by Roberta Rich
Cesca had hidden in the woods behind a thicket of blackberries on the path from the Jewish cemetery to confront him as he returned from the burial. She had called softly to him as he walked past, the last person in the funeral procession. When he glanced up, she beckoned him to follow her. He broke away from the other mourners.
“Hurry!” she whispered at him. “Come on!”
If he was surprised by her behaviour, he gave no sign of it.
Cesca felt her heart racing, her mouth dry from desperation and rage. She knew she looked a mess—dust-grey clothes, dirt-streaked face from crawling around Leon’s study looking for her ducats—but Foscari was evidently not a man to be disconcerted by the sight of a hysterical woman. With a jerk of his head, he tossed his chestnut hair off his face and calmly drew her farther away from the road, cautioning her to lower her voice.
“What is it you want of me?”
Cesca snatched the papers from her skirt and shoved them in his face. “Read these and tell me what they signify.” As he took the papers from her, she glanced down at his shoes, an infallible sign of a man’s wealth. Not as new as she would wish, but why would he trouble himself to put on his best boots to walk down a country road to a Jewish cemetery? She waited for him to demand a price in return for his efforts—a kiss, or a quick grapple in the bushes. Either of those she would happily have provided, but to her puzzlement he made no such requests. It was only later, when it was far too late, that she realized Foscari was not a man to be satisfied by fleeting rewards.
Squatting on the ground, he smoothed the first paper on a large rock and studied it for a moment. Foscari was not young, nor was he old, perhaps near to forty-five, although he still had the strong, square teeth of a younger man. The pouch of flesh on his neck, the hollows under his eyes, and his beak of a silver nose gave him the look of a stately raptor.
“This,” he said, holding up the black-bordered parchment with the oak motif, “is written in Latin, which fortunately for you, I read fluently.” He read the promissory note aloud with such ease, it was as though he were reading a simple broadsheet. “Leon made a loan of a hundred ducats to one Isaac …” He paused, then spoke with a hint of surprise in his voice. “Levy—a relative?”
“Leon’s brother. He lives in Constantinople. A silk-maker by trade.” Cesca knew the names of both Leon’s brothers. He had complained about them often enough—their lack of attentiveness to him, their failure to heed his advice in business matters, their profligate wives.
“To whom is he married?” Foscari asked.
“Hannah Levy, a midwife.” Cesca could have sworn from the look on Foscari’s face that he knew this name.
He studied the second document, the one adorned with a border of peacocks’ tails. Grecian urns and mating doves and flowing ribbons graced the corners. “This is the nuptial agreement Leon and Grazia signed before their marriage. That much I can deduce from the fanciful embellishments.” He tapped the figure in the middle of the page. “Grazia’s dowry was one hundred Venetian ducats. The rest is a puzzle. It is written in Hebrew and another language, which I believe is Aramaic. Give me a moment.” He squinted and held the document to the sun. “No, it is of no use. I cannot read it, but I can guess at the gist of it because I doubt it differs from most prenuptial agreements. It probably has a number of clauses about remarriage and what happens in the event of children and so on.” Foscari looked up at Cesca. “However, I suspect the provision that would interest you is that the widow, Grazia, in the event of Leon’s death, is entitled to the return of her dowry. It is a common clause.”
Cesca hoped she did not look as confused as she felt.
Foscari took hold of her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. “It is clear as a crow in a pail of milk.”
“Not to me it isn’t,” said Cesca.
“Look,” he said with an air of exaggerated patience. “Leon lent to his brother, Isaac, the one hundred ducats he received from his wife, Grazia, as her dowry. At Leon’s death, according to the agreement, the ducats are to be repaid to Grazia. So”—he pulled a red handkerchief out of his breast pocket like a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a hat, and wiped his brow—“Isaac now owes Grazia one hundred ducats.”
The anger rose in Cesca like flames from a fire, turning her face red, preventing her from breathing. Her ducats were gone! They were worlds away, in the hands of Leon’s brother.
A week after her meeting with Foscari, she had boarded the Aphrodite bound for Constantinople to claim what was hers.
I am the widow Grazia Levy, Cesca repeated to herself as she had so many times in the past three weeks. She wore Grazia’s dress and her pearls and carried her valises. Wouldn’t Grazia be surprised when she opened her cupboard to find her favourite dresses gone along with her maid? Luckily for Cesca, Grazia was a convert. Grazia might have learned the Jewish prayers and the blessings over challah and candles on Shabbat, but she looked and acted as Christian as Cesca.
Cesca’s scheme was flawless, she reassured herself as the wind sprayed an arc of salt water on her dress. Grazia had never laid eyes on Isaac or Hannah. They had never laid eyes on her. Posing as Grazia, Cesca would demand the return of her dowry money. They could not refuse. It was written right there in the contract she had in her valise.
With a hundred ducats in her purse, there would be nothing so rare or so costly that she could not possess it with a snap of her fingers. Roasted meats stuffed with chestnuts, fresh mutton, warm baths in fragrant oils, silk dresses spun with golden thread!
In the interim, there were difficulties. Of course, like all the passengers, she had had food when she boarded. But Leon’s ring, diamond or not, had fetched only enough for passage, not much in the way of provisions. The ship had run into unfavourable weather. Some windless days they were becalmed for hours. The crew would kedge a laborious course by rowing out several lengths off the bow in a small boat and dropping anchor. Then a sailor would heave hand over hand on the anchor line to pull the Aphrodite toward him, repeating the tedious process over and over, yet making such slight progress it hardly seemed worth the effort. Then there came squalls so fierce they were blown off course. The winds would claw at the sails, tear at the rigging, and snatch the tears from her eyes before they could wet her cheeks.
By the time they had pulled into the provisioning port of Valletta in Malta to take on fresh water, Cesca’s hips were more slender. Her breasts, which had been firm globes of flesh, white and fragrant as peaches, when she sailed out of the port of Venice, were smaller by the time they rounded Cyprus. Cesca’s trunk, once full of dried meat, fish, salted pork and beef, now sat empty; her supply of flour was wet and crawling with insects. No woman could subsist on twice-baked biscuits moving with weevils—biscuits so dry they required a cup of precious rainwater to force the crumbs down her throat. But perhaps she was doing herself a disservice. Perhaps she wasn’t as unappealing as she felt. Was any woman dispassionate in taking the measure of her own beauty?
Cesca was desperate and hungry. She wedged herself between two gang-casks and a sail bag, praying she was invisible to crew or passengers while she did this awful thing, which she must do if she was to survive. The rat had been nibbling at the lace securing her pink shot-silk purse. She had snatched off her boot and given it a smart whack, then promptly put it, writhing and squeaking, into her pocket. Now, with her handkerchief covering her hand, she reached into her pocket and fished out the crippled creature. She dropped it between her feet with a soft plop and it lay there twitching.
She bent down to examine it, trying not to dwell on the sharp, pointed teeth and the tail—hairless and pink against the dark planking of the deck. She must control herself or else the energy she expended in repulsion would exceed the nourishment she might derive from this morsel.
Her mother’s words came back. To live, you must eat, my precious girl. Yesterday she had eaten a shag, a gift from the bo’sun, if something which has been paid for in services can be considered a gift. Her sto
mach was ungrateful for the bird and soon it was part of the green froth swirling at the waterline.
It would be a month or so before they landed. A mere month. Not so great a length of time. Perhaps less, if God sent wind to fill their sails and, with His mighty hand at their stern, hastened the Aphrodite into port. Today they were making good progress. The ship was knifing through the waves, leaving a white foam in its wake. If Cesca could survive a little longer, what a future awaited her.
She squared her shoulders and fingered the wooden beads in her pocket, praying to the Virgin to give her strength. She kissed her rosary and crossed herself. Before they landed, she must fling the beads overboard. Rich Jewish widows did not swan about with rosary beads. Cesca stared at the deck, gooseflesh rising on her arms. She stepped on the creature. Even dead, it gave off an aura—of furtiveness, of clinging to walls, of pressing itself into crevices, of scurrying, nose twitching, among the crates in the cargo hold.
It was no worse than salted cod or beef—just greasier and stringier. She glanced around. Not a soul in sight. She grabbed the tail between her index finger and thumb and let it dangle within a hand’s span of her mouth. She bit in, holding the carcass away from her so the blood would not stain her frock, which was Grazia’s best velvet with taffeta inserts in the sleeves. Picking tiny bones off her tongue, she spit them into a tidy pile at her feet.
She felt better a few moments later. The breeze refreshed her. She gathered her skirts and began to rise from between the casks. By sheer force of will, she had accomplished what she did not think she could manage. She felt absurdly proud of herself.
A tall shadow striped her dress. “Hello, my dear,” said a voice behind her. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. It was the Marquis Foscari in his fine white jacket and wide-brimmed hat. His remarkable silver nose gleamed as he smiled at her.
How long had he been watching her? What was he doing on the ship? There could be only one reason. He wanted a share in her ducats once she had obtained them from Isaac. But he was the Venetian ambassador in Constantinople. Why then would a man in his position want anything from her? Perhaps his presence on the Aphrodite was nothing more than an innocent coincidence?
“How lovely to have the pleasure of your company once again.” He removed his hat and made a sweeping bow, as sweeping as possible between the confines of two water casks. He offered his hand.
Cesca took it, trying to look pleased to see him. Then, after hesitating longer than she should have, she said, “It is good to see you, Foscari.” The sheen of robust health on his skin was like the blush on wild grapes. The perfume of food wafted from him.
“It is a hard matter to argue with the belly. For it has no ears,” he commented in the Venetian dialect.
So he had seen her.
As a girl, Cesca had experienced the same rage she felt now in the presence of this rich man who no doubt pitied her. Once a week, if her mother had not the few scudi required for their rent, she would send Cesca to stand half naked in front of their landlord. The old man would gaze at her breasts while he drank his Madeira wine and sucked the spiced marrow from veal bones.
Cesca swallowed her acrimony and smiled sweetly at Foscari. Leaning toward him and tilting her head, she said, “What brings you on board?”
“You.”
“Me?”
“We have business to discuss.”
Cesca felt the blood rush to her face. So he had guessed her scheme and now here he was, greedy pig, clamouring for his share.
She would have liked to smash his silver nose clean off with the barrel stave lying in front of her on the deck.
Instead, she took his arm and together they picked their way across the rolling deck, side-stepping carelessly coiled rope and overflowing buckets, working their way along the railing of the foredeck, using the spars for handholds. She nearly stumbled into an empty hammock slung between two cannons and would have fallen if Foscari had not caught her around the waist. The sailors slung their hammocks without regard for others, settling like stray dogs where and when they could.
Foscari stood too close to her while he talked. Cesca beamed in response to his remarks about the weather, taking every opportunity to touch his hand or his arm or even his cheek to underline a point, even going so far as to cluck in sympathy when he mentioned the trouble he had finding food to please him.
Finally, when they reached the quarterdeck, Foscari cleared his throat and said, “Would you not be more comfortable in my cabin?”
She put her hand to her forehead and brushed away a strand of hair. Glimpsing her reflection in his nose, she was pleased to note that in the humid salt air, her hair had sprung becomingly into tight curls.
The exchange of sexual favours for food was an attractive prospect, but before matters proceeded any further between them, there was something she must find out. There were only two ways a man could lose his nose—from the French pox (which her mother had once contracted from a sailor from Cádiz), or in a duel. When Cesca’s mother died, still a young woman, her mind was addled from the disease. If it was the pox, Cesca wanted nothing to do with Foscari. Starvation would be a kinder, quicker death. But if this injury was the result of a sword’s blow, then that was a different matter altogether.
Hunger had not made her lose all reason. Men infected with the pox often treated their nether parts with a foul-scented, oily, mercury-based cream. She bent down on the pretext of retying her bootlace and sniffed. No foul odour. On the contrary, Foscari smelled of roasted meat, wine, and lavender water. One could not be too careful. She straightened.
“Perhaps you can tell me about …” She wasn’t sure how to frame the question, but Foscari did it for her.
“What, this? Alas,” he said, tapping his nose. “It happened on the Ponte degli Scalzi in Venice. I could not jump fast enough from my mistress’s window to avoid her tiresome husband. One swipe of his broadsword and the tip of my nose was off faster than a pig’s tail under the butcher’s cleaver. A pity, but I rather like this one. It was fashioned by the Doge’s personal silversmith.”
She felt dizzy with hunger and gripped his arm.
“Perhaps you will do me the honour of dining with me?” He tucked her hand firmly over his forearm and rested his own on top. “My valet is setting out a meal even as we speak. Then he will depart, leaving us to dine in privacy. After we have eaten our fill, we shall discuss the business that propels us to Constantinople.”
Us? She sensed Foscari was about to lay a torch to her carefully laid plans.
“I have wanted to see what the cabins in the aft deck look like,” Cesca responded. She imagined the delights awaiting her in his. The hard pecorino that Venice was so famous for. Or an icy bottle of wine, perhaps? Potatoes fried in the lard of fat-tailed sheep? What liberties must she permit this man before he would part with his victuals? She would gorge herself until her stomach burst, agree with everything he said, and when they docked in Constantinople, she would lose herself in the populous city, never to lay eyes on him again.
As he led her down a narrow passage toward the first-class cabins, the wind shifted the ship so violently that Cesca was tossed from side to side, banging first one shoulder and then the other against the walls. When they reached his cabin, Foscari motioned her inside and closed the door. She took a seat in front of a table laden with food. Foscari lowered himself into the chair across from her.
What a feast! Inhaling the fragrance of the meat, she eyed the crisp skin of peacock, browned to the colour of deep molasses, honey dripping off a cake, cream sauce with yellow islets of butter floating in it, gravy swimming with morels, a roast squab, a fresh grouper, chicken baked in a carapace of salt, a joint of beef, and a flagon of wine. He had obviously orchestrated this moment, watching her grow hungry first, and then, confident in her desperation, offered this array of delicacies as bait. Was it her ducats he sought, or something else? She was too ravenous to care. There was a sulphurous taste in her mouth as though her very or
gans were devouring themselves. All she knew was that she must eat.
“I will strike a bargain with you, Cesca. If you tell me what you are playing at wearing the widow Grazia’s best bib and tucker, sailing on this fine ship, you may eat your fill.”
What plausible lie could she tell him? “I am going to visit my sister. She lives in Pera.” It was the only district she could name in Constantinople. “She is governess to a rich pasha and his wife who wish their children to learn to speak the Roman dialect.”
“Tsk, tsk. Such a pretty mouth, such clumsy lies.” He sliced a piece of peacock, dipped it in the gravy, and popped it in his mouth. “I love well-roasted meat, don’t you?”
Cesca watched as his jaws worked, savouring the flavours before swallowing. “It is hard to listen on an empty stomach.” She longed to grab the entire chicken and cram it in her mouth or, better still, put her head down to the table and wolf down everything like a dog. The thought of how very rich Foscari must be made her feel faint. “I think you have already guessed my plan, Foscari,” she said.
“Well, let us see.” With his napkin, Foscari dabbed some grease off his mouth. “The documents, the widow Grazia’s dress—forgive me if I have misjudged you—but you are impersonating the good widow Grazia to claim the return of her dower money?”
“May I eat now?” Cesca asked.
“Help yourself.”
She reached for the chicken and put it to her lips, trying hard to control her desperate gulps, ignoring the smile that played across Foscari’s mouth. Cesca had never eaten such tender chicken, scented with rosemary and basil and sage. She poured herself a mug of wine and drank it down in two swallows. He pulled her mug back. “Not too fast, my dear, or you will make yourself ill.”