The hollow sound of the oar slapping the water filled the void Edgardo would have liked, instead, to replace with words of comfort. Costanza trusted him fully, so he couldn’t lie to her. There was no hope for a young woman in her position. Her sister would never oppose her husband’s decision.
“For a long time I lived in an abbey. Life in a convent can be very full and rewarding.”
“But you had your writing and even despite that you gave up the habit . . . Why did you do that if life there was as full and rewarding as you say?”
Edgardo wished he could be frank and shout out, “Because of love for a woman! No writing can resist love, and even faith falters,” but he kept his lips closed tight, swallowed his words, and just made a vague gesture that referred to a distant, now forgotten past.
“You see,” Costanza said, “you have no answer.”
The scaula went into a narrow, smelly canal than ran between single-story huts crowded together, rickety, clinging to unsteady fondamenta of poles corroded by sea salt.
Excrement and leftover food that had been thrown out of the windows had formed a hard, mottled crust on which merry bands of enormous rats ran around. Brandishing the oar like a weapon, Alvise hit them flat out, sending many flying into the water.
When they reached the canal of the alley, they were violently struck by a white light that forced them to half close their eyes.
They’d entered Rio Batario and the brolo* of San Marco spread before them in all its vastness.
The waterway cut right across this green field, luxuriant in vegetable patches and fruit trees, and passed, to the east, the brick façade of the basilica named after the patron saint, and, to the west, the little church of San Geminiano.
On the pier outside the dock, like every morning, there was a crowd of garzoni and servants busy unloading goods, sailors directing pilgrims bound for the Holy Land, and slaves for sale at the market of Constantinople toward moored galleys.
Tied to a pillar outside the Doge’s Palace, a recently executed cutthroat was on display: after gouging out his eyes as a lasting warning against his terrible crime, they’d quartered him from the throat down with a bec de corbin, so that his intestines were dangling between his legs, providing two cats with a lavish meal.
The man, a dyer of Albanian origin, had been guilty of the unnatural rape of a twelve-year-old girl, the daughter of his master’s slave.
Despite being used to such sights, Costanza turned away just in time before one of the cats staged a final attack on the gentleman’s guts. Having torn off with its paw a decent helping of shit storage, it scurried away amid people’s legs, its daily meal between its teeth.
When they came out into the open lagoon, among moored galleys and chelandions, Costanza took a deep breath and let the sea breeze blow over her.
Just beyond the towers delimiting the Doge’s Palace, the walls of the convent of San Zaccaria were already visible.
The Benedictine convent had been erected after the church of San Zaccaria had been built, when, in the Year of Our Lord 800, the doges Angelo and Giustiniano Partecipazio received the saint’s body from the Byzantine Emperor Leo V.
After the terrible fire of 1105, in which many nuns died, asphyxiated, the convent was rebuilt and extended, and acknowledged by all the people of Venice as a most holy custodian of relics.
Alvise tied the scaula to an iron ring by the steps leading to the entrance.
The door knocker made a deep, loud noise. Costanza threw one final glance at Alvise, as though looking for support. He bowed his head.
There was a squeak of hinges and an attractive nun appeared, smiling, elegantly dressed, more akin to a lady than an anchoress.
“I bring madonna Costanza Colyn, sister of the noblewoman Magdalena Colyn, wife of the most illustrious Tommaso Grimani,” Edgardo announced.
The nun gave a sign of greeting. “Our devoted and most holy Abbess Contarini is expecting her.”
Costanza staggered forward and gave one more look of profound despair. Edgardo squeezed her hand and went with her as far as the front door.
“Have courage. I’ll wait for you here,” he whispered.
The door closed and Edgardo felt as though it would never open again.
Alvise was turning the oar nervously. “Maestro, I must deliver a message to the master’s friend, in the bay of the shipyard, then I’ll come back and pick you up.”
“It’s all right, you can go fishing,” Edgardo replied. “We’ll walk back.”
Alvise, who had been hoping to hear precisely that, untied the rope in the blinking of an eye, and pushed the boat into the middle of the canal. Two strokes later, he was already in the bay, swallowed by the glow of the lagoon.
All that was left for Edgardo was to wait. His hip was aching, so he sat on the steps. A sandolo steered by an old man was approaching the shore, solitary, a little boy at the prow leaning out dangerously over the water, dragging a net. Edgardo wanted to shout at him to be careful but his attention was caught by the loud swish of large waves.
A shadow had suddenly appeared in the slightly blurred and distorted image conveyed by his ailing eyes. Silent, as though weightless, a large, round vessel, painted totally black, was gliding over the water, pushed by two boatmen wearing long, dark tunics.
Astern and on the bow stood two wrought iron crosses, and two ivory skulls of a heavenly whiteness were set in the side of the boat.
In the center, on a catafalque, there was a box, like a coffin, made of green, young wood.
The sandolo with the old man and the child halted, as though bewitched by that mysterious cargo.
Edgardo realized that the vision was penetrating his heart. He didn’t know why. “What are you carrying?” he shouted at one of the boatmen.
The man didn’t even turn around. “It’s the virgin of the beads, the one they found . . . preserved in brine.” He burst into a coarse laugh.
“Our illustrious bishop wants to see her, so he can act all scholarly and decide if it’s a miracle or a big trick.”
A vortex, a chunk of heart torn out of his chest . . . The body of the woman Alvise had found in Metamauco was there in that box, a few steps away from him.
One thought only, an obsession: to see that face and find out if it was Kallis’s body.
Throwing all caution to the wind, as though spellbound, he followed the boat, keeping alongside it for a long stretch, as far as the spot where the canal took a left toward the basilica; there, the fondamenta flanking the convent walls stopped, and he found himself in front of nothing but water. He was blocked.
He considered walking around the convent and waiting for the boat near the palace. He could watch as they unloaded the box. Perhaps he would get an opportunity to see the woman’s body!
He was about to go when, abrupt as the blow of an ax, a thought brought him back to reality.
Merciful God . . . Costanza! He had to go back immediately, before the girl came out of her meeting.
Magdalena had asked him to stay close to her, to protect her, and he had neglected his duties to chase after an illusion.
When he reached the gate of San Zaccaria, he saw that it was bolted. There was no sign of Costanza. Perhaps she was still at her meeting. He hadn’t been away that long. An uncontrollable agitation was growing in his chest, and he couldn’t refrain from knocking.
The same nun who had received them opened the door.
“I beg your pardon, sister, the young lady I accompanied here is still speaking with the Abbess, isn’t she?”
The nun took a step back, almost as though to keep her distance from the question. “No, the meeting is over. I thought the young lady was with you, Signore.”
“With me? No . . . ”
“The abbess dismissed her almost immediately because she had to attend a service, so I accompanied her into the cr
ypt and left her there to pray, alone, as she’d asked me to. When I went back to pick her up shortly afterwards . . . ” the nun hesitated, “the girl wasn’t there anymore. So I thought she might have left on her own, because you were waiting for her. I came to the gate but there was no one outside. So I assumed you left together.”
“No, no . . . I didn’t see her come out.”
“How is that possible?”
“Perhaps she went out through the main gate, toward San Marco?” Confusion and panic were taking hold of Edgardo’s mind.
“Strange. She knew you were waiting for her. Are you sure you haven’t seen her? You’ve been outside the gate all the time, haven’t you?”
There it was, the question he’d been expecting. An abyss opened before him: he was an idiot, unreliable, incapable of completing any responsible task.
“Yes . . . No . . . I walked away only a few steps while waiting . . . ” he stammered.
The nun’s look of contempt went right through his chest. That feeling of alarm Edgardo knew only too well swept over him. The nun kept staring at him, motionless, with almost cruel enjoyment, waiting for an explanation. Then she felt sorry for him. “You’ll see, she probably went straight home when she couldn’t see you.”
“Alone?” The very thought was inconceivable. But it was the only hope.
“Go, I’m sure you’ll find her at home,” the nun said, trying to comfort him.
“May God hear you.” Edgardo bowed and stepped back.
The door closed again and, for the duration of a heartbeat, Edgardo was left stunned and dazed, then he shook himself and, seized by an uncontrollable agitation, broke into a demented run.
Flashes of light, dark corners, splashes of mud, a heavy, threatening sky hanging over his head. A disorganized, desperate run through streets, canals, huts, and bridges, surrounded by a world that seemed about to crash on him, and a blind crowd that couldn’t see his mortal anguish. His bones were aching, and sweat was pouring down his face and into his eyes, making everything transparent.
On many occasions, he thought he saw her: an opaque shape on a swaying bridge; surrounded by toothless crones who were pushing her into a dark cave; abducted by a Saracen slave on a cog transporting hay; dragged by force into a tower by a drunken soldier: images of Costanza generated by his weak mind accustomed to visions and nightmares created by opium. Nothing but ghosts, but expressions of his guilt. There was no sign of Costanza.
He reached Ca’ Grimani exhausted, his veins swollen with blood, his head throbbing.
He saw Nena drawing water from the well.
“Have you seen Costanza? Is she back?” he asked, panting.
She looked at him, astonished, and shook her head. “No, Signore.”
Climbing over sacks of flour, merchandise, and baskets of vegetables, he rushed into the study. Empty. He ran up to the main floor and looked into the salon.
Magdalena was sitting by the window, embroidering a piece of Flanders cloth.
“God bless you, madonna,” he said, trying to control his agitation. “Is your sister Costanza back? Have you seen her?”
She slowly looked up and studied him with that fleeting expression that always seemed to be chasing after a secret thought. “She went to the convent of San Zaccaria with you,” she said.
“Yes, madonna, but then at the exit . . . ” Edgardo stammered a few unintelligible words before adding, “We lost sight of each other.”
Magdalena leaped to her feet. The cloth fell on the floor. Her voice burst out, shrill. “What do you mean? What are you trying to say?”
“I waited for her outside the front door. We agreed she’d come and find me after the meeting with the Abbess.”
“Where is she now?” Magdalena shouted.
Edgardo wished he could vanish. He barely found the strength to reply, “I was hoping to find her here. I haven’t seen her.”
“What are you saying? Are you insane?” Magdalena crossed the salon, stopped, then returned. “Did you ask at the convent?”
“They say she left . . . They thought she was with me.”
“And where were you?” Magdalena screamed, out of her mind.
“I walked away just a few steps, long enough to get some water.” And he was left with a sickly-sweet taste in his mouth, surprised by how easy he’d found it to lie.
“Did you look for her in the surrounding area, along the way back?”
“Yes, but in vain.”
“And where was Alvise?’
“I’d let him go. We’d decided to walk back.”
As though only then becoming aware of the abyss into which she’d fallen, Magdalena let out a scream that echoed throughout the entire building and swept over Edgardo with all its might.
“Tommaso, Tommaso, merciful God, come, come quickly!”
Tommaso came out of the storerooms in the courtyard, accompanied by two porters. He saw his wife leaning over the balustrade, as though looking for something to cling to.
“She’s disappeared . . . they can’t find her . . . Costanza . . . Costanza . . . oh, my God!”
Tommaso rushed upstairs while Nena came out of the kitchen, ready to go up to her mistress. She froze. Next to the well, a grass snake was eating itself. A fatal omen, the diseased breath of the lagoon slithering into the home of her masters.
Tommaso hugged his wife. “How did it happen? That’s impossible.” He glanced at Edgardo, who appeared behind him.
Not waiting for an answer, he immediately gave the order that the whole building be searched, from the loft to the well, even the boats moored along the canal that ran near the fondamenta. Then he asked Edgardo to tell him everything in minute detail.
“I will never forgive myself for this negligence and God will punish me for it. I left for just a few seconds, I can’t understand how this could have happened . . . Please forgive me, Signore.”
Edgardo felt the sense of guilt and the torments that had accompanied him his entire life surface again. So this was his destiny: to be an incompetent, a coward constantly on the run from himself. Tommaso glared at him sternly, then turned to his wife. “We must beat the entire route between here and the convent, and search the narrow canals . . . ”
Magdalena hid her face in her hands. Tommaso realized he’d gone too far.
“We must consider every possibility, even an accident. Today I will go to the convent and ask to see the Abbess. Perhaps she’ll give us more information. We’ll get a better idea of Costanza’s state of mind when she left the meeting.”
Magdalena interrupted him. “What do you mean? What difference can it possibly make to know what my sister’s feelings were at that moment?”
“It’s no secret that the girl was opposed to the idea of going to the Benedictine nuns.”
“That doesn’t mean she would actually consider—Merciful God, I can’t bear even thinking about it.” Magdalena clutched at the hem of her tunic.
Tommaso tried to calm her down. “That’s not what I said. She could have left of her own free will, perhaps with someone’s help. I will report her disappearance to the district gastald today, so they can start their enquiries. We’ll find her, you’ll see.”
Edgardo had been thinking while listening. The way things had played out, anything could have happened to Costanza. The time he was away hadn’t been long, but enough to make a few theories plausible: she could easily have left but only by boat because, otherwise, he would have met her at the end of the fondamenta, or she could have been abducted . . . or an accident . . . Finally, and the very thought made Edgardo’s heart sink, she could have taken her own life to avoid being shut away in a convent. In any case, all these theories came down to the responsibility of just one person: the one who’d been unable to watch over her.
Aware of the load weighing on his shoulders, he went up to Magdalena, head bowed,
like a penitent. “I’m deeply sorry for what’s happened. You know how fond I am of your sister,” he said, raising his head in search of forgiveness, but in Magdalena’s eyes, so full of pain, there was a stretch of ice. “If I have erred, I submit myself to God’s judgement, but as far as human justice is concerned, I swear to you, Signora, there’s nothing I won’t do to bring Costanza back home safe and sound.”
He completed his oath by kneeling before Magdalena and kissing the hem of her dress. Only then did he sense a shudder go through her body and feel her thin, pale hand being laid on his shoulder. An invitation to stand up.
Tommaso nodded, satisfied with this proof of loyalty and honor his retainer was showing.
The scribe raised his crippled body, which had earned him the nickname of ‘Edgardo, the Crooked,’ and left the salon.
A deep, repetitive voice kept echoing in his head: “You must find Costanza, you must find her! You can’t fail again this time!”
VII.
A SILK RIBBON
He woke up oppressed by the bitter aftertaste of opium essence in his throat. Wracked with guilt, he’d once again gone to Sabbatai’s apothecary shop in the middle of the night, in search of relief.
In the pale light of a dawn liquefied by steady rain, the image that had tormented him all night was still floating before his eyes: Costanza’s naked body lying on a bed of yellow leaves, a pained expression on her face, her eyes, full of deep sadness, seemingly imploring his help. Her right hand was lying at her side, while the left was indicating an etching, like an embroidery, on her stomach, a kind of Arabic pattern, beautifully crafted, embossed, with an obscure significance.
He threw himself out of bed to get rid of that vision.
The mansion was still silent. The bells of San Leonardo had only just rung Prime.
A blurred, twisted recollection of what had happened instantly flashed back to him.
Hoping to find some relief, he went out. The pelting rain and cold wind partly dissipated the effect of the opium vapors still clouding his mind. The rain had turned streets and banks into a single soft, sticky marsh. His boots sank in the mire that seemed intent on swallowing him at every step.
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