He wandered aimlessly, although he knew there was only one place where he could find some peace.
He found the front door of the convent of San Zaccaria shut.
Edgardo stared at it in a daze, as though expecting Costanza to appear at any moment, refreshed after a night of restorative sleep.
Why had he come back here? What was he hoping to discover?
He tried to reconstruct all the stages of that ill-fated visit: every move, timing, and precise location. He tried to organize his mind according to a design, as he had read in Aristotle’s Ars Vetus.
If Costanza had left of her own free will and walked, he would certainly have met her, since there were no other exits on the bank of the canal. If, on the other hand, there had been a boat waiting for her, then the perspective altered: she could have taken the opposite direction and disappeared toward the open lagoon, though it was very crowded at that time, or else have gone toward San Lorenzo and slipped inland, into the maze of narrow, ramified canals where it was easy to hide.
Who would draw advantage from abducting a young girl from one of Venice’s most illustrious families?
He remembered the sandolo with the old man and the little boy, but couldn’t see that man as the abductor of a young girl.
Maybe she had left of her own free will with someone’s help. He hadn’t heard anybody scream or cry for help.
He tried to follow a coherent logic but his thoughts seemed to run together like dyes that ended up forming a tub of dirty water.
Along the canal, there were timber huts with thatched and reed roofs, occupied by craftsmen and those who worked in the slipways that had sprung up around the bay of the new shipyard.
He came across a few women sitting on the doorsteps, mending nets while their children amused themselves hunting large rats, then cutting them up and feeding them to the pigs.
He went up to them and asked if, the day before, they had by any chance seen a well-dressed young lady pass by on a boat from San Zaccaria, or if they’d heard any cries for help coming from there.
The women exchanged suspicious glances, in part also owing to the strange appearance of that twisted, tousled creature with that evident bump on his chest, so much so that Edgardo was forced to explain that he was a scribe, and that he was looking for his recently vanished pupil.
One of the women said, “We hear clamoring, screaming, and weeping every day around here . . . all we do here is yell like lunatics—what else are we supposed to do with this wretched life?”
The others laughed and the children joined in, rolling in the mud. Another woman got up and rushed to her door just in time to punch a sow before it entered the hut.
“We know nothing about any missing girls,” another woman said. “We’ve seen nothing.”
Along the shore, at the very end of the fondamenta, right in front of the grassy campo outside the church of San Lorenzo, there was the only brick and Istrian marble building in the midst of timber huts: a two-story patrician home with a large loggia, made even more genteel with phiales, reliefs, and coats of arms.
It occurred to Edgardo that from that loggia one could keep an eye on the entire canal as far as the entrance to San Zaccaria and beyond, all the way to the open lagoon.
“You know that palazzo* at the end of the shore?” he asked the women again. “Do you know who lives there?”
“Nobody,” one of them replied.
“Is it empty?”
“It might as well be.”
Edgardo waited for an explanation that wasn’t coming. “Doesn’t it belong to anyone?” he insisted.
A skinny, toothless old woman who’d kept quiet until now, and who had been concentrating on stroking a rabbit on her lap, made up her mind to satisfy his curiosity. “It was Matteo Mazzolo’s house—a very wealthy merchant, a real gentleman. Then, one of his convoys, poor thing, there was a tempest and he lost everything—ships, merchandise, and even his son. So he had to sell the house to pay off his debts. Then he and all his family—or what was left of it after such misfortunes—went to the Orient.” The old woman stopped speaking and spat on the ground.
“And who bought it?” Edgardo asked.
“Nobody knows. They say it’s a merchant from the Orient but no one ever sees him, might as well be a ghost. We often see a little man around. He goes in and out, opens up and locks up, knocks around, does something or other in there.”
Edgardo looked at them attentively, then, without saying anything, walked toward the entrance to the palazzo. For a reason he couldn’t fathom, the old woman’s story had made him feel anxious.
The front door was bolted, as were the windows on the main floor and the loft. On the front door architrave, wedged in the wall, was a beautiful bas-relief representing Jonah being saved from the stormy sea.
Without any particular motive, he cautiously approached the grating that acted as a vent to the storerooms, and peered inside. In the moldy semi-darkness, at the end of the room, there was a well stifled by a wisteria that was climbing along the internal staircase. The doors were shut, and there was no sign of life.
A cold draft that smelled of hay edged through the gap with a sharp, unattractive-sounding hiss.
An undefined feeling, akin to revulsion, made him take a couple of steps back.
The wide stairs leading down to the canal showed no sign of any recent docking, and the poles and steps were covered in red algae and moss.
Feeling downhearted by his fruitless search, he was about to walk away when he was struck by something glimmering through the dark mass of algae. He bent down but his unreliable sight didn’t allow him to make things out up close. He took the leather case he always carried with him from the bag under his tunic. He opened it with care and delicately lifted out the miracle contraption: a wooden wishbone-shaped device that widened at the tips to contain two very clear pieces of glass: the eye circles that Maestro Segrado had crafted for him, thus giving him once more a reason to live.
It was a true piece of devilry that nobody in Venice owned, and the origin of which Edgardo had kept secret, giving vague replies even to the questions of the Grimani family. Where that device had come from, and how it had come into his possession, nobody knew.
He pulled open the wishbone and placed it against his eyes. The crystal glass, which had the extraordinary power to magnify everything, immediately unveiled the mystery.
They were long, narrow, straw-colored threads of oakum, like those used for making beds for horses. Edgardo picked one up and examined it: they were fresh, not yet rotted by water. That meant they’d fallen there not long ago. He followed the path from the steps to the front gate and noticed others, abandoned here and there, on the way. So somebody had gone into the building carrying stubble. For whom or what? He hadn’t seen any animals or smelled any stables from inside. He stared at one thread of stubble, which, seen through his glasses, had transformed into the memory of sun-kissed fields of wheat. He couldn’t account for why this useless discovery had made such an impact on him. What did it have to do with Costanza’s disappearance?
When he returned to Ca’ Grimani, the house was plunged into an almost unnatural silence, as though all activities had been suspended and its inhabitants had fled in a mad rush to avoid some catastrophe. Magdalena received him in the salon. The layer of ceruse on her face was so thick, it had smoothed away all her features. Only the gold-flecked eye was radiating with a rigidly cruel life force. Nena sat by her side, looking even smaller, crushed by recent events.
Magdalena raised her head slightly and looked at the scribe. She said nothing, asked nothing, but stared at him, waiting.
Edgardo felt deeply uneasy, and wished he could be the bearer of good news. Instead, he had nothing concrete to report. “I asked the people who live by the convent. Nobody saw anything or heard any screams or cries for help,” he murmured.
Ev
en Nena didn’t even deign acknowledge him with a sign. Luckily, Tommaso walked in, filling the room with renewed energy and a semblance of vitality. Magdalena mustered the strength to go and meet him.
“I spoke with the Abbess Contarini, and she sends you her blessing,” Tommaso said, trying to sound reassuring. “She confirmed what the novice had said. After the meeting, Costanza expressed a wish to go pray in the San Zaccaria crypt, and the nun left her there. When she didn’t see her come out, she went to fetch her but she’d disappeared. So she went to the front door, where Edgardo was waiting, and, not seeing him there, assumed they’d gone back home.”
The scribe felt as though a thin, sharp blade had slid in through his ribs: Magdalena’s eyes were upon him.
“I also went to the Dogado*,” Tommaso continued, “and reported what happened to the palace judges. They promised they’d order the gastalds to widen the search to include every district. They’ve assured me that they’ll do all they can. The city is in a state of alert. Young boys and girls go missing more and more frequently. Only a few days ago, a young garzone from Amurianum disappeared. There’s no news of him, it’s as though he’s vanished into thin air.”
“Do you think the two occurrences can be linked?” Magdalena asked, devastated.
“So far, there’s nothing to suggest it. I’m sure we’ll soon have news of Costanza. I trust in God’s mercy.”
Almost as a countercheck that the prayer addressed to Our Lord had been promptly heard, one of the garzoni Tommaso had unleashed to search for the girl burst into the salon, evidently shaken.
“Master, master, we found something!” He stopped in the middle of the room, breathless.
“Speak.”
The young man took something out of the pocket of his breeches. “Here . . . it’s this string.” He held out a shiny, periwinkle-blue silk ribbon.
Magdalena immediately took it from his hand and studied it carefully. She turned it over and smelled it. “Yes, it’s Costanza’s. I’m certain of it. She used it to tie her braid,” she said, excitedly.
Finally, a ray of hope, as though that piece of cloth represented the first step to solving the mystery.
“Where did you find it?” Tommaso asked.
“In the scaula.”
“Which one? Where?”
“Downstairs. The one tied to the steps.”
“Our scaula?” Magdalena said.
“Yes, Signora, ours.”
Hope vanished in a second. Magdalena abruptly turned away, as though to flee from the disappointment.
“It’s the boat we used to take Costanza to San Zaccaria,” Edgardo commented, thinking it made sense. “She could have lost it on the way there.”
As though a realization had suddenly crossed his mind, Tommaso took the ribbon, walked up to Edgardo, and stuck it right up against his nose. “Try to remember: was Costanza wearing this ribbon when she got out of the boat outside the convent?”
It was hard for a clouded mind that tended to confuse dreams with reality to remember, to etch a detail in its memory. Edgardo made an effort. “I can’t say for certain.”
“Think carefully,” Tommaso insisted, “because if Costanza lost the ribbon before leaving the boat, then finding this proves nothing.” He sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes. “If, on the other hand, she was wearing the ribbon when she went into the convent, then she lost it later.” He looked at his wife. “In other words, it means she got into the boat again after the meeting, once she’d left.”
The time for a bell to toll, and Nena grasped where this was leading. She slammed her hand over her mouth to stifle a cry.
That same instant, Magdalena’s hoarse voice boomed across the salon. “Bring Alvise here immediately!”
He was shaking without knowing why. His arms, too long, hung down his hips, his flat face was colorless, his lips pale. Nena was fussing around him, as though to form a loving shield of good intentions. What did her son have to do with Costanza’s disappearance?
Tommaso and Magdalena silently examined the lanky figure that had always been a part of their home, considering for the first time that they were before a being capable of thinking and taking initiative. They felt forced to admit the possibility that even a garzone, and a servant’s son, could have a will of his own, and perhaps evil intentions. Only Edgardo tried to give him some confidence with a helpless smile that Alvise didn’t even notice.
Tommaso went on the offensive. “What did you do after you left Costanza at the convent?”
A stammer. A soft, slimy mouth like the insides of a rotting fish. “As you ordered, I went to the shipyard to give your message to the master carpenter.”
“And then did you come back here?”
“No, Signore, I went fishing for gobies. This gentleman had given me permission.”
“Where did you go?”
“Between Burianum and Torcellus.”
Tommaso pressed him. “Did you meet anyone? Speak to anyone?”
“I didn’t see anybody. Nothing but water, reeds, and sky.”
Slowly, Magdalena approached, almost wrapping him in the net of her grief. “So you didn’t see Costanza again after you left her at the convent?”
“No, Signora, I swear.”
Edgardo looked at the boy, pleased with his answer.
“They found a hair ribbon in your boat.” She waved it before Alvise’s eyes. “It’s Costanza’s. Do you recognize it? Did she have it in her hair when you went to the convent?”
Alvise stared at his mother, lost, looking for an explanation. “I don’t know anything about ribbons . . . ”
Magdalena went and stood behind him. “Tell me the truth, Alvise. Have you ever spoken with Costanza? Perhaps she confided her thoughts, her intentions . . . her suffering . . . ”
“Did she ask you to help her? Did she want to run away?” Tommaso asked.
Alvise opened his eyes wide, confused, unable to make a sound.
“If you saw or heard anything unusual, boy, you’d better speak out,” Edgardo said, trying to encourage him.
“As God is my witness, she never told me anything, and I never saw her after I left her at the convent. The ribbon . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t remember . . . I swear on Saint Mark and the Blessed Virgin Mary, I know nothing about Costanza.”
Magdalena seemed satisfied with his answer, turned to Nena and gave her a nod. What Edgardo couldn’t work out was Tommaso’s attitude: he kept rubbing his eyes, his limbs so tense he looked about to pounce, tormented by a doubt he couldn’t express. His voice was to Nena like a raft on a stormy sea. “Alright, go. Do you know what the punishment is if I find out you’ve lied?”
Alvise lowered his head. Nena grabbed him by the jacket and dragged him out of the room.
VIII.
THE MOON IN PISCES
On the eleventh day before the calends of March, the moon came out of Aquarius and went into Pisces. As agreed, Magister Abella arrived at Ca’ Grimani and Magdalena received her, even though her mind was very troubled and her pain over her sister’s disappearance had dried up all desire in her.
However, she felt she could not neglect her principal duty as a wife: to procreate, notwithstanding grief, notwithstanding suffering, and provide the Grimani family with an heir.
Two nights had passed since that unhappy day, and Costanza seemed to have vanished into thin air. The search had yielded no result, and every hypothesis was still being considered: abduction, escape, accident.
When she arrived at the palazzo, Abella immediately smelled the sickly-sweet, nauseating scent of death reigning over every room. Already during her first visit, she had felt crushed by a thick cloak, a sirocco carrying ghosts and mournful events. Now, if such a thing were possible, the air had become even more unbreathable.
When she was told about what had happened, she suggested postponing
the consultation, but Magdalena asked her to stay. Life had to go on and she couldn’t give in to calamities. Her desire for motherhood was stronger than ever; what God takes away He always makes up for with His mercy. The birth of a new heir was her husband’s principal reason for living. Therefore, every action must be taken to make this possible. Including such an embarrassing exploration.
“I’ve never had this kind of examination,” Magdalena announced, self-conscious.
“I understand and I’m sorry to have to put you through this ordeal. However, it’s essential that I investigate and check the condition of the vital organ, so that I can pronounce a verdict and, consequently, propose a remedy.”
Magdalena clutched at her dress, obviously deeply uneasy.
“Let me reassure you, Signora. It’s not the first time I have conducted this kind of examination. In Salerno, it’s a procedure we use regularly with pregnant women and those who complain of uterine problems.”
“Alright, let’s proceed,” said Magdalena, agreeing.
“Please have a long bench and two tall stools brought here.”
Magdalena called Nena and the order was promptly obeyed.
The bench was placed by the window, and the two stools arranged with a little space between them, then Abella asked her to lie down on the bench and put her legs, spread out, on the two stools. This position allowed the physician to kneel between the patient’s thighs and easily reach the entrance to the collum vaginae.
She pushed back the Flanders cloth dress, then the fine linen undergarment, and finally saw the cleft: in truth, it looked like a rather shabby area, with a faded, poor growth of tufts of hair here and there.
“Now I have to examine the internal organ, but don’t be afraid, my fingers are as gentle as crocus stems and my skin as soft and slippery as the body of an eel. Moreover, I have the terrible habit of biting my nails, a fault much appreciated by my patients.”
“I have total trust in you, Magister Abella, but please hurry, because this is a very uncomfortable position.”
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