Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel)

by Victoria Strauss

  This time he managed to fix the template properly to the wall. But when he began incising the lines of the drawing into the soft surface of the plaster, to give Ferraldi a reference from which to paint, his hand was too heavy. With a ripping sound that carried through the room, his stylus tore through the paper.

  “Stop!” Ferraldi stepped forward to examine the mistake. “Clumsy boy, you haven’t just torn the template; you’ve cut all the way through the intonaco.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Alvise muttered.

  “Well, take it down. Eugenio, repair it.”

  Eugenio smoothed the disturbed plaster, and Alvise positioned the template yet again. He was breathing heavily through his mouth now—Giulia could hear him all the way from where she stood. He took up the stylus; but as he set it to the paper he lost his grip, and it clattered to the floor.

  “Enough,” Ferraldi snapped. “Stefano! Clean your hands and come over here.”

  “I can do it, Uncle.” Alvise was on his knees, scrabbling for the stylus. “Let me try again.”

  “No. You are grinding pigments now.” Ferraldi jerked the stylus from Alvise’s fingers. “Stefano!”

  Stefano uttered a long-suffering sigh—though not loud enough that Ferraldi could hear. Before he could do more, Giulia spoke up.

  “Maestro. Might I try?”

  Ferraldi trained his blue-green gaze on her. “Have you any experience with plaster?”

  “No, Maestro. But I’ve been watching. And my hands are already clean.”

  “Very well, then. You can hardly do worse.”

  “That’s not fair, Uncle.” Alvise’s face had turned red. “He’s not even a real apprentice.”

  “Do not argue, Alvise. Go assist Stefano, and try not to drop anything. Girolamo, come here.”

  Alvise shot Giulia a scalding look of fury and humiliation, then put his head down and obeyed.

  Ferraldi handed Giulia the stylus. She was aware of his scrutiny as she stepped toward the wall, inhaling the sharp scent of the wet plaster. Her hand was steady as she began to trace, mindful of the need to keep her touch light. The template did not reproduce the careful shading and modeling of the original drawing, only the principal lines of King David’s figure. It did not take long for her to finish.

  She eased the template off its nails and stepped back. Ferraldi examined what she’d done.

  “Good. Roll up the template now and get back to work.”

  Through the morning and into the afternoon, the apprentices ground pigments, mixing them as Ferraldi required with limewater, which would bond with the plaster as it dried and fix the paints to the wall. For all his faults, Stefano was an efficient manager; he ordered Giulia and Alvise about as if he were the workshop’s master, amusing himself by tormenting Alvise at Giulia’s expense. “Oh wait, I think Girolamo wants to do that,” he’d say each time Alvise tried to begin a new task, directing him instead to some other job. Or as Alvise picked up something breakable: “Let Girolamo do that. He doesn’t drop things.”

  Immersed in the fresco, Ferraldi noticed none of this. Alvise, who feared Stefano, did not protest, contenting himself with scowls and muttered oaths. Giulia too kept her mouth shut. She felt sorry for Alvise and regretted her part in his humiliation today, but it was not worth antagonizing Stefano to defend him.

  Instead, she concentrated on the pigments she was grinding, and on the pleasure of hearing their voices rise. Humilità had never had the chance to teach her the techniques of fresco; Giulia was fascinated by the way the limewater shifted the colors’ voices, giving them a harsher edge—different from oil, which made them slower and more languorous, or egg tempera, which made them brighter and harder.

  By midafternoon King David was finished. Ferraldi departed, leaving the apprentices to clean up. It was dark when at last they doused the fire. Stefano, holding aloft one of the lanterns, led the way through the courtyard and out into the street. Shadowed by day, the streets of Venice became wells of darkness at night, only a little relieved by the light escaping from shuttered windows. Even the full moon, silvering the rooftops, could not always reach so far down. If not for Stefano’s lantern, they would have had to find their way by touch, like the blind.

  After a few moments Giulia fell back to walk beside Alvise. He ignored her, stomping along in his loose-limbed way, sniffling every now and then. He was fifteen, the youngest son of Ferraldi’s sister—taken for apprenticeship, Giulia suspected, only out of obligation, for though he had a little talent and was eager to learn, he was the most awkward person she had ever met. He forgot instructions, dropped tools and spilled paint, said the wrong things and laughed at inappropriate moments. Stefano treated him with contempt, as did young Marin, who imitated Stefano in everything. Ferraldi often was not much kinder.

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she said, keeping her voice low so Stefano wouldn’t hear.

  “You’re not sorry.” Alvise sniffled loudly. “You got what you wanted, didn’t you? To make me look even worse than I already do and stick your nose up my uncle’s ass while you were at it.”

  Giulia held on to her temper. “I didn’t intend to do any of that.”

  “Yes, you did. Do you think I’m stupid? I know what you’re really after.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You want my place.” He turned on her. He’d never liked her; but now, in the small light that filtered back from Stefano’s lantern, what she saw on his face looked more like hatred. “My uncle has no use for me. You know it, I know it, everyone knows it. Doesn’t matter what I do or say. He’ll boot me in an eye-blink if a better prospect comes along. So do me a favor and don’t pretend.”

  “You’re wrong, Alvise. I do want a place, but I don’t want your place.”

  “Same bloody difference, isn’t it? Since he can only afford to pay three apprentices.”

  “Stefano will be leaving soon.”

  “Oh, Stefano.” He spat the name. “He talks and talks, but it’s just words. He’ll never get the artists’ guild to accept him. He’ll be an apprentice for the rest of his life.”

  For Alvise, this was unusually perceptive. “You’re family,” Giulia said. “I’m nothing. Your uncle would never choose me over you.”

  “You can draw! Blood’s nothing to him beside that.”

  His words silenced her. Ahead, Stefano’s lantern struck diamonds from the snow that had fallen earlier.

  “You could go anywhere and get a place,” Alvise said. “But the only place I can ever have is with him. Since we’re being straight with each other, you may as well know I mean to get rid of you. I don’t know how I’ll do it. But I’ll figure a way. I swear I will.”

  “Alvise, this is ridiculous. We don’t have to be enemies.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  He quickened his pace, leaving her behind. The sting of his anger lingered, like a bad taste in her mouth. She was angry too—angry at his hatred, which she did not deserve, angry that he’d made her see something she hadn’t seen before. She wanted Ferraldi to choose her—but could she accept an apprenticeship if it came at another’s expense?

  They reached a small campo. In the open space of the little square, moonlight illuminated the snow-dusted paving and the wellhead at the center. The surrounding houses were ramparts of shadow, broken here and there by the glow of candles through the seams of shutters.

  Giulia tipped back her head. Stars showed in the sky above, glinting through gaps in the clouds. What would they tell her if, like Maestro Bruni, she could read them? She was overwhelmed suddenly with a sense of her own smallness. The bricks below her feet felt unstable, as if they might crack apart and plunge her into the salt water that ran like blood through the body of this strange city.

  The light of Stefano’s lantern, a small terrestrial star, was already receding down the black throat of the street. She ran to catch up, leaving the moonlight behind.

  CHAPTER 15

  BERNARDO

  On t
he day Bernardo left her in the Campo San Lio, Giulia had put him out of her mind. She’d been certain she would never see him again—or Sofia either, for she did not plan ever to call upon the aid Sofia had promised her.

  I’m starting a new life, she had told herself. A life where no one in the world knows who or what I am. From this moment, the old Giulia does not exist.

  But four days after she’d become part of the workshop, she had answered a knock at the door and found Bernardo standing on the threshold. She’d been so astonished that for a moment she could not speak.

  “Good day,” he said, unsmiling. Then, in his dry way, “Close your mouth, you look like a fish.”

  “What are you doing here?” she blurted out.

  “That’s a pleasant greeting.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t . . . I’m just . . . surprised.”

  He shrugged. “Thank my mother. She wants to be sure you are well settled.”

  “Oh.” Giulia hated how flustered she felt. But the response that had jolted her in the Campo San Lio—the sudden, surprising current of physical attraction—had overwhelmed her again the instant she saw his face. “I’m settled very well indeed. How did you find me?”

  “I did bring you most of the way, if you remember. I needed only to ask for the house of Ferraldi the painter. Will you let me in?”

  Giulia hesitated. “I have work to do.”

  “You can spare a moment, can you not?”

  He brushed past her into the storeroom. Its clutter was more starkly visible than usual, for she’d been carrying slop buckets downstairs to empty into the rio and had left the water door open.

  “This is the workshop?” There was distaste in his voice.

  “The workshop is upstairs. This is the storeroom.”

  He glanced at the buckets, which she’d set down when he knocked. “Don’t let me interrupt you.”

  He poked around the storeroom as she emptied the buckets, inspecting supplies, kicking at the rubbish on the floor. She went upstairs for more slops, taking her time, hoping that when she came down again he would be gone. But as she descended, she saw he was still there.

  “Someone sleeps down here?” He pointed to her sleeping area—still makeshift, but thanks to Sofia’s purse, better furnished than on the first night, with a straw mattress, a pillow, and a privacy curtain rigged from lengths of linen.

  “I do.”

  “In the storeroom?” His eyebrows flew up so high they nearly disappeared into his bangs. “This is how your master treats his apprentices?”

  “It’s quite comfortable.” The involuntary thrill of his presence had vanished; all Giulia felt now was annoyance.

  “Comfortable? You’re practically on the water. The air is noxious. I wouldn’t keep my scullion in such conditions.”

  “It’s not so bad.” Giulia wanted to smack him for his arrogance. “It’s temporary, in any case, just until there’s space upstairs. And now I really should get back to work. Please thank clarissima Sofia for me, and tell her I am well. She needn’t trouble herself further.”

  She closed the door firmly behind him, hoping he would not return. She did not want Sofia’s eye on her, no matter how kindly meant—the eye of someone who knew her secret. She didn’t want Bernardo poking his haughty nose into her affairs.

  A few days later, she was scrubbing one of the worktables, and half listening to the bickering of Zuane and Antonio, when young Marin came running up from the storeroom to announce at the top of his voice that there was a well-dressed gentleman downstairs asking for Girolamo.

  She felt a stab of real anger. Why on earth had he come back? But her heart, as if it belonged to someone else, had already begun to race.

  “Go,” Lauro told her in his gravelly voice. “But be quick about it.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t have friends in Venice.” Stefano, at another table trimming brushes, paused to watch her with his sharp blue eyes as she dried her hands on her tunic.

  “He’s not a friend. He’s . . . a patron.”

  “Ho! Patrons already? Aren’t you getting a little ahead of yourself?”

  She ignored him and went down to the storeroom, where Bernardo was pacing restlessly about. With his dark hair and clothes, he melted into the dimness, except for the pale blur of his face and the glint of his silver-handled dagger.

  “Here,” he said, holding something toward her. “From my mother.”

  She took it, careful not to let her hands touch his: a beautiful blanket of soft wool, rolled up around a feather pillow.

  “I’m very grateful. But your mother doesn’t need to give me gifts. I have everything I need, truly.”

  He pointed at her sleeping area. “I see you haven’t moved upstairs yet.”

  “Not yet.” She carried Sofia’s gift over to her bed. “I’m thinking I may not. I like being on my own.”

  It was true. Her little curtained area was a godsend for the privacy she needed to manage the more intimate aspects of her disguise.

  “Well, if I hear you’ve died of an ague, I suppose I will know why.”

  She put down the bedding and faced him. “Truly, you don’t need to be concerned.”

  “It’s my mother who is concerned.”

  “Well, she needn’t be concerned either. And you don’t have to come back every week to inspect my living conditions.”

  He looked affronted. “What makes you think I intend to come back every week?”

  “I’m just saying it’s not necessary.” Giulia drew a breath. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I am well aware of how much I owe clarissima Sofia, and I mean to pay my debt, every penny. But I have a place now. I have a master. No one needs to be concerned for me. No one at all.”

  “Well.” He swung around, an abrupt motion that made the hem of his mantle flare, and paced toward the water door. “That is not why I came, in any case. I came to ask you to draw my portrait.”

  “Your portrait?” Giulia said, surprised.

  “I’ll pay you. I don’t expect you to work for nothing.”

  “What sort of portrait? Is it for your mother?”

  “No. For my betrothed.”

  Giulia felt a small, unwelcome jolt of surprise. Carefully, she said, “I didn’t know you were betrothed.”

  “It hasn’t been formalized.” He reached the storeroom’s far wall and pivoted to pace back toward her. “My mother’s friend, the one whose lying-in we were attending, was a courtesan too, but she caught herself a husband. My betrothed is his daughter by his first marriage. I met her while we were in Vicenza.” His expression tightened. “A suitable match for one such as me, who does not bear his father’s name.”

  “I hope you’ll be happy,” Giulia said awkwardly.

  “I will be settled. That’s good enough for most people.” He halted a little distance away, staring past her into the shadowy corners of the storeroom. “This is my mother’s wish. Not mine.”

  “The portrait?”

  “The marriage.”

  “You don’t . . . want to marry?”

  His dark eyes snapped to hers. There was a pause. “Will you make the portrait, then?”

  A dozen reasons to refuse flashed through Giulia’s mind. But she heard herself saying, “Yes.”

  “When shall we begin?”

  “I’ve work to do today. But Sunday I’ll be free.”

  “I must accompany my mother to Mass. I’ll come after.” He looked at her from beneath his brows. “I do know who he is, you know. My father. If you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t wondering,” Giulia said, though it was not true.

  “For a little while he was my mother’s only patron. She thought—” He stopped, clamped his lips together. “But then she fell pregnant, and he cast her aside. He knows about me. But he has never chosen to acknowledge me.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but something in his voice betrayed a deeper feeling. Giulia remembered the moment when his arrogant shell had cracked on the Camp
o San Lio, and she had glimpsed a different self beneath.

  “My father didn’t acknowledge me either,” she said.

  “You’re illegitimate?” She heard the surprise in his voice.

  “My father was a nobleman. My mother was his seamstress. She died when I was seven. He favored her, so for her sake he kept me under his roof, but he never acknowledged me. I grew up among the servants. I was trained as a servant myself, as . . . as a scullion. When my father died in his turn, his wife lost no time getting rid of me.”

  “So.” The whites of Bernardo’s eyes caught what little light there was, gleaming like ice, the irises as black as inkblots. “We have something in common.”

  And for just a moment Giulia felt that it was true.

  It wasn’t long after he departed that she began to regret agreeing to the portrait, and to remember all the reasons why it was better to cut him—and Sofia—out of her life. Should she send him away on Sunday, telling him she’d changed her mind? But that meant inventing an explanation. And he would certainly be angry.

  It’s only a portrait, she told herself. An afternoon of sketching, a week of composing. I’ll give it to him, and that will be that.

  She attended Mass on Sunday at the church of San Lio and returned to Ferraldi’s house to find Bernardo already waiting. He had brought paper for her to use—thick, fine-quality sheets, far better than she could have afforded on her own.

  The day was overcast but bright, so though it was cold, she brought him onto the wide fondamenta outside the water door, posing him on a tarpaulin-covered load of lumber that had been delivered a few days earlier. He was as good at immobility as his mother, seeming barely to blink as he stared across the rio at the houses on the other side. Perched on a stool, her drawing board balanced on her knee, Giulia sketched him from different angles, preliminary studies that she would later consider in planning the perspective and approach of the final portrait.

  At first they were silent. Then a gondola glided by, its oar dipping, its wake slapping against the foundations of the houses, and Bernardo said softly, “For me, that is the sound of Venice. Water, imprisoned between walls.”