Stay away from him. Please.
CHAPTER 25
It was to be our last night together in my brother’s room. News had arrived that morning that my father was docked in Ravenna. He would be home within a day or two.
“Come—” Giacomo whispered, holding out his hand to me. We slipped through my back garden door and out into the waiting night.
“Tell me where we are going?” I asked, trotting to keep up with him. I had thrown a black cloak over my chemise, but otherwise, was dressed for bed.
We headed west in the city. In Venice, when someone asks directions, often the answer is “sempre diritto.” Always straight. But what is straight in Venice? Nothing. It is a maze of wonder.
We reached Rio San Trovaso, which I knew well, and turned down the street. Its wide canal shone in the moonlight, and I could make out the silhouettes of gondolas propped upside down at the boat repair shop. But why had we come?
“Almost there,” said Giacomo, leading us closer to the church of San Trovaso.
“It will be locked!” I exclaimed. “And why are we here—to pray?” True, we did need prayers for ourselves right now. We had promised we would say our marriage vows to my father, the priest, and the whole world one day. And that day was now upon us. However we told my father, he would realize how I had been behaving while he was gone. He had left me a child, and I had secretly grown up. I was terrified to face him.
Giacomo stopped at the church bell tower and, warning me with a finger to his mouth, pushed open its door. My eyes widened—I was amazed it was open in the middle of the night. We entered, and found ourselves inside a small, dark vestibule, ahead of which I knew must be hundreds of stairs. Giacomo groped along the wall and located a hanging lantern. He lit it, and his face shone magnificently in its glow. How handsome he was. I would follow him anywhere.
“I will race you,” he teased. I answered by scampering past him, holding my chemise hem and cloak in my hands. He ran up several steps to catch up, but, giggling, I ran up more. He pretended to be out of breath, clutching his stomach. “Mercy!” he called.
“None!” I called back, covering more steps. Round and round we went, the lantern casting golden shadows on the brick walls around us.
Finally, panting and laughing, we reached the top of the tower. I saw its huge bronze bell before us.
“Why have you brought me here, my love?” I asked again.
“It’s a place I used to come,” he explained. “Remember when I told you, before I met Signor Bragadin, how I had gone to the dogs? I had a group of friends, and we used to spend our nights terrorizing everyone. We would summon priests to the beds of healthy people; we would untie gondolas, leaving them to float aimlessly in canals. And one thing we also liked to do—ring church bells to warn of fires, in the middle of the night.”
“Fires that were not burning?” I asked, smiling and shaking my head at him.
“Of course,” he responded, giving my nose a playful tap. “Imagine the relief of waking up and learning your house is not burning down. As I see it, we brought people comfort they otherwise would not have had.”
“You are terrible,” I told him. But I felt the opposite. You are dangerous, unpredictable, and exciting. I refuse to go back to the boring series of boxes I was living in before I met you.
He placed the lantern on the floor and together we stepped outside to look over the balustrade in the direction of Piazza San Marco. Its lights were still burning. If I strained my ears, I could hear music playing from the outdoor cafés. I wondered if we would ever walk in the great square together, arm in arm, like true lovers.
“I have brought you here,” Giacomo said, taking my hand and pressing it to his lips, “to tell you my plan. It is as ambitious as this tower is high—but I am confident it will work.”
My heart began to beat excitedly. I forgot my earlier fears. I wanted only success and was ready to hear how it would happen.
“Our problem,” he explained, “is to convince your father I am worthy of your hand, and that your dowry will be safe. I must offer a means to guarantee it.”
“Guarantee it?” I had no idea what he meant.
Giacomo kept explaining. “A dowry belongs to a wife and her heirs, although her husband has temporary use of it. But what if I were to lose it all? A guarantee means there is no risk to your father, as the amount is backed by other wealth.”
“But, who has this other wealth?”
Giacomo smiled, a sudden flash of white. He always kept his mouth impeccably clean, and scented with eau de cologne. “Signor Bragadin, naturally.”
“But how will we convince him to take this huge risk for us?” I pressed, feeling unconvinced myself.
Giacomo took my hand and held it against his cheek. His skin was surprisingly hot, and his eyes had taken on a strange glow.
“What if I told you,” he said, “that I am . . . a magician of sorts?”
“A magician?” I pulled my hand away, afraid to trust what sounded like nonsense.
“Yes. Someone with special powers. To conjure spirits.”
“Spirits?” The dangerous word hung in the air. I knew that any sort of sorcery was forbidden in Venice. It was said that the State Inquisitors had spies all over the city to root it out.
“Signor Bragadin is kind, learned—but quite meek,” Giacomo explained. “He has suffered many stormy affairs in his life. His own brother once accused him of poisoning him. At this point, he has given up women, is very religious, and has surrendered himself to fate—which I control.”
“You control his fate?”
“I do—in a fashion. He and his circle of friends are fascinated by the Jewish cabbala. Its mysteries hold them spellbound, like wishing children.” He put a hand to his heart, in the way of fervent believers.
“And you think, with a little of this magic, Signor Bragadin will be convinced to promise away ten thousand zecchini to my father—a stranger?”
“I am certain of it,” declared Giacomo. “If Paralis—that is the name of the Oracle I conjure to guide him—tells him to do it, he will do it.”
“Paralis? Who is he? Is he real?” I was becoming increasingly confused.
Giacomo’s black eyes glittered in the moonlight. “Paralis is a ghost who responds only to my prayers.”
“A ghost? Can you see him?”
“Oh—I can see him. But no one else can.” He gave me a wicked smile.
My brow furrowed. “But is it not wrong to—”
“Caterina”—he stopped me—“it is the only way. Think of it as taking money destined to be spent on follies by others, and changing its application to ourselves.”
I smiled to appease him, but I still felt confused. Was this all just an elaborate trick, garbed in black magic? Where did my trust in him begin—and end?
“Good,” he said, noting my smile. “You understand what must be done.” He turned to face the balustrade and began speaking to the sky, opening his arms and seeming to conjure the spirits right there: “Let me deceive, let me appear just and good; cover my sins with darkness and my stealth with a cloud.”
“What was that?” I asked, suddenly shivering. The clouds had shifted, and the night was becoming deep, and cool.
“More ancient wisdom. Come”—he reached to take my hand—“it is time for bed.”
He led me home, and I kept my hand warm in his pocket. Deep inside, I felt a small scrap of paper, and curious—with my own stealth—I plucked it from him just before giving him warm kisses at my garden door.
Once back in my bedroom, I unfolded the tiny piece of paper.
How to keep C.’s father from seeing me as I am?
I am nothing, but believe I am something.
In that moment, I realized Giacomo risked more than I had imagined in asking for my hand. He feared becoming unmasked, and being seen for who he was.
CHAPTER 26
What was this cabbala that held my fate? Was it truly sorcery? And who was Giacomo: conjurer, or
fake? I felt I had to know.
My mother had been running around like a chicken since news had arrived that my father would be home. Many things were left undone while he was gone. Now bedclothes had to be washed, the kitchen scrubbed and mopped, dog hair pulled off the chairs. I drew her attention to a velvet bed curtain with the hem out and offered to take it to be mended.
“No—no. What tailor sews on Sunday? I will do it myself.” She did not suggest I sew it. We both knew I was hopeless at tasks that required any patience.
“I can take it to the ghetto,” I said. “There are many—I’ve heard there are many tailors there.” Almost slipped.
“The ghetto?” Amor was barking and ran around us in circles. Something from the kitchen smelled like it was scorching.
“I’ll be back within the hour,” I pressed. “And the curtain will hang as it should and not look like it belongs in a bad inn.” My mother rushed to the kitchen, and I took that as my answer. I was one step closer to speaking with the only Jew I knew.
I had the washing girl unfasten the ripped curtain for me, and I bunched the dusty thing in my arms. I nearly tripped on it as I ran downstairs. I gathered it into a tight bundle and walked briskly to the tip of the city, to find a gondola and head north to the ghetto.
As it was Sunday, the waterways were mostly clear and we arrived in less than the usual time. I hurried across the lowered drawbridge, through the dark, humid tunnel, and back into the hazy summer sunshine. The main square was crowded, and the storefronts were all open, as Sunday is not a day of rest for the Jews. I dumped the curtain with the first tailor I found and continued on to the Vivante pawnshop.
Elia looked up—startled—when I burst through the door. Her face brightened when she saw me.
“Oh, Signorina! We do not have your fan anymore. It sold quickly. Or—did you have in mind to pawn something else?”
“No, Signorina Elia.” I hoped she would be flattered I remembered her name. She was. I saw her smile, and flush a little. “I—have a question to ask you. Something I need a Jew”—no, that sounded bad—“something that relates to your religion.”
“Of course,” she said, studying me. I noticed her lashes were lush charcoal black. “What is it?”
I was breathless from rushing, and now, from fear at what I might learn. I approached the counter. “I have a friend—” I began, “he is more a friend of my brother’s—who tells me he understands the mysteries of the cabbala. He uses it to—to guide men toward making certain decisions. But how can he do this? What exactly is it?”
Elia’s almond-shaped eyes flashed briefly at my mention of the cabbala. She studied me a bit longer, as if assessing the depth and sincerity of my questions.
“Wait here,” she finally said, and disappeared into the back room. A customer walked in while she was gone, but I told him to come back. I did not need any spies.
Elia came back with a large book. I could see it was old, its leather cover worn and dried out.
“This is the Zohar,” she said, laying it on the counter. “It was left here by someone who hoped to buy it back from us. But that was long ago.” She seemed a little sad as she opened it up, running her fingers along the browned pages with reverence. I imagined that she had known its owner. “The Zohar contains the key to the cabbala,” she continued, “written down by Rabbi Bar Yochai in the time of the Romans.”
All I saw were letters I could not read.
“Is it in Hebrew?” I asked.
“Hebrew and Aramaic. But I can explain it to you. Not the full wisdom of the cabbala—of course! I am not a scholar. But I understand the code.”
She reached for a nearby pen and scrap of paper. “In the Hebrew language,” she began, “each letter of the alphabet is also a number. So Aleph, our first letter”—she drew it out—“is equal to one, Beit, our second letter, is equal to two, and so on. In this way, any word in the Torah and Talmud can be calculated as a sum of its letters. And once you have that number, another word with the same value can be substituted for it. New meanings can be found. This is the essence of the cabbala.”
“Do you know how to do this yourself?” I asked.
“I play with it sometimes when I have nothing to do at the shop. My uncle—he is a learned physician, and owns the pharmacy next door—taught me how to do some simple calculations.” She wrote out two Hebrew words. “See how the letters of the word for ‘love’—ahbah—and for ‘unity’—echad—both add up to thirteen. What does that mean, do you think?”
I was surprised to hear the questioning turned back on me.
“Love . . . and unity,” Elia prompted me. “Think about how these two ideas connect to each other.”
“Love . . . unifies us all?” I attempted. “Or, unity is necessary for love to exist?”
“Exactly.” She smiled. “The meanings of the cabbala are many. There is no one answer to anything. This is the essence of its brilliance, and mystery.”
“As to your friend,” she said, gently closing the book, “the cabbala is a tool to look more deeply into God’s words. It is not meant to guide men in their worldly affairs, or to make someone rich.”
“And—an Oracle?” I asked, feeling I was about to jump off a cliff. “Have you ever heard of an Oracle named Paralis?”
Elia knit her lovely eyebrows, clearly confused. She did not answer me immediately. I sensed she was reluctant to destroy my belief in my friend. Then she murmured, “No.”
No Oracle named Paralis.
Giacomo, then, was a fake. A glittering-eyed trickster.
But—but did it even matter? Maybe I loved him even more for being willing to take on such a risk to marry me. My life entwined with his felt more dangerous, forbidden, and thrilling.
I glanced at the tall clock in the shop and saw that time had gotten away from me. I thanked Elia and rushed into the sun-drenched square, back through the tunnel—tripping in my hurry, and sending long, ringed rat tails scurrying along the walls—and across the drawbridge. I hailed a waiting gondola and slipped inside its black cabin.
Only when we made the turn into the Grand Canal did I realize I had forgotten the bed curtain at the tailor.
And when I got home—my father was there.
CHAPTER 27
Venice, 1774
Deep clangs rolled from church towers all over the city and the morning air sang. Caterina stirred risi e bisi in the kitchen. It was springtime—time for fresh peas. It was also her cousin Zulietta’s favorite dish, and Caterina wanted this day to be a happy one. She had invited Zulietta to visit from the mainland where she lived near Vicenza, in order to meet Leda.
Caterina had been vague with her cousin about why the girl was staying with her. She had shared the main truths: that Leda had come from the convent, that she was expecting a baby, that an old friend had asked Caterina for help. But she had skipped key details, wanting to avoid too much scrutiny from her cousin.
Leda sat in her favorite armchair by the windows, sketching. At some point she had found paper and pens in the house, and had taken to drawing a few hours a day. She would show Caterina sketches of lonely, empty gondolas, mangled street cats, gypsies—all sorts of sights she saw from the windows. Drawing kept her busy, and that was a good thing. Caterina hoped this visit from Zulietta would be good for Leda, too. To meet another mother.
“Buon giorno! Carissima!” Zulietta arrived at the door and kissed Caterina on both cheeks. Caterina hugged her tightly. She did not get to see Zulietta as much as she would have liked. It was a long, bumpy carriage ride from Vicenza, and then a boat trip across the lagoon. It was especially challenging for her to come with all three of her children. Today, she had only her youngest in her arms, one-year-old Ginevra. The baby had been a late, happy surprise for Zulietta.
Leda put aside her pen and paper and started to get up from her chair.
“No—no, cara, you stay there!” Zulietta insisted. “I will come to you!” She bounced over with Ginevra. The baby giggled with delight
. How youthful Zulietta always seemed! Her skin was still soft, her brown eyes marvelously awake.
“I am happy to meet you!” she said to Leda, who stared at the baby as if a visitor from China had entered the room. “Caterina was hoping we could talk and—” But Zulietta already seemed to sense that any conversation about children was not going to go well.
“Do you like to draw?” she asked Leda, instead.
“Yes.” Leda picked up her pen and went back to some distracted sketching.
Ginevra squirmed in Zulietta’s arms. Zulietta set her down, and the little girl ran around the room and right into Caterina’s knees. Caterina laughed and lifted her high into the air. Squeals of delight.
Leda looked up, her face green.
“I’m sorry—I am not feeling well.” She ran to her bedroom. Caterina exchanged a concerned look with Zulietta and within seconds, they heard Leda retching. The window banged open, and they heard the sound of slop being tossed to the edge of the lagoon.
“I remember those days,” said Zulietta with compassion.
But Caterina was sorely disappointed. Leda did not return for the meal.
* * *
“Why did you open your home to her?” Zulietta asked in a whisper. Leftover rice and peas sat in a cold clump in her bowl. Feeding Ginevra on her lap had taken most of her attention. Now the baby slid down to play and Caterina felt a little panicked not to have the child blocking real conversation between them.
“As I said—an old friend who is now abbess asked me for a favor,” she said simply.
“Did she not consider it would be hard for you?”
“Hard?” Caterina’s face felt suddenly warm. She drained her water glass.
“That it would stir up what you should not be forced to relive again? Your years at the convent?”
Oh—if Zulietta only knew how much it stirred up! But she had no idea. Caterina always wanted Zulietta to see only her best side. She had hidden a good deal of the rest, to be worthy of her cousin’s love these many years.
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