The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  Twenty Two

  Paolo heard the commotion from the alley—yells, crashing furniture. What had his father done? This was no verbal diversion. He had meant to do this all along. Merda! He should have known. His father would go to prison, or worse. Paolo never should have agreed to this. He hesitated, caught between two minds. He couldn’t go back he knew, but how could he simply ignore what was happening? The crazy old man. In one way or another he knew he was witnessing the end of his father’s life. He shook his head angrily, banishing the emotion he knew he couldn’t afford, and grimly made his way down the alley.

  Emerging back out along the canal several houses down, Paolo peered around the corner. He could still hear the clamor, though fainter now. Two men, laborers from the look of them, were rushing to the sounds to see what was happening. He cursed again, imagining the scene at his father’s house, three huge guards and one shriveled old man. Fairly even odds knowing Tomaso. His father could indeed think like a fox. He recalled the look in Tomaso’s eyes; they had suddenly come into focus, as though all his remaining energy was being gathered, directed toward this final task. Paolo knew he couldn’t mourn now. He needed to think. He had lived a solitary existence since the break from his family. He had always been on his own, but not until now did he truly feel alone.

  Grey clouds, piled one on top of another, rolled across the sky. Paolo was exhausted. Despite all that happened already, it was still early in the day. A chill wind whistled down the narrow canal, churning up small whitecaps on the water. The air was fragrant with the smell of rain. Paolo scanned the expanse of his childhood home, the wind raising gooseflesh on his arms. He imagined the dull, icy sheet of the lagoon beyond. He headed back the way they had come—just an hour ago but already a different life.

  He hadn’t been back to Murano in years and was surprised that when he had first returned his memory of the place was perfectly intact, despite his efforts to forget it. The puzzle of streets and alleys, the crevices and corners; he could see them clearly in his mind. He followed that map now, twisting and turning along a chaotic route, hoping to lose any pursuers although he suspected he had none. He emerged at the water’s edge. The wind had whipped up the waters of the lagoon to an angry chop. The clouds looked darker now, lower and denser as though their blackness were weighing them down, pulling them into the sea. The surrounding islands of the lagoon were retreating into the gloom. Venice seemed to stand alone, looming on the near horizon, a floating den of lions. Paolo, standing at Murano’s edge, realized he had nowhere to go.

  ***

  THE TRIP BACK across the lagoon was agony, Paolo’s mind twisting and tumbling like a fever dream as he imagined what his father was enduring, what he would endure in prison. Paolo had panicked when the reality of his escape had taken told. Standing at the water’s edge, his adrenaline finally ebbing, he had imagined the whole of Murano on his heels, hidden eyes at his back only to disappear when he turned, hundreds of tongues exposing his flight to the council.

  He hired a man to take him back. It was madness to return to Venice after what he had just done, but where was he to go? It began to rain. He sat in the skiff, crouched like an animal, ready to spring at the first sign of discovery—to where he did not know; death beneath the slate surface of the lagoon perhaps. Did it matter? He was an enemy of the State now. He pulled his coat tighter, the wind seeming to absorb the energy of the churning water and hurl it at the skiff.

  He looked closely at the man piloting the small boat. Could he sense Paolo’s fear? His face bore the grooves of wind and water, deep lines dividing his features like a butcher might a side of pork. He took no notice of the weather—nor of his passenger— Paolo was relieved to note. His fear had been irrational he knew. No one yet knew of his arrest. The council would not have made the matter public until he was safely in custody to be displayed, a symbol of The Ten’s omnipotence. So he had some time, but precious little of it.

  He had to think. He could not return to his home. While they still believed he was safely in custody, that belief would not last until sunset. They would go to his home. They would go to Francesco. For all his bluster about the serpent-tongued bureaucracy of the Republic, the fat merchant would fold like a blanket when threatened with the dissolution of his business. His affection, such as it was, would extend only as far as was beneficial to him. No, he had to go elsewhere. He needed a place to hide, to think. In his current state, he could see no more than a few steps forward, if even that. He was in no condition to plan.

  The tower of St. Mark’s Basilica loomed before him, the Torre dell’Orologio fixing this moment in Paolo’s mind. The great clock showed all twenty-four hours of the day, the signs of the zodiac and, in its center, the phases of the moon and sun. Would he forever remember this as the instant of his family’s destruction? Now arrived, Paolo realized he did not even know what he would do once the skiff was moored.

  The rain came in sheets now, Venice disappearing as though in a charlatan’s trick. At this the skiff pilot finally took notice, his placid features stirring. He moved with decisive, economical motion, the fluid gestures matching that of the skiff’s lazy tumble over the chop of the lagoon. Paolo sat immobile, his clothing soaked through. The drops were heavy, seemed angry, seeking someone to punish. Paolo shook his head, a mirthless chuckle. Even the rain was against him. Despite the rising gale, he wished to be back out in the lagoon. But he was here. And Venice had him now.

  ***

  THE CIRCUITOUS ALLEYS and twisting calli he had come to love for their charming eccentricity as though Venice were a riddle come to life held a sinister quality now. The Chinese believed demons could only travel in straight lines. Venice, in this new light, suggested the contrary. The corners and crevices bathed in shadow that once held the promise of discovery now only contained the threat of capture. The city had become his enemy. Paolo navigated the maze of streets, his head lowered, melting into the shadows he now feared. The cobbles were slick with rain. He stepped quickly, carefully, not wanting to slip and draw attention to himself.

  He was thankful for the weather. The sellers had packed up their stalls, knowing what few sales they would have would not make up for the misery of sitting out in the storm. Paolo didn’t see a soul for a quarter of an hour, and took advantage by huddling beneath a stone balcony to get out of the rain. He was careful not to sit, not to hang his head to match the despair he felt lest he be rousted as a beggar. The rain harder now, water cascaded over the edge of the balcony in a shimmering curtain. Paolo peered out at the distorted city through the water. Across the street, one of the hundreds of stone lion medallions spread throughout the city stared serenely back at him through the wall of water. The symbol of Venice, its steady gaze fronted unfurled wings, in moleca, as a crab spreads its pincers, a not so subtle reminder that La Serenissima had very sharp claws.

  ***

  HE HAD DECIDED on a course of action, loathe as he was to take it. He had slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, forced himself to think clearly despite the chaos around him. He put his father out of his mind, as difficult as that was. Whatever had transpired at the workshop, there was nothing to be done. If he were to help his father now, he had to remain free. The pursuit would begin very soon he knew. He thought back to his last conversation with the moneylender. Despite all that had happened—the horror of Ciro’s murder, the travesty of Venetian justice, emotion had no place in what Paolo was to do next. If he had any hope of clearing his name, of surviving, he would have to calculate without passion, be as cold as the depths of the lagoon.

  He thought of Bercu, the wisdom of his words. Paolo believed he was an honorable man. Despite the fact that recent events had shaken Paolo’s faith in all he believed, doubting virtually every instinct he had ever trusted, he still believed in the moneylender. And if that too proved to be as illusory as everything else, so be it. If and when he was faced with the total destruction of his beliefs, he would gladly succumb to whatever fate awaited. Should that happen, t
here would be nothing left to live for.

  He would go to Bercu, and although he didn’t wish to involve the moneylender further, he had no place else to go. He wouldn’t stay long he decided, only ask for his advice. As a Jew, his position in Venice was tenuous enough, existing only at the pleasure of the aristocracy and the church, a fragile state which could change like the weather. Paolo did not wish to add his troubles to such a burden.

  Back into the rain, Paolo felt the fog and wet swallow him, embracing him in anonymity. Although he felt hidden by the elements, his eyes relentlessly scanned the streets. Because no one was about, he was both invisible and conspicuous. He traveled the path to the Jewish quarter. He had become as familiar with the various routes to the moneylender’s pawnshop as he had from his home to the Arsenale. What would he say when he arrived? Would Bercu turn him away? A man in his position did not need this type of attention. Paolo grunted. He was arguing with himself, had already forgotten his rule. No emotion. No passion. Only reason.

  The grand palazzi soon faded into the mist and the crowded streets of Cannaregio emerged from the gloom. The rain had slowed and Paolo’s footsteps were loud without the torrent to muffle them. Again he became anxious, feeling exposed. The stooped buildings of the quarter huddled together as though for warmth in the damp. They seemed apparitions, old ghosts turning away, wishing only to be left alone.

  Paolo found Bercu behind his counter, tidying up a hidden shelf.

  “Signore Avesari! You are soaked to the bone! Come in, come in please.”

  He rushed to the door, escorted Paolo in. The shop was bathed in shadow, the grey day settling on the moneylender’s merchandise like a dirty sheet. Fat beeswax candles were placed strategically throughout the shop, casting a warm glow on the finer pieces. The rest of the room, the corners and farther reaches, were temptingly just out of reach. Paolo unconsciously retreated from the shadows.

  “Come, sit my friend.” Bercu pulled out a stiff backed chair and placed it near a candle, gently pressing Paolo into the seat. “A horrid day to be out. Whatever brings you to my door must be serious indeed.” Bercu’s expression was solemn, but his eyes danced with curiosity.

  “I am sorry to intrude,” Paolo began, but Bercu waved off the apology.

  “Please, don’t be silly. What can I do for you? Some spiced wine and a blanket perhaps?” Without waiting for a reply, Bercu disappeared behind the dark curtain into the small room where he and Paolo had spoken before, quickly returning with a small cup and a thick blanket. Paolo accepted the cup, wrapping his hands around it as Bercu draped the thick blanket over his shoulders. He soon felt the chill receding. Again he noticed the warmth of the man, a perpetual willingness to comfort. Was it genuine? It was one thing to discuss the plight of the Jews, the clownish behavior of Francesco, or even the gossip surrounding Ciro’s death, none of which could get a man arrested. But did he dare confide in him now? He was a fugitive, an enemy of the State. He had defied the most powerful and feared group of men in Venice, men who could destroy a man’s life without so much as a crumb of remorse. A man in the moneylender’s position would be a fool to help him.

  Paolo hesitated, unsure. He wanted to confide in him. If ever he needed a friend it was now. But he did not want to expose Bercu to risk. That he was here at all was danger enough. And still he did not know if he could trust him. He had struggled with the question before, decided then that he had had no choice, but this was different. It was no longer a theoretical question. This was life or death.

  “Signore Avesari,” Bercu began softly, touching his arm. “Paolo. It is clear that you are in some distress. Whatever I can do to help, I will. You can be sure of that.” Paolo was again drawn to the man’s eyes, with little effort able to convey wisdom and sympathy, empathy and understanding.

  “I…I do not wish to involve you signore. It is…dangerous.”

  Bercu let out a bark of laughter, surprising Paolo. “Dangerous you say?” His smile was infectious and Paolo, despite the grimness of his mind, felt the upward curl of his own lips. “My friend, my entire existence is dangerous. My business, my family, my very way of life hangs by a thread, one so slender I am amazed with each sunrise that it is as it was the day before.” He shook his head, the smile gone. “As a Jew in Venice, I do not know any other way to live.” He clapped his hand on Paolo’s shoulder, smiling once more. “So stop wringing your hands and tell me your tale of danger, eh?”

  Relieved but not entirely convinced, Paolo nodded, recounted all that had happened— the council, the tattered noble trying in vain to be inconspicuous, what had happened at his father’s workshop. He had experienced it all in a frenetic rush, barely able to comprehend what had been happening before the next calamity befell him. Now he heard himself recite the story in a steady flow, the events stitched together, someone else telling the tale. By the time he had finished, ending with his frantic flight through the storm, the enormity of what happened had sunk in; the weight he carried many times that which he could ever hope to bear.

  Bercu remained silent for some time. Paolo feared that in his bravado, the moneylender had underestimated the danger carried to his doorstep and was reconsidering his offer of help. His body tense once more as it had been in the skiff, Paolo readied himself to throw off the blanket and disappear into the mist.

  But to his great relief Bercu smiled instead, though sadly, put a hand on his shoulder. “I must admit, I was not expecting such a tale of intrigue.”

  Paolo began to rise. “This was a mistake. I will…”

  Bercu gently pressed him back into the chair. “No my friend, you misunderstand. I would not offer help and so callously rescind it at the first mention of trouble. I gave you my word, and if my word cannot be trusted, then I am nothing. Please do not take my silence for reluctance. The more complicated the danger, the more complicated the solution, no? I was simply thinking.”

  Sitting back down, Paolo looked up at the moneylender. Bercu began to speak, although not it seemed to Paolo. Staring at the far wall of the shop, he seemed to be running through the thoughts in his mind, putting it all into a logical sequence. “We need to get you out of sight, obviously. But where? Somewhere here in Cannaregio. They don’t like coming to the Jewish quarter unless they need saving through our financial acumen or they mean to expel us from the city, two things that have happened frequently in equal measure over the years.” A thought seemed to occur to him. “How much have you spoken to Francesco about your dealings here?” Paolo sensed that Bercu wasn’t really asking him a question. “I do not trust that enlarged oaf. He would reveal all he knows quite easily if threatened I have no doubt. The council will not rest until you are found, so you cannot stay in one place for very long, no matter how secure.”

  Bercu set his eyes, looked at Paolo. He had come to a decision. “Chaya will look after you for the moment. There is no one else we can trust. The council will want to know from Francesco everyone you have had dealings with in the course of your employment, and they will come here, whether he suspects that you have sought me out or not. I must continue about my business as though nothing has changed so as to not arouse any suspicion. I can do that as long as I know you are safe. I do not believe Francesco is even aware of Chaya. He has rarely deigned to visit me himself, nor has he ever so much as asked after any family that I may have, such is his distaste for our race.” Bercu smiled grimly. “On occasion such bigotry works in our favor. I fear it is not an arrangement that can be sustained however. Only until I can think of a more lasting alternative.” His gaze softened and he spoke now in a quieter tone. “And I will of course tell you the moment I hear of what has become of your father. There will no doubt be rumors.”

  Paolo felt the beginnings of tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, and tried to hide his immense relief. “I do not know what to say signore. You are putting yourself and your daughter at great risk. For what reason, I confess, I know not. More than ever I know now that we exist only at the whim of powerful
men. You have a life, one which could be taken all too easily.”

  Bercu nodded. “And there my friend is your answer to why I help you.”

  Twenty Three

  “So, welcome to Venice, my Venice. It is a city of illusion, beautiful one moment and ugly the next. No, that is not quite true. It is beautiful and ugly all at once, contingent only on your perspective; even more dangerous than someone who changes back and forth from friend to enemy depending on their mood. One can at least learn to read moods. But how do you protect yourself from the enemy that pretends to be your friend? Do you still love La Serenissima?”

  Paolo lamented the fact that Chaya still seemed to hold him in contempt, despite what had happened, despite her own father’s good will toward him.

  He must have had a pathetic expression on his face because her tone softened as she continued. “I am sorry for your troubles. But now you understand why I rage against the hypocrisy of these people.”