He knew that his father had not been in the shop since the murder and so approached the small door next to the workshop’s entrance. Paolo stared at the two side by side, the metaphor plain. The two doorways told the story of his father well—one overwhelming, the other unassuming. The shop, the business was everything, his dream and legacy. His home, while still of value, seemed to occupy a much smaller space in his heart. Paolo knocked, a tentative sound, echoing his own desire to be elsewhere. He heard movement inside, moving away from the door. He knocked again, harder. “Father, it is Paolo. Please, open the door.” The shuffling paused, changed direction.
Tomaso opened the door slowly, shielding his eyes and squinting into the sharp light. It creaked on its hinges. In all his days in that house, Paolo had never once heard the door make a noise, his father always insisting the hinges be greased with animal fat.
“Paolo? Is that you?”
Paolo was stunned. His father seemed to have aged once more, ten years in a matter of days, his shrunken form even more decrepit than when he had last seen him. His skin, spotted and nearly translucent, was drawn tight over his skull. And again, just as before, Paolo felt his anger drain away. He knew it wasn’t right. His father had been the cause of so much pain, his frailty now could not wash away the suffering of all those years. But all he felt was pity. Pity for what his father had become, and sorrow for what all of their lives had become.
“Father,” Paolo said softly, as though speaking too loudly could do Tomaso harm. “May I come in?”
Tomaso hesitated before stepping aside. Paolo walked past him into the murky vestibule, stopped, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. “I…have not had a chance to clean,” said his father.
The house, neat and tidy for as long as Paolo could remember, was a wreck. It was as though the canal had risen to flood the house and then receded, leaving every manner of refuse floating in its waters behind. The smell was unbearable. “Father…”
Embarrassed but not wishing to acknowledge it in front of his son, Tomaso roused himself. “Come, I have not been outside today,” he said hurriedly, pushing Paolo back toward the door. “We can talk as we stroll.”
What an odd thing to say thought Paolo. He could not imagine anything he wished to do less than take a leisurely stroll. Still, he allowed himself to be maneuvered out the door. After all that had happened, he knew he didn’t have the strength to sit in the house where he had grown up, to see it in such a state. He wondered if the decline had begun after his mother’s death or Ciro’s. He suspected it was recent since Ciro had never mentioned it to him, although he was coming to learn that his older brother had apparently kept much from their conversations. His father had had such grand plans for the family, and it had all come to this. He felt on the verge of weeping.
Tomaso didn’t notice Paolo’s expression, anxious as he was to get him away from the house. “Come, come, let us walk along the canal.”
Paolo took in the scene, was struck by the pleasantness around him. The warm sun, the soft gurgle of the canal, an interior artery and thus much smaller than Murano’s main channel. A strong leap could put a man halfway across. A dog lay sleeping in the sun beneath a window box filled to bursting with fragrant violets. How safe and lovely a place the world seemed. He wished with all his heart that he could go back to being ignorant of what lay just beneath that sunlit surface. We are, all of us, suspended by a thread.
Tomaso said nothing, was content to walk in silence. “Father,” Paolo began, “I went to the Campo San Bartolomeo yesterday. I spoke with a man, a Signore de Mezzo. Do you know him?” Still Tomaso remained silent, an imperceptible shake of his head the only response. Paolo noticed how fragile he seemed, his skull looking no thicker than an eggshell. “He knew Ciro,” he continued, “and knew him to frequent the square on behalf of the business.” Tomaso looked at Paolo, a moment’s confusion, nodded again.
“Yes,” he mumbled. “The traders.” Paolo waited for him to continue but he merely resumed his silent shuffling.
“This de Mezzo mentioned one man in particular with whom Ciro seemed to have spent much of his time, a Signore Lanzi, Abramo Lanzi. Do you know the name?”
“No.”
“Quite the risk taker apparently, this Lanzi.” He was about to continue when he realized that his father was crying. Tomaso tried to keep it silent, but couldn’t. His shoulders quivered with the effort and he hunched forward as though trying to fold his body in on itself and envelop his despair.
They had reached a small open area where the crush of buildings abruptly ended, replaced instead with a few small cypress trees and finely crafted benches. Vibrantly hued butterflies flitted among the trees, propelling themselves with the peculiar jerking movements Paolo always found so contrary to their beauty. He led Tomaso to the nearest bench, helped him sit, alarmed that his hand nearly went all the way around his father’s arm.
Tomaso took several deep breaths, wiped away his tears. “I am sorry Paolo.”
“You need not apologize Father. I miss him very much as well.”
Tomaso shook his head, slowly at first, then with increasing ardor. “No, you do not understand. This is my fault. It is all my fault.”
“Father, surely, you take too much upon…”
“No!” Tomaso’s eyes blazed for a moment and just as quickly dulled, a fire suddenly extinguished. “No my son,” he said softly. “I brought this upon him as if I had wielded the knife myself.” This time Paolo didn’t speak. Passersby glanced at the two men on the bench, averting their eyes when Paolo looked back.
Tomaso sighed. “He was always under too much pressure.” Paolo waited, knew it was not the time to mention the immense pressure Tomaso had placed on him as well. He wondered cynically if one had to die for the man to acknowledge his mistakes.
“He knew you were the gifted one, and suspected that I was disappointed, being left with him alone, once you…chose your own path.” The distaste in his father’s voice was clear, Paolo realizing that Tomaso didn’t just blame himself for Ciro’s death, but Paolo as well. “He would never be the glassmaker you would have been, we both knew that, and so he tried to make up for it in other ways. I thought that by appointing him Fattori I could relieve some of that pressure, but it only seemed to intensify. It became a way for him to heap even more anxiety upon himself. I fear he took chances he should not have, hoping that one day he would strike a deal that would take the business farther than you, or I, ever could.”
Paolo struggled to accept the line of reasoning, wished it away, but knew it very well could be true. He tried to detach himself from his own anger. There would be time for that later. “But Father, what you are suggesting was not in Ciro’s nature.” It was absurd, his very argument proving the point. Ciro could not even find the strength to challenge his own father, let alone defy authority on the scale that Tomaso was suggesting.
“It is one thing to eagerly ferret out a deal lucrative enough to bring greater prestige to the family, and quite another to defy the laws of the State. Surely you see that.”
Tomaso gave his son a sharp look. Paolo was finding it difficult to not challenge his father, even now. He wondered if his resentment would ever subside.
“What other explanation is there? And what of this Signore Lanzi of whom you speak? A risk taker you said. Could he not have led Ciro to his death through his reckless enterprising?”
Paolo was silent. He had no answer. While he was convinced of his brother’s inability to take part in such schemes, he had no alternative explanation. And the manner in which he was killed pointed clearly in the direction of his father’s suspicions. He needed more information.
Paolo slumped against the back of the bench. A butterfly settled lightly on his leg, blue and orange, raising and lowering its wings as though testing their efficacy. Such a delicate thing Paolo thought. He could tear the insect’s wing from its body with the barest of efforts. We are all but a moment from ruin. The butterfly flew off hastily as
though it suspected what had been playing through Paolo’s mind.
Fifteen
Cencio da Riva was drunk. He had not intended on becoming so, but the lithesome young servant girl only seemed to venture his way when his glass was empty. The sight of her graceful limbs, and all the ways in which he imagined himself to be tangled up in them, served as far better entertainment than the talentless troupe of actors his noble host had hired for the evening. And so, to continue enjoying the supple curve of her breast and her perfectly heart-shaped bottom, he was forced to drink glass after glass of wine until he felt as if his eyeballs were filled with juice like two bulging dolcetto grapes. A sacrifice to be sure, but what could one do?
Such a circus! This young noble, Alessandro Bonifati, whose family had not been heard from for some time, collected guests like a menagerie. The content or quality of the entertainment did not seem to interest him, only that he had at least one of each type of guest present so as to have an impressive assortment on hand. Actors (no matter that they were terrible), publishers, politicians, musicians, merchants, and of course, at least one or two lovely courtesans (of the honest variety). Interesting though, since da Riva had heard that the Bonifati star had been descending precipitously in recent years. In addition to falling victim to some very murky investments and a 10,000 ducat fine for some vaguely described “political misconduct” (as if one would even expect such a charge to exist in Venice), the elder Bonifati had once been one of the three Avogadori del Comun, constitutional authorities who had lost power just as the Council of Ten was acquiring it.
He wondered then how this noble, whose family name was half submerged and still sinking beneath the aristocratic waters of the Republic, managed to maintain the family palazzo, threadbare though the furnishings were, on the Grand Canal and suddenly host such a lavish, if ill-conceived, gathering.
The lovely servant girl was once more headed in his direction he noticed, and indeed he had an empty glass. Amazingly, the ravishing creature seemed to divine this fact before he did himself as if he were the only guest she was attending. Was that a mischievous smile playing across her lips, so enticingly shaped like Cupid’s bow? And why was he wasting these precious moments speculating on vexing questions about unsavory nobles when he should instead be exercising his imagination as to the many pleasures he was sure to enjoy later with the pretty young thing now approaching?
***
MERDA! THESE ACTORS were awful. Alessandro Bonifati rubbed his temples as the troupe droned on. Would this cursed evening never end? He quickly cautioned himself to check his mood, and his tongue. That is why he took no wine this evening. There was too much at stake. In truth he was grateful, and quite fortunate to find himself the host of this little party, annoying as it was. Tonight was the first step in reclaiming his rightful place in Venetian society. Normally he would revel in such a gathering, but it was the first such event since the start of the long decline his family had suffered. Those he had counted among his friends and allies in the nobility had deserted his family at the first signs of difficulty, and yet here they all were, enjoying his hospitality as though nothing had happened. He hadn’t realized how very sordid the nobles could be until he was no longer one of them. And yet, and yet. He would do anything to find himself once more among their ranks.
The powerful gentleman had offered him a chance at redemption, one he could not refuse. And for quite a small price he had to admit. Gabriele he called himself, no surname. How mysterious! The fact that he was required to do anything at all however was a crime. His father had brought the family to the brink of ruin with his schemes. But it wasn’t the acts themselves that enraged Alessandro. After all, every man had the right to try and make his family a little richer, a little more indispensable to the Republic in the eyes of those in power. No, it was not the acts themselves; it was the clumsiness with which his father had carried them out. It was disgraceful, and they had all, he and his mother and two sisters, nearly paid the ultimate price. Well, it was up to him now. His father was dead these three years and could thankfully no longer cause any mischief for the family.
Alessandro scanned the room. The acting troupe, thank heaven, had concluded their most recent mutilation of a Roman farce and were taking some wine. With any luck the loss of their faculties would improve the performance. A light breeze was blowing in off the canal, stirring the candlelight. Shadows danced upon the walls like revelers from the Carnevale. A lovely courtesan entertained a small group of politicians with her mastery of language and literature. Their eyes sparkled like glass in the candlelight, whether enraptured by her wit or her barely contained breasts Alessandro could not tell. A knot of traders huddled in the corner, plotting the latest in an endless stream of schemes to accumulate ducats. It truly was Venice in miniature, the endless pursuit of pleasure, power, and wealth.
Ah, and then there was the true business of the evening. Alessandro spied the luscious little servant girl refilling the merchant’s glass yet again. How could the man still be conscious? He would make sure to have a word with her. Alessandro could not have him falling asleep. The gentleman was quite clear. The merchant must leave the palazzo on his own. Oh but she was a natural, that little vixen. At this point the poor man would bark like a dog if she had asked him.
Very soon the evening would be over and Alessandro would get his reward, a rather generous reward he had to admit given the simple thing he had been asked to do. Yes, but it had been much less generous at the outset hadn’t it? He had made the bargain so much sweeter by negotiation, a skill his father had never been able to master. After tonight, the Bonifati name would once more begin its ascension and would climb higher than his father had ever dared dream.
The gentleman had offered him a position as a staff member of the Pien Collegio. Not a member of the Collegio mind you, but rather a committee secretary or archivist. It was an insult. While the Bonifati name no longer played upon the lips of the most powerful men of the Republic, it was still a noble name. Such positions belonged to the Venetian middle class used to augment the bureaucracy. True, a nobleman would only hold his position for six months or a year while a lower bureaucrat could serve in the same office for decades, quietly building his fortune, but there was nothing to be done about it. Alessandro would serve the Republic in a role befitting his ancestry or the gentleman could find help elsewhere.
But there were too few positions protested his new patron. Counting the Collegio, the Council of Ten, the five resident ambassadors, the governors of leading cities and islands, the members of a few principle Senate committees, and a handful of naval officers, there were but sixty key positions filled by noblemen in all the republic, with perhaps an additional 40 or so in flux due to pending retirement or other transitory circumstances. And there were nearly 2,500 noblemen of office holding age—most of whom had not been disgraced, the gentleman was gracious enough to point out. Bristling at the man’s insolence, Alessandro responded curtly, saying the ambassadorship of Madrid would be quite agreeable. The gentleman had laughed then, a screeching sound like some nocturnal raptor, that chilled Alessandro’s blood. It was a sound he never wished to hear again. He had gone too far he realized, asked for too much. Perhaps he wasn’t so unlike his father after all. He hoped for the sake of his family that the bargain was salvageable. It was, of course, and in the end, they settled on a ministerial position in Turin. Not quite as grand as he had hoped, but respectable nonetheless. All had been forgiven. After all, this was Venice, and the gentleman would have been disappointed had Alessandro not vied for the most prestigious position for himself. It only reinforced the fact that he had truly chosen the best man for the job.
“Your father could have learned a thing or two from you,” Gabriele said. Alessandro, unable to suppress a knowing smile, most definitely agreed.
***
THE GIRL WAS gone. Curse it! He had endured the evening—and yes, endured was indeed the proper word for it—only for the promise of what surely awaited him after
ward. All evening she was never more than a glance away, and now nowhere to be found. So like a woman. Ah well, he thought philosophically, swapping profound disappointment for sober resignation as only a man truly in the drink could do. It was just as well. It would certainly do his reputation no good if he were to arrive at the beautiful moment and be unable to perform due to an excess of wine. No, better to let the memory of him and lost opportunity linger with her until her blood boiled with desire. He had no doubt that there would be other chances to bed the girl in the future, especially now that this Bonifati fellow seemed to be on the rise once more. And the next time, he assured himself, she would perform no such disappearing trick. As a soon-to-be prosperous trader, he was far too tempting a prize for her to pass up twice. He grunted. And if that rogue Lanzi ever returned from Alexandria, that prosperity would be closer than ever.
He thanked his host for a memorable evening and paid his respects to the remaining guests. Bonifati had smiled warmly at him, thanking him for attending, and wishing him a most pleasant evening, which in truth was now early morning. Would he be all right getting home? Did he perhaps require a gondola? Thank you, a generous offer, but no. It had been a moonless night, but the way was bright here along the Grand Canal. How like a string of jewels the palazzos looked, blazing with a thousand pinpricks of light on the opposite bank. Boats tethered to their mooring poles bobbed in the water, their lanterns leisurely swaying back and forth.
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