“I will be glad to have it, though I should never let my father see it, he would be outraged.” Damiana embraced Sophia, resting her head gently on her friend’s shoulder. “But I need no reminder of you or the times we have spent together.”
Sophia closed her eyes, leaning her head against Damiana’s. Where they were headed, she could not fathom, but this love she would take with her always.
Twenty-one
“Do you attend many wedding fetes, Signore da Fuligna?” For more than a half hour they had moseyed side by side through the crowded campo, their uncomfortable silence punctuated by the sharp flapping of the multi-colored banners and flags decorating the bricked courtyard and the heady fragrance of the flower garlands strung across each of the four arched entrances. Sophia had no wish to become familiar with her intended, cared little to learn of his previous social escapades, but she could bear the silence between them no longer.
“Not if I can help it.” Pasquale offered the short, clipped reply from between tightly drawn, thin lips. His sullen voice was almost inaudible over the laughter and conversation of the vivacious crowd and his narrow eyes were mere slits in the wrinkled flesh as he squinted against the dazzling afternoon light.
Sophia spared the taciturn man a quick glance. Pasquale’s heavily padded, emerald green doublet, intended to give a muscular cast to his silhouette, served to enhance his round, stout stature. She was surprised at the lengths he made to attempt a bella figura. For all her dislike, she had not imagined him as vain.
“It was a pleasant ceremony, don’t you think?”
With a few hundred other attendees, the unamiable couple, thrust together once more for the sake of the public appearances, had watched as the young bride and groom, brimming with the bright hope of their future, took their vows and were blessed in matrimony by the Bishop of San Paolo. Sophia and Pasquale had followed along as the entire wedding procession paraded down the Calle Madoneta, crossing a bridge of boats spanning the Grand Canal, and arriving en masse at the home of ser de l’Albero, a nobleman who had generously offered the family palazzo and its accompanying piazza as the site of the wedding party.
“Humph,” Pasquale replied with little more than a grunt.
Her obstinance, passed to her by her father, surged up in response to his lack of effort at civility. Her deep apricot gown, another recently purchased, flowed around her body in a layer of thin silk above creamy underclothes, and though the clear weather was cooler than it had been in many days, the burning rays of the sun on her exposed chest and arms scorched her, or was it just her ire?
“I hear there’ll be goose-catching later. Do you wish to take part?” Her words sounded like the taunt they were, laced with sarcasm and cutting with a sharp edge of impatience. With his physique, this man was fit for catching a cold and little else. She’d had enough of his ill manners.
“Only if I am dead,” Pasquale grumbled, his abhorrence for the frivolity of the day clear in his venomous tone.
His gaze had not once met hers as they strolled around the square; it cast about the merry crowd, but what he searched for she had no clue. Not once had he initiated conversation with her and she felt like a dog he had taken out for a walk, one that snapped and yelped at his heels.
Sophia froze, unable to take another step. Pasquale continued on a few paces before he realized Sophia no longer remained by his side. He turned back with a glare of impatience.
Sophia stared at him and his ill-disguised annoyance with complete derision. The stress born of her father’s illness and the presence of this man in her life that had simmered just below the surface boiled over and the dove she had been all her life became a hawk.
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked.
He snorted a contemptuous breath through his nose. “I don’t.”
The small, robed man raised his face to the sunlight and sent a quick thought of thanks to the good lord for its blessing. Such a cool day, the air dry and crisp, a rarity for Venice even this early in the summer season. He meant to enjoy it, opting to take the circuitous, convoluted journey home. He passed the preserved home of Emilione, the traveler Polo, who had achieved such renown for this land, and was reminded of the many wonders to behold in this home he loved so passionately.
He strolled with hands clasped comfortably behind his back, in no hurry to confine himself within the dreariness of the Servite monastery after a long day in the small, dim chamber of the Doge’s Palace. More thoughts whirled through his mind, more words he was inspired to write by the vigorous climate. They formed exquisitely in his mind, like notes he scribbled on a scale, as his sandal-clad feet shuffled along the quiet calle.
Sophia tilted her head at Pasquale as if she hadn’t heard.
“Beg pardon?”
“I. Don’t.” Pasquale’s face was devoid of emotion as he repeated his words, slowly, as if she were an idiot unable to fathom his meaning. “I do not want to marry you.”
Sophia shook her head with a bewildered gesture, slim shoulders rising toward her ears.
“Then…then, why do it?”
Pasquale laughed, but there was nothing pleasant about it.
“You are not that naïve, are you?”
He resumed his nonchalant stroll and she had no choice but to catch up with him.
“I am doing my duty, as you must. Though I must admit, there are certain benefits.”
Sophia hated herself for her own curiosity. “Benefits?”
A small, repulsive smile formed on his thin lips as he stared far off into the distance.
“Sì. Benefits for me. With this marriage, I alleviate myself of my father’s nagging, and, with your money, I may buy my intellectual freedom and all the time that I desire to pursue my interests, all my interests.”
She inhaled a sharp, ragged breath of air.
Pasquale cast his small withering stare toward her for a brief moment.
“You knew.” It was an accusation, a hissing snake of truth. “You’ve known from the beginning that I hold no love for you. That you are naught more than a means to an end.”
He turned into the still and peaceful Campo di Santa Fosca, heading toward the small Ponte della Pugna, the small stair bridge built without parapets. The sound of his flapping footwear echoed in the shadows of the three-and four-story stone buildings on either side. Here the quiet was almost overwhelming, the peace enormous. The narrow, flower-plumed balconies above his head were empty, their small tables and chairs devoid of life. Doors were shut; no one stirred beyond the small, street-level windows.
There were so many weddings today, as well as a few church celebrations, that many of Venice’s inhabitants had one party or another to attend while others had fled to their holiday villas on terra firma or Murano in an attempt to escape the fetid humidity of summertime Venice. Secretly he welcomed the quiet of these hot days, enjoying the peacefulness of a less-populated land.
He heard the sudden scuffle of footsteps and the hiss of whispered voices behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, stopped and turned. There was no one there.
A dozen dashing members of the Compagnia della Calza, along with the beautiful young women that always accompanied them, jostled by without a care, their laughter loud amidst the already boisterous revelry, twisting and jutting between Sophia and Pasquale like a stream of frivolity gushing past two hard, gray boulders. Sophia stared after these young aristocrats, noblemen too young for the Maggior Consiglio but too old for the classroom, who were a staple at every gala, tournament, and wedding in the land, effortlessly recognizable by their distinctive dress. Their grand doublets of gold filament or velvet were slit on the sleeve and facing, allowing the frill of shirt to peek out of the openings. They donned burgundy or black bonnets and pointed shoes bedecked with jewels. But it was their calza, the multi-colored, striped stockings covering their left legs from ankle to hip, that set them apart from all others. As if the flamboyant and bright plumage was their badge of distinction, this gallant and debo
nair guild was devoted to pleasure and all its public pursuits before the days of duty and discretion were thrust upon them.
Sophia couldn’t grasp their jocularity; she heard the music, saw the dancing, but it came as if from beyond her own reality. Pasquale’s pronouncement was like a death sentence. He was right; all along she’d known the truth, but to hear it said aloud, with such cruel honesty, was like an assault.
“So you are accepting of a life bereft of love, filled with…with nothing…with uncomfortable, never-ending silence?” Sophia spat at him, closed the gap between them with a few quick steps, thrusting her face to within inches of his. She had never been this close to him and it was not lost on her that their most intimate posture should erupt from antagonism.
“No, I do not accept it, nor do I have to.” Pasquale’s unfathomable expression held some secret. “Ours will not be a life of marital bliss. After the ceremony, you will take up permanent residence at my family home…in Padua.”
Sophia stepped back as if struck. He would force her to leave Murano, and the islands themselves? It was inconceivable.
“And…my family…what of them?”
Pasquale spun away with a dismissive shrug.
“Whatever women remain after your father’s passing will go to a convent, of course.” The flatness of his voice was a slapping insult all its own.
Her mouth dried up, her throat clenched a coarse swallow, fearing he knew about her father, just how imminent his death may be. No, this man, whose single care was that of himself, had always had this intent for her and her family.
She grabbed a flagon of wine from a passing servant’s tray, and gulped it down in one long swallow, the clear dolce verduzzo bright on her tongue. Wiping errant droplets of the liquid from her lips with the back of a quivering hand, she turned back to her future husband, but still she could not think of anything to say that would hurt as much as his words had wounded her.
“Don’t worry.” Pasquale glanced furtively about, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Your life will be your own. You will find happiness, I’m quite sure. You’re a beautiful woman. You will have your lovers, and I will have mine…hopefully, they will never be the same.”
Sophia’s mind screamed with his admission. She had forgotten how to breathe; the tightness clutching her lungs held her captive.
As if he saw the dawning realization in her mind, Pasquale smiled a swarthy, slippery grin. “It is your reality…accept it.”
He continued his constitutional, quickly forgetting the sounds he’d heard, or thought he’d heard. Until the first blow struck him.
His head burst with fire. Fists pummeled him. Searing, sharp pains bit at his face and neck. The assailant, no, assailants, beat him mercilessly, so many of them, they descended upon him like locusts upon the fecund field. He tried to fight back, to swing his own useless balled hands at them, but they had no effect. He was but a small man and they were beasts.
The pavement rose up to meet him. He pulled his legs in. They kicked at him now, and he gave up all pretenses at defense. He rolled himself into a ball, curling inward like the snail within its shell, trying to protect himself as best he could.
He heard strange, discordant, and guttural voices, an inharmonious concert of angry expletives and insults. Below it, moaning, the pained whimpering of an injured animal. In the groaning, he recognized his own voice.
The searing pain found him again…in his neck this time. He looked beyond his shielding arms and found his world shrouded in black and white, all prism washed out by a surreal, brilliant light that flooded his vision. This most colorful land was nothing but shades of gray, save for the vivid stain of red liquid, his blood, that spread across the pavement stones. He watched, his mind detaching, as it spread and enlarged.
Venice, his only mistress, his only lover, would this be the last he was ever to see of her? The patchwork cobblestones of the calle stretched out before him, off toward an unreachable vanishing point of salvation. It was still empty of all life; there was no one to help him.
“All I will ask of you is a son, and only one.”
Sophia studied him from the side of her almond-shaped eyes, his bluntness instigating some of her own.
“How…how old are you?”
“Hah!” Pasquale barked a laugh, and looked at her, looked closely at her for the first time in her memory. A caustic thin smile formed upon his slim lips.
They paused in awkward silence, watching as the newly-wed, happy couple circled the square through the parting, cheering crowd. The bride’s face was awash in color, pink blush upon her cheeks, brilliant, shining stars in her eyes as she beheld her new husband. They skipped along to the blaring music, arm in arm, inseparable in body, mind, and soul. Sophia could not picture herself in the young woman’s stead, as a glowing bride on the arm of her husband; she didn’t want to.
The tide of humanity and conviviality washed by them, taking their vibrancy with them and leaving a vacuum of discordant stillness behind. Sophia stared after them with unseeing eyes; listening to her own breathing, feeling the air as it rushed in and out of her flaring nostrils, but all else was numb. From beside her, Pasquale took a step or two nearer and she leaned away from him without looking in his direction. His perusal burning across her face.
“At your age, having not married,” Pasquale mused close to her ear, “or appearing to want marriage, I thought it would not matter to you. Perhaps…perhaps my assumption was made in error.”
Sophia spun round. Shrouded as the words were in vague and half-spoken meanings, she couldn’t be confident of their true intent. She searched his face, but the pale and unfamiliar features lent her no further clarification.
“What do—” Sophia broke off.
“Help!”
The high-pitched, prepubescent screech blared across the piazza and echoed off the surrounding stone walls. Most partygoers froze in their merrymaking, battered by the sound; the sight of the apparition entering the square silenced the rest.
The small, young boy ran into the middle of the campo, arms akimbo, white-faced, and sweating. His screams cut through the music and any remaining conversation.
“Someone help! They’ve tried to kill fra Sarpi.”
Twenty-two
Her eyes had been open for far too long and they felt dry as dust. Her lids scratched at them with every blink. No matter how many times Sophia had lain upon her bed, sleep remained elusive. Only the frightening images of the day had found her, haunting specters of murder attempted and unhappiness fulfilled. In the most desolate part of the night, she had relinquished the effort, rising from the feathers to sit at the oriel window, elbow on sill, head on cupped hand. She stared out into the night, watched the stars’ reflections on the canal twinkle and flicker, listening to the words over and over again with each lap of the water upon the stone.
Pasquale’s power was too hard to deny, his disdain too ingrained. He would have the life he craved, with the money her family had earned for generations, and she and they would suffer the stifling existence he intended for them. Deep within her, in that place where all humans lie naked and truthful to themselves, she was not surprised by his revelations, by his true mien and desire. She cared little for how one human being found their love or, if nothing else, their release. But this was different; he was different. The malevolent part of her soul saw him slung turpissime upon the gibbet, strung upside down between the mighty columns of the piazza in punishment for his crimes. In that admittedly unjust sentence, she would find her own freedom.
Sophia rubbed the tight muscles at the back of her head, forcing herself and her thoughts back into the light. There was a decision to be made here, one only she could make. But it was a choice between a bad situation and one equally repugnant. It was far easier to picture herself forsaking her legacy than sacrificing the lives of her mother and sisters for it.
Beyond Pasquale’s face, beyond his words of condemnation, she heard the young boy’s screams. He�
��d parted the crowd with his thrashing legs and flailing arms. Sophia watched as if in a dream as he spoke his words of horror, as the blood drained from the faces gathered round him. She had not heard if Father Sarpi lived or not. Within seconds of the distraught urchin’s appearance, Pasquale had grabbed her roughly by the arm, escorted her to the family’s gondola waiting at the water’s edge, and left her. Sophia closed her eyes; alive or not she would pray for the man so greatly admired by so many Venetians, a man clearly a friend and supporter of Galileo’s and, therefore, a friend of hers.
When she opened her eyes again, dawn’s first pale light tickled the horizon, pink streaks of the sun’s rays reaching out over the earth’s curve like the delicate strokes of God’s caressing fingers. It would be another warm day. Her empty stomach gurgled and she almost laughed at the peculiar rumbling sound. She stood, donned her thin wrap, and headed for the kitchen.
The house lay still and fuzzy in the gray blanket of a newborn day and she tiptoed on bare feet down the stairs, through the large dining room, and into the kitchen. Shelf after shelf of mismatched jars filled with exotic scented spices stood amid colorful herb bunches hanging inverted from small iron pegs stuck in the walls.
Her hair stuck out at odd angles, half in and half out of the pinned gathering at the nape of her neck, and she squinted into the dark through swollen, puffy eyes. Sophia peeked into the wooden box in the corner on the counter, found a few leftover pieces of bread from the day before, and popped a bit of them into her mouth happily, feeling as if she’d discovered hidden treasure.
“What are you doing up so early, cara?”
“Merda!” Sophia cursed with a gasp, dropping the piece of bread in her hand, and whirling around.
“Sophia, language, please.” Her mother frowned at her.
The Secret of the Glass Page 22