“Giacomo!” I screamed, as he hurriedly fished for a handkerchief from his pocket. “What is happening?”
“A leftover from my childhood disease, my angel. It happens when the blood rushes to my head. Do not worry.”
He came and sat back down, still with the handkerchief to his face. The nosebleed—cruel remnant of his youth—seemed to make him even more wretched. But at the same time, it softened him toward me.
“Caterina,” he pleaded, “try to understand me. I am weak. I have fallen in love with Marina—yes. But you know I can never marry her—she is a nun. You, on the contrary, will be freed one day from the convent. Our love has time enough to be rekindled.”
I sat at his feet and tried to make sense of what he was saying. Was I still his wife—and in time enough he would rediscover he loved me? Did love work like this: a fire you light, extinguish, then relight?
He sighed deeply, then stood to go. “Tell Marina she has made me unhappy for a long time to come.” He took a key out of his pocket and dropped it ringing onto the table. Tying on his Pierrot mask again, he turned toward the door.
“Giacomo! Don’t go!” I burst out, running after him. I pulled on his arms, grabbed his thin linen tunic. “I love you!”
“Caterina, I am sick with grief. I love you with all my soul, but now I am in a situation to be pitied.” He slid aside his mask and kissed me on the cheek. Its plaster edge brushed my skin roughly.
He left me standing there—ridiculous in my habit, loved like a sister. The wind howled and banged the shutters against the outside of the building. I did not even know how I would get back to the convent. I had not made any plans. Too busy running after the illusion of the night’s happiness, and carelessly not thinking a minute beyond it.
CHAPTER 72
Venice, 1774
So that was the end of Caterina’s love affair. Or, what she intended to tell about it. She would no longer discuss it with Leda or anyone else. She preferred to focus on the future. And especially on Leda’s baby, due to arrive in about a month now.
Who knew where this baby was going, once it was born? Most likely, a foundling hospital near Venice or Florence. Marina would figure something out. That was the secret job of any abbess. But before this happened, Caterina wanted the baby to have a few beautiful items. A set of fine sheets for the cradle. Lace-trimmed gowns. Some lace caps. Burano was the destination for these kinds of things, as every Venetian knew. So Caterina hired a boatman one early August morning, and told Leda they were going on a special expedition.
Burano lay about three or four miles beyond Murano, and there was no way to reach it without passing the convent of Santa Maria degli Angeli along the way. About a mile out from the northern shore of Venice, they spied its high brick and crenellated walls. Caterina winced. The sight filled her with violent memories, but at the same time, their vividness made her feel alive. Nothing since had ever felt as real, as fully lived, except perhaps when Leda had come to stay with her.
“Would you like some cheese, Leda?” she said abruptly, to distract herself. She got busy unpacking a picnic from her satchel and tore off some bread with anxious fingers. She felt a little nauseous, and hot, as if she had dressed too warmly.
“No—grazie, I’m not hungry,” said Leda.
“Water? Wine?”
“No.” Leda watched the convent walls slowly recede behind the boat.
“Caterina . . .” she asked—as Caterina had suspected she might—“was that night at the casino the end of your affair with Giacomo? Were you ever able to forgive him after he said that Marina had—”
“—done him an excruciating favor?” Caterina broke in sharply. It felt less humiliating to say it herself, than to hear someone else repeat it. It had unburdened her—yes—to tell Leda her story, but certain pieces still cut like glass.
“It was never the same after that night,” said Caterina, simply.
The cabin smelled like soft cheese and her own sweat. She dropped the piece of bread she had torn off back into the satchel. No appetite, after all.
* * *
The sound of Leda laughing awoke Caterina from a rocking sleep in the boat. The shutters were wide open, and Leda was pointing out to the green sea.
“Look! Look at that bell tower!” she cried. “It is tipping!”
Caterina peered out the boat window and saw the island of Burano rising from the shallow water. Rows of simple cottages were all painted bright colors, each different so that the fishermen could find their way home in haze and fog. The leaning bell tower of San Martino did not make a good first impression.
“That poor tower began to slide very soon after it was built,” Caterina explained.
“I suppose Venetians don’t build as well as Florentines do,” Leda teased her. “Brunelleschi, Alberti, Michelangelo . . .”
“It is harder to build on shifting sands than solid ground,” said Caterina, putting the haughty Florentine in her place. “You try building a church with water all around it!” They were giggling together when the boat bumped to a stop. Children on the dock flocked to help knot the mooring rope around a gaily striped pole.
The children led them into the main square, where dozens of market stalls were set up under canvas umbrellas. Women of all ages sat hunched over small pillows held in their laps. Their fingers danced in the air, guiding almost invisibly threaded needles over lace patterns. Caterina inspected the piles of finished work laid out on tables. She didn’t dare touch anything—so delicate and white—but Leda could not resist and picked up a baby’s cap.
“Isn’t it sweet?” she said, placing it on top of her head. Caterina was about to scold her, but the old woman at the stall saw a likely sale.
“Ah—Venetian punta in aria. The very best kind.”
“Stitch in the air!” sang Leda, taking it off to run her finger over the swirling lace trim. “What a perfect name!”
“Do you know the legend, Signorina?” the old woman asked her. “The legend of making the first lace?”
“No.” Leda smiled. “Tell me.”
The old woman was mostly toothless and so shrunken she hardly had breasts anymore. But she had large, magnificent blue eyes, much like Leda herself.
“There was once—oh, many hundreds of years ago,” the old woman said dreamily, “a young woman in Venice. Young, beautiful, and in love.” She nodded to Caterina, as if convinced Leda’s story was similar. “This young woman’s betrothed gave her a piece of seaweed as a love token. But seaweed . . . it does not last, Signorina. A love token should last forever, just like love. So this young woman, she set herself to imitating the patterns of the seaweed, using only needle and thread.”
“So—” said Leda, fingering the lace cap with new wonder, “the designs are meant to be like the forms of the sea?”
“Exactly, child.”
Caterina felt now she could not resist buying the cap. It would remind Leda of Venice, and of their happy months together. She bought the matching gown, too, and a set of lace-edged sheets and pillowcases. At another stall, she also bought a set of six bibs.
“Grazie!” exclaimed Leda as the women wrapped the last of her linens in clean paper. Caterina was fairly sure that Leda had no sense of the cost of all these things. No matter. She yearned to spoil the girl this day, to delight her. They were both smiling as they left the stalls.
Yes—sometimes money can buy magic. She and Leda sat down in a square of shade they found on a small bridge, slid off their slippers, and dangled their hot feet over the water. Leda took out her pastels and a sketchbook and drew a bit. The yellow, red, green, and blue houses along the canals begged you to try to capture their colors. Caterina leaned back and closed her eyes. It had been a near-perfect morning.
* * *
The trip home brought them again beneath the looming walls of Santa Maria degli Angeli. Caterina pretended to count their packages sitting at her feet, but Leda stared out the cabin window as they rowed by it. Her questions for Caterina b
egan anew.
“After you were tricked by Marina—Caterina, did you give up? Let her win?”
“Well, no—” Caterina reluctantly answered. “It wasn’t simple like that.”
“Because it seems—no offense—the more I learn, that she controls you something like a puppet.” A flush spread across Leda’s face. “Isn’t that why I am here? She forced you to take me in?”
“No—no!” Caterina struggled to keep calm in the face of this accusation. “Marina asked me for a favor, and I granted it. I’m glad I did.” She said it with finality, hoping she might end this unfortunate conversation.
“A favor?” Leda asked, her voice rising. “What could you possibly owe that evil woman who set out to hurt you again and again?”
“Oh—it is complicated, Leda. There are parts you do not know—could not understand.” Caterina’s stomach was turning over.
“I think I am beginning to understand,” Leda said, shaking her head at her previous blindness. “I think I am Marina’s latest pawn. A way to still control you—for whatever reason—years later.”
“No—no, Leda, it’s not like that!” Caterina was beginning to panic. Where was this leading? Was Leda thinking she might try to beat Marina at her own games? Keep her baby? That would be insanity. “Marina simply asked me to take care of you until”—until the thing is done—“until the baby is born, and then she expects you back.”
“Marina expects this—Marina asked me for that—” Leda’s voice was full of a sixteen-year-old’s outrage. “What could you possibly owe her? Nothing! Why not simply stand up for yourself?”
“Basta! Enough, Leda!” Caterina felt herself snap and break away from whatever rope had been holding her. “Do you want to hear what happened when I tried to fight back? Is that what you want?”
Caterina’s mind seethed. She felt the waves of the lagoon as if they were inside her head. Oh—I fought back. I fought back until I nearly killed her.
CHAPTER 73
Murano, 1753
I had been left alone by Giacomo in the casino. His words echoed in my head—madly in love with her . . . excruciating favor . . . I love you with all my soul—and bits of my heart felt like they were cracking off. I went to sit on the bed and recoiled at the sight of its red silk cover, mocking me with false promises. Marina, too, I knew now for sure, was false to the core, pretending to give me things but all the time stripping me bare. I groaned and clutched my stomach. I felt a sob living inside me, getting ready to be born.
“Caterina?”
I swung around. Marina stood across the room in front of a large green cupboard. She was nowhere near any door.
“What are you doing here!” I screamed in fright. I jumped up and cowered behind the bed. She was like a ghost that had floated in. “How—?”
“Never mind that—are you alright?” She started to cross the room toward me. I could not make sense of how she had appeared, but I knew she was my enemy. My boiling blood told me that.
“Leave me alone!” I screamed. Rather than let myself be cornered against a wall, I ran toward her and started beating her chest with my fists.
“Get out of here! Get out!” I screamed, as if she were seeing something open—my heart, and all my dreams—and I had to close it, close it before she took more away.
“Caterina!” she cried, trying to grab my wrists. “Calma ti, calma ti.”
I fell against her and she tightened her arms to hold me. I longed for my mother, for any hug. But I quickly pulled away.
“How did you get in here?” I demanded to know.
She looked pale. Her eyes had dark half-moons under them. Whatever she had been planning for this night, it had evidently gone wrong.
“Come—” she said, “I will show you.” The hand she reached out to me was shaking.
I trailed behind her in the direction of the green cupboard. She opened its doors, and I saw it was empty inside, with no back. Instead, there was a miniature door in the wall. The door handle was formed of a mask, some leering animal with a bronze ring in its mouth. Marina put her hand in the ring and pushed the door open. She crouched to go inside, and I followed her.
I found myself in a dark closet with no windows and another door on the opposite wall. Marina lit a candle on a small table. I could see a sofa was set facing the wall of the main room we had just left. There was an armchair and a desk. Enough furniture to be comfortable for a few hours. But why?
“I don’t understand,” I said to Marina. The flame of the candle lit up her clear, pale skin to a frightening glow. I did not like being in this small place with her, no matter how curious I felt. I turned to escape out the little door.
“I was watching you,” she said.
I turned back to face her, my eyes full of fury.
“Watching me? Why? How?”
“I will show you.” Her voice was steady, like someone intent on confessing all. Or maybe, intent on pretending to confess all. I couldn’t believe anything she said anymore. I was like a snake that had been roused, ready to strike and protect myself.
She stepped in front of the sofa and unhooked a board that hung low on the wall. Behind it, I saw many small holes. Light shone in from the other room. I looked at her, confused.
“Look through,” she said.
I sat on the sofa and leaned forward. Through the holes I had a perfect view into the main room. I saw clearly the bed in the alcove, with its red silk cover. The single candle still burning on the mantel.
“So—you came for a show!” I cried. I felt as if I had no clothes on. “Did you like what you saw?”
“No! No, I did not! Caterina—you must believe me.” She took a seat at the far edge of the sofa. “I had the gondolier return for me after he dropped you off, so that I could come enjoy what I was sure would be a happy scene. I hid in this room. When we saw it was going badly—that Giacomo felt tricked, and scorned by me—I kept thinking I would make an appearance to right things. I waited, believing in my heart that two people who loved each other would reconcile as the night went on. But—it did not happen.”
I felt crazed with outrage. “You wanted him to reject me—don’t lie to me!”
Her face slackened as if I had punched her. Oh, I wanted to. I wanted to kill her right there, take that candle and burn it into that perfect white skin of hers. I thought of Giacomo touching her, adoring her, preferring her, and I felt I would vomit.
“If I ever did hold power over him, it is gone now,” she said flatly. She picked up the board and placed it back over the secret holes. Her hands moved clumsily, but I wondered if it was an act. “He will come to despise me, the more he considers what I have done.”
Could she be right . . . ? I felt my rage curdle into something else. Revenge, mixed with hope. Would Giacomo finally see her for what she was?
I couldn’t know what would unfold from this night. But I realized then I had nothing to gain by making an enemy of Marina. Better to play my best part: the innocent angel.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I looked right into her eyes and struggled to steady my voice. “If Giacomo loved me more, we would not have both lost everything.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” She slid nearer to me. “It is not your fault things turned out badly.” She took hold of my hand and laid her head against my shoulder. My spine stiffened.
Her words from before came back to me.
Had she said, when we saw it was going badly? Who else had been watching me?
CHAPTER 74
I spent the next several days hiding in my room at the convent. I dreaded seeing anybody, especially Marina. Finally, on Wednesday, Concetta returned from Venice with a letter from Zulietta. I broke the seal immediately, hungry for news. I needed to be lifted away to another place, anywhere other than the miserable convent. A place where friendship, and perhaps even love, was still possible.
Caterina, darling cousin,
Forgive the bad handwriting. I am actually riding in the carriage home. I bought
a small folding desk today in Vicenza, just to be able to write you. I could not wait.
Where to start? By the time you read this, it will be just over two weeks since I saw you in your room at the convent, yet it feels as though a lifetime has passed since then.
First, you will be very proud: I managed to deceive my parents. I paid Pier Antonio twenty zecchini for help with my plan, which we set in motion two Sundays ago, when my father and mother, and yours, were together for pranzo after Mass.
“I have been thinking,” Pier Antonio began, speaking earnestly, hand to his heart, “how much I want to start my life anew. To ask San Antonio for healing, and guidance, etcetera, etcetera.”
Then, he fed them the part about me: “Zulietta and I are like sister and brother. And what is family for, but to help in times of need? I beg you to allow her to come with me to Padua. I promise to protect her, just as I would Caterina.” (Ha!—that one made me laugh.) “She, too, will be healed by the saint.”
My God, it was beautiful!
My father was the first one to be convinced. Are you surprised? He has been so terribly remorseful about what happened with Giorgio Contarini, I knew he would be willing to grant me almost anything. It was my mother who proved more difficult.
“What if—” she started. “Pier Antonio, of course we trust you, but Zulietta would be there alone . . . and with only you to watch over her . . .”
Here, your father, without knowing it, came to our rescue.
“Sister, are you implying Pier Antonio would not fulfill his promise to protect Zulietta?” He bristled. “That he has so little honor?”
“Oh, no, brother,” she assured him. “Of course not. These are just worries a mother has—for her only daughter—”
“Have her bring her maid then,” he snapped, “if you are so concerned.”
“Elisabetta?” I offered. “I could use her anyway, to help dress me and do my hair.” Of course, you know as well as I do—Elisabetta has designs on your brother. I knew she would not be watching me. In fact, she would be thrilled if I were to disappear.
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