Dark Shimmer

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I’m less nervous than she is, I can see that. “Whatever happens today can’t be harder than what I’m used to. If they make me feel left out, I’ll just think about my mamma. She used to say I was…things that gave me confidence.”

  “Surely you can find confidence in other sources, too.”

  “You’re right. I can think about the fact that I am the master of mirrors, the best there is. In fact, I’m going to make you a mirror.”

  “Mirrors.” Agnola’s brow furrows. “Bianca said that you told her you make mirrors.”

  “I do. And—”

  Agnola puts a finger on my lips. “Don’t. Don’t tell me anything more about what you used to do with mirrors. And don’t speak of making mirrors to anyone else, either. Noblewomen don’t do that kind of work, though we help in so many ways at home. Don’t mention it, ever. Or you’ll ruin everything for us right at the start.”

  “But how do I explain my pink fingers?”

  “You don’t.” Agnola goes back to the drawer and comes out with two pairs of gloves. I’ve never seen white gloves before. “We’ll keep them on all day,” she says, “even inside. Maybe we’ll start a new fashion.” She smiles conspiratorially. “With you, who knows what can happen?”

  I have been slowly dressing all this while. I hope I look the way Agnola wants me to.

  We go out and stand in the grand hall, the pian nobile—the noble floor, where everything important happens and Marin and Agnola receive guests. Marin’s room is across the hall from Agnola’s. I’ve never even peeked in. Agnola and I walk the hall from rear to front. On the left, we pass Bianca’s room; on the right, the sewing room. The facade of the palace is on the Canal Grande. It has five large windows on this floor and on the floor above. The windows are doors that open at the middle and lead to the balcony. The three middle ones offer light into this wonderful hall, while one end window lights Marin’s map room, which is becoming a library, and the other end window lights the music room where Agnola sings and Bianca has just started taking harp lessons. The servants live on the floor above, and there are rooms for additional children and bachelor uncles, if this house should ever hold any of those. The canal cuts through the narrow entrance underneath the pian nobile, where we entered the evening I arrived. There’s a stone foundation on both sides and at the rear. The rear holds the kitchen, and beyond it a gate that leads to the courtyard. The sides of the docking area are lined with storage rooms.

  On Torcello we had the run of ruins that were just as grand as this palace once upon a time, some grander. The furnishings in this home are stupendous, but life here is impoverished, really. To eat a fig, Lucia La Rotonda has to run and buy them at a market. You can’t just search the tree for the one that’s bursting with such sweetness the ants are mad for it, and jam it all juicy into your mouth. Girls and women of the merchant and noble classes stay at home or visit other girls and women in their homes, always attended by servants. They never run or explore or swim or drop into the grasses exhausted and eat a fig.

  So they can’t scare me, these ladies of Venezia, no matter how much Agnola warns me.

  In the music room, Bianca stands at the window munching a sweet biscuit. She sees me and smiles. I rush to her and we hug.

  “You should share my bed,” says Bianca. “Aunt Agnola doesn’t need you like I do.” She says this every morning.

  Agnola enters behind me and runs a caressing hand around Bianca’s ear. “You know your father says no.”

  “But I don’t know why. He won’t answer me.”

  Agnola shrugs. “Maybe you’re old enough to figure it out for yourself.”

  I blink. “I can’t figure it out, and I’m fifteen.”

  “Exactly. You’re fifteen, Dolce. Do you want to be seen as a child, who shares a room with a man’s daughter? Or do you want to be seen as a woman, who shares a room with his sister? How do you think Marin wants to see you?”

  Bianca squeezes my hand, but keeps her eyes on Agnola. “You should have said that sooner, Aunt Agnola.”

  “We’re eating at the Ghisi palace this morning.” Agnola folds her hands across her belly. “Dolce’s finally going to meet a few people.”

  “What’s to become of me?”

  “Antonin is taking you to the Contarinis’. You can play there.”

  “But who will take care of me there? Isn’t the mamma going to the Ghisi palace to meet Princess Dolce?”

  “No. And I already told you, please stop calling her princess.”

  “She is a princess.”

  “Not outside this palace, she isn’t. If you keep it up, Bianca, you’re going to slip and call her princess in front of people and then everyone will have questions that make her look like a liar—they won’t understand. So stop it. Don’t ever call her princess.”

  “Sorry. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. But why isn’t the Contarini mamma going today? She goes to every party.”

  “Your father is one of the most eligible bachelors of Venezia. And Signora Contarini has a passel of daughters, the oldest of which is only a year younger than Dolce. She might block Dolce’s acceptance here. No one wants extra rivals.”

  “Rivals?”

  “For your papà. He’s a catch, don’t you think?”

  “Oh.” Bianca stands tall. She clasps her hands in front of her chest and looks me up and down. “You’re better than the Contarini girls, on the outside and on the inside. Papà knows that.”

  “We have to leave,” says Agnola. “Practice the harp until Antonin comes back for you.”

  “I’m too young for these lessons. That’s what Signora Contarini says.”

  “That’s because she’s judging by her own daughters. You’re smarter.”

  Bianca protrudes her lips in thought for a moment.

  “Find what pleases your ear.” Agnola ushers me out of the room and down to the dock, where Antonin waits with our gondola.

  We climb in and the boat rocks. I sit quickly, thinking that there might be more to this game than I realized. I clutch at Agnola’s skirt. “What if I’m judged poorly?”

  Agnola’s face goes soft and sweet. She links arms with me. “Well…it will matter to Marin, and to you. Because if he marries you and they decide to exclude you, Bianca will be left out. No more playing with the Contarini girls, that’s for sure. But Marin can provide a heavy dowry for her someday. She will definitely marry. Still, but that won’t make up for the years of loneliness as she grows.”

  “Years of loneliness as she grows,” I say. I shiver and stare at Agnola.

  She nods. She names each splendid palace along the canal and tells me about the families within, pausing often so I can repeat their names. Lord, let me learn quickly.

  Agnola has walked me around, introducing me to every group of women and girls. They ask the same questions and I give the same answers.

  “Where are you visiting from?”

  “Not far.”

  “How do you know the Cornaro family?”

  I smile slyly. “Better all the time.”

  “But how did you come to know them in the first place?”

  “We met on the island of the brothers—San Francesco del Deserto.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Retreats don’t lend themselves to conversation.”

  “But, come now, tell us a little about yourself, won’t you? What’s your family name?”

  We had no family names on Torcello. That’s what startled Marin when he introduced me to his household: he realized in that moment that he didn’t know my family name. Agnola has prepared me for this question, of course. “Speaking of the dead saddens me.” Which is true. This question makes Mamma linger in the back of my mind. I miss her more as time passes. How I wish she could know that a man might marry me.

  Questions keep coming, and my answers remain evasive. Before long, the girls and women turn to asking each other questions, as though I’m not there. I can’t blame them. They talk mostly of what they
know about other Venetian families that have no one at this party. Mamma would have called it nothing but gossip. Druda often tried to draw her into talking about the others, but Mamma said our island was too small for that sort of nonsense.

  Venezia is huge, and gossip appears to be a favorite pastime.

  I am standing silent in a small group of women, wondering where Agnola has gone off to, when someone brings up the name Francesca. Suddenly, nearby groups come to join ours and listen.

  “Do you mean the merchant’s daughter?”

  “What other Francesca is on everyone’s lips?”

  “That’s exactly it—on everyone’s lips—you’re so clever.”

  They laugh.

  “How do you know a merchant’s daughter?” I ask.

  They all look at me, startled.

  “Well, we certainly don’t go into shops,” says one.

  “But our brothers do.”

  They laugh again.

  “Oh, don’t look so baffled. Francesca is a loose one. They say she gives kisses.”

  “And more.”

  “My brother Sizzo says she’s so beautiful that she’ll wind up on the arm of a noble.”

  “Or on some other limb.”

  The women laugh. It feels like some sort of ritual.

  “We should have a yellow gown made and sent to her as a gift.”

  “How kind,” I say in surprise.

  They laugh.

  “Silly, yellow is the mark of the courtesan.”

  I just look at them.

  “Of the prostitute,” one whispers. “By law, women who sell themselves have to wear yellow.”

  “Just like Jews. It marks them.”

  I know about Jews. “Gesù was a Jew before he started his own religion.”

  “That was a long time ago. Jews are different now,” says one girl.

  The girl beside her looks askance. “Really, Martina, watch how you talk. My father says Jews bring good business to Venezia and we should all be grateful for them.”

  “Grateful doesn’t mean we have to like them.”

  A smiling girl comes up. “Baicoli!” And everyone follows her out to the table, where piles of oval cookies are surrounded by bowls of fruit floating in water.

  I take a fig in each hand and go back inside to sit by myself on a chest-bench.

  The smiling girl sits down beside me. She takes a big bite of pear, and juice runs down her chin. She must be around eight or nine. Her hair is curled and pinned in place with pearls. “Don’t you like baicoli?”

  “I do. But right now I prefer figs,” I say. “Don’t you like baicoli?”

  “I do. But right now I prefer a pear!” She laughs.

  “Everyone here laughs a lot.”

  “You don’t.”

  I laugh. “You have pear juice all over your dress.”

  “And figs are staining your gloves.”

  I laugh again. “I wish Bianca had come along. Do you know her?”

  “Of course. But little girls weren’t invited.”

  “Aren’t you little?”

  “Yes.” She sits up tall. “But I’m Patrizia Ghisi. This is my palace.”

  I lean back against the wall and let Patrizia talk, opening my eyes to this new world.

  Three days later, Signora Contarini follows me up the stairs from the docking area and into the grand hall. Her two youngest daughters trail behind, with Agnola bringing up the rear. Bianca stands at the top of the stairs and hops from foot to foot in anticipation, calling out happily.

  I press my lips together. I don’t have gloves on! I clutch both sides of my skirt and curl my pink fingers into the cloth.

  My morning at the Ghisi palace didn’t go as well as Agnola had hoped, but she says it will be a gradual process. She says my language is improving rapidly, so I can speak more at the next outing, and everyone will come to accept me. But doubt fills me. I might never understand their ways. And now, here’s Signora Contarini—with a determined look. Yesterday we got the message that she’d be leaving her two youngest with us today.

  The girls run ahead into Bianca’s room.

  “I’ll return in the late afternoon,” says Signora Contarini. Her eyes inspect me.

  I tighten my fingers in my skirts.

  “You better hurry after them, to make sure they don’t get in trouble,” she says to me, jerking her chin toward Bianca’s door.

  Agnola grabs me at the waist from behind, where the signora cannot see. “That’s my task, of course.” She bows her head formally to the signora. “Excuse me, please, Signora Laura. I look forward to spending more time with you soon.” She bows her head to me now, something she hasn’t done since our first meeting. “Excuse me, my lady. I wish you an enjoyable conversation.” And she leaves.

  What a fine performance. I take a breath and turn to the signora. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  She lifts that pointed chin again. “I know you only as Dolce. What is your family name?”

  “Speaking of the dead saddens me.”

  “Come now, surely you have some living family.”

  I lift my eyebrows and shake my head.

  Her hand goes to her mouth.

  “You must be in a hurry,” I say. “Shall I walk you downstairs?”

  “I can afford a moment to talk. A conversation, like Agnola said.”

  I hate it that she calls her Agnola, instead of Signorina Agnola, while Agnola must address her as Signora Laura. A married woman has status, while a spinster does not. I try to look apologetic. “But I cannot afford even a moment, I’m afraid.”

  She blanches.

  I didn’t mean to be rude. “I beg your pardon. It’s just that I mustn’t disappoint the signore. He’s counting on me.”

  “For what?”

  For what indeed? Marin is in his library this morning. But I have no idea what he does in there. He says it’s dirty and dusty. “To work with the books. His library, you know.”

  She pulls back her shoulders as if affronted. “Do you read?”

  I laugh in spite of myself. What an enigma I must be to her. “I have to go help him.”

  “I’ll go with you. I’m happy to give him a little greeting.” She does a poor job of hiding her suspicion. Or maybe she’s not trying. Maybe she’s calling my bluff.

  We walk to the library. What now? I give a quick, firm rap, then open the door. Marin stands at a table, a cloth in one hand, a large book open in front of him. A lock of hair dangles over his brow. My cheeks heat. He looks at me in surprise, then catches sight of Signora Contarini, flashes me a look I can’t interpret, and comes around the table, smiling widely. “Good morning, Signora. You’re looking lovely and well.” He bows, the cloth clasped in both hands now.

  “Good morning, Signore.” Her smile seems genuine. But it falls as she gazes past him. “Look how many books you’ve gathered in the past couple of years.”

  “I’ve been working hard,” says Marin with pride.

  “You’re dismantling the map room.”

  “Hardly. I’m just making accommodations so my new home can serve me best.”

  “Why don’t you convert the sewing room into a library instead?”

  “My sister loves sewing. That’s her realm.”

  Signora Contarini shakes her head. “I know this home well. Your shelves for these massive books are covering paintings of constellations and planets. Why, you don’t even have a wooden celestial globe!”

  “It’s true.” Marin stands taller. “Fortunately, I can visit your home if I need to consult a map of the skies.”

  The signora seems to realize she may have overstepped, for she gives a small smile. “I was hoping to steal your mysterious visitor for a few moments to get to know her a bit. A visitor shouldn’t be all work and no play.”

  Marin looks at me. I look meaningfully at the book on the table, then beg him with my eyes. He looks back at Signora Contarini. “If she dislikes her task so much, I will excuse her from her promise
to aid me.” There’s a touch of annoyance in his voice.

  “I don’t dislike it at all,” I practically yelp. I turn to the signora. “Another time, please? Let me see you to the stairs.”

  The signora’s eyes cloud. Her whole face falls. “That’s quite all right. I know my way. These palaces are in my blood.” She walks out, leaving the door ajar. Her shoes click on the polished floor, then clop on the rougher stairs.

  “Forgive me for interrupting you,” I say to Marin. “And thank you.”

  “It was no problem.”

  My hands go to my hair nervously. I quickly lower them. I don’t want to be this way around him. I want him to see me as I am. That thought makes me pause. How greedy I am: here I have a chance to marry, perhaps, and I want more….I want to be loved truly. “You sounded annoyed.”

  Marin gives a rueful little laugh. “I was. First, all that nonsense about me ruining this place. Then she called you a visitor. Twice. You are, of course. It was unreasonable for me to react like that.” He hands me a clean cloth. “Come stand beside me. Let’s turn our little play into the truth. I’ll work on the top of the page, you work on the bottom. Wipe carefully everywhere. The point is to remove moisture and anything that carries moisture—any bit of mold. The smallest amount can cause a page to crumble. And dirt—a speck of dust is an enemy.”

  I take the cloth and press down.

  His hand instantly catches mine and lifts it. “Gently. This is an old book. Fragile.”

  My hand tingles at his touch. I avoid his eyes, but nod and start over, patting softly. We finish the page and Marin teaches me to blow across the surface to remove anything the cloth missed. It’s important to make a tight circle of my lips so the air is cool and dry, rather than hot and wet. Then we turn the page, holding top and bottom corners and moving it evenly.