The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice

by Laura Rahme

  The shrieks and laughter, the incessant vendor shouts, the cat calls to prostitutes who camp their luscious wares by the taverns and the random agitation of overwhelmed travelers–all, are given to frightening the pigeons who sweep past with a fluttering of wings, startling those nearby.

  I gathered that my footing would be best found behind closed doors, away from the madness of the campo. But where was I to sit in this crazed filled space? Not near the Palazzo’s pillars where patricians and vendors alike would lift their garments to relieve themselves in the latrines. And not beneath the arcades where beggars congregated in tattered rags. Close to this filth, traders had setup shops at the front of the Basilica and animated men and women swarmed like flies round blood dripping meats, salamis and vegetable stalls.

  I spun round, looking out to the lagoon. No sign of Esteban; the ever masked Esteban that no one, most especially at Carnivale could ever find.

  Clustered at the foot of the Campanile were the tourist guesthouses and money changers. Further out, beside the Piazzetta and edging the narrow molo which faced the sea, were cheese and meat vendors and again, more taverns.

  After striding along the lagoon, I finally found the tavern I had been looking for. It was tucked behind a row of shops alongside the Mint and overlooked the Canal. I entered and sat quietly, adjusting my black volto.

  Esteban was not long coming. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

  He had worn a red turban and a glittering half-mask which permitted him to eat. Under a full-length cloak of scarlet, he was fitted into a pair of magnificent dark blue checkered calza. Aside from his hidden rapier, he had the allure of a leisurely tourist who had ostensibly adopted Venezia’s dress and was reveling in his stint at Carnivale.

  We retreated inside the quiet restaurant that I knew, at a glance, I could not afford. Like the numerous merchants in this city, Esteban seemed to thrive on letters of credit. He took a glance inside and nodded his approval.

  We were no sooner seated in a far corner, that he demanded to see the best wine and proceeded to make notes in a small journal, as though on a traveling holiday.

  “You are doing splendidly,” I remarked with a tinge of sarcasm. “If you had not rudely tapped me on the shoulder with your cane, I may not have recognized you.”

  He laughed.

  “The secret, Antonio, is to believe who you are. Believe that you are the costume. And soon enough, it becomes you and you resemble the farce until the two are indistinguishable. My designs were to pass unseen. Like you, I desired no witnesses.”

  “Today’s tournament is our welcome friend,” I said, pointing outside to the thickening crowds in the Piazza. Already, two richly clad jousters had taken their places on their horses and held their lances in readiness for combat. “Carnivale is a refuge for a man who hides from the sbirri. Besides, if I were not disguised, one would only ever see a poor Tuscan avogadore pretending to be a Venetian, and a grim one at that.”

  Esteban appeared moved by my self-deprecating jest. “I would never qualify you as grim, Antonio. There is an aloof charm in the Tuscan avogadore,” he assured me. While keeping his little finger crooked aside to dip in the salt dish, he soaked a piece of bread in olive oil before chewing fondly into it. “I insist. The Tuscan is charming. Why berate him? But even so, permit me to say that is not who you really are, Signor da Parma. Are you certain that you’ve understood your own nature? Or is it defined for you by the Signoria?”

  He took a sip from the offered wine, signaled his approval to the attendant and sat back. He continued to observe me, one hand on his newly grown tuff of a beard.

  “Signor da Parma, in time, you may even discover yourself through one such costume.”

  “You mean, lose myself,” I mocked, reaching for the wine pitcher.

  “Oh no. I mean that the costume will liberate you, edge you closer to the reality of your being. But…if you really wish to lose yourself, Signor da Parma, then travel is the key. The ways of the Republic are a masquerade. They oppress one’s true nature. That is why the vilest creatures are revealed when masks are worn during Carnivale.”

  “On that, we agree,” I said, casting a tired glance over the odious Piazza.

  “The Veneziani are all merry about hiding behind their masks because their Signoria demands too much of its cittadini. But I, Esteban del Valle, I am not like the rest of them. I never let a city instruct me as to who I am. You see me here, in Venezia and I feed on her as I would in any city but above all, I remain my own man, whether I am at sea, in Cyprus, in the islands of Greece or in the Levant.” He brought the purple glass to his flared nostrils and inhaled the wine’s aroma. “Again, I speak of myself. It must be tiring for you. And you? What of your life in Tuscany which you care to never mention?”

  “Tuscany is beautiful,” I replied, as I nibbled at rosemary bread.

  He took note of the evasive tone in my voice and stared at me.

  “Beautiful enough, yet, she does not impassion your speech. Am I right? Antonio! I am right. The avogadore flits from city to city never really finding what he seeks. Because what he seeks…” he paused, studying me with an intensity that I found disconcerting. “What he seeks is not of this world.”

  “How you read me.”

  “Perfectly, don’t you think?” He smiled. “Oh, I have known men like you, Antonio da Parma. Before Gaspar Miguel Rivera passed away and long before the brig was taken from us, I made a dozen voyages to the Holy Lands and carried aboard hundreds of pilgrims from all parts of the world. Onboard, I studied these spiritual men. Yes, I did. Some, I believe, and this was evident by the ale they consumed and the women they bedded at the ports, were lacking in devotion. But the others, I come to them. These pious men who were—how shall I say—always here, but not quite here. You see, they have that distant look in their eyes, a sort of longing that burns slowly with the same glow that I see in yours. They are the silent ones. But one can read the burning fervor of their faith upon their faces. If one were to speak to them, one would realize that they were born only to see the Holy Lands. If they could dispense from food or drink during the journey, they would. These men have no anchors to their homes. They happily lose themselves to the places they visit. They exist to pray to God and lose themselves in him.”

  “I am hardly ever at mass. Now, you exaggerate.”

  “Do I? Yet, Signor da Parma, round your neck, I have seen the glow of a silver pendant.” He said it casually but I knew how it fascinated him. I had caught him staring at it many times since that night on the roofs. I squirmed in my seat, raising a hand to assure that the pendant was tucked beneath my shirt.

  “I take it, that it is not a Christian icon. But for you to choose to wear it so close to your chest…” He gave me a generous flash of his white smile.

  “The pendant does not belong to me,” I offered, hoping he would change the subject. “I am safeguarding it for someone.”

  “I see. So then, to whom does it belong, Signor da Parma? Or perhaps I should rephrase my question and ask whether by wearing it, you belong to it.” At this, he emitted a knowing smile whose meaning I took care to ignore.

  “It is nothing. I had a dream. That is all. Some dreams you can never forget.”

  His smile remained suspended as he stared at me with an inquisitive gaze. Then he moved his lips to his glass and drank in silence.

  “Would you like to see it?” I asked, reaching for the cord when no one was watching. “Perhaps you might have seen one like it before. I’ve not shown it to anyone and I do not intend to tell you where I found it.”

  “Certainly. I will examine that rare silver pendant,” he boomed.

  He reached for it and cradled it in his large hands pondering over each charm with an intelligent gaze. He remained silent for a long time. I saw that he had lost his smile. He fingered the charms with a troubled expression.

  “Fascinating. I can understand it now…”

  “Understand what?”

  “Nothin
g.”

  He returned the pendant and looked away as though regretting having set his eyes on it.

  “I believe it belonged to a Napoletana,” I said. “But I am uncertain as to its meaning.”

  Esteban nodded. He was contemplating something. “There is an old crone by the Arsenal if you wish to chance a visit. I forget the street. She sells all manner of oddities. The pilgrims love to buy charms in Venezia on their way to the Holy Lands. They ignore that they can find similar jewelry in the Levant at more reasonable prices. Anyway, I think she might even stock similar charms. Not one like it, of course. I’ve never seen so much silver... But you could ask her of its meaning. It would be safe. She wouldn’t tell a soul of your visit, Signor da Parma. She is just an old forgotten crone.” He saw the glimmer in my eyes.

  “I will risk anything, Esteban, to find out more about this pendant. It is one of the reasons why I am under arrest.”

  He set his glass down and stared at me.

  “Why did you wish to see me?” he asked, suddenly.

  “I have decided to help you.”

  He leaned forward.

  “You wish to enter the Palazzo just as the Consiglio dei Dieci are hunting you? Are you mad?”

  “The Consiglio dei Dieci are toying with me. But I am not mad, Esteban. They know I am nearing some truth and they do not like it. I can feel it. I just need enough time to prove it. Signor Del Valle, I can help you. All oaths, reports and the archives of the procurators of San Marco are held in the cancelleria inferiore, on the palace’s third floor. I know where to find your document. I just don’t know…how.”

  He contemplated me for a moment. I think he was slightly impressed by my words.

  “Avogadore,” he said, “when we have carried out our plan and I have my brig at long last, you ought to join me for a voyage to the Levant.”

  “When this quest is complete, you and I may find ourselves in the Wells,” I replied.

  “Not Esteban. He has other plans. Besides the Wells are too damp for my liking. Do not despair Antonio, we will find a way. So let us now speak of it since it is the purpose of our appointment. I was secretly hoping it was. I have thought over your little predicament and an idea has formed overnight. Yes, a splendid idea. It is brilliant. This morning, before Almoro Donato entered the palace, I followed him to the latrines and I took it upon myself to clumsily address him in French and pretend that I was lost.”

  “You buffoon!”

  “I thought so too. It was an altercation that I will not forget. But nevertheless, my short and rather vivid exchange with the old petulant judge has had an effect on me. I took care, while he was too busy scolding my insolence, to examine him closely and observe his speech and mannerisms. Based on this, Antonio, I conclude that you are closer to the cancelleria than you might think. Think of it, what if you, Antonio, were to disguise yourself as Signor Almoro Donato.”

  I set my glass down to the table and stared at him lips apart. He seemed entirely serious beneath his lopsided color spray of a mask. “Continue,” I said.

  “Think of it. He is of your height and build. Together we can agree on how closely you can adopt his speech and gait. First of all, I would encourage you to slur your words a little more. Remember that we are in Venezia and it ought to strike you how insipidly romantic you sound at times. You should abandon your pristine Florentine dialect. Try it. Try to think like a merchant even if that merchant has now become a judge. Merchants have scarce time on their hands, Antonio. Time is money. Also you walk quite straight and you tend to keep your limbs close, whereas Almoro, he is hunched forth a little and shuffles his feet like a monk while dangling his long arms from side to side. I am convinced you can manage the same. All we need… “

  He was interrupted by the attendant bringing forth an enormous leek and goat cheese pie. We had ordered braised pork cutlets and a well-seasoned plate of Sarde in saor to complement. Despite Esteban’s unsettling proposition, my mouth already watered at the prospect of sweet and sour fish. Our little banquet looked all the more appetizing now that my heart pounded with excitement.

  We waited for the attendant to be out of earshot before resuming our plan.

  Esteban cut through his pork with a sharp swipe of his knife. He swirled the meat in its jus and took a taste with his eyes closed. I had soon brought him back to reality.

  “Signor Del Valle, you would have me impersonate Almoro Donato! Why, Esteban, you think me enamored of death? I may as well stand between those two granite columns and offer my neck to the executioner.”

  He shot me a dark glance.

  “In the sunlight, that may be. But not under the pallid glow of flambeaux. And if you remain in the darkness, only the outline of your face, nay, of your mask, shall be seen. I know what I speak of.”

  “And I say that it cannot be done.”

  “Deny it if you will. But what shall you say when I tell you that I, myself, have attempted this very farce. Antonio, one keeps away from the bright lights and the illusion is complete. The spell only works in the night, but it works.”

  “Very well,” I said. “If I do as you say, we may have a chance. Do you think I can do it? Enter the palace unrecognized? Find Gaspar’s contract and deliver it to you?”

  Esteban gulped down more wine. “I believe you can, Antonio. You would know the Nuevo Palazzo back to front whereas I do not. You are familiar with the whereabouts and operations of the Consiglio. Your confidence is all I await. We will take this chance whenever you are ready. I know where to find a resembling wig and a Consiglio attire. Leave that to me. The rest is up to you. When do you think it can be done?”

  He noted the frown on my brow as I remembered something. “What day is it?” I asked.

  “30 December.”

  “Then we have no choice,” I said. “It must be done tomorrow.”

  “Why so soon?”

  “It must be tomorrow night. The Council of Ten members were elected in September this year. They took their post at the end of September. Each of the members is appointed for one year. Every month in that year, the members elect three Capi.”

  “Three what?”

  “Three Capi. They are the Heads of the Council and have judicial authority. It is a regulation that the Capi may not leave the palace during the entire month—for fear that they may be bribed, you understand? During this month, none of them can leave the palace.”

  “I gather that Almoro has not yet had his turn at being Capi.”

  “Precisely. In October, they elected Victor Bragadino, Roberto Mauro and Petro Duodo. In November I believe it was Bartholomeus Donato, Petro Lauredino and a certain Marcus whose last name eludes me. Almoro was not Capi in October or November. Now we are in December and you saw him walk outside the Palace…”

  “Damnation.”

  “My predicament exactly. Tomorrow is the last day of the month. In January they will elect the three new Capi. My guess is that Almoro will be one of them. He will be confined to the palace for one month. It is therefore too dangerous to wait until January. I cannot be him while he resides in the palace. It would arouse suspicion. He may even see me himself! If we have to do this, it has to be tomorrow.”

  “But in such a short time, how will you master the Venetian tongue?”

  “I will do what I can. I have all afternoon to make practice.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  I nodded.

  I left Esteban shortly after the tournament ended. A bullfight was set to begin. There were now more men and women in the Piazza and all remnants of propriety had been dissolved. I frayed myself a passage beyond the offensive crowds and sought a gondola.

  It had not surprised me how eager Esteban had been to execute our plan. I took it merely as his desire to regain his wealth.

  What Venetian citizen would refrain from such a prospect?

  ***

  Letter from Esteban del Valle to his client

  It will be tonight. Tonight, our agreement is complete an
d my engagement shall draw to an end.

  In a week, I shall sail to Aragon.

  Your loyal servant.

  The Pendant Maker

  Back in my new lodgments, I mentally rehearsed the Venetian tongue with its childish tonalities. I amused myself while impersonating Almoro’s shuffle. As I hunched forth, the large pendant dangled before me and struck me on the chin.

  A sudden urge took hold of me. One strange desire it was, one with no name, not even a face, save this silver rue that I could not part from. The urge was strong. I knew by my lack of resistance that my afternoon’s acting rehearsal was forever ruined.

  Digging feverishly at my throat, I beheld the talisman and rested it in my palm so that it filled almost half of it. For a while, I lay in bed to examine it. Unsettling desire it was. It bore her face, the face of a ghost that had long vanished and yet its presence seemed near, so near that I had only to reach out, to reach out and grasp it.

  I longed to unveil the secrets of this pendant.

  Without hesitating, I draped myself in a woolen cloak and set out for the Arsenal.

  In the cramped living quarters that lined the shipyards, was the realm of the Arsenalotti, a bellicose people who for years, had given Venezia its sailors, its marine carpenters and shipbuilders. They were a thriving lot, thanks, in part, to the favor of the noble classes who were their principle clientele. They were the firemen of Venezia and among them were also generations of gondoliers and an elect group of men who served as bodyguards to the Doge. They kept among themselves, intermarrying and monopolizing their trade.