by Laura Rahme
She began by spreading a greasy substance on my face. She had soon covered my forehead, temples, nose, chin and eyes. Satisfied, she soaked strips of cotton cloth in water and pasted them across my face, pressing them down to contour my features.
“I shall now use a different cloth,” she said. “The gauze has been impregnated with plaster. Please do not open your mouth. Try to be still.”
Soon my face had been covered by three layers of such cloth. I felt the damp stiffness and dared not breathe nor speak. Still the lingering scent of damask hung about me with each of her fluid movements. At last she had finished and I heard her sigh.
“Now we shall wait until it dries, Signor da Parma.”
It astounded me that her voice was so polished despite her profession.
After moments that seemed to me eternity, she reached forth and began to cautiously pry the dried plaster from my face. I felt the whiff of cold air upon my liberated features and gazed in astonishment at the mask before me. With a sharp dagger, she trimmed off the edges of the mask and pierced the sides to make little holes. She began to rip further strips of cloth. For a moment we said nothing until she broke the silence.
“You are an admirer of Esteban, I can see it. He is so handsome, isn’t he?” she whispered in my ear as she wiped traces of plaster and wax, off my face.
“I have never met a man such as him.” I replied curtly, closing my eyes under the contact of her skin. She had nearly finished.
“I will now fashion this mask into the portrait of Almoro Donato. It will be perfect, you will see. The man has a large hooked nose, not as noble as yours…”
She began to hum as she worked. I had closed my eyes and I felt, much to my discomfort, that there was a quality in Blanca’s voice that was known to me. Now she began speaking of her first encounter with Esteban.
“Women who run the risks of my trade to make a living are at the mercy of dangerous men. I am glad I have Esteban. He protects me. Ever since I have met him, three years ago, I have always felt safe. Most men are frightened of him.”
I understood that Esteban had taken on a role of her protector and lover. It was common for prostitutes to have recourse to a bandit for their own security. Blanca continued to speak and I grew frustrated, wondering where I had heard her voice.
“Shall I tell you a secret, Signor da Parma? I was nearly abducted three times. Twice I fought them off. The abbess, that is how we call our madam at the whore house, she helped me run off the second time. She burst into the room and told the client he was no longer welcome. The third time was harrowing. I thought I would be dead, Signore. We were in the gardens and there was not a soul in sight. The man was intoxicated. He held a knife to my face and threatened to cut me. I had never felt so frightened in my life. I screamed and wrestled him, until Esteban heard us and fought him off. He gave the man a great fright but spared his life. I shall tell you something else. My would-be abductor was a lawyer, married, with three children. At present, he does almost anything for Esteban.”
“But you no longer engage in your trade, now, do you, Blanca?” I asked, unsettled by her tale.
“I may be Esteban’s companion, Signore, but I earn my own living,” she proudly replied. “A woman like me fends for herself. She needs no one.”
Yet there was an uncertainty in the tone of her voice.
“Esteban and I have made a pact,” she added.
“A pact?”
“That he will take me with him to Aragon, to be his wife, on the condition that I were to desist from my trade. It is my dream to leave Venezia with him and Esteban says that one day, we shall. But three years have passed and he shows no signs of leaving. What do you think, Signore? Do you think I should trust this handsome bravo?”
“He appears fond of you.”
“Oh, he is! That is the reason he wishes me to see no clients. But how should I know that he is serious at all, when here we are, still in Venezia, with Esteban still preoccupied with his affairs.”
“There is yet time, Blanca. Perhaps Esteban is not yet ready to leave for Aragon.”
“Time! You both employ the same words. ‘We have all the time in the world, Blanca. Just allow me to finish a task that remains unfinished.’ His words. Men!”
That voice…
“What do you think, Signore?”
I looked to the mask. My features were no more. She beheld a crude face with a hooked nose, sallow cheeks and hooded eyelids. It was a modest beginning. She had yet to apply the paint and pomades. Under the torch lights, the resemblance would be complete.
Blanca peered into the courtyard below. The sun had not yet set. It gave off rays that lightened her locks. She turned to smile at me.
That hair…
I could no longer sit still, aghast by my own sentiments. I was determined that her voice had a distinctly familiar quality and I would not rest until I had ascertained the fact.
“Have you always been a meretrice, Blanca?” I asked.
“Why do you ask?”
“Your manner, perhaps. They are the manners of a well-bred patrician.”
“Do you think courtesans incapable of good breeding?”
“That is not what I meant. Perdonami.”
Her shiny black eyes gleamed with a sudden understanding.
“A woman has to survive,” she answered simply. But she was suddenly less sure of herself.
She began to apply the paint and make up onto the Almoro mask, occasionally raising her eyes to meet mine.
As for me, I had finally identified the voice. And each time Blanca raised her inquisitive eyes in my direction, I could see that my insistent gaze troubled her. I must have appeared eager to give voice to the question that burned my lips. At present there was not a doubt in my mind.
“Is the nunnery of San Lorenzo such a terrible place, then?” I asked.
She froze.
The startled expression upon her face did not lie.
“How do you know about me?” she spat. She had been blending paints. She was still holding her brush, but now her hand trembled.
“Only what your sister told me,” I whispered.
A furious blush caught her cheeks. I could see the shame mounting in her with the quivering of her lips. I knew I had gone too far.
“I am gravely sorry…” I began.
“You know nothing, Antonio da Parma. Do not judge me!”
“I visited your sister, Catarina. You resemble her very much, Blanca. I simply had to know.”
“Resemble her?” Her lips trembled into a pout. “She abandoned me. Just like my own parents. She ceased responding to my letters. For weeks… Months! Months went by… I received nothing from her. I had to survive, you understand? You will not speak of this. You will not speak of what I have become, either to her, or to the Ca’ Contarini. And never to the Canal!”
“Please understand, I have no wish to be a thorn in your side, Signorina. We are bound by our mutual silences,” I said, referring to the ruse I would soon adopt to enter the palace.
She looked in bitterness to the window, avoiding my eyes. The flaming red of her hair was highlighted once again by the winter sun.
“Do you know why my father locked me in a convent? You will think what many others believe—that the Canal possessed only enough fortune to afford one dowry and that it was Catarina who was lucky enough to be given in marriage. Yes, there are many who think that. But they are wrong. If only that were true. You see, Antonio, my family had immense wealth. So much wealth that it would have displeased them to see their daughters wedded to any man whose class and wealth did not exceed their own. Catarina’s husband satisfied their whims for social standing. As for me, I was courted by the less fortunate. The truth, Antonio, is that the Canal would not allow me to marry beneath our class. I was sacrificed to God to let it be known that no unmarried man existed who could win me. I became a token of the Canal wealth. No more, no less.”
She gave a half smile. “Forgive me, Antonio. I shoul
d not have raised my voice at you. You are Esteban’s friend. I wish you to know that I did all I could to keep happy in the convent, but it all became too much in the later years. With my sister’s neglect, I grew poor. I was a drain on the abbess. I was not the only one in San Lorenzo to meet this end; there were many of us. They would have sold our flesh to visiting gentlemen in the end. You seem surprised. But it is true. Nonnas have become prostitutes. My entire family forgot me, Signore. What would you have me do?”
“How long ago was this?”
“Five years. The last time Catarina saw me, it was six years ago. I was so relieved to see her. She took me outside. She fussed over me. How she fussed! And then, nothing. I never understood it. When she sent no word for months, I understood that I was alone. And do you want to know something, Antonio? I took matters in my own hands. Do you think I have always been in high spirits, resplendent with health, the way you saw me with Esteban? With passion in my voice? No, Signore. I was a sad twenty year old, gaunt and lonely. Even my bosom had shriveled. I was dying inside, rotting away in a convent. All because my own father had wanted to rise in the eyes of others.
“One night, after I had drafted another letter to Catarina despite her refusal to respond to many others, I was about to trim off my hair, as I had done for years, but an idea came to me. ‘No, Blanca,’ I told myself. I would leave it to grow long and prosper. I would flaunt my beauty and reap of it. I had seen how the visiting abbot occasionally stared at me with languorous eyes. For months, the other young nuns had shared what they believed–that they suspected he held a secret passion for me. As for me, I feigned ignorance, running away from an act I had never known. For months, the abbot’s lust filled me with repulsion.
“But on the night I chose to let my hair reach my hips, I had also made a decision. I wanted to be like them. Those meretrici who often visited and befriended us. They were charming and witty.
“They were free.
“They were empowered by the knowledge that they had a hand in their own destiny. I wanted to spend the nights out with them, into the streets, as some of the nonnas did. I longed to enjoy the nights and the ducats that came of them. I had planned to dress as a man for the privilege of attending Carnivale and to be alive in the merry dance of Venezia.
“But first, I had to conquer my fears of the flesh.
“It was decided. The abbot would be my first victim. Old and fleshy, he could not harm me. And I entertained such rancor toward my parents that I savored the power I held over this old man. I told myself that playing along with his attention would be a revenge. And what a revenge it would be! No, Antonio, I would not cower into oblivion and be a faceless nonna that the world did not want to know. I would be una donna del mondo, an empowered donna, una donna libera, and ever master of my destiny.
“I learned over time to meet the abbot’s advances. If he dared rest his eyes upon me, I met them. I allowed him to see me as I seemed, innocent and easily molded by authority. I wanted to test how far I could go. And one night, I went to him, in the chapel and kneeled at his feet as though to pray and confess. He saw the depravity in my eyes and at once, he understood. What hunger I must have shown! ‘My poor child,’ he said, eyes half-closed, looking down upon me. ‘If only you knew the ways of this world,’ I heard him say between his teeth, which I knew were chattering from his repressed urge to ravish me.
“He was licking his lips, that fornicating devil. He was ever ready to show me what I ignored and to pluck the flower between my thighs. And already, underneath his cassock, I sensed the growing bulge of his manhood pushing against my face. I told him that I was eager to learn and that I was a good pupil. And I was.
“He had heard enough and it pleased him. He pushed me down to the cold floor and raised his cassock. When he tore through me, I gritted my teeth, crushed by his weight. I tried not to breathe his loathsome rosemary cologne. But as he sweated and wrestled over me, I understood the purpose I could serve to finally make my own living.
“Do not scorn me, Antonio. I was a doomed woman and I am still doomed in the eyes of our Lord. But at least, I now have St Nicholas to vouch for me. I remember when it happened and when the abbot was done with me, we were as stunned as each other. The floor was stained with the blood of my youth, I was bruised inside, and yet, I had won. I had conquered my fears and never again would I remain in the darkness of the convent.
“My horror, in the knowledge that one such as an abbot could defile himself and his vows with such an act, has not left me over the years. I met a French courtesan once. She told me that in the private brothels of Dijon, one fifth of clients are men of the Church. What do you make of this, Antonio? Will you judge me? Will you scorn this nonna turned whore? Wait until I tell you the rest.
“The abbot was not easily satisfied. He grew demanding over the days. I would like to say that his perversions knew no end, but I would shame myself in revealing too much. For months, I endured. He invented ways to use me in all manner of wickedness. As for me, I devised a plan to trade my body and my silence in exchange for what I wanted most, a way out of my prison. With the abbot’s help, I learned how to disguise myself and leave the convent whenever I wished. In time, I grew confident. In the end, I did not return. I left forever. I have lived as I am for over three years. That is my story, Signore.”
Blanca’s account had disconcerted me, at first. But I gained an understanding from it. I realized how pained the Canal sisters were. Both of them. Catarina, in her agonizing marriage, and then faced with the death of her husband and child. And now, Blanca, discarded by her own family, until she had met a path less than holy. It was difficult to scorn her. What I saw before me, was a wilful woman who had broken laws to become master of her own destiny. To admonish her, I would have had to admonish the parents who had cast her fate. To judge her, I would have to first denounce the abbot who had taken his pleasure, with little regard for his pledge to God. I knew not what to think. I could only wish her well. And now, as I eyed the perfect reconstruction of Almoro’s face on the newly dried mask she held in her hand, I realized how artful the donna truly was.
“This is remarkable, Blanca. I feel as though I were peering into Almoro’s face. Do you think I will be found?”
“That is in your hands, Signore,” she smiled, pleased by my words. Then she grew serious. “Please,” she begged, “if you do see her again, do not tell my sister what I have become.”
It moved me how she could seem proud of herself in some ways, yet ashamed in others. She was divided between the liberties of her new world and the rigid expectations of her old world. I nodded.
“Your secret shall not pass the threshold of my lips, dear Blanca.”
“Thank you, Signore.” Then she smiled and began to spread out the costume she had brought with her. “Now suppose we remove your crimson shirt and doublet and fit you into Almoro’s fashionable frock. I hear black is very much the fashion these days with the Consiglio.”
We both broke into a resounding laughter, which I knew expressed much relief from the previous moment’s tension. She moved toward me to assist with the costume. As I undid the ties of my collar, she reached forth to help me undress. I had no sooner lifted my shirt over my head than I heard a loud gasp escape from her lips.
I tossed aside the shirt and beheld the sight of Blanca. She stared at my bare chest as though she had seen a ghost. She was pale as snow, her hands pressed vividly to her lips.
“Signorina Canal, are you ill?” I asked, startled by her sudden change.
Blanca moved to the bed and reached for the costume. She bit her lips, looking askance, as though refusing to meet my eyes.
“No…” she replied in a faint voice. “It is nothing. Please forgive me.”
She set about to present me with the costume and remained quiet while I dressed. Esteban re-entered the room shortly after, exceedingly amused by my much transformed appearance. The couple embraced, before bidding each other farewell for the night. I noted that Blan
ca gave me a last furtive glance before she left.
If I had not been so possessed by my Almoro act and so overwhelmed with anxiety at the prospect of breaking into the chancellery, I may have pressed her further and not let her leave without answers. But I had little time.
For the rest of the afternoon, I chose to ignore what I had seen. And what I had seen, the light of terror, in Blanca’s eyes, convinced me that there must be a reason why Catarina Contarini had chosen to never again speak with her own sister.
I knew without a doubt that Blanca Canal had recognized the cimaruta around my neck. At this moment, an eerie feeling seized me. I had an urge to visit Catarina once more.
But first, a dark duty lay before me. I had yet to unveil why the Consiglio was so dogged about this case and why Almoro had behaved so strangely throughout my inquest. And perhaps my exploits tonight would also right the wrong in Esteban’s life. Although I did not yet understand how important the documents I was to retrieve were to my Catalan friend, it did not trouble me.
As I write this, it has grown late. I sit in my draped felze, awaiting the apparition of Almoro Donato on the Palazzo embankment. As I stare out into the Piazzetta, I clutch at the pendant that once belonged to Magdalena. If this powerful charm is what it pretends to be, then surely I will be safe in my endeavors and nothing grave shall befall me on this night.
I shall soon know how great an actor I am. Or perish.
In the Cancelleria
At the approach of night, I waited for Almoro Donato to surface from the Palazzo Ducale. And then, when he had stepped into his gondola and disappeared from view, I removed the brown beggar’s cloak that Esteban had lent me and shuffled toward the molo with my arms swinging to the side.
My heart pounded in my chest. I feared that at any moment, someone would identify me as Almoro Donato’s usurper. In my gloved fingers, I gripped to a thin leather case where I hoped to dissimulate my findings.
I had no desire to be put to The Question for what I set out to do. The cancelleria inferiore upstairs was of considerable concern. But to pass into the cancelleria secreta, would not only be difficult, it would place me in grave danger. The seriousness of my crime were I to be found out, would be measured by the days spent in the prison’s Wells. And that is if I did not hang between the two pillars of the Piazzetta.