The Contessa's Vendetta

by Sichirollo Patzer, Mirella

  Slowly, I came out of my hideaway and stood where they had stood, reconciling myself with the hateful truth. My mind reeled. Prisms of light spun before my eyes. The solid earth swayed beneath my feet. Was I a ghost who had returned to witness the ruin of all that was precious in my life? The man I had loved was not the same person. He was lower than a vile snake, someone all men would despise and point a scornful finger at. That creature was my husband, the father of my child. He had cast mud on his soul by choice. He had selected evil and crowned himself with shame instead of honor.

  What should I do? I tortured myself with this question. I stared blankly about as if the trees and earth might provide an answer. What should be done with him and with her, my treacherous friend and betrayer of a husband?

  I noticed the fallen rose petals. They lay on the soft ground, round and soft and scarlet. I stooped and picked them up, holding them in my palm. They carried a sweet fragrance even though they had adorned the breast of a woman who reeked with lies. I wanted to kill her.

  I remembered the miserable rag-picker who told me she had taken her revenge on the day she had discovered her husband and his lover. I had foolishly let my opportunity pass. But there were many ways to settle a score. I must seek my vengeance wisely to inflict the longest and cruelest agony upon my betrayers. How sweet to slay the sinners in the act of sinning, but I was a Mancini and I must not bloody my hands directly. There were other means to accomplish such a task. I must plan it out carefully. I hauled my tired body to a nearby tree and slid down to the ground, the dying rose-petals in my clenched palm.

  A rush of blood surged through my veins. I looked down at the clothes I wore, the former garments of a suicide victim. She was a fool, the old rag-picker had said. She killed herself. There was no doubt about it; the woman had been a fool to forfeit her own life. I would not follow in her footsteps, or at least not yet. I had something to do first, as long as I could follow through without remorse. My thoughts swirled in my head in a jumble of confusion. The scent of the rose petals I held in my palm sickened me, yet I refused to cast them away. I wanted them as an eternal reminder of the betrayal I had witnessed.

  I reached for my purse and dropped the wilting petals inside. Then I remembered the two leather pouches I had concealed beneath my gown; one filled with gold, the other with gems. The horror of being buried alive returned to me; my grim fight for life and freedom. Life and freedom. Of what use were they to me now, save for one thing – revenge?

  I was not wanted. No one expected me to return. The large fortune I had possessed was now my husband’s by decree of my own last will and testament. But I possessed new wealth; the hidden hoard was sufficient to keep me in luxury for the rest of my life. A rush of excitement throbbed in my veins. Wealth! Gold could purchase anything, even vengeance. But what sort of vengeance? The type I sought must be distinctive. It must be sophisticated, persistent, and absolute.

  An evening wind swayed the leaves of the trees. The nightingales chirruped sweetly and the moon shone brightly against the impenetrable indigo sky. Heedless of the passing time, I sat still, trapped in bewildered thoughts. Once betrayed, nothing in life can restore happy days long past. So I have learned, and so many more after me must learn.

  A white-haired beauty! The words of the doge tumbled about in my tortured thoughts. I was greatly changed and looked worn and old. I doubt anyone would recognize me. The innkeeper hadn’t. And neither had the rag-picker.

  All at once, an idea came to life; a plan of retribution so diabolical, so bold, and so unspeakable, that I recoiled as though I had been stung by a wasp. I rose and paced back and forth as outrageous ideas tossed about in my mind. Amid all my wonder, details began to form. I deliberated over every circumstance that might spoil my plot, and then resolved each one.

  My despair disappeared. Let sailors’ lovers and rag-pickers resort to murder and suicide as fit outlets for their wrath. As for me, I would not blight my family’s good name with a vulgar crime. No, retribution by a member of the Mancini family must rise above such common methods and must be taken with confidence, calm, and careful forethought - no haste, no plebeian fury, no fuss, no scandal.

  I paced slowly, calculating every scene of the bitter drama I would soon enact. My thoughts cleared and I breathed more easily. Bit by bit, I became very collected. Regrets for the past disappeared. Why should I mourn the loss of a love that was never mine in the first place? It was not as if they had waited till my death. No, their deceit began within three months of my marriage and endured for three years after that. And in all that time, I had suspected nothing.

  Now I knew the extent of my injury. I was a woman enormously wronged, grossly duped. My sense of justice and self-respect demanded that I punish those who had played me false. The love I once felt for my husband died. I plucked it from my heart like a thorn from my flesh and flung it away with disgust. Infinite contempt replaced my deep fondness for Beatrice Cardano. I also scorned myself for hurrying home with so much joy and love in my heart, like a merry fool marching to her own execution. But the delusions of my life existed no more. I possessed the strength to avenge myself and the craftiness to accomplish it.

  My plan now complete, I drew from my breast the crucifix the dead monk Cipriano had laid with me in my coffin, and kissing it, I raised it aloft, and swore never to relent, never to relax, never to rest, till I fulfilled my vendetta.

  The nightingales paused their song. The wind scattered a shower of jasmine blossoms at my feet. Symbols that my past with its days of sweet illusion and dear remembrance had withered and perished forever. Henceforth my life would be like a blade of steel; firm, bitter, and indestructible. I knew what must be done and I resolved to do it.

  I walked back down the lane, swung open the private gate and stepped back onto the main road. A loud clang made me glance up as I walked past the main entrance of the Villa Mancini. I glanced beyond the gates to my beloved ancestral villa.

  Beatrice Cardano stepped out onto the upper balcony. She glanced lazily outwards in my direction, her beautiful face clearly visible in the bright moonlight. But all she saw was a white-haired old woman passing by the front gates. Her look only rested upon me for a brief second before she withdrew it.

  An insane desire possessed me to scream at her, to rush back and climb the trellis to spring at her throat, to throw her in the dust at my feet, to spit at her, and trample upon her. But I repressed my fierce emotions. I had a better game to play. I had an exquisite torture in store for her. Vengeance ought to ripen slowly in the heat of intense wrath. So I let my dear friend, my husband’s consoler, dream her dreams without interference.

  I re-entered Vicenza, and found lodging at a small convent. There, in a tiny cell meant for guests, my recent illness, fatigue, and roiling emotions threw me into a deep slumber. But the most soothing opiate was the knowledge that I had armed myself with a practical plan of retribution, more terrible than any human had ever before devised.

  Chapter Nine

  The following morning, I rose early, eager to set my plan in motion. After acquiring a small lantern, a hammer, and some nails, I set out for the cemetery. Not a soul was in sight when I arrived. A blessing, for now I could work freely without worrying about being accidentally discovered by someone.

  At the Mancini vault, I removed the shrubs and debris, and uncovered the secret passage. Despite my fear and aversion, I entered. Once more, the cold and dark surrounded me. The dreadful memory of my ordeal resurfaced. My anguish flooded back, but I refused to allow it to distract me.

  I lit the lantern and glanced about. The coffin with the treasure lay undisturbed where I had hidden it. Raising the lid, I removed all the gold coins I could find, hundreds and hundreds of them, and tucked it into the pouches secreted beneath my gown. I also took several pieces of masculine jewelery to add to the pendant in the shape of a ship I had first found and that still hung from my neck. With the tools, I repaired the damage I had made to the casket when I had forced it open
, and nailed it up tight so that it looked untouched. This work did not take me long, for I was in a hurry. I planned to leave Vicenza this very day and would not return for several weeks.

  I glanced one last time at my own coffin, undecided whether to repair it too so that it would appear my body still lay inside. I decided to leave it as it was, broken and forced open. One day soon, it would serve its purpose. I crawled through the secret tunnel and carefully covered it back up behind me. Then I returned to the convent to spend one last night.

  * * *

  My first task was to hire a lady’s maid and a steward to oversee business matters, for no woman should travel alone. The nuns at the convent suggested I hire Santina, a young woman of eighteen years, and her elderly father, Paolo. The nuns assured me of their good nature and diligence at any tasks assigned to them. I agreed. They both suited me perfectly. It pleased me to see how eager they were to come with me. We liked each other instantly and I showed my gratitude by leaving the abbess with a sizeable donation.

  The next morning, I hired a coach, which took us to Venice. There I made inquiries and learned a ship would soon leave port headed for Pescara. Since Pescara would suit me as well as any other place, I sought out the captain of the vessel.

  He was a cheerful man with a sun-battered, olive-colored complexion. When I expressed my desire to take passage with him, his smile revealed a wide gap between his two yellowing and overly large front teeth. He charged me a fair and moderate sum, but which I learned late was actually three times the usual fare. But the charismatic scoundrel swindled me with such charm and politeness, I did not let it bother me. I would rather be duped by an friendly, polite man than receive fair value for my money from a brusque boor who lacked the good manners to wish me a good day. Besides, I could afford to be generous.

  We left port about mid-morning. While Santina and Paolo settled us all in our quarters below deck, I sat idly on the vessel’s edge. The sun shone bright, and a cool breeze blew. The water rippled against the sides of our vessel with a gentle cadence. I looked down into the clear waters of the Adriatic, blue as an ocean of sapphires, and retreated into my thoughts, reflecting on the past as well as the future. Lost in contemplation, a touch on my shoulder startled me. I looked up.

  The captain of the brig stood beside me, smiling. “You are enjoying the beauty of the water, dama?” he said courteously.

  “Why do you call me dama?” I inquired brusquely. Surely the used clothing of the drowned woman I still wore could not be mistaken for those of a noblewoman.

  The man shrugged and bowed courteously, a larger dimpling his olive cheeks. “Ah, I understand. As the dama pleases.”

  I looked at him sternly. “What do you mean?”

  The captain pointed a brown finger at my hands. “These are not the hands of a woman who launders or scrubs a house clean.”

  I glanced down at them. True enough, their delicate softness betrayed me. The sharp-witted captain had noticed the contrast between my supple hands and the inferior quality of my gown, though no one else I had come in contact with, had noticed. At first I was embarrassed, but after a moment’s pause I met his gaze. “And what of it?”

  He gave me an apologetic look. “I did not mean to offend, dama. Not at all. Please understand. Your secret is perfectly safe with me. I am prudent and do not gossip. You, cara dama, must have good reason for concealing your identity, I am sure. You have suffered; it is evident in your face. There are far too many things that bring sorrow into one’s life.” He tallied them on his fingers. “There is love, there is vengeance, there are disputes, there is a loss of wealth, any of these will drive a person away. You, dama, are entrusted to me while on this ship and I assure you of my discretion and best service.”

  He tipped his hat with such polite charm that in my disheartened state, his act touched me deeply. Wordlessly, I extended my hand to him and he kissed it with respect.

  “Do you mind if I enjoy a cigar?” he asked.

  “Please, do not hesitate on my account.”

  “Excellent!” he answered, showing his sallow, lacklustre teeth in his amused smile. He pulled one out of his short jacket and lit it from the flame of a nearby lantern someone had forgotten to distinguish or which had been left burning for this very purpose. He inhaled deeply and let out a puff. “A cigar of the finest quality, a gift from a man who will smoke nothing but the best. Ah, Cesare Negri, what a generous man he is.”

  The familiar name startled me and words remained trapped in my throat for a few moments. What twist of fate kept putting this notorious bandit in my path? “You know the man?”

  “I know him very well, indeed. While I was docked in Venice, he found me alone on the brig; my men had gone ashore. He told me the authorities were after him and offered me more gold than I had ever seen in my life if I would take him to Pescara. From there, he could get to one of his hiding-places. If I refused, he threatened to slit my throat. He brought a woman named Teresa with him. Even though I knew he was a scandalous rogue, I agreed to take him and assured him I would not betray him. My agreement seemed to surprise him, for he smiled that dark smile of his, which might mean gratitude or murder. Teresa placed her hands on mine, tears in her pretty, blue eyes. She told me I was a good man and that I deserved the love of a good woman.”

  I looked at him with a gnawing at my heart. Here was another self-deluded wretch like me who believed in dreams and love. “You are a happy man.” I forced a smile. “You have a guiding star for your life as well as for your boat; and a woman that loves you and is faithful to you? Is it so?”

  He raised his hat politely and smiled. “Si, dama, my mother.”

  I was deeply touched by his unexpected reply; more deeply than I cared to show. A bitter regret stirred in my soul. Why had my own mother died so young? Why had I never known the same joy that shone through the sparkling eyes of this common sailor? Why must I be forever alone, with a curse of a man’s lie on my life to weigh me down so miserably? Something in my face must have revealed my turmoil.

  “The dama has no mother?” he asked softly.

  “She died when I was a child.”

  The captain puffed lightly at his cigar as we stood together in the silence of compassion.

  “You spoke of Teresa? Who is Teresa?” I asked to divert the topic of our conversation away from me.

  “No one knows who she is. She loves Cesare Negri, and that is all I know. Such a tiny thing, and as delicate as foam on the waves. And Cesare, you have seen Cesare, dama?”

  I shook my head.

  “He is huge and coarse and mean as a wolf. Teresa is like a small cloud in the sky. She is tiny and light with hair that ripples with curls, soft eyes and hands, not strong enough to snap a twig in two. Yet Cesare would do anything for her. She is the one soft spot in his life.”

  “I wonder if she is true to him,” I muttered, half to myself and half aloud.

  The captain’s brows rose. “True to him? One of Cesare’s own band of thugs, as ruthless and handsome a cut-throat as ever lived, fell madly in love with Teresa. He pursued her like a beaten mongrel. One day he found her alone and tried to kiss her. She reached for the knife she kept at her waist and stabbed him with it. She did not kill him. Cesare did that later. To think of a little woman like that with such viciousness in her! She boasts that no man, save Cesare, has ever touched so much as a ringlet of her hair. Si, she is true to him; more’s the pity.”

  “You do not believe her false?” I asked.

  “No. A false man or woman deserves death. Still, it is a pity Teresa has fixed her love on Cesare. Such a vile man! One day the authorities will capture him. Then he will face the galleys for life, and she will die. You may be sure of that. If grief does not kill her quickly enough, then she will kill herself, I am certain! She is as slight and frail as a delicate flower, but her soul is as strong as iron. She will have her own way in death as well as in love. They say it is usually the weakest-looking women who have the most courage. In her cas
e, this is very true.”

  A sailor who came to ask the captain a question interrupted our conversation. With an apologetic smile and bow, the talkative captain left me to my own reflections.

  I was not sorry to be alone. I needed a reprieve in which to think, though my thoughts revolved solely around vengeance. A false man or woman deserves death. Even this simple Venetian mariner agreed.

  Go and kill him! Go and kill him! The rag-picker’s words repeated in my mind until I found myself nearly pronouncing them aloud. My soul sickened when I thought about Teresa; mistress of a loathsome villain whose name was spoken with fear. Even she remained faithful, keeping herself free from the wicked touch of other men. She was proud of being faithful to a man whose temper was treacherous and unpredictable. A woman who took pride in her fidelity to her blood-stained lover, while Dario, the wedded husband of a noblewoman descended from an ancient and unsullied noble family, could trample upon the dignity of our marriage and cast it away like rubble in the dust. Dario, a man so low and vile that even this common Teresa would pollute herself to touch him. What had Cesare Negri done to deserve the priceless gift of a true heart? What had I done to merit such foul deceit as that which I now must avenge?

  I thought of Chiara, my darling child. Her memory fell upon me like a ray of light. In all the tumult I had suffered, I had nearly forgotten her. Poor little flower. Hot tears stung my eyes as I conjured the vision of her soft round face, her trusting eyes, her pink lips puckering to give me an innocent kiss. What about her? Once I fulfilled my vendetta, I must take her with me far, far away into some quiet corner of the world, and devote my life to her. One day she, too, would become a beautiful woman, and I would teach her to be much wiser than I had been when it came to matters of the heart.

  Poor Chiara. She was a flower born of a poisoned tree. Oh, we women have serpents coiled around our lives in the form of handsome, but false men. If God has given us children by them, the curse descends upon us threefold. There is nothing more torturous than to see innocent babes look trustingly into the devious eyes of an adulterous husband, and call him Papa.