening at the ball, I want everyone to know that you are mine.’
‘And what if they disapprove because I’m not an aristocrat?’
‘When they catch sight of you, they’ll be green with envy. The men of me, the women of you.’
Noticing that the audience had risen to their feet and were applauding, Marco shook himself from his thoughts and joined in. Once the applause had died down, Daniele spotted a beautiful widow with whom he was acquainted and headed towards her to pay his respects. Marco offered Chiara his arm and led her towards the dining room in the large reception hall of the upper floor. Here, the refreshments had been set out on an enormous central table laden with silver dishes filled with truffled pheasants and partridges, trays of finely sliced meats and pyramids of oysters whose mother-of-pearl shells lay temptingly open. A huge sturgeon on a gilded platter resting on a chafing dish formed the centrepiece. At one end was a selection of prized early vegetables and salads dressed with aromatic vinegars. On the left was the dessert table with fruits and ices of all kinds kept cold on beds of crushed ice. On the other side of the hall was the wine buffet serving champagne, an array of Burgundy, Malaga, Moscato and Malvasia, and to conclude, a selection of liqueurs and Rhenish wines.
The stewards circled nimbly between the tables, serving the guests. Among them Marco glimpsed his butler, Giuseppe, who would never have missed an opportunity to wear the family livery at the annual reception in Palazzo Pisani. Indeed, even Nani, who had accompanied them to the festivities, was lending a hand downstairs in the kitchens, even though he had been given the evening off. Marco was sure that at the appropriate moment Nani would find a door ajar through which he could peer to admire the dancing.
After dinner the guests trooped back downstairs amidst much chatter. Marco took the opportunity of singling out some of them. ‘My parents invite the city’s most illustrious families, but only on condition that my mother actually likes them,’ he told Chiara. ‘As you can see, those families include the Erizzos, the Trons, the Mocenigos, the Zorzis, the Bragadins and the Giustinians. Those men at the end of the hall, still eating their ices, are the Memmo brothers, Andrea, Bernardo and Lorenzo. The gossip is that they’re involved in black magic and are friends of Casanova. My mother would never invite him, that’s for certain. Behind me,’ Marco went on in a whisper, ‘is Condulmer, the principal shareholder of the Sant’Angelo theatre, and one of the inquisitors. Let’s move on, though, because I don’t want him to start talking about work.’
The dancing had started and the ballroom was a magnificent sight. In the flickering candlelight the ladies’ wide skirts formed circles of crimson and violet damask, silver lace and golden brocade, all richly embroidered. They looked like exotic flowers whose centres were adorned with sparkling gems and pearls. Their male partners were similarly resplendent in gold-trimmed coats, and they beat time with their fine leather shoes embellished with precious buckles. The scents of violet and jasmine wafted across the hall, mixed with sweet undertones of chypre.
Our civilisation may be declining, thought Marco, but into such splendid decadence!
At that moment he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and found himself face to face with Dario Corner, who was soberly dressed in black.
‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’
They withdrew into the bow of a window.
‘You seem surprised to see me here,’ Dario started. ‘Your mother was gracious enough to send us the invitation, but we are all in mourning and I’ve only come briefly because I wanted to see you.’
‘Tell me how I can help.’
‘I don’t want you to think badly of our family. My brother did something appalling and my mother is distraught. We’ve not even dared to tell my sister-in-law the truth. I have my faults, it’s true, but I had no idea my brother could be capable of something like that. We used to fight, but I was fond of him.’
Marco scrutinised the man and saw the signs of deep sorrow in his eyes. He remembered how, without knowing it, Dario, too, had been on the list of possible suspects.
‘But,’ Corner went on, ‘what really grieves me the most is that my brother had been a changed man in the past year or so and he’d stopped seeing that group. And just when he’d become a father, that wretch chose to take revenge. Of course, he had his own reasons . . . I don’t know what to say.’
Marco clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
‘I only wanted to assure you, in spite of everything, how much I appreciate all you’ve done,’ ended Dario.
‘Come to visit us, Corner,’ said Marco as he turned away. ‘And support your sister-in-law.’
He returned to join Chiara and sat down next to her on a divan in the grand salon.
‘Do you see that woman dressed in lace whose glass is being filled by the waiter?’ he said, gesturing towards an elderly lady
whose ugly appearance made her stand out. ‘That’s Rosalba Carriera, the famous painter. She doesn’t see that well now, but she’s painted the most beautiful pastel portraits and miniatures of royalty all over Europe. She doesn’t go out much, and it’s a miracle that she’s here this evening. My mother must have used all her diplomatic skills. And that rather stout man over there, chatting in the midst of a circle of admirers, do you see him? He’s the famous Carlo Goldoni. He doesn’t need to be invited twice, especially when he knows the food will be excellent. He’s a formidable conversationalist.’
‘All of Venice is here!’ exclaimed Chiara.
‘No, not all, only the chosen. My mother doesn’t only invite nobles and artists. Look at that gentleman at the table beside the wall.’ He gestured towards a man who looked like a commoner. ‘That’s Segati, the rich fabric merchant; perhaps you know him already. And on his right, that tall. thin character is one of our greatest intellectuals. He’s Giovanni Poleni, the famous mathematician and astrophysicist from the University of Padua. On the other side of the room, surrounded by that group of women, is Andrea Tron, perhaps the only aristocrat who’s also an excellent businessman. He owns a series of wool manufactories on the mainland and is reclaiming parts of the lagoon. He speaks five languages. But now let’s go and dance.’
The orchestra was playing a pavane and Marco and Chiara joined the other couples. Chiara danced with infinite grace and Marco noticed how all the other men looked at her with interest every time she was turned by them. For the first time, he felt a stab of jealousy.
In the interval between two dances, they were joined by an elderly gentleman. Marco smiled as he introduced him to Chiara.
‘Here you have the greatest artist of all time, Giovanbattista Tiepolo.’ The painter bowed dutifully. ‘I much admired your paintings in the ballroom at Palazzo Labia,’ Marco went on. Then he turned to Chiara and said, ‘But you must admire the ceiling that Tiepolo painted for us in the room next door.’
Tiepolo smiled with satisfaction. ‘Thank you, Your Excellency. I took the liberty of interrupting you because I wanted to say that I had such difficulty finding the right model for Cleopatra. But if I had seen your splendid lady at the time . . . I’ve just been watching you dance together . . . if I may say so, I would have asked her to pose for me.’
Chiara smiled with embarrassment. ‘I am very honoured, sir. And if my fiancé would permit’ – she smiled as she looked at Marco – ‘I would be happy to sit for a portrait.’
There, she’d said it! My fiancé! Pisani was overjoyed.
‘Shall we go, my love?’ he asked, after Tiepolo had withdrawn. ‘It’s past midnight and, outside, Carnival has started.’
Bidding many of the guests farewell as they left, soon they were out on the Grand Canal. It was snowing and the heavy flakes had already formed a white blanket over the city, lending it an additional touch of magic.
They caught a ferry and, surrounded by a bustling crowd of strangers, they soon reached Saint Mark’s Square, where the oriental domes of the basilica, the straight façades of the Procuratie and the soaring silhouette of the bell tower were all dusted in white.
In the square, crowds had gathered under the lamplight. Warmly wrapped in cloaks and wearing bautta masks, men and women ran around laughing and throwing snowballs. The coffee houses were open and full to bursting. Here and there, nobles and commoners danced manfrine and furlane to the sound of pipes and guitars, the men jumping up and down while the women spun around like tops.
Marco and Chiara joined in the fun and joined hands in a large circle of dancers, showering each other with snow. An old man stirred hot red wine in a cauldron over an improvised fire, sending a tantalising spiced scent into the air. They queued for a glass and drank it eagerly before, laughing, they headed back to dance.
Marco wrapped Chiara even more tightly in her cloak and pulled her into the shadow under the arches of the Procuratie Vecchie. He kissed her and she responded. They held each other in a close and increasingly intimate embrace as his hands caressed her.
‘Shall we . . .?’ Marco’s voice was hoarse.
She followed him up the dark stairs to the mezzanine room that he used as a dressing room and in the half-light of the lanterns that shone over the square she lay in his arms on the sofa.
Much later, warm under the avogadore’s ample cloak, they smiled at each other, ecstatic and content.
‘What a wonderful thing love is,’ murmured Chiara. ‘You are the first.’
Marco burned afresh with passion as he looked at her. ‘That’s how it will always be, Chiara. Will you marry me?’
‘Marry you? Yes, of course, but in the future.’
‘No, I mean now, Chiara. Will you be my wife now?’ He kissed her again passionately.
Her eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. ‘Of course, my love. But not now. We’ll wait a while.’
‘And how will we manage until then?’ stuttered Marco, looking at her in dismay.
‘Until then,’ echoed Chiara, as a consolatory dimple appeared in her cheek, ‘let us enjoy living in sin.’
LET’S SPEAK VENETIAN: A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
The Venice described in the book is not the city you see today but a reconstruction of what it might have looked like in the eighteenth century. For example, the Terranova granaries no longer stand on Riva degli Schiavoni. Rio Sant’Anna in Castello was filled in by Napoleon and later became known as Via Garibaldi. The Arsenale, too, is described as it was three hundred years ago. However, unlike almost all other centuries-old cities, in many respects Venice has changed very little.
It is still divided, as it was then, into sestrieri, or districts: Cannaregio, San Marco and Castello on the island north of the Grand Canal; Dorsoduro, Santa Croce and San Polo to the south. On the outskirts we find the island of Giudecca and the Lido, and among the other islands in the lagoon, Murano and Burano.
The streets are called calli (the narrowest measures barely 53 centimetres wide). Some still keep the name of rughe or rughette. The earliest paved streets are known as salizàde, and the part of a street that runs along a canal, or rio, is termed a fondamenta. A ramo is a short stretch of a calle that connects two streets.
A rio terà is a small canal that has been filled in and turned into a street, and riva (pl. rive) are stretches along the canals or the basin that are used as wharves.
The sotoporteghi are covered passageways, running below private houses, that lead into some of the calli.
When giving a specific address, because the names of calli were often repeated, it was important to state the sestriere and the parish where a particular building was located, as well as the name of a nearby monument. Today, every building in the sestriere is numbered progressively.
There is only one piazza in Venice – that is Piazza San Marco, or Saint Mark’s Square. All the others are campi or campielli. The word is derived from the fact that in the early centuries of the city’s history these spaces were used to grow vegetables or, if they are slightly raised, as cemeteries.
The word Ca’ means a palace, often a resplendent building, and it is a sign of the modesty of the Venetian aristocracy, which did not include counts or dukes appointed by royalty, but simply patricians, who all held equal status in the Republic.
Two of the less well known among the numerous Venetian magistracies are included in the novel. First, the avogaria di Comùn. Among their various duties, the avogadori instructed proceedings, rather like present-day procurators, and they acted as public prosecutors. One of them (there were three in office at any one time) always had to be present at sittings of the Senate. All of them had the right of intervention, that is to say, they could take action with regard to measures taken by other magistracies if they believed that they did not comply with the law. Lastly, they kept the Libro d’Oro, the book that formally recorded noble birth.
Second, the magistracy headed by Messer Grando, who held a position similar to our modern-day Italian questori, o
r head of police. This man was always a commoner. In the mid-eighteenth century the office was held by Matteo Varutti.
GLOSSARY
Accademia dei Nobili: Charitable institution that also cared for orphans from noble families.
Arsenale: Once the largest docks and shipyards in Europe, employing thousands of specialised workers.
avogadore di Comùn: One of three public prosecutors, or judges, charged with defending the interests of the Republic and investigating violations of justice.
bàilo: The official diplomatic representative of Venice in Constantinople.
barnabotto (pl. barnabotti): An impoverished Venetian patrician, with no money but a strong sense of entitlement.
bautta: Full-face mask, usually worn during the Carnival.
bissóna (pl. bissóne): A large Venetian boat, manned by six or eight oarsmen.
bragozzo (pl. bragozzi): Large fishing boat used in the Adriatic, with coloured sails.
burchiello: Passenger ferryboat on the Brenta canal.
burchio (pl. burchi): Flat-bottomed rowing boat used to carry passengers or goods.
calle (pl. calli): A narrow street between houses.
corno: The pointed hat worn by the Doge of Venice.
Fondaco dei Turchi: The trading warehouse and offices used by Turks on the Grand Canal.
jus primae noctis: A (fictitious) feudal custom, more commonly referred to as droit du seigneur in English, that stated that a lord had the right to have sex with a woman on the first night of her marriage before her husband.
Murder in Venice Page 27