The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  “So what can I do?”

  “Answer my questions, that’s all. Now tell me every detail, Lauret, did this girl take you into her confidence?”

  The Frenchman tilted his head to one side, his expression eager. “Her confidence? About what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “She spoke of having no family. She said that her boyfriend worked at the foundry – no, I remember that wrong – it was at the tannery. Yes, he was a tanner working for Drago. But that doesn’t matter because she would have nothing to do with him anymore —”

  “No, no piccolo chiacchierino!” Baptista said impatiently. “What I want to know is this - did Gabriella take you into her confidence about a secret?”

  “Did she have a secret?”

  “I’m asking you, idiota!” Baptista replied coldly. “Did she tell you a secret? Scandalo? Something that was important, something that might be dangerous for her.”

  “Not that I remember.” Lauret replied, regretfully. “But maybe if I thought about it again –”

  Baptista drew in a breath, putting out his hand for the pack of cards.

  “Yes, yes! Take them!” the Frenchman said eagerly, “Take the set. You can have them for nothing. No money, jamais. Take them as a token of my esteem for you, Monsieur Baptista, and in the hope that there is no bad blood between us.” He placed the cards in Baptista’s hands and watched as the Florentine picked out the Joker.

  Languidly he turned the card in his hand, examining the image.

  “A little fat man, grinning like an ape… Does he remind of anyone, Lauret?” Deftly he tucked the card into the belt of the trader’s breeches. “This is for you. For luck...Think carefully about what the little maid told you, go over every word she said and see if you don’t remember something important. Something I need to know. Something you need to tell me.” He shuffled the cards again languidly, his tone even. “And if you try to trick me, or lie to me, you will need more than a card to save you.”

  *

  House of Tintoretto

  ‘Fondamnta dei mon’

  Making low grunting noises under his breath, Tintoretto shuffled through the drawings on his worktable. No one else was allowed to touch them, the irregular piles of sketches growing haphazardly. At times they overbalanced, pouring like an overflow from a weed-laden gutter, Tintoretto picking them up and studying them. Merciless, he threw away those he disliked, making a new pile of ones he considered useful and putting those he prized in a leather portfolio, its original green faded by sunlight, the suede dusty and spattered with pimples of hot wax.

  He was thinking about a woman. A woman’s face, a very particular face.

  “What are you looking for?” Marco asked, glancing across the studio to his master. When there was no reply, he moved over to stand beside him. “What are you —”

  “I heard you!” Tintoretto replied, still searching through the sheaves of drawings. “I am looking for someone I thought I knew.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t be looking for her, Marco!” He said, pulling out two sketches, then dismissing them. “I have been looking for over an hour. This is a waste of time, a waste of time!” Agitated, he moved away, then turned back. “Forget it, I must forget all about it. I have work to do.” Then turning to Marco, he added: “But there is something else, something I should have told you yesterday. We need a new model. And I have a girl in mind; she has a beauty that is unusual. Very dark, some intelligenza in her eyes —”

  “And Florentina?” Marco asked, reminding him of the buxom whore he used often. “She is your muse. Or thinks she is.”

  “Florentina is a handsome woman,” Tintoretto agreed, looking for a place to lay down the portfolio he was carrying. “but I need someone fresh, younger, with an innocence. I saw this girl in the piazza and approached her. She is a decent girl, anyone could see that, so I was reluctant – I have no skill with people, women in particular - but she had such a wonderful face I dared.”

  “Most women would be honoured to be painted by Il Furioso.” Marco teased him.

  “Most Venetian women, perhaps. A woman working in the wool factory or one of the glass blowers perhaps. Did you know that they say that some of the women are better than the men? Their creations are more delicate, the glassware fine as lace —”

  “Florentina will be jealous,” Marco teased again.

  “Florentina is a whore. A lovely face, but so greedy. All the whores are greedy, they ask so much and all they do is pose. I pay them more than their customers – for much less exertion.”

  “I hear some work hard for their fee.”

  Tintoretto swivelled round, frowning. “You must be careful. Some of them are clean - but others, not so. Catch the pox and then what will you do, Marco? Treatment with holy wood, grinding up the herb from tree bark, will do nothing. The apothecaries are lying, within a year who would lose your nose and then” he tapped his forehead. “your mind. Nothing works on the pox. As for mercury, no, never! Mercury kills before it cures anything.”

  Marco sighed. “I haven’t got the pox, master.”

  “Take care to stay that way! You are from a noble family and have to protect your reputation —”

  “And the handsome fee my father pays you.”

  Tintoretto threw up his hands. “Your mouth will get you into trouble one day! I should dismiss you, throw you out like Titian did. He had more sense than I have. Keeping you on here when you learn little and are always late!” He snapped, taking the portfolio and slamming it back on the worktable before he spoke again. “I hope the girl sits for me. Such a wonderful face, sad and clever at the same time. She wore the yellow patch on her sleeve.”

  “She was Jewish?”

  “Si.”

  “Does she have a name?”

  “Of course she has a name!”

  “What is it?”

  Tintoretto shrugged. “I don’t know! But I gave her my name and my address and told her to call. I would pay her, and I told her that, also assured her that she could bring a chaperone to the studio with her.”

  “What did she say to that?”

  “She didn’t remark about the chaperone, only explained her situation. That she already had a full time job working for some piano teacher” he pulled a face, “and so she could only sit for me until sundown, because afterwards it would be curfew and they lock up the ghetto.” He thought about it, shaking his head. “It would give me little time in the winter when the days are so short, but in the summer it would be easier.”

  “But only if she agrees to model for you.”

  “She will,” the artist said simply, “she has to. I know this, believe me, this girl is meant to come here.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Pietro Aretino’s bulk was planted firmly before the bronze statue in Jacopo’s window, his girth blocking out the sculpture, leaving only the spear on show. A disembodied arrow head aiming for the skies.

  “Aretino.”

  He turned at his name and inclined his head. “I believe you are to be honoured by our beloved Doge,” Aretino said, his tone creamy. “How deserved, how right for such an honourable man.” He moved to a large leather U shaped chair and sat down, the leather creaking under his weight. “I came to offer my congratulations, my dear friend. The Gianetti house is bearing yet another crown.”

  “What do you want?” Jacopo asked sharply, moving behind his desk and putting a yard of marble between them.

  “What do I want? How unfriendly you are, Jacopo, one might think I had offended you in some way.” He continued, Gianetti’s rudeness intensifying his animosity. “You snubbed me at church the other day. That was unnecessary, and not something I would have done to you, friend.”

  “Unless the word friend has had its meaning changed in the lexicon I am not your friend.” Jacopo replied, knowing full well it was the date that, exactly fifteen years earlier, Aretino had first tied on the leash. “We could at least cease this pretence —”
<
br />   “But I like pretence, it makes life so much more bearable. Surely you must agree with me, Jacopo? Truth, as we both know, is not always pretty.”

  “I’ll ask you again, why are you here?”

  “Your elevation will of course increase your influence, power - and finances.” Aretino replied, his eyes bright with malice. “A little increase is justified, I feel. After all, I have not raised my fee in fifteen years.”

  “Get out!”

  “Jacopo, we both know you don’t mean that. If I did leave now I would got to the Doge and tell him – regretfully – what I know of your dealings. As a long time friend of yours (if ‘friend’ is being used in your preferred context here) the Doge would naturally insist I was mistaken. He would ask for proof. And I would be forced – forced – to provide it.”

  “You have no proof.”

  Aretino’s smile puffed up his cheeks and made his eyes narrow. “Really? Then what have you being paying me for over the last fifteen years?”

  Irritated, Jacopo reacted without thinking. “You’re bluffing. You know nothing. You could have been bluffing all this time.”

  “Then ask to see my cards, Jacopo. I will display them gladly in front of yourself - and the Doge.” Aretino’s smile faded, his rage sleekly unpleasant. “Your attitude towards me has been increasingly hostile. In public you avoid me and people have noticed. If the Doge notices it will not be good for my status.”

  “Your status is only fit for the dung heap.”

  Aretino drew in a long, slow breath. He had thought to tighten the strings on his puppet, to jerk him into line. But the puppet was proving unwieldy, and dangerous to his ambitions.

  “I hear you have been ill, and naturally I am enormously relieved to see you recovered.” The threat made no impact, Aretino surprised by the lack of response, but ready with his next move. “No matter, despite your coldness towards me, I feel nothing but affection for you, Jacopo, and to prove the truth of my words I would like to share my knowledge, experience and courtly influence —”

  “Which I made possible for you!”

  “Indeed, your initial introduction to Andrea Gritti and your closeness to the present Doge was of great value, but it was my wit that cemented the association.” Aretino replied, fingering the edge of his sleeve. “My power is such that now I can return the compliment that you once granted to me. I can advance your family name —”

  “I am not interested.”

  “ – not with you, dear friend! But with your son, Marco.”

  Jacopo tried to rise to his feet, but his legs failed him. “Do not touch my son!”

  “Why are you worried? You have no great love for him, in fact it is common knowledge that you detest him. All Venice knows that you can barely endure being in the same room with your own flesh and blood.” Aretino flipped back the sleeve of his doublet, a wide strip of black silk showing underneath. “But I can offer him —”

  “Nothing! You are un pederasta! Un omosessuale!”

  “ – I can offer him a prosperous and pleasurable life at court.” Aretino said, his eyes flint. “You cannot offer him that. The Doge is your confidante true, but he finds you too dull for court life. Your son, however, is handsome and amusing. I have only met him once and he did not overly impress me then, but I hear from Tintoretto that he is a lively young man.” Aretino clicked his tongue, the sound reverberating inside Jacopo’s brain. “Court is the place for Marco —”

  “I warn you —”

  “No,” Aretino said warningly. “I warn you. You have no say in the matter. I know your son, he would be an asset at the Doge’s court. After all, my friend, how could you wish to impede Marco’s progress? At court he would have access to culture and many influential contacts —”

  “And whores.”

  Aretino shrugged. “He has access to whores on the streets, in the squares. If your son wants whores he does not need to go to the Doge’s Palace to find them.”

  “He does not want whores!”

  “Are you sure of that?” Aretino asked, walking around the study and pausing by the statue of a horse’s head. “Ah, this is a copy of the Greek original. Very fine, very fine indeed... “ he turned back to Jacopo. “You mustn’t forbid me the chance to do something noble, my friend, I can make Marco into an important man. He is handsome, charming, a little flippant perhaps, but he is only young and has much to learn —”

  “He is learning!”

  “How to be a fucking dauber?” the writer snapped back. “Tintoretto is a genius, of that there is no doubt, but your son is an assistant, no more. He is wasted in Il Furioso’s studio. Marco should be using his … other talents.”

  Jacopo’s narrow face had flushed. “If you touch him —”

  “You think I want to bugger your son?” Aretino asked, putting one finger to his mouth as though considering the suggestion. “That was not what I had in mind, Jacopo, how base of you to think it of me.”

  “Everyone knows you are a sodomiser. You brag of it.”

  “Everyone knows you are a liar and a crook. And yet you do not brag of your virtues, do you?” he parried, “I wonder, which of us would seem the most virtuous in God’s eyes? A cheating coward, or a man who enjoys the flesh.”

  “A man lying with another man is a sin —”

  Aretino waved aside the comment, his tone bored. “You and I have a deal, Jacopo. I have been very obliging for the last fifteen years. I have kept your secret safely, and thereby you have kept your status in Venice.” He ran his left forefinger down the long marble nose of the horse sculpture. “One word from me and your family is destroyed. Your mother would die of shock, I fear. And all your business dealings would come to nothing.” He sighed, as though regretful. “Of course the new prisons are an improvement on the Old Piombi. As you know, the Doge has kindly favoured Venice with a new gaol on the ground floor of the eastern wing of his palace. The Pozzi.”

  Jacopo flinched, his mouth cloth dry. The Pozzi were infamous, the isolated quarters notoriously damp and barely allowing any light to enter through the high, slit windows. Even in the demonic heat of summer the warmth never penetrated, and in winter the winds and chill from the Adriatic entered and never left. Men imprisoned there, even temporarily, suffered badly, and those held long term became old men in their thirties.

  Jacopo thought of his mother, of the disgrace, of a trial at which all of Venice would attend to witness the demolition of a great name. Mockery, shame, obscene graffiti scrawled on the walls of the squares, and then – if he survived imprisonment - exile.

  “So, Jacopo, we are agreed?”

  He weighed his threatened disgrace against his son’s possible degradation.

  “Are we agreed?”

  The loss of power and money, of status and respect, all to protect his son. A son who detested him. A son who had been a thorn in his side from the moment of his birth… Jacopo paused, calculating…What was one person against a legacy? One man set against the nobility and status of a great name? And why should he presume that his son would be harmed? Marco was a man, not a child... He gazed at the writer, his heart slowing like that of a snake.

  Aretino saw the shift and prompted him: “So, are we agreed?”

  “Yes,” Jacopo said, finally. “we are agreed.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Intent and nervous, Marina Castilano entered the church of St Moise, taking a seat at the back of the pews and kneeling down. Her hands shook with cold, the Holy Water with which she had crossed herself dew on her fingers. Beside her lay her workbag, a soft beaded pouch marked with her initials. Initials she covered hurriedly with the edge of her cloak. Still keeping her eyes closed, she pulled the bag towards her, so closely she could feel the soft nudge against her thigh. Prayers made judders on her lips, scrambled, her attention wandering every time someone coughed, or footsteps sounded nearby. Finally Marina rose from her knees and took her seat in the pew, the bag on her lap, her gaze moving over the congregation.

  The
February cold had left many indoors, worshippers less devout when the chilled Adriatic wind bought fog and short days. Marina had intended to light a candle, but had forgotten in her haste, hurrying past the gridiron of flame that held up so many pleas and pledges to Heaven. And if she had lighted a candle for what would she wish?

  You cannot unsee what you have seen, Marina thought, her grip tightening on the bag on her lap.

  She had thought of confiding in her sister, but Lucia was impractical and no keeper of secrets. But to who else could she turn, Marina had wondered. The Dutchman? She hardly knew him; he was just one of many customers. And besides, he might well have been asking after Gabriella - but for what reason? No, she decided, not the Dutchman.

  Her gaze travelled along the pews, noting the hunched couple sitting together, the man with his head on his wife’s shoulder. Hardly a man at all, mostly bone, his face cadaverous, hooded, illness corroding his features. She considered them for a long moment. Wondered about the woman, how she would fare when he died, if she had children to provide for. If she had money. They didn’t look prosperous, but the wife – if that was who she was – appeared much younger than him, still able to make a life.

  What did it matter about two people she didn’t even know? Marina asked herself impatiently, turning her gaze away from the couple to a priest trimming the wicks of the altar candles. Perhaps she should ask advice from him. She could see his long nose, his jutting jaw, but it was a profile that offered no welcome. No, not him. No, not here.

  Resigned, Marina rose to her feet, crossed herself and left the church, making her hurried way across the Bocca di Piazza heading for Calla de Carro. A mist was rising from the Lagoon, sneaking down the canals and making the buildings spectres. Within weeks Venice would begin to throw off her winter melancholy and from under scowling clouds and glowering tides would finally come the sun.

  But not now, now the winter was intent on counting out every one of her long days, Marina finally arriving outside a narrow house with dark green shutters. The area was affluent, the door furnished with a knocker in the shape of a Medusa head, its hammer weighty in her hands as she rapped four times.