by Susan Swan
I told Father I did not see how any prisoner could escape from the Ducal Palace. He laughed and asked why any prisoner would wish to escape. With their easy chairs and pillow beds, and despite the low ceilings—both Father and I had to stoop as we entered the rooms—the gaol is more comfortable than the parlours of many farms in Quincy.
I asked Monsieur Faliero if he knew Jacob Casanova and he said that many years ago he’d seen the Chevalier de Seingalt taking a hot chocolate drink at the Florian.
“What did Monsieur Casanova look like?” I asked.
“A dandy of the first order! Very tall, with a strange, sunburnt complexion.”
“Why are you interested in this man?” Father asked me.
“It is part of the lore of the Palace,” I said, pleased Monsieur Faliero had described someone resembling Monsieur Casanova. I spoke not a word more in case Father noticed my excitable state. I wanted to see the inscription under the plank in the seventh cell that Monsieur Casanova described. But the little dog trotting ahead of me began to pull and strain at her leash, sniffing the floor. She led me past the small airless passage where former prisoners like my new friend had taken their exercise, and into a large room heaped with dusty furniture. Finette began to whine and pull me towards some household goods piled in the corner. Among the pieces of furniture, I saw a warming pan, a kettle, brass tongs, old candlesticks, a chest and a pile of papers sewn into a large manuscript. I picked up the old papers that looked to be records of legal trials dating back several centuries. Finette would not let me read, sniffing and bumping the trunk with her nose, and when I opened it, she leapt inside. A moment later, she leapt back out, and I was obliged to retrieve an old bone from her mouth. In the corridor outside, Father was calling my name.
“Our inspection is over!” He poked his head under the door frame. “There is only one prisoner left up here.”
A Greek, very old and stooped, was locked up in the seventh cell—the one Casanova claimed had been his. Moaning in fear, the poor creature withdrew into a corner and put his head on his knees. Father said the bewildered fellow must think we had come to lead him to his execution so we made our excuses to Monsieur Faliero and departed. My spirits fell when I realized I would not be able to search for the inscription under the plank.
“General Junot will not be pleased,” Father said. “There are few prisoners here for him to liberate.”
“Perhaps there are more down in the Fours.”
“There are only two. I heard that from the Doge himself.” Outside the Palace we met Francis, who had spent the morning in Torcello talking with lobster fishermen. My betrothed took my arm, and we strolled together as if we were the loving couple my parent wishes us to be. Meanwhile, Father lectured us on the advantages of married life—the delightful business of acting as gardeners to small children, the wifely safety for a plain female like myself, and a husband’s need for a female companion who will nurse him in his old age—an earthly blessing denied Father. Francis nodded while I said not a word, staring past the Doge’s Palace to the sea, thinking of the wonders of the Levant awaiting the traveller who dares to go.
A Fruitful Question to Be Considered: Is Jacob Casanova who he says he is? And why does this matter to me?
Undertaking Left Undone: I am chagrined that I could not peer under the plank to see if Jacob Casanova told the truth about his inscription: I love, Jacob Casanova, 1756. And yet I feel relief. Why? Is it because I do not care to find out if my new friend is a liar? On our way out of the Leads, Father and I passed a tavern in the Ducal Palace. It was a tavern for the prisoners, and a much pleasanter one, Father said, stopping to inspect it, than the taverns he used to frequent in Quincy before the death of my mother when he became an abstainer. If Mother no longer experienced the joys of existence, he had reasoned, then neither should he indulge in habits that gave him pleasure.
From her hospital cot, Luce saw nurses in light blue clogs hurrying up and down the corridor. They glanced at Luce and she stared back at them over the top of the journal. It was so cool and peaceful in the hospital, and she still had a few minutes to spare. Her appointment at the Sansovinian was more than an hour away. Why not read on for a few more pages?
May 5, 1797
Today I was witness to the fall of an empire.
I walked back to my hotel this morning through a vast, sorrowing crowd who watched in silence as the three Inquisitors of Venice were led in chains through the Piazza San Marco. They were taken to a gaol on San Giorgio Maggiore on General Bonaparte’s orders; Father told me it was the Doge himself who issued the command, as most of the French army is still camped far away on the western edge of the lagoons.
At least this means there will not be battles with the French in Venice. The Doge and his Grand Council have surrendered their city. Prisoners, including the old Greek whom Father and I saw yesterday, stood with the silent crowd. The French have thrown open all the gaols and these fortunate wretches can hardly stand upright.
When I arrived back at our hotel, Monsieur Casanova was waiting in my room. How he persuaded the concierge to let him in, I do not know. I found him sitting at my desk, Finette asleep by his feet. I thought of what people would say about the impropriety of entertaining a man in my bedroom, but a sly voice whispered: Asked For, do not fear. Although he is a few inches taller, you have the advantage of youth and can easily outwrestle him. This is a trustworthy feature of My Poor Friend: my muscles are as strong as a boy’s from cutting pond ice in Massachusetts.
“Ah, Miss Adams.” My visitor rose from his seat, and I caught the scent of rosewater as he bowed to kiss my hand.
“Such formality is out of fashion, monsieur,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. Like titles and court wigs, I thought.
“I do my best to uphold the standards of polite society,” he smiled. “Please forgive me for intruding. I hoped in the privacy of your quarters I could tell you the story of the woman in the portrait.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I nodded, and we seated ourselves. I was aware of his scrutiny as I removed the cape Father had bought for me in Paris. It was made of blue silk with brilliant quilted thread in the modern style.
“I admire your zenda. And the Grecian banding on your gown.”
I thanked him, surprised that a gentleman who still uses dress wigs would care for my republican taste.
“Where is your friend from?” I hid my nervousness by asking a question, an old childhood habit.
“Aimée was born on the island of Martinique into the noble French family of the Dubucqs.”
“Ah, so she was affected by the Terror!”
“Her convent in Nantes was closed early, because of political agitation in the countryside. She was on her way back to Martinique when she disappeared, travelling with her childhood nurse, Da. May I?”
He pointed at the water pitcher. I nodded and Monsieur Casanova poured us each a glass of water. It had become very warm in my little room.
“First, will you grant an old gentleman a simple courtesy? I long to hear a female voice speaking the words of my beloved.”
With a theatrical shake of his lace-trimmed wrist, he unfolded several wrinkled sheets of writing-paper and handed them to me.
The letter was in French and the penmanship delicate. There was neither date nor address but I did not think much about it because my visitor was talking again in his gravelly voice.
“We met only once, in 1784, five years before the Revolution. Nantes, like many cities on the French coast, was feeling the anger of the peasants.” He gave me a sweet smile. “But I cannot complain about the turmoil of those times, Miss Adams, since the Revolution which I abhor made it possible for Aimée and me to find one another. Will you begin?”
“My French is not good enough to read your letter out loud, monsieur. “My father and I speak a Boston twaddle.”
He turned on me one of his heavy-lidded glances. “And I speak French like a Venetian. Does my accent mean that I should censor myself?”
I shook my head. It was true, the old gentleman spoke French with an odd, lilting accent, emphasizing the second-last syllable of his words. I had noticed his peculiar tic when we met on the public barge.
“Will you grant me this favour, Miss Adams?”
Slightly breathless, I began:
My beloved Giacomo,
I write to you no longer as Mademoiselle Aimée Dubucq de Rivery but as Nakshidil Sultan, wife of Abd-ul-Hamid I, the Sultan of all Turkey. The arrangements for smuggling this letter out of the Seraglio have been made with the greatest difficulty, although luckily I have made a friend in the harem, born a Christian like myself. She is a Georgian and the mother of Selim, who stands next in line to the throne. When I told her my story, she took pity on me and agreed to send this letter with a Jewish doctor who visits the harem to help the women with their pregnancies. I am well, despite the way my life has changed since you and I met. I was travelling to Martinique and the arranged marriage that had been prepared for me after the death of my parents, bringing such sorrow to both of us. How could I know the remorseless Fates were negotiating an arrangement more powerful than anything my relatives could devise?
Our ship crashed into a sea gale as we passed the Strait of Gibraltar and its seams began to open. As Da and I spoke our Hail Marys, a Spanish ship rescued us. You can imagine what rejoicing followed, although Da and I stayed below deck to avoid unpleasantness. But stranger events were to come. As we neared the Palma di Majorca, our Spanish vessel was attacked by Algerian pirates. Da and I were taken aboard as prisoners to be sold into slavery. A change of circumstance that by now may have killed Da—I have not seen my old nurse since Algiers where we were sold to different bidders. I was bought by Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, the King of the Barbary Corsairs, a terrible old man who Da thought was sure to ravish me and indeed when he took me to his quarters, he made a great show before his servants of leading me into his bedroom. But once there, the old pirate poured me heavily sugared tea and announced he was going to make me the Empress of all Turkey—and himself a fortune.
Dearest love, you may imagine my bewilderment over such a suggestion. What fools these Barbary men are over fair hair! The flaxen locks of my Viking forebears saved my life. And I cannot help thinking, Giacomo, that because their blood thunders in my veins, I have been able to meet my terrible fate with courage.
The old pirate outfitted me with clothes and jewels and sent me in a magnificent ship as a present to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. I was received there by the chief of eunuchs in the Seraglio, and shortly thereafter brought before Sultan Abdul. He seemed delighted by my appearance, although he spoke no French. He sent me off for a hot bath in the palace and when I was washed and oiled and refreshed, a servant took me into a large room where veiled women sat on floor sofas eating a meal of quails and rice. I was greeted by Selim’s mother, the kindly grey-haired lady who has become my friend. She had recently lost a child and was dressed in the plain jacket and pantaloons of a commoner to show she was in mourning.
We ate pilaf with a flavoured dish of minced meat rolled up in vine leaves and served in tomato sauce. Then came little birds toasted on a skewer and lastly, candied and dried fruits. My new friend presented me with two handsome bracelets. Before I could thank her, a servant appeared and led me along a passage called the Golden Path.
How did I survive that night? The answer is simple. I looked at this old Turk, my husband, whose breath smells like musty clothing left in attics, whose skin is as papery as parchment, this soft, puffed-up creature who, the women whispered to me, has been weakened by lazing about the harem—and then I closed my eyes and imagined he was you.
I heard a gentle moan and looked over at my guest.
I have never seen a man give way to tears, at least not a man of his stature and age, and I found myself deeply saddened.
“I am very sorry,” I whispered. “Should I stop?”
“It does my heart good to hear you. It is like hearing
Aimée herself. Please don’t stop, Miss Adams.”
Oh my darling, several weeks before I encountered the Sultan, I realized that I am pregnant with your child. If only you could rescue me—you who escaped from the worst prison in the Venetian republic. I am miserable in the world of the Turks. The Seraglio despite its beauty and luxury—its grilled rooms, its aviaries and incomprehensible Arabic libraries, its lovely baths, its kitchen with the great ice pits made from snow that was wrapped in flannel and brought on muleback from Mount Olympus for the making of sherbet and other cooling delicacies—the Seraglio is as much a prison to me as your Venetian Leads.
The Sultan’s wife has promised to help me escape. For the moment, do not write. It is too dangerous. One of the odalisques who was “in his eye,” as the women say, disappeared last week. Some of the wives whisper that she was put in a sack and thrown into the Bosphorus because she was having an affair with a French trader. I cannot afford to be careless with my affections, as she was. I intend to live, dearest one, to return to you.
Your Aimée
Postscript
It is months since I began this letter to you. The birth of our son was a strange affair, Giacomo. They placed me in the royal birthing chair—made of walnut and shaped like a horseshoe with a plank seat, while the midwife chanted “Allah is most great.” When all was over and our son, Mahmud, had arrived, these superstitious women placed three sesame seeds on his navel to protect him from the evil eye, put me to bed under gold shawls, and set the Koran wrapped in a silk bag on my stomach. To celebrate Mahmud’s birth, my husband, the Sultan, believing your son is his, ordered cages of nightingales to be hung in the groves of lilacs. On his command, lights were set near enormous glass globes of coloured water in order to reflect the gushing fountains of the palaces. If I hadn’t been miserable, I might have enjoyed all this beauty, but the truth is, my soul, that I thought only of you. No one knows of my bewildered, angry feelings. The child is sitting in the lap of his taya, who is feeding him marzipan water to keep him calm. He is smiling at me as I write.
“She gave birth to your son! He will be a young boy by now. You must find them both,” I said, thinking of the loneliness of growing old without the one you love. Father says I wish to deny the nature of the universe because I want to keep those dear to me from experiencing sorrow. He is fond of quoting Ecclesiastes: “to everything there is a season … a time to be born and a time to die …” But Father became an Atheist after Mother’s death and has no right to quote the Bible to make his arguments. “I could help you.”
“You would help me?” he asked softly.
“Gladly. You should rescue her from that terrible world.”
“Perhaps that world is no more terrible than ours.” He turned so that I could not see his expression. When he faced me again, I extended my hand and shook his firmly.
“Your French is good for an American,” he said, smiling. “May I come another time? I have a second letter I would like you to read for me.”
I hesitated, thinking of what Father would say about the impropriety of meeting in my rooms.
“Perhaps we should meet in a café.”
I thought a look of disappointment crossed his face but it was gone so quickly that I could not be sure.
“A café will be noisy. But I understand how our friendship could cause problems for you and a man in your father’s position. So let us meet by the Florian at sunrise, while Venice sleeps.”
Luce paused. At dinner with Lee she had thought she recognized the young photographer at the door of the Florian, although she hadn’t been able to see the man’s face. It pleased her to think the café had been in existence during the time of Casanova and Asked For Adams.
“It will be an adventure,” he continued. “At that hour, the cats are on the prowl and it is a marvel to watch them chase the pigeons who fly off in great clouds of feathers.” I agreed since I was eager to see the grandeur of the great square empty of all souls except the four-footed cit
izens of Venice. And, after loaning me Aimée’s letter so I could enter it here, he bowed to me and left. Finette began to yelp for her master. I put the dog on my lap and brushed her coat with the implement he had left for that purpose. It was touching to see the melancholy in the small creature’s face, ordinarily so alert, and I thought of the love its owner has for his pet and of the hopeless circumstances surrounding the mother of his child. If only I could help him.
Ah, I have begun to believe my new friend is who he says he is. Am I too trusting a soul?
A Fruitful Thought for the Day: Trust must sometimes be rewarded, or it wouldn’t be cherished by the human heart.
May 6, 1797
Finette is gone and I am bereft.
This morning, I went to the Piazza San Marco at dawn and he was not there. I saw two French soldiers on a ladder, changing the hands on the clock to French time, whose day starts at midnight as it does in America. Before the arrival of the French, the day began here at dusk. The sight of their soldiers moving the hands of the old Venetian clock distressed me, and for the first time I understood I am in a conquered city. As the faint light increased, small, dark feline forms began flitting like smoky wisps through the columns of the arcade, but there was no sign of Monsieur Casanova. So at least he had not lied to me about the cats. I was filled with a longing I do not understand. It seemed to me my emotion was connected to Monsieur Casanova. I sensed his presence in the piazza, just as I did that first evening when he followed me up the tower, and I had the notion he was directing my thoughts and feelings.
I set out for home in the murky early light. Small boats had begun to crowd the docks by the Molo and fishwives with brightly painted shoes hurried past me carrying their baskets. When I reached my lodgings, Finette was gone. The concierge told me he had seen a tall man in a frock coat leave the hotel, carrying a bundle under his arm. Bewildered, I went upstairs and found his note: