by S. D. Sykes
She slammed the shutters and disappeared without saying a word, leaving me once again to wait by the door, hoping that somebody might admit me. After a few minutes, I banged again. Still nothing, and I was about to walk around the building in search of an alternative entrance when the abbess appeared once again at the window.
“Are you English?” she asked me.
“Yes,” I shouted up to her.
“You were here once before, weren’t you? With Enrico Bearpark and Vittore Grimani.”
“Yes.” I waited for her to ask about Enrico, but the question did not come.
“But you didn’t stay, did you?” she said, with a sly smile.
I bowed to her. “I was too drunk, my lady. I thought it would be an insult to the sisters.”
This comment caused her smile to wane, though it was impossible to tell if she had been flattered by the compliment or simply amused by my obvious lie. “Wait there,” she told me.
Once again she slammed the shutters and then made me wait for quite a while before she eventually appeared at the door. She looked me up and down with distaste before finally admitting me into a large square courtyard that was bordered on all sides by the stone pillars and arches of a colonnade. Faces peered at me from these pillars—they were mainly children, but there were older faces there as well. Some might even have been nearing their twentieth year.
“You’re early,” she said, indicating for me to sit next to her on a bench. “Most of our visitors come during the night hours.” She then shouted at the two small boys who were now climbing onto the wellhead in the center of the courtyard before seeing how far they could jump. “Is there a particular sister you wish to visit?” she asked me.
I cleared my throat, which felt dry and disobliging. “It’s not a sister that interests me,” I said.
She lifted her chin and scrutinized me with her beady eyes. “Oh yes?”
“Enrico told me of a particular young man named Marco.” I coughed again. “I wonder if he is free?” I felt myself coloring. Sweating even, and was pleased of the thin winter light, for it covered my ineptitude.
Once again the abbess made me wait for an answer. “There is nobody here called Marco,” she said. “You are mistaken.”
I reached into my purse and pulled out the florin that I had secretly taken from Giovanni’s desk that morning. I didn’t consider this as stealing—rather, as a justifiable expense. “Are you sure that there’s no Marco here?” She eyed the florin and then reached out to take it from me, but I quickly closed my hand about the coin. “Let me see Marco. And then you may have this.”
She pursed her lips with irritation. “He may not wish to see you. I cannot say.”
“I want only to speak with him. Nothing more.”
This comment was met with a shrug. “I can ask,” she said, still staring at me. “But I make no promises.”
Laughter, followed by playful screaming, sounded in the distance. A bell rang, and the smell of garlic and fish drifted across the air. This place was like any other campo in the city—enclosed, noisy, and spilling over with life. I waited for the abbess to leave or to call over one of the children to fetch Marco, but she continued to stare at me.
Then suddenly she smiled. “Marco says he will see you.”
I looked about us. “He does? How did you ask him?”
The abbess nodded her head toward a window above the farthest side of the cloister, where somebody was silhouetted against the light. “You may go to him now.”
The abbess led me through the covered portico, up an elaborate marble staircase, and then along a dark passageway that ended in a great, carved door. I might almost have expected such a grand entrance to lead into the abbess’s personal quarters, but she insisted that this was Marco’s room. She knocked gently and then slipped away, leaving me to stand alone in the hall feeling as nervous as a novice waiting for a beating from the abbot.
The heavy door swung open and I entered the room to find a young man staring at me by the light of a small candle. The shutters were closed, and the room was dark, but even so, I recognized Marco immediately. He was the angelic-looking man who had stood beside the abbess on the jetty, on the night when I had refused to leave the boat. I cursed myself for not guessing that this man had been Enrico’s lover, though he was hardly the embodiment of the violent murderer I had been told to expect. As my mother often likes to say, however, a rosy apple may contain a wasp.
“Come in,” he said, looking me up and down. “Close the door.”
I did as he requested, then trod cautiously across the highly polished floor of the large chamber. The walls about me were clad in embossed red leather and fine silks, and the room was bathed in the woody, pungent scent of myrrh. Marco dropped down upon a bed with carved posts and a studded headboard, then stroked the pile of his velvet bedspread, in an act that seemed jaded. “What can I do for you?” he asked, looking up from beneath his dark lashes. “You asked for me by name?” He then let his hand slip beneath his chemise and rest upon the smooth skin of his chest.
“No, no. It’s not that,” I said quickly, stifling a cough. How awkward I must have seemed.
He laughed, though once again it sounded hollow and weary. “Don’t be shy.” He patted the bedspread. “Come and sit next to me. Tell me your name.” I removed my hat and sat down next to him on the bed, whereupon he ran his fingers though my hair. “You’re English, aren’t you? I like Englishmen.”
I stood up quickly. “I’m not here for that reason.”
He raised an eyebrow and gave a short, scornful laugh. “Of course not. You never are.”
“It’s true. I came here to speak to you about Enrico Bearpark.”
He sat up abruptly, put his feet to the floor, and then walked to the other side of the room, where he collected a robe from a table draped with tasseled silk. He threw this robe over his shoulders and held his arms across his chest, as if protecting himself from a cruel wind. “You tricked your way in here. I can’t tell you anything about Enrico.”
“I’m trying to find his killer.”
He looked over his shoulder at me suspiciously. “You? Why should you care about finding his killer?”
“Because he was my friend.” I hesitated. “And because his grandfather has asked me to investigate.”
“You’ve wasted your time coming here,” he said. “You should leave.”
He made for the door, but as he passed me I grasped his arm. “Enrico was your lover, wasn’t he, Marco?”
He tried to shrug me away, but I kept my grip firm. “Why should I tell you anything? I don’t even know who you are!”
“You do know who I am. You’ve met me before.”
He hesitated, before reluctantly peering into my face. “I don’t know you.”
“I came here, one night a few months ago, with Enrico and his friend Vittore? I wouldn’t get out of the boat.” He still seemed puzzled. “Do you remember? You watched us leave from the jetty.”
Marco gave a small and sudden smile of recognition. “Yes. I do remember.” His smile turned to a scowl, however, as he broke free of my grasp. “You were the fool who robbed me of a night with Enrico.”
“So you were his lover?”
“What of it?” Marco dropped down once more onto the bed, stretching out his arms to display a sudden boredom with this conversation. When I didn’t respond, he gave me a sideways glance, the candlelight now resting upon his halo of curls. “Well, Englishman. What do you want to know?”
“Did you kill Enrico?”
He looked up at me for a second as if he could not believe that I had asked such a question, before throwing back his head in laughter. “Me? Why would I kill that fool? Enrico Bearpark was nothing but a deceitful, corrupt liar, always meddling where he shouldn’t. I wanted nothing to do with him.”
The words were bitter and practiced. “Why do you say that?” I asked.
Marco wrapped the robe about his shoulders again, as if he regretted this outbur
st. “I have my reasons,” he said defensively.
“Is that why you attacked him on the night of Giovedì Grasso? Because he deceived you?”
He pulled the robe a little tighter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve never attacked anybody in my life.”
“That’s not true, is it? I have a witness who saw you fighting with Enrico in the storeroom at Ca’ Bearpark. It was on the feast of Saint Stephen last year.”
Marco laughed again. “You’ve lost your mind, Englishman. I’ve never set foot in Ca’ Bearpark,” he said, dropping his robe a little to expose a pale and slender body. “Do I look like a violent killer to you?” he said triumphantly, before turning his face away from mine—his mood suddenly subdued. “You’re talking to the wrong man. If you want to find Enrico’s murderer, then look for that brute he took up with.” He emitted a kind of snarl. “The man he preferred to me.”
“Oh yes?” I said. “Who’s that?”
Marco tensed, a little cross with himself for being drawn. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said blithely. “Some ruffian who builds ships at the Arsenale.”
“Why do you say this man is guilty of Enrico’s murder?”
Marco hesitated before replying. “I have my reasons.”
“Which are?”
He looked up at me cautiously, taking his time to answer. “They were involved in something together,” he said quickly. “It was dangerous. That’s all I’m going to say.”
“Why was it dangerous?” I asked.
His answer was a growl. “You’re not listening to me, Englishman. I’m not saying anything else.”
“So, what’s this man’s name? At least tell me that.”
Marco shrugged.
This was achieving nothing, so I tried a new tactic. “I think that you’re lying to me, Marco,” I said. “There’s no man who works at the Arsenale, is there?”
Marco looked at me, his eyes flashing. “He does exist! His name is Gianni,” he spat. “Now leave me alone.”
“Gianni what?”
“I don’t know.”
“So where does he live?” I asked.
Marco threw up his hands. “In Castello.” He pursed his lips venomously. “With all the other men who build ships for this city.”
“That’s not enough, Marco. I need more information.”
“I don’t know any more.”
“You must do.”
His voice became agitated. “Why would I know where he lives? Go to Castello yourself,” he said. “Ask around for Gianni. Somebody will tell you where to find him. Then you can ask him all these questions yourself.”
I bowed my head. “Very well then, I will.”
“Is that all now?” he said impatiently.
“No. I need to ask another question,” I continued calmly. “Do you know a man named Adolpho Bredani?”
Marco looked at me for a moment, and then let a puff of laughter escape from his lips. “Who?”
“Adolpho Bredani.”
“No. I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was Monna Filomena’s brother. He worked at Ca’ Bearpark.”
Marco’s face began to redden. “You’re not listening to me again, are you Englishman? I don’t know anybody with that name! Now I want you to leave.”
I refused to move, but at his third scream, the abbess burst through the great doors with two burly men, and for the first time in my life, I was thrown out of a brothel.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Upon my return to Ca’ Bearpark I strode through the house with determination, avoiding all conversation and heading directly for Giovanni’s bureau on the ground floor, where I found the man clicking beads across his abacus. He stood as I entered. His hair was glossy, smooth, and hung about his face like the curled fronds of a fern. Seeing his groomed perfection, I was suddenly reminded of my own scruffy appearance, so I quickly ran my fingers through the tangled brush that topped my own scalp, knowing that I would never pass as a Venetian.
Giovanni seemed pleased, and a little relieved, to see me. “I’m so sorry, Oswald,” he said. “I should have come with you to the convent. I know that now.”
I nodded curtly to accept his apology. “It’s no matter,” I said.
“Did you discover anything?” he asked, holding out his hands to indicate that I should take a seat. “Did you speak to Enrico’s friend?”
“I’ll tell you about it later,” I said, refusing to sit down. “First I need you to take me somewhere.”
Giovanni frowned at this. “But I promised to bring you to Master Bearpark. He wants to know your progress with the investigation.”
“So he’s recovered from the shock of having a daughter then, has he?” I said wryly.
Giovanni began to touch his keys. “No, Oswald. I’m afraid he’s still in a terrible rage.” He paused for a moment. “My master has heard an unpleasant story about Monna Filomena. Some say he is not the father of her child.”
“Oh yes? And how did he hear that foolish tale then?” I asked. “He’s an old man on his deathbed. Did you tell him?”
“No. Of course not! I do not indulge in—” he was struggling for the word ‘heresy.’”
“You mean hearsay,” I said.
Giovanni shook his head adamantly. “No. Heresy is correct.”
“Heresy means to speak against the church. Is that really what you wanted to say, Giovanni?” He was momentarily silenced. “Come on. Get your cloak.”
“But won’t you come and speak to my master first?”
“No. We need to leave now.”
He hesitated. “But, but . . . where are we going?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
A few more minutes elapsed before we were able to leave the damp, malodorous chamber, as Giovanni locked away piles of coins, and then turned the keys in numerous cabinets, before double-locking the door. He inquired if we should take the family sàndolo, in the hope that I might then reveal our destination—but I had determined to get well away from Ca’ Bearpark before revealing our purpose, for I did not want any objections. Instead I told Giovanni that we would be walking this afternoon. The day was fine, and the winds of the Bora had dropped. The streets were bustling with many other people, so our progress would go unremarked.
We pushed our way along the canal-side paths and then cut through the alleys and campos, passing the everyday sights of Venice; a noblewoman being fussed over by her many lady’s maids, a Moorish slave carrying a great sack of cloth upon his back, and a procession of Dominican monks, parting the crowds as they chanted their way to mass. The smaller canals thronged with the one- or two-man boats—the piatte carrying people, small sacks, earthenware bottles, and baskets of fish from one place to another. As we walked along these streets I often looked up to see a woman watching our progress from an upstairs window or balcony. These were not the maids or harried mothers of Venice, they were the richest women of the city, perched like exotic birds in the windows of their homes and displayed to the world. But these women were not the only eyes watching us, for I had also seen a familiar face again in the crowds. Always a few feet away from us, and always quick to disappear into the shadows when I turned around—it was the boy who had led me back to Ca’ Bearpark for two soldini on the night of Enrico’s murder. There could be no doubt that he was following me.
We had reached the borders of San Marco and Castello, when Giovanni put his hand upon my shoulder and forced me to stop. “You must tell me where we’re going, Oswald,” he said. “Please. I need to know.”
I drew him to a low wall by a bridge, so that we might speak privately. “We’re going to the Arsenale,” I said.
Giovanni frowned and felt for his keys. “What do you want to go there for?”
Behind us, two ragged men were arguing over a bottle of wine—a quarrel that had the potential to escalate into a fight. It was time to move on. “I just want to see it,” I said. “Come on.”
The Arsenale is in Castello, a few streets
farther into the sestiere than the decrepit tavern where we had previously met with Michele, and it seemed that Giovanni was no keener to visit this part of Venice than he had been on our last excursion. As we picked our way along the narrow streets, Giovanni informed me, again and again, that a person cannot simply visit the Arsenale itself, for it is the greatest shipyard in the whole of Europe—hidden behind the highest walls, and guarded by the most ferocious soldiers. In fact, Giovanni proved himself to be something of an authority on the whole subject of the Arsenale, and kept his narrative going for the whole of our journey. Soon I learned, for example, that any house bordering the walls of the Arsenale cannot exceed two stories in height, nor can it have any windows that face the shipyard. I even learned that the priests of local churches are not allowed to hold the keys to their bell towers, in case they feel tempted to climb the stairs and take a look over the walls.
When I made the mistake of expressing some surprise at all this subterfuge, Giovanni puffed with indignation at my ignorance. Within the Arsenale, so he informed me, the Venetians make galleys that are unmatched upon the seas, using skills and methods that are known only to their shipwrights—so it is no wonder that the secrets of the Arsenale are so heavily guarded, and I was a fool to think otherwise.
Thankfully Giovanni’s lecture had ended by the time we reached the Arsenale, but as we wandered about the periphery, I could sense the industry he had described. The biting stench of boiling pitch spread through the air, and, although I could see nothing but bricks, I knew we were only feet away from the workshop of many, many men. I could hear their shouts and whistles above the hammering and sawing and clanging of their frenetic production, as they toiled away building ships faster than any other yard in the whole of the world.
Giovanni stepped from foot to foot and seemed as nervous as a calf about to be slaughtered. On this side of the wall, we stood out as the only adult men in the street, and had already drawn the attention of the nearby women. These were not the wives and daughters who were framed in the balconies of San Marco or the Rialto, with their fur collars and braided hair, waiting for the world to pay attention to their prosperity and beauty. The women of Castello were feeding infants, scrubbing shellfish, or wringing out dirty clothes in the street. Nevertheless, they were every bit as interested in our progress as their wealthier counterparts had been, for almost to a woman they stopped what they were doing and turned to stare.