The Legacy of Grazia dei Rossi

by Jacqueline Park

  It was a stern warning but not an unkind one, and the passenger took it in that spirit.

  “Thank you, Captain,” Danilo said. “I am grateful for your advice and I mean to follow it.”

  “Good.” The captain patted him on the shoulder. “By the way, try not to be caught with that weapon you have so poorly concealed in your waistband. This is Venice, boy, a city of suspicion, skullduggery, and deception. There is a metal box on a pole in every campo inviting citizens to drop in reports of strangers who look to be carrying weapons, with substantial rewards offered. And, believe me, you do not want to find out what will happen if you are taken over the bridge to the Doge’s dungeon. Not for nothing do they call it the Bridge of Sighs.”

  Then, fearing that he had not made his point well enough, he took his charge by the shoulders and shook him, not roughly but firmly. “Understand, Signor dei Rossi, once you step off this vessel you no longer have me to watch over you; once I have fulfilled my commitment I have no stake in what happens to you. But you have behaved well on this journey and I wish you Godspeed.”

  All very well. But not having set foot on Venetian ground since his parents carried him away to Rome as an infant, Danilo had no familiarity with the city. Where better could he conceivably melt into the crowd than in the town’s main piazza?

  “If I may not walk into the Piazza San Marco, where shall I go?” he asked.

  The captain had a ready answer. “When you leave the ship, I suggest you walk along the Grand Canal with your head down until you come to the gondola jetty. That way —” with a vague gesture to his right. “There you can ask to be taken to the Rialto. That is where you will find the stalls for strazzaria. You will also find your countrymen. The Jews have a monopoly on the sale of second-hand goods in Venice, and they will sell you an outfit that a well-to-do Italian merchant’s son would be wearing. You can tell the Jewish stalls by the striped pole at their doors. They may even give you a good price for your fancy jacket. I hear you Jews stick together. Come to think of it, you may want to go through the Cannaregio district from the Rialto to the old foundry. That is where the Jews live now. They still call it the ghetto vecchio.”

  “I know it,” Danilo told him.

  “You’ve been there?”

  “I was born there.”

  “You were born in the ghetto? Well, then, this is something of a homecoming for you, is it not?”

  “I left there at a very early age,” Danilo replied.

  “Even so, you are returning to your birthplace. You are coming home.”

  And, seeming very pleased to have found such a happy ending to their long journey together, Captain Loredano made for his ship, only to turn back halfway there and add, “For God’s sake, boy, do not go into the piazza dressed in those Ottoman clothes. Any man of sense knows that if a spy were sent by the Sultan to steal Venetian naval plans, he would hardly be wearing a pair of Turkish pants. But the spy catchers of Venice are hardly men of good sense, and any one of them might easily see his advantage in arresting such a person in hopes of collecting a reward. By the way, don’t even think of walking to the Rialto. Hire a gondola to take you there. And don’t try to economize by engaging an open craft, even though they come cheaper. Get yourself one with heavy felse at the sides. That way, if you sit back in the seat, the canopy and the curtains will hide you from curious eyes.”

  And, finally the captain whirled away into the bowels of his ship with a quick bona fortuna, leaving his young passenger to find his own way to the Rialto.

  Ahead of Danilo lay the Piazza San Marco, forbidden territory. Behind him flowed the broad expanse of the Grand Canal. That left him only two choices, right or left. He was about to flip a coin when he recalled the captain’s gesture. Left it would be. Within a few moments he came upon a clutch of gondolas bobbing up and down beside a short pier. The price for the journey was, as Captain Loredano had warned him, steep. But the captain’s warnings had made their impact on his passenger. He did not hesitate to open his purse to pay the gondolier fifteen gold ducats for a ride to the Rialto under cover of the heavy curtains, which did indeed shield him from curious eyes as long as he sat far back in the canopied chair in the center of the craft.

  But the canopy also prevented him from seeing the line of Venetian landmarks that bordered the fabled Grand Canal as they were extolled in a sing-song by the gondolier.

  “Ca Foscari, Palazzo dell’Ambasciatore, Ca Vendramin-Calergi, Palazzo Giustiniani. . .” The boatman called the names as if singing a lyric, names that conjured up visions of elegance and romance so intriguing that his passenger could not keep himself from sticking his head out between the felse to catch a glimpse of the renowned palaces of the Canal Grande. For this bold move he was rewarded with the sight of a shoreline faced with a line of structures so elegant, so imposing that they left him convinced that the sight of them had been worth the risk.

  It wasn’t as if he had been catapulted into this great city after a lifetime in the provinces. He had, after all, in his early years lived with his mother among the great Roman palaces. But at that young age styles in architecture held a low place among the objects of his interest — far below armor and weapons and horses and playing fields and arenas.

  Later, in Istanbul, his eyes had become accustomed to the Ottoman residences built along the Bosphorus after the Turks made the venerable city of Constantinople their capital. Even to the untrained eye, the wooden villas that the Ottomans had built on the shores of the Bosphorus, three stories high at most and cozily aproned by capacious wooden balconies jutting out over the water, could not match the stately palaces that the Venetian plutocrats had planted in the murky depths of the lagoon — each one simply called, with suitably arrogant modesty, a casa or ca in the local dialect.

  So, yes, these Venetian “houses” were new to Danilo’s eyes. Most of them were built entirely with gleaming Istrian marble, each one floating like a stone pontoon on its deeply sunk wooden foundations. There they stood, not a single one of them undistinguished, rendered majestic by their courses of vaulted marble columns and tall gothic windows separated by carved-out niches inhabited by sculptured figures. They were not alike in detail, yet all similar enough to create a perfectly harmonious shoreline, each casa featuring a decorated portal and each canal water gate displaying a sufficient number of striped poles at the portal to moor a fleet of gondolas if need be. And these portals were only the back doors. An infinitely more impressive entry could be found on the land-side of the casa, fronted by a garden.

  Gazing at this stunning array of elegance and harmony, Danilo could almost hear the sounds of dance music issuing from the tall windows and see the whirling skirts of beautiful women behind the stained-glass windows.

  He was interrupted in these fancies by the repetition of the cry, “Rialto!” The gondola had brought him to his destination. The Rialto, it seemed, was both a piazza and a bridge. Colorful, crowded, noisy, and variously peopled as if begging to be painted by some Venetian street painter. (A task he later discovered had in fact been done by Vittorio Carpaccio.)

  After a few minutes of being jostled and stepped on in the bustling crowd, there came to Danilo’s mind his mother’s observation that you can always find the Jews in any town by following your nose. Just pick up the scent of fish, she said, and it will lead to the Jewish merchants’ establishments because nobody else is willing to set up shop amid the stench of fish. Thus the Jews can move in unopposed. And, to be sure, his nose soon picked up the unmistakable stink of fish-mongering, which led him to a row of stalls marked by the red, green, and black striped poles that he had been told identified the strazzaria kiosks.

  On a whim, he chose the middle one and found himself the only customer in a small kiosk festooned with articles of clothing — women’s, men’s, children’s, all colors of the rainbow with an added mixture of black.

  Where to start? With the cut? With the color?
With the fabric? At that moment, the young man who had faced a thundering herd of gerit warriors unflinchingly in the Istanbul hippodrome felt himself completely overwhelmed by the cascading racks of hose, shirts, doublets, and jerkins raining down on him wherever he looked, and he was about to make his escape when he felt a tug on the sleeve of his caftan.

  “Wherever did you come by such a gorgeous jacket?” The questioner was a dark-skinned Spanish-looking fellow, beardless like himself, and seeming to be about his age.

  “Please don’t be offended.” The stranger spoke Italian with a pronounced accent, but Danilo was hard-pressed to distinguish what country’s accent he was hearing.

  “I have never seen a more elegant brocade,” the stranger went on, fingering the fabric. “Bursa?”

  His manner was so straightforward and his smile so infectious that Danilo could not resist the urge to confide. “It was a gift to me from the Ottoman Sultan, for winning a gerit contest in the hippodrome.” Then, suddenly remembering the captain’s warning about Venetian spy catchers, he added, “I am not an Ottoman spy.” Whereupon, appalled by his own folly, he stood silent, waiting to be arrested and conducted to the Bridge of Sighs, never to be seen again.

  Instead, the spy catcher continued the conversation in a casual tone without laying a finger on him.

  “I never thought you were a spy. But I did think you might have come here to the strazzaria stalls to sell your caftan. If so, I will gladly pay twice what they offer you.”

  “Sell my caftan?”

  Mistaking Danilo’s hesitation for a bargaining ploy, the Spaniard leaned forward to make his bid.

  “I want it for my mother — my aunt actually, but she is like a mother to me. She is a beautiful widow, a veritable fountain of generosity, very clever, and she loves exotic costumes. She was a daughter of the del Luna family, but you may have heard of her as Grazia Nasi.”

  Even buried far away in Topkapi Palace, Danilo had heard tell of the legendary Portuguese widow, Beatrice del Luna.

  “I have heard of her,” he replied, not at all certain of the reason for the celebrity of the name. Then it came to him. “She is a Marano,” he blurted out, for which he was rewarded with a deep scowl.

  “Do you know the meaning of the Portuguese word Marano?”

  When Danilo shook his head no, his companion continued in a newly stern tone.

  “I will tell you. Marano is Portuguese for pig. So, yes, we are Maranos, but we prefer the term New Christians.” And then, with a friendly smile to show he bore no ill will for Danilo’s semantic insult, he held out his hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Mendes, nephew to Grazia Nasi and son of the body physician to the king of Portugal before the expulsion of the Jews from that benighted land.”

  “You are from Portugal, then?”

  “Yes, I am. But I now work in my family’s bank in Antwerp.”

  His family’s bank. Danilo made the connection instantly. The Mendes family was known throughout the Jewish world as the most prominent of the Levantine bankers who somehow managed to survive and prosper in the poisonous atmosphere of Mediterranean financial practices.

  Danilo held out his hand. “I am Davide dei Rossi, the son of a Jewish merchant of Mantova,” he lied. Then, almost instantly he added, “That is not true. I am traveling under false papers. My real name is Danilo del Medigo. My mother was Grazia dei Rossi, the scribe, and my father is Judah del Medigo, body physician to the Ottoman Sultan.”

  “So you, too, are the son of a physician. Amazing! Do you believe in chance?”

  “It is not exactly a belief,” Danilo answered. “But in a tight corner I have found myself praying to the goddess Fortuna.”

  “Which makes us a pair of pagans.” The Spaniard grinned with delight. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.”

  “Me too. It must be part of a plan that we should meet here. Same age, each of us a doctor’s son . . .”

  “Except” — Danilo felt compelled to set the record straight — “Judah del Medigo is only my legal father. My blood father is a Christian.”

  “But your mother is Jewish?”

  “My mother is dead.”

  “Like mine. One more thing we have in common. But your mother was Jewish?”

  “Oh, yes, born to a family of Jewish banchieri from Ferrara.”

  “According to the rabbis that makes you a Jew. At the very least, half a Jew. Like me. I am a Christian by day and a Jew by night. Maybe if we put our two halves together” — he grinned his infectious grin — “we could amount to one whole Jew. So now that we are brothers, how much do you want for the caftan?”

  “Nothing. I couldn’t take money from my brother,” Danilo replied without thinking.

  “And I couldn’t possibly accept such a valuable gift from my brother,” countered Mendes. “We have a predicament here. Think, Samuel, think.” He drew back and tapped at his forehead with his forefinger. Silence. And finally, “You look like you could use a new set of clothes.”

  How could the stranger have known this?

  “Actually,” Danilo reported, “that is what brought me to this strazzaria. The captain of the ship that carried me to Venice warned me that my harem pants and caftan would attract notice and could easily result in a trip across the Bridge of Sighs to a place where no man in his right mind wants to be.”

  A nod of agreement. And finally, “Good advice.” Another silence. “Here is my proposal: I will save your life by buying you a complete new set of clothes, and you will make my aunt the happiest woman in the world by giving her your caftan.”

  The ease of the transaction made it appear to be fated. Either that or cursed.

  “You want this caftan for your aunt, Grazia Nasi, who is like a mother to you,” Danilo repeated, playing for time.

  “She is the widow of my uncle Francesco Mendes, and I am proud to be in her service,” came the answer.

  “In the Mendes bank?”

  “Officially, yes. Also, from time to time I serve in her less Christian ventures. But, believe me, my friend, your caftan will find a good home in both worlds. So let us get you dressed. Is there anything here that has taken your fancy? A jerkin? A cloak? A hat? What about this?”

  He reached up and with a flourish unfurled a short coat of red velvet lined at the neck with a blood-red binding. “Neat but not gaudy.” Whereupon, assuming the stance of a bullfighter, he snapped out the garment and then leaned back to assess the effect.

  “No, won’t do. Too German. We are going to be more Spanish this year. Less color, lots of black.” He reached behind him and grabbed a second flared coat, this one in padded black satin, faced at the sleeves with frilly black lace. “Try this on. I’ll hold the caftan.”

  Still, something kept Danilo from giving up his precious cloak. However, young Mendes was not one to be put off easily.

  “I do know what is being worn these days by fashionable young men in the highest circles. It is part of my business as a banker to know such things. I promise to select only the finest and latest styles for you,” he coaxed.

  When Danilo continued to hesitate, Mendes added, “If your modesty is bothering you, you can step behind that screen and I will hand your new outfit over to you piece by piece.”

  His hands still clasped around the caftan, Danilo moved toward the screen.

  “You had better take your carpet bag with you. I can smell the presence of a dagger in there.”

  Slowly, Danilo felt his fingers gradually loosening their grasp on the gold clasp of his caftan as he picked up his bag and stepped behind the screen.

  “Might as well hand over your pants and camicia too.”

  Now all he has to do is walk out of here with my caftan, leaving me half dressed, not even able to chase him. And who would believe my story, me, a stranger in balloon pants? While his mind played out its li
tany of suspicion, Danilo found his arms reaching up to toss the caftan over the rod. Why not? At least he still had his purse full of coins and his dagger.

  “While you are at it, give me those slippers. Nobody is wearing colored shoes these days. Believe me, it’s all the Spanish style, black, black, black.”

  This time Danilo did not hesitate to grasp the slippers that had cost his princess a fortune to have dyed for him and tossed them over.

  “And hand me the pants. Your captain was on target there. Anyone wearing those pants on the Rialto might as well be wearing a sign that says, I AM AN OTTOMAN SPY.”

  Over the top of the screen went the pants. Next, a long pair of stockings came flying in from another direction, accompanied by a fashion footnote.

  “Trunk hose come in all lengths, you know. They make them in only two lengths: one over the feet and up to the knee, another knee to waist. I am giving you a pair of each. Take your pick. I would recommend the one-piece. Once it is on, you don’t need garters. Let me know if you have trouble getting the hose on. I’ll come around and help. By the way, the panel in the front is called a codpiece. If it is a little loose you can always stuff it with a wad of silk.”

  So it went — a leather jerkin, a peaked cap, a shirt of fine linen, scores of doublets — one of them a single doublet that was a perfect fit, flared out at the waist and trimmed at the neck with a ruff of miniver. Finally, an invitation to step out and be seen.

  “Excellent! Now it is time to show you off to the Venetians,” was the verdict. “I know you must feel a little naked without your balloon pants, but you will get used to the trunk hose. Actually, you have the legs for them. Not every bravo does.” Danilo could not suppress the flush that came to his cheeks. “Don’t be embarrassed. Good looks never did a bravo any harm. By the way, how are you fixed for funds?”

  Danilo was pleased to be able to reply without hesitation that, for the next few years at least, he was well fixed.

  “And now that you are fit to face the world, what are your plans?” That was a more difficult question to answer.