by Sasha Gould
Slowly, she slides the ring off her finger. Just a small object, but it has haunted my dreams and been the focus of so much of my grief. She hands it to me. I push it on my own finger and it nestles in place of the one I gave to Roberto. Twisted, golden, warm.
Grazia closes the door, leaving us completely alone.
“We call him Golden Mouth,” she tells me, “the man who gave me the ring. All the girls know about him. His teeth are capped with gold, and though he can be rough … Well, he pays for what he gets.”
I feel pathetic, and ashamed. For all my complaints, this woman’s life has been beyond my worst imaginings.
“Where can I find this man?” I ask.
Bella Donna shakes her head. “Even if I could tell you, I wouldn’t. He’s not a man—how shall I put it?—to be trifled with.”
“I think he killed my sister,” I say.
“Then he would kill you too,” she replies. “I know him, and I know his kind: cruel, without conscience. He would think nothing of slitting your throat and finding the next merchant vessel out of Venice.”
We are both silent as her advice hangs in the mist above the water. Of course I can’t bring such a monster to justice on my own, but my father could summon the city watchmen. They have weapons. They could overpower the golden-mouthed murderer.
“I’m not proud of what I’ve become,” Bella Donna tells me, gazing into the water.
I put my hand on her shoulder, and squeeze softly. “You owed me nothing, and you’ve given me so much,” I say. “I’ll be grateful always.”
From my purse, I draw out three silver coins and offer them to her. They sparkle in the moonlight like fallen stars.
Bella Donna smiles. “Keep them,” she says. “You may need them more than I do.”
I watch her as her silhouette, a proud shadow, recedes into the night.
“Why didn’t you say he was the Doge’s son? You should have told me, you stupid girl!”
I’m tired of the walls of my father’s house, each room a prison like my convent cell used to be.
No amount of telling him I didn’t know seems to make any difference. I wish I could send a note to Roberto at once, to tell him that all is safe. That the sword hanging over his head has been sheathed.
“I banished the Doge’s son from our home!” He runs his hands through his hair.
And as sick as I am of the walls that contain me, I’m sicker still of the “yes, Father, no, Father” rituals that themselves have conspired to tether me. And though it may be wrong of me, and though I may let loose the dogs of his anger all the more, I’ll tolerate it no longer.
“Oh, you’re such a ridiculous man,” I tell him. “Our house is crumbling and your fortune is gone and it’s no one’s fault except your own.”
Bianca has left a bowl of fruit on the low table beside him. He picks it up and flings it at the wall. His tantrum continues as smears of peach and nectarine slither down the paint.
“I’ve had quite enough!” he roars.
“I can see that,” I say, trying to stay calm. “Do you plan to hit me again?”
“I will have respect from you. Get to your room!”
I walk quickly up the steps, ignoring his angry footsteps clattering along behind me. I sit upon my ruffled bed. The door slams and I hear the twist of the key in the lock.
It’s dark and I’m taut, sleepless, sitting by my window. The moon outside is full with pale compassion. He is out there somewhere, hiding in fear. I should be with him. Soon there’s a soft knocking at the door. “It’s me, sweetheart.”
Faustina. I walk to the door at the same moment as the key turns.
It’s a relief to see her kind face. We hug each other.
“How on earth did you wrestle the key from him?”
She smiles. “Old Faustina has her ways,” she says, tapping the side of her nose. “He’s downstairs, so we must be quiet.”
“But he said I wasn’t to come out until he said so. You’ll get into terrible trouble.”
“Oh, darling,” she says, stroking my hair. “The great wisdom of age is that you know when the time has come to break the rules. Listen, there’s no time for idle chatter.” She rummages in the folds of her clothes and brings out a scroll. “Here. It was delivered earlier.”
The seal is smeared and I can’t decipher the crest. I break it open, but the writing too is alien to me. Whoever has written it was in a hurry for the letters are a scrawl. As I read, my deflated heart becomes full again:
My dearest Laura,
Come this instant, and don’t consult with anyone. Come alone to a barge at Saint Lucia harbor, where I will be waiting for you.
May my love bring you quickly.
Roberto
“It’s from him! He’s waiting for me. I have to go.”
Faustina nods and smiles. “Of course you do.”
In the candlelit dark of the room where I grew up, Faustina and I plan my escape. She leaves the room on tiptoe and returns with a bundle. I open it and a brown suit falls out of it.
“What? Is this for me?”
“It belonged to old Renato. You can’t risk being seen by your father, or his friends. Go on, put it on.”
I struggle and wrestle myself into the strange clothes. Brown breeches pulled over my lacy slip. A white cotton shirt, rougher than the ones Giacomo my artist, Roberto my prince, has worn. A dark jacket, which I shrug on. I tuck my tousled hair up into a cap. I look in the mirror and laugh. I’m standing in my room, looking like a smooth-faced boy. In less than an hour Roberto and I will be together and there will never be a barrier strong enough to keep us apart again.
I cannot go down the main stairs, for fear of my father catching me, so Faustina and I fashion a rope of sheets. She tests all her knots, her old hands tugging sharply on each to make sure they’re sound. She ties one end to the back of my chair and wedges it under the windowsill. She pushes the window out and tosses the makeshift rope down into the garden.
“You know where you’re going, sweetheart?”
Her words carry with them another meaning altogether. We both know that I might not return.
“Yes, I know.”
“Be careful, my love.”
She fixes the buttons of my jacket and tucks a stray curl under my hat.
I climb down the rope, using the knots as footholds. My hands are burning by the time I reach the ground. The rope snakes back up the wall and I blow a kiss to dear old Faustina.
I keep my head down as I run. It might have been fun to be a Venetian boy. The streets are empty and silent except for the echo of my steps.
A lone man waits by a single gondola around the corner. He’s very tall. His broad hat casts a circular shadow around his face and shoulders so that I can’t see what he looks like. But still the sight of him warms me, for this is the man who is going to take me to my Roberto. My heart practically sings. I go up to him.
“Laura?” he mutters, his eyes flickering over my boy’s clothes.
Roberto has sent him.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” I say, climbing into his gondola. It rocks in the glass-still water as I take my seat.
It’s said that no one can tire of Venice at night. The sparkle and lurking beauty surprises you at every turn, no matter how many times before you’ve seen the city in the dark. As we pass under each bridge, and he stoops at the stern, I feel my happiness growing. Other gondoliers pass us and salute silently so as not to wake the sleeping citizens. All will be well, my mother’s voice whispers. She was right after all.
I can nearly feel Roberto’s hands around my waist and his fingers combing my hair. My longing feels like a cherished ache, deep and delicious.
We are in a part of the city now that I don’t recognize. I don’t know the backwaters as well as this man clearly does; we must be taking some unfamiliar way to San Lucia. We reach the harbor.
A barge is moored to a great wooden post a hundred feet out in the sparkling water. It glows with faint light
s. I strain to see Roberto on the deck, and wonder for a moment if he’s even yet on board. As the swaying gondola cleaves the water, closing the distance between us and the barge, I make out glowing lanterns in stiff brass holders beside the oarlocks.
A stepladder hangs over the side of the barge and with an expert tug of his paddle, the gondolier brings me alongside.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” I say again, and the light from the barge’s lanterns flickers. There are candles, too, inside the small half-covered cabin. With my first foot on the step, the candlelight lifts the shadows under the gondolier’s hat, and a grin spreads slowly across his face. My heart flutters, weak and frantic as a trapped bird. The grim smile widens and I see his teeth.
His golden teeth.
I pull myself aboard quickly, stumbling onto the deck, with my eyes fixed on the man I’m sure killed Beatrice. Now I recognize too the shape of his shoulders—he’s the one who delivered Mathieu’s tongue. Panic tightens my throat as new light falls into my dull memories. The man in the black hat, who seemed to be watching me …
Footsteps make me spin around, and the horror tightens. Carina steps out from the other side of the cabin, her hair wild and tangled, her gold and white dress torn. Her feet are bare. She glides over the deck like a ghost.
My stomach lurches as the truth becomes clear. The note! There was something about it. Something clipped and controlling that I should have seen. It could never have been written by him.
The golden-toothed man takes off his hat and smooths his hair against his head.
My mind flickers with broken options. Jump off the side? They’d have me in a second. Scream for help? They’d slit my throat. Fight back? Impossible. He cut out a man’s tongue.
“Thank you, Chrixos.” Carina speaks as normally as if she were dismissing a servant from a dining room. “Go now. Do as I have instructed you. Roberto will be waiting.”
I watch him push his boat away with the long oar, like Charon crossing the River Styx and leaving me on the banks of the dead.
“He’s been following you for quite some time,” says Carina. “To and from your secret little meetings.”
“Where is Roberto?” I ask.
Carina grins, her hands clasping within her gown. The air is chilled here in this wide-mouthed harbour. She cocks her head and eyes me quizzically.
“You are dressed strangely, Laura.”
“Where is he?” I repeat.
“Roberto has gone to meet you,” Carina says. “At St. Mark’s. Your beloved man, who you were so keen to ensnare, waits for you. He’s in for a bit of a surprise. A simple trick, but rather clever, don’t you think?”
I put my hands to my mouth. A little sob bursts out of me.
“Ah, the passion and torture of young love!” She giggles. It’s a horrible, lifeless sound. “You’re a foolish girl indeed. And Roberto—so blind. But not to worry, I’ve sent Chrixos to open his eyes.”
“Why would you do that? What has he done to you?”
“What has he done? What has he done? He’s humiliated me in front of the whole of Venice. He’s deceived me by pretending to be that wretched painter boy. But I’m not a fool. I knew. I knew even before I lifted his shirt and saw the scar on that lovely chest of his. I knew before you left the convent.”
The serpent of grief stirs inside my body.
“You murdered my sister, didn’t you? You did it because you thought he loved her.”
She talks with her lips curled. Sweat trickles down the sides of her face. Her fingers are twisting.
“She wasn’t good enough for him. From my girlhood, my father had promised my hand to Roberto. It was meant to be, until all this … this politics interfered.”
“You can stop all this. You don’t have to make things worse. Please let me go to him,” I beg.
She moves towards me. “Let you go? I saved him. I looked after you. And how do you repay me? With treachery. If it weren’t for you, this would have been so much easier.”
She lunges at me. A sharp heat rips through my shoulder. I cry out, and see a dagger in Carina’s hand. She comes at me again, slashing wildly, and I fall back against the edge of the boat. The lanterns lodged on either side of the deck send light swooping and flashing. One of them falls with a smash.
As she darts, I grab the hand that I once held in friendship. I twist her wrist as far as I can. Shaking, clutching, praying. We grunt and pull, locked in a hateful embrace. She manages to turn the dagger, and its point trembles as she presses all her weight behind it, teeth bared. I think of Roberto. I try to pull up strength and purpose from within me. With a twist of my body, I throw her against the edge of the boat and the dagger skitters away across the deck.
Carina pounces, and her hands grasp my throat. I wedge my fingers under hers, trying to pull them away, feeling my breath caught in my burning lungs. I’m dimly aware of the flames climbing behind us, lapping over the wooden cabin.
“You bitch,” she spits. “Calculating. Greedy. Vicious. Bitch.”
She pushes me and we both stagger backwards in some strange drunken dance. I fall hard to the deck, and she lands astride me on her knees and locks her hands around my neck again. Black spots and flashes crowd my eyes. Is this what it feels like to die? Is this what Roberto too will feel soon? My heart aches to think he might suffer more. Something presses into my back as Carina bears down on me, and I realize what it is. The dagger. I scrabble desperately underneath me and find the hilt. Carina screeches, pressing her claws harder into my neck.
I don’t have much strength as I plunge the knife into Carina’s dress, somewhere near her ribs, but she lets go of me, screaming and clutching at her side. I taste sweet air.
Her feet glow strangely and her screams of pain turn to something more animal and terrified. Her dress has caught in the flames. They lick quickly around the hem, then seem to leap, golden and alive, to her waist. A change in the wind brings a mouthful of smoke that leaves me bent over and coughing.
She wails and dances. Blindly, she tries to run, but only throws herself deeper into the furnace that has gripped the boat. I see her mouth, twisted amid the flames as her hair catches.
I am transfixed for a moment by this fiery goddess tossing out cries of rage and fear. But Carina cannot be saved. I will burn too if I stay for another second. I scramble to my feet and climb onto the rail of the bow. Carina’s shouts float upwards into the air along with black flakes of ash from the burning boat. I jump.
The water brings a haven of sudden silence, but a heartbeat later, the cold seeps through to my skin. In a panic, I burst up through the surface and look back. Carina’s shouts fade to pitiful moans as a section of the cabin collapses with a shower of red cinders. Wincing with pain, I start to swim, without looking back.
As soon as I reach the bank, I climb up the slippery side, dripping, sodden. I know which way to go. I run, driven by the hope in my heart that threatens at any moment to be overcome by looming dread.
Back streets, convoluted paths. My panic is like another person running beside me. A frightened companion, showing me the way as I rush headlong, terrified and panting, to my destination.
And when I reach the crooked rectangle of St. Mark’s Square, I’m sure it’s too late, but I don’t stop. The clock reads just after three in the morning, and no one is around to hear my steps. I should be cold, but the fire is still with me. I find the main doors of the cathedral closed and bolted. But not even the great portico of St. Mark’s will defeat me at the final hurdle. I run around to the side of the church. Sure enough, a small entrance is ajar, and admits me to the dark interior.
There’s no light, other than that which comes from the moon through the windows.
“Roberto?” I whisper. I think I hear a noise, but it might just be the creaking of the door behind me. I patter quickly along the side of the nave, pausing for a moment at each column. The stillness of the place is like a solid thing. I think I smell traces of Roberto, that mix of paint and w
ood. He’s been here. But perhaps Chrixos is here too by now.… I’m poisoned by a fear that I can taste.
The silence is broken by the heavy thud of echoing footsteps. The way the sound bounces makes it impossible to hear which direction they come from.
I scan the upper galleries. The saints in their domes peer back, deathly and merciless. Then, from across the nave, I see him. Roberto stands in the entrance to the chapel that holds his tomb, waving. “Laura!”
A shape looms behind him. The monster is there, standing in the shadows, with his black cloak shrouding his shoulders like a giant bat.
“Run!” I scream.
It’s too late. Chrixos rushes at him with his arms lifted above his head and slips something over Roberto’s neck, dragging him back into the chapel. My beloved chokes and struggles.
I rush between the pews and into the chapel. Roberto is half collapsed, writhing as Chrixos pulls the garotte tighter around his throat. I fling myself at the assassin, raking my nails down his face. He grimaces, releasing his grip on Roberto, and swings an arm at me. The back of his hand clubs my cheek and sends me crashing to the ground. I roll across the paved floor until my temple catches against the sharp pedestal of the tomb.
I’m dazed. I raise a hand to my head, and it comes away slicked with blood, thick and red. I stand unsteadily, using the tomb for support as the two men wrestle on the ground, grunting in a terrible knot of limbs. Chrixos rolls on top and his fist thumps into Roberto’s face with a sickening crunch. He lifts his fist again, but this time Roberto manages to buck his body, and throws the murderer off.
I stagger dizzily against the wall of the chapel, where a white marble cross hangs.
“Help me, blessed mother of God,” I whisper, lifting it off the wall. It’s heavier than I imagined.
Roberto has managed to stand, but pants desperately. Chrixos faces him and crouches, pulling a dagger from his boot. He advances, and the fingers of his free hand flex with anticipation.
I step up behind him, and as Chrixos turns I swing the crucifix like a mallet. The blow lands right on his forehead, with a crunch like stone hitting stone. He collapses to his knees and clutches at his face as blood pours between his fingers. When he draws his hands away, I see a deep gouge in his head. His eyes, blinking through the blood, are wild with rage. He grasps my wet clothes. I lift the cross high, and not daring to look, smash it down.