The traffic on the Rio Terrà di Maddalena is just picking up. Noè won’t be here for a while.
I wish I were invisible. I shake my head wildly, till my hair bushes out around me, half covering my face. A kind of natural veil.
A chimney sweep goes by with brooms and buckets. He looks at me, his eyes amazed, then quickly lowers his head, as though he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble for what he’s seen.
I press my back against a wall.
A man opens the shop next to me. He glances over his shoulder at me as he fiddles with the door lock, trying not to drop the sack under his arm. He goes inside, his head turned away. I’m almost sure he purposely avoided looking at me.
I need help.
Chiara. She’ll be opening her shop soon, if she hasn’t already.
I put on the zoccoli and cross the road, looking both ways. The beggar boy comes out of nowhere, sees me, then spins on his heel and goes the other way.
They’re afraid of me, these men and the boy. Afraid of a girl who’s somewhere she shouldn’t be, acting erratic. Maybe this is better than being invisible.
I knock on the door of Chiara’s shop. No one answers. I press my back against the door and slide my bottom down till I’m sitting, as small and inconspicuous as I can be.
“What manner of person are you, child?” comes the muttering voice.
I jump up in relief. “Oh, Chiara, kind woman, can I come inside just to change my clothes? Please, kind woman.”
Chiara draws back with a frown. “How is it you know my name?”
I smooth my hair back, hold it down with one hand while the other hand keeps my fisherboy’s clothes safe in place under my nightdress, and thrust my face into hers.
“Donato?” she asks, as though she can’t believe her eyes.
“I have to get out of sight fast. Please, Chiara.”
Her eyes burn into me. “Turn left at the next alley,” she whispers. “Then again left at the one after that. Count the windows. Stop at the seventh one. Don’t knock.” She steps back and raises her hands as though in alarm. “Get away,” she says loudly. “Scat.”
I race for the alley, stumbling at her rough words.
“And good riddance to you,” she shouts after me.
What’s going on? But I can’t think what else to do. I turn fast into the alley, run to the next one and turn again. Most of the windows are shuttered. I go to the seventh one and wait.
One side opens a crack. “Is anyone about?” she whispers.
I look up and down the alley. “I don’t see anyone.”
Chiara opens the shutter a bit more. She grabs me by the elbow and half pulls me in, as my legs and arms scrabble to help me climb.
Once my feet are on the floor, she closes the shutter again immediately. Dank darkness swallows us.
“Have you got a change of clothes with you?” asks Chiara.
“Yes.”
“Be quick,” she says. “Then come through to the front shop.” She walks away, knocking into things in the dark as she goes.
I’m accustomed to changing in the dimness of the storeroom, so I have no problem here. Then I roll my nightdress tight and feel my way across the room and into a little corridor. Now the light from the front windows guides me. I go into the box shop.
Chiara sits on her stool and stares at me. “It is you.” She puts her hands to her cheeks. “Are you bringing me trouble?”
“I don’t intend to. Someone’s coming to meet me out on the street soon. Can I stay just until he gets here?”
“Tell me, are you boy or girl?”
“Girl.”
“So is this a forbidden romance, you and the someone who’s coming to meet you? Are you running off together?”
“No,” I say.
“But it is trouble, it is something you’re not supposed to be doing.”
“Yes,” I say, though her comment wasn’t a question.
“You look like a normal Catholic child now.” Chiara regards me carefully. “Do you know what you looked like in the street?”
“I have some idea,” I said.
“But not a good enough one, I bet. You looked like a girl the devil had snatched and planted a child in. A lost soul. A witch.”
I shake my head in horror. “I’m no witch.”
“I know that. But others might not. You cannot go about looking like that.”
“I never will again,” I say.
“Keep that promise, for your own sake.” Chiara walks to the door of the shop. Then she rushes back in, grabs her broom, and returns to the doorway, shaking the broom over her head threateningly. She turns to me. “I just reminded your enemy not to bother my errand boy. You’d better go now, while his memory is still good.”
“Thank you, Chiara. I won’t forget your kindness.”
“Don’t think of repaying me, child. I may not be able to afford the consequences of another visit from you.”
“Take this, at least,” I say, handing her my rolled-up nightdress. “I can’t carry it around with me all day, and maybe you can sell it.”
Chiara feels the nightdress, her fingers measuring its fine quality. She looks at me in surprise.
“Addio—be with God.” I kiss her on each cheek. I’m sad to think I cannot come to her shop again. But after today, I will be saying good-bye to so many things—so what does it matter, one more good-bye? Why should it hurt this much? I go into the street without a backward glance.
Noè comes walking toward me.
Francesco walks not far behind him.
Oh, Lord, what mischief have you designed?
I turn my back to them. Have they seen me? I want to run, but that might draw attention. I get to the side wall and kneel over my shoe, as though adjusting it. That trick worked once before, it must work again.
Francesco passes by.
“Hello,” calls Noè.
I hold perfectly still. Don’t let him call my name. Don’t, don’t, please.
“Donato,” calls Noè.
Francesco stops and looks back.
At least Noè said the male version of my name. I should have known he wouldn’t use the female—he uses that only at the printer’s when someone else might hear. Francesco shouldn’t think long about it; Donato is a common enough name.
Noè has reached me now.
“I’m having trouble with my shoe,” I say out of the side of my mouth to Noè, my head lowered so close to my foot it almost touches it. “Just a minute, please. And, please, don’t say my name again.”
Noè bends over to take a look. “Can I help?”
“There’s someone up ahead. Someone I don’t want to see me. Please don’t look around. But tell me if the noble in the blue hose is still looking at us.”
Noè squats beside me and fumbles with my zoccolo. His face is all concentration. He lowers his chest and twists a little, as though to get a better look at my shoe. The position allows him to see up the road. He’s more adept at deception than I would have expected. “The young man has moved on.”
“As soon as he’s out of sight, we must go fast,” I say.
Noè takes a zoccolo off my foot and fools around with the straps. He puts it back on me. “Give me the other one.” I do, and he adjusts that one, too.
“They fit much better now,” I say.
“It was easy. You should have told me when I gave them to you,” he says.
“Sold them to me,” I correct him.
“He’s out of sight.”
I stand and walk so quickly even Noè’s long strides have trouble keeping up.
“Who was he?” asks Noè.
“My brother.”
“But I thought your brother knew about your escapades among the poor.”
“Only Bortolo. I have seven brothers.”
Noè lets out a whistle. “And a sister, who has a gold brooch.”
“Four sisters.”
“Your mother’s been lucky.”
“Three other sisters died.”
“I didn’t even keep track of how many of my brothers and sisters died.”
“Is that true?” I ask, horribly saddened at the idea.
“No. Four brothers died. Three sisters died. The only ones who lived are Sara and Isaia and me. I’m the oldest. Then there’s Isaia.”
This is what Messer Zonico talked about, but it’s worse than I imagined. “Did they starve?”
“No one in the Ghetto starves, Donato, unless everyone starves together. If a family needs, everyone gives. Sometimes we don’t give as much as we should, but we give. No, they died in epidemics.”
“Epidemics?”
“Sicknesses that sweep large parts of the city.”
“My sisters died in epidemics, too. And my mother’s sisters and some of my Father’s brothers and sisters. And my uncle Umberto went blind from the smallpox.” Then I remember. “Another girl answered your door once. She looked a lot like Sara.”
“My cousin Neomi. Our families live together.”
“I have cousins, too. But they live in Padua.”
“You can stop running now, you know. Your brother is far away.”
I slow down. “I can work all day today. I’ll finish the job.” I look up at him and give in to pride. “You’re amazed, admit it.”
“Not at all.”
“Really?”
Noè laughs. “My amazement passed late yesterday afternoon.” He gives an appreciative bob of the head. “I looked over your work before going home. In two mornings you finished two copies and did most of the third. The work is easy for you. In fact, I’m surprised you think it’ll take all day to finish it.” His voice rises as he teases me. “You must be feeling lazy.”
“Very funny.” But I’m pleased. “I’ll need that help you promised me with Latin, as soon as I finish the fifth copy.”
“But I thought you knew Latin.”
“Not enough,” I say.
“All right. I suppose I can give you ten minutes of my time.”
“Ten minutes?” I squeal.
Noè laughs. “I was just joking. How long a lesson do you want?”
“I don’t want a lesson. I want help writing a letter.”
“That’s easy enough.”
We arrive and I go straight to Noè’s workroom. With no delay, I’m bent over the third copy of the noble boy’s play. But now I hear Noè talking with another man. His voice is loud. I can’t afford to take the time to go into the corridor to listen better. I have to finish this job today. With all probability, I’d never make it out of the palazzo if I waited till tomorrow. Mother will realize now that I do, indeed, go outside. She’ll think I lied to her yesterday. And I guess I did. I violated her trust.
What has become of me?
What will become of me next?
I set to work.
After a long while, Noè comes in. He paces in agitation.
I give up. “I can’t work with you acting like that, so you might as well tell me what’s bothering you.”
Noè rushes to me. “It’s today’s handbill. The Inquisition is heating up again.”
I press my fists together in alarm. “But I thought Venice wouldn’t risk offending its Jews or Protestants because of business.”
“Right,” says Noè. “And the Vatican has noticed. They question Venice’s devotion to Catholicism. So the Senate has decided to prove its piety by clamping down.”
“Oh, no. What will happen to the Jews?”
“Nothing. They won’t bother the Jews, because we bring prosperity to Venice. Today’s handbills proclaim that there will be no more tolerance of blasphemy, sodomy, prostitution, or procurement. A new tribunal has been formed to enforce these bans.”
“That’s good, though, Noè,” I say in relief. “These other things are sins.”
“Have you ever been with a prostitute?” His voice is angry.
My face goes hot. “Of course not.”
“Then what do you know about them, Donato?”
“In selling their bodies they sell their souls.”
“You told me your father has not chosen you as the son to get married. Sooner or later, you’ll find yourself frequenting prostitutes, like most Venetian men.”
“I will not,” I say. “But even if I did, that wouldn’t make what the women do right.”
“Nor what the men do,” says Noè.
“I agree. There are two sins for each act. They willingly choose to sin.”
Noè puts his hands on his head in exasperation. When he takes them down, his yarmulke is off center. I realize that’s why his yarmulke is so often off center—this is his habit. Now he holds his hands out to me. “Some sins are worse than others, Donato. Some of these women choose the life of a prostitute, yes. Some are courtesans who live in luxury. But there are twelve thousand prostitutes in Venice, at the last census. Twelve thousand, in a city of one hundred thousand. That’s too many for you to believe the nonsense you just spoke. Not all of them freely choose to sell their bodies, and the vast majority live in quarters that are far from luxurious. They are simply poor and trying to make enough money so they won’t starve, so they have a bed to sleep in when the customers go home. Maybe you have never imagined that kind of misery, Donato. But I ask you to now. What would you be willing to do if you had no money?”
I have imagined misery—just such misery. And I know I would never turn to prostitution.
Still, Noè’s question disturbs me. Why does my heart harden in the face of a prostitute’s misery, when in tutorial only yesterday I was able to feel sympathy for the misery of the beggar boy who has plagued me? Jesus himself said, “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.” And certainly I am not without sin, yet my hand holds a stone.
I’m crying now. I am sad for myself. I am sad for every prostitute, every lost soul. I am so very sad.
Noè puts his hand on my back. It is warm and much too welcome for me to find the moral strength to shake it off. “That’s right, Donato. What should be done about these problems, I don’t know. But one thing is certain: Prison does not cure poverty.” He goes to his desk and works.
I look through my tears at this wonderful man who has helped me in so many ways. I love him.
I wipe my eyes and work again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
GOD AND OTHER THINGS
Yesterday I ate only one meal: the evening meal. And while I filled my plate, it wasn’t enough. Today I’ve had no food yet. At the midday mealtime, everyone else left the printer’s to post the morning handbills in the Merceria, then go home to eat, while I stayed and worked. It’s late afternoon now and the copyists have gone off again, this time to post the afternoon handbills. I’ve finished the fifth copy of the boy’s play and I’m waiting for Noè, who left a while ago on an errand. There’s nothing to keep my mind off the aching emptiness of my stomach. I feel faint.
I lean forward from my stool and let my head drop. When the wooziness passes, I walk out to the courtyard. An unfinished handbill lies on a table. That’s unlike Noè. But he disliked these afternoon handbills, too, almost as much as he disliked the morning handbills. That must be why he didn’t ask Emilio, the fastest copyist, to finish it.
At first I didn’t understand Noè’s commotion at the afternoon handbills; they were simply about a proposal to build a new Rialto bridge, out of stone this time, so it cannot burn down. But then Noè explained. The architects had gotten word early about the harsh new proclamation—and the part about clamping down on prostitution interested them especially. They gathered last night, and by today they had this proposal. The Rialto area has the most squalid brothels of all Venice. If the prostitutes are rounded up and thrown in prison, the area can be developed as a place for expensive stores.
Everyone wants to profit from any change. That’s what Noè said. They forget at whose expense their profit comes.
I fold the unfinished handbill and bring it inside to the stack of papers that cannot be used because of scribe mistakes. When
the pile is high enough, it will be sent to the papermaker, who will soak it and make new paper. I know so many things about this bookmaking industry now. This is a good industry, for nothing nourishes the whole self better than books.
I can imagine Noè’s response to that. He would say a hungry body must be fed before a hungry mind. He’s seen so many more troubles than I have. Yet even if I lived a thousand lives and each one was as a poor person, I feel sure that I’d take a book before a loaf of bread.
After all, I’m hungry now, but that hunger doesn’t shake my belief.
I laugh out loud. What a rich girl I am, through and through, that I can hold on to such lofty beliefs.
And how can I think this is hunger? All I’ve missed is a couple of meals. I’m a complete dolt.
“What’s funny, Donato?” Noè walks past me and into his workroom, giving a smile as he goes.
“Nothing worth talking about.” I follow. “Will you help me with the letter now?”
“That’s why I came back. Where is it?”
“I haven’t written it yet. I want you to write it.”
“If I write it, how can you learn?” Noè sits at his desk and takes out some work. “Write a draft and I’ll correct it, then you can write the finished letter.”
This is a better plan, I see immediately. If Noè were to write the letter, there’s the chance, no matter how slim, that someone might recognize the handwriting from some book Noè has scribed for him.
I sit down and write the letter. Short and blunt. “I’m through,” I say.
“So fast?” Noè gets up to come over. In a flash of clarity, I realize my error. I turn the paper over.
“What? Now you won’t let me see it?”
“It turned out to be easier than I’d thought.” Which is true. I don’t need Noè’s help. I must have been crazy to think I did. The letter has only two sentences in it; even if there are errors in the Latin, I’m sure it is comprehensible. And if Noè reads it, he will try to stop me.
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