A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  She raced upstairs to gaze into her looking glass. She fiddled with a lock of hair, tossing it this way and that. If only she had some gum arabic to hold the errant lock in place. If only she had ivory combs and this new device she had heard of—a parting instrument. She pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to give them colour then ran back downstairs.

  Foscari was an admirer of Palladio, who had designed her villa—as she had come to consider it—many years before. Cesca had listened to Foscari, transfixed by the inspiring tale of Palladio’s rise through the ranks of society.

  Once a stone mason, Palladio had been taken up by a wealthy nobleman, Trissino—humanist, lover of the poet Plutarch—who, recognizing Palladio’s talents, had sent him no less than five times to study the classical buildings of Rome and Athens. In turn Palladio, the son of a humble miller, became a legend. Who had not heard his amusing quip, ‘I prefer the whiteness of stone dust to the whiteness of flour’? What gentleman had not read, or at least claimed to have read, I Quattro Libri dell’Architettura? The humblest peasants to the most distinguished nobles spoke of him with admiration and affection—a mason who had bounded up the slippery social ladder with nary a stumble. In spite of his exalted position he had not taken on airs. He was that rarest of men: one who could converse with ease with anyone from poorest tenant farmer to the Doge of Venice.

  And here he was, striding up Cesca’s lawn, hands clasped behind his back, jaw squared, chest thrust forward as though bracing himself to enter battle. He was older than she had expected, but his arms, still muscular, strained against the seams of his jacket. With its nipped-in waist and long coattails, the green jacket was not a style in the least flattering to his stocky build. Either his wife—if he was possessed of one—thought it becoming, or he had fallen into the hands of an impish tailor. He mounted the stairs, pushed open the door without knocking and strode inside. “Pippo,” he called, and turning patted his thigh. The mastiff ambled in after him. In contrast to his master, the dog seemed in no particular hurry and leisurely sniffed the floor and furniture once inside. From his dewlaps hung a ribbon of slobber, which, when he jerked up his head to look at a buzzing fly, arced in Cesca’s direction and attached itself to her skirts.

  Palladio carried a silver-headed walking stick of the type men carry for show rather than function. His meaty thumb, hooked over the top, looked as though it should have been clasping the handle of a stone chisel rather than the delicately worked silver head of a gargoyle. Judging by the thumb’s flattened tip, it had suffered the blow of a hammer more than once.

  Cesca’s mother—a whore and therefore well-positioned to make such comparisons—used to say a woman could gauge the measure of a man’s member by the size of his thumbs.

  A sobering thought occurred to Cesca as she eyed this august man. She had not the faintest whiff of a connection to the di Padovani family or any right to be making herself at home. There was only the letter from the San Lorenzo mayor, whom Foscari had probably bribed so he would grant Cesca occupation.

  “Signora.”

  “Please, do come in,” Cesca said.

  Palladio took Cesca’s hand in his and gave it a hearty kiss. “I am your neighbour, Andrea Palladio.”

  After dropping her hand, Palladio proceeded to stride up and down her reception room as though he had not merely designed it but owned it, occupied it, collected the incomings and paid the outgoings on it.

  “I am Francesca…” To her embarrassment, her voice trailed off while she considered the many family names she had used over the years. “Trevare,” she said, after too long a pause. It had been her mother’s surname. Of her father, she had no knowledge. Not his name, his occupation or even the colour of his hair.

  “I was passing by and thought that if you would grant me the indulgence, I would give the villa a proper inspection. I designed it many years ago. Conte di Padovani provided me with a simple country farmhouse to work on. I transformed it into the crowning jewel of the district.” He spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of boasting, his eyes still focused on the floor. He strode back to the grand portal of the main entrance.

  Cesca knew Palladio and the Conte, Matteo’s father, had become friends during the construction. Was Palladio’s visit a pretext for checking on Matteo’s welfare? She intended to keep Palladio on the topic of malfunctioning fountains and leaking roofs to avoid questions regarding her legitimacy as mistress of the household.

  “The neighbours tell me you are making everything shipshape. I have come to see for myself.”

  “I have worked like a skivvy. The villa was so neglected when we arrived.”

  “Indeed,” he said. He surveyed the weed-choked lawns, the overgrown boxwood topiary, the listing portico and, in the distance, the peeling paint of the stables.

  Cesca, who was reluctant to rinse out her own teacup if she could find someone to perform the task for her, had found herself scrubbing floors and statues, pruning back the errant grapevines that threatened to engulf the east loggia and even, may God be watching, mucking out the barn. In spite of all this toil her hands, which should have been as red and coarse as a washerwoman’s, were soft and pliant, thanks to the Holy Virgin, who sent a black lamb scuttling into the courtyard every morning. Cesca would run her hands several times through its greasy wool. The lanolin that coated them provided protection from the harsh well water and lye soap.

  “Forgive my curiosity, but what is your connection to the di Padovani family?” Palladio asked.

  Dare she try to pass herself off as a relative of this noble family? She had been told often enough by Foscari that her accent was wrong, her attitudes plebeian, her deportment—whatever that might be—atrocious. She was struggling to acquire the graces of a lady of birth and refinement, but did her manners and speech still betray her for what she was—“an ambitious tart,” in Foscari’s words?

  “Yes,” she said, flicking a crumb from her dress and tidying her hair, “I am a cousin of the Contessa’s, from Rome.” Cesca gave him her most dazzling smile, the one that deepened her dimples and showed her pretty teeth. “I live here with Matteo, the Conte’s son.”

  “So you have taken on the task of raising him?” His brown eyes crinkled at the corners.

  Palladio was possessed of such a genial air that Cesca relaxed. She returned his smile, thinking no more of her muddy hems, tangled hair and stained work dress. “Yes,” she answered with a frankness meant to disarm. Then she told him the same tale she had told everyone in the district: Foscari was the guardian of the di Padovani estate—it would be true soon enough—and Matteo, lawful heir to the grandest fortune in the Veneto, was his ward. She was Matteo’s governess, as well as a cousin to the late Contessa Lucia.

  “How fortunate the boy has someone like Foscari to manage his affairs. It is not an easy matter to lose one’s parents. I should like to meet Matteo. I was fond of the Conte. Such a fine-looking man, with a good seat on a horse and a well-turned leg. And, when it came to building this villa, an open purse.”

  Cesca cocked her head to listen for sounds of Matteo upstairs, but everything was silent. Foscari must have fallen asleep from all the brandy he drank during their lessons and, sensing an opportunity, Matteo must have dashed out the back entrance to run as wild as a savage.

  Just then she heard the clomp of horse’s hooves. She walked to the window. “Matteo is out there, riding his fat little pony, Apollo.” The pony belonged to one of the tenant farmers. She pointed to the path leading to the canal. “Look, there he is. Isn’t he the most perfect little darling?” Cesca enjoyed the boy when he was outside and when he was tired from playing. At such times he would lie quietly in her bed as she told him stories. She would pretend he was her natural child. But when she broached the topic of the blanket, he would say, “I hate Foscari. I will not say what he wants me to say. He stole me from Ama and Papa and he stole my blanket.” At such times she would grow weary of him and wish he would go away.

  Palladio studied Matteo as th
e boy gripped the reins and hugged the pony’s middle with his sturdy legs. “The very image of his mother. He has her eyes and round little chin.”

  How reassuring to hear this physical resemblance confirmed, Cesca thought.

  Just then Matteo, perhaps feeling their gazes, turned, grinned at them, let go of the reins and waved with both hands.

  “Hold fast, Matteo,” Cesca called to him.

  “An enthusiastic horseman, isn’t he?” Palladio noted.

  “A tad reckless, I would say,” Cesca replied.

  Then she gestured for Palladio to take a seat in the reception room, which was empty of furnishings other than a couple of rickety chairs and an unsteady table.

  “Foscari shall manage the estate with prudence until Matteo comes of age.” How pious and false she sounded. Prudent management? She feared that with his new-found riches Foscari would be as rash as a sailor. All those bright, shiny ducats would line the pockets of the casino owners in Venice and fatten the wine merchants and butchers of Castello unless she could think of a way to prevent it. “Would you like a liquor made with fruit from my own trees?”

  He nodded.

  “Give me a moment to fetch it.”

  Cesca went to the larder to get a bottle, then returned to the reception room carrying Majolica cups of blue and yellow.

  Palladio accepted a cup. “Where is Foscari? Am I to have the pleasure of his company? I have some business to discuss with him.”

  The mention of “business” caused her a moment of unease. What commerce could he have with Foscari? As far as she knew, Foscari had met Palladio only once, and briefly. “Foscari is upstairs—indisposed, I fear.” The word “indisposed,” which Cesca had learned from Foscari, covered a number of maladies, from brandy sickness to the grippe to the French pox. It was also a word that did not invite further inquiry. Better to leave Foscari where he was, as Cesca preferred to have Palladio all to herself. Tonight at dinner she could regale Foscari with details of her visit from the famous Palladio.

  “The Conte was an interesting man. A humanist, like my patron, Trissino. Kind and generous to my workers and not above sharing a jug of black wine with them on payday. But, God rest his soul, he was an obstinate man. I warned him the ground was unstable at the northwest corner and we should position the entire structure to the west at least four paces. Nevertheless, he insisted on having this particular view of the canal. Now look.” He flung a hand toward the walls and ceiling. “See the crack and that heaving stone at the base of the column? Shoring up that pillar is going to be an expensive job.” Pausing for a breath, he took a child’s marble from his pocket and placed it on the floor. They watched as the marble hesitated, uncertain what direction to travel, then rolled into a corner. So there were problems beyond unkempt trees and tangled vines. Another expense, another claim on money she did not possess.

  “But why should I trouble you with these irksome problems? You are fortunate to have only Matteo to tend to and, I expect, meals to cook and other household chores.”

  So he thought her a needy relation working for the privilege of a square meal and a place to rest her head. Cesca did not know whether to be insulted or relieved. Palladio sipped the thick, syrupy liquor. He might have come from a humble family, but he had a natural dignity and elegance about him, a refined way of holding his cup, a benign manner of cocking his head when he spoke.

  “Delicious,” he said, putting his cup on the floor.

  His eyes moved from floor to ceiling and back again. He dropped to his knees with the agility of a much younger man—she judged him to be in his sixties—to examine the terrazzo. He squinted at it from all angles, first with the light and then against the light, which streamed through the central arched window and the two smaller windows flanking it. He ran a hand over the surface, checking for roughness.

  A hen had found her way inside and was now clucking crossly, trapped between the crossed paws of the mastiff, which was covering her in streamers of drool. Palladio removed his wide-brimmed hat, shooed the hen outside and then proceeded to pace the length and breadth of the reception room.

  Flirting was a habit Cesca could not seem to break. She said in a teasing voice, “Why, sir, do you expel my favourite tenant, the red hen? Is the chicken not one of God’s most useful creatures?” Whenever she met any man, she felt bound to captivate him, even an old man like Palladio.

  “Not when it’s shitting in the most elegant room on the Brenta.”

  “If you had seen the filth and disorder when I arrived, you would not be confounded by the presence of a little red hen.” She wanted the attention of this man, who seemed more interested in the cracks in the terrazzo floor than in conversing with her and admiring her clear blue eyes and translucent skin. “I do not think you appreciate the improvements I have made.” Cesca knew any man watching her would find her enchanting—by turns charming, then petulant. One such display of coquetry was certain to captivate Palladio.

  But he continued to move about. His boundless vitality fascinated her. He was like an aging stallion cantering round and round a paddock. He touched a plinth with a bust of Pallas Athena. “Please, have a seat,” said Cesca, with no expectation that he would plop into a chair and settle there for any length of time.

  His face was flushed and circles of sweat marked his jacket.

  “Feel free to remove your jacket. You will be more comfortable.” Cesca held out her hand to take the garment. He shrugged it off with the appearance of relief and handed it to her. As he did, he stretched his shirt over his broad chest and a whorl of chest hair escaped. His voice had a deep, mellow quality that resonated through the room like a church organ.

  Had he been younger, he might have induced in her certain feelings of wantonness. Again she wondered if he had a wife, and if so, whether he was fond of her. It behooved her to know, for such an important, powerful man was sure to be useful.

  Cesca followed him as he walked to the drawing room, where she planned to drape his jacket over a small marble statue of Bacchus, his crown of vines and grapes in need of a good scrubbing. When Palladio glanced up at the east wall, he stopped so abruptly she nearly knocked into him.

  “Che cazzo!“ Palladio swore.

  Cesca giggled. It was a strong oath. She had heard it many times in the slums of Rome, but she hardly expected to hear it in her own drawing room. Palladio stood staring, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Did you have this trompe l’oeil painted?”

  Cesca must have appeared blank, for he bellowed, “The frescoes, woman! The frescoes! This wretched flimflammery—those overfed cupids on the ceiling, the maidservant poking her fleshy nose out of a false door. The artist could not even paint the entablature. Look at the top-heavy travesty! Completely out of proportion to the columns.”

  The painted door, meant to imitate white Istrian marble, with a tracery of black veins, seemed beautiful to her—two thin columns topped with a horizontal piece painted to mimic an ornate frieze.

  “And that!” He waved at her favourite section of the fresco. “The castellana, with a barely contained bosom! Most undignified.”

  The castellana had taken on the role of the Virgin Mary in Cesca’s eyes. Each morning after breaking fast, she entered the room and stood before the castellana to ask for guidance. Once, she caught herself genuflecting, and was glad Foscari was not present to ridicule her. How reassuring the castellana‘s painted bosom, the gentle smile playing around her lips, the appearance of command and the competence in the set of her shoulders. Here was a noblewoman who would have no difficulty finding the best chefs to roast her joints of beef, the most skilled seamstresses to embroider her initials on the bed linens and the most graceful way to arrange guests at formal dinners.

  “ ‘The sight of these frescoes is enough to make the dead weep with pleasure. These paintings are a sublime combination of the grand and the homely, the sacred and the profane,’ ” she said,
echoing Foscari’s words upon seeing the artwork for the first time. How elegant she had thought his words, how impressed she had been by them. “But,” Cesca continued, “I cannot accept credit. The murals were painted long before I arrived.”

  “I am sorry. Yes, you look like a sensible woman.”

  How on earth did he know whether she was sensible? “I hope to God I am not,” she replied. “A sensible woman would never undertake the challenge of setting this ruin to rights.”

  Before Palladio could inquire why Cesca would repair so much as a pig’s sty, she said, “I am told these frescoes were painted by the great Bordolini.” And, she wanted to add, I have derived more pleasure from this Bordolini, whoever he may be, and his frescoes, than I have from any man either in or out of the bedchamber.

  As if he could tolerate no more of the sight, Palladio plopped into a chair and stretched out his legs with his back to the paintings. His mastiff settled his head, solid as a block of black granite, on Palladio’s left foot. The dog closed his eyes and gave himself over to the pleasure of his master scratching his flank, which caused his hind legs to work as though he was chasing imaginary rabbits through the forest.

  “Things must not pretend to be what they are not. Paint is paint and should not resemble marble. Lime wash is lime wash and should not look like tempera. To paint a wall to resemble a doorway is a deception—blasphemy. Throw a pot of whitewash at this fakery.”

  When my body has turned to dust and the worms have eaten my eyes. “Nothing pleases me more than what you call ‘fakery.’ I love this wall precisely because it is a delicious illusion.”

  “Remedying it would be a simple matter. I will do the job faster than a sheep can jump a stile. Have you a good-sized bucket and some lime?”

  Palladio’s look made her realize he was teasing.

  “I wish you could see the expression on your face.”

  He was the same age as Foscari, but unlike Foscari, Palladio had a contagious energy that made her feel young—which she was, for heaven’s sake. With Foscari, she had to walk slowly to match his pace. She ate with less gusto when she saw him transferring a bite of baked meadow lark from one cheek to the other, anxious about swallowing for fear of choking on a bone. She even caught herself hesitating, as Foscari did, about biting into an apple and maybe breaking a tooth.