by Laura Rahme
As I stepped onto the courtyard, a hostile band of young patricians in bright red calza and black pleated tabards, turned to me. I counted seven of them but did not wince.
Why is it that men when they gather before injustice grow paralyzed, or else turn to their basest impulses? Baseness was what I witnessed on that day.
Ignoring the youths, I observed the five merchants, for that is what they were, silken dressed in their princely cioppa, save for two of them who went about in their pristine doublets and embroidered linen shirts. They did not see me. Their attention remained riveted toward the old man who cowered before them.
I whispered questions at passer byes, but the little I derived only frustrated me.
“It is Giacomo Contarini and his partners,” expressed a sour faced banker as he hastened past, his nose half-buried in his books.
“Giacomo who?”
“Giacomo Contarini,” repeated the man in a hushed tone, waving me away. By his manner, I understood that the said merchants possessed influence and were not to be thwarted. Still, the band of youths eyed me from afar, standing proud, in a show of their manhood.
One of the youths stepped forth, striding with a certain arrogance.
“Who are these merchants? Can you name them?” I asked.
The young man gave a mocking smile.
“See the handsome one? The signore with the black silk mantle and the pearls on his hose– that is Balsamo Morosini, Giacomo’s nephew and one of the best negotiators in Venezia. And, the skinny dark one with the bauta mask, that is Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s partner.”
“Who is the fat one?”
“Ubertino Canal...and in the scarlet hose, that’s his brother, Guido Canal. Brokers. Two of the best in Venice.” He gave an insolent stare in my direction. “And you, Signore? What is your affair, here?”
I glowered at him. From behind, two of the youths dug a hand into their doublet and I knew that they would soon reveal a weapon if I were not careful.
“I am only passing through,” I replied.
I observed the merchants with a growing weariness, wondering what torment they would wage upon the old man. Ubertino’s egg-shaped head glistened with sweat. He looked angry. The old man had buckled to his knees.
“Someone should stop this,” I found myself muttering under my breath.
“Why?” asked the youth, ogling me with depraved eyes.
“They will teach that Milanese a lesson!” spat another.
I resigned myself and paced toward the merchants.
Seeing me approach, the old man turned.
They had called him the Milanese as though he were vermin. And I knew from the tone in their voices that it was not so much the man’s origins that bothered them, but the bitterness they nursed toward strangers. Strangers who differed. Perhaps the Milanese never went to church. Or perhaps unlike the men of the parish, he did not take part in yearly ceremonies.
Francesco was his name. Francesco Visconti. Days later, when it was too late for me to come to his aid, I would understand that he was the kindest, most soulful man in Santa Croce. But now, what did I know of him? I had only just arrived in Venezia.
He was still on his knees. I could discern from the gold paint on his fingers and shirt that he was an artisan by trade. But I paid no heed to it. Not yet. What did I care for masks and trinkets on this unsettling moment? Instead I stared into his face, hoping to unveil something to make sense of the dishonor of that day. In full light, I stared. I am ashamed to say I wanted to know if Francesco was the brute who might deserve such trashing before I decided to step in. The Saints help me, I wanted to know if he deserved my involvement before I gathered my courage, pitiful avogadore that I am.
As the proud Giacomo towered above him and dispensed chilling threats, I stared, paralyzed at old Francesco.
You know that emptiness in a man’s eyes, when they are tired, when they have known loss, when all they have loved has long been taken from them. Once they sought for help, and realized there was no one at hand. So they have long stopped seeking it. It is the same light I saw in gray-haired Francesco on that afternoon. His tender eyes welled with tears, yet the tears never fell, because he was out of breath from fear. Because as he pleaded, pleaded for more time–and by that, I knew, he owed ducats, so many ducats–Giacomo signaled to the corpulent Ubertino.
At this, a cry rose from the old man.
“I promise you… I promise you I will pay soon! I promise!”
I stared in disbelief. Age is sorrow and sorrow is age. Ubertino sent a merciless blow into the artisan’s chest. Francesco buckled in sobs.
I did nothing.
If one is a wealthy merchant in Venezia, one has arrived to certain underhanded powers, you see. And the five men who jeered and gesticulated were such powerful men. I could tell from their hosiery, the weave of their fabrics, the expensive make of their clothes, even the sound of their heels on the courtyard. All these warned me that I should remain still before this matter. In truth I was timid because I knew not which senator was in league with these men and sought their influence among the ruling Venetian elite. So I did nothing.
The dark Rolandino was now speaking with the youths who eyed me with increasing contempt.
Perhaps someone, in the darkest night could denounce this merchant, this Giacomo Contarini and his friends, by slipping a denunciation to the Consiglio di Dieci. But here? Outside? In the daylight? Would I have interceded when the course of event was already set in motion?
“How much?”
It was my voice. I had dared to speak up after all.
The merchants did not answer. The Canal brothers looked to my direction with scowls upon their faces.
“How much does this man owe?” I repeated, mildly comforted by the law vested in me. I sought to initiate a discourse and perhaps dissipate the fury that had overcome these men.
“You would do well, Signore, to keep to yourself on this matter,” came Guido Canal’s sly voice. He did not even look at me as he spoke. He gestured in my direction with a warning finger.
“Does the signore have a name?” intoned the sinfully handsome Balsamo, from afar. His long chestnut mane shook as he spoke. He eyed me with near erotic disdain, awaiting my answer.
“Antonio da Parma.”
“Da Parma,” sang Balsamo. “Da Parma, Da Parma…” He had recognized my Tuscan origins. “We have not yet sorted our affairs with the mascheraro,” he mocked.
He had a self-assurance that I found grating, one that had no doubt arisen from his privileged background and a long string of successful negotiations. Still I discerned a certain rashness in his character. “You may wait,” he added, admitting no retort.
I felt the anger mount through me but could only stare. I knew I had not seen the worst of these men. Something about Balsamo’s tone told me he spoke for Giacomo, or else he would not have dared voice their common intent.
Wait for what? What could these men seek from an old man?
All this time, their leader, Giacomo, did not once acknowledge me. What I saw of him was the back of his fur-lined mantle. He had fixed a brooding gaze onto the mascheraro.
The aged man lowered his head. He waited, his eyes downcast, his shoulders hunched forth, as though in shame. I saw at once that he was broken. Or perhaps something which he had sensed was to come had broken him.
Balsamo paced around him, clicking his heels like a fierce Andalusian horse. He chewed at his cheek with a provocative pout and occasionally fixed me with venomous intent. I had a sense that Balsamo felt himself aroused at the thought of being watched, no matter his disgraceful behavior. The Canal brothers seemed to be waiting for a sign. Giacomo stood still.
A menace hung over the courtyard. A black crow flew overhead. Its croak cleaved the wretched silence. I grew more agitated and stepped forth.
“Signori, my name is Antonio da Parma. As avogadore, it is my conviction that this matter can be settled with the respect owed to the signore.” I ha
d gestured toward the mascheraro, who upon hearing my words, slowly lifted his head to face me. For an instant, I glimpsed the gratitude in his eyes. I cherish that moment.
“Signori, it is full daylight,” I continued. “Have you no consideration for the people of this humble parish? I entreat you to desist, at once.”
Ubertino pounced forth, gloves in one hand. Before I realized what was happening, the violence of his blow left a red mark on Francesco’s teary face.
“Signore!”
My protest had no effect. Ubertino showered another two blows at the artisan. Giacomo Contarini still had not faced me. But now, he raised a warning finger in my direction, as though to silence me. I was startled by a glimpse of his masked face. There was a flaming determination in his eyes. It burned with a rage that I could not fathom.
“Antonio?”
It was Rolandino. He strode toward me, a condescending grin on his mole-dappled face.
“Antonio da Parma, yes? This man, this old wretch, he owes me, he owes us all. It is the gold on his masks, he says, the pretty gems and the feathers. Lies! We know better. I know he deals with the Jews. Ten percent here, fifteen percent there. He is getting fat on our ducats. What do you think, eh? Has this old goat eaten up our ducats? Or is he mocking us? I tell you, it is best you leave now, Antonio.”
“I will not—”
A thunderous voice resounded. “Antonio!”
It was Giacomo. He had spun round to finally face me, the irritating Tuscan stranger. His regal mantle of Alexandrian velvet made his powerful shoulders seem twice their size. He observed me carefully. There was a mad glint in his hooded eyes. I could see now that he wore a gold Volto mask. Beneath, was an unsettling wall of hatred. Yet just as suddenly as he had called out, his voice instantly softened.
“Antonio, I don’t want to offend you,” he said in a genteel manner. And then he stopped short. He nodded to the youths. Without hesitation, the seven young men stepped toward me. Four of them had seized a dagger.
Rolandino smiled at my distraught expression.
“You are not from here,” he observed as the youths approached. “But you are not haughty like that Milanese. The old wretch thinks he is superior to us all. Playing with our generosity, like we are fools. Days become months and months become years while we wait for this wretch to pay. I tell you something, Antonio. Rolandino does not like to be taken for a fool. The mascheraro, he makes a fool of me? He pays.”
“What will you do? Will you vow to abide to lawfulness?”
“Rolandino does not promise anything,” he said. Then he gestured to the youths.
“You will find the sbirri at your doorstep if you—”
I could not finish. Two young men had seized my arms and begun to drag me away.
Rolandino laughed.
“Avogadore, this does not concern you,” he called out. “Don’t look so worried, Florentine!”
Then he laughed again.
I wrestled to free myself of the youths, but a menacing dagger was thrust upon my face. Four men gripped me, forcing me into a narrow calle. Avoiding the busy thoroughfares, we descended into several empty alleys, down a small flight of steps, then past a campo and into a tiny courtyard strewn with refuse. I no longer recognized this part of Venezia. When we had reached the darkness of a gritty sottoportico, the youths released me. I felt a painful thud as I was pushed violently against a filthy wall. A sharp blow to the stomach folded me over. I gasped. Further blows came down until I fell unconscious.
Hours later, I rose to the peal of bells in the distance and to the distinct taste of blood in my mouth. The youths had decamped.
I staggered out of the sottoportico, reeking of urine. The youths had played a vile trick upon me but I had not been robbed. They had only sought to frighten me. Fumbling in the near darkness, I somehow found my way back to the courtyard where I had witnessed the merchant gathering. It lay deserted. Even the princely gondolas had disappeared. The only sign that these men had at all been here, was a faint trace of gold paint where the artisan had once knelt.
A Cry in the Campo
I slept badly that night. I stirred, awakened at intervals by the sounds beneath my lodgment in S. Maria Mater Domini’s campo. Voices and whispers carried from the old church. I had been warned of these and of the nearby meretrice district of San Cassiano but my agitation well into the night arose from a different source. I contemplated that the following days would see the first nights of Carnivale before it officially opened after Natale. I told myself that I ought to find a different apartment, perhaps one in the Cannaregio nation, near the foundries, where it was much quieter. It would mean longer gondola rides to San Marco but at least I would be away from the tumult of Rialto market and from the tyranny of the upcoming nights.
I drifted into a sleep that came at last, after I had sighed one more time at the memory of Francesco’s saddened, haggard eyes.
Later, when I found my dreams anew, when I had deserted my sleeping body and flown over to San Polo, I found myself alone in the Campo di Rialto, listening for her, waiting for her.
I gazed past the silent shops lining the bridge, hoping to see her face. I wandered off the Ponte, my solitary footfalls on the pavement where echoes of the moon glistened against stone. The market place lay deserted, bereft of day life. It seemed to await the first calls of morning trade, draping me in its forbidding muteness.
Venezia lay in the dark, lit only by moonlight and the flickering flambeaux of the taverns and whorehouses of Calle Rampani.
Until the silence was broken.
Murmurs breathed through the cold air. I crossed into Campo San Cassiano, enlivened by jasmine scents and intimate voices. There, a masked patrician stepping off a secret gondola, here, a man and a woman coupling in the church’s recess, their roving hands groping with hunger. Here, a gleam of an exposed breast, impudent and ripe.
Leaving the torch lights of Campo San Cassiano, I made toward Santa Croce until it grew darker. In my dream, I traveled fast, traversing the calli and their twisting alleys, never once touching the ground. I flew, even. I flew over the canal, leaping over bridges, surmounting campaniles and church domes. I had soon found myself back at my lodgments, a tiny room atop an old atelier, where my form lay still, clutching my journal in deep sleep.
My flight drew to its end. I cast my eyes to the Virgin on the doorway of S. Maria Mater Domini and stepped back into the campo. I had no sooner touched the ground when a sound tore through the night. It was her! Her sobs, they called for me. They drew me near.
Enraptured by her cries, I ran. In my frantic quest to near her, I lost myself in the sepia glow of Santa Croce and soon, its narrow streets were tossed into a deafening blackness. An icy gust singed at my face as fear enveloped me, and yet I ran.
Where was she?
The peals of nearby church bells joined in unison but the streets remained empty, steeped in the resolute night. I entered a courtyard and there, I came to a halt. Near the well, the heart-wrenching sobs rose in pitch.
I saw the lady once more. The lady of the bridge.
She was huddled at my feet, resplendent in a purple velvet gown, mystical behind the lace that veiled her downcast eyes. Emotion knotted my throat. In a vision that took my breath away, she leapt, unfurling with a frightening violence. I clenched my heart, startled by her rising form. Her dress no longer touched the ground. It clapped against the draft, like the wings of a giant raven, casting its shadow over me.
Hideous.
Where was the beauty I had glimpsed over the bridge? Where was the enchantress who had courted me in my sleep? Now her traits had deformed into something demonic and vile. Her lament had veered to rage. The soft black strands I had longed to touch in that first vision, had lifted about her face. Like menacing tentacles, they whipped the air, until she resembled a medusa in flight.
A horror seized me. I stepped back and gave out a cry. The giant form rose above me. She seemed tormented. Her body writhed in mid-air as th
ough claws gripped at her, tore through her, inflicting such pain that I saw the veins on her temples bulge as though they would burst. Angry red blood seeped from underneath her mask, streaking her cheeks to crimson. Her face began to shrivel to cinders as though devoured by flames. She gave out a harrowing, inhuman moan that chilled my bones. And as I looked to her neck where dark blood glistened, I saw the thickening mass encrusting her rue pendant.
I could bear no more. I waved my hands at her, wishing her away, gasping, gritting my teeth, soaking my bed.
Such was my night. The night before the masquerade began.
Murders in Venezia
Journal of Antonio da Parma
21 December 1422
I fumble to write this entry. As I recall I was not appointed to Venezia to engage in a murder inquest, or even less to dabble with the Consiglio’s net of spies. But on this day of the Winter Solstice, only two days following my arrival in Venezia, the ugly task has befallen me and there is no turning back.
Early that morning, it is odd that even as I crossed the Piazzetta and reached the palace molo, the Marangona’s chime clouded my thoughts. I recall turning, raising my face to the Campanile, my line of sight crossing the two granite towers, and I remember thinking that all I knew of Venezia may be a lie.
I breathed in that curious moment; a moment suspended in time, time marked by the morning bell, time spent in haste by the money changers at the base of the bell tower, time halting for a political whisper between the masked men of the Piazzetta. And no sooner had the Marangona ceased to ring, than I had a wakening sense of the doom that would soon overshadow the city.
I decided to think no more of it. I told myself that if I pleased Almoro Donato, I may eventually seek a post as avogadore to the Consiglio dei Dieci. I traversed the molo, making my way past the many taverns and I entered the Palazzo Ducale.