The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  She rummaged through a mound of garments at the rear of the shop. She looked so scrawny and forbidding that she reminded me of an aged vulture stooping over carrion. Yet, there was something pathetic about her too. In a way I pitied her; a poor dim-witted wretch who had lived a life filled with bitterness and aggravation.

  How different my life was in comparison to hers. I had suffered only a day or two of anguish over my illness; trivial in comparison to the constant torment in her mind. She hated Dario for a single act of thoughtlessness. Well, no doubt, he was not the only man whose existence annoyed her. She was probably hostile towards all men.

  I felt sympathy for her as she searched among the shabby garments that provided her with a paltry livelihood. I wondered why death, so vigorous in slaying the strongest, should have overlooked this downhearted ruin of human misery for which the grave would have been a welcome release.

  She turned round at last with a triumphant wave. “I have found it!” she exclaimed as she raised a gown up and laid it against her body. “This one will suit you. She who wore it was about your height and it will fit you as well as it once fit her.”

  It was not the servant’s garb I expected, but it would suffice. The emerald colored gown consisted of a whale-boned bodice and three separate skirts. Large, elbow length sleeves were of several layers – two of black silk, and the final top layer of emerald silk, which was slashed so that the black layer beneath was visible. The lower part of the sleeve was gathered into a narrow band and fastened with black ribbon ties. The centre front panel of the bodice was embroidered in a floral pattern with silk and metallic thread. The first of the three skirts was split-fronted and gathered onto a waistband and fastened at the centre front by means of ribbon ties. The second skirt was in black, but unsplit and also gathered onto the waistband as was the third, which was of a heavy turquoise satin and also unsplit. She spread out garment before me.

  I studied it with disinterest. “Did the former wearer kill her husband?” I asked with a clear wince.

  The old rag-picker shook her head. “Not her! She was foolish woman who killed herself.”

  “How? By accident or intent?”

  “She knew very well what she was doing. It happened two months ago. All for the sake of a blue-eyed naval officer who had promised to marry her as soon as he returned from a long voyage. On the day his ship sailed into port, she met him on the quay, but before she could greet him, another woman flung herself into his arms and they kissed. I am not talking about a brotherly kiss either, rather, one that was long and lingering, the kind that women dream about. When he noticed her, he laughed. Just that and nothing more. She was tall and pretty, but she staggered, her face grew pale, her lips quivered. She bent her head a little, turned, and before anyone could stop her, she dove from the edge of the quay into the waves that closed over her head. She did not try to swim; she just sank down, down, down like a stone. He next day her body floated ashore, and I bought her dress for five scudi. You may purchase it for ten.”

  “And what became of the naval officer?” I asked.

  “Oh, he is enjoying his life. He has a new lover every week. He doesn’t care.”

  I drew out my purse. “I will take this gown,” I said. “You ask ten scudi, but here are twelve. For the extra two you must show me to a private room where I can dress.”

  “You are most generous.” The old woman quivered with greed as I counted the money into her withered palm.

  “You may change in my room. It is not much, but there is a mirror, his mirror, the only thing of his worth keeping. Come this way.”

  Stumbling along, almost tripping over the muddled collection of clothing that lay strewn about the entire floor and in every nook and cranny, she opened a small door and led me into a vile smelling room furnished with a dismal pallet bed and one broken chair. A small square pane of glass admitted adequate light. Next to the crude window hung the mirror she had alluded to, a beautiful item set in ornate silver, the costliness of which I at once recognized, though I dared not yet look into the glass at myself.

  With pride, the old woman showed me that the door to this narrow den of hers locked from within. “Here is the gown. You can take your time putting it on. Lock the door if you wish. The room is at your service.” She nodded several times and left me.

  I followed her advice and locked myself in. Then I stepped to the mirror and looked at my reflection. A bitter pain struck me. The hag’s sight was excellent, for she had described me well. I looked old! Even if I had endured twenty years of suffering, I could not have changed so dreadfully.

  My illness had thinned my face and carved deep lines into it. My eyes had sunk deep into my head and they bore a wild look that reflected the terrors I had suffered in the vault. Most obvious of all, my hair had indeed turned completely white; all my ebony tendrils gone.

  Now I understood the alarm of the man who had sold me fruit on the road that morning. My appearance was horrendous enough to startle the bravest of men. Indeed, I scarcely recognized myself. Would Dario recognize me? I feared he would not. Pain stirred within me, forcing tears in my eyes. I brushed them away in haste.

  I must be strong, I thought. What did it matter whether my hair was black or white? What did it matter that my face had aged, as long as my heart was true? For a moment, perhaps, Dario might grow pale at the sight of me, but when he learned of all that I had suffered, I would become dearer to him than ever before. One of his soft embraces would make up for all my anguish and would be enough to make me young again.

  Thus, I uplifted my sinking spirits and dressed in the wrinkled emerald gown. The gown was a little loose, leaving plenty of room to disguise the leather bags of coins and jewels from the brigand’s coffin still secreted around my waist.

  When I completed my hasty toilet, I glanced one last time at the mirror, this time with a half smile. True, my appearance had changed, but I did not think I looked quite so bad. The dress enhanced me. My snow-white curls clustered around my face and the anticipation of reuniting with my husband and daughter brought some luster back into my sunken eyes and color into my hollow cheeks.

  I knew I would not always look so worn and wasted. Rest, perhaps a change of air, would soon restore brightness to my complexion. Perhaps even my white tresses might transform back to their dark richness. But what if they remained white? Well, I knew of many people who went to great lengths to dust their hair to make it as white as possible. It was the fashion these days. Many would admire the stark contrast between my young face and old, white hair.

  Now that I had finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stifling little chamber and called out for the old rag-picker.

  She came shuffling along with her head bent. As she approached, she raised her eyes and threw up her hands in astonishment. “Santissima Madonna! You are a fine woman. What a pity you are so old. You must have been quite an elegant beauty when you were young.”

  Half in jest and half to humour her, I curtseyed before her. “There is plenty of elegance in me still, you see.”

  She stared, laid her yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of ghoul-like interest and wonder, and helped me rise up with soppy admiration. “Beautiful,” she mumbled. “Like a butterfly. Your beauty could win anyone’s heart. Ah! I used to be beautiful like that once. I was clever at flirting, clever with the men. One word from me and I could cut a man down as if he were butter. You could do that too if you liked. It all lies in the wit. A brave mind unafraid to strike with a single word; a conviction unafraid to kill with one stroke.”

  She gazed at me through bleary, watery eyes as though anxious to know more of my character and temperament.

  I turned from her and called her attention to my own discarded garments. “You may have these, though they are not of much value. For another three scudi please find me some stockings and shoes.”

  She clasped her hands and inundated me with gratitude for the additional sum. Declaring by all the saints that she and the entire con
tents of her shop were at the service of so generous a lady, she at once produced the articles I asked for. I put them on, and then stood up ready to make my way home.

  Because my appearance had changed so much, I decided not to go to Villa Mancini by daylight for fear that I would startle my husband and daughter. My unforeseen arrival might give everyone too great a shock. I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to the house by a back way I knew of, and try to speak with one of the servants. I might even encounter my friend Beatrice and she would break the joyful news of my return from death to Dario and Chiara and prepare them for my altered looks.

  While these thoughts flitted through my mind, the old rag-picker regarded me with her head tilted to one side. “Are you going far?”

  “Si,” I answered. “Very far.”

  She detained me by placing her hand on my sleeve. A glint of madness shone from her eyes. “Tell me, I will keep the secret. Are you going to a man?”

  I looked down at her, half in disdain, half in amusement. “Si, I am going to a man.”

  She broke into repugnant laughter that contorted her face.

  I looked at her with disgust. Shaking her hand off my arm, I made my way to the door of the shop.

  She shuffled after me, wiping away her merry tears. “Going to a man!” she croaked “Ha! You are not the first, nor will you be the last that has done so! Going to a man! That is good! Go to him, go! You are strong. You are wise. And when you find him in the arms of another woman, kill him! Si, Si, you will be able to do it easily. Go and kill him.” She stood in her doorway, impertinent and smirking, her stunted figure and evil face reminding me of a dwarf-devil.

  I bade her good day in an apathetic tone, but she did not respond as I walked away. I made the mistake of looking back and saw her in the fullness of her madness, still standing on the threshold of her miserable dwelling, her depraved mouth working itself into all manner of grimaces. With her warped fingers, she gestured as if she had caught something and throttled it.

  I went on down the street, her last words ringing in my ears, ‘Go and kill him!’

  Chapter Seven

  Although it was late morning, the day already seemed insufferably long. I strolled leisurely through the streets of Vicenza, but thankfully, did not encounter anyone I knew. Fearful of the plague, the affluent citizens of my social circle had either fled or locked themselves away inside their own homes just like I had.

  The plague’s ravages soon became apparent. On almost every street, a funeral procession passed me by. In one doorway, a group of beccamorti were shoving a deceased woman into a coffin far too small for her body. It revolted me to see how they folded up her arms and legs and crammed her into the crude casket. I swore that the sound I heard was her bones cracking at the roughness. Stunned, I watched the disorganized proceedings for a minute or so before I approached them. “Are you certain she is dead?”

  At first, my question rendered the men speechless. Then the burliest one burst out into a laugh that shook his corpulent belly. “Corpo di Cristo, if I believed this one was still alive, I’d be the first to twist her neck and put her out of her misery, the nasty hag. The plague never fails. She is most certainly dead.” To prove his point, he grasped a handful of her hair and bashed her head repeatedly against the coffin.

  Appalled, I walked away upset at the loss of human compassion that I had witnessed.

  When I reached a main street, I noticed a group of people who glanced around anxiously and spoke in low voices. One of their whispers reached me. “The Doge of Venice! The Doge!” All heads were turned in the same direction. I paused to look too.

  Down the street, a group of men walked towards us at a leisurely pace. Among them, I recognized the Doge of Venice, Francesco Erizzo, who had been elected in April after his predecessor died from the plague. His election had been nearly unanimous. The vote had been forty to one in his favor. There were those, however, who believed his election fraudulent. Regardless of what anyone said, I knew him to be a good, honest man.

  “That white-haired beauty would make a fascinating subject for a painting,” I heard him say in a rich, deep voice to one of his attendants, as he pointed directly at me.

  His words almost caused me to spring forward and throw myself at his feet to tell him my tale. But I hesitated to betray myself. How cruel that he, a dear aquaintance, did not recognize me and was about to pass me by when we had conversed on many occasions. I visited Venice several times a year and had attended many a ball within the splendor of the Palazzo Ducale where we had encountered each other and entered into exquisite conversations. But that Carlotta Mancini existed no more. A white-haired woman with an unfamiliar face had usurped her place. Not even my friend, the doge, recognized me.

  I refrained from approaching the doge. Instead, I followed him at a respectful distance, as did many others. He wandered through the most plague-ridden streets as unconcerned as if he strolled through a garden of roses after a pleasant dinner.

  He walked without worry into the most dilapidated of homes to observe the dead and dying. He spoke heartening words to grieving mourners who gazed at him wide-eyed through their grateful tears. The doge dropped silver coins into the hands of the anguished.

  A mother knelt at his feet, raised her infant to him, and implored his blessing, which he gave.

  One golden-haired girl flung herself at his feet and kissed them. Then she leaped up in triumph. The doge smiled, rested his hand on her head as a tolerant father would, and said nothing as he walked on.

  A small cluster of men and women huddled outside a hovel listening to the shouts and cries that came from within. As I approached, I could see two burly beccamorti arguing and swearing at three women who wept. At the center of all this agitation, a coffin stood on end awaiting its occupant. One of the doge’s attendants announced his presence. The people outside the door stepped back to allow him room to approach. The strident hues and cries from within ceased as the beccamorti bared their heads and the women stifled their sobs.

  “What is wrong here, my friends?” Erizzo asked in a placid and concerned tone.

  Everyone fell silent. The beccamorti looked glum and mortified. Then, a woman with a round, but strained face, her eyes crimson with grief, elbowed her way through the gathering and stepped into the doorway to face the Doge.

  “May God and the Holy Virgin bless you.” Her voice quavered with emotion as she pointed to the beccamorti. “All would be well if those shameless pigs would leave us alone for an hour. One short hour! The girl is dead, and Giovanni, poor lad, refuses to let her go. She died from the plague and he has wrapped his two arms round her tight. We have begged and done all that we can, but he refuses to let them take her away. I fear if we force him, he will lose his mind, poverino. One hour, that is all we need; enough time for the priest to arrive who will help us persuade Giovanni.”

  The doge raised his hand and entered the miserable dwelling. His attendants followed and I, too, could not resist placing myself near the doorway to see what would happen.

  The scene I glimpsed was so heartbreaking that I could hardly bear to look upon it. Erizzo uncovered his head and stood silent beside a pallet bed where the body of a young girl lay, her beauty not yet marred by death. Except for her stiffened limbs and ashen pallor, she looked asleep. A man lay stock-still across her body, his arms wrapped round her, his face upon her cold breast that would never again respond to his warm embrace. A solitary ray of golden sunlight shone into the dark room, shedding light on the spectacle - the prostrate couple on the bed, the upright stature of the benevolent doge, and the solemn and concerned faces of the people who surrounded them.

  “See! He has been that way since she died last night,” the woman whispered. “He has clinched his hands so tight around her, we cannot even shift a finger.”

  The doge advanced and touched the shoulder of the grieving admirer. “Figlio mio! My son!” He spoke with exquisite tenderness.

  There came no answer. The wo
men, moved by the doge’s endearing words sobbed and the men wiped away tears of their own.

  “Figlio mio! I am your doge. Do you not wish to greet me?”

  The young man raised his head from the breast of his beloved and gave the doge a blank stare. His shattered face, matted hair, and feral, hollow eyes gave him the appearance of someone trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  “Your hand, my son!” said the doge with military-like authority.

  Gradually, half-heartedly, as if a powerful force compelled him, he loosened his right arm from the dead woman he had clasped for so long, and yielded his hand to the doge.

  Erizzo grasped it within his own and held it tight. He looked the grieving lad full in the face. “When it comes to love, there is no death,” he said.

  The young man’s eyes met his for a long moment, and then his rigid expression softened. He yanked his hand back and erupted into a dirge of tears.

  Erizzo shielded him with his arm and raised him from the bed. The doge lead him away sobbing and handed him into the arms of his worried mother. The torrent of tears had likely saved the youth from madness.

  Applause greeted the doge as he passed through the small crowd of people who had witnessed what had happened. He acknowledged them with a sincere bow, left the house, and signalled to the beccamorti they could now complete their heart-rending duty. The people praised the doge with cheers and ardent blessings as he continued on his way.

  I watched his retreating figure till I could see him no more. I felt that I had become more resilient in the presence of such a hero. In my life, I have encountered few men as true and virtuous like Francesco Erizzo of the Venetian Republic. Even now my heart warms when I think of him.

  As soon as the doge vanished down the street, I decided to visit the small inn where I had fallen ill. After a few missed streets, I found it. The door stood open and I glanced inside. Giovanni, the fat landlord, polished his glasses as though he had never left off. Off in the corner was the wooden bench upon which I had lain and where I had died.