Miss Garnet's Angel

by Salley Vickers

  ‘Oh, hardly. I was a school teacher.’

  ‘But this is the best authority of all. And Charles tells me you are curious about the little chapel near the Raffaele.’

  ‘Yes, the Chapel-of-the-Plague. My friends are restoring it.’ She supposed it was all right by now to call the twins ‘friends’.

  ‘So?’ The Monsignore looked pleased. ‘I was a great fan of your Ashley Clarke and the English restorations are the best, in my view. Without such efforts Venice would have lost many of its treasures. And they do not tell you the story of this chapel, your friends?’

  ‘I don’t think they know it.’

  They had walked back to the veranda where the woman with the moustache was setting down a tray with a jug and some glasses. Charles had disappeared. ‘Charles is in my library looking for a book. He pretends it is me he calls to see but I know it is my library he prefers. Still,’ the Monsignore giggled, ‘it leaves me alone with a pretty woman which he knows I like!’

  Julia, uncertain how to respond to this, accepted a glass of prosecco. Perhaps it was the effect of the alcohol, or the reminder of times spent with Carlo, but she found herself saying, ‘You are not what I would expect a priest to be like.’

  The Monsignore looked smug. ‘I am sometimes a worry to my superiors,’ he admitted. ‘But I am strict with my vows. It is the priests who speak scornfully of sex who are caught with their pants down. I love the women—but I love Our Lady more. And because I love women I know better how to love her. It makes sense?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does.’ The priest’s directness was making her feel exposed so that she brought the conversation, almost defensively, back to the chapel. ‘Charles told me it was built for a young woman who survived the plague.’

  ‘But did he tell you that she was a Jewess? No, I see he didn’t!’ The Monsignore was triumphant.

  ‘How could she be Jewish?’ Julia asked. ‘If it’s a chapel surely it must be Christian. I don’t see.’

  ‘But this is the whole point.’ The Monsignore’s voice took on the tone of a man rubbing his hands. ‘It had to be concealed because even though Venice was, in fact, the first Christian state who passed laws making it illegal to harm the Jews, still there were strict controls forbidding the congress of Jews and Christians—even the prostitutes, if they were Christians, were forbidden to the Jew, although it is an interesting thing, you know it is comparatively rare for Jewish men to visit prostitutes as it is even rarer for them to murder.’

  Charles, who had emerged with a book, hearing this said, ‘Some would say they murdered Jesus Christ.’

  The Monsignore held up a hand. ‘Of all people I am aware of this. But the death of Christ, lamentable as it was, is not in the ordinary sense murder. The Jews are a legalistic people and they would say the crucifixion took place under due law. For them the sanctity of life is everything. The death of Our Lord aside, it is a matter from which we Christians could learn a thing from the Jews.’

  ‘But the girl who died…?’ said Julia, not wanting the story to get lost.

  ‘Forgive me. I am riding on my hobby-horse.’ The Monsignore sipped his glass. There was a delicacy in his gestures which suggested the surgeon. ‘So although it was us who give the name of Ghetto to the world—’

  ‘From gettare,’ interrupted Charles, keen to display his knowledge.

  ‘Just so. Charles as ever is right.’ The Monsignore made a slight wink in Julia’s direction. ‘As Charles will tell us, this word has the meaning of casting metal, and originally we put the Jews in an old cannon-foundry—which disturbs me when I think of what Hitler has done later. Of course there is nothing new under the sun, but I wonder sometimes if with our Venetian cannon-foundry we give him the idea for his gas chambers? However, it is not until 1512 that the Jews are shut behind gates at night with Christian guards we make the Jews pay for!’ The Monsignore laughed. ‘Shylock was right—it is we who were the mercenary ones!’

  Julia, thinking of the conversation with Charles, said, rather timidly, ‘They were the principal traders here, weren’t they?’

  The Monsignore smiled as if she were an intelligent child. ‘Of course! In fact, as Charles knows better than any of us, the Jews make excellent business for Venice—most of our wealth is born out of their transactions with the East. And this, in fact, is relevant to the story. Listen, Marco, while I tell Signora Garnet!’

  The dog, who had been sniffing in the flowerbeds, came back and settled under the black gown. ‘The girl’s father was a Venetian nobleman who married, in secret, the daughter of a Jewish doctor. (The Jewish doctors have an excellent reputation, by the way. Almost always the Doge’s personal physician is a Jew.) The Jewish women were famously beautiful and the god of love is no respecter of human laws!’

  ‘By which I can tell you he means Dan Cupid, not the Holy Trinity,’ said Charles, amused.

  At this the priest just raised his hands as if in surrender and said, mildly, ‘Eros, please. “Cupid” is not a respectful name for such a dangerous god.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Julia, ‘I agree!’ and blushed when the priest turned and looked closely at her before continuing.

  ‘It is said that this nobleman prayed for a son—and when his wife died after giving birth to a daughter, he rejected the child. According to Jewish law a child takes on the mother’s race—and so she was brought up, out of his sight, in the upper storey of the family palazzo, a Jewess unknown to herself.’

  ‘This sounds apocryphal, Giuseppe!’ said Charles.

  ‘Ah, Carlo, you are a rationalist. Suspend your disbelief, please, or I will not tell you…’

  ‘Oh, do, please, go on,’ said Julia. She rather hoped Charles would go back inside.

  ‘One day there comes a young man, from the East, from the Levant, in fact, where my family also once long ago came from, which is maybe why I like this story. He is a trader in silk and somehow he sees and falls in love with this young woman. How he meets her we must guess. Maybe he calls to do some business with her father? The young silk-trader is, however, also a Jew and her father will have nothing to do with the young man except by way of business. This the daughter knows although she is not aware that she herself is Jewish and this is why her father keeps her out of his sight.’

  The Monsignore paused to sip his prosecco. ‘I hope this drink suits you?’

  Julia, not thinking, said, ‘Oh yes, my friend, another Carlo, used to buy it for me.’ It was the first time, since ‘the discovery’, she had mentioned his name.

  The priest rested his eyes on her again for a moment before he resumed. ‘So the young couple meet in secret. Meantime the father tries to marry off the girl to various men of the young nobility. He has great wealth so there is a valuable dowry.’

  ‘This is what I read too,’ said Charles suddenly.

  ‘It is good my story is verified!’ The blackbird eyes shone rather spitefully. ‘Where there is money naturally there are many suitors, as your Jane Austen knew—what an intelligent woman!’ He kissed his fingers theatrically. ‘Many young men wish to marry the girl but in all cases she is returned after the wedding. Why? The marriage is not consummated.’

  Julia wanted to ask what happened to the failed husbands but the Monsignore held up a hand again. ‘One day, to the horror of her household, the girl wakens with symptoms of the plague. There are buboes like blackberries breaking out all over her sweet young body.’ He paused, looking over at the roses, as if to condole with them for the ruined charms of the long-dead girl. ‘Her father is distraught. In fear and guilt he calls upon every known medical resource, for he has come to realise, too late, that he loves the daughter who reminds him of his dead wife. Excuse me,’ and here the Monsignore drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose. ‘The story is affecting,’ he resumed, ‘and this I think vouches for its truth.’

  ‘In that case you might as well say that The Sound of Music is “true”!’

  The Monsignore’s eyes, ignoring Charles, addressed Julia’s. ‘T
he young man hears of the illness. Knowing that he will not be permitted to see his beloved and that her death is likely within a matter of a few days, he prays outside her window. And here is the marvel.’

  He paused dramatically.

  ‘OK, Giuseppe.’ Charles was a touch impatient. ‘Give us the marvel!’

  ‘It is night and he prays across the water from the noble palazzo. As he prays he is visited by the Archangel Raphael, who tells him how the girl can be cured.’

  The Monsignore sat back folding his hands in his lap as if that was all he had to say. ‘Come on then,’ said Charles. ‘You can’t stop there. What happens next? How come the chapel?’

  ‘I see you warm to my story, Carlo! Somehow the young man persuades the household to admit him to the girl’s chamber—contagion in cases of the plague is almost instantaneous and it is unusual for anyone to choose to go near those affected. The young man, presumably following the advice of his angelic counsellor, performs a medical miracle and the girl survives. Of course there is an alternative version which suggests she is cured by the help of her grandfather, the Jewish doctor, and that later this is turned into a story of the visit by Raphael—see what a good friend to you I am, Carlo, to tell you this rationalist counter to my mumbo-jumbo! In any case the girl recovers and her father gives permission for the couple to marry. But by now the Jews have become scapegoat for the plague—Venice lost two-thirds of her population and the Jews, when they were not dragged into the streets and burned, had most of their property confiscated. The young couple must keep their religious identity secret. So Papa builds the chapel on the site where the visitation occurs, as a thank-offering to the Angel Raphael. A cover, you see! And this I find very amusing for this reason: because the angels are, in fact, Jewish. We Christians have hijacked them, and this is how the father was able to cover up the unfortunate Jewish origin of the miracle. It became a Christian chapel after all. Certainly yes, we are great hijackers,’ said the Monsignore, evidently enjoying the word.

  ‘And the young couple. What happened to them?’ More than anything she wanted to know.

  ‘They lived happily ever after!’ said Charles ironically. ‘How much of that is bullshit, Giuseppe?’

  ‘One should never dismiss bullshit, Carlo. The greatest truths lie in improbable stories. Look at the gospels!’

  Later, as she and Charles walked back along the fondamenta Julia said, ‘What an extraordinary man!’ The Monsignore exuded an energy which made Charles’s company seem almost bland.

  ‘He is,’ said Charles. ‘During the war, when he was still in his seminary, he helped the Jews to safety through his knowledge of the secret passages which run through Venice. Presumably that’s why he’s so taken with the fairy story about the chapel!’

  ‘We didn’t ask about the icon,’ Julia said. She did not want to hear the story criticised.

  ‘So we didn’t,’ Charles said. ‘But Giuseppe will surely come to our party. He loves a bash. You can ask him then.’

  5

  I know it is easy to be wise after an event but even before Azarias disclosed what he knew I smelled danger—a hollow feeling below my ribs—as we made our way to the house of this relative Azarias had thrown at me. Everyone we asked seemed to know who he was. ‘Raguel?’ they said. ‘Surely we know Raguel. Go to the house with the tower by the ditch of bulrushes.’

  And it was the case that here in Ecbatana were many buildings which zigzagged to the skies.

  When we reached a house with such a tower Azarias insisted I go forward to meet my relatives though they had no foreknowledge of our arriving.

  I went in and found a man sitting by the door of the courtyard and my heart gave a lurch when I saw him, a broad-shouldered man with just that same squint along his nose, which resembled my father’s look before he lost the use of his eyes.

  The man gave a greeting—‘Much cheer to you, stranger!’—and he brought me into his house. He introduced me to Edna, the woman of the household who greeted me courteously, a woman with a flat friendly face, not at all like the face of my mother, Anna. My mother’s face, my father always said, was like the face of a roe deer.

  But it was Edna who recognised me, so that I had no need to say who I was, for the moment she clapped eyes on me she said, ‘Raguel, how like he is to your kinsman of Nineveh, Tobit!’

  ‘That is very fit,’ I answered, ‘for Tobit of Nineveh is my father.’

  Then Raguel sprang up and embraced me saying, ‘Blessings to you, lad, for you are the son of a good and noble father.’ And he ordered a ram of his flock to be killed to receive us.

  I was pondering how to broach the question of their daughter but I need not have worried because at that moment a maidservant came down the stairs, wailing and wringing her hands. The girl Azarias had chosen for me to marry was threatening, it seemed, to throw herself from the window of the topmost tower.

  Signora Mignelli had referred from time to time to the date when the tenancy came to an end. ‘I miss you,’ she explained to Julia, regretful. ‘But I must let to tourist to make money.’

  Julia, who had not yet decided what she was going to do after she had left the Campo Angelo Raffaele, mentioned to Sarah that she might need to find another apartment. She was not at all sure she was ready to return to Ealing. The small flat where she had lived so many years had, in her imagination, become dreary and confined.

  Unexpectedly, Sarah had offered a solution. ‘I’m going to have to go home myself in early July,’ she explained. ‘I’ll be back but you’re welcome to use my apartment while I’m away. In fact it would be great to have someone there to keep an eye on things. D’you want to come by and see?’

  The Ghetto was near the Madonna dell’Orto, where Julia had had the oblique encounter with Toby; where the young Levantine might have found quarters, while awaiting the visitation of the Archangel Raphael. Julia found the top bell, above the rows of brass nameplates (one name, Melchiori, made her think of the myrrh-bearing magi) on the side of a tall house near the synagogue.

  ‘They’re tall—the houses here—because the only way the Jews could spread in the Ghetto was upwards,’ Sarah explained. She had come down to meet Julia and they were climbing the stone stairs to the top of the house. ‘Hey, I’ve just thought, is it going to be too much for you? Walking up all these steps?’

  Julia was affronted. ‘Certainly not—I’m fit as a fiddle, thank you.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be patronising.’

  They had reached the upper storey and, entering, Julia found herself in a large wooden-floored room with kitchen facilities in one corner and a double bed in the other. A roll of green baize into which Sarah’s long chisels were slotted lay on a pile of magazines by the bed.

  ‘It’s a bit primitive, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Is this the only room?’ Julia, looking at the bed, couldn’t help thinking of Toby. Where had he slept?

  Sarah walking to the corner of the room said, ‘There’s a bathroom—it’s a tad poky.’ She opened a door in the corner to show a truncated bath with a shower attachment. ‘That’s a hip-bath. Neat, isn’t it?’

  Julia, looking, saw bottles and pots. The gold-topped potions and creams reminded her of how Sarah had borrowed her hand-cream. Looking at the girl’s features she observed her skin, the kind which is called ‘porcelain’. Her own felt papery and old. It’s all right for her, Julia thought, following Sarah, with seeming meekness, out of the bathroom.

  There was no sign of Toby in either room. Had he slept on the floor? Though, of course, more often, no doubt, he had spent the nights on the floor of the chapel. With the bats.

  The apartment was smaller than Signora Mignelli’s. Julia tried to envisage herself there. She liked the effect of light from windows on three sides. A balcony led off one of the windows and stepping out she saw the faint grey margin of sea.

  ‘You can see the Dolomites in the winter.’ Sarah joined her. ‘But not in the summer. I don’t know why not.’


  Julia, her lunch by the Fondamenta Nuove with Vera in mind, said, ‘A friend who was here told me it has to do with refraction of the light.’ Her last sight, almost, of Toby. Where was he now? she wondered.

  Sarah, as if reading her thoughts, now said, ‘I have to go back to see if I can find Tobes.’ Frowning she looked older. ‘It would be a relief, actually, to have you here.’

  ‘Well, it would suit me.’ Definitely she did not wish to return to England. She would telephone Mr Akbar at the first opportunity and see if he would like to continue his tenancy. ‘When do you want to leave, Sarah?’

  Sarah suggested the first week of July. She offered to lend a hand with moving Julia’s things from Signora Mignelli’s when the time came. ‘I have very little,’ Julia said, grateful that she had not had to ask. ‘Just a few books and papers; almost no clothes.’

  But there was the Cutforths’ party, and really she must give some thought to her clothes, she decided as she made her way back to the Fondamenta Nuove where the Dolomites rose invisibly behind the clouds across the water. Ruskin, Vera had informed her, had liked to promenade there when the mountains were not in hiding. Probably he had walked up and down, lecturing the virginal Effie who had run in horror from Tintoretto’s Last Judgement. But ‘virginity’—what did it mean? There was the Virgin Mary (the Bellini with the almond eyes) but Ruskin’s virgin wife wasn’t, to be sure, like her! What about the beautiful Jewess who nearly died of the plague?—until the fortuitous arrival of the silk-merchant all her ‘marriages’ remained unconsummated. And there was the girl in the Tobit story whose resident demon strangled her lovers before they could enter her body. Maybe virginity was an unwillingness to allow yourself to be altered? Is it true that we would rather be ruined than changed? she meditated. Perhaps it was not so much a matter of what you did with your body but what you allowed into your mind—a reluctance to admit mortality?