LADY of VENICE

by Siobhan Daiko

  ‘Please read on,’ I said as calmly as I could.

  ‘Though the Republic ordered the flattening of the foundries, it authorised and encouraged construction outside the city, and by the late thirteenth century, the glassmaking industry was centred in Murano.’

  I nodded, and a distant memory of the elegant chalices used at the Barco came into my mind.

  ‘The glassmakers were soon the island’s most important citizens,’ Auntie continued. ‘By the fourteenth century, glassmakers were allowed to wear swords, enjoyed immunity from prosecution by the Venetian state, and found their daughters married into Venice’s most affluent families.’

  My eyes widened. ‘Immunity from prosecution? How weird!’

  ‘Of course, there was a catch: glassmakers were not allowed to leave. Many craftsmen took this risk, however, and set up glass furnaces in surrounding cities and even as far afield as England and the Netherlands, despite the danger of retaliation from the Council of Ten, who wanted Venice to have exclusivity.’

  My ears pricked. ‘The Council of Ten?’ I’d heard of them before. Was it something I’d read? No. ‘Who were they exactly?’

  ‘The Doge and other members of the Signoria, the ruling class. Highly secretive,’ Auntie said, grimacing.

  The ferry’s engines grumbled into reverse as it drew level with the pier and then shuddered to a halt. After grabbing hold of my bag, I stepped ashore with my aunt.

  ‘Are you certain you don’t want to come with me and visit the glassworks?’ she asked, pulling down her baggy t-shirt over her ample stomach. ‘It won’t take long. We can have some lunch nearby.’

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I’d like to sketch something to turn into a painting when we get home. I’ll stroll around and find a good spot.’

  Auntie cocked her head to one side. ‘How will I know where to find you?’

  ‘Can I see your map?’ She held it out and I felt my eyes being drawn to the wording, “Palazzo da Mula”. The name calls to me. ‘We can meet there,’ I said, pointing. ‘What does your guidebook say about it?’

  Auntie flipped the pages, and then read, ‘The summer residence of the nobility. The frontage features large Gothic windows and Veneto-Byzantine panels from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. One of the few palaces which escaped restructuration of the island in the nineteenth century.’ She peered at her watch. ‘It’s eleven now. Say one o’clock? I’m sure we’ll find a restaurant nearby.’

  ‘See you soon, Auntie,’ I smiled. ‘I’ll sit on the opposite side of the canal, so I can get a good view.’ I pecked her on the cheek, hefted my bag onto my shoulder, and set off. It was good to stretch my legs; we’d left home over three hours ago, driving to the station at Treviso then catching the train to Venice. I lengthened my stride.

  At a newsvendor’s, I purchased my own guidebook and map. After crossing the Longo bridge, I followed the Fondamenta Venier, trusting my sense of recognition would tell me when I’d arrived.

  No such luck, yet the palazzo was obvious for its evident age, and stood out next to the smaller more modern buildings surrounding it. I snapped a couple of photos before sitting on the bank of the canal. I took out my sketchpad, and drew a few perspective lines, getting the basic structure right before starting on the detail.

  The Gothic windows with their pointed arches would be tricky, but not impossible. A light shone in one of them. Good, that will engage the viewer’s eye. My 2B pencil flew across the page, my focus intent. Using a graphite stick, I started shading the high-water mark and then added tone to the stonework.

  A motor-boat chugged past, making the green water slap the edges of the canal, rippling the greyish reflections of the building’s windows. The cinnamon-coloured palace ached with history, and was definitely familiar, except I couldn’t feel Cecilia tugging at my mind. Maybe I’d been wrong about her story continuing here? Dorotea had categorically stated this was where they were due to go with the Queen. A pranzo, luncheon, at her Murano villa for the Marques of Mantova. Disappointment flooded my chest. I gazed around. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, anyway. If I’d gone into one of my trances, I might have fallen into the canal.

  As I carried on with my sketching, I thought about Luca. He’d been such a gentleman last night, and he’d given me a comforting feeling of safety in his company. I screwed up my forehead, torn between wanting more from him and being relieved he so obviously only considered me a “friend”. What the hell did I expect, anyway? I wasn’t his type, judging by the beautiful woman who’d been his ex.

  The sound of sandals flapping on the stone interrupted my thoughts. Auntie was approaching, her face red with sweat. ‘I’ve bought a set of wineglasses,’ she puffed. ‘Can’t wait to show them to you. But let’s have some lunch first. I’m starving.’

  I shoved my pad into my rucksack and levered myself to my feet. At least I’d have a painting I could use for a commission, so the visit here hadn’t been a complete waste of time. And I was looking forward to the opera this evening.

  ‘Let’s go, Auntie,’ I said, looping my arm through hers. ‘I’m hungry too.’

  My aunt had booked us into a hotel in the San Cassiano district right on the Grand Canal. After picking up our overnight bags from the left-luggage counter at the station, we took a water-taxi. ‘It’s not far,’ she said. ‘It won’t cost an arm and a leg.’

  We checked into a luxurious room on the third floor, furnished with antiques, a glass chandelier and velvet curtains. The hair on the back of my neck prickled when Auntie mentioned the building dated from the fourteenth century, but I reminded myself that most of the palaces in this fabulous city were as old, if not older.

  We ate a light meal of mozzarella and tomatoes, ordered from room service, then showered and changed into what Auntie called our “posh frocks”. (Auntie into a flowery ankle-length polyester tent-like garment, and me into a simple short white linen dress nipped in at the waist with a belt, another of my work outfits, which I’d packed in case I might need it.) We sat at the front of the water bus from Rialto, the setting sun gilding the sky, washing the beautiful buildings along the canal in a honey glow.

  ‘Do you know why it’s called the Fenice?’ Auntie said as we disembarked at Santa Maria del Giglio. Clearly expecting no reply, she continued, ‘It means the phoenix, and the theatre was renamed after it had burnt down and was rebuilt.’

  I gave a shudder. ‘Hope it’s fireproof now.’

  ‘Sorry! I didn’t think.’ She patted my arm. ‘I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.’

  I followed her into the theatre, and my jaw dropped— it was so over-the-top. Gold-leaf dripped from the walls, ceilings, lights and mirrors. Ornate, but I loved it. Our seats were in the centre stalls, and we squeezed our way past the disapproving knees of the fellow-occupants of row seventeen. Within minutes, the curtain rose, and I found myself transported to medieval Verona. The Bellini opera (weird how that name kept cropping up) touched me to the core. Juliet being forced into an unwanted marriage. Why had it brought tears to my eyes?

  Auntie went to the restroom during the interval, but I stayed in my seat. I thought about Cecilia. The story of Romeo and Juliet was based on an ancient legend and possibly known to her. How disappointing not to have connected with her this afternoon. It seemed the onus was on Cecilia to connect with me. That put paid to Luca’s theory. I couldn’t be possessing Cecilia; the boot was almost certainly on the other foot...

  Maybe there wouldn’t be any more episodes? I chewed my lip. Could what had happened up to now have been my imagination running away with me?

  All through the final part of the performance, I found my focus wandering away from the opera to settle on Cecilia and Zorzo. If I didn’t find out what had happened between them, I’d be flipping disappointed.

  After the last encore, Auntie and I left the theatre arm in arm to take the water bus back to Rialto and walk to our hotel. ‘I’m exhausted,’ Auntie said when we stepped into our room. ‘Let’s go straight to b
ed.’ She went to clean her teeth and change, then emerged from the bathroom in a voluminous white cotton nightdress, her face slathered in cold cream. ‘Your turn, Fern,’ she said.

  By the time I’d finished getting ready, Auntie was already snoring. How am I going to sleep through that? I rifled through my overnight case and pulled out the book on Caterina Cornaro that my aunt had loaned me. I’d already read the first part of the history, up until when the Queen had been “coerced” into abdicating her throne. Now I read on, absorbing the description of Caterina’s arrival in Venice, where she was met by the Doge in his magnificent state barge, the Bucintoro. ‘As compensation for renouncing the Cyprus throne in favour of Venice,’ I read, ‘the Doge granted her a full and absolute control over the lands of Asolo, where she arrived on October 11, 1489, followed by over 4000 people who flocked there from the surrounding region to greet her.

  ‘Soon Caterina felt the need to own a palace worthy of her reputation: the perfect chosen location to build a “villa di delizie” (a villa of delights) was Altivole, at the foot of Asolo.’ Nothing new there.

  Auntie’s snores settled into a soft rumble and I felt my eyelids drooping. Tiredness seeped through me, and I started thinking about Luca. The attraction was there; no doubt about it. But only on my side. He treated me in the same way he treated Chiara. Like a brother treats his sister. Why did it bother me? I didn’t want to betray Harry. He’d died because of me, and I owed it to him to stay faithful to his memory.

  My eyes brimmed. Harry and I were planning on visiting Auntie when she’d moved to Italy shortly after becoming a published author, but we hadn’t got ‘round to it. Such a lucky lady to have been signed to a major publisher. And how wonderful that a large advance had enabled her to take early retirement from teaching. Auntie’s bodice-ripping romances had a huge following on both sides of the Atlantic, and well deserved too. Her own love-life had been cut short when her husband had run off with his secretary five years ago. She’d sworn off men at that point, saying she preferred the ones she created in her stories to those in real life.

  Am I doing the same thing? Fantasising about a man who died five hundred years ago because the reality of losing Harry is too painful. Is that what all this is about?

  I was drifting, my mind floating, and I could feel a tugging sensation and a longing like I’d never felt before.

  I lie in my bed, too excited to sleep, moving my hands over my body, imagining they are the painter’s warm palms. I touch my breasts and my nipples harden. I trace a line down to my cleft, that secret part of me I’ve never explored before. Why did it throb so much when Zorzo kissed me? I suck in a breath, then cup myself, spreading my fingers so that the one in the middle can slip inside. The tip rubs against a small button of flesh, sending a raw shiver through me. I exhale sharply and touch the spot again.

  Heat spreads through my body. What have I uncovered? Is there some deformity down there? I take my hand away and feel bereft of the sensation. Tenderly I caress the downy hair between my legs. I can’t help myself, I want to discover more.

  Slipping two fingers inside, I search for what I know is called my maidenhead. Could it be that fleshy protuberance? It doesn’t take me long to find the button again, and I hook my fingers around it, applying gentle pressure to see what will happen. It swells under my touch like a tiny man’s “thing”. I didn’t know that women hid such wonder in their folds.

  I feel a rush of intense pleasure and let out a breath. Again, I stroke the button. Again, the joy, rippling under my fingers again and again and again. I release a soft sigh, but it’s over too quickly and I feel bereft once more, my legs weak and my soul empty. Shame rolls through me; pleasuring myself is a sin, of that I am sure.

  I hear a shout. Holy Mary, Signor Zorzo is calling from below my window. ‘Lady Cecilia, come, we mustn’t tarry. You’ll be missed before too long.’

  I lift my fingers to my nose and inhale the citrus scent. There’s a washstand in the corner of the room; I pour water from the jug next to it and rinse my hand.

  The artist has placed a curtained canopy over the centre of his boat, and I sit inside, mask in place, hidden from the world. My hair is loose under my cape; I haven’t had time to dress it. I keep my head down as he hands me ashore, not fully understanding why I’m here.

  In his studio, I see it; and then I do know. This is what I want: the skill to work such magic on canvas. He has painted a picture of himself, holding a lute and leaning his red-coated back against an oak tree, the dark green transcribed into blackish blue in the thickening darkness of approaching night. And he has placed me on the other side of the scene, propped up on my right elbow, my face turned toward him. My hair is caught in the beam of the half-moon, which is only just visible between two dark-grey clouds. There’s a white space opposite the oak tree, and I point to it. ‘What will go there?’

  ‘Our task for this morning.’

  ‘Our task?’ I dare not hope.

  ‘You’ll help me. It is easy enough. I’ll start, and you’ll finish what I’ve started, copying my technique.’

  ‘W… w… what if I make a mistake?’

  ‘That’s the beauty of oil paint. I’ll go over anything that doesn’t please me. And, in the meantime, you’ll learn. Isn’t that why you’re here?’ he says, winking.

  Heat whooshes to my face. ‘You’re insufferable.’

  ‘If I’m insufferable, then I’m afraid I can’t teach you.’ He beams a smile. ‘A pupil must respect her master.’

  ‘Oh, you’re my master now, are you?’ I curtsey then giggle, my disquiet forgotten. The light-hearted banter between us is easier to deal with than the tension last night that made the place between my legs throb.

  He doesn’t respond immediately; he’s mixing his paints. ‘See how thickly I’ve laid the colour on the crown of the oak tree? We must do the same on this side of the canvas,’ he indicates the white space. ‘There’s a copse here, blackish-blue merging into light blackness to reflect the approaching night.’

  Smiling, he spreads the paint with a small knife. ‘You know I was a pupil of Giovanni Bellini. But it was my meeting with the great Leonardo da Vinci that changed the way I view art. His use of the sfumato technique was something I wanted to develop according to my own style.’

  ‘Sfumato? What’s that?’

  ‘Where we blur or soften sharp outlines by subtle and gradual blending, some say feathering, of one tone into another, to create a smoke-like haziness.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I can see how you’ve shown the arrival of the night that way. The painting seems to have a sense of movement about it.’

  The artist takes my hand in his and transfers his brush into it. Holding my wrist with a delicate touch, he guides my hand across the canvas and my heart dances.

  Although it’s he who’s doing the painting, my hand is learning from his. I want this to go on forever. Yet, in no time at all, it seems, he’s telling me we need to depart. ‘The daylight hours are better for this type of work,’ he says. ‘Can you escape from your duties to the Queen tomorrow?’

  Doesn’t he realise she’s a mother hen, and she likes to keep her chicks, as she calls us, close to her? Perhaps I can feign my painful monthlies one more day? ‘I’ll try,’ I say. ‘Call for me at the same time as today.’

  Back in San Cassiano, I creep into my room.

  Maria Santissima, Dorotea is sitting on my mattress, a frown darkening her face. ‘Where have you been?’

  And so, I tell her. What else can I do? She’s caught up in what she calls the romance of my assignation, although she warns me that no good will come of it. She doesn’t understand about art. Dorotea can only think of the pleasures of the flesh. ‘Have you done it with him?’ she asks.

  I smile and do not correct her assumption.

  Let her believe what she likes.

  The Court leaves for Murano, where the Queen will stay until tomorrow. Besides entertaining the Marques, she wants to buy glass. I have a day and a night
ahead of me to spend as I please. Well, not quite as I please for there are servants here who’ll spy on me. Dorotea has told me I should stuff pillows under my bedcovers so that it will seem as if I am sleeping. And that’s what I do when Signor Zorzo calls.

  He takes me by boat again to his studio, where my fingers shake as they hold the brush. How clumsy I am today. He covers my hand with his and my confidence soars. I can feel his breath against my ear, soft and warm. Turning to him, I run the tips of my fingers lightly down his cheek. I suck in a gasp and a quiver travels down to my core.

  He moans, but he does not stop me when I move my hand down his body and encounter his arousal. His eyes hold mine and I feel as if I shall sink into them; liquid gold, they burn with desire. How different he is from Lodovico Gaspare. I don’t like to think of the man from Ferrara and banish him from my mind.

  My painter reaches down and unpins my hair (for today I have dressed it properly). He entwines his hands in my tresses and pulls me against him. ‘Lady Cecilia, you will be the undoing of me.’

  I lift my mouth to his and our lips meet. The softness makes my insides shiver. We stumble to the bed in the corner of the studio and lower ourselves onto it. Our tongues are dancing and my entire body is on fire. ‘Are you sure, dolcezza?’ he asks.

  I nod, the decision made. The step I’m taking will alter the course of my life, yet I can’t envisage any other destiny for myself than to become one with this man.

  ‘You are a horsewoman,’ he says, lifting his lips from mine. ‘Your maidenhead will have been stretched. Even so, I shall enter you slowly, so you do not feel too much pain.’

  For a second, I am perplexed. Our gaze locks and his eyes burn with such love that I know this can’t be wrong. Whatever the church says, we aren’t sinners. There’s no need for us to speak the words. There will be time for that later. He lifts my gown and I let out a small cry as he pushes slowly into me, my sex resisting only momentarily. Simply a twinge and then we rock together, and I’m lost to the exquisiteness of the sensation.