“I take a small fee, yes, as his—agent.” Pier Antonio flushed deeply. I had never seen that before. The embarrassment of profiting off his sister showed on his face. Who knew he was capable of any shame?
“You will read for yourself what a fine job Signor Grimani has done for you,” he went on. “He was able to get the nun’s servant, Laura, to tell everything.”
“Oh! So you read the report?” I wanted to strangle him. Every fresh word out of his mouth lit me on fire.
“No!” He pulled the report out and pushed it through the bars. “See—it is sealed. He just gave me . . . a few details.” He looked like he was stifling a laugh.
I grabbed it and slid it into my pocket. Whatever was written on those sheets felt like it was burning a hole of humiliation in me. When I saw no one was looking, I plucked out ten zecchini and pushed the coins through the bars. Pier Antonio scooped them up so quickly that they were gone in an instant.
I knew he would probably spend them that fast, too. And if I wanted help from him again, he would demand even more.
I walked as quickly as I could back to my room and shut my door. I sat on the floor to read. I don’t know why. Perhaps, to be hidden by the bed in case someone came in. Or because the floor felt natural to me then. Low, base. I ripped open the seal.
My eyes scanned the first sentences. The handwriting was slanted, spidery.
I do not do this for the money . . . no, I desire only to help Pier Antonio’s sister—who is innocent, honorable, and shut away—keep an eye on her wandering husband.
I jumped farther down the page. I was only interested in what news Signor Grimani had managed to find out. At last, I found the heart of his account.
Signorina Capreta, I have copied out these words exactly as I heard them. They are all true—at least, as I was told. What changes could I ever make? I am no writer, nor lover, either.
Here follows an account by Laura, servant to Sister Morosini at the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli on Murano:
“Sister Morosini and Giacomo Casanova meet as lovers in a casino in the garden of the old Villa da Mula. The casino belongs to this nun’s other lover—I cannot name him—who is a Frenchman. He is rich, but ugly. Signor Casanova is not rich, but he is handsome.
“How does Sister Morosini manage to escape from the convent? She is from a noble family, she can do as she likes. She pays the abbess to turn a blind eye. Sister Morosini and I leave by the back door of the kitchen garden, which opens onto a side canal. There, the Frenchman’s gondolier waits to take us away. Why does he help his lover meet with a second lover? I have never dared to ask!
“Often we are late leaving the convent, held up by Sister Morosini’s excessive vanity: She has very long nails, which she insists I polish with a special stick covered in suede. Her hair, I might have to change the style three or four different times before she is satisfied. I sponge and rouge her face. She wears a rose perfume she keeps in a rock crystal flask. It was created by the French king, she tells me, and only a few people in the world are rich enough to own it. It was a gift from her lover.
“I think she also takes her time to draw out Signor Casanova’s desire for her. His anticipation. The casino is decorated like a temple of love. There are candlelit mirrors along every wall. And the tables are piled high with books of engravings showing lovers in various acts of coupling. To excite the senses.
“They dine upstairs on French food, wine, and champagne, and then spend the night together. Sister Morosini always leaves before sunrise, to get back to the convent in the dark. Signor Casanova sleeps on until noon. He must be tired from his exertions! I sleep on the ground floor, and I am often awakened by the sounds of their lovemaking. He has astounding vitality. Every woman should be so lucky!”
Oh! To read these words—this poisonous proof written in a stranger’s ink. I crumpled the report in my hands and clutched it like a ball of pain against my stomach. I gnashed my teeth, wanting to wail out loud but knowing I could not. Instead, I went down on all fours like a dog, crying to the silent boards, clawing at them until I had splinters under my nails and my fingers bled.
I vowed to kill them both in the night. Kill Giacomo and Marina.
But in the light of day, I thought better of it.
CHAPTER 65
Zulietta came out to visit about a week later, surprising me that she was alone. This was not typical of women in our social class: It was not considered acceptable behavior to be out on your own.
“Pier Antonio was supposed to accompany me,” she explained, glancing around uneasily, “but at the last minute he sent a message that something else had come up.”
Had Pier Antonio not wanted to face me? Did he not have the spy’s report I had paid for earlier in the week—pawning the gold crescent-shaped earrings my father had brought me from Crete? Anything, for news.
I swallowed my fears and slid my hands outside the bars toward Zulietta. She clasped them warmly. “Tell me,” I asked her, “have you been writing to Stefano? Has he written you?”
“Oh, no, Caterina,” she said, pulling her hands away and blushing. “I can’t let that happen.”
“Why not? Didn’t you write me that you thought you—”
“Shh, Caterina—please!” she quieted me. Her honey-brown eyes looked panicked. “I cannot give in to that temptation. You know—and I know—that Stefano is no match for me. Our families are too . . . different . . . and I see that clearly now that I am home.”
“But, Zulietta,” I urged her, feeling disappointed at what I had to admit were not unreasonable words. “He obviously loves you, and you love him—”
“No.” She shook her head, as if banishing demons. “It cannot be.” She forced a smile. “Oh!” she burst out. “I almost forgot! Pier Antonio gave me a letter for you.” She cast her eyes around furtively, then slipped an envelope out of her pocket.
I saw the familiar spidery handwriting. My spy’s report. Relief. But my blood also burned at my brother. What a fool he was—risking Zulietta finding out what I was doing. Or maybe, that was precisely why he had given it to her. To stir up trouble. Love is all a game.
Zulietta slid the letter under the bars. I snatched it. Then, not seeing the abbess anywhere around and unable to resist my terrible curiosity, I broke the seal to read.
Here follow the words of Signor Baumanière, chef and owner of a casino near San Moisè:
“Signor Casanova has rented my casino until Easter. Fool that he is, he told his lover he owned a casino in Venice. Now he has to quickly rent one to make his story appear true.
“My casino makes a fine impression. I have decorated it to delight the senses: The walls are adorned with painted porcelain tiles showing the sixteen pleasures of love, and the walls and ceiling are mirrored, to reflect back to lovers the happiness found in each other’s arms.
“The first night he stayed, Signor Casanova asked me to prepare a supper for two with eight dishes. He likes everything highly seasoned and exciting to the senses—game on the very edge, sticky salted cod, cheeses when the little creatures are visible. But the next day, I learned he had dined alone. You see, all the food is sent up on a dumbwaiter concealed in one of the walls. I never intrude on what is happening in the upstairs rooms. I realized he was testing me—which is ridiculous, since I have cooked for many finer men than he is!
“The next night, he asked me to prepare another elaborate meal with game, fish, truffles, oysters, fruit, sorbet, and Burgundy wines. This one, I’m sure he ate together with his lover. I saw her myself. But I never saw her face, because she arrived masked, and more—disguised as a man. It is clear she cannot let anyone know who she is.
“She left the casino before sunrise. I watched her gondola head toward the Grand Canal, but that is all I know about her. Signor Casanova bragged to me she is very beautiful. And he showed me a pair of slippers and a nightcap trimmed with French lace he had bought for her.”
“Caterina!” cried Zulietta. A few visitors’ heads turned. She qu
ickly lowered her voice and moved her chair closer to the bars. “What is it you are reading? I would not have given it to you if I knew it would upset you!”
“It’s alright,” I said, wiping away tears with shaking fingers. “You have done nothing wrong.”
“What is it?” she asked. “You must tell me.”
“Giacomo—Giacomo has taken another lover,” I confessed to her. Her eyes widened and she looked aghast.
“How do you know for sure? Is that what this letter is saying?”
“Yes. I asked Pier Antonio to—to keep an eye on him.”
Zulietta smiled with relief, thinking the letter really was from him. “Caterina. You know you cannot believe anything Pier Antonio says.”
“No—I’m sure it is true.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “It is someone I know. A nun. Here.”
“Here?” Zulietta was too surprised to keep her voice low. The abbess, who had appeared across the room, turned sharply and gave us the Evil Eye.
“Shh.” I signaled for Zulietta to lean in closer. “She escapes from here and meets him in secret. She is a noble, and very rich, and buys her way out whenever she wants.” More silent tears started down my face. My situation was so miserable, and unfair!
Zulietta gave me her handkerchief. She knew I rarely carried my own. She always carried four: one to peel fruit; another for sorbet, chocolate, or coffee; and two more for her nose.
“How—why did he choose a nun?” she asked. I dried my face and held on to her handkerchief.
“He used to come to see me in church on feast days. He hid in the crowd. She spotted him and snatched him. At least—that is what I think happened.”
Zulietta sat thinking for a while. She was not one to babble. She always waited until she was sure what she wanted to say.
“Maybe,” she offered, “he chooses to chase a nun because she can never be his wife. Think about it, Caterina. Think of all the beautiful women in Venice. Why trouble himself with someone who is shut away for life? This way, he can have his fun—as—as I hear men like to do—but it will not be a lasting thing. That is the beauty of it.”
She looked very satisfied with her explanation. Clearly, she believed her little love affair over the summer made her wise in the ways of the world.
“Do you honestly think so?” I asked, desperate.
“I do,” she assured me. “Stai calma. It will all work out in the end.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. This is what dear friends can do in our lives: make us feel so much better.
Even when they are wrong.
CHAPTER 66
Only two nights later, as I listened to rain strike the glass of my convent room window, I was startled by a knock at the door. It was the abbess, holding a small lamp to my face.
“Caterina—good, you are still awake.” She was wearing only a chemise and a coarse wool robe, which considerably undermined her authority. Her drab brown hair, usually hidden by a wimple and veil, was cut short and thinning.
“Your cousin—Zulietta, is it?” she went on.
“Is she alright?” I asked, my heart beginning to pound.
“She is, child. She is downstairs. She says she has an urgent message for you. Someone is sick—not your parents, thank God. A friend on the mainland. Frederica?”
Frederica. On the mainland. My mind raced. Farfalle. Zulietta meant the horse, Farfalle.
“Yes, Abbess,” I said, sweetly. “Frederica is quite old. Could you maybe allow Zulietta to come upstairs to my room and see me? It will be cold and dark downstairs. I—I have some coins for your trouble.” Oh yes, I had learned a few things from Marina about how to handle our abbess.
“Certainly,” she said, smiling. She waited in the doorway while I got the coins out from my pocket. Then she slipped away.
In less than five minutes, I heard the sound of leather slippers coming quickly up the stairs. My cousin stood at the end of the hallway, shrouded in a heavy cloak and carrying a lamp.
“Zulietta!” I whispered loudly from my doorway. She ran toward me.
“Oh! Caterina,” she exclaimed as she collapsed in my arms. She came in, set the lamp on the floor, and did not even take off her cloak. “You must help me. I did not know where else I could turn.”
“What has happened? Farfalle—?”
“Yes—Stefano wrote me—”
“He wrote you?” I couldn’t help a surprised smile, as only two days before she had firmly told me they were not writing each other.
“He sent me a message through Father Ludovico,” she explained. She rubbed her hands together over the candlestick I had burning near my bed.
“Our priest—at San Gregorio?” I exclaimed, now very surprised. We both adored Father Ludovico. He was fat, with terrible bumps all over his face—some the size of chestnuts—but a nicer, more caring man there never was.
“Stefano did not know my address,” Zulietta explained. “At some point I must have mentioned the name of the parish where I lived. After Mass today, Father Ludovico gave me the letter while my mother wasn’t looking.”
“Did you bring it with you?” I asked.
Zulietta nodded, pulling it out of her pocket. As she handed it to me, I noticed her hands were still wet and cold. She had come all this way in the freezing rain. I read the soft and slightly soggy sheet.
Zulietta,
Forgive me for writing you, when I understand it is not what you may want. Of course, I have not forgotten you. And neither has Farfalle. She has not been herself since I took her away from the villa. Recently, worms have bred on the gross humors in her body: She is lean and tired, her eyes are dull, her breath is hot, and she constantly lies down and gets up, or rolls on the ground in violent pain. I fear she may be far gone. Can I ask you, as a friend, to come see her? I think your presence will comfort her, even if it cannot save her.
Yours,
Stefano
“What should I do?” Zulietta cried as I handed her back the letter. She folded it tenderly back into her pocket. “Stefano needs me—Farfalle needs me—but how can I leave Venice without my parents knowing? Even to come here tonight I had to sneak out after they had gone to sleep. How would I ever travel all the way to the mainland?”
“Shh, shh,” I comforted her, taking hold of her hands. I suspected Stefano wanted Zulietta to come for more than the old horse, and I was determined to help. I went to sit on my bed and think. Zulietta remained standing by the window.
“It will not work to sneak away,” I said, “because you would be gone too long. Instead, you need a reason why you have to go.”
“A reason,” she echoed. But scheming was not Zulietta’s strength. She looked back to me.
“A reason . . .” I continued, “that cannot be denied. Something high-minded. Something . . .” I paused, my mind going to places I had heard about on the mainland. “What about the Basilica di San Antonio, in Padua?”
“What about it?” asked Zulietta. “It is a church.”
“It is a great pilgrimage church, for healing,” I went on, my ideas beginning to churn. “The faithful come from all over to lay prayers at San Antonio’s head. Or feet. Or somewhere on his body.” We both giggled. “Tell your parents you need to go there, for healing.”
“Healing from what?” she asked. “And why wouldn’t my mother or father come with me, if I were sick?”
“True,” I said, thinking more. “Maybe not your healing. Someone else’s.” I stood up and started pacing.
Pier Antonio.
It was more than perfect. San Antonio was even his name saint. Or at least, one of them.
“What if . . .” I said, “we offer Pier Antonio money—believe me, he will take it—to say he needs to go to Padua. For . . . spiritual healing. God knows—he could use it!” Zulietta smiled, which encouraged me further. “He asks your parents, Can my sweet cousin Zulietta come with me? To keep me out of trouble. To inspire me to stay on a better path. You know everyone is desperate for a change in him. With
luck, they agree to let you go.”
“With luck they agree to let me go?” Zulietta echoed worriedly.
“Well—you will have to make your parents feel bad for you,” I encouraged her, “how you suffered at the hands of Giorgio Contarini, how very wrong they were about him . . . and how right this trip is for you. Tell them also you want to see those paintings you are always talking about—who are they by—?”
“Giotto!” said Zulietta, giving me her first genuine smile of the night. “The frescoes by Giotto in the Arena Chapel in Padua, showing the lives of Christ and Mary. They say those paintings begin the whole Renaissance in art.” She sighed happily.
“Religion. Art. However you choose to do it, Zulietta,” I said, trying to give her confidence. “You must convince your parents that this trip, right now, is what you need.”
Zulietta nodded her assent, but she still looked terrified. Her face, usually rosy and shining with good health—as if her humors were in perpetual perfect balance—had gone pale.
“I believe in you, Zulietta,” I said, echoing the words of strength she had given me in the days just before my banishment. I went over to hug her close.
“I believe in you,” I whispered again against her soft hair, which smelled like thousands of days spent together in Venice. “And I believe in your Stefano, too.”
CHAPTER 67
I sent Zulietta away with my clever plan, knowing I would not hear from her—successful or not—for several weeks. I planned to send Concetta to her house each Wednesday, hoping eventually for news.
November came to the convent, the worst month in the Venetian year. It rained all the time. This day, as we sat in the choir of the church at Matins, we could see our breath. The sun was just rising, greeting us through the eastern apse windows.
I huddled next to Arcangela. The priest was late, as usual. I think he drank too much. Typically, he would ramble on from the lectern, until by Vespers he was simply scolding us. I rarely listened.
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