The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  “Yes? I am sorry signore, but I still do not understand.”

  He chuckled, embarrassed. “Forgive me signore. It has been a most trying morning. I simply meant that it was odd that you should be inquiring about your brother’s dealings with Signore Lanzi just now when the man we grieve was Signore Lanzi’s closest associate.”

  Seventeen

  Paolo’s mind was racing, but to his great frustration, in no particular direction. His thoughts were jumbled, slivers of information peering at him from the shadows. He knew he was only seeing a small portion of the truth. He ticked off the little he knew in his mind. Ciro had been, according to his father, a frustrated glassmaker searching for a way to prove his worth to Tomaso. He had been associating with Abramo Lanzi, a trader of questionable judgment, who had gone to Alexandria and not returned. A close associate of Lanzi’s had just been found dead in a canal, the death deemed an accident, an unfortunate drowning, one of many occurring each year in Venice. Ciro had been murdered in a way suggesting he had either been doing or considering the unthinkable—revealing the secrets of Venetian glassmaking and endangering the stranglehold Venice had on that market. His death was meant as a warning to other glassmakers; a similar fate would befall anyone contemplating such a course of action. It all seemed so fantastic, the stuff of dark fables.

  Paolo took a sip of watered down wine, a new habit. It was morning and he hadn’t yet thought of food. He was rarely hungry now, knew he had to eat lest he end up like his father. He had slept little the night before, whatever rest he had coerced from the darkness frustratingly fitful. He was to meet Francesco later in the afternoon to discuss a new supplier and what Paolo’s role would be as intermediary between the two men. Paolo had been stunned by the network Francesco had established. While he had complained incessantly to Paolo—in his capacity as Canever of the Arsenale—of how the State was not in the business of doing business, but rather of picking the pockets of honest businessmen, Paolo had come to realize that the fat merchant himself displayed a flair for economic ruthlessness even the Republic could not help but admire. It all came down to volume. It was why Francesco gladly submitted to the demands of the State, and why his own suppliers did the same.

  But Paolo had the morning free, and had spent the early hours deciding what to do. He was frustrated, and felt as though he had reached a wall at the end of one of Venice’s dank alleyways, having gone as far as he could in his search for the truth. He was no investigator or spy, trained in the ways of ferreting out fact from mountains of fiction. Although he still believed he could trust no one, he knew, to move forward, he had to put his trust in someone. He simply did not understand the machinations of this place where loyalty meant nothing in the face of a more profitable opportunity. Without a sense of ordered logic with which to view the world beyond that of lucrative convenience, Paolo felt as helpless as an infant. Far too much happens in the shadows he groused. He needed someone to illuminate those dark places. Grabbing a hard crust of bread, he stepped out into the morning light and went to find Bercu.

  ***

  THE MONEYLENDER WAS just concluding a bit of business when Paolo arrived at his pawnshop. The customer seemed to be of a fine family. He wore the fashionable clothes of the nobility—embroidered doublet, a slash down the arm revealing bright blue silk. Upon closer inspection however Paolo could see that the garments were worn to a shine. The man averted his eyes as Paolo entered, not wishing to be recognized.

  “Ah, Signore Avesari, I shall be with you in a moment,” Bercu said smiling. At the mention of Paolo’s name the customer looked up, no longer attempting to conceal his identity. Clearly Paolo was someone of low birth, a regular customer, whose name was freely thrown about without discretion. Sniffing pointedly, the man left the pawnshop with mincing steps and a renewed sense of arrogance.

  Bercu frowned. “I am sorry signore. My customers often find their way to my door due to unfortunate and embarrassing circumstances. They wish to remain anonymous in their humility, their dealings free of…witnesses.”

  Paolo smiled. “I assure you, no apology is necessary. Quite the contrary, I find it entertaining to see a man strut like a peacock while brandishing tattered plumage.”

  Bercu chuckled. “I am beginning to enjoy your visits very much my friend. Now, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “Is there someplace we might speak in private?”

  “Of course, of course.” Bercu gave him a quizzical look, and turned to a small doorway behind the counter covered by a dense curtain.

  “Chaya, my dear.” His daughter emerged, wiping her hands on a cloth. She looked at Paolo, back to her father. Paolo inhaled quickly, hoping the sound was not as audible in the room as between his ears. Even the most banal of acts seemed an exquisite performance when she undertook it. He had not expected her to be there.

  “Yes Father?”

  “Would you watch the front of the shop my love while Signore Avesari and I speak in the back?”

  “Yes, of course,” she replied, casting a wary glance at Paolo. He nodded awkwardly and scanned the shop with his eyes, not knowing where else to point them.

  “Thank you my dear. Signore, please.” Bercu held the curtain open, inviting Paolo to precede him into the small back room. The space was barely large enough for the two men, a small desk, and a chair in the corner. The nub of a candle burned, the flame wavering in the curtain’s wake. Bercu sat behind the desk while Paolo took a seat.

  “How may I help you? If I may say so, I sense some seriousness in your manner.”

  “Yes,” Paolo replied, still unsure about talking to the moneylender, his conviction beginning to falter. “I wish to speak to you about my brother.”

  “Ah.” Bercu tented his fingers. “I was wondering when we would continue the conversation. Or if we would.”

  “I do so with some trepidation. Not that I do not trust you,” he quickly added.

  Bercu smiled. He knew Paolo was lying, but couldn’t blame him for it. “But why should you trust me?” While they spoke amiably with one another, they were still, in truth, strangers. “Matters such as these are very sensitive. Although I confess I am not sure how I might be of help to you, I will certainly do all that I can.”

  “Thank you.” Paolo paused a moment, his last chance to change his mind. They had spoken of Ciro’s murder once already, an impulsive gesture. Now he was making a decision to proceed, to take this man into his confidence. “You knew of my brother’s death, his… murder, shortly after it happened.”

  “Yes,” replied Bercu, sympathy in his voice. “We spoke of that earlier. As I mentioned, there are few things that escape my attention. I say this not out of hubris, but rather out of circumstance. In my position as a moneylender and merchant, it is quite necessary to be aware of the goings on. As you know, in Venice, everything that happens, in one way or another, affects business.”

  “Yes. And it is of business I wish to speak. You told me of the rumors. I was hoping you could tell me more.”

  Bercu frowned, wondering at the implication.

  “I promise I suggest nothing signore. Only that, as you say, a man in your position hears many things.”

  “I have heard the rumors, as I said, but unfortunately that is the extent of my knowledge. If one could call it that.”

  Paolo nodded. “I was told that he had been seen in the company of a trader, Abramo Lanzi. Have you perhaps come across him in your dealings?”

  The moneylender grimaced. “Oh yes. We have crossed paths on a number of occasions. Quite the upstart is Signore Lanzi, believes himself destined for greatness. Please don’t misunderstand. He seems a pleasant enough fellow, but is the type inexorably drawn to precarious dealings promising quick riches—a moth to a flame. He has been blackened by that flame more than once, such that many of my colleagues no longer accept his business.”

  Bercu could see the look of distress settling on Paolo’s face, his features becoming hard. “I fear these are things th
at you do not wish to hear. It would appear my friend that you know more than I.”

  “They only confirm what I have heard from his own colleagues, and seem to add weight to the rumors. Still, I cannot imagine my brother engaging in such reckless behavior. It is not in his nature.”

  “If true, it is more than mere recklessness. It is, the Republic would say, treason.”

  Paolo fixed a hard look on Bercu. His brother had suffered a horrific fate. It sickened him to think of the cowardly gossip that had transformed a man’s unimaginable suffering into an intrigue bandied about as entertainment at dinner parties.

  “All the more reason to consider it false.”

  “I meant no offense my friend. But if you wish to discover the truth of the matter, you must attack it with an unfeeling eye. Emotion will only cloud the mind and impair judgment. The same can be said of matters of business, with which I am all too familiar. And while I dare not compare the two, the approach must nevertheless be the same.”

  Paolo nodded. “You are right, of course. But I do not understand it!” he said with sudden exasperation. “Even if Ciro had been doing such a thing, which I still believe he was not, how could it possibly merit such an inhuman reprisal?”

  Bercu remained silent for a time, finally answering. “You must understand we now sit at the conclusion of the most disastrous period in our history, a period which nearly saw the destruction of the Republic.”

  Paolo appraised him skeptically. “Surely you exaggerate. To be sure the last ten years have been difficult, but they could not have been nearly as bad as you suggest.”

  “Had I not been immersed in the business of trade during these last dark years, I would likely share your view. After all, it was also a period when Venice had never looked more magnificent, the city’s creative genius in full flower. Masterful works of art were produced. Did you know, more books were published here than in Rome, Milan, Florence, and Naples combined? It was astounding. Masked balls held every week with the Venetian aristocracy in full strut.”

  “I am not quite sure how these observations prove your point.”

  “Has it not become clear to you by now my sheltered young Venetian?” Bercu smiled, assuring Paolo there was no mockery in the question. “When the world turns on Venice, Venice turns inward, seeking comfort and pleasure. The two are irrevocably linked. The worse things get, the more we hide from them. The Republic is much like that curious bird from Africa. We have a very long neck with which to bury our gilded head.”

  “Following the war with the Turks, we had peace, such as it was. But we gained nothing from that peace beyond an end to the bloodshed, something to be grateful for of course. But the Ottoman Empire now controls the entire coast of the Peloponnese. And did you hear, the sultan has given himself a new title? Lord of all the sea kingdoms, both of the Romans, and Asia Minor, and the Aegean. Quite a mouthful.” Bercu smiled but there was no humor in it. “And just over ten years ago, that devil da Gama rounded the Cape of Good Hope if you recall.”

  Indeed Paolo did. Vasco da Gama became the first man to travel from Europe to the Indies entirely by sea. Venice, overnight, was in a state of panic. The Mediterranean was the gateway to the East, yet now, Oriental merchants would no longer be obliged to unload their cargoes of silks and spices at Suez or Hormuz in the Persian Gulf. They would not have to carry them overland across the mountains of Persia and Asia Minor to re-embark them at Alexandria or Constantinople, Smyrna or Antioch, trusting in the plodding and uncertain camel caravans traveling across central Asia. In fact, the very same vessel upon which the goods were loaded could now deliver those goods to their final destination as well! Nor was any ship bound for England or Northern Europe required to pass through the Mediterranean. Lisbon was 2,000 sea miles closer to London than Venice. Piracy was no longer a concern. The astronomical transit dues levied by the various Oriental rulers controlling the land routes became irrelevant. And if all that were not enough, these advantages were now available at a fraction of Venetian prices. Venice had risen to her position as the world’s foremost economic power by virtue of geography. But now she stood precariously on a razor’s edge, ready to topple.

  “Yes,” said Paolo. “There was quite a stir at the Arsenale.”

  “I suspect that is an understatement.” Bercu continued with his lecture, quite animated now, having gone at least 72 hours without delivering a proper lesson.

  “You may not recall this, but I certainly do. It was also during this time that Venice’s major banks were failing—the banks of the Garzoni family and the Rizo brothers in the same month. Three months later, in May I believe it was, the bank of Lipomano closed. And the very next day, when the bank of Alvise Pisani opened, it was stormed by a mob yelling for blood and money—in alternating order. Never had I seen the Rialto in such a state of turmoil.” Bercu literally shuddered at the thought. “And of course,” he continued, “we cannot forget the defining event of those terrible times, so recently negotiated.”

  “Yes,” Paolo responded. “The League of Cambrai.” When Pope Julius II, placed on Saint Peter’s Throne in large part through the advocacy of Venice itself, had turned against his patron and tried to destroy the Republic by allying the Papacy with the Austrian Empire and the King of France.

  “Such is Italy,” mused Bercu, “to invite foreign powers into the country to settle a domestic dispute.”

  Venice had become too powerful. It was an empire unto itself. If she would not be content to exist as a mere city, then she would not exist at all. The Pope excommunicated the Republic, encouraging any other state or person to attack or despoil her or any of her subjects, to obstruct her traffic on land or sea, and to do her all possible harm and hurt. Paolo knew the words by heart, as did most Venetians. Such venom in those words, it was still difficult to believe.

  “And even more Italian still,” continued Bercu, “was for the Pope to then refuse everything he had promised his new allies once the Republic capitulated.” Bercu chuckled. “And then justifying the action by proclaiming his wish to repel foreign invaders from Italy. The very invaders he himself brought in. The sheer audacity of it all.” The moneylender shook his head and Paolo wondered whether the action was one of shock or admiration.

  “The reason for the history lesson my friend is this: the Republic desperately needs every advantage she still maintains. While we have yet to know the full ramifications of da Gama’s voyage or when Julius will once again turn his ire on us, what we do know is that the Republic is floundering, and desperate men will do desperate things in times of great need.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying,” he responded with care, “that the Republic’s virtual monopoly on glassmaking is no mere trifle. There are men who would stop at nothing to protect it. We are balanced at the edge of a precipice my friend. The spice trade is mired in uncertainty, could collapse altogether, and Julius—should his vengeful inclinations be roused once more—will have no need of foreign allies to destroy us.”

  ***

  “AH, THERE YOU are Canever.” The wine merchant looked up as Paolo entered the room, placing his large hands on the desk. Various ledgers stood open, carpeting the smooth surface with a mosaic of crisp lines and twisted scribbles. Although it was midday, he was not eating. In fact, Paolo had never actually seen the man consume anything and found himself wondering how the merchant had gotten so large.

  Francesco waved a hand at the ledgers. “You should be glad Canever that I did not hire you to look after these infernal things. Fra Pacioli is no friend of mine I assure you.” He smiled. “I see you do not recognize the name. Just as well for you. The double-entry accounting system is what he calls it. Debits and credits. I have a copy of the great work, the Summa de Arithmetica, Geometria, Proportioni et Proportionalità, printed right here in our fair city. If ever you find yourself in desperate need of sleep.”

  Paolo winced at the scattered ledgers.

  “Yes! My sentiments exactly Canever.�
�� Francesco tapped his temple. “It is all up here. What do I need of ledgers and journals?” He sighed. “But Francesco is not as young as he once was, so…” The big man sighed. “He at least had the decency to write the book in the local tongue rather than Latin. Do you know of that Tuscan fellow da Vinci?”

  Paolo did. “Most definitely. He is very well regarded at the Arsenale.”

  “Ah yes, I imagine he is. A kindred spirit to those wizards at the great shipyard. But what of this flying machine he imagines, the aerial screw?” Francesco smiled. “Would that not pose a threat to the ship builders?” He waved away the question. “Anyhow, this Franciscan friar Pacioli taught da Vinci his mathematics. If he is half as adept at mathematics as he seems to be at bookkeeping, perhaps we will all soon be floating about above the earth, conducting our business like angels.”

  Francesco let out a bark of laughter. “Ha! Venetian angels. If ever two things did not go together. Now that is something I would like to see.” Paolo smiled dutifully. “Interesting that he should be a friar, no? God and money, the twin evils of the Republic some would say.” The merchant cocked his head toward Paolo. “Do you know that he warns that a person should not go to sleep at night until the debits equal the credits? If only that were all I had to contend with during those dark hours Canever. Then I should be a very content man. But let us no longer speak of the good friar.” Francesco pushed the ledgers away. He folded his hands and looked up at Paolo, who was still standing.

  “Canever, why are you still standing? Sit.” He motioned Paolo to a chair in front of the desk. “So.”

  Paolo looked expectantly at Francesco, prompting him when it became apparent he was not going to speak. “You wanted to discuss the new supplier.”

  Francesco seemed puzzled, waved it away with the now familiar gesture. “Yes, yes. But no, that can wait. Another of the flock that will require your expert tending to be sure, but we can speak of it later. There is something else I would discuss with you.” The merchant became uncharacteristically serious. Paolo hadn’t realized Francesco were capable of such a thing. The atmosphere in the office became heavy and close, an odd sensation to feel so confined in such an expansive space.