Dearest Caterina and Leda,
I had a chance to speak to the surgeon Guglielmo de la Motte at the University of Padua Medical School, and he has agreed to perform your delivery, Leda, when the time comes. He will come to Venice on 15 September and lodge at the best inn, Queen of the Sea. If anything should arise before that date and we need his help, he has instructed us to send a message to him immediately.
You are in good hands, my girl.
I miss you both. The farmhouse is not the same without you, Caterina.
I will be home to Venice shortly, by the end of the month.
Yours affectionately,
Bastiano
“Oh, goodness,” said Leda, flushing with pleasure at the news, “how well taken care of I am!”
“Naturally,” said Caterina, smiling at her. “You are very important to us.”
“God only knows where I would be without you,” said Leda. “What a saint you are.”
A saint. That was a word Caterina had never considered for herself. Leda’s image of her was in many ways an illusion. Caterina knew the truth about herself.
“Well, then, bless you, child,” she joked, though at some level, she meant it. Blessings to Leda, who had changed her life for the better.
“It is time for bed, carissima,” she said, rising and leaning over to kiss Leda on her forehead.
“Yes . . .” said Leda. “Good night, Caterina.” But she lingered a little longer in the comfortable chair. Leda did not move anywhere too quickly these days.
Caterina made her way down the dark hall to her bedroom. Behind her closed door, she stared at the ivory box on her nightstand, with the letters inside. Moonlight slivered in from the window and illuminated the box eerily. Its deep, shadowed carvings looked like eyes to Caterina, all leering at her. She picked up the box and buried it in her clothes chest, under a wool cloak. Maybe, she told herself as she dropped the heavy lid down on it, that would smother the secrets inside.
CHAPTER 81
Caterina woke the next morning to the ringing of the Marang-ona, the deep bell from San Marco that summoned workers to start the day. Had she really slept so late? She scrambled up to make breakfast for Leda, but found that her door was closed. Leda was still sleeping. Caterina made herself a cup of sweet Turkish coffee, which caused her to sweat in the rising heat. Her heart fluttered.
Washing the few dishes, a swirl of memories came into her head as if they had been simmering there all night. The arsenic. The Casa degli Speziali pharmacy, where she had told them to go. And, Elia Vivante. She became consumed by the idea that she wanted—no, she needed—to go to the ghetto. Today. She needed to know if Elia was still there at the pawnshop. Elia, this person at the margins of her life who had played such a key—and mostly unknowing—role in events that happened long ago. There were things Caterina realized she ached to say.
The day promised to be hot. Caterina put on a pastel blue linen dress with silver lace trim at the edge of the bodice. She tucked a lace fischu at her neck for modesty, and to protect her from the sun. On her way out, she set out a plate for Leda in the kitchen, with two boiled eggs and a few slices of cured ham. She reminded herself to buy bread later in the day, and some fresh milk. Milk was important for the baby.
Caterina hailed a gondola nearby, and settled herself inside with the cabin shutters closed against the sun. Years collapsed in her mind as she traveled north toward the old Jewish neighborhood. She had not been back in all this time. The place was full of mixed memories: escaping there to pawn her silk fan . . . discovering the truth about the cabbala . . . Elia’s uncle, who had stopped her hemorrhage . . . and Elia. She saw the girl in her mind’s eye, fresh as a cream-colored rose. Her small body, her wavy brown hair. Her almond-shaped eyes, their intelligence, and kindness.
The boat bumped to a stop about a half hour later, and Caterina climbed out. The sun was blazing in the sky. She shielded her face, and ducked with relief into the tunnel that led from the outer walls into the main square.
Caterina looked around to get her bearings, and noticed for the first time that the buildings around the square were taller than any others in Venice. She shuddered—how terrible to live like these Jews, crowded in tilting towers. She spied the Vivante pawnshop at the edge of the square, its gold-lettered sign glinting in the sunlight. It looked like the same wood sign that had been hanging there twenty years before, maybe repainted a few times. With relief, she saw that the pharmacy next door was gone.
Still, at the sight of the old pawnshop, Caterina was seized with panic at her decision to come. She needed to sit down and calm herself. She made her way to the stone wellhead at the center of the square. It was a simple one, with no carved flowers or vines to decorate it, but it reminded her of her favorite well near her childhood home, in Campo San Gregorio. This soothed her. She sat down on its marble platform, next to a sleeping orange cat. Her face started to burn in the sun.
“May I bother you for a drink?” she asked an old woman who approached to draw some water. The woman eyed her suspiciously, then filled her bucket, untied a cup strung onto her apron, dipped it, and handed Caterina some cold water.
“Grazie, Signora,” said Caterina with an appreciative smile.
The old woman wiped off the drained cup on her apron, and continued to eye her. Caterina hoped she didn’t look too out of place, seated at the base of the well in her silver-lace gown, frying like a fish.
“Are you lost?” the old woman asked her.
“Oh—no,” said Caterina. She rose quickly, to show the old woman—and herself—that she was not lost at all. But as she left the cool well and headed toward the pawnshop, she noticed she felt unsteady.
Caterina pushed open the door of the shop. Inside smelled just as it had many years before—like old books, and dust. A small, brown-haired woman sat cleaning a pearl and diamond ring behind the counter. She looked up when Caterina walked in.
“Buon giorno, Signora.” She smiled and her eyes lingered for a confused moment on Caterina’s face.
“Do you remember me—Elia?” Caterina offered. Elia startled hearing her name, and set down the ring and rag on the counter.
“I am Caterina—Caterina Capreta. You helped me—well, in many ways—long ago—” She did not know where to start her story. With the jeweled fan? The cabbala? Her miscarriage? The arsenic?
“Caterina!” Elia sprang up to kiss her on each cheek. “How good it is to see you again!” Caterina noticed that Elia had faint lines on her forehead, and her hair had thinned. Her looks were not ruined by any means, but Caterina had known her as a blooming girl. Nothing after could ever be as lovely.
“You are healthy?” Elia asked. “And happy? You were able to leave the convent? Such sad days for you there . . .”
“I left when I turned eighteen,” Caterina said. It was hard to know what more to say. After my father forced me to marry someone I did not love? I have been unable to have children?
“Thank God you got to leave that place!” blurted out Elia. Caterina had to laugh. She was fairly sure Elia was not supposed to say God’s name in vain, whereas Christians said it all the time. She suspected that Elia had grown up to be a rule-breaker.
“I have to say,” Elia went on, “I have never understood the practice of sending young girls away from home to live in convents.”
It had never occurred to Caterina that Jewish girls were not sent away like this. “Do you think your religion treats girls better?” she asked.
“Oh—no!” Elia gave a small laugh and touched Caterina’s hand affectionately. “They separate us from the men in the temples because we are too distracting, then keep us in the kitchens all day plucking feathers out of chickens!”
Caterina laughed. She had always felt a spark of friendship with Elia, even though she did not know her well. That had been part of the problem. She felt she could trust Elia, but Elia was also in many ways a stranger. It had tempted Caterina to involve her in her affairs, knowing she would not
have to face Elia in everyday life.
The door of the shop burst open. Two young boys, about five years old, ran in. Elia’s face lit up—these were her sons, clearly. They stopped suddenly when they saw Caterina.
“Giacobbe—Samuele—I want you to meet an old friend of mine.” The boys approached them. Caterina saw they were twins, with curly dark hair and melting brown eyes. She felt raw jealousy at the sight of them, but she swallowed it down.
“Caterina—what brings you to the ghetto today?” Elia asked her, finally. The boys had run behind the counter and were both sitting on her lap, hanging on her shoulders. She looked weighed down by them in every way a woman can be, and happy.
“Oh—” said Caterina, realizing that with the boys there she could not say what she most wanted to say to Elia: You saved my life long ago—and I never even thanked you.
“I have been thinking over the past,” she said instead, “and I wondered what had become of you.”
“Ah,” said Elia. She gave each restless boy a kiss on the cheek to settle them. “I often wondered, too . . . whether you ever got free.”
“You mean—from the convent?” Caterina asked. She knew it was time to go, but Elia’s comment confused her. Intrigued her.
“I meant more—” Elia went on. “It always struck me . . . that you deserved some happiness in your life.”
“Thank you,” Caterina said simply. And bowed her head to this old friend.
CHAPTER 82
In the gondola on the way home, Caterina opened the shutters and eyed the busy canals and walkways with a strangely unburdened heart. It had been good for her to see Elia, to see that time had in some ways stood still—enough for her to be able to revisit her past—but in other ways, the years inevitably marched ahead. The old Jewish pharmacy was gone, and with it, another trace of her actions had disappeared.
She leaned back into the velvet seat of the cabin and closed her eyes. Her tired mind traveled home now, only a few more minutes away. Leda would have been awake several hours, and was probably waiting for her in her favorite chair by the windows. Caterina had bought eggs, bread, and milk in the ghetto, as well as almond biscotti, a Jewish delicacy. She felt sure Leda would adore the special treats.
Leda.
An uneasy feeling washed over Caterina. She should not have left Leda for so long. What if the baby had started coming, early? Leda was all alone.
The gondola slowed as it attempted to snake past a vegetable barge that hogged half the canal. Caterina rubbed her forehead with anxious hands. Peering ahead, she saw that the last narrow canal toward home was also crowded with boats.
“Signor!” She opened the door of the cabin and called to the gondolier, “Please stop! I will get out here!”
He looked at her as if she were a bit crazy, but rowed the boat to the water’s edge. Climbing out, she stepped on the hem of her blue linen dress and heard it rip.
Caterina walked briskly the rest of the way home, arriving probably no faster than the boat would have gotten her there. She bounded up the steps and fumbled with her key.
“Leda? Leda?” she called, bursting inside the door.
Silence.
Glancing down the hallway, where her bedroom door was ajar, Caterina had a terrifying thought. Sweat started to prick under her arms.
Had Leda gone in search of the box of letters while she was out? Perhaps not set out to do that—but gone to find Caterina in the small room and wondered, Where is the ivory box that usually sits on the nightstand? Why has it been moved? And worse—What is written on those pages that I have not seen?
Caterina rushed to her bedroom and threw open the lid of her clothes chest. Yet there it was, the ivory box, sitting innocently where she had left it buried under a wool cloak. Hugely relieved, she lowered the lid back down.
Still—where was Leda? Caterina went into the girl’s bedroom and opened a drawer or two. All her dresses were still there, undisturbed. Feeling bad for being nosy, she decided Leda had probably gone out for a short walk. She realized then how sunburned and worn out she felt. More than anything, she craved respite from the turmoil of the day: the simmering dreams, the blazing sun, the journey to the ghetto. She lay on top of the cool sheets on Leda’s bed and fell asleep.
At some point in her dreams, Leda called out for her. Caterina snapped awake, heart pounding, and went running out of the room. But the house was empty. Shadows had started to climb on the walls.
A beam of golden afternoon light fell on the small table in the main room where they usually shared their meals. Now Caterina’s eyes fell on several sheets of yellowed paper she had not noticed before.
She saw her own thick, cramped handwriting on the pages. She could not make out any words from where she stood. But she already knew which letter it was. The last one to her brother; the last one kept in the ivory box.
The letter had no seal. It had never been sent. But it told everything—and Leda had found it.
CHAPTER 83
Venice, 1753
Pier Antonio—
It seems whenever I feel lowest, I reach out to you. This is when I feel our blood bond, know sadly we are one kind. Maybe Sebastiano was the good child among us, and when he died, he left behind we two with blackened hearts. I hide it better than you; no one knows what I am inside. Instead, I am called an angel.
I saw you suspected I was up to something when I asked you for the arsenic at the convent. Zulietta—she couldn’t let herself see the truth. But you knew. Did you not care enough to stop me? Or . . . is it that you understood and accepted my course of action?
Pier Antonio, brother—this is my confession, which I can tell no priest.
I know you read all of the spy’s reports. I never believed for an instant you did not. You know, then, what Marina Morosini has done to me. How she stole from me. She is no nun, but a whore wrapped in God’s clothing.
I wish I could say I lost my mind. That I went truly mad. But I planned it all out. I played to win the last game of love.
“What are you doing here?” Marina asked me in surprise yesterday morning. I arrived at her room carrying a tray with a pot of chocolate and two warmed cups. It was morning right after Matins, and cold rain dripped outside.
“Marina—let’s not allow words said in anger to come between us. We need each other here.” I set down the tray on the table and took a seat on her sofa. I poured hot chocolate over the small amount of white powder I had hidden at the bottom of her cup.
“We cannot remain friends after what has happened between us—can we?” she asked me with searching eyes. I felt almost sorry for her, that she still craved my love. She never deserved it.
“Of course we can,” I reassured her. “Come sit.” I took a spoonful of chocolate and slid her cup temptingly toward her.
Marina gave me a relieved smile and took a seat close to me on the sofa.
“I am glad to hear it, Caterina.” She reached for her cup of chocolate and blew to cool it. She winked at me over the rim. “We will find you another lover—a better one. It will be fun.”
“Oh yes,” I said. “That does sound like fun.” I watched as she took a sip, then another, and a third. Voracious as she was in everything, she drained the cup.
We kept talking. The minutes crawled by on the table clock. Before an hour had passed, I saw a shadow begin to work its way across her beautiful face. She was transformed before my eyes. Her mouth twisted in pain, her blue-green eyes became fixed and shone like glass. I smelled loose bowels from beneath her habit. She tried to stand; she clutched her cup and began to say something. But she fainted dead to the floor.
Panic! I ran to her; I shook her to bring her back. I cried and wiped her drooling mouth with my skirt. Her eyes seemed to be staring up at nothing; her face was gray as stone. I grabbed the shards of the broken cup, threw them in my pocket—and ran for help.
Yes, I ran for help! You must believe me—I did not intend to kill her! I only wanted . . . to sicken her. Sicken her
terribly, so that Giacomo would forget her. He is adoring at the first instance of suffering—I know this. But later, he loses all interest. Let him forget her as he once forgot me.
But I am wretched! A murderer! They say a dose the size of a pea kills a man, and I gave her what I thought was . . . a small pea? Impulsive, foolish—or, dare I face it about myself?—filled with rage I did not know I could feel, I gave her too much. She is dying! She may not survive even one more day, dawning now bright and frightening before me.
No one suspects what I have done. I play the part of an innocent angel in front of them all. Changing her urine-soaked sheets. Sponging diarrhea off her body. Laying my own body over hers, to keep down the convulsions.
But the agonizing regret! It is real and too much to bear! Does God not see me nursing her, trying to bring her back to life?
I pray now, until my lips are as parched and cracked as those of the one I have harmed—I beg God to lighten His judgment on this fallen angel!
Pier Antonio—sinner as I am—pray for me.
CHAPTER 84
Venice, 1774
Leda did not come home for supper that night. Caterina sat over cold spaghetti with anchovies, chewing her nails into soft shreds. She found herself wishing Bastiano was home. He would have helped her figure out a plan, asking question after question until he pieced together where to search, what to do. The very plodding, logical qualities that usually annoyed Caterina, she needed now. But, of course, he would also ask difficult questions about what might have driven Leda away.
She got up, looked anxiously out the window. She could hear the gates closing on the last shops for the night. She pictured Leda wandering the maze of streets in the city, pregnant and alone. The prey of gypsies and thieves. She shuddered, went back to the table, and stared at the noodles and crusted brown sauce. She had no appetite. In fact, the smell made her sick.
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