by Roberta Rich
Since this pregnancy, Isaac had changed as well. It was not her imagination: his belly was rounder, his cheeks fuller. It suited him. He had always been too lean. Although he still had dark smudges under his eyes and muttered and tossed in his sleep, he seemed less sorrowful. He ate with pleasure and did not avoid the company of their neighbours who had a son the same age as Matteo.
Hannah poured the hot soap into wooden moulds. When it was cool, she took up a wide-bladed knife and, with the blunt side of it, scored the soap into white rectangles, precise as coffins lined up in a coffin maker’s workshop.
Just as she was covering the bars with a tattered blanket to retain the heat, the front doorbell rang. One of the maids answered. A young boy with a wind-scoured look to his cheeks came into the garden. The maid followed close behind him, wiping up his dirty footprints with a mop. By the marlin spike dangling from his waist and the way he eyed Zephra’s loaves of bread cooling on the rack on the kitchen window ledge, it was clear the boy was from the docks, just off a ship—a Venetian ship, to be sure, for he wore a cap with a crudely embroidered lion of Venice.
In the boy’s hand was a letter. “Greetings,” he said. “Are you the mistress of the house?” When Hannah nodded, he walked over to her, holding it out—a grubby-looking affair of sheep’s parchment, the edges bound together with a piece of rawhide. Likely it had been laced and unlaced countless times by greedy fingers probing the corners for a coin as it made its way by whatever route it had travelled to Constantinople.
Hannah wanted to grab the letter from his hands, hoping it contained news of Matteo. She forced herself to be calm. What a foolish thought. Cesca and Foscari would never wish her to know where Matteo was, never wish her to have the comfort of knowing if he was dead or alive. No, it was, no doubt, a letter for Isaac from Leghorn or some such city. An offer of a new variety of silkworms, perhaps, or a shipment of printed cotton from Bellagio. It might be an order for silk from Venice or a bill of lading for a recent shipment.
Assunta marched over to the boy. Hannah seized the letter from him before Assunta could reach for it. Hannah pressed it to her breast, trying to divine its contents.
After what seemed like an eternity but was likely a few minutes, Hannah heard the rear door open and then close. Isaac, back from the palace, made his way into the garden. Without a word, Hannah held the letter out to him. Isaac handed the boy a coin for his trouble and sent him to the kitchen for a bowl of soup. Isaac turned the envelope over, studying the crossing-outs, the blots, the smudges. Isaac could read anything—no word was too obscure, no script too difficult for him to decipher. He squinted at the envelope.
Please, God, may the letter say Matteo is well and happy, and that I must come and fetch him. She allowed herself to imagine Matteo sitting at his customary place at the breakfast table, spooning in his barley soup, great, sticky globs of it falling on the floor for the cat to lick up; or practising on his tightrope in the back garden, barefoot, stubby toes gripping the rope, hands holding the balance pole parallel to his chest.
Hannah peered over Isaac’s shoulder to see their shakily written address covered with blots of ink and spotted with greasy drips from a candle. “A letter from an associate?” Hannah asked. The parchment was of that peculiar Venetian variety, fashioned from the hide of fat-tailed sheep, the pores so big the script was forced to detour around them like an ox cart avoiding holes and ruts in the road.
“It is palimpsest,” he said in the lecturing tone he sometimes affected to tease her when she was tense.
Isaac’s jesting was his way of saying, ‘Do not hope, my darling, for what can never be. Matteo is not coming back to us no matter how fiercely we wish it. Think of Jessica and our new child and be content. Hope makes our lives more difficult.’
“Please, Isaac, open it.” Even the best of husbands could be provoking.
He unlaced the strips of rawhide binding it fast. As he turned the envelope upside down, a sketch fell to the floor. Hannah bent over and snatched it up. It was a simple charcoal drawing of a little boy wearing a hat and a jacket, sitting astride a fat pony. Next to him, holding the bridle, stood a curly-haired woman. Hannah took a deep gulp of air. It felt like the first time she had taken a proper breath since Matteo disappeared.
Isaac took the drawing from her, glanced at it, and all the humour drained from his face. He handed it back, saying nothing. Smoothing open the letter, he studied it then looked up. “It is from that daughter of a whore,” he said. “Cesca—or Grazia, as she called herself here in Constantinople when she had pretended to be my sister-in-law. Written, it would appear, by a scribe without much regard for the niceties of ox gall ink and fresh parchment.”
Hannah clenched her hands so tightly her nails left crescents in her palms. But her fury was mixed with relief. Her son might be alive. Isaac, his handsome face intent, pondered the letter. The script had a mean-spirited look to it, uneven, extending to the very edge of the parchment, not leaving enough of a margin to thrust a pin through without landing in the middle of a letter.
“The writing is so tiny I need a jeweller’s loupe,” said Isaac.
“Take it into the garden, where the light is better,” said Assunta.
The three of them walked into the garden and sat under the grape arbour.
Isaac studied the letter, Hannah sitting close to him. She would have grabbed it from him if she could read, but although she could sign her name—more than most women could manage—and, after a fashion, could add and subtract—she could not read.
Isaac stood and walked a few paces past the row of vegetables, into a patch of sunlight. Hannah and Assunta trailed behind. He held the letter with his back to the sun, the better to see. He began:
4 September 1579
Dear Hannah,
You must have apprehended by now that Foscari and I took Matteo from you that day in the market. You have no reason to love me, but believe me when I say I am deeply troubled I have injured you so grievously. I thought I was doing my duty by bringing him to Venice to raise him as a Christian, but I fear I have done both you and Matteo, who cries for you piteously, a terrible wrong.
I wish I could write Matteo is thriving, but he is not. The doctors say he has consumption and only a few weeks to live. I know you will want to say goodbye to him before God, in His wisdom, gathers him to His bosom.
I beg you, board the next ship to Venice. Matteo and I are living in the Villa di Padovani on the Brenta River. All the boatmen know the estate. The mooring posts are yellow and red. Two orange trees grow on the front lawn.
Please come for Matteo’s sake, whom we both cherish.
Godspeed,
Cesca
Matteo was alive! Sick, yes, but alive—or he had been when the letter was written. Hannah could nurse him back to health. She would pour her strength into him. Under her care, he would survive. “The letter is dated more than six weeks ago,” said Isaac. Hannah put her arms around Isaac, resting her head on his chest, and held him close, so close she could feel his heat on her neck and his heart beating in unison with hers. “We must go to him, Isaac. There is time. The baby will not come before the spring.”
Isaac stood, the letter in one hand, his other arm around Hannah.
“For the first time we know where he is.”
He pulled her to his chest, resting his chin on the top of her head. She felt his chin move side to side. A firm no.
“Please, Isaac, we must be together—you, me, Matteo and Jessica. We are like a collection of precious porcelain dishes. Leave one behind and always there will be an empty place at the table where the plate should be.”
“God has once again planted a child in you, a hearty one, who clings to you like a spider monkey to its mother’s back.”
He did not articulate what they were both thinking: you have miscarried. You must not risk this baby. God may not smile upon us again.
He said, “Stormy seas prevail this time of year. There will be no ships sailing this late
in the season.”
“We will go to the port. We will find a ship. By next week we can be sailing to Venice.”
“Stop and think, Hannah. Cesca has lied to us about so many things. How do you know she is not lying about Matteo?”
“Not even Cesca would be so cruel,” said Hannah.
Isaac gave a snort. “She would grind Matteo’s bones to make her bread.”
“Then isn’t her cruelty one more reason to rescue Matteo? Don’t you see? We can bring him home. We shall be like the family we used to be.”
“Oh, Hannah.” There was a terrible tenderness in his voice that made her sadder than anything he could have said. Her husband often scolded her for her innocence. There were those in the world, he would explain, who appeared like other people, who talked, laughed, ate and slept like normal men and women, yet had no fear of God, no love or respect for their fellow humans. Isaac contended that Foscari was such a man, a beast who had learned to walk upright.
“Do you not realize the true purpose of this letter?” said Isaac.
“No, I do not.”
“We have spoken of Cesca and Foscari many times and you have seen firsthand what they are capable of, but still you cannot believe in their wickedness.”
“I do not understand why they want to deprive Matteo of the only mother and father he has ever known. Is it to raise him as a Christian? Is it because we are Jews?”
“Foscari and Cesca would not care a fig if wolves were raising Matteo, the way wolves raised Romulus and Remus. They wish to steal his fortune.”
“But how does one steal a villa, a palazzo and trading vessels by kidnapping an innocent child?”
“To steal with a pen is more deadly than to steal with a sword. They will find a way to plunder his fortune, no doubt, with the help of a complicit judge. Foscari must have some scheme to convince a court to appoint him guardian of the di Padovani estate.”
“But suppose Matteo is ill?”
“I would wager he is in perfect health.” Isaac spoke in a warm, coaxing tone. “Be sensible, Hannah. Do not let them be in command of you as though you were a puppet and they were your puppet masters.”
“Please, Isaac.” But she knew it was useless to argue. Once Isaac had set his mind against an idea there was no convincing him otherwise. She might as well try to persuade the kindling in the fireplace to ignite of its own accord, or the cook pot to recite poetry.
“I know Jessica needs me here, and you need me here, but…God entrusted Matteo to me. I saved his life at birth. I saved him from his uncle, who wanted to murder him. I saved him from starvation on the ship sailing here. Once you save a life you are responsible for that life.”
“And me,” Isaac said, “you saved me, as well.”
“And do we not have a special bond of love between us that can never be broken? Years of living and working together have made us like a pair of dancers, with an instinctive knowledge of the other’s needs and rhythms.”
She went over to the rain barrel in the corner of the garden and filled a mug. Her reflection stared back at her, her dark curly hair falling forward around her face, fuller now with her pregnancy. She thought about Matteo, about his blue eyes, his red hair, his arms around her neck like a rope of precious pearls. “If I do not go, I will never be at peace.” She held up the mug for Isaac to take a drink. “I would do the same for you, Isaac, if you were ill in a faraway country.”
“This is what I love most about you, Hannah—your steadfast heart.” He smiled to take the sting out of his next words. “It is also what most exasperates me about you.”
She slammed down the mug on a rock next to the arbour with such force it shattered to the ground. “And you, Isaac? Do you know what exasperates me most about you? Your stubbornness. Your bloody-mindedness. Your refusal to compromise.” This was the first time they had argued since Matteo’s disappearance. For the past months they had tiptoed around each other, each treating the other like a fragile vase balanced on a narrow ledge. To shout at him, to unleash her anger, brought a peculiar relief. There was a chilly comfort in speaking her mind, though she knew she would later regret it. Arguing was tacit recognition they were both stronger now and could withstand each other’s fury.
Assunta tried to draw Hannah out of the garden and back to the kitchen. “Let us see to the soap, Hannah. It is time to put it in the sun to dry.”
“Damn the soap. Damn Isaac and damn you!” She kicked at the shards of broken cup. “I will go alone to Venice.”
“I forbid you,” said Isaac.
“Are you mad?” Assunta said. “A woman travelling alone?” She tried to take Hannah in her arms. “Do not fret so. Our Lord Jesus is watching over Matteo.”
Hannah said, “Did not your Jesus preach that if you have a hundred sheep and have lost one, you must leave the remaining ninety-nine and go into the wilderness to seek out the one that is lost? And when you have found it, return home, bearing it on your shoulders, rejoicing?”
For once Assunta was silent.
Isaac followed the two women into the kitchen. “Hannah, let us not quarrel.” He tried to take her hand, but she wrenched it away.
That night Hannah tossed and turned, unable to sleep as she replayed the quarrel. Isaac had not mentioned, because he did not know, the most important reason she must not make the journey. Hannah had killed a man in Venice. Walking up the gangplank onto a ship bound for Venice would be like walking up the steps of a scaffold to be hanged.
CHAPTER 5
On board the Fortuna,
Mediterranean Sea
HANNAH LEFT LIKE a thief in the night. While Isaac slept, she arose early, eager to be off before her resolve deserted her. She looked in on the nursery, where baby Jessica slept in the arms of the wet nurse. The infant would survive under Isaac’s watchful eye and the wet nurse’s rich milk.
Very softly, so as not to waken her, Hannah kissed the top of Jessica’s head. Hannah owed a great debt to this child, born in the Circassian Mountains to a mother captured in a raid by a Yürük nomad and sold to the Sultan as a concubine. After many years of being barren, Hannah had conceived because of Jessica, of this she was certain. The batting at her breast, the tender gaze in Jessica’s green eyes, the little girl’s sweet baby scent, had persuaded Hannah’s womb to welcome Isaac’s seed. Hannah ran a finger down Jessica’s cheek, a new surge of love and gratitude overwhelming her. She would miss this baby girl who had been such an unexpected gift.
With all her heart Hannah wished she had been able to make peace with Isaac. They had argued until late in the night. Finally, hearing the anger in both their voices, Assunta had drawn Hannah aside and said resignedly, “I shall accompany you as far as Malta. It is time I returned to my convent. I know of a late-sailing ship, the Fortuna. She was delayed in port for repairs. Tomorrow she leaves for the Veneto. Have you money enough for the voyage and your stay in Venice?”
Hannah had told no one, not even Isaac, about the loose floorboard in their bedroom under which she had stashed coins—twenty hard-earned ducats and a few dozen silver coins, working as midwife in the Sultan’s harem.
If only Isaac could walk her to the docks, kiss her goodbye and give her his blessing. She returned to the bedroom one last time and brushed his cheek as he slept, then she went to find Assunta.
Sister Assunta heaved the valise Hannah had packed hurriedly and her own onto her back and off she marched to the Port of Eminönü, Hannah trailing behind. To Hannah’s surprise the captain of the Fortuna, a brigantine out of Brindisi, consented to take them on as passengers. If he thought two women travelling alone was unusual, he showed no sign of it; he barely glanced up at them, his eyes riveted on the six ducats Hannah placed in front of him. They hastened to their cabin, no bigger than a miser’s larder, left their valises and returned to the deck. There they stood watching as Kiz Kulesi, the Maiden’s Tower, the lead-clad domes of the Imperial Palace, and the minarets of Hagia Sophia grew smaller and smaller in the distance. When the la
nd fell from sight, Hannah and Assunta went shivering and windblown down to their cabin. Isaac was right. It was far too late in the season to be sailing; the winds were cold and unforgiving.
While Sister Assunta prepared a pot of tea on a brazier in the cabin, Hannah lay under a quilt in her berth, averting her eyes, feeling nauseous as the wooden crucifix dangling from Assunta’s waist swayed in time with the pitching ship. What would Isaac think when he woke up and found her gone? He would be furious, of course, but would he understand? Would he follow her on the next ship if he could find one?
Assunta handed her a mug of tea. “Where will you stay in Venice?” Hannah had been too preoccupied with getting to the docks and finding the Fortuna to reflect on that. The Council of Ten, the governing body of Venice, did not permit Jews to reside—even for short periods—outside the Jewish ghetto. Her only remaining relative in the ghetto was her brother, Asher, and theirs was a troubled relationship. Showing up unannounced and asking for shelter even for a few days was nothing short of risky. And yet, she must. She had no other place to go.
“With my brother, I hope.”
“You will need kinfolk at a time like this. How fortunate you have family to help you.”
“It will not be as easy as you suppose. Years ago Asher and I quarrelled.”
“About what?”
“Nothing of significance. We Jews are a fractious people,” said Hannah, forcing a light note into her voice, hoping it would be enough to satisfy Assunta’s curiosity. In an effort to further divert her, Hannah said, “Shall I fetch a small cask of fresh water for washing from one of the sailors or will you?”
“Christians, Jews, it makes no difference. To be human is to be fractious. What was the fight about?”