The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice

by Laura Rahme

  I stared at him. I watched the sweat trickle down his forehead.

  “I believe you, dottore,” I said at last.

  We shuffled away from Balsamo’s decaying body. I presented Abram with the parchments to sign. He leaned toward a quill on his desk, dipped it in ink and prepared to write.

  While he did so, I reflected some more.

  I recalled that I, too, had seen Balsamo and the other merchants settle a debt incident in Santa Croce on my arrival. There was nothing, I am certain of it, nothing to indicate that he suffered an ailment that would leave him ravaged... And surely not ravaged by the following night? It was unthinkable. My mind latched onto an idea. Yes, certainly the medical symptoms were those of a horrendous illness, but might those symptoms in fact result from a poisonous substance? Or something that Balsamo had ingested...

  “Might Balsamo have encountered a malicious substance while in the presence of the carampanas? Or perhaps a person who wished Balsamo some ill may have crossed him during the banquet…a jettature?”

  The physician glared at me.

  “Are you still considering, Signore? About this deposition?”

  I relented. “Yes, yes, please sign it.”

  He muttered something under his breath before scribbling furiously.

  After which I bid him farewell.

  And this, Signor Almoro Donato, completes my account.

  It would seem there are two deaths that bear no relationship with our case. They appear to be accidents born of the victims’ poor manners– gluttony and love of drink.

  But I am not convinced of the same for Balsamo.

  Antonio

  ***

  Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma

  Antonio,

  As perplexing as these sudden deaths are: stomach rupture, drowning and disease, it is my deepest conviction that they may lead us astray in the resolution of these murders. Do venture into Ca’ Rampani and question the women, Antonio, but leave fanciful medicinal conjecture to our Jewish doctor. For now, I will accept his deposition at face value.

  But understand, that Balsamo’s perfidious coupling that night leaves me no doubt as to how he contracted his mysterious illness. Fornication with a multiplicity of women may have only furthered the spread of this devilish disease on his enfeebled soul. Our religious clerics would be in much agreement with me on this matter. Had Balsamo’s night been spent in prayer or fasting, he may have met another fate.

  You will recall, according to the documents I gave you on your first briefing, that Balsamo remained no less than six hours with courtesans, during which he spent a staggering one hundred ducats. One hundred ducats. Might one not conclude that Balsamo coupled with every whore in Venezia for this ludicrous sum?

  But yes, if you must, Antonio, speak with them and find what you can. Remember also, that what you find in this brothel may demand the immediate intervention of the Consiglio dei Dieci. Keep me well informed, Antonio, on the matter that you know well is the Consiglio dei Dieci’s duty to oversee.

  I concur with your judgment of Lorenzo as a suspect. One thing, Antonio, which surprised me in your investigation is that there is no evidence that all those masks existed. Lorenzo makes mention of several masks, masks that according to the account you sent me, are of much value. We know only of Giacomo and Rolandino’s mask. Giacomo was wearing his when he was stabbed by Rolandino. It has been removed and burned. So too has Rolandino’s mask. What of the others?

  I should think that if Lorenzo is indeed guilty of harboring murderous intent, then he may have embellished his deposition somewhat. Could he have confectioned this little tale of masks to lead us astray?

  Find those masks, Antonio, and be certain that every detail in Lorenzo’s account can be verified. While Rolandino remains our primary suspect and has admitted to stabbing Giacomo, we cannot, a priori, rule out Lorenzo’s involvement in the murders.

  Above all, Antonio, keep your mind clear of superstitious thoughts of any sort.

  We will see what your encounter with Rolandino brings us. Rolandino’s mind is much clouded. Invite him to believe you are his friend and do not burden him with complicated questions. Either he will hang for murder, or he will hang for his accomplice role. Rolandino is marked for execution either way. Use him as you must to determine if Lorenzo is guilty.

  Yours in God,

  Almoro Donato

  In the Prisons

  Journal of Antonio da Parma

  22 December 1422

  My hand shakes as I write this entry in memory of my encounter with Rolandino. The task of an inquisitor is laid out before him and he must not wither at the austere walls of the darkest prisons.

  It is said that it is better to be buried alive than to dwell in the damp Wells beneath the palace’s Southern wing. But of the prisons on the upper floors, those where the accused were detained before judgment, one could only say that they reeked of fear. Without the familiar’s torch and the guiding moans and echoes resounding in the darkness, it was impossible to know where I was headed. Where the immense Sala di Maggior Consiglio, in the adjacent Southern wing, would eventually measure dozens of feet in height and more in width, here, the cramped confines and the absence of light, belied that one was at all in the Palazzo Ducale.

  After passing rows and rows of bolted wooden doors, including one female ward where miscreant women, previously held in monasteries were now incarcerated, we came upon Rolandino’s cell.

  It was colder here than outside the palace, yet the shiver I sensed, as the masked familiar unlocked the prison door, seemed to have come from deep within me. I heard a distant moan, like a chant, as though someone inside were fervently at prayer.

  The ever silent familiar hung a flambeau to the wall and left me. In the near darkness, his footfalls pounded on the wooden floorboards, until he was faraway and I could hear nothing, save for Rolandino’s curious chanting.

  Slowly, I advanced. The stench of nearby latrines assailed me but I had quickly adjusted to the dimness. I saw Rolandino. Rather, I glimpsed the figure I believed to be Rolandino, cowering in the corner of his windowless cell. In this place, with nothing but a stool and a wooden box where the prisoner may retch and use as he sees fit, no rays shine and one is left with no choice but to smell all and hear all. And if one is predisposed to hear voices in one’s head, it is worse. Was Rolandino chanting to calm his spirits?

  Rolandino’s doublet had been removed. He shivered in a torn camicia stained by blood. It hung loose over his dirty hose.

  I took a step forth and he turned instantly.

  At the sight of him, my heart thumped in my chest. The merchant’s face was wracked with fear. Even in the cold, sweat glistened on his temples as he stared. The chanting had ceased and the light of desperation shone in his eyes.

  “Rolandino Vitturi,” I pronounced in a sonorous voice. “I am here today, as your inquisitor and I will demand of you, that you tell me all that came to pass on the night of Giacomo’s murder.”

  “Antonio?”

  “It is I.”

  “Antonio da Parma?”

  “Si, we have met once, Signore.”

  “Avogadore, I am pleased to see you.”

  His voice came at me in the dark. I hardly recognized it. What had befallen the haughty merchant I had met in Santa Croce? A plaintive quaver escaped from his lips as he spoke of how grateful he was of my visit.

  He had crawled forth a little. He evinced a weak smile, staring wondrously at me.

  “Rolandi—”

  I could not continue. A disturbing sight had caught my eye. I raised my torch.

  The frightened man had etched crosses upon the wall. Even now, I discerned the whiteness of his clenched fist and saw how he still gripped a flint in his dirty fingers. There were a dozen etchings behind him. He had sat so near them, that at first, I had not taken notice they were present. I recollected myself.

  “Will you confess to me, Rolandino? Will you confess of what you know?”<
br />
  “Anything you wish, avogadore. Anything! I am so glad to see you.”

  “Is it true that you killed Giacomo?”

  “Signore, I had to! I could not but kill him.”

  “What of Giovanna?”

  “Zanetta,” he emitted in his Venetian accent. And then he forced a cackle. Before my eyes, Rolandino suddenly turned grim.

  “I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say, Signor Avogadore.”

  “Men have died on that night, Rolandino. And something is amiss. If you tell us, we may yet spare your life. Do not waste time, Rolandino.”

  “You lie. I am a doomed man, avogadore. You can do nothing for me. Still, I will tell you all I know. Though you may not like what I have to say, it is the truth.”

  And as he began to speak, I took notes in my journal. I scribed as much I could in the darkness of the shivering cell. I tried to never interrupt, though it was difficult. The once fierce merchant had descended into a semi-mad state. He choked on his words, took pains in voicing each sentence, and there were even times when he would stare into empty space and move ever closer to the crosses etched on the wall.

  Did he believe his prison might be haunted by spirits, perhaps? I cannot say. But as I neared my torch to the wall, I saw that I had not mistook the markings. They were crosses. Rolandino feared for his soul.

  But now I will relate Rolandino’s testimony. As though it had been written by him.

  ***

  The deposition of Rolandino Vitturi

  The first thing I remember from the night of the banquet was my anger. Guido was in a rotten mood and had, much to the horror of our host and to more gentile Venetians, chosen drink over social pleasantry.

  Ubertino did not leave the dinner table. He was sunk deep in a velvet divan, his pudgy fingers upon his fat lips. He ogled the banquet table as though he’d never set foot in Catarina’s kitchen this very afternoon. The marquis is fortunate to own a roasting pit in his courtyard, and so Ubertino lost himself before the enormous dishes of roasted pork, lamb and fatty mutton, laden among roasted pumpkin, turnips and cabbage. I watched him salivate as a servant brought forth a platter of pork and quail, impaled upon skewers.

  As for me, oyster soup was all I could stomach on the night. Yet now that I famish in my cell, I remember there was a wholesome mound of lard beside a dish of spiced ravioli. It was sprinkled with an odorous grated cheese. The smells caught my attention. Even now, I can still smell it. There was also a dish of rice and raisins, served with ginger-scented chicken and dates - some as large as my thumb. I regret not tasting it. Knowing the expense our host had gone to in serving rice, I was wary of Ubertino. The ill-mannered glutton would surely insult the marquis.

  But Ubertino was contenting himself elsewhere. He had found a heaped porcelain bowl, the quality I guessed to be from Catay. It contained none other than a rich rice-thickened soup where seafood swam in abundance. Towering over this enormous bowl, as though they were still trying to crawl out, were large pink crayfish and other hideous creatures from the lagoon, fresh from the fishermen markets. Antonio, I swear it, I had never once seen Ubertino’s eyes shine as they did. And glow, they did.

  I noted, too, that Lorenzo, after a cold glance toward his father, had left us early. I cringed at the thought. I knew Giacomo would not be happy. But I chose not to mention it. There was already enough animosity between the two of them.

  I also felt that Giacomo behaved strangely from the time we entered the dining hall. At first, he fired reproaches toward Giovanna. They were cruel. They put her off guard from the start. He told her she was wearing too much perfume and that her bleached hair stank of urine.

  Avogadore, I will explain to you why I thought this was out of character. Giacomo loved his daughter and I had never once heard him speak to her this way. I had my own grudge toward him, we all did. But the Canal brothers–Ubertino and Guido–they were not betrothed to Giovanna. I was. I took Giacomo’s tirades as an insult to me. Never once had I heard him disgrace his own daughter in public, and now the man... I hardly knew him!

  About midnight, Guido had consumed too much wine and was beginning to feel ill. I jested that he ought to retch into the canal and spare us the spectacle of his diseased liver. He fumbled outside, belting out disgusting couplets to all who had the ill luck to pass him. I never saw him again.

  But Giovanna’s disquiet troubled me. Of course I could not know if she was crying, the poor signorina, because her face lay hidden behind that gold mask. But I saw, in the way she ceased dancing and the bitter pout on her lower lip, that she was close to tears. And all the while, Giacomo ranted.

  “It’s no use,” he said. “I can still see your freckles. On your neck, also. Si, even with all that white powder make up. That is the price you pay for staying so long under the sun. What is wrong with brown hair? So much time spent in getting yourself ready when all you end up doing is looking like a puttana from the Ponte delle Tette!”

  Such is the coarseness of the Venetians, you Florentines would say. But Giacomo had gone too far. It was wrong of him. Giovanna soon began to feel out of place. And she was not the only one. The more Giacomo taunted her with his denigrating tirades and the more he scorned her before their hosts, the more I felt the anger rise inside me.

  I began to fume. The last week’s events churned in my mind. I had not once forgotten that Giacomo owed me a considerable sum of money and now his behavior was deplorable. I was torn. Was I to step in to protect Giovanna’s pride and shield my future bride from her ill-tempered father, or was I to remain the stoic partner and let a father speak his mind? And then...

  Avogadore, I told you before that I did not like to be played for a fool. And Giacomo behaved so strangely that night that I thought he was playing with me. Playing with me by hurting his own daughter. But I was wrong.

  No sooner had Guido staggered outside than I saw Giovanna storm out to one of the balconies. She had removed those atrocious zoccoli and was bare-footed on the tiles. Giacomo said nothing. He stood. Without a word, he followed after her. Now they were both on the balcony and I eyed Ubertino who had somehow managed a fifth serve of roasted meats. I was nervous. I had had enough of this. I rose from my couch and pursued father and daughter onto the balcony.

  And then I saw it. Under the bright moon. I saw the anger flashing behind Giacomo’s mask. His monstrous hands were upon my Zanetta who wept and squirmed.

  What tragedy on a night such as this! I saw a father setting out to strangle his own daughter. But you see, it was not his daughter. Giacomo was mad that night. He had lost all reason.

  There stood his own angel, his own precious daughter, but Giacomo–I swear–he could not see her. All he saw... All he saw was... I still do not understand.

  She was pleading with him.

  “Father, Father, it is I! It is I! Rolandino, make him see! Make him see!”

  But Giacomo, he could not. He would not listen. I yelled at him. I menaced him with my dagger. I pretended to take a swipe at him. Not once, did he notice me. For a split second I had managed to loosen his grip on her but he seemed possessed by a demonic will and shoved me brutally aside. Then he lunged toward her.

  “I will kill that witch! I will kill her!”

  My heart thumped in my chest. I realized that he meant it. There was no stopping him.

  “Have you gone mad? I swear to you, Giacomo, if you do not release her at once, I will kill you! Don’t make me do this! Let her go!”

  “You will leave my son alone! Jewess! Whore! I will kill you, Daniela!”

  I took a step back in horror. Had he said Daniela?

  “Father! Please...”

  And that was her last sob. A tear pearled down, taking with it a stream of lead paint from that angelic mask.

  And that was the end of it.

  What do you say to this, avogadore? What do you say if I tell you, that in his mind, Giacomo did not murder his daughter? He murdered Daniela. But when it happened, so suddenly, I
was too horrified to think of it or explain it. A rage, more furious than the last, surged through me.

  “Giacomo!” I screamed. And still, I stared at him in disbelief. I think the last thing I said before I struck him off his feet, was, “You murderous whore’s son!”

  Then I stabbed him. I knew not how, but I did. Once, then three, then ten times. I could not contain my rage. I came at him again, even when he lay inert and his blood had soaked my hose and tabard.

  I wanted to slash at his face but his mask was not easily undone. So I carved at his chest. Raging tears streamed down my face, blending with Giacomo’s splattering blood. I knifed him, because… Because it pleased me! I could not...I could not end it, Antonio! And the joy I felt, it frightened me! How it frightened me!

  Avogadore, you may not know this, but Giacomo was opposed to his son’s choice of a wife. The woman he set out to murder was not his daughter. In his mind, it was her! It was that artist’s daughter–a Jewish woman. Her name is Daniela Moro. And now she lives. And Zanetta, my sweet Zanetta, is gone.

  There is no more to say. But know this. Know this, Antonio. My death will follow. You cannot help me. I will die before they hang me.

  ***

  This marks the end of Rolandino’s erratic deposition. He had receded to a corner. He lay his head on the wall, one palm pressed against the etched crosses as though he felt safer near them.

  “You must rest, Rolandino,” came my voice.