by Alex Connor
Lauret had a fear of being manacled, thrown into the New Prisons as they were laughably called. He had experienced a week in gaol because of Baptista, a week which could have been shortened to a mere day if he had spoken up for him. Not that he would have done, even for a man who had served him well. Although he had been alone at first Lauret was soon joined by another man, a thief who had exposed his genitals and mocked him relentlessly.
Though not a sodomite, Lauret knew how feminine he appeared, his round body pigeon-plump, his hands white and ladylike. All his life he had been mocked; ridiculed for his short legs and bald head, his siblings all handsome and lofty. When he married his wife continued the treatment, more gently: her ridicule was more like teasing, but in time she passed it onto their children and Lauret was mocked en famille. He grew – if not content – accepting of the mockery. But when he met Gabriella Russo his expectation of ridicule never manifested and her acceptance of him quickly became love.
He never spoke of it, he would not have risked losing the friendship, instead he treasured their meetings and conversations like a miser treasures coins. When she died his body emptied; the ungainly exterior remained, but the interior - the beating heart, the moving organs, the circulating blood – seemed to die with her. He knew it could not be so; his legs were still functioning, he still peed from a full bladder and coughed when he moved too quickly. His tongue was working, words were spoken, and his brain was still operating, but the spark of soul that had recognised an allied soul in her, had been put out.
“Pardon!” Lauret said automatically as someone bumped into him. “Excusez-moi.”
His hand tightened over the bag under his arm. If anyone looked inside they would see the usual travelling items, but there was something else. Something Lauret had only just uncovered. The last time he had spoken to Gabriella she had told him about The Wolves of Venice, the Four. She had been scared that night, looking around repeatedly, her head covered by a lace veil, edged with ribbon. He had asked her if she had just been to Mass.
“Yes, I lit a candle for you and for myself.”
“I can’t leave you here alone. If I had money, I would give it to you, Gabriella, but I am coming back to Venice very soon and I will have money then.” She had gripped his hands in hers as he continued. “Come with me tonight —”
Her eyes had widened. “What?”
“I’m leaving, I could sneak you onto the boat, get you away from Venice.” Urgently, he had pressed her. “Do it, come with me, you would be safe then.”
In answer she had shaken her head, the veil falling away. “It’s too late —”
“No!”
“ – Shush, shush, be still, Lauret. My good friend, be still.” Then reaching into her bag, Gabriella took out a small package wrapped in paper. “Here are some herbs for you, mixed in a tincture. I got them from the Dutchman, he said it would help your sea sickness.” She pressed the parcel into Lauret’s hands and kissed his cheek. “Remember to take them when you travel. Don’t forget. Please, don’t forget. It’s important.”
Lauret had only remembered the herbs when he had packed earlier, picking up the parcel and opening it. The herbs had been there, some mixed into a tincture contained in a small vial. But it hadn’t been those which had caught his eye, instead Lauret had noticed another piece of paper used as a lining. On which had been written a list of names.
The names of The Wolves of Venice. The four.
Anxious, Lauret had rewrapped the parcel and hidden it in his case and was now hurrying on, head down, afraid of being spotted by Baptista or one of his infamous spies. Only minutes later Lauret reached the quayside, looking round for the boat on which he had booked passage. The first booking he had made he had cancelled within the hour, instinct warning him against taking the vessel, but this boat had been recommended by a merchant he knew, a Frenchman he trusted.
Moving towards the head of the boarding queue, Lauret found himself suddenly pushed backwards, his hat sliding over one eye as he struggled to hold onto the bag tucked under his arm. But his grip was secure and as he saw the gangplank ahead leading to the vessel, Lauret turned to look anxiously behind him one last time. He was certain that he would be stopped, that the tall form of Adamo Baptista would materialise at any instant, or that some stranger would come out from the crowd and prevent his leaving. But the queue continued to edge forward, person by person, carrying him along.
When Lauret finally stepped onto the boat he was shaking, his sweating hands leaving greasy marks on the leather of his bag. Flopping down onto a bench, he took off his hat and wiped his forehead, his breathing gradually becoming regular. And as the vessel moved away from the squabbling, hustling crowd on the quayside he nearly wept. Over the mirrored sea the boat moved, under a merciful sky, as Lauret was rowed from Venice towards safety.
And only yards away, sitting silently amongst a group of other passengers, was Nikolas Volt.
*
Caterina stared at the Dutchman in disbelief. “You did what?”
“I challenged Adamo Baptista, I asked him if he had killed my daughter.”
“And naturally he admitted it,” she replied, exasperated. “Whatever possessed you? Have you no regard for your safety? To meet up with that man” she paused, “don’t tell me you were alone?”
“I’m not afraid of him —”
“You are in a majority of one,” Caterina replied.
“I had a pistol.”
“I wonder if you are as adept with your pistol as he is with his knife?” she said coldly. “What did you expect to discover?”
“I’m not sure,” der Witt admitted, “but when I spoke to him about The Wolves of Venice —”
“You did what!” she replied, her voice high pitched, trembling. “We were warned to stay silent. That whore Tita Boldini told us that silence was our only safety. You may not care what happens to you, Dutchman, but I do. And I very much care about my own safety.” She paced the floor, five steps one way, five the other. “We were told to never mention it again. To forget it —”
Der Witt interrupted her.
“I told Baptista that Gabriella had confided about the Wolves of Venice, how she had said ‘Don’t let them tell you less, there are four. Look for the four.’” And then his manner changed. I thought he was going to attack me —”
She stopped pacing, her hands clasped together. “Sweet Jesus.”
“ — but then I asked him why he would need to kill me, as I had said nothing which would incriminate him. I was confused, asked him what I had just learned that I did not know before... And do you know what he replied?”
She shook her head.
“‘The answer. And your safety is in your not being able to see it.’”
The Dutchman sat down with his hat on his lap. Shaking his head, he looked out of the window to the Lagoon below.
“I have walked around this city most of the night trying to decipher what he meant. Repeatedly running over the words Gabriella had said, endlessly reviewing them. Did I forget a word? Did I place them in the wrong order? I am Dutch, did I mispronounce her Italian and give it another meaning? What was it that decided Adamo Baptista to stay his hand?”
Caterina stared at him. “Did you find the answer?”
“No... I tell you, he was going to kill me. I saw it in his eyes. He was poised, like an athlete, ready to take the jump.” Der Witt took in a long breath. “I have never witnessed it before, that instant where a man sees a threat and decides to remove it. Now I believe every rumour I have ever heard about Adamo Baptista.”
“This is madness,” Caterina said quietly, sitting by him on the sofa. “Why do you court danger?”
He seemed not to hear her. “What was it that I missed?”
“My friend —”
“What was it in Gabriella’s words?”
“Enough!” she said, uncharacteristically sharp. “Can’t you see that you have been let off the hook and thrown back into the river to swim to safety? De
ar God, Dutchman, see the situation for what it is. For some reason Adamo Baptista is relieved. He no longer suspects you of knowing something that endangers him —”
“But what?”
“I don’t know! And I don’t want to know.” Caterina replied, “When Marina Castilano departed Venice and that little whore also left, I was relieved. I thought my life could return to its usual routine. I have Bakita, and a new man, an ex mercenary from Sicily, guarding me. What do I have to fear now?” She smiled, but her charm was forced. “Nothing. At least that is what I wanted to believe. But now you come here and disturb me again... I’m a whore, Dutchman, a courtesan, for sale. I live to give pleasure and to be paid for it. Before much longer my beauty will not be enough and I will rely on my allure instead, but that is what the finest Venetians courtesans do, they survive.”
“I do not mean to cause you anxiety —”
“I believe you. You are obsessed, rightly so. I have a son and if anything were to happen to him, I would be unable to rest until I had found his killer. I am not trying to dissuade you, or criticise you, I am trying to protect you.” She took the hat out of his hands and smoothed the brim tenderly with the tips of her fingers. The action was slow and sensuous. “If you would just recognise it, you have been given a reprieve. And I have been given one also... Listen, Dutchman, what do you hear?”
He paused, turning his head slightly to the window.
“A mumble of voices, a water bird, and someone has just slammed a shutter back against a wall. What am I supposed to hear?”
“Venice, going about her day. Life, with all its tedium and sweetness.” She leaned towards him, her hand touching his cheek. “You and I must be survivors in this game. We must be judicious. Let Baptista – and by extension, Aretino – believe you doltish. Say no more on the matter of The Wolves. Act as though it is forgotten. Baptista will not expect you to cease looking for your daughter’s killer and will think your attention is concentrated there.”
The Dutchman nodded. “You are a clever woman. But now he knows I suspect him.”
“You said he only appeared to be dangerous when you repeated Gabriella’s words about The Wolves…”
Der Witt nodded.
“…so stay silent on that subject. Do not provoke this man.” Her voice softened. “Do you think he murdered your daughter?”
“I believe him capable of murder and all manner of brutality, but did he kill my child? I am not sure of that.” Der Witt thought for a moment, then glanced back to Caterina. “Baptista is a renowned gambler, a man who has perfected the art of deception and understands the capriciousness of chance. A great card player and a great cheat share the same ability – that of pretence. Adamo Baptista could disguise his feelings with the same ease with which a clock chimes. And like a clock he has many faces – his skill is at showing them only one at a time.”
Chapter Forty Four
As Lavinia had predicted, there had been no injury done to the child Rosella was carrying and within days she recovered; but, withdrawn and uncommunicative, she avoided her brother and stayed at the Fasculo house instead. Seeing himself as her protector, Angelo became devoted to the comfort of their guest, Gilda scolding Hyman Golletz when he asked when Rosella would be well enough to work again.
“You have to give her a little more time,” Gilda told him, protective of Rosella and curious as to news of Ira. “Have you seen her brother?”
“I saw him early this morning, just after dawn. He tried to avoid me, but I stopped him anyway.” Hyman laughed, “He said he had been called out to see a patient at the Doge’s palace.”
Gilda raised her eyebrows. “His reputation as a doctor is secure, even if there is chaos at home.”
“And Marco Gianetti?”
“What about him?”
“They said he disappeared after Rosella was hurt, that he was taken to the Gianetti palazzo.” Hyman replied, “I wonder what would have happened if Rosella hadn’t got in the way and the fight had continued.”
“We’ll never know,” Gilda replied, trying to terminate the conversation.
But Hyman wasn’t finished. “That poor girl. Who’ll have her now? Her being pregnant…” he glanced at Gilda slyly out of the corner of his eye. “Of course everyone here thought that Rosella and your son had some kind of agreement before all that trouble...” He trailed off, sensing he was on dangerous ground. “But it’s a blessing the girl is with you, Gilda, she needs a mother figure at a time like this.”
Rosella might have needed one, but she did not turn to Gilda for guidance. And she avoided Ira, talking with Angelo instead about trivia, trying in some way to haul in a net of comforting, old memories whilst perched on the rim of a leaky boat. When a message came from Lavinia asking for her to visit, Rosella did not respond, a further message – delivered by a servant – forcing her hand. Diffident and inhibited, Rosella listened to the old woman’s plans for a future in which she had no say, and found herself unexpectedly ambushed by the arrival of Marco.
At first she was angered: but his manner was not dominant nor flippant. In fact, he was almost timid, reticent around his grandmother and keeping a distance from Rosella. Sitting beside a fire banked high in the grate, the venerable countess talked on, Rosella glancing over to Marco and seeing – with incredulity – a look of helplessness. The bruises and cuts about his face might have suggested the embarrassment of a beaten man, but she soon realised that his mortification was due to indecision. Like her, Marco was swinging between the past and the future; both of them tightrope walkers on a line they could not see, moving towards a conclusion that they could not even imagine.
If they had been alone Rosella would have reached out to him, just as she knew he would have comforted her. Their love making was as nothing. In that instant they were merely remembered friends, grasping for an intimacy whose loss was indescribably painful to both.
*
Surprised to see a figure in the studio doorway silhouetted against the cold morning, Tintoretto called out to him.
“Ciao, chi è quello?”
The figure entered, taking off the hat he was wearing and passing a large canvas surmounted on an easel beside which two apprentices were hammering a frame together. Their blows were not in unison, but battling with each other like quarrelsome woodpeckers.
“I hope you will excuse my arriving without making an appointment first,” the man said “I was wondering if I might speak with you.”
Tintoretto wiped his paint smudged hands on his studio apron and nodded. “Of course, please come with me, I have a room back here. Mind the easel! Take care! Take care!” he snapped at the apprentices, then smiled and beckoned to the man to follow. “We have too much going on, too many paintings, too many commissions.” Opening the door, he ushered his visitor in, then sat down opposite him. “So, do you wish me to paint a portrait for you?”
The man shook his head.
“No, I am here on another matter. My name is Barent der Witt, I’m a Dutchman come over to Venice for private reasons.” As he always did, he began to roll his hat in his hands. “I believe that a few months ago you used a model called Gabriella Russo.”
“I did, but she only sat for me a few times.” Tintoretto said, his tone guarded. “May I ask what concern that is of yours?”
“I knew Gabriella. She came to me for help, but I was too late to save her.” Der Witt paused, glancing around the studio, his gaze settling on a painting of a Madonna and Child. “I have never had the ability to create anything, I envy you your talent, Signor.”
“You are very kind, but I’m curious about Gabriella. Were you related to her?”
“No, merely friends. She had no one left in this world.” The Dutchman continued. “Perhaps that is why she became embroiled in something that frightened her.”
Tintoretto leaned forward in his seat. “She said nothing to me about being afraid.”
“I did not think she would have confided on such a short acquaintance. Gabriella was s
low to trust people. And yet it was you who identified her corpse. Marina Castilano told me you visited her shop and informed her of Gabriella’s death, and that you informed the authorities afterwards. You also paid for her funeral.”
“That’s true, but why are you asking me all this?”
“Why does a man pay for the funeral of a girl he did not know well?”
“Did you see her corpse, Signor der Witt?”
“No, thank God, I was spared that.”
“Well, I did see it. I saw what had been done to her, and I made a drawing of those grievous remains. Because they were remains, remains of a young woman who had been beautiful.” Tintoretto hurried on. “And I pitied her. I pitied that beauty could be reduced to a lump of torn meat... And that was why I paid for Gabriella’s funeral, because I wanted her to have the dignity in death that was denied her in life.”
The Dutchman nodded. “You have my gratitude for that.” He sighed, then continued. “However, the reason I am come here today is to ask if you have any notion as to who killed Gabriella.”
“No. I do not. If I did, I would have told the authorities.”
“I have been trying to discover her killer for some while.”
“Forgive me, but again I must ask the same question - why?”
“Because Gabriella was killed in exactly the same manner as my own daughter.” Abruptly the waved away Tintoretto’s condolences. “And there was another victim in France. What is more, I believe it might be made to look as though I was the murderer —”
“That would make no sense.”
“ – it makes perfect sense if the true killer wishes to pass the blame onto an innocent man. Which brings me to another question. Do you have any dealings with Adamo Baptista?”
Tintoretto leaned back in his seat. “No. I avoid that particular man... Do you suspect that he killed your daughter and the other women?”