by Alex Connor
“Is that you, Marco?” he asked, moving forwards.
As the man rose from his seat Ira could see he had been mistaken. With an expression of extravagant compassion, Pietro Aretino gestured to Jacopo, still huddled in his chair. His legs were drawn up to his chin, her arms wrapped around his calves, the whites of his eyes glowing in the dim light.
“My dear friend is not well, dottore. We must do something to ease his anguish.”
Without answering, Ira turned to Cara, standing behind him. “Some more light, please, I cannot see.” Still ignoring the writer, Ira moved over to Jacopo just as Cara set a candle stick on the table beside the bed.
His face now illuminated, Aretino stared at the sick man and made a clucking sound with his tongue. “See how Jacopo stares? And such high colour, surely this is not good. But you are the expert, dottore, I am only a concerned friend.” Aretino sighed. “Is this a recurrence of the fever he had before?”
“May I ask if you would be so kind as to leave, signor? I need to examine my patient.”
Aretino’s eyebrows rose, and he was just preparing a reply when Marco entered.
“A servant came for me...” He had obviously been running and was out of breath. “What happened?”
Aretino’s voice was silken. “My dear boy, your beloved father has been taken ill —”
At once, Ira interrupted him. “Please Marco, if you and Signor Aretino would wait outside I would be most grateful. I need to treat your father alone.”
He expected immediate agreement, but instead he caught Marco’s sidelong glance to Aretino and was reminded of a soldier, looking to his sergeant for instructions. He also noticed a large signet ring on his friend’s left hand and a faceted gold chain lying like a dead snake on the black velvet of his doublet.
“Marco, please.”
“But Marco is Jacopo’s son,” Aretino said, interrupting. “and, as his son, he has every right to be here.”
“He does - but you don’t,” Ira replied, more sharply than he had intended.
“You are impertinent, dottore Tabat.”
“I do not mean to be. I merely wish to attend my patient as speedily as I am able. In my own time and on my own terms.”
Awed, Marco was watching the altercation between the two men. Aretino, immense in his silk cape, his stomach distended, his manicured hands fluttering like a pair of white doves. Be-ringed, white doves, Ira thought. Tagged and tamed, like you are, Marco. With your great, new ring on your little finger. And how long before you have another? A steel ring welded around your neck.
“My services were called for, Marco. Do you wish me to treat your father, or not? It is your choice.”
“Come now, let us leave the good dottore alone,” Aretino smiled slyly, taking hold of Marco’s forearm and steering him to the door. Once there, he turned back to Ira. “My dear old friend is delirious, his words are nonsense —”
Ira listened.
“ – therefore I would put no credence on anything poor Jacopo says in his condition.” Aretino continued. “His father was taken this way, quite insane at the end. So distressing for the family.”
Waiting until the door closed behind them, Ira turned to the maid, his voice lowered. “Is it true about his father?”
“I wasn’t here then, dottore, but there were rumours that Leonardo Gianetti became strange as he aged. He was a recluse certainly, and had a violent temper, with fits of crying. You could ask his wife about his illness, dottore, the old lady is still very much alive. But I know one thing for certain, Leonardo Gianetti was much older than my master when he lost his mind. He was in his seventies.”
“And how long has Signor Gianetti been confused?”
“Only a few hours.” She replied, “At first he said he had had a nightmare and that he didn’t need a medic, but then he seemed afraid of something and panicky, and then he told me to get you.”
“How was he last night?”
“As he always was.”
Ira nodded. “What has he eaten today?”
“Nothing. He was awake early and then became agitato. He pulled the sheets off and said there were things in the bed that shouldn’t be there.” She stared at Jacopo, who had relaxed his grip around his knees and was sitting quietly in his seat, his expression normal again.
“Signor Gianetti,” Ira addressed him, his voice calm as he moved back to his patient. “How are you feeling?”
“I am troubled.” The words were emotive, but his manner was characteristically cold. “I am troubled by those I once knew.”
Ira drew up a chair beside him. The one Aretino had just vacated. “Your servant said you had a nightmare.”
“I did, but then it was real. In the mirror.”
“What was?”
Jacopo looked at Ira, his eyes moist. “Do you know my wife?”
“No, signor.”
“She loved me. I think so.”
“I am sure she did.”
“Why are you sure!” Jacopo responded. “What do you know of my life? My family? You are not welcome here! You are the one who has tried to take my son away from me —”
Ira laid his hand on Jacopo’s arm, soothing him and changing the subject. “What was your nightmare about?”
“The Gianetti family is one of the richest in Venice.” Jacopo carolled to himself. “The Doges have always been our friends and confidantes. I was close to Andrea Gritti.” he nodded. “Yes, it’s true and he was a great warrior… but of late I have been troubled.”
“By whom?”
“People are jealous of our wealth,” he leaned towards Ira, his skin sticky with sweat. “And I don’t blame them. But they want my riches. My palazzos, my horses, my money. Money I – and my family – have inherited. Not like the greedy merchants. Turks, Jews, Arabs, men without a good name and no status, but they come to Venice to sell their rank perfumes and spices and make their fortunes to spend on whores,” he waved his hand around the room. “I have Titian’s paintings on my walls, and Bellini. My father collected gold and silverware that the Pope in Rome envied.” He stopped suddenly, staring at the bed, his eyes widening again. “I didn’t cause her death, she chose it. May God forgive her. I do not!” He snatched his arm away from Ira’s touch. “You are one of those Jews, stealing from us!” His voice had become high pitched, the words jumbled, his hands banging on the arms of the chair as his feet struck the floor at the same time.
In silence, Ira walked over to his medicine bag, taking out a glass vial and turning to Cara. “Please can you bring me some water?”
She nodded, returning moments later, Ira mixing nine drops into the water and moving back to Jacopo.
No longer raging, he was composed. Proud again, his voice defiant. “What are you doing in my room!”
“I have something for you —”
“I want nothing from you, Jew.”
“It is not from me,” Ira replied calmly, “it is from your wife, she is worried about you and said that you should drink this.”
The words had a becalming effect, Jacopo looking at the glass, his fingers reaching for it, then hesitating. “I wasn’t always a bad man, whatever some say. I have responsibilities, a family name to live up to. People have called me cruel, but I have to be firm at times. In truth, it was not my nature to be so taxed with work and properties, boats, staff, so many staff, and people thought me aloof. It was hard, so hard in business. But I had no love to temper me...” His bottom lip slackened, his head drooping.
“Your wife is worried about you, signor. Take the medicine she sent.”
He leaned towards Ira, his head inches away. “Do you understand? I must make you understand. He poisons people.”
“Who does?”
“That fat toad Aretino. He poisoned me.”
“He put something in your food?”
Jacopo laughed, covering his mouth with his free hand. “No, not in my food! Not even my wine!” he became serious again and pointed to his head. “In here. All those y
ears, poisoning me. He put worms in my brain. He keeps them in his garden, in a thousand glass jars. He breeds them, then lets them go free in summer. I’ve seen them crawling through the crack in the shutters... But I understand now. I have his measure. Oh yes, I have the bastard’s measure. I thought my wife was dead. But I only dreamed it. I only dreamed it...” Jacopo fell silent and he took the glass from Ira.
“Please drink it, Signor Gianetti.”
“You said my wife sent this?..”
Ira nodded.
“... Will it kill them? Will it kill the worms?”
“Yes. It will kill every one of them.” Ira replied, watching as he tipped back the glass and drank.
Cara had remade the bed whilst Ira was tending to his patient. For fifteen minutes both of them had listened to a litany of maudlin self pity, rage and vicious insults. Yet as the sedative began to take effect, Jacopo allowed himself to be lead back to bed, his eyes fixed on the canopy overhead.
“Will you tell her that I drank it?”
“Yes, I will tell her.”
“And tell her that I forgive her,” Jacopo whispered, “tell my wife I forgive her…” his eyes snapped open. “But don’t tell Aretino! The pig will kill us all if he can. Marco must not be with the writer. My son is in danger, do you know? Do you know?” he was beginning to lose consciousness, his voice failing. “You must get him away from Aretino. I beg you. Do this for me. For him.”
Chapter Twenty Seven
Under the scorching sky the rain plummeted down like someone emptying a basin out of an upper window. It fell on St Marks Square, the tiles soon marbled, the boats jerking like caught fish on the Adriatic’s moody tide. Carpets and rugs that had been unloaded onto the quayside, were hastily covered, silk bales water-spotted like a toad’s back. A Turkish merchant, turbaned and sporting an ivory whip, rallied his slaves; a trading boat almost overturned; a gondola carrying two veiled women was buffeted on the Lagoon; and a man in opulent striped breeches skipped between the puddles, as nimble as a goat.
Pulling his hat down over his forehead, Barent der Witt hurried over a bridge, narrowly avoiding a collision with a dog looking for shelter. The Dutchman was glad of the rain; it would keep most people indoors, and those still outside preoccupied and unlikely to notice what was going on around them.
He had wondered if Marina Castilano and her sister had truly left Venice and had decided to visit Caterina Zucca. As usual, Bakita, her guard, was stationed outside her door, dressed in yellow waistcoat and breeches, the silk material vibrant against the dark skin. He was, as ever, silent. Der Witt didn’t know if it was because he knew no Italian, or if he was instructed to say nothing.
Quietly, der Witt knocked on the door.
“Who’s is that?”
He called out to her. “Your friend, Barent der Witt.”
“Then come in, friend!”
The courtesan was alone in her bedroom. Usually Caterina would receive visitors sitting on her day bed or a couch, but this time she was in her main bed, and obviously sick.
“Signora,” the Dutchman said, doffing his hat. “You are ill?”
Her face was florid, her blonde hair without its shine, her face without its maquillage. “As you see, my friend, I am not working. A summer cold, delivered via the Adriatic or some merchant selling his wares and his infection.” She patted the bed beside her, then shook her head. “No, not there. You must not sit close to me, I do not want to give you anything to make you suffer.”
“Have you been ill for long?”
“Four days. It not all bad however, on hearing of my incapacitation one of my clients requested my dirty handkerchiefs. Men can be so … bizarre.” She shrugged. “I am setting my newest girl to tend to my favourites. Tita Boldini, I introduced you last time you were here.”
“I remember.” He said, turning his hat in his hands and moving on hurriedly. “Have you seen Marina Castilano?”
“She has left Venice.” Caterina replied, frowning. “Marina said she had told you.”
He nodded. “Indeed she did, but I wondered if she had truly left.”
“You could have visited the shop to find out.” Caterina teased him, “and yet you came to see me. As you have a reason for everything, good der Witt, why are you here?”
He hesitated before answering. “Do you think she was involved in Gabriella Russo’s death?”
Surprised, Caterina leaned back against her pillows, her left hand stroking a large white cat. “Why would you say that?”
“Marina Castilano was trying to get information from me. The last thing she said was about Gabriella and The Wolves of Venice.”
Sighing, Caterina held the cat against her bosom and stroked it. “No, I do not think Marina was involved. I think she was frightened, terrified that someone might come back to the shop and hurt her. I understand. The business with the shoes was unnerving.” She sneezed, dabbing at her nose, the nostrils reddened.
“May God bless you.”
“He blesses me with friends like you,” she replied sweetly. “I wonder if tomorrow I could go out. Wearing a veil, of course.”
“It is raining heavily and might rain again tomorrow. Why would you risk it?” der Witt countered. “Anything you need, you staff will get for you. Or do you want me to give you some medication?”
“No, no, do not fuss!” she replied, querulously. “I am just bored. I am tired of being a hermit.”
“Your clients will wait, Caterina. Anticipation is a powerful aphrodisiac.”
“It depends how long you make a man wait.” She replied. “They are very fickle, always ready to find new breasts, a new arse, a new adventure… Did you hear that the Doge is planning an event for September? Fireworks and Donato singing. I suppose Titian will attend, he is involved in everything that happens in Venice.”
“Not everything. It was Tintoretto who paid for Gabriella’s funeral.”
“But that was because she sat for him.”
“As you have done in the past.”
“As I have done,” she agreed, nodding. Setting aside the cat, Caterina leaned towards der Witt, her expression serious. “We will never know the truth, my friend. What Gabriella meant will never be explained and you have nothing for which to reproach yourself.” She patted the back of his hand. “It is necessary to let tragedy go. Let the mystery stay buried with Gabriella. She can do no more… And neither can you.”
When he left the rain was still falling, the sky Giotto blue, the sun flickering like a humming bird between the clouds. His head bowed he walked on, his left hand holding the glass vial he always wore around his neck, his fingers taking comfort from it. No one noticed him: in a city of a million strangers of every description, nationality and religion, der Witt went unseen.
Which was just what he wanted, arriving at the back entrance of the Castilano shop and checking the door. It was locked, he then moved into the narrow alleyway between the shop and the next building and found the side exit. The door was warped, the wood splintered and the handle broken off. Tipping back his hat, der Witt looked round, then took a small instrument out of his pocket. Seconds later, he entered the Castilano shop.
Before Marina had left she had packed up much of the merchandise, boxes piled on top of other boxes, rugs rolled and contained with leather straps and stacked like logs. She had been serious, after all, he thought, looking round. Where once there had been activity, splendour and colour, there was only an abandoned husk. Her name was still on the window, but nothing else of her remained.
Pushing open the cellar door, der Witt took one of the candles off a shelf at the top of the stairs, lit it, and began to descend. It place was damp and he wondered how practical it had been for storage, then remembered that Marina had kept most of the fabrics in an upper room. At the bottom of the stairs he placed the candle in a disguarded holder and then continued with it, walking towards the far end of the long, narrow chamber. He passed the bed where Gabriella had slept, holding the candle high and then
seeing the rows of shoe racks facing him.
They were all empty. Not even a lace, or a button remained. He remembered Marina telling him about hiding Gabriella’s bloodied shoes, then moving them, then finding them in another place. She hadn’t said where, just insisted that someone had moved them. Someone with access to the shop... Der Witt paused, Marina had assured him that her sister had been ignorant of the whole affair, and had been equally certain that she had not forgotten where she had put the shoes.
So where were they now?
Der Witt glanced around him, ducked down to look under the worktable and beneath the bed. He even tapped the back of the wall where the shelves were stacked, to see if there was a hidden alcove behind. He found nothing. The Dutchman was of an age to resent mysteries and long for solutions. Already he had considered a dozen explanations, even allowing himself to meditate on the supernatural. But a man seeped in secrets and well versed in the art of suggestion, knew that there was always a human explanation.
Someone had terrified Gabriella. Someone had killed her. People killed for money, lust, or jealousy. Der Witt leaned against the worktable. Gabriella had had no money, and no means to steal a fortune. So was it lust? It was true that Gabriella had been raped, so had it been a crime of passion? He dismissed the idea. Rape was power; he knew that, he had aborted many unwanted foetuses which had been conceived in violence. He had seen women made sterile, their attacker raping them with a poker or a broom handle. Once he had tended a child of twelve who had been sodomised by a nobleman, a scion of one of the most famous Venetian families. He had seen lust perpetrated on the street whores of Venice; the women who went with the slaves and sailors off the ships, men who had been celibate for months and hungry for sex. And the whores served them. Women who had once been pretty, or wives, or mothers. Some widowed, some drunks, some who would fight another woman naked in an alley for a bet. Yes, der Witt thought to himself, he had seen enough of lust.