The Madman of Venice

by Sophie Masson

  ‘Ha!’ Tartuffo sneered. ‘When I think my son—a good, solid boy—was not good enough for your Sarah! You looked down your long nose at us, Jacob, because we didn’t have your intellectual pretensions and your connections out there! Well, there’s an end to it now!

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  When everyone knows that your daughter is no more than a soldier’s whore, they’ll—’

  ‘Get out!’ whispered Dr Tedeschi. ‘Get out.’

  ‘I’ll go when I’m good and ready,’ said Tartuffo calmly. ‘You are finished here—you, your tartar of a sister, and your whore of a daughter. I came here to give you a chance to prove to me that this story cannot be true. And what do I find? You do not even challenge it. You only insult me. That is proof of a kind too.’

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ said Dr Tedeschi. He was very pale. ‘Does your informer have more to say, or is this the sum total of your charge?’

  ‘That is all I have to say, your honour,’ said Marco rather obsequiously. But his eyes, glittering with a nasty pleasure, belied his regretful words. ‘I am sorry to have been the source of distress to your family.’ He shot another glance at Celia. ‘And I am sorry if I have scandalized your visitor.’

  ‘Shut up, Marco,’ snapped Tartuffo. ‘He’s not worth toadying to, can’t you see? The man’s finished. With this proof, I can go to the rabbi and have them ostracized; and what is more, I can go to the authorities and tell them what has been going on. No decent Jew or Christian wants such scandalous goings-on to be permitted. Jacob, if you think that your daughter’s disgrace will be the end of the matter, you had better think again. You will no longer be welcome in Venice. No one, Jew or Gentile, will come near your practice.’

  Dr Tedeschi stared at him. ‘Why do you hate me so, Solomon?’ he said. ‘What have I done to you, to deserve this?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ snapped Rachel Tedeschi. ‘This man is not worth a single breath of yours.’

  Tartuffo ignored her. ‘Hate you? I don’t hate you. I despise you. You, Doctor ; with your holier-than-thou nose in the air, and your butter-wouldn’t-melt daughter and your spinster dragon of a sister. You are frauds, liars, cheats. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere. You—’

  ‘You are a wicked man,’ said Celia, at last finding her voice. A wild rage boiled in her. ‘You are wicked and stupid and ignorant. How dare you speak in this disgusting way, when you know nothing, nothing, nothing!’

  Dr Tedeschi made a movement towards her, but Celia took no notice. She advanced on Tartuffo with her head high in the air and her eyes on fire. ‘You don’t know what’s been going on and you take the word of a vicious liar’—and she waved at Marco—‘a man who boasts of seducing Jewish girls by the dozen but who is just lying through his teeth. Ask him about the daughter of the moneylender, for instance! You take the word of a predator, of a man who thinks Jews are scum—yes, those were his very words—against one of your own people!’

  ‘How do you know . . . ?’ cried Marco, then thought better of what he’d been about to say.

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  ‘How do I know? Damned out of your own mouth, aren’t you! Well, Marco, I saw you, yesterday, in Cannaregio. I overheard you speaking to an urchin boy and a young foreign gallant. And so I know that he never said anything of the kind to you.’

  Marco stared at her and went very pale. She knew he still hadn’t recognized her, but that he knew the game

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  was up now. He didn’t look wolfish now so much as like a beaten dog. She ignored him and turned back to the merchant. ‘Have you ever, ever had real cause to believe Sarah was anything other than she should be?’

  Tartuffo stared at her. At first he had looked bewildered by her intervention, but now he recovered. ‘She was always stuck-up and looked like she knew a secret the rest of us didn’t. It’s enough to make me suspect there was something else behind that superior manner of hers. And her father let her get away with too much. She was not brought up properly. Why, he even sent her to dancing classes—’

  ‘The very idea!’ Celia sneered.

  ‘And he allowed her to read unsuitable books and think unsuitable thoughts.’ He looked Celia up and down. ‘Besides, I don’t care what creatures like Marco think of us—or creatures like you, come to that. And it may be that he is as you describe . . .’

  ‘But, your honour—’ protested Marco.

  ‘It was he who came to me with his story,’ snapped Tartuffo, ignoring Marco. ‘He said he had heard I had

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  been wronged by these people and that he had information that might be of interest to me.’

  ‘Really?’ said Celia in a cold voice. She plunged on. ‘Is it not convenient indeed? Did you not ask yourself why he should come to you, unasked?’ Without waiting for an answer, she wheeled around on Marco. ‘Were you sent by the Countess Montemoro to make trouble for the Tedeschis with this man?’

  He stared at her. But before he could speak, Tartuffo yelled, ‘The Countess Montemoro! What are you raving about? What do the Montemoros have to do with me?’

  ‘Not with you, signore,’ said Celia bitingly. ‘But with the Tedeschis.’

  ‘No, signorina,’ said Dr Tedeschi urgently.

  But in her rage Celia threw 7 caution to the wind. ‘Listen to me, you fool,’ she hissed, leaning towards Tartuffo. ‘The Countess Montemoro wants to destroy Sarah because the girl knows something. Something really bad. That is why she had to vanish. Her life is in danger. And you are part of that, you blind, ignorant, wicked fool. The Countess is using you to try and flush Sarah out.’

  Tartuffo gazed at her, speechless. His mouth kept opening and closing, but no words came out. But Dr Tedeschi said wearily, ‘Oh, child. You should not have spoken so. You should not have said. We could have borne these other things because we know they are not true. But now—now you have put my poor Sarah into even greater danger.’

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  Celia couldn’t answer. The tide of rage that had swept over her was receding, but its impact still beat in her blood, making her scalp tingle.

  Tartuffo suddenly found his voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re implying, Jacob, but I tell you I want no part of this. None.’

  Dr Tedeschi looked at him. ‘No, Solomon? Don’t you want to join our enemies the Montemoros? Wouldn’t that fit your plan very nicely indeed? Come on, what are you waiting for? Get your fat carcass over to Ca’ Montemoro with your toady and tell them what you’ve heard here. Go on. Do it! Do it!’ His voice rose. ‘The Countess wants to burn my daughter as a witch. A Jewish witch. Isn’t that even juicier than a Jewish whore, Solomon? Come on, you could help to light the fire. And soon, it could be burning down the whole Ghetto, as all the old hatreds are reawoken, and the scum of the city see a chance to take their revenge on the ones they see as the killers of Christ. But you—you would be safe with your new friends the Montemoros, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘If you think I . . .’ The colour had gone out of Tartuffo’s cheeks and he looked grey. ‘If you think I want anything to do with a thing like that, you are even madder than I thought.’ He paused, then shouted, ‘You are a fool, Tedeschi! You can’t even manage your own daughter! You make enemies of one of the most powerful families in Venice! You are crazy! Crazy!’

  ‘And you’re disgusting, Solomon,’ said Dr Tedeschi in

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  a dead sort of voice. ‘You don’t even have the courage of your own hatred. Get out of my sight—and don’t ever come back.’

  And to Celia’s surprise Tartuffo did just that. Without another word, without a look behind him, he waddled out of the house. Marco tried to sidle out behind him, but Celia was too quick for him. She flew to the door and slammed it shut, barring the way.

  ‘Oh, no!’ she yelled. ‘You’re not leaving!’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ hissed Marco and, quick as a flash, he drew his dagger. He came at Celia, but she ducked and swiftly kicked up, connecting hard with his h
and. He yelled with pain, the dagger flew out of his hand, and Celia quickly put her foot on it. She shouted, ‘Dr Tedeschi! Grab him!’

  But it was Rachel who moved first. Picking up a heavy poker that lay against the wall, she advanced on Marco with a determined look in her eyes. Then her brother moved on him from the other side, pinning the informer between them. When Celia picked up the dagger and came towards him too, it was too much for Marco. He fell on his knees. No, not a wolf at all, thought Celia, disgusted. Just a cringing dog .

  ‘Please, your honour,’ he wheedled. ‘I meant no harm. I really didn’t. It’s hard for a poor man to earn a living, you see, and . . . Please, don’t kill me. I’ll promise I’ll say nothing. Nothing at all.’

  ‘No, indeed you won’t,’ said Rachel Tedeschi tightly,

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  and before anyone could react she had brought the poker crashing down on his head. He crumpled and fell to the floor.

  ‘Rachel!’ cried Dr Tedeschi in what sounded like real distress. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. There was no need.’

  ‘Oh, yes, there was,’ said his sister grimly. ‘I saw his hand move. He was going to snatch the dagger back from Celia. The creature’s like a snake and not to be trusted.’

  ‘But you might have killed him!’ Dr Tedeschi was on his knees beside Marco. He felt for his pulse.

  ‘But I see by your face that I haven’t,’ said Rachel calmly. ‘We can’t leave him like this,’ she went on. She seemed to have completely recovered the poise that had so deserted her when Tartuffo had come in. ‘He must not be allowed to get away. We will tie him up and put him safely away. And when he wakes up, we can ask him some questions.’

  ‘But, Rachel, I don’t want to hold him prisoner,’ protested Dr Tedeschi. ‘And the Countess may come looking for him.’

  ‘Let her, if she dares,’ said his sister fiercely. ‘By then, we’ll know what she’s been up to.’

  Dr Tedeschi sighed and gave in to the inevitable. ‘Very well, then.’

  No sooner said than done: Marco was soon securely trussed up and carried into a small room nearby. It was

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  windowless and, when the door was bolted and locked, impossible to escape from.

  Outside the room once more, Dr Tedeschi gave a faint, melancholy smile. ‘My dear Signorina Ashby, you got rather more than you bargained for when you came here to deliver a simple message for your father.’

  Celia looked into his honest, troubled eyes and found she couldn’t lie to him. She said, ‘Actually, it was not my father who sent me, Doctor. It was all my own idea. This is how it happened. . . .’ And she told them, finishing with: ‘And now I’d better get back to my aunt, who—’

  ‘Your aunt is outside?’ cut in Rachel Tedeschi. ‘Then you must go and fetch her. Whatever will she think of us?’

  ‘She’s not outside,’ said Celia hurriedly. ‘She’s in a ribbon shop near the canal—at least, I hope she’s still there, and not setting a hue and cry out for me. . . . Still, she knows me and that I tend to disappear sometimes, so I hope she’ll just be exploring the other shops and not worry about me too much.’ She hesitated, then went on quickly, ‘I’m sorry, but I really must tell you. That story Marco told . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was me—I mean, I was the urchin boy and my friend Ned was the supposed soldier of fortune. He’s not at all, you know—he’s assistant to my father. And my . . . my best friend. The friend of my heart.’ She swallowed as the words of truth came out of her mouth,

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  and she thought: It’s true . He is the friend of my heart . He always has been . But it’s only now I see it clearly . ‘We ... we were just trying to find out some information that would help your daughter. I’m sorry. I never thought it could be twisted like this.’

  There was a little silence; then Dr Tedeschi said, ‘Don’t be sorry, signorina. We understand. And that creature—he might have done more good than he could have dreamed.’

  ‘I don’t understand. . . .’

  Dr Tedeschi’s eyes met his sister’s. It was she who said slowly, ‘You see, my dear, it made us remember something. Someone, that is.’

  ‘Someone who had completely slipped our minds,’ said her brother, ‘because, well, because it seemed unimportant at the time and they were only here the once. We never saw them again.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I could not say so in front of those two, of course. But a few months ago, I did treat a sick soldier. He was very ill, though not with the illness referred to. But he was a lost soul; mad, sick in the head, you understand. He came with two friends: soldiers too. They were younger than him, especially one of them. Well, at least they had been soldiers, I think; they had lately come home from some war or other.’

  ‘I don’t like soldiers,’ said Rachel sharply. ‘Rough, violent men. The less we see of them here, the better. I said to you then you shouldn’t deal with them.’

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  ‘The man was in pain; he was raving. I could hardly leave even a dog like that,’ said Dr Tedeschi gently. ‘His friends explained they’d tried to help him, but could not. They behaved decently while they were here.’

  ‘Did Sarah . . . did she see them?’

  ‘She came in, once, to bring me some medicines. She did not speak to them. One of the soldiers made a remark to her, but she didn’t answer. He talked a little to me—inconsequential things. His other friend, however— the youngest one—said nothing at all.’

  ‘What happened to the patient?’

  ‘There is little you can do for such a condition, for it cannot be cured,’ sighed the doctor. ‘It comes and goes with the moon. But I was able to calm him, give him a sleeping draught, let him rest here for an hour or two. One of his friends—the one who didn’t talk—stayed at his bedside, while his comrade went out and came back later.’

  ‘Could Sarah . . . could she have talked to him then?’

  There was silence. Then Dr Tedeschi said simply, ‘I don’t know.’ He went on, ‘But they left as soon as the patient was awake. He was a little better then. I remember how gentle that comrade of his was with him, how he helped him to the door, supported him. The other did so too, but out of a sense of duty, you felt— not friendship. Or perhaps because he was in awe of the other man—the silent one, I mean.’

  ‘Who were they, Dr Tedeschi?’

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  ‘They left no names. They were wary men, you see.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t even know what regiment they may have been in. I know little of such things. And there are many ex-soldiers wandering around, as I’m sure you’ve seen. They do not find it always easy to get other work when they come home.’

  ‘Well, at least they paid on the nail,’ said Rachel Tedeschi tartly. ‘Soldiers are often lacking in money, but these paid up without a quibble.’

  ‘That was the only time the silent man spoke,’ said Dr Tedeschi. ‘He thanked me, said I had done a great kindness for his poor friend, and that he would never forget it.’

  ‘Did Sarah hear that?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure she did. She was at the door with me. It may well have stayed in her mind. But then there’s the other thing that Marco’s lie made me remember. That poor madman was, I believe, of your own nationality— or at least could speak some English. In his delirium, he shouted, in that tongue: “Help me, help me, find her. ...” He also called on a woman’s name.’

  Celia stared at him as a memory jolted her. ‘Do you remember what the woman’s name was, Dr Tedeschi?’

  He frowned. ‘Was it Sylvia? Bella, perhaps. No. No. I remember now. It was Beatrice. That’s right. Beatrice. I know because it reminded me of the poet Dante and his love for his Beatrice, and I—’

  She interrupted him. ‘Oh, Dr Tedeschi, I think I know who you’re talking about!’

  The doctor looked puzzled. ‘Beatrice? You know this Beatrice?’

  ‘No, no. The madman! Ned saw him, the first day we arrived in Venice. He
spoke to him. I saw him too, yesterday, but only in passing. . . . But I’m going to run and fetch Ned, right now. Please, wait for me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘And what of your poor aunt, waiting and waiting?’ cried Rachel Tedeschi, but she was speaking to thin air. Celia had already gone.

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  A SURPRISE

  INed was feeling very fed up. Nothing had happened for the last hour or two. It was deadly boring. He glanced at the quiet house. Perhaps he should try and get in there before nightfall after all. They might well use the darkness—to move Master Ashby, or whatever. Or whatever . . . He shivered. If they hadn’t got anything out of the old philosopher, then what would they do? They might well just think he’d outlived his usefulness, and . . .

  No. He couldn’t wait. He must get in. He looked

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  around. The street was deserted and so was the one on the other side of the bridge. In fact, fewer than ten people had passed over the bridge since he’d been waiting there. This was obviously not a busy part of town.

  Drawing his cloak tightly around him, pushing his hat well down over his eyes, Ned crept out of his hiding place. He climbed onto the bridge and looked around. Nothing. He walked casually over to the corner, reaching the house without incident.

  The ground-floor window was barred, of course, but it had a stone sill and a stone lintel. I can climb up from the sill onto the lintel Ned thought. I can reach the sill of that first-floor window—which is also shut—and from there leap sideways to the balcony.

  He looked around. No one. Cautiously, he approached the window. He looked around. The coast was clear. He climbed onto the windowsill. Now or never. He reached up for the lintel. He could just about touch it. He leaped up, got ahold of the lintel, and managed to haul himself up. He did not dare to look behind him now. If someone caught him at it, he wouldn’t be able to explain. He must just pray for the best.