by Laura Rahme
Primo: Rolandino attests that when he tried to stab Giacomo’s face, he could not remove his mask.
Segundo: a woman who attended the Morosini also attested that neither she nor others could remove his mask.
It is my belief that some ill-design was fated upon those victims. Might the masks they wore on the night have been laced with some nefarious substance? One that would cause live skin to adhere to leather but also, much like the belladonna, induce visions and a form of madness? I think of it, yet I know of no such ointment.
Better still, could this be the dark work of a powerful jettature? Someone who blended in the shadows during the evening and who might have cast a curse upon each of these men during the banquet?
All it would necessitate for malediction to take effect, is a compliment from an ill-intentioned person. In the spirit of the night, an appreciative remark made about another’s appearance would arouse no suspicion. But who? Who in the marquis’ list of guests would possess such powers?
I now draw your attention to our prisoner, Rolandino. In my encounter with him, he spoke of being doomed. I mistook him to be broken by The Question and committed the error of dismissing his fears. But now I remember that he was terrified.
It is my intention to visit him this afternoon with your permission.
Antonio Da Parma
***
Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma
Signor Da Parma,
You do well to inform me of your latest affairs. The Council of Ten must have ears of all your goings to and fro.
Continue to direct these missives to my person as you proceed with this case. Or better still, mark your letters with the sign we both know and slip it as any citizen would, in the bocca you know, so that I may recognize from whence it has come and so that no palace courier may touch it.
But now, to the matter of those masks and to the cause and effect you so feverishly advance.
I see by the color and verve of your correspondence, Antonio, that you are not changed. Even when you were lauded by Padua University scholars and referred to us years ago, there was mention of your dubious tendencies. That passionate Tuscan who despite excelling in law, philosophy and research, remained fixated upon his flights of fancies–I see he dwells among us today. Why have you not banished him?
You remain the same young man your professor once remarked had one foot in this world and the other lost in the nether. You choose to deliberate over fanciful ideas to evade your reality, Antonio, because this reality does not please you.
Remember that you have lost a wife and are therefore in danger of bitterness. But you must remain firm, Da Parma. Your future role as an avogadore, attached to the Council of Ten, hinges upon your demonstrating that you have acquired a finesse of mind which resists moral weaknesses.
Superstitions are not the domain of the Signoria. We already have at our service the finest astrologers in the country. Beyond this, Antonio, we do not converse with the devil.
Stand firm, therefore, and do not invite superstition into your mind.
It chagrins me that you resorted to the precious time of the sbirri on the pretext of concocting an exhaustive list of artisans. You have not only abused of the secret police, but you committed the grave error of arousing the interest of the community. We must remain elusive.
It vexes me, as it does the entire Council of Ten, that due to your clumsiness, all Venezia will know and that the word will spread like wildfire, in the calli, over the pontes and beyond. We must never underestimate the chattering mouths of this city and the ensuing harm to La Serenissima.
Remember your place, avogadore. Let us contain this case. Murders they are–and already, Venezia is in the throes of speculating over these murders, indulging in its propensity for gossip, that in which it seems to thrive. But let us leave this vice as it stands and let us not encourage it further.
We shall return to speak of that vice and the harm it has caused, at a later moment. For there is a pertinent matter I shall mention—it concerns the reputation of Giacomo Contarini.
For now, I press you, Antonio. Do leave the question of these masks aside. Might you consider for a moment that Lorenzo’s deposition is inaccurate and that this, “Il Mascherari”, does not exist for the simple reason that it exists only in the imaginative mind of an impassioned patrician?
I have suffered this Lorenzo Contarini numerous times and even the members of our Maggior Consiglio find him reckless and rebellious. If, in his blooming forties he were to ever ascend to the Quarantia, or heaven forbids, to the role of Senator, this impetuous young man may well profess to give all Jews the same rights as the cittadini.
I see in him only a chilling arrogance–the arrogance that those young patricians nurture even though they’ve not achieved a single feat to be deserving of their inheritance. They jeer at the rest of us, in their gold calza, boasting of the clubs they belong to, spendthrift of ducats they’ve not earned, unashamed of their voluptuary nature and the credit they relentlessly seek.
How can, pray tell me, how can such recklessness allow itself to reach the powers of the Senate. By citizen birth alone?
Having spoken so, I ask you again. What is it today with cittadini youth, that in their conceit, they attest to know all and persist to the bitter ends despite evidence to their lack of wisdom and experience?
You have now to rest this matter of the masks. The Mascherari, or whoever this guild or artisan may name itself, is not cause for two natural deaths– the first, of a renowned glutton who gorged himself to disproportionate ends; the second, of an inveterate drunk. Again, it cannot have engendered an illness which, more likely provisioned by divine punishment, descended upon the sinful Morosini and sent him to his death.
Do you forget how the body’s symptoms are known to mirror the soul? If, following his orgiastic night, the Morosini had any regret, would it not be befitting that guilt would have ravaged his body, leaving him prey to the destructiveness of the pox? You see, now, where this curse theory of yours finds itself at loss.
Again, this Mascherari, cannot be the cause of Giacomo’s death, a father so intoxicated by madness that he was driven to kill his own daughter. My belief in Giacomo’s loss of reason is one I will shortly explain.
But first, let me speak of you, Antonio, and of your visit to the San Cassiano brothel. You spoke with a woman–I assume, a meretrice–who affirmed that Morosini was not ill when he came to them. I have, you understand, corroborated your deposition with two sbirri who it was my duty to assign for your protection upon your visit.
You never saw the sbirri. It was my wish that you never once suspected they were present. The Council can never be too careful. You do realize that prostitutes employ dangerous bravi–ruffians of ill-repute, well-armed and sure of their weapons. It would only take one such bravo to decimate our avogadore had we not ourselves assigned men to guard him.
Now returning to this visit, I will ask you, Antonio, and I will ask you only once. Are you able to confirm that everything that was said, you have indeed reported it to me as it was said?
Has your report been faithful?
Think back, and present to me anything that you may have previously omitted. Remember to leave nothing out.
Now to the vice I spoke of and the rumors concerning Giacomo Contarini. A month ago, before you were called upon, there were several denuncio secretos made against his name. The denunciations were submitted from several sestieri and at all levels of society.
You may be unaware of our ways, Antonio, and perhaps you are softened by Florentine leniency. But here, in Venezia, the Ten considers sodomy to be the worst sin a man can ever commit. Procreation and the thriving of our families is endangered by it. More so, it corrupts the soul and incurs God’s wrath. Still, upon receipt of these denunciations, the Council did not yet lend weight to these matters, that is, not until the recent developments of this case.
But I come now to these allegations. Giacomo has been denounced of no
t honoring his marriage, of mingling with the sodomite Morosini and of himself being guilty of sodomy. What do you make of this avogadore?
I myself was skeptical of this crime. But as goes the saying, if one person in Venezia says it, everyone says it. Might there be an ounce of truth in these accusations?
I ask that you seek audience with the Signora Contarini. The convenience of her emotional state is not to be underestimated. She is still vulnerable and amenable to speak. She may be in a position to help shed light on her husband’s morality. I wish you to do this soon. Very soon.
As for the allegations against the Morosini, we have sent a sbirri detachment to the Jewish physician. He is to inspect the pustule-ridden body one last time before burial. He will report rupture around the parts amenable to sinning. The physician’s testimony, as to whether the Morosini did or did not engage in the unspeakable vice, will either refute or lend weight to the denunciations.
Once again, Antonio, I ask that all your depositions remain faithful to the matters you find and that you omit nothing.
Yours in God,
Almoro Donato
***
Letter from Antonio da Parma to Almoro Donato
Signor Donato,
The tone of your last letter seems to me reproachful.
While I understand in what fashion our ideas diverge, I am perplexed that in an earlier letter, you would press me to find those masks, yet now that I am set upon them, you wish me to forget them as though they no longer matter.
I therefore surmise that the evidence you sought to discredit Lorenzo’s deposition–be it that the masks never existed and that he is guilty of lying–is no longer of importance. May I then further surmise that you have already rejected his deposition? Or perhaps that it no longer bears strongly upon this case. In light of the recent gossip surrounding the Contarini name and your vexation toward his son, Lorenzo, who seems to embody all the traits you loathe, I would lean toward the latter.
I am perplexed that you never revealed to me the accusations against Giacomo Contarini. I understand that it is the privilege of the Council and that it is not befitting that I question the objectives of the Council. But in light of the Council’s evident concerns, I can confirm, a notion that I previously did not judge pertinent to my report–that Margarita, the meretrice I saw in Ca’ Rampani, did indeed make mention of Morosini’s reputation for practicing sodomy.
Whether or not this practice ever did take place within the said premises and on that very night, I cannot, alas, confirm. I will leave this to our Jewish physician.
I will make every endeavor to see the Signora Contarini promptly and will delay my visit to Rolandino until the following day.
Yours in faith,
Antonio da Parma
The Moor
Journal of Antonio da Parma
23 December 1422
No sooner had I dispatched my last letter to Almoro Donato that I set off to visit the Signora Catarina Contarini. Draped in a thick mantle, I hastened toward Canal Grande. The market still thronged with vendors as I crossed the Campo di Rialto, buried deep in somber thoughts. I had decided to take a stroll along the Canal Grande before finding a gondola that would take me to Calle Borgoloco in Castello.
A brisk walk ought to have brought respite from the turmoil that Venezia had since wreaked upon my mind, but I felt a growing uneasiness with every step. Almoro Donato’s spies were watching me. I now overlooked nothing–every whisper between the ordinarily loud Veneziani, every dark gaze in my direction. Even now, as I crossed the bustling stalls, I scrutinized faces, glanced upon every shop keeper and paused at intervals to see if I was perhaps being followed.
As I crossed through a narrow calle strewn with refuse, I saw a man standing by the wall. He was clothed curiously, head to toe in a dark leather and upturned boots made of the same. As I approached, he spun about and strode to my left.
“Perdonami,” he said, as his shoulder brushed mine. I turned, only to see his angular face peering in my direction. There was an uneasy moment as I gazed upon the scar on his cheek.
Even now, I remember the bolt that ran through me. I think, also, a faint memory stirred from within but I paid no attention to this sentiment. The stranger in the leather mantle walked off, while I reached the other end of the calle.
I found the nearby campo pleasantly empty.
In the renewed quiet, I now thought only of Almoro Donato. I was still stung by his encroaching morality. While I was not guilty of the crime attributed to Giacomo Contarini, there was in my latest dream something akin to his sin. It unsettled me. And while I promised myself to abide to the Consiglio’s wishes and to visit the Signora Contarini, I was tormented. I found it unpleasant that the poor Contarini widow may have to endure accusations against her deceased husband.
Immersed in my thoughts and lulled by the sweet scent of oven breads from the nearby homes, I now ambled toward the lagoon. Not finding a gondola on this idle siesta hour, I ventured to walk further down the canal.
My felt boots tapped hurriedly along the stone paving. Again, I felt watched. I drew my black mantle close over my shoulders and pulled the collar of my doublet to level with my ears. Was the iciness in my limbs due solely to the vanishing sun, or had a cold fear risen within me?
As murky clouds cloaked the sky, I had a vague notion of the red bricks ahead, turning to pale rose. The market voices left me, or rather I had long left them, as the events of the last four days churned in my mind. I ventured into an alley.
In this narrow passage abutting the canal, little light shone. And there, beneath the stone arch adjoining two casas, a man in a full-length mantle stood tall, barring my way. He seemed to have been waiting for me. I suspected he had followed me all the way from San Polo.
“Signore! Who goes there?” I called out.
He advanced toward me. In silence, still.
My eyes adjusted to the dark. I discerned the sheen of a blue velvet cioppa beneath his cloak. His well-formed legs were clad in tight black hose and an ominous foreign rapier hung at his waist.
“You shall let me pass,” I warned. My hand had neared to a poisoned rondel which I always slip through my belt.
“Not till we have spoken,” boomed the voice, whose owner now raised his giant hand and, there, before my startled eyes, flashed my own gleaming dagger.
In disbelief, I felt round my waist. But where I’d hoped to find my only weapon, there lay only emptiness.
“How have you...?”
“We’ve not much time for pleasantries. Retrace your steps, turn to your left and sit yourself in the black gondola at the end of the calle.”
Again, the voice commanded me. Having sized up my opponent’s limbs and height, and determined that he would have good use of his rapier, I could only obey.
He pushed me to a dark recess along the canal and began to loosen an old gondola, still pointing the blade at me. His movements were decisive. There was, in his silent countenance, something polished, regal almost. Beneath his ample mantle, the silk of his garments were of such refinement, that it was difficult to believe that I, Antonio da Parma, was now the foolish hostage of some dangerous bravo.
“Signore,” I began, uncertain of my claims but trying to appear unfazed, “you ignore who I am, it is certain. I should like to advise you that the sbirri will not be far in my footsteps and you shall soon find that the Wells of this city are not near as accommodating as this pungent alley.”
“Esteban.”
“Pardon?”
“My name, Signore, if you wish to make use of it. Now row.”
I eyed the oars foolishly. I had no doubt that even if I tried to leap out of the gondola, this bravo would have soon caught me. Resigned to the circumstances, I clumsily set about to stand on the stern as I had seen the proud Arsenalotti countless times and proceeded to steer our vessel as best I could along the canal.
“One would think you had been a gondolier all your life,” mocked my foe.
&nbs
p; “Where shall we row to?” I asked.
“Where do you wish to go?”
“Castello.”
“Then row to Castello,” he intoned.
It seemed like a sensible suggestion.
So I pulled the oar and did what I had seen the gondoliers perform so well. But maneuvering a gondola is harder than it seems. The brute eyed my pathetic attempts until we emerged from the dark alley...
And I saw his face.
Until then, I had already noted that he wore a white mask, cut off at the mouth. Beneath it, his lips were fleshy and firm, his gaze black and proud. I had mistaken him for a Castilian on account of his name. But I was wrong. A foggy mist blanketed our gondola, but I could still observe him as I oared toward Castello.
Above the rim of his gloves, I could distinguish the ebony of his skin.
Dark as night.
“Signore, this can all end in your favor or mine,” he began, in his distinct accent which carried neither Florentine nor Venetian flavor.
“You waste your time, Esteban. I have neither money nor possessions. You may kill me and appropriate my clothes. I see you have already taken my dagger. The rest should not be too difficult. But if you could spare me a savage death, I would be indebted. I only ask you to spare my face, so that my identity may be ascertained and that I may be buried in my native Tuscany.”