Did I say that or just think it?
Agnola pulls away from me and stands. There are so many things about her that please the soul. She tries to see the best in everyone. She tries so hard. And she loves Bianca, which matters more than anything.
She takes a bit of cloth from inside her sleeve and wipes at her eyes. I stand and tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “Can I fix your hair?”
Her head tilts just the slightest. “Thank you.” She walks out the door into the grand hall and heads toward her room.
I catch her by the arm. “Let’s use the mirror here in the hall.”
“But I love my own mirrors.”
“They are beautiful, your silver mirrors. And you keep them polished. But glass is more revealing.”
“Which is what I don’t need.”
“You have your charms, Agnola.”
“Only you see them.”
I shake my head. “Give me a chance to bring them out. Just this once.”
Agnola looks mournfully at me, but nods.
And so I set her on a stool in front of Mirror, Marin’s wedding gift to me. I pull off the white silk that blinds Mirror, and I allow myself to take one deep, quenching look. This is how Marin sees me….Mirror tells that truth. And, thank you, Lord, I am beautiful to him. Marin said it not long ago, on our seventh wedding anniversary, and Mirror repeats it now. I love to hear it inside my head. But I keep Mirror covered so I won’t look in it all the time.
I comb Agnola’s hair and take my time with every little knot. My hands shake, of course. But her hair welcomes me, tremors and all.
“Why are you combing Aunt Agnola’s hair so gently?” Bianca walks past us, already dressed. “You have to dig down to the very bottom to bring out the shine.” She opens a set of doors inward and steps out onto the little balcony. A burst of chilly air comes in. Bianca turns and leans back against the stone railing. At fourteen she’s a promise of loveliness to come. She has rouged her lips blood red. She has no need to tighten the middle of her bodice, for her waist is honey dripping from a spoon. Soon it will be hard to hold off suitors.
“You better put on a hat,” calls Agnola.
“I don’t care what others think,” says Bianca. “Papà chose a woman who had never owned a hat before. And hats really don’t cover anything anyway—everyone can see whether your hair is remarkable or not. Why else would Mamma be fiddling with your hair now, anyway? Hats are a trifle. A stupid convention.”
“I’m thinking of your skin, not your hair. It’ll color if you’re not careful. Autumn sun is still strong.”
“Besides,” I call, “conventions are precisely that, and not all men are as forgiving as your papà.” Marin is the very definition of forgiving. Amen to that.
“Your skin was colored by the sun when Papà fell in love with you,” Bianca mutters. But she comes inside anyway, rubbing her cheeks.
Despite her words, I know she prides herself on her white, white skin. I know keeping it white is her way of paying homage to the mamma I have replaced, the one she remembers less with each day, the one who named her after snow. I’m glad she still misses her mamma. We should all miss our dead mammas, or we lose our past. In my youth, it was only Mamma who kept me from being hopeless.
Agnola gives a little shiver. “Close the doors, would you?”
Bianca closes the doors. She comes to stand beside us and looks at our reflections in Mirror. She touches Agnola’s sleeve. “You’ve been crying.”
Agnola’s lips tremble.
“Little Ribolin has died,” I say. “Call Antonin, please.”
“Oh.” Bianca picks up Agnola’s hand, kisses it, and holds it to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Agnola. He was a good pup.”
The pressure between my eyes mounts again. I must hurry as best I can and finish Agnola’s hair. “Antonin needs to wrap Ribolin in cloth and carry him to the courtyard for us. A good cloth. That wool I picked out last week. Antonin knows where it is.”
Bianca stares at me. “That cloth came from Firenze, at a high price,” she whispers. I give her a withering look. She nods in chagrin. “A very good pup,” she says to Agnola.
Agnola’s crying gets louder.
I flash my eyes at Bianca and silently mouth, Antonin. The girl leaves at a run.
I divide Agnola’s hair into six locks. I twist them and loop them and fix them into swirls with pearl-tipped pins. So long as my hands move slowly, they are competent. Life in Venezia has taught me well when it comes to styling hair. I can give this gift to Agnola, insignificant as it is.
Agnola watches in Mirror. She will never turn heads, but she looks fine. Her eyes show she knows it. We exchange smiles in Mirror, though hers is still watery. The naked gratitude there catches me off guard. Perhaps this is not such a small gift.
At times like this I feel almost ordinary, almost like everyone else. I press my forehead. Go away, pain.
I lay down the shovel and rest on the lip of one of the enormous urns, my breath short. I used to think that the way the Mocenigo family boasts about their garden was pure silliness. How could it have taken me so long to realize a garden in Venezia is special? It’s a labor of love. When I see the Mocenigo mamma and girls, I will praise their garden lavishly. Let us each be proud of something. After all, none of them is anywhere near as fair as me. Marin tells me that because he thinks I need to hear it. But Mirror tells me that, too—Mirror tells me what Marin most believes.
Agnola took up the shovel after I dropped it, and now she stumbles over and rests beside me.
We watch Bianca dig. The girl is hardworking, and strong, for the hole grows deeper. I was once that strong.
All the while Antonin scratches his head and paces. I should have called on Carlo for assistance; he’s the one who does this sort of physical labor. But Antonin’s name popped into my mouth. Too bad. He feels pressure from Marin to watch out for me while Marin travels. “Don’t worry, Antonin. Messer Marin will not fault you. We will tell him we insisted on digging it ourselves. He knows how strongly we can insist.”
Antonin bows with a nervous smile. But I haven’t said anything crazy. Have I? His eyes shouldn’t twitch like that.
We place the wrapped body of Ribolin in the grave, the three of us, working together. He looks tucked away for the night. The eternal night.
“He was a good companion,” says Agnola. She looks at me meaningfully.
“And a quiet, peaceful thinker,” I say. I look at Bianca.
“And he didn’t stink like some dogs do,” says Bianca.
“Silent prayer now,” commands Agnola.
I pray for…what? Dogs have no soul. That’s what the church teaches. So I pray for Marin, for his safety and good health, for his cheer and success. And most of all, for his swift return. He’s traveling in the north country, beyond the mountains, where they speak German on the streets. Marin can manage some German, and once he arrives at a monastery, he’ll be fine, because everyone there speaks Latin.
A library is important; a library is a cornerstone of civilization. This is his duty to self and to the Republic.
That’s what he says, at least.
He travels more than most husbands, and for longer periods. And when he’s home, he asks Bianca to help him in the library more than he asks me.
So I know I am losing him.
I shake my head hard. I will not torture myself with that fear.
Bianca puts her arms around me. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Antonin,” she says, “would you cover him up now?”
“Of course,” Antonin replies.
And so Ribolin disappears. Antonin levels the earth; then he and Bianca go inside. Agnola and I stay.
“Shall we sing?” I ask at last.
Agnola smiles and begins. We sing the songs she has taught me. When I first came, I tried to teach her a song of Mamma’s. She told me that song was beneath my station in life now.
When we finish, we sit in silen
ce.
We stay there for who knows how long, when a vision appears before me. Is it me, in my youth? I hallucinate these days. I blink.
It is Bianca. Of course. I knew that. “Aunt Agnola, you have a visitor.”
“I do?” Agnola tries to look past her, but Bianca moves to block her view.
“I wouldn’t let him step out of the gondola yet, because…” Bianca looks me up and down.
What? Oh, I’m still in my shift! “I’ll get dressed immediately. Then I’ll greet your guest, Agnola.”
“Aunt Agnola can greet him herself. Let me help you dress, Mamma.”
“I don’t need help. But what I would love is to hear that harp. Please. And go tell Lucia La Rotonda to prepare liver and lungs.”
“You and your liver and lungs.”
“They help, Bianca. They can fix anything. They can soothe Agnola’s broken heart. My mamma—”
“Taught you. I know, I know. Liver and lungs are to you what apples are to me.” Bianca goes off to find Lucia La Rotonda.
I go up the rear staircase, pick out my clothes, and spread them on the bed. A visitor. Marin likes us to look fine when visitors come. I put on the pearls he bought me in Murano seven years ago. They are still my favorite gift from him. Well, besides Mirror, of course.
I think about bringing down jewelry for Agnola. But the visitor has undoubtedly entered already. I should have suggested jewelry in the first place. I should have made everyone delay until I had ornamented Agnola properly, with rings and bracelets.
Finally I hear the harp. Good. Bianca is at the other end of the palace.
She cannot see what I do.
What I do is stand at the rear window and look down into the courtyard. The many small, uneven squares of blue-green glass distort my view, and the lead that binds the glass together cuts that view into so many pieces.
But I can still see enough. The man in the courtyard with Agnola is a dwarf. My hand goes to my throat, though the burst of emotion that hits me every time I see a dwarf in a passing gondola is much less powerful now. I no longer expect to happen upon Venerio or Francesco or a grown-up version of Bini or Tonso or Tommaso. None of them ever come to Venezia; they go only to Murano. And how could they recognize me after all these years, especially with me high in a balcony and them on the canal?
I think of Zitta. So far as I know, there are no more dwarf slaves in Venezia, but I have one mirror ready, just in case. I make two at the same time so that I don’t have to touch the quicksilver so often. It soothes me to know one remains.
Up here, I can hear nothing from the courtyard through the glass, of course. What would they have to talk about so energetically?
The man’s hands fly through the air expressively and in such a familiar way that I choke up. How I still miss Mamma. Did that man grow up among tall people or small people? Does he find us strange and funny? Are we monsters?
But he’d never show his feelings, of course. In the land of monsters, you pay homage.
Agnola listens without condescension. A rush of love for her makes me sit a moment on the bed. I rest there till my blood calms again. Agnola was raised with Marin; her mind is as open and free as his and Bianca’s.
Slowly, I dress. Then I walk along the hall to the music room. Between that door and the facade windows is the long glass chest-bench. Hortensia are scattered inside it—big balls of blue flowers. Bianca picked the perfect color.
I close my eyes and listen to my angel.
Agnola and Bianca and I sit on a bench in the courtyard.
“Are they late?” asks Agnola. “I better check that the food is ready.”
“Relax,” says Bianca, getting to her feet. “Lucia La Rotonda prepares too much and then feasts on the leftovers. We all know that. Besides, this is not a meal, just a light refreshment. But I will check on her all the same.” She wags a finger in Agnola’s face. “Solely to soothe you, my dear, but foolish, aunt.”
“I am not a fool.” Agnola straightens her shoulders and watches Bianca leave.
Agnola has been twitting about all day. She’s waiting to meet her new dog, which will be like her new child. “He will love you,” I say.
She clasps my hands.
The noise of the gondola thumping against the loading dock makes Agnola stiffen. She twists a ring round and round her finger. Today she is decked in jewelry.
The gate opens.
“Your guest,” announces Antonin.
Agnola stands. “Show him in.”
In comes Pietro, and in his arms is a small brown-and-white dog. Pietro bows.
Agnola curtsies low.
It’s as though they are at a ball, doing the révérence before a dance. Agnola introduces us. Pietro bows. I curtsy appropriately. Before I straighten, though, he’s already setting the dog on the ground.
“What’s his name?” asks Agnola.
“He comes to ‘cane,’ as any well-trained dog should. But I left the choice of name to you.”
The dog follows his nose around the courtyard. His tail wags fast, which is really quite attractive because of the long fur that puffs like feathers. His dainty pointed nose sniffs at new delights.
“Thank you. I might get to know him a bit before I settle on a name.”
“Names carry weight.”
“They can reveal character. Like my sister-in-law. Dolce is as sweet as her name.”
“And you, Agnola, you are the angel of your name.”
I’m shocked that this servant would refer to Agnola without the title of signora or at least signorina. But it’s true; I live with two angels, a pink one and a white one. I have an image of wings fluttering above me.
Agnola’s cheeks flush. “By bringing me this fine dog,” she says low and steady, “you live up to your name, as my rock.”
Goodness—her rock? “He’s not fuzzy,” I say.
They both look at me as though I’ve rudely interrupted, which is true, I suppose. I point at the dog.
“He’s a spaniel,” Pietro says.
“How old is he?”
“One year.”
“Isn’t that a little old?”
“You are used to living with a mature dog. The introduction of a small puppy into this home would be disruptive.”
Agnola nods. “Pietro trains dogs for all the best ladies.”
“Ah.” Why didn’t she tell me this? We’ve had weeks to discuss it. Did she purposely keep silent about Pietro?
Bianca has been standing at the foot of the stairs and watching. “Pietro is famous these days. That’s why I asked him to come. I went straight to the Contarini palace after…I mean, once we knew we needed another dog.”
A memory stirs. Someone told me Laura Contarini had a dwarf servant. A man of wages—not a slave.
“My friends train the dogs: hunting dogs, guard dogs, work dogs,” says Pietro. “I make the selection of which lapdogs would suit each particular owner in Venezia.
“Hence, my choice for your most charming sister-in-law and this most elegant household. This dog is completely housebroken. He will trot down the stairs on his own and out to the courtyard. If a door is closed, he’ll sit by it and whine until someone opens it for him. He won’t jump up on you. If he wants your attention, he’ll settle at your feet, or”—he looks at Agnola and gives a little laugh—“sometimes even right on your feet. Spaniels are good foot warmers.
“He won’t bark, not this dog. He won’t run underfoot, so there’s no danger of tripping over him. He won’t growl during a meal. He will sit, come, walk at your heels, run on command. If you throw something, he’ll race after it and bring it back. But if you want him to fetch a shoe, for example, you’ll have to train him to know a special word for that pair of shoes.”
“Do you like him, Aunt Agnola?” says Bianca.
Agnola squats and calls, “Cane.” He comes and sits in front of her, alert and quite charming. Agnola touches the side of his muzzle. The dog offers a paw. “Oh, you dear little thing.” She holds
his paw. Then she scoops him up and sits on the bench. “You and your friends have done a fine job training him, Pietro.”
Pietro’s answer is a bow. Then he stands straight and beams.
Lucia La Rotonda comes outside with a tray that holds a jug of watered-down wine, glasses, and a high pile of biscuits made with raisins and pine nuts.
“Thank you,” I say to her. “I’m so grateful you made these now, even though it’s not Carnevale season. My favorite sweets.”
“Mine, too,” says Bianca. “I love your zaleti.” She smiles slyly at Lucia La Rotonda. “Because of your secret ingredient.”
Secret ingredient? And I don’t know it. I feel as though I’ve just lost something. “I love these sweets most because of the yellow color. It reminds me of Gato Zalo, a dear wildcat friend I had when I was a child.”
“A wildcat?” Pietro looks at me with renewed interest. “Some of our dogs would tree a wildcat just as quickly as they’d tree a bear, though most hunting dogs are used for boars.”
Lucia La Rotonda sets the tray on a high table. She goes to pour the wine, but Agnola hands the dog to Pietro and hurries over. “This occasion calls for something a little finer than daily wine.”
Lucia La Rotonda gives a small questioning smile.
“Prosecco,” says Agnola.
Lucia La Rotonda bows her head. “I’ll ask Carlo to fill a jug from the cask.”
“Excellent.” Agnola turns to Pietro with a bright smile. “Natural effervescence.”
“Just talking with you makes me effervescent,” says Pietro.
I step back, agape.
But Agnola simply takes two zaleti and sits on the bench. “Would it be bad for the dog if I gave him a zaleto?”
“Nothing you do for him will ever be bad for him. But if you begin by feeding him sweets, he may quickly expect sweets. Is that what you want?”
Agnola shakes her head, which is odd since she fed sweets nonstop to Ribolin.
“Come, Bianca,” I say. I hold out my hand to her. “Let’s let Pietro show Agnola some of the tricks the dog knows. I want to talk with you.”
Bianca looks at me blank-faced. “We’re supposed to go to a gathering at the Barbaro home. We promised to pick up the Mocenigo mamma and daughters. Did you forget?”
Dark Shimmer Page 12
