The Lover's Path: An Illustrated Novella of Venice

by Kris Waldherr

  Once we finished our song, Tullia bowed first to the cardinal, then to the young man. The candles were relit. I retreated into the shadows of the musicians’ gallery, just as I always did. But I did not leave.

  As the night wore on, I impatiently watched and listened, my sister the focus of the revelry. Music led to poems in praise of her beauty; poetry to dancing. More wine bottles were uncorked. Laughter rose, growing wilder and brighter. Perhaps it was my imagination, but I sensed a desperation in the festivities that mirrored mine as I awaited Tullia’s departure.

  Once the clock struck eight, my sister’s slender red-gowned figure finally left the great hall, followed by her maid, Caterina, and several male admirers desiring a private audience. To my relief, the cardinal was not among them. Though Tullia had retired for the evening to her private chambers, I understood the feast would continue unabated until dawn.

  Quickly, I strode downstairs into the hallway where her cloak—the red silk one she always wore outside to mark herself—and my brown linen one hung side by side on their hooks. I draped her red cloak over my cream-colored gown. The cloak was a shade too large, its hood concealing much of my face. This suited my purpose. As long as no one looked too closely, anyone seeing this cloak would think my sister wore it—a childish act, I know, but I was still a child in many ways.

  I slipped from the hallway into the great hall, my heart trebling in time against my footsteps. As I crept around the perimeter of the great hall toward the cardinal, I rehearsed my long-awaited plan. I would ask him for patronage, beg him if I must. I whispered beneath my breath the honeyed words I would say. I even batted the lids of my eyes, to encourage the appearance of sincere tears. How naïve I was then, how presumptuous! My dearest Patroness, I did not yet understand that patronage is granted, not petitioned for.

  I remained in the shadows, staying far from anyone who might know me. The room reeked with sour wine, the suffocating press of bodies. Surrounded by drunken revelers, I was sure I remained unnoticed as I approached the cardinal.

  Fixated by the sight of the cardinal’s brilliant red robes, and already mouthing the pretty speech I had readied, I didn’t see the lean male figure emerge from behind a column until it was too late.

  He stood before me, blocking my way. “Signorina.”

  As he drew closer, I recognized the young man who had gazed at me while I sang; the one whose eyes had forced me to turn away. Now I saw his stubborn chin was eased by the unexpected fullness of a generous mouth. His nose was strong but not large—just sharp enough to lend character to a face that otherwise might look too gentle.

  I curtly replied, “Signore, allow me to pass.”

  The young man shook his head gravely though he smiled. “I have been told that when a gift is given it should immediately be reciprocated with another.”

  “I do not think so. Perhaps this is a custom outside of Venice.” I noted the gold ring upon his thumb, the embroidery gilding his red cuff—a wealthy man’s attire. I quickly curtseyed to show respect, then rose to approach the cardinal. “I must bid you farewell, good signore.”

  He demanded I stop. “I have traveled to many places—Rome, Egypt, even China. I believe it is a custom everywhere to offer a gift for a gift. It would be rude not to honor this tradition.”

  “And what gift has been offered?” I asked, turning reluctantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the cardinal rise from his seat, his courtiers bowing before him. I knew I should run to him, to address him before he departed—that my very freedom depended upon it. Yet the young man’s compelling gaze rooted me to where I stood.

  “Your song.” He bowed. “For you, signorina.”

  Before I could protest, he took my hand, clutched so tightly about the long folds of Tullia’s red cloak, and oh-so-gently coaxed my fingers open. Turning my palm heavenward, he placed a ripe plum almost cobalt of hue, into my hand. The plum looked like a large dark pearl against my palm; I could smell its fragrance, feel its cool, thin skin. My sister’s cloak suddenly felt too warm, its texture too rough against my neck. I could not breathe.

  The plum fell from my hand, rolled away into the crowd. I forgot about speaking to the cardinal and my sister’s watchful eye. I felt something I could not name, a force even more powerful than my desire to escape.

  I turned and ran, stumbling on the hem of my sister’s cloak. Once I recovered, I rushed from the great hall into the hallway, toward the door that led to the walled garden behind our palazzo. I opened it, my hands trembling, and slipped outside.

  Cloaked in the darkness of night, I felt safe, hidden. I inhaled the clean, acidic scent of spring, felt the soft earth beneath my feet. My heart began to slow. The stars were bright, the moon a thin sickle in the deep blue sky. Nearby, church bells struck the ninth hour of the night, their metallic clang softened by the lapping of canal water on the other side of the garden wall.

  A brief sliver of light appeared from the palazzo door as it opened, then closed. And the young man stood before me again.

  “You shouldn’t have followed me here,” I said. Despite the darkness I could see his eyes. Though they gleamed defiantly, even then I think I detected a sorrow in their fierce depths, as if he had seen much that others could not explain. I wondered what he saw as he looked at me—no doubt a naïve sixteen-year-old girl wearing a red cloak too large for her, bristling with rebellion and uncertainty.

  “Filomela,” he cried to me, his tone now exuberant. “A princess who turns herself into a nightingale and escapes in the night....”

  “That’s an old fiaba,” I retorted, injecting a courage I didn’t feel into my voice. “Tell me a story I don’t know.”

  “Very well. I will tell you of the lover’s path.”

  “Who are you?” I challenged.

  He did not answer. Instead, he drew closer and took my hands into his. His touch was warm, welcoming—the caress of one friend to another. Then, without a word of explanation, with our hands joined as one, he spun me around and around in the night garden in a strange, wild dance. Seeing my surprise, he laughed in delight.

  As we whirled like children, Tullia’s hood slipped from my face. The cool air kissed my cheeks. My braids came undone, my hair falling loose upon my shoulders. I laughed then too, overcome by an inexplicable giddy joy.

  As we danced, I remembered a book I’d read that described a land to the east where streams of fire, colored like the plumes of wild parrots, showered from the sky in a mysterious rain. I forgot the grey stone walls surrounding me. I forgot the sea blocking my escape, and my sister’s relentless shadow. I saw only the stars above, blurring into brilliant streaks of color and light.

  He left me in the garden as suddenly as he had appeared, slipping back into the hallway. I did not follow him. Instead, I sat alone in the night for some time before I remembered my sister’s cloak, and my missed opportunity with the cardinal. When I went to bed that night, I found I could not sleep.

  The following day, a masked figure approached my maid, Laura, when she was alone in the piazza. He gave her a carefully wrapped package sealed in green wax, which was addressed to me. Laura gave it to me in the privacy of my room. I immediately swore her to secrecy, begging her not to tell Caterina; I knew her mother would surely inform Tullia.

  My heart hammered in anticipation as I broke the seal upon the package to open it. Within a pale egg of parchment rested a small book, compact enough to be hidden in the fold of a gown. Fragile from age and use, the book’s red binding was as rippled as a weather-beaten stone.

  When I opened the book, a slender letter slid into my lap.

  To the nightingale who is called Filamena—

  Here is another gift in exchange for your song last night. This journal belonged to my mother. She gave it to me; now I give it to you. It is my most precious possession, for it has been my main companion during my travels these past three years. It has come with me to distant lands where silent women wear cymbals on their hands; kingdoms where beast
s are thought wiser than men. It has witnessed wonders others have only read about in books. Yet though I have crossed many seas with this book by my side, I have yet to visit the geography charted within its pages.

  Within it you will find the story of Dante and Beatrice mapped out, along with tales of other couples. It will show you the way to the lover’s path. For to truly love another, you must follow the lover’s path wherever it may take you.

  As soon as I saw the writing, I knew whose hand it was. I recognized the fruit of that hand—that same hand that had grasped mine in the garden—as surely as a lover senses their beloved’s presence in a darkened room. His writing was not considered, like Tullia’s with her carefully chosen flourishes. Instead, his words spilled on the page, as if he’d rushed to capture them with ink before they flew away, like birds startled by lightning. And in his words, I discovered a music different than any I’d heard in my sister’s songs.

  He also signed his name. Upon learning who he was, I understood so much about him—his anger, his fierceness, his sorrow. His life circumstances were even stranger than mine, for he had been born of power to powerlessness, just as I was born of loss to loneliness.

  He was the cardinal’s illegitimate son, Angelo.

  FORTUNE OR FOLLY: CHOOSE YOUR PATH.

  In a faraway land there lived a king with a daughter named Danae—a beautiful princess about whom it was foretold her offspring would murder the king. To escape this fate, the king imprisoned his daughter in a tower set on an island in the middle of the sea, where she would never marry nor have children. But one day, as lonely Danae sang in her prison, a fountain of gold streamed through the tower’s only window. Within it appeared Zeus, god of all gods, who loved the princess, and promised her the riches of the world if she would embrace him. Did Danae see the fortune before her, the lover’s path? Or did she count her gold coins and think of escape?

  It took me some time to unravel the mystery of Angelo’s book. At first glance it looked to be a book of maps—maps drawn of places I had never heard of, describing landscapes I did not recognize. Stories of famous lovers alternated among the maps: Danae and Zeus, Cupid and Psyche. Five words stamped in faded gold along its spine gave the only clue to the book’s contents. They read: For Pilgrims Upon the Path.

  But here I run ahead of my story, my dear Patroness. At that time I told myself it didn’t matter what Angelo offered me, or what secret journeys his book might reveal. As soon as I learned his identity, I felt an even greater desire for what his powerful father could offer: a life of my own. The thought of this new life glittered as brightly as the gold ducats my sister accepted for her affections. It blinded my better self, eclipsing any emotions I felt that night in the garden. While I am ashamed to pen these words, I remind myself how young and desperate I was to free myself. Love seemed a luxury too expensive to consider.

  Still, my heart felt heavy as I hid Angelo’s book and letter under my bed. I sternly reminded myself who his father was, how he could help me. I took out paper and quill. But before I could write Angelo to ask for his assistance in securing the cardinal’s favor, Tullia sent for me.

  Within my sister’s private chambers—rooms that led from the great hall through one richly appointed room after another; rooms that led to the ultimate destination of her bedchamber, where only a few suitors could hope to enter after months of courtship and substantial gifts—Tullia was being painted that day as Venus, the embodiment of love. Though posing was time-consuming and tedious, my sister always made an effort to encourage the attentions of artists. She knew their adoration and tributes could only serve to heighten her fame, thus increasing her fortune. It was my duty to keep her company during the long hours, to entertain her with conversation and song. But this, too, would soon end; I’d overheard Tullia tell Caterina that I had grown too old for such tasks. As I approached my sister’s chambers, I fretted whether she’d noticed I’d taken her cloak. Had Tullia called to scold me?

  Taking a moment to ease my nerves, I stood silently in the doorway, watching. What I viewed reassured.

  Tullia lay on a pallet draped in her red cloak—the same one I’d borrowed for my unsuccessful attempt to approach the cardinal—with her cat Dolce curled at her feet. If my sister was upset with me, she displayed no sign of it. She smiled serenely while Caterina placed a wreath of crimson roses upon her brow, just as it looked in the painting already underway. Even in its unfinished state, the painting was done so skillfully that to gaze upon it was to luxuriate in the weight of the silk touching my sister’s shoulder, the luminescence of her grey eyes. However, I took no pleasure in its art. It only reminded me of all my sister had sacrificed to provide for us.

  The artist adjusted a rose close to Tullia’s ear, breaking off a thorn. He poured a sepia-hued powder into an oil the color of amber, and chose a brush.

  To my surprise, Tullia was speaking to someone I could not see. Someone who was not the artist. This surprised me: these days she only requested my presence when she was alone with the artist. I grew warm with nerves.

  “Forgive my informality,” she said, her voice laced with inviting indulgence. “I promised to pose, and I would not break my word, even for your esteemed company. I can converse with you as long as I do not move too much.” Her eyes lit on me at last. “There you are, my sister! I have a special guest today, who comes with news from our good friends in Rome.”

  As soon as I entered the room, I saw a young man, dark-haired and expensively dressed, seated beside my sister just beyond the artist’s view. In the brilliance of day, it took me a moment to recognize Angelo. This time he was clothed in somber hues, unlike the scarlet doublet he’d donned at La Senza. A small smile of either amusement or disdain—I could not tell which—played on his lips as he took in the tableau of my sister’s pose.

  Tullia widened her eyes to greet me, then flicked a finger toward a chair across the room, far from the reach of Angelo’s eyes. I understood this was her way to avoid drawing notice to me. Yet why had she called me to her at such a time? Had she overheard us in the garden after all?

  I sat down, my heart skipping. Dolce jumped from Tullia’s pallet. Once the cat settled in my lap, I stroked her soft white fur to calm myself. I stole a glance at Angelo; he did not even acknowledge my presence with a nod. A stab of jealousy pierced me, even as I reminded myself of his father’s identity and how he could help.

  He said to Tullia, “Signora, my father asked me to convey his thanks for your invitation last night. He is still new to Venice and appreciated your hospitality.” He placed a small bag of ducats upon a side table, paying for the privilege of conversation. Caterina gathered it with a deep curtsey and left the room.

  “I am honored by his attention. Next time, I hope he will visit me himself,” Tullia replied. “And what of you, signore?”

  “I especially enjoyed your song.”

  She beamed in genuine pleasure. “I wrote the lyrics and music myself, signore. I do so adore music! If I could, I’d spend all my time with my lute and quill.” She let out a long sigh as she glanced toward the artist. “However, a woman such as myself has a responsibility to inspire others. To put their pleasures before mine.”

  “Your beauty is only matched by your generosity, signora,” Angelo replied smoothly.

  “Indeed.” She giggled softly. “I understand you also write, though not music. Is it true you called the pope a crocodile in a poem?”

  Angelo shrugged, picking up a small jeweled figurine from a mahogany table to examine it. “I wrote a poem about a crocodile. People may think what they wish.” Returning the figurine, he abruptly turned in his chair to address me. “Signorina, do you compose like your sister?”

  I looked up, at once relieved and anxious to plead my case. But as I met his eyes, I was stunned to silence. I finally stammered, “I would like to—”

  “My sister knows only how to sing,” Tullia interrupted softly, flashing a warning glance in my direction. “She is young, but soon she w
ill be too old to perform without being judged. Then she will retire her pretty voice to attend to other matters, for in the world’s eyes, a virtuosa differs little from a courtesan.” She frowned as she shifted her weight to avoid leaning upon her elbow. “Few women may choose their fortune, but I would have a different one for her.”

  “What will be her fate then? Will you have her marry?” Angelo asked. “Or have you promised her to the church?”

  Tullia rolled her eyes. “The love of Christ and man are a servitude I wish to protect my sister from. I promised our dear mother as much before she passed from life.”

  A flash of sorrow and guilt passed through me as tangible as a cold wind, but I forced myself to remain silent. I cast my eyes down at my hands, still stroking Dolce on my lap.

  Angelo remained quiet too. Dolce stretched. As the moments passed, the only sound in the room was the scraping of the artist’s brush against his canvas, the rushing of water from the canal outside.

  Caterina’s return broke the tense silence. “Another gift for you, signora,” she announced, offering a beribboned box to Tullia. “From Signore Matteo.”

  “He is persistent,” Tullia commented lightly. Signore Matteo was the youngest son of a wealthy merchant snubbed by many for his lack of breeding and sharp tongue. As for Matteo, I pitied him; I’d spied him waiting for hours in the great hall for my sister to pay him mind. “He suffers from calf love,” Caterina had said. “You’d think he’d never touched a woman’s hand before.”

  Tullia broke her pose to open the gift box, lifting out a ruby and pearl necklace from its depths. I knew how much she despised rubies, and that she would never wear this necklace; Caterina always warned that rubies foretold a life lost too soon. I’d also heard my sister ridicule Matteo’s clumsy attentions behind his back. Despite this, she contained her distaste to smile at Angelo, as though to say, Desire me, for I am desired by many.

  She dropped the necklace back into the box, and pulled out a gold mask. From where I sat, I made out elaborate calligraphy covering the inside of its curved surface.