by Laura Rahme
At those last words, he glowered at me with a cold fury.
“Do you even know who I am?” he asked.
“A coarse ruffian, no doubt. I am resigned to it.”
“Signor da Parma, you are mistaken.”
“And I see that you know my name. So you are a ruffian who employs spies.”
“It is my affair to know most people in Venezia. I am paid for it.”
“Ah, yes! Murder is the mean of astute merchants. And it does help one finance these fineries,” I said, as I signaled to the white ruffles of his sleeves. “But all the lace and silk cannot hide one’s true nature. What you choose to conceal beneath your mask and gloves are those very traits that compel you in your actions.”
He stood back to observe me. I could see he was amused at my discountenance. All the while I spoke, I wrestled with my stubborn oar, wiped my brow and puffed from the effort. He was reflecting upon my words. I understood by his composure that he was not an impulsive man. He was the sort to act only after deep calculations.
“You do me great injury, Signor da Parma,” he replied. “And here I was thinking you might have that rare sensitivity which my old captain possessed. These garments are my own, Signor da Parma. Shipped from Barcelona, long before he died. And yes, they were paid for by my master. It was the least he could do after I all but gave him my life. But these galley days are long past. Gone with his tragic death, are his merchant enterprise and the privileges we both shared. Foolish Catalan. Like a father to me, he was. But he sought a new life in this vile city and he paid the price. We both did.”
“Were he still alive, your master would die of shame.”
Esteban regarded me with a haughty glare.
“Venezia is unkind to men like me and I repay,” he boomed.
“Unkind? I may not know the story of your life, Signore, but I know this. You trample upon your master’s grave every time you set your rapier on unsuspecting victims. You have me by the throat like a common foe. ”
“Signor da Parma, I have observed you for days. And not once did it spring to my mind that I could skewer you with my blade. It has come to my attention that your employer is not to be trusted. Let me put it clearly to you. The men you serve are my enemies. And they are my client’s enemies.”
I looked at him with surprise. Esteban’s jaws were crisped taut. He lowered the blade and crouched before me, the injury in his eyes unmistakable.
“Signor da Parma, men such as you may see me as a savage without mercy but know this, know that in this untamed body that you so revile there is loyalty to only one man. The Señor Gaspar Miguel Rivera, my savior and friend, betrayed by vile conspirators. I vowed to leave no stone in Venezia unturned until I have restored his honor. For now, this spirited life of bravo is befitting. Venezia has stolen from me, and as I already have for the last six years, from her I shall thieve and on her I shall prey. But fear not. These are not my designs for you. I do not wish to take your life, unless you betray me…or my client. If it came to this, believe me, there is nothing that will stand between us. But enough of this discourse.”
He stood.
“I must tell you this truth, Signor da Parma. The men you work for, this Consiglio…”
“I entreat you to never speak of the Consiglio dei Dieci with evil designs in my presence.”
“Evil? Such an inflated term! Think you, that one such as I would know more than they, about evil? You fool yourself. Esteban del Valle has lived here long enough to understand. Dare I say, Signor da Parma, you are still a naive Florentine in their eyes. In your short visit to Venice, you have grown confident. You believe that you know her well? But are you prepared? Are you prepared for the evil of Venice?”
I stared at him, pondering over his words. What evil did he speak of? What had fate done to this Moor? His voice became suddenly grave as he fixed an implacable gaze upon me and continued. “The Consiglio dei Dieci, these men–they have for some time, been a curiosity to my client,” he said.
“I suspect your client has little to do with me. You are wasting your time.”
“That may be so but I am to watch you nevertheless. And you, Signor da Parma, you should watch yourself. No, I mean that. ”
“I am here to service the Republic. The matter I am investigating is not of your concern. The Consiglio’s affairs are not for scrutiny. And certainly not by a ruffian such as yourself. You carry an Aragonese weapon. How do I know you are not a spy? For all I know, your client may well be employed by the King of Aragon. You entreat me to doubt the integrity of my employer. I shall do no such thing.”
“Yes, you shall. Because I have some profitable news for you. But first, you must know a thing about me. Think you that I clad myself in fineries to impress the dead? My soul has been wretched and torn ever since my master passed to the next world. In my grief, I would better dress as a mendicant and wallow in the Wells of this city. But I’ll not let grief betray me of my right. Besides, the wealthy patricians who pay for my services expect certain form and that is the game I’ve since learned to play. All is appearance in Venezia, is it not? La bella figura, is the rule of the game. Be grateful that my reputation as a reliable bravo has risen among high circles and that through my disguises, I have come upon some pertinent news that concerns you.”
We had neared Castello and he returned my blade which I slipped back around my waist. I eyed him expectantly as he stood, hand on his hilt without stirring. A row of white teeth flashed at me as he smiled.
“Are you ready to listen?”
“I am listening. Be that as it may, I will not put faith in what a bandit such as yourself has to say.”
“As you wish. But would you suffer the bandit before you if he told you that a certain Lorenzo Contarini is soon to be murdered?”
At these words, I stifled a moment of surprise. Esteban neared me to better whisper.
“Not by me. But a certain patrician that I can alas, not name, desires him dead. You have met with the Contarini youth once, I believe. A suspect of your investigation, Signore? Or a victim...”
“What do you know about Lorenzo Contarini?”
“A young, rich patrician if ever there was one. But he is different. He is bold. I hear he leans toward certain ideas... I ignore the reasoning behind their fear of him. But I have lived in this city long enough to understand that the senators believe change is not good for Venezia. As always, nothing ever changes in Venezia except the passing of goods. Now I don’t know what you believe, Signor da Parma, but something tells me that you do not want to see this Lorenzo murdered. Your sense of justice, perhaps? And after one pays one’s gazzetta every morning, like every good citizen, one hears many things in the campi. And one of these, is that there are already too many murders in the Contarini family. Am I right? Ah, here we are! Castello.”
He seized the oar from my hands. I said nothing, vexed as I was by the torment of the previous hour. He had expected that I would not believe him, so he strode to the edge of the gondola, leaving me to ponder over his words and to wrestle with my own doubts.
In that instant, I had dismissed his claims and did not buy into any of his conspiracies. I watched him as he set out to moor the boat with his agile sailor movements. He knew better than I how to steer that cursed gondola. I stared at his adroitness while rubbing the blisters on my palms.
As disheartened as I was by my misadventure, I remained mesmerized by this Nubian. He seemed to be equally adept at inhabiting two worlds at once. I noted the strength of his calves as he leaned forth and wound the rope to its anchor.
When he had accomplished his task, he stepped off the gondola, leaving me standing there, speechless, and still gaping at him. With a grand gesture, he unfurled his fur-lined mantle over his broad shoulders so that I may see him in all his splendor. The white bauta on his dark face suddenly struck me as poetic while he spoke.
“You have reached your destination, Signore. This ruffian has taken too much of your precious time. But do not despair
. He will find you another day. Count on it.”
He pressed his large hand to his heart and gently inclined his head.
“Goodbye, Signore. And think of what we spoke.”
Then he spun on his heels and ran into the crowds, his dense mantle swelling behind him like the spread wings of an albatross.
Before long, his form had vanished in the thickening damp mist. Before long, Venezia would know rain.
I heaved a sigh. I dared not believe what I’d lived through for that last hour. I stepped off and headed to the Contarini estate, brushing dust off my clothes as though they had been soiled by my encounter.
A Woman’s Secret
I had reached the dimly lit courtyard on the other side of Rio del Pestrin. Before me, stood the imposing marble façade of the Contarini estate, flanked by its patrician neighbors. The large green door was ornate with a bronze door handle in the shape of a Moor’s head–a common practice, but it tasted of irony. I tapped.
The entrance door swiveled open. A young maid of barely fourteen recognized me and startled.
“Signor da Parma?”
“I am here to see Signora Contarini,” I said. “It is important.”
She blemished.
“The signora is not here. She has just left,” she said, with an evasive air that I felt, presaged nothing good.
“Left, you say? But this is a pressing matter. It cannot wait. I am here at the behest of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I have come to speak with the signora on a matter that concerns her late husband.”
“I am sorry, Signor Avogadore. She should not be absent for too long. She has gone to the markets to purchase spices. I believe...she is walking there.” She seemed flustered.
“Which way to the markets?”
The girl gestured toward Campo Santa Maria Formosa.
I frowned looking intently into the young girl’s eyes.
“Tell me, the signora took to the streets alone?”
She shot me a wary glance before replying.
“Forgive the signora. She is not the same since Signor Contarini passed away.”
“How might one recognize the signora?”
“She has set her red hair in a braided coil, high upon her head. Her face, you will not see. It is hidden behind a black veil. She is clothed in a scarlet velvet dress gathered at the sleeves and a wine cape with ermine trimmings. You could wait for her return, Signor Avogadore... I am certain that she will not take long.”
“You are right. I could. But it is rather late and the skies are darkening. I fear I should set off before I am soaked by rain. I will return another day. Shall I seek audience with her tomorrow, you think?”
She hesitated.
“Tomorrow. Si, avogadore. I will ensure she keeps this appointment.”
“Tomorrow in the morning, then.” Saying so, I pressed a hand to my heart and retreated from the doorstep.
She forced a timid smile and curtsied before closing the large doors.
It is never proper conduct for a patrician woman of well-bred Venetian society to venture outside alone. Patrician women ought to keep to their homes and remain secluded unless duly accompanied. Yet for reasons unknown and much to the evident shame of her own servant, Signora Contarini had shunned social conventions and set off alone.
Such were my thoughts as I ambled toward Canal Grande. But when I was certain the maid had re-entered the Contarini mansion, I secretly retraced my steps toward Rio del Pestrin. I had set my mind on following the path taken by Signora Contarini. Quickening my pace, I crossed the bridge over Rio del Pestrin and continued toward Campo Santa Maria Formosa.
Having reached the church of Santa Maria Formosa, my footsteps came to a sudden halt on the paved square.
The fetid air was moist with the rising vapors of the lagoon and already, a mass of gray skies swelled above the islands. The shops lining the far edge of the campo had shut their doors, their owners retreating into darkness. Here and beyond, parishioners scrambled to their homes and locked themselves away to the sound of green shutters.
A stray pigeon flew at my feet. I sensed that I’d soon be soaked if I remained outside but a growing curiosity possessed me. Where was the Signora Contarini?
The signora was not here.
With the impending rain, even the markets had shut.
I ignore what came over me on that afternoon before the storm. Perhaps my unfortunate encounter with the bravo had confused my senses or perhaps the strange sepia glow enveloping the campo spurred me on, cradled me in its eerie light and impelled me to abandon reason. One does odd things on the approach of a full moon. The cloying atmosphere hanging over Castello did little to calm my urges.
The closest other market was in Campo San Lorenzo, near the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It was in this direction, by way of the busy Ruga Giuffa, that I now hastened. Along this path were numerous merchants and tradesmen returning home from the Rialto. To shield myself from unwanted attention, I hid in the darkness of a sottoportico and paused, before emerging onto Ponte dell’ Arco.
Before long, I had found the Contarini widow.
I recognized her among the thinning crowd. Red coils, even beneath an opaque veil of black, are a child’s game to discern in a Venezia so preoccupied with blonde locks. I noted her smooth, gliding gait. Her haughtiness was set off by the close-fitting velvet, espousing her slender figure. The heavy trail of her dress swept the marble paving with every step.
A gathering of black-clad patrician men stood by, taking their last merchant notes for the day. Having glimpsed the signora in her red mourning clothing, they nodded in her direction, whispering among themselves as they watched her pass.
She remained firm. Neither the scorn of gossiping tongues nor the prospect of ruining her reputation could dissuade this woman from her errand. It could only mean that her purpose was close to her chest. Something of tremendous importance had seen Signora Contarini defy customs and take to the streets alone.
Despite the inclement weather and the muddy calli, the lady had not worn high shoes—another indication that she did not wish to be attended during her errand. She kept her advance, ignoring the patricians who had soon turned into another street.
An uneasiness in her steps. Was she prey to guilt? Had she plotted in the murder of her own husband? On occasion, I glimpsed her gaunt jaw as she turned to inspect behind her shoulder. But it was all I could see. The lady disappeared into Calle Larga San Lorenzo.
I took the same narrow calle, pausing at the corner. I watched Signora Contarini cross over Ponte San Lorenzo. With every step, she appeared suddenly to be a regal entity, marching to some sorrowful fate.
She was headed for Campo San Lorenzo.
But Signora Contarini had never sought to visit the markets. Just like Campo Santa Maria Formosa, Campo San Lorenzo remained desolate. At the far end of the campo, its decrepit church loomed over the white paving and the lonely parish well.
Not even a pigeon in sight.
Then to what designs had Signora Contarini ventured here?
I crouched behind the arch of the bridge and stared across the rio.
Before me, stretching out underneath dark skies, was the empty campo and its imposing church. Before me again, her thin scarlet silhouette and the absence of a shadow onto the stone. Before me, what seemed to be the most treacherous woman in Venezia, now advanced toward the church.
She looked over her shoulder, toward the bridge. I shuddered. The lady had worn a black volto mask. It covered her entire face, save for her lips and eyes. It could only imply that she did not wish to be recognized.
What are you doing here, Catarina? I whispered to myself. What are you doing?
When she had neared the church, Signora Contarini came to a halt. She seemed to stare at the side wall as though deciding. And I knew instantly. As heavy rain drops splattered on my felt boots, an idea surfaced, taking away my breath and stealing all my senses.
I had known Venezia long enough to understand that the wall befo
re her was no ordinary wall. It was built of Istrian stone and attached to one of the most beautiful old churches in Venezia, but that is not what made it special. At four feet above the stone pavement, one could see that the Basilica wall had been especially carved for the purpose of framing one of those treacherous slits through which many signed denunciations could reach the Consiglio dei Dieci. It was an opening that some had begun to call, bocca.
It was before one of those sinister stone mouths that Catarina Contarini, wife of the late Giacomo Contarini, now stood, alone.
Catarina slowly reached inside one of the sewn pouches of her mantle.
I held my breath.
Her gloved hand resurfaced and there, she held a folded parchment. I watched her press it to her lips as though she were deliberating.
My mind raced. Signora Contarini contemplated the bocca, parchment in hand.
What was written on that piece of parchment? Was it a sorrowful admission of her own part in the murder of her husband and his trading partners? Or perhaps, in a fit of rage against the murderer of her husband and daughter, the signora was taking law into her own hands and denouncing anyone she had once held in contempt, if only to assuage her anger and better mourn her loss. Such wrongful accusations had taken place before in Venezia. The slanderers had been punished for the very deeds they had wrongly attributed to their victims. Surely Catarina was not so foolish.
I calculated that denunciations required the signature of two witnesses. What accomplices did Catarina possess? Was she capable of such misdeeds? I did not know. I knew nothing of the signora.
The gloved hand was raised. It motioned toward the bocca.
But Catarina was uncertain. And still, raindrops descended at more frequent intervals, darkening the pavement. In this interminable instant, the parchment remained suspended in her trembling hand, always within close distance to the bocca but never to be set free.
It seemed the signora was held hostage by a great burden. A burden that was too much to bear and would not let her speak out, would not let her reach out, not let her tell others of what she knew.