by Roberta Rich
“It looks like a very fine letter to me. See how neat and evenly spaced the writing? And the angels above could not have fashioned smoother parchment.”
“Do not pretend you are illiterate. I have seen you scrivening in the square. It is not the quality of the penmanship or the composition that irks me. I do not fancy Joseph and I do not want his letters. Convey that message to him for me.” She turned toward the door, but seemed reluctant to leave.
How could he stir the ember of desire in Gertrudis’s heart? If he could only move her to give the man a second glance, Joseph would set him free and he would steal aboard the next ship for Venice.
“Joseph admires you as he admires no one else in the world. You will never find such a man as him. Do not throw away a chance for happiness.”
“And who do you think you are,” she demanded, “to offer such misguided advice so freely?”
He kicked aside a mountain of canvas and bowed as best he could. “Just another poor slave washed ashore on this island.” He had been about to say on this miserable shore but thought better of it. She was Maltese and must love her birthplace as much as he loved Venice. “Isaac Levi, at your service.”
“You look half-starved.” She reached into the rush basket she carried over her arm and handed him a loaf of bread. “I wager Joseph is not as generous in sharing his victuals as he is in tossing about words of love.”
Isaac took the bread gratefully and tore off a hunk with his teeth. The loaf was fresh and fragrant, still warm from the bakery.
She studied him as he ate. “You are Venetian, are you not? You make our poor Maltese dialect sound almost elegant.”
He nodded, chewing slowly to make the bread last.
She glanced at his prayer shawl. “You are a Jew?”
Isaac nodded again.
Gertrudis bunched up her long skirt and cast about for a place to sit. She saw a stool in the corner, hooked a foot around it, and dragged it toward her. “This letter is the product of your bleeding hands, is it not?” Gertrudis gestured toward the letter, which Isaac had placed on the sails.
“I penned it, yes. Joseph’s handwriting is not the best because his eyesight is failing him. But the composition is entirely his. A bit florid, but heartfelt, I assure you.” He regretted his lies before they were out of his mouth. Someday God would punish him. Right now he needed Gertrudis’s help. He read her the letter.
“Joseph could no more scribe this letter than could one of my pigs. The sentiments expressed are beautiful. Coming from another man I might find them welcome.”
She eyed Isaac with such frankness that he was shamed by his own duplicity. Then she stood and rummaged in a heap of debris in the corner of the workshop. She fished out a scrap of canvas and smoothed it out over a pine board she found lying on the floor and placed on her lap. Then she stared at Isaac for so long, and without the least reticence, that it was as though he was an object rather than a man. She held up her thumb and forefinger, measuring the proportions of his face.
“You have an interesting countenance.”
He felt his face grow hot. He concentrated on eating the bread.
She propped the door open with a stone from the street and sun flooded into the shop. From her bag, she took out a black-smudged scrap of linen and unrolled it. She retrieved a piece of willow-wood charcoal and began to sketch.
Isaac had seen artists sketch before. Tintoretto’s workshop was just outside the gates of the ghetto on the Fondamenta della Sensa. It was common on hot days to see apprentices squatting on the sidewalk, roughing out drawings of biblical scenes on stretched canvas. But never had Isaac seen anyone, never mind a woman, sketch with such sure, rapid strokes.
So absorbed was she in her task that her hand flew over the canvas. From time to time, she paused and scrubbed at her drawing with the scrap of linen. She peered intently from him to her canvas and back again, as though watching a ball being tossed back and forth.
Isaac did not know where to look, so great was his embarrassment. He continued jabbing at the canvas sail with his needle. “There is no sense in drawing a half-starved slave. Joseph is a handsome man with strong features. He is the one you want to draw, not me.” He strained to see the sketch, but she moved it out of reach.
“I would rather sketch a toad.”
She worked for a few minutes more and then turned the drawing around so he could see the charcoal outline. He saw his own long, serious face—dark eyes with pronounced eyelids, cheeks hollowed out by hunger, a sensual mouth that he did not recognize as his own, and a beard covering his square jaw. In her drawing, Isaac bore an unsettling resemblance to an altarpiece he had glimpsed through the open door of a church in Venice. It was a portrait of a majestic Moses receiving the commandments.
“You flatter me,” he said.
“I have drawn you—a portrait of you exactly as you are. Would you like to have it?”
She took up another scrap of canvas and carefully placed it on top of the first. Careful not to rub the two together, she rolled them up into a scroll. She fiddled with the blue ribbon in her hair until it came unfastened and her hair drifted down her shoulders. Isaac had a fleeting image of her tousled and fragrant from sleep, rising from her bed in the morning. As quickly as the thought came, he willed it from his mind.
She wound the ribbon around the scroll and tied it with a knot. Thrusting the scroll into his hand, she said, “For you, to remember your sojourn on this island—and,” she added, “me.” Then she tucked her skirt around her and settled back down on the stool in front of him. “Now you must do something for me.” She leaned forward. “I wish you to pen a letter.”
Isaac had a sinking feeling he knew what the letter would be. Once he had arranged his writing materials, he said, “To whom shall I address the letter?”
“Begin thus: ‘Joseph … though I am flattered by the honour you pay me by asking for my hand in marriage, I must decline and ask you not to write to me again.’ ”
Isaac raised his quill from the parchment. How could he convince her to love that wretched creature? “Would it advance Joseph’s cause if I told you he is a good man and has a flourishing business making sails and provisioning ships?”
“No.”
“What if I said Joseph is humorous and witty and will keep you merry all the days of your life?”
“I would say that you are a shameless liar.”
“What if I told you he is virile, with the equipment of a young bull?”
“Even if you were as glib as a hawker at the market and described Joseph as a veritable Adonis, your words would not persuade me. If the Virgin descended from the heavens and ordered me to wed Joseph I would refuse. He reeks of sheep piss. There is only one man who might please me,” she continued, “but he does not appear to be interested.”
Isaac hesitated, wondering whether to say out loud what was on his mind. After all, she was the woman who at the slave auction had stepped out of the crowd and given Sister Assunta the five scudi to buy him from Joseph.
“What if I told you my freedom rested on your succumbing to his charms?”
Gertrudis looked at him, searching his face. “You are jesting.”
“Does a sailor on a storm-tossed sea beseech in jest for God to save him?”
“Do all Jews reply to a question with another question?”
“Is there a reason they should not?”
Gertrudis gave a laugh that seemed to issue from deep within her. She had the longest eyelashes he had ever seen, fringing eyes as blue as the wild berries that grew on the outskirts of Valletta. How could that lout have thought they were brown?
Isaac swallowed his pride and said, “I see it is for nothing that I plead Joseph’s cause, but for my sake, could you pretend to love him until I am free? Once I am gone, you can throw him in a pot and make soup of him for all I care.”
“Why should your fate matter a whit to me?” She spoke in a teasing, flirty way that made him wish he were anywhere but close to
her.
“I have a loving wife waiting for me in Venice. I will do anything within my power to reach her,” he said.
“She must be the envy of many a woman.”
Isaac looked to see if her mouth curved into an ironic smile, but she appeared to be serious. He felt impossibly thin and miserable, but perhaps he had not lost all his looks. He was certain he had jumped to the wrong conclusion, but no, there was that glance from her again.
He hoped he could trust her. “I understand you cannot pretend to surrender your heart to Joseph—but can you find me a boat? You must know someone with a skiff. You see, with a boat I could row out to one of the ships anchored in the harbour and, under the cloak of night, sneak aboard.”
Gertrudis shook her head. “Many slaves have tried such a trick, but few have succeeded. Why not wait until you are ransomed?”
He felt the blood rise to his face. He would not admit to her that his fellow Jews could not come to his aid. “A few scudi? And an oar? It is not so much to ask.”
She considered the matter. “My cousin might have a boat I could lay my hands on, but I have something to ask of you in return.”
“Whatever is in my power, it shall be yours,” he said.
“Pen me a letter so fine it will win the heart of this man I am besotted with. And if it is good enough, and if I give it to him, and if he falls in love with me, then I will find you a sturdy boat. To show I am well and truly grateful, I will pay for your passage on a merchant vessel back to Venice.”
“A very generous offer.” But Isaac was puzzled. “I now think you are jesting. You are far too good for the men of Malta, who as far as I can tell are no better than uncircumcised dogs.”
She grinned, and he cursed himself for mentioning circumcision. It had not occurred to him before, but Christian women must be curious about such things. It was only natural.
“Meet me in a week’s time in the little cove south of the harbour. I will bring my cousin’s skiff. Bring my letter and I shall give it to the recipient on the spot. Then the moon and the stars and a goatskin of wine will do the rest.”
“May I know the name of this most fortunate of men?”
Gertrudis placed her hand in his and gave it a terrifying squeeze.
CHAPTER 16
AFTERNOON SHADOWS STRETCHED across the dining-room table as Hannah and Jessica sat eating turnip soup. A sack of limp lettuce and celery sagged in the corner where Jessica had tossed it when she returned from the market.
Hannah had heard the door creak open at dawn when Jessica arrived home from the theatre. Her sister had wearily collapsed into bed next to her. When Matteo awoke and whimpered from a dream, Jessica reached over and jiggled him until he returned to sleep. The three of them slept fitfully until a neighbour’s rooster crowed. Then Jessica had gone out marketing, returning home a while later. Now, from across the table, she gazed at Hannah, as dewy and fresh as though she had slept for hours.
She said, “There is hardly a house between here and the Rialto market that is untouched by the plague. All households struck must paint the sign of the cross on their doors as a warning to others.”
“So this is your brilliant idea? That we paint a cross on the door? You think Jacopo will be deceived by such a ruse?” asked Hannah.
“We must do something other than sit here and fret. Niccolò’s disappearance is talked of in the streets. Jacopo will avenge his death,” Jessica said. “Hurry up and finish your soup. We must prepare ourselves.”
Hannah sipped her soup while trying to ignore the bleating of the goat in the garden outside the window. Last night, when Jessica was at the theatre and Matteo was bawling like a hungry calf, Hannah had run out of the house and stolen a she-goat. If she had not had the good fortune to find the creature, she would have been forced to give pap to Matteo. After dragging the goat home and milking it, she had held a milk-soaked rag to Matteo’s lips. He stopped crying, opened his mouth, and began to suck vigorously. When he had drunk his fill a look of contentment played over his face, and she hugged him so fiercely she could feel the sloshing of the milk in his belly. He squirmed and she released her grip, rubbing his back in slow, rhythmic circles until he rewarded her efforts with a loud burp.
Now Jessica turned to the sound of the bleating in the garden. “I know that things must smell of whatever they must smell of. Canals reek of waste. Chamber pots reek of piss. And so it follows that goats smell like goats, but Mother of God, it is awful.” Jessica set down her bowl and wiped her mouth with a cloth. “Come, let us be as far from that goat as possible.”
Hannah followed Jessica up the stairs to her bedchamber with Matteo in her arms.
Plaster cherubs peeked down from the ceiling with round, bright eyes as Jessica assembled soot scraped from the hearth, rancid olive oil, turmeric, garlic, and onions. The nanny goat had, without encouragement, provided all the dung required and more. Jessica lined up her array of pots of creams, hair dyes made of lye, unguents, powders, and lotions, all part of her arsenal of professional tools.
Hannah’s head was throbbing. “I will paint the cross, may God not take notice and strike me dead.” The ruse would not succeed, but to occupy herself with a task was preferable to doing nothing while awaiting Jacopo’s arrival. She ran downstairs and scrawled a cross on the door with a piece of blackened ember from the hearth. When she returned to her sister’s bedchamber, Jessica was sitting on the bed.
Jessica announced, “We will begin with Matteo.” She picked up the baby and chucked him under his chin. “I like you better now that you are not crying, but”—Jessica giggled—“I do not know who smells worse, that goat or this baby.”
“He is soiled. I will remove his swaddling bands.” Hannah took fresh strips of linen from her bag and laid the child on the bed. She loosened the soiled cloth and put it to one side, noting, as she always did, his uncircumcised penis resting like a blind worm between his legs. As she bent over him, the shadai dangled from her neck, and he reached for it with waving hands.
Jessica looked over Hannah’s shoulder at the naked baby. “A few more days of goat’s milk and his little cheeks will be round again.” She gave Matteo a smile as she gazed down on him. “If only you do not start bleating like that wretched goat and nibbling my peonies, eh? Will you promise me, you naughty boy?”
“Where shall we start?” asked Hannah.
“Right here. We will experiment.”
Hannah placed a clean cloth under Matteo. His hand curled to his cheek and he gurgled and cooed, moving his freed legs and arms.
Jessica stirred a small pot of liquid with a stick, and then added an oily substance to it, drop by drop. “This is the pus,” she said, holding up the stirring stick coated with a yellow, viscous fluid. “Let us hope Jacopo does not get close enough to detect the smell of mustard.”
Hannah wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I have never seen more convincing, reeking stuff. You are a gifted compounder, better than any apothecary in Venice.” She bent over Matteo. “I will lift his chin so you can spread your paste on his throat, armpits, and groin.”
As Jessica applied the paste, Hannah recited from the Book of Job:
My flesh is clothed with rottenness and the filth of dust,
My skin is withered and drawn together,
In the night my bone is pierced with sorrows—
“For the love of God, be quiet,” Jessica said. “That is not what I want to hear.”
Using a cloth, she smeared the tiny body. Matteo struggled under Hannah’s grip, waving his arms in protest at the cold paste.
Holding his legs apart so Jessica could paint his groin area, Hannah said, “The smell is enough to drive away the Angel of Death herself.” She angled her head toward the open window to take a breath.
“Now some of the arsenic paste on his face to turn him white.” Jessica brought over a new jar and began working on the child’s rosy cheeks. “Then affix a portion of this eggshell to his armpit. Plaster it to him with this muck. It will
resemble the black swelling that typifies the pestilence.” Jessica made soothing noises at Matteo and started to sing a lullaby.
Hannah did as instructed, wiping more ointment on the child, and then stood back to admire her handiwork. Matteo was the very image of the Black Death. She shuddered. She had seen the corpse of such a child once, tossed on a barge floating under the Ponte delle Guglie on its way to Lazaro Island for burial.
Jessica stopped singing. “Hannah, suppose …”
“What?”
Jessica hesitated. “Suppose that by painting Matteo with buboes we cause him to contract the plague? Suppose the Angel of Death believes Matteo truly has the plague and carries him off?”
“Did you relinquish your brains when you abandoned your religion? You are thinking like a Christian.” Hannah put down the stick she had been using to spread the ointment on Matteo and looked at Jessica. “The Angel of Death will believe he is already infected and, thinking her work is complete, will pass over him. Besides, the Angel of Death is already satiated. Last night the barges scraped the bottom of the Rio della Sensa, they were so overloaded with corpses. Why would she trouble herself with one more baby? Worry instead about Jacopo.”
Hannah reached for the pail of goat’s milk next to the bed and began to feed Matteo using the now-familiar method of dipping the rag in the pail and then putting it to his lips. When he had had enough, his eyes drifted closed and he snored peacefully, oblivious to his hideous appearance.
“An angel in devil’s attire,” she remarked as she drew a blanket over him, careful not to disturb the ointments and eggshell on his groin. “We need a knife, Jessica. Fetch one.”
Jessica put down her pot and returned a few moments later with a knife, which she handed to her sister. “Hannah, I have made a lucrative career of pretending emotions I do not feel and saying things I do not believe. But I cannot kill a man.”
Hannah, remembering the sound of knife on bone in the abattoir, trembled. “I will place the knife under the bed pillow.” Could she do it again? Attack a man like a creature possessed by the devil?