by Laura Rahme
I perused the Giacomo Contarini file. The page was close to blank. There was hardly anything there by way of reports or attached denunciations. Nothing to highlight the accusatory letters that had been received about his sexual perversion. Nothing there to indicate the recent murder of his own daughter. Nothing except a statement of his death. The cause: madness.
I bit my lip. How could this be?
The footsteps neared downstairs.
“Giovanni! What is that noise? Who is with you?”
I knew this must be the voice of one of the Capi. My heart thundered in my chest.
Yet I refused to leave without answers. Around my neck, I could feel the pendant scorching my skin. Madness? Impossible. Giacomo was not mad. I regained the register and flipped to an earlier mention of the Ca’ Contarini. Something did not make sense. Certainly, there was a file, but it was dated 1416!
The footsteps began to make their ascent up the stairs.
I was too close to give up now. I would settle on this file. I bolted toward the ladder and pushed it against the shelves. Somehow, I managed to climb up with my lantern and to grapple for the 1416 Contarini file. It surprised me that, here, were two loose sheets of parchments not yet bound into a volume. I pulled them out, without thinking. The ink was fresh on the second sheet.
To my horror, a black hooded form cast its shadow across the wall. A man had entered the cancelleria secreta. From my raised position, the Capo would soon have seen me. I lowered my head and descended rapidly. Replacing the ladder in silence, I hid in the darkness against the wall, behind the far right cabinet.
“Who is there?”
I beheld the pendant in my fingers, sensing its heat. I could barely breathe. The young man’s voice echoed in the room.
“Signor Capo, I was just…” The youth trembled with all his might. “I was just speaking with the Signor Almoro Donato. He is here,” he said. From my hidden location, I saw his sheepish profile as he eyed the Capo.
There was a pause. I felt the draft to my right and slowly crept toward the direction of the door, still hiding behind the shadows.
“Signor Donato?” came the irritated voice of the Capo. “Signor Donato, you say? You must be out of your wits, Giovanni. You are either speaking with ghosts, or you have become intoxicated out of your wits. For your information, Giovanni, Signor Donato has just left. He left only a moment ago. I should know. I was speaking with him.”
I was three feet away from them. I saw the Capo advance menacingly toward the back of the room, where I once stood. Behind him, the clerk twisted his knotted fingers with anxiety.
“Signore, perdonami. But he was just here! As I see you. He was working on an important case…”
They moved toward the shelves where I had been reaching previously.
“Signor Capo, you must believe me. He was just here.” Giovanni gestured toward the cabinet in dismay.
The head Capo lost himself in a furious vociferation that had soon filled the room with resonant echoes. Hearing the loudness of his voice, I waited no further. I leapt from behind a wooden desk and raced down the creaking stairs. Ignoring the loud voices of protest above me, I ran across the entrance hall. In a flash, I had escalated the large staircase and crossed the loggias. The shivering cold of a winter’s night singed my face, as I adjusted my hat and cloak. I had just enough time to stare back in alarm toward the eastern wing and to glimpse a faint light in the Doge apartments. Not waiting for the guards to find me, I ran, out of breath, into the Piazzetta, still clutching my leather case.
It was later, as I entered my lodgings, exhausted and famished, that I realized my error. In my haste, I had left my initialed gloves by the side of the cabinet in the cancelleria secreta.
Non Scribatum
I did not sleep that night. Upon returning to my lodgments by the Rialto, I had the distinct sensation that my room had been searched. The candle lay on its side on the floor and the drawers of my cabinet were pulled out. Linen, my clothing and a few of my books lay scattered on the bed and on the parquet.
I ran downstairs and found Esteban waiting for me. He kindly offered me a place to stay for the night. He seemed a little sheepish, almost as though he regretted our deeds. I ignored his strange mood. In truth, I was so excited about what I had read in the cancelleria, that before the early hours of the morning, I gave him no respite, venting at length about my discovery.
“Esteban, your judgment of the Consiglio dei Dieci was right all along. It has known more of the Contarini than what I was ever told. I have been left in the dark. Shall I tell you what I fear? I fear there is a plot against this Ca’ Contarini.”
I presented him the notes I had scribed on my journal and the pages I had torn from the cancelleria.
“What is the phrase at the very top of these pages?” he asked. “Is it Latin?”
“It is indeed Latin. It reads, non scribatum.”
“You will have to translate for me, my friend.”
“I can infer from this phrase that the Consiglio thought it wise to not let certain facts be recorded, at least, not in the written form. This phrase, it signifies, ‘let it not be written’. But below, and this is most remarkable, there is a clear reference to three people. They are the names that caught my eye. Listen, Esteban, they are– Catarina Contarini of the Santa Maria Formosa Parish, the Signorina Blanca Canal and an Armenian slave of the name, Maffeo.”
Esteban frowned. He knew nothing of the two sisters. “Blanca? Why would they record these names?”
“There is more,” I added, my voice vibrating with an emotion that surprised him. “Below this, I can make out one name. A certain, Elena Visconti. And wait, that is not all. Examine this passage. Right here. It is written in a form that one cannot read or understand. It is neither Latin nor Greek. The alphabet seems scrambled and none of the words make any sense. Yet whoever first penned this passage was no illiterate scribe. This is no random set of letters. It must certainly conceal a message. I need to know what it says or I shall go mad!”
“The person who wrote it does not wish its meaning to be known,” replied Esteban. He sighed. He seemed worried for having seen Blanca’s name. “Antonio, I never envisaged that you would enter the Consiglio di Dieci's cancelleria secreta. And now you have lost your new home and the sbirri is hunting you. Let that be a warning. If one seeks out the devil in Venezia, one might just find it. It is no longer safe for you, avogadore. What you did to help me does not go unnoticed. I showed you the face of the Consiglio–that, I do not regret. But I do not wish for you to be harmed. From now, you shall take refuge in an old church by the Arsenale. If all goes well with the contratta you gave me, I shall have my affairs in order within a week. I have also fulfilled my client’s wishes and my wish is to set off for Aragon very soon. I will take Blanca with me. If you have need of my services to leave Venezia, then I offer them gladly. I can make any man disappear. You only have to ask.”
“Grazie, but no.”
“You are in grave danger. They will find you and—”
“I do not wish to leave Venezia. Not until I have resolved the meaning of this script.” To Esteban’s dismay, I eyed the paper in my hand with a fierce determination.
“It is my fault. I ought not to have led you to your perdition. You are a marked man now. You will be safe in the church, but only until they find you.”
“Yes, you did warn me that these men were dangerous. But this, Esteban, this!” I said, brandishing the parchment. “I am so close to unraveling a state secret. I am certain of it. Remember that since my arrival in Venezia, I have led an inquest regarding the entire Contarini family. Two members of the family are dead, one is in a perpetual state of danger and–the saints take me!”
“What is it?”
“Elena Visconti… The Signora Contarini spoke of a child, the mask maker’s daughter who drowned six years ago. It must be her. It has to be her!”
In that instant, I recalled my last dream. Again, I saw the cloth in Magdale
na’s hands and how she had cradled it as though…
I must have looked agitated because Esteban gave me a curious look.
“I think I know someone who might be able to come to your aid,” he said at last.
“Do you think he could reveal the meaning of this message?”
He nodded.
“His is a fine mind. One of the finest in Venezia. I would wager that, yes, he could.”
“Speak now. Who is he?”
Esteban walked to the window and parted the drapes. He peered into the courtyard outside. Then he shook his head.
“I could not send you to him. He lives too close to the Piazza. It would be too dangerous for you to venture there. Right now, I wager the place is crawling with sbirri. You made quite an impression last night.”
“Damnation! Esteban, I must meet this man. Don’t you see? I need to know! You need to know. Esteban, why is Blanca’s name on this parchment?”
“I ignore it. But this is why I must take her away from Venezia as soon as I can. In the meantime, I insist. You must not leave this house.”
“Or you will stop me? To hell with caution! Tell me who this man is and where to find him. I shall go to him with or without your assistance.”
He paced the small room nervously.
“I’ve come this far, Esteban. I will not leave Venezia until I have answers. Who is this man and where can I find him?”
“As you wish, avogadore. But you shall need more than a mask. I will not see you arrested.” He removed his sable-trimmed mantle and passed it to me. “Here, put this on.”
We both gazed into the mirror. I could see that Esteban was not satisfied.
“Your disguise is far from complete, Signor Avogadore. We can better it.”
“I am weary of your ideas…”
He emitted a grave laugh.
“I do own a priest’s habit, but this will do for now.”
His eyes shone as he presented me with further adornments to fashion my new identity.
I covered my face with a red leather volto mask, while Esteban helped adjust a short black wig. The blunt fringe concealed the curve of my forehead, such that even my thick eyebrows were well dissimulated. I was unrecognizable. Esteban placed a tall circular hat above my wig as a finishing touch. Now the transformation was complete.
“I look ridiculous,” I said, peering into the mirror.
“Nonsense. You are unrecognizable. Not a Tuscan in sight! Now. I will summon my gondolier to take you to San Marco. The man you will meet is a friend of mine. His father was a banker but died last year, sadly. When I first met my young friend, he was famished and slept on the streets. He has since taken a meek position as bank clerk, but I do not think he fares well. He often goes beyond his official duty to keep himself happy.”
“I am in no need of a banker’s son.”
“Have patience, my friend. The man you will find is all but a banker. He has the soul of a scholar. Something akin to genius. You shall see for yourself. He is currently completing his law degree and is just returned from the University of Bologna. I can assure you that you will not find a more brilliant mind than his in the Republic.”
“Who is he?”
“A man who owes me a favor, for a time when his uncle had disinherited him. His name is Battista Alberti. A Florentine, like yourself. Years ago, his family was banned from Florence by the Republicans. As long as you do not mention his poor mother who perished with the peste years ago, you will find him in light spirits.”
He wrote a few words on scented parchment. With adroit movements, he had folded the paper and sealed it in wax.
“Present him this reference. He will know my signet. As for me, remember that I am not far behind you. Someone needs to keep an eye on the sbirri.”
***
It was dawn when I set out. A faded pink light colored the sky and the rios appeared gilded from the sun’s rays. Already hundreds of gondolas glided along the canal. From the darkness of my felze, I peered behind the drapes, watching nervously as Esteban’s gondolier steered toward San Marco.
As we approached the Piazza, and just as I discerned the familiar dome of the Basilica, we passed a sbirri gondola. My heart thumped in my chest. The sbirri were halting random gondolas and inspecting the inside of their wooden cabins. I gripped to the ledge of the door, ready to leap and plunge into the lagoon if they gave any signs of stopping us. As we glided abreast the sbirri gondola, I watched the armed men intently, pacing the rhythm of my heart. I sat back, quite still, barely breathing as they passed. The sbirri captain turned. He glanced at Esteban’s gondolier as this one saluted. The sbirro’s eyes roved over my felze. I felt his dark gaze upon me. I shut my eyes, my fingers pressed hard on Magdalena’s pendant. Then I heard the merry voice of my gondolier, as he belted out an Arsenalotti tune. When I opened my eyes, the sbirri were gone and we had moored alongside a tall green water door.
***
Upon introducing myself, I was ushered into a room on the upper floor of a small banking house and asked to wait for the signore’s arrival.
A dim cold room greeted me. I went to the window and peered behind the thick velvet drapes. The gondolier had remained by the water door downstairs. He waited. I glanced further out into the calle to assure myself that I had not been followed. A youthful voice startled me.
“Signor di Stasi?”
I turned. A young man with short curls, eighteen at most, was staring at me with his giant moist eyes. Overcome by surprise, I regarded him, doubtful of his ability. I had not expected one so young. But his attire, although spartan, was impeccable. Beneath a plain black tabard, he wore a black velvet doublet over a white silk shirt laced at the neck. From his eyes, shone an alertness that seemed to brighten the room. His entire demeanor emanated clarity, while I stood in a dark cloak, hidden behind a wig and a mask. I stepped forth.
He perused the letter of recommendation that Esteban had written. When he had finished, he looked in my direction and gave a considerate smile. If there was in my improvised countenance, something that struck him as unnatural, he took care to not convey this.
“My pleasure to meet a fellow Tuscan,” he said, with his vivacious air. “Esteban speaks highly of you, Signor di Stasi. He says you are in need of my help.”
There was a pause, as I slowly removed the stolen parchment from the folds of my cloak.
“It is a delicate matter,” I began.
“I understand delicate matters,” replied Alberti, shutting the door and locking it. We stood in the cold banking cabinet, examining each other under the glow of chandeliers. With a swift motion, Alberti sat at a bare table beside a candle, his ink and a quill. The curtains remained drawn.
I perceived that he was no stranger to complicated transactions, ones that required discretion. But I could take no chances.
“Signor Alberti,” I said, stepping to the offered seat. “If a member of the Signoria were to present themselves to you to unravel misdeeds carried out by its very members, would you find yourself in any way, compromised?”
“I am at your disposition, Signore. I can offer consultation as a member of the law. Let us pretend that I am a practicing lawyer and that you are my client. In this case, I will remain impartial, and as my client, I can promise you that all matters we discuss shall remain between us.”
“Well spoken. But I must warn you that my identity cannot be revealed. You will speak to no one that you have seen me.”
“I will remain discreet,” replied Alberti, in a manner that surpassed what could be expected from such a young man. I saw at once what Esteban had spoken of. This youth was not in the least interested in the latest fashion of the clubs, or in losing himself to the frivolities of Carnivale. The young man was serious. Yet I was still troubled. If he could reveal the secret message, would I be able to trust him with it? Would he take the secret to his grave and tell not a soul?
There was no time to reconsider. I had to know what the parchment hid. At all cost. If Elen
a really was Francesco Visconti’s daughter, the child who had died six years ago, then I knew I would soon uncover a secret of enormous proportions. I was persuaded that the truth it held was terrifying, perhaps something beyond the slaughter that Francesco Visconti had suffered, beyond the murder of the Contarini family members and of Giacomo Contarini’s trade partners. I sensed, as surely as I had seen Magdalena’s ghost, that this Elena was the last piece of the puzzle.
I needed Battista Alberti. I had no choice. I set the folded parchment before him and pushed it forward on the table.
“Can you tell me what this says?” I asked in a near whisper.
He peered at the passage. His bright eyes shone no more.
“In reply to your question, Signor di Stasi– a man can do all things if he but wills them. I see, it is not Latin…” he said, his brow creasing in the dim light.
“I know.”
“And certainly not Greek… Perdonami, but where did the signore find this parchment?”
“Let us say, that I accidentally encountered it in the cancelleria secreta.”
Alberti raised an understanding eyebrow and nodded.
“Ah.”
Then he said no more and lowered his head to absorb the mysterious letters. I saw his brow knit into a frown. Alberti sat back and gazed into space then almost immediately resumed his contemplation with a concentration I’d not seen, even from the finest glassmaker in Murano.
“If it is too much effort for you, I will not demand any more of your time,” I said, holding my breath.
He nodded, ignoring my remark.
“Between us, Signor di Stasi, mathematical games and puzzles are a most pleasurable pastime compared to the consumption of law books. An impertinent request, if you permit me, Signore,” he said, without once lifting his eyes from the parchment.
“What is it?”
“My father died only last year. Between illness and family strife, times have been difficult for me. Between here and Bologna, I scrape what I can to make ends meet, but banking has not suited my temperament. I may wish to accede to another post someday.”