The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  Bercu had made a considerable effort to understand the Venetian culture and way of life, and had actually come to appreciate it in his own way. Otherwise, how could he hope to become a trusted partner in business and the community? Chaya never understood this. Chaya wanted justice, as if she knew what that meant. Bercu loved her more than life, but she was a child in so many ways. What she had never been able to grasp, what Bercu to his dismay had never been able to teach her (at least not yet), was that justice could be achieved in many ways. So he had finally given up trying to convince her. No, they were not Venetians. Yes, they were persecuted. But the persecution here in Venice paled in comparison to elsewhere in the world. Sometimes one had to choose the lesser of the evils at hand. Bercu saw the world through eyes that had seen far too much, in shades of grey where Chaya saw only black and white. Lesser? Greater? Evil was evil according to Chaya. She wanted to fight every battle rather than choose those that truly mattered. There would never be compromise with Chaya, the unfortunate result of overprotection Bercu acknowledged. Still, he would have done nothing differently. He told himself that she would understand in time, once she had had the benefit of his experience, but knew in his heart that he was wrong. Chaya would never acquiesce with her principles at stake, would always fight, no matter how much she would see or how long she would live. It was what he most loved about her.

  “Please forgive Chaya,” Bercu said amiably. “We are apparently born knowing everything, and only forget as we age.” Chaya rolled her eyes again, this obviously a well-trod path of discussion.

  “Life will teach you my daughter whether you wish it or not.” Despite the girl’s obvious distaste for his approach to things, Bercu’s manner never strayed from one of love and indulgence. “The only question is whether you will choose to learn.”

  Chaya blew a stray hair from her forehead in exasperation, and Paolo felt the attraction again—unwanted, inescapable.

  The food arrived. It was delicious, the peasant fisherman’s daily bread as art. They ate in silence, savoring the meal, Paolo glancing up occasionally at his unlikely dining companions. Chaya too seemed wary of the arrangement. Only Bercu seemed obliviously content.

  “I must confess,” Paolo said, breaking the silence and looking at Bercu, “I am once more at a loss as to why I find myself in your generous company.”

  Bercu put down his fork, slowly dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. “You are just as suspicious as lovely Chaya. I do much business with Francesco. As you are his agent, it is likely that I will in turn do much business with you. I have found it advantageous to know the character of the men with whom I do business prior to engaging in such important matters.”

  “I sincerely hope my friend,” Bercu continued after a pause, “that my explanation has satisfied your curiosity. It is the only one I have to offer.”

  “But surely you do not spend so much time with each and every agent with whom you have dealings. You would never have time for business.”

  Bercu laughed. “Like a dog with a bone you are. But yes, you are correct. I admit, your family’s renown, your odd association with Francesco and yes, I am somewhat embarrassed to say, the murder of your brother, all engaged my curiosity.”

  Paolo believed him, saw that he was indeed embarrassed. He suspected it was not something that occurred often. “I appreciate your candor. And no matter the reason, I also appreciate your hospitality.” He continued, eager for a change of topic. “So, what kind of business do you have with Francesco? I confess he has told me very little of your dealings.”

  Chaya exhaled loudly. It was clear what she thought of Francesco.

  “I rather think that he should be the one to tell you that. You are his man after all, and I would not like to presume.” Paolo bristled again at the reference.

  “Perhaps then,” he countered, “you could enlighten me as to what you do. Generally speaking, of course.”

  “Well,” he began, “at the moment, our most important function, and mine in particular, is to provide capital for the Republic’s commerce in the Mediterranean.”

  “And fund the ceaseless and costly wars to keep their precious trade routes open,” Chaya added contemptuously.

  “And that,” Bercu agreed amiably.

  “At least for today,” continued Chaya. “Tomorrow who knows? We may very well be thrown out, set upon by dogs, or accused of hideous atrocities by then. Whichever way the breeze may be blowing.” Chaya wiggled her fingers, pantomiming wind.

  “Chaya, please. No politics at the table. Especially at this table.”

  “On the contrary Father, at what better table to discuss politics than this one? We are entertaining a genuine oppressor.”

  Paolo was amazed at the difference between the woman who had demurely called his name outside her home and the one before him now. The transformative power of conviction he supposed. Had he ever had such resolve? Only when breaking from his father, but that had been different. As a family of artisans, they had lived a relatively privileged life. Nothing like that of a noble family of course, but comfortable enough. When he had railed against the hypocrisy of Venice in its dealings with the glassblowers, it was not out of any higher calling, but rather a lower one—simply to shame his father. Despite the insult from Chaya, he found her passion alluring.

  “Chaya!”

  “No, please, sir.” Paolo held up a hand. “Forgive me, but I am unaware of your plight.”

  “Ignaro.”

  “Chaya.” This time Bercu’s voice rumbled with a menace he made no effort to conceal.

  Paolo smiled. This girl was beautiful and had a strength of spirit to be admired. He may not agree with her politics, but was embarrassed to find himself wishing that he had such passion.

  “Please Chaya. I am sorry I am not more familiar with your circumstances. I would very much appreciate it if you would enlighten me.”

  She clearly did not trust his words. She glanced at her father, but he remained silent. “We Jews and Venice have had an interesting relationship over the course of the last two hundred years,” she began. Interesting was a word her father would have used to describe the events since the early fourteenth century. It was unlike her to use such gentle terms.

  “Venetians see what they wish to see, and what they wish to see when they look at Jews is a people obsessed by greed and the accumulation of wealth, when of course they need look no further for that than the wondrous looking glass your father creates on Murano. Jews are not attracted to moneylending out of the greed of which we are so often accused. Nor does it supplant the ‘higher’ callings of art and other intellectual pursuits. The Great Republic,” she said with a sneer, “has made it impossible for Jews to do anything but moneylending.”

  Paolo knew that the State put certain restrictions on the occupational pursuits of the Jews, but he had to admit that he was not aware of the extent of those restrictions. He sensed however that it was not a good time to give voice to his ignorance. He popped a sardine into his mouth.

  “Jews are banned from the arts and the trades, forbidden to hold public office or perform military service, excluded from professional pursuits, and denied the privilege of owning land.” Her eyes never left his, willing him to challenge her. “There is nothing left but usury.”

  “And medicine,” Bercu reminded her.

  “Oh yes, medicine,” her tone mocking. “We are allowed to take care of them when they are ill.”

  “Of course usury is strictly forbidden for religious reasons.” Chaya smiled at the irony, Paolo noting her perfect teeth. “But,” she continued, “following the war with Genoa and various conflicts with Chioggia, the economy of La Serenissima,” again the scorn, “was in a shambles. Normal instruments of credit were inadequate. And moneylenders were the saviors of Venice. And as always, God was put away to be drawn out at a later date when His divine retribution was convenient and would add to the Republic’s coffers.”

  “I had no idea,” Paolo responded, rathe
r lamely he thought. It was true however, he didn’t know, although he also didn’t know whether Chaya was stretching the truth, exaggerating small injustices. No government was perfect.

  “Chaya is a great student of history, among other things.” Bercu smiled at his daughter. Despite their differences, he was clearly proud of the fact that she had chosen to ignore society’s role for her. Chaya flushed, quickly regained her defiant composure as though holding her place in the conversation with a finger.

  “One would naturally think then that the Jews would be regarded as heroes of a sort for saving the State. But no. During the countless fits of religious revivalism over the years, the church and its followers would rail against usury as the source of eternal evil and the Jews would again be subject to violent attacks. The fact that we were strictly prohibited from doing anything except lending money was a small detail perpetually overlooked.”

  “What sorts of attacks?” asked Paolo.

  Chaya considered the question for a moment. “I will give you an example. In 1475, on the evening of Holy Thursday, a little boy named Simone disappeared. This was in Trent. And before the sun had set, the local Jews were accused of kidnapping and ritual murder. They were tortured and they died.” Chaya stopped, swallowing her anger. These were no theatrics, Paolo could see. There was true rage there.

  “Eventually the true murderer was found. There had been no ritual. He was not a Jew. And yet Catholics still tell stories to their children of Jews that kidnap little boys and girls and drink their blood.”

  Blood libel. Paolo knew of it, but never believed it himself. It was simply too gruesome to be real, although after what had happened to Ciro, such reasoning no longer held. “That was over 30 years ago,” Paolo said. “Surely…”

  “Very little has changed,” Chaya finished for him.

  “The truth is,” Bercu interjected, “that we do not know from one day to the next how the Republic will feel about us. We have been expelled from Venice on numerous occasions, treated like enemies, only to have the edict later revoked when our particular talents are required. It is not a way of life which,” Bercu glanced over to his daughter who seemed far away, “we can…embrace.” He smiled ruefully. “It is however the life we are apparently fated to live, and so we must do what we can.”

  “I’m sorry. I did not know.”

  “Ah,” Bercu waved away Paolo’s apology. “It is not for you to be sorry. We serve a purpose you see. The alliance between the Republic and its citizens has been an uneasy one. Popular hostility has historically been directed at the State, however the Jews have proved to be able deflectors of that anger. We seem to efficiently absorb the resentment reserved for our rulers and are thus…valued by them.” A sardonic smile graced his lips. “And so.” There seemed little need to complete the thought.

  “But,” he brightened, “we do perform an essential role in maintaining Venice’s position as the finest trading partner in the world. No other group has been more instrumental in the opening of new trading possibilities, especially with the Ottoman Empire. And,” Bercu raised a finger, “the widespread availability of credit brought by the Jews has also lessened poverty throughout the Republic to a great degree. While we will never be acknowledged for this, we can still be proud of it.”

  “No good deed goes unpunished,” mumbled Chaya.

  “Some say that Jews are too aggressive in business,” Paolo countered, playing the other side. He didn’t like the idea of believing things that were not true, of being duped. He wasn’t quite ready to let go of what had passed for truth for so long. Too many of his illusions had been shattered already.

  “Yes, many do indeed say this. The State places a heavy tax burden on Jews, far more than any other group. To be, as you say, aggressive in business, is the only way we can meet such a burden.” Bercu smiled wearily. It was a funny thing, to feel something so desperately in the marrow of your bones and yet be unable to make another understand. He doubted that Paolo would ever grasp it, and Bercu had no such expectation. They were from two different worlds, only occupying the same space. The words he spoke to Paolo were just that, words to a young man, but to Bercu each word represented a real moment in time, moments when strung together formed a life lived in fear and uncertainty.

  They were trapped Paolo realized, and he was beginning to feel a little of that himself, as though he were being slowly maneuvered into a dark corner. Nothing too obvious however, just a notion, like a faint breath on the back of one’s neck but no one there when you turn.

  “My friend Yosef,” Bercu said, “he runs a pawnshop, as do I. The only manner of business we are permitted outside of moneylending. His pawnshop, all pawnshops, must be located in a street not too central or busy. This is so noblemen might feel more comfortable about entering to do business with us.”

  Chaya was watching her father now, a curious look on her lovely features. Paolo sensed that Bercu was a man who rarely let those he loved witness his troubles, making light of his burden even as it slowly crushed him. He could feel the sadness of the man.

  “We serve a noble purpose,” he said, “yet we are not allowed to exist.”

  Eleven

  The stench of the canal was suffocating and only darkened Francesco’s already bitter mood, the rot he smelled making him think of what he was doing. How very maudlin. He was a man of the world on the brink of history and had no time for such foolishness. He would leave right and wrong to the philosopher poets who endlessly debated the soul of man while gnawing on their metaphysical riddles, their denial of power stemming not from their fount of intellectual and moral superiority but rather from their lack of courage to claim it.

  “Shall we get this over with? I have business to attend to.”

  Business? At this time of night? The voice chilled his blood as it always did. The man could have said ‘What a lovely day’ and Francesco would have shivered all the same. The night was dark and the man spoke from the shadow of a sagging palazzo. He was invisible, black on black, and Francesco wondered whether this was by design, the man cultivating an air of malevolence. The good humor with which Francesco usually conducted his affairs shriveled under the frost of his disposition.

  “Report.”

  Francesco didn’t respond immediately, heard the impatient sigh.

  “The father. What is happening with him?”

  “The father is as good as dead. The man is broken, a ghost. There has been no contact since the first time, and he wanders about like a lost child. He has not set foot in his workshop since the murder. I cannot fathom how he survives.”

  “He went to the church. Why?”

  How did he know about the church? It seemed the watcher was being watched. Francesco hoped he could hide the surprise in his voice. “That I do not know, but when he left he appeared even more desolate than when he entered.”

  “Good. And what of your…new employee?”

  “I am keeping him busy with meaningless errands,” Francesco answered with no small amount of pride. Despite his distaste for this man, he reluctantly acknowledged that he still strove to please him. “He seems to be a man of little conviction, in a way as lost as his father. He will give us no trouble. He is more than happy to leave this to the council.”

  “Fortunately,” the shadow said, “the only man in that family is already dead.” He smiled in the gloom and Francesco at last saw a small piece of him, wishing to God that he hadn’t.

  ***

  HE SIGHED, MASSAGED his temples. He could see nothing, the night impenetrable. He had been invisible to Francesco, the fat merchant speaking to his left shoulder instead of his face. Invisible. He had to stay that way until this was finished. And when it was, when Venice lay in ruin, its gluttonous aristocracy wandering about glassy-eyed in its tattered finery wondering what had happened, perhaps he would emerge from the shadows to show them the face of their destruction.

  In fact, he had been invisible for as long as he could remember, his once proud family banished i
nto obscurity, wandering the city they had served like shadowy wraiths. Oh it hadn’t been anything overt. No, Venetians are only conspicuous in their consumption. When it comes to the more delicate task of destroying lives, they are much more subtle. A well placed word here, a publically witnessed slight there, and the effect was as devastating as a denunciation in the Piazza San Marco. Why be reminded of your failings when it was so much easier to erase them? His grandfather had been murdered at Constantinople, defending the city against the heathen Turks. He was butchered, skewered like a boar, waiting for Venice to send reinforcements while the senators wrung their hands like old women.

  He still remembered the stories, would never forget the tales of those darks days when the emperor sent warning to the rest of Christendom that the relentless, insatiable Turks were coming. Constantine had begged, had pleaded for Venice to save the Empire. For eight months they waited, waited for help that would never come.

  And his grandfather died, impaled like an insect on a pin, scanning the horizon for Venetian sails that would never leave the lagoon. But rather than honor his grandfather’s sacrifice, Venice thought it better to act as though his family had never existed.

  His father had never recovered from the humiliation, had become angry, always angry. But rather than hate Venice as he should have, he took the coward’s way out and turned his anger on his family. His mother and sister had crumbled under the abuse. He could not bear to see the fear in their eyes, but even worse, the confusion, like that of a trusting animal suddenly beaten by an owner who had only ever been kind. But he wouldn’t succumb. He absorbed the anger, fed on it until he was filled with enough hate to end his father’s own pain forever. It had been a merciful act, murdering the man he had once loved.

  Venice would soon be dead, murdered the way the Republic had murdered his father and his father before him, only She didn’t know it yet, and he had no intention of sacrificing himself as his foolish grandfather had for a corrupt cancer that cared nothing for him.