by Roberta Rich
But if he bolted now, one shout from Assunta and a crowd eager for the entertainment of tearing a man limb from limb would descend upon him. The courtyard of the tavern teemed with rough-looking sailors determined to get as drunk as possible before they were called back to their ships.
Sister Assunta pushed back her wimple to show more of her broad forehead. “Show him some charity,” she said to Joseph. “He has suffered a great deal.”
Giorgio put in, “I am suffering, too—from a terrible thirst, which only a flagon of malmsey wine can quench.”
Isaac stared at the fruit Joseph held in the basket. “One orange, and I will help you with your goods.” He gestured to the travois. “I will load this canvas onto the Salvatorre while you enjoy a drink.” Isaac sniffed the air. The man smelled no better than the last time he had seen him, at the auction.
“You look too starved to lift anything heavier than a baby’s rattle,” said Joseph.
“Or a sack of horse feathers,” said his brother, and then convulsed with laughter at his own wit.
Louts. Illiterate swine. Then Isaac had an idea. “I am not too puny to lift a quill.”
Joseph frowned. Giorgio’s face assumed a puzzled expression common to the none-too-bright.
“I could not help overhearing you,” said Isaac. “I can read and write. Shall I pen a letter for you to your lady? Give me an orange and I will give you the benefit of my experience in matters of the heart.”
“You insulted me at the auction in front of a crowd of men and now you want to write love letters in exchange for oranges? What kind of a fool do you take me for?” Joseph took Giorgio’s arm and started to yank him in the direction of the tavern. “This basket is for the captain of the Salvatorre.”
Assunta put a hand on Joseph’s arm. “A slave who can read and write would be useful in your business. He can also reckon and keep books of account.” She grabbed the bridle of Joseph’s horse, which was shifting its weight uneasily from one hoof to the other. “Fifteen scudi and he is yours. If you do not like him, then sell him to someone else.”
“Take him away before he steals our fruit,” Giorgio said. “You think my brother wants an infidel any more than you do?”
“He is an infidel with a special talent,” said Assunta.
“Tell me,” Isaac said, “what are the circumstances of your courtship?”
Giorgio spoke up with unexpected spirit. “My brother has asked for the hand of a woman in marriage, but she will not have him.”
Joseph shot his brother a look.
“A delicate undertaking, wooing a woman, as I know only too well,” said Isaac. His fatigue suddenly lessened. “My own wife, may her name be exalted, was a hard-won prize. Our courtship required many letters.” This was a lie, but he had a developed gift for dissembling. “In fact, all successful courtships involve letters.”
The two men and Sister Assunta stared at him.
Joseph whirled on Giorgio. “Why do you blab my business to everyone within earshot?” To Isaac he said, “Keep your nose out of my porridge. It is none of your business.”
“Of course it is my business. Are we not both men? Do we all not require wives to bear us children and please us in bed?” He thought of Hannah and wished for both their sakes that she had fulfilled the first condition as well as she had the second. “Let me guess the reason for your rejection. The lady in question thinks you too poor? She does not like your character? She finds you idle?” Isaac took a breath. “Or perhaps she finds your person offensive?”
There was a long pause, and then Giorgio nudged Joseph in the ribs. “Answer him. Maybe he can help.”
“I have another enterprise in addition to providing labour for galleys,” Joseph said. “Apart from furnishing ships with slaves, I am also a maker of canvas cloth for sails. To treat the cloth, I use sheep piss. She claims I reek of it. Her eye is on a carpenter. A puny whelp with a huge head.” He wobbled his own head back and forth to illustrate. “Everybody’s got to stink of something. He stinks of wood shavings and rabbit-skin glue. You, Sister”—he looked at Assunta—“no disrespect, but you have about you the odour of onions and sheep hides. It is normal. We all reek of our trade.”
Just then the breeze shifted; Isaac felt his eyes burn and his bile rise. It was like walking into the arsehole of a camel. “Stench should be no impediment to your love,” he declared, then paused, conscious especially of Assunta’s eyes on him. “There is an expression, you may have heard it: ‘The more the ram stinks, the more the ewe loves him.’ ”
Giorgio and Assunta chuckled.
“But not in the case of this woman, it seems, whose name is … ?” prompted Isaac.
“Gertrudis.” Joseph breathed the name with a reverent sigh, as though speaking of the Holy Virgin.
Assunta caught Isaac’s eye and shook her head in a way that seemed to ask, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
A donkey cart clattered by, stacked with timber pilings.
Isaac turned to Joseph. “Give Sister Assunta her fifteen scudi and I will write a letter that will thaw the coldest heart.”
“You talk rubbish,” Joseph said, but he rested his basket of fruit on the travois.
Isaac did not hesitate. “You will see. The fair Gertrudis will come to love you ardently.”
Assunta motioned Isaac out of Joseph’s earshot. Leaning over, she whispered in his ear, “Our friend Joseph has as much chance of winning this woman’s hand as a baboon has of standing on his hind legs and whistling a sea chanty. She is the handsome widow who gave me five scudi yesterday.”
“My benefactress, but yes.” Isaac grimaced. “I see what you mean, Sister.”
They returned to Joseph and his brother.
Giorgio tugged at Joseph’s sleeve. “Come, I need some refreshment to settle the dust in my throat. Gertrudis is a high-flying bird of paradise, well beyond your reach.”
Joseph reached into the waistband of his breeches and extracted a tattered leather purse. He handed three coins over to Assunta, averting his eyes as though he could not bear to see them pass from his possession to hers.
“I hope I do not regret this transaction, Sister. If he dies, I will have wasted my money.”
Assunta placed the coins in the pocket of her serge habit. “Goodbye, Isaac. I wish you luck. If Joseph treats you badly, and he will, come back to the convent and we will discuss the salvation of your soul.” She turned and started toward the docks, and calling over her shoulder, she added, “Joseph, treat him gently. Even an infidel is one of God’s creatures.
“One more thing, Isaac,” Assunta said, motioning him over. “The man who represents your society for the ransom of captives is named Hector—a tall man, with a head that would be handsome if attached to a horse. You will find him near the dock most days or hovering around the cells beneath the Grand Master’s palace. He wears breeches too short for him.”
“It is he who is charged with arranging my ransom?”
Assunta pinched his thin upper arm so hard he flinched. “If you do not starve first.”
Hector. A felicitous name. A strong name. Isaac felt ready to write a dozen letters, tan a dozen sheets of parchment. If only he could keep alive for a few weeks, and receive Hector’s assistance, his rescue was assured.
He walked over to where Joseph and Giorgio were standing and clapped Joseph on the back. Isaac wasted no time. “Come, Joseph, and let us get started. You must tell me all about your lady love.” Isaac shuddered inwardly. “Together, we will plot the quickest way to her heart.”
“I warn you, Isaac. If you do not succeed in winning her for me, then—you see that galley ship?” Joseph pointed to the harbour, where a sleek vessel about forty braccio in length bobbed on its lines. “That is your destiny.” He jabbed a hard finger into Isaac’s chest.
Isaac nodded, a queasy feeling coming to his stomach that had nothing to do with the fact he had not eaten a morsel since the sliver of apple in Assunta’s kitchen that morning.
> “Pen your words well, my friend. You have a month to win Gertrudis. If not, that galley casts off with you tied to an oar.” Joseph tossed him an orange.
“And if I succeed in winning her heart, you shall grant me my freedom?”
Joseph looked thoughtful for a moment, or as thoughtful as a man like him was capable of looking. “It is only fair,” he acknowledged. Then he grasped the horse’s bridle and he and Giorgio continued down the road.
Isaac could pluck words from the air as easily as a conjurer could pluck an egg from behind the ear of a child. But would his words be sufficient to win the heart of the handsome Gertrudis for this oaf of a man?
He peeled the skin off the orange. The oil made his fingers slick. He broke off a section of the fruit and popped it in his mouth, but the flesh tasted bitter and he took no pleasure from it.
CHAPTER 8
HANNAH PUSHED ASIDE the curtain of the felze and peered out into the grey fog. The gondola was nearing the Rio di Ghetto. She slung her bag over her shoulder and considered what to do about the missing birthing spoons. She had no wish to return to the palazzo. If Giovanna had taken them, the Conte, who had been so sympathetic and kind to her, would compel her to give them back when he sent her to return Hannah’s shadai. It would be a simple matter, she told herself, trying not to think of other possible outcomes.
The gondolier pulled alongside the pier just outside the ghetto. He wound a line around the mooring pole and then handed her onto the dock.
As Hannah walked along, careful to avoid bundles of decaying refuse and the tossed contents of chamber pots on the Fondamenta, she thought she heard the voice she had been forbidden to listen to, forbidden even to think of, a voice the Rabbi had declared no longer existed—Jessica’s. She was certain it was her younger sister, singing a madrigal, melodious as a lute in the soft air of dawn. Hannah had often seen Jessica from a distance on the Calle della Masena, just outside the ghetto gates, but they had not dared to speak to or acknowledge each other.
The hair on Hannah’s arms stood up as she listened to the voice. Perhaps the dense fog was deceiving her. She had not slept in hours; fatigue blurred her vision and addled her mind. But there, it came again. Louder this time, and closer, and she could not help but rush toward it.
The voice was identical to Jessica’s, but the singing figure before her was a young boy dressed in a sapphire-coloured waistcoat, embroidered breeches, and a cap of blue velvet. He wore a plain black morello made of papier mâché to cover his eyes and nose.
As Hannah drew closer, she said, “Please excuse me. I mistook you for someone else.”
She was about to step away when the boy caught her arm.
“Hannah? Do you not recognize me?”
This time there could be no doubt. It was Jessica’s voice, with its slight lisp. Hannah watched as the slender form reached up and snatched off the blue cap with a quick motion, releasing a flood of dark hair. Then, she removed her mask.
“Do you not know your own sister? Have I made such a good job of my disguise? You, my darling Hannah, are instantly recognizable in your blue cioppà with a scarf over your pretty hair.” Jessica smiled, displaying a dimple as delicate as the tip of an angel’s wing.
Suddenly Hannah felt rested enough to face the future, to deliver a dozen more babies, to stay up a dozen more nights. She hugged her sister, younger by five years than her, burying her nose in Jessica’s hair.
“Not a day passes that I do not think of you and wonder how you are.” She wanted to say, I love you, Jessica. I always have, even when you ran away from the ghetto. She longed to tell Jessica everything that had happened to her that night, but she held her tongue. Instead, she asked, “Why are you dressed as a page?”
“I’m returning from a party at a palazzo on the Grand Canal and am on my way home.”
Hannah had heard of costume parties where Christians dressed like the characters from the Commedia dell’Arte—Pulcinello, Pedrolino, Harlequin, and Brighella. Was Jessica now so Christian that she enjoyed such diversions? It seemed impossible, yet here she was, her satin breeches catching the glow of the lantern.
“It was a masquerade?”
“Not exactly,” said Jessica. “I was the only woman in costume. Some older men adore young boys. Many prefer them to pretty young women.”
Hannah nodded, but without comprehension.
Jessica lowered her voice and drew Hannah into the shadow of a building. “The men fear the sodomy laws.”
“I do not understand.” Sodomy. Hannah had only a vague notion of what the word meant.
“I am a cortigiana, Hannah. You must have heard. There are thousands like me in Venice competing for the same wealthy protectors. We all need a speciality, and dressing as a handsome youth in tight breeches is mine.” She hooked her thumbs in the lapels of her satin jacket and gave a little bow. “I permit men to have the pleasure of the experience without the commission of the crime. The penalty for sodomy is fifty ducats for the first charge, if you are a cittidini. If you are noble, then it is …” Jessica made a sweeping motion with two fingers across her throat. “You can find me listed in Il Catalogo, should you care to look—my address, prices, and specialities—along with all the other honest courtesans in Venice. There is even a flattering miniature of me in tempera.” She gave her sister a sly grin, but Hannah looked away. “You are very poor at concealing your emotions. I can see that my talk pains you.”
Of course she had known Jessica was a courtesan, but not the details of her occupation. The thought of her having to please men by performing acts that should be done only between husband and wife made Hannah blush. “There is no need to speak of this.”
“I am a courtesan, not a whore,” Jessica responded. “I do not stroll the calli of Castello letting men take me against the wall of the Alms House.”
It took an act of will for Hannah not to put her hands to her ears.
“Dio mio,” Jessica said, fanning herself. “I have drunk too much wine.” Unbuttoning her waistcoat, she revealed a shirt underneath, cut low to expose her breasts, between which hung a gold crucifix.
Hannah did not know what shocked her more, the mention of Jessica’s profession or the cross around her sister’s neck.
“How do you expect me to keep myself, Hannah?” She winked. “Someday, when my waist thickens and no one desires me, I will live as I please. I will not end up destitute like so many others of my kind. I have properties in Castello and a pile of gemstones.” She paused. “I could even marry if I wanted. A substantial dowry goes a long way in making a good match.”
Hannah opened her mouth to reply, but Jessica went on, “Do not worry about me. I have planned my future like a general amassing a war chest.”
“Isaac took me without a dowry,” Hannah said. “Without anything except my wooden cassone packed with a pair of candlesticks and a lace coverlet from Aunt Zeta.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she regretted them.
A look of irritation passed over Jessica’s face. “Isaac is a rare creature. Generous, a head for business, handsome …”
Hannah pressed her hand to her mouth in an effort to stop her tears.
“Hannah, what is wrong? And what on earth are you doing here in the early hours of the morning? Venice is filled with ruffians, lumbering pigs, all of whom would be eager to undo you.” Jessica wiped Hannah’s cheek with the back of her hand.
“Isaac has been taken as a slave. He is in Malta.”
“I had not heard. Oh, Anni, I am so sorry.” She touched the cross at her throat. “May God return him to your bed soon, healthy and whole.”
Hannah then told Jessica about her lonely nights and her anxiety about Isaac. She wished they were somewhere private instead of standing on the Fondamenta, where any early morning passer-by could spot them. She drew Jessica by the arm into a nearby doorway.
“Every gossip in the ghetto knows some terrible story of a Jew who perished in Malta and cannot wait to tell me the details. I am out of my
mind with worry.”
“I have heard the stories too, but take heart—Isaac is a resourceful man. Quick of tongue, and clever.”
Hannah’s shoulders shook with sobs. “He will make an enemy of everyone he meets. It is his nature to be quicktempered.”
“Except with you,” Jessica said.
“No, to me as well. We fought in the week before he left. I begged him not to leave for the Levant. I said nothing good would come of it.” She drew the Conte’s cloak closer around her.
“Listen to me. Isaac adores you. I used to see him waiting for you to emerge from bathing in the mikvah, all clean and pure and ready for his caresses. He knows that you love him. You proved it every day of your marriage.” She gave Hannah a hug and whispered, “Men forgive everything in bed. When you are snuggled in his arms, he will replace those ugly words with sweet and tender ones.”
“Not if I get to Malta and find him dead.” The dawn was so cold Hannah could see her breath in the air. “After you left to study for your conversion, I languished in bed for fourteen days and fourteen nights without eating.”
Jessica stroked her hand. “At the House of Catechumens, each morning the nuns wrung out my pillow, soaked with tears from longing for you. I even missed Rabbi Ibraiham and his foul herring breath. That is how lonesome I was.” She pointed to the hem of Hannah’s dress showing under the Conte’s cloak. “You have not told me what brings you out so early. And … there is blood on your clothing.”
Hannah pulled Jessica by the sleeve of her waistcoat deeper into the shelter of the doorway and whispered, “A confinement, in a palazzo on the Grand Canal.”
“A Christian confinement? You are jesting!” A look of amazement came over her features. “You? The little ghetto mouse? You tell me you have violated a Papal Edict? You could be brought before the Court of the Inquisition!”