“Grisly affair,” thought Niccolo, “if the old windbag is telling anything even close to the truth, which is highly unlikely.”
“And when she turns around, Simone sees she’s got the mark of the Jew on her, and being an honest tradesman and a good Christian, he starts backing away from her and makes the sign of the cross.
“But she says, ‘Don’t go. Come to me.’ Oh, and she’s such a pretty little thing, black hair, black eyes. Then, in a real low voice like a devil, she says again, ‘Come to me.’ And she lies down on the floor and pulls up her dress—and she’s got a tail between her legs!”
A collective gasp greets this astonishing revelation.
“And because Simone turns to run, she jumps up like a hell cat, and she was on him, scratching at his eyes and screaming curses in some secret Babylonian witch’s language. And the next thing Simone knows is she’s got her knife and she’s slashing at him with it and he can see there’s blood all over it already. Dried blood caked all over it.
“Now he is in mortal fear for his life, and he runs screaming out of there.” The great bellows of our popular narrator’s lungs, the engines that drove his mighty voice, stopped their heaving for a moment, a dramatic pause before delivering the surprise ending.
“And Simone told me”—here he lowered his great voice to a hoarse, confidential whisper—“Simone told me he coulda sworn she flied off, he saw her fly off, right up into the air.”
In response to this miraculous piece of news, the teller of tales’ curious audience bedeviled him with a hundred questions, hungry for the particulars of his story, and the tale was forced to grow and expand to make room for all the fascinating new details and explanations that this dialogue elicited.
Niccolo shook his head in disbelief and prepared to resume his quest. He entered the borghetto. The streets were narrower here, and it was quiet. He felt as if he had stepped into an underground passage. It was cool and damp.
He followed Giuditta’s directions and, with each turn, as he wound his way into the heart of the ghetto, the streets seemed to contract even further and allow even less light to penetrate. What had she called that street, the Via dei Macellai, the street of the butcher shops? Were these the infamous butcher shops that specialized in plump, Christian babies?
In contrast to the bustle of the Christian Florence he had just left behind, there was nobody here. Absolutely nobody. Niccolo began to lose heart. The far-fetched idea that there might even be a witch on the loose added to his discomfort. There were secrets here, and he was not sure he wanted to find out about them. The houses, even the shops, gave nothing away. They had grim, unforgiving aspects and were all shuttered and closed up tight to the outside world. Where was everyone? And on a Saturday?
He was able to locate Melchisadech’s house without difficulty. There was the bench covered with green cloth, but no Melchisadech. No one at all, anywhere! Niccolo was on the verge of abandoning his quest. He could come back tomorrow when there was more light, with some friends. But no. He had to show some resolve. It was for her. He pulled himself up in front of the door and knocked. It was a timid knock. He waited. Nothing happened. He knew he would have to knock much more aggressively if he was to make himself heard within. But did he want to?
While Niccolo was trying to decide, he noticed a small object attached to the doorframe. It looked like a caterpillar. He moved closer to examine it. It was made of metal and covered with symbols he could not decipher. There were indeed secrets here. Unconsciously, he backed away from the mysterious thing.
Abruptly, he banged on the door, not rapping with his knuckles, but beating solidly with the heel of his hand. She would have expected nothing less. To his surprise, the thumping was enough to push the heavy door slightly ajar. He pushed, and the iron hinges rumbled; the door swung open. Inside, it was even cooler and darker. He called out, but there was no answer. He waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Distinctions began to emerge out of the jumble of dark, suspicious shapes.
A table, but it was overturned. Some heavy cabinets, but they seemed to have been pulled down and their contents scattered. Ledgers and account books lay open on the ground in disarray. Niccolo saw a lamp, but he had nothing with which to light it. In the corner to his right was a mountain of rubble. He edged closer. He squinted. Clogs. Hundreds of clogs. There were deeper mysteries here than he had at first imagined. Hadn’t Michele said something about clogs? And a revolution? Did it have something to do with the Jews? Another conspiracy?
At the opposite end of the room was another door, another invitation to trouble. Niccolo picked his way toward it, through the junk that lay strewn everywhere—wooden bowls, tin cups and plates, dirty clothes, and always more clogs. Was this Melchisadech a moneylender or a junkman? He looked fearfully behind him as he went, as though he expected the street door to slam shut and some demon to hurl itself across the room and drag him down into hell. He pushed at the door, and a crack of dim light appeared around its edges. It led into a courtyard.
Niccolo could make out a bower covered with vines and a stone bench. He walked over to the bench and plopped down, letting some of the tension drain out of him. Such a pleasant spot, a haven behind the drab, forbidding walls that lined these dark streets.
He stiffened when he heard it. Directly behind him. Something moved. He jumped to his feet and whirled around just as a shriek ripped the air. And another. Fear rooted him to the spot. Then the voice. It was harsh, more like the cackle or croak of an angry bird than a human sound. It was coming from behind the bower, but the boy could not discern its source through the thick tangle of vines and grape leaves. The ghastly voice stopped, then started up again, rasping and wheezing. Niccolo could not understand a word.
He swallowed hard. “Who’s there? Show yourself!” he demanded half-heartedly, not really wanting to confront whatever assailant might step out from behind the bower, the owner of that diabolical voice.
“Non mi toccate. Lasciatemi!” “Don’t touch me. Leave me alone!” The voice cackled in something that resembled Florentine, before lapsing into its harsh, unintelligible gibberish again. Niccolo waited, but no one emerged.
Reluctantly, he circled the bower, keeping his distance, giving it a wide berth. Niccolo could make out a dark shape, huddled between the vines and the courtyard wall. The shape moved sporadically, and sporadically the harsh voice continued to issue from it. Niccolo moved closer. The shape shifted position. He could see that it was crowned with long white hair. Another shift, and he caught a glimpse of its face. It was an old woman.
“Dai vecchia.”
“Come on now, mother, I won’t hurt you,” Niccolo approached and offered his hand.
She turned her head away. “Leave me alone. Go away.” In Florentine, for his benefit.
“I was looking for Melchisadech,” Niccolo said, trying to put her at ease and coax her into conversation, but his seemingly innocent query had quite the opposite effect. She screamed and then collapsed in desperate, intense muttering. Was it prayer?
When the torrent of words or imprecations trailed off into silence, Niccolo repeated his request. “Awk,” she squawked. But seeing that it was the only way to rid herself of the pest, she nervously complied: “In his study. Through there.”
Niccolo made his way across the courtyard in the direction indicated. It was certainly a curious household this Melchisadech kept. After tapping discreetly at a small door and receiving no invitation to advance, Niccolo cautiously let himself in.
Melchisadech was lying on a wooden bench, seemingly asleep. At first, Niccolo could not fully appreciate what he was seeing. Melchisadech was bound tightly to the bench with rope. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and there was a gaping wound in his throat. To Niccolo’s infinite horror, the walls of Melchisadech’s study were covered with bloody scrawl. Secret Babylonian witch’s symbols.
“Don’t know,” croaked the old woman. “Don’t know anything.”
“Did you see who did
this to Melchisadech?”
“Awk,” she cackled shaking her disheveled head. “Did what? And what am I supposed to see, boy? I’m blind.”
“Oh.”
Niccolo tried another tack: “They say a witch killed Melchisadech. Did you see a witch? I mean, did you hear a witch? Or feel like there was a witch in the house?”
“What witch? Leave me alone. Or kill me, if you want.” She curled up tighter.
“I don’t want to hurt you, old woman. I came here looking for someone, for Giuditta. Instead, I found . . .” At the mention of the girl’s name, the old woman screamed again.
“What do you know about Giuditta?” she asked, suddenly interested and defensive.
“I was with her yesterday. I met her . . . I . . . We . . . I helped her get back to the city.”
The knot the old woman had tied herself into relaxed a little. She poked a sharp face in Niccolo’s direction. “You must be the odd boy she told me about. Are you the odd boy?”
Some appraisal. “Yes, I’m the odd boy.”
“Then I suppose I can trust you, odd boy.” The old woman let out a long, low sigh. Then, surprisingly loquacious, she launched into her tale: “They came early this morning. We were packing to leave, because when Giuditta told Melchisadech what happened to her father and uncle and brother, Melchisadech said there was no time to waste. Spain, said Melchisadech, Spain, because we have to get far away, because it isn’t safe here anymore.
“Too late,” she moaned pulling at her disheveled hair. “Too late, because as Melchisadech’s servant was packing Melchisadech’s bags and putting them on Melchisadech’s horse, he came in.”
She took a deep breath and continued. “‘Taking a little trip?’ he says, walking right in, not knocking, the leader. And he says, ‘Not leaving town, Melchisadech, are you? Don’t we have some businesssss to discusssss?’”
“What!”
“That’s how he talked, the leader. Like thisssss. And he says, ‘Afraid Melchisadech? Panic Melchisadech?’ And he says, ‘You know what we did yesterday, Melchisadech? We rode out to meet your businesssss partnerssss to discusssss the successsss of your little venture down in Rome. Unfortunately, Melchisadech, your associatessss were uncooperative. We had to teach them a lesssson.’ Then he says, ‘Are you in need of instruction, Melchisadech? Shall we teach you a lesson? Same lesssson?’”
“And then Melchisadech was shouting, because they were beating him. Then they dragged him to the study, and he screamed and screamed. I hid. Then everything was quiet.”
“And Giuditta?”
“Melchisadech warned her. He tried. While they were beating him, he cried out in our language—‘Run, run, the men who killed your father have come for me.’”
“And where was she?”
“Next door. At her own house, getting ready to leave. She was going with us. To Spain.”
“And did she hear him? Did she get away?”
“I don’t know, because the little black demon understood Melchisadech when he shouted out the warning, and he sent men next door to search.”
“The little black demon?”
“The little black demon was with them, with the man who talks like thisssss.” By way of further clarification, she added, “The little black demon is a spy.”
“And the witch?”
“No witch,” she said emphatically. “Just the little black demon.”
Although Niccolo continued to pose his questions, the answers he received did little more than further confound him. Melchisadech was dead. Giuditta was missing, or perhaps was taken by the hissing man and his unlikely henchman, the little black demon, who was also a spy. The lone witness to these events was unable to shed any further light on the subject.
“You can’t stay here, mother,” he said to his informant. “Where will you go?”
“Awk, Spain. Here, help an old woman get up.”
He did so, and, at her request, retrieved a bundle and accompanied her out into the street and around a corner. She tapped on a dark door, which swung open only a crack to admit her. Before disappearing inside, she trained her vacant white eyes on him and spoke with intensity. “Find Giuditta, boy. Tell her to go to Pisa. The ship sails in two days’ time, at dawn. Tell her not to come back here, ever again.” And she was gone.
Despite the uncertainty and misgivings the crone’s revelations had engendered in him, one sure thing had emerged: The roadside murders he had witnessed the day before had been deliberate. And Melchisadech’s murder had been the last act—so far—in a grisly drama—The Lessssson. The murderer knew his victims’ names, he knew their business, and he knew where they lived. There were no bandits or outlaws involved, but people right here in the city, who moved about with apparent impunity.
Now what? Niccolo looked down the street in the direction from which he had come. Nothing. No one. He saw the other bench, the same as Melchisadech’s, covered with green cloth. Her father’s. The dead man’s bench, where he lent his money. So that was Giuditta’s house. He appraised it from a distance. It was the same as all the other houses, giving nothing away.
He approached the special house with caution. He noted that a caterpillar, identical to the one he had just seen, adorned its doorframe. A conspiracy? A secret society?
She couldn’t possibly be here now, could she? He tried the door, and it opened. The lock had been smashed in and broken. He stepped inside and was greeted by the same rubble and litter he had seen at Melchisadech’s, only here an even greater effort had gone into upending tables and chairs, emptying drawers, shredding books and ledgers, eviscerating mattresses, shattering crockery.
He called out feebly, he almost whispered her name, but there was no answer. He crept from room to room, cautiously announcing himself. Nothing, just chaos and disorder and ruination—and clogs, heaps and mountains of clogs. A dead end.
Should he wait? Perhaps she would come back? Then he heard a racket in the street. Someone was indeed coming, and it was not Giuditta, unless she had contrived to arrive in the company of a party of horsemen. He heard men’s voices. The door was thrown open, and Niccolo dived into a hiding place behind some broken furniture, afraid to breathe.
“That oaf, Calandrino, where is he now? He’s supposed to be on guard duty here.”
“Probably asleep, check the garden.” After much hallooing, the oaf Calandrino was, in fact, conjured up, and he appeared, rubbing his eyes, from the direction of the courtyard.
“Aaooow, Calandrin’, what news?” asked one of the newcomers.
“What news?” he repeated in a dull voice.
“Has anyone been here? Has the witch been back?”
“No, no one. No witch.”
“As if you would know. Did you find a nice place to sleep?”
“Bench out back,” he confided yawning. “Right in the sun. Nice and warm.”
Another man entered the house abruptly. From their respectful salutations, it was clear that he was in charge. “Has the little witch come home to roossssst?” the newcomer hissed. “Has little Giuditta come looking to join her father and brother?”
Niccolo’s stomach tightened, and the acid of fear and vomit rose in his throat.
“No one yet, Excellency,” volunteered the oaf. “How much longer do you want us to wait?”
“Not much longer. Simone is on hissss way now with the guardssssss. He told that story about the witch to Captain Oca and everybody else he met between here and the Signoria. The whole city is talking about the little Jewissssh witch now. Before you know it, they’ll be crying for blood. Witch’sss blood. Jewesssss’ blood.”
“And why not? We produce a mutilated body, signssss of a ritual killing, we produce an unimpeachable witnessss who puts the blame on the Jewish witch, and we have a public outcry on our hands. The good people will demand that steps be taken against the Jewess. Stern measuressss will be called for. A few more of Ibrahim’s asssssociatesss might have to be dissssciplined. The smart onessss will leave town, an
d the onessss who stay will be scared to death, and they’ll do as they’re told to do. We’ll be firmly in control of the money-lending businesssss once more, and it will be a long time before these Jewssss think to defy us again. Business isssss businesssss.”
“Ay, but what if the witch isn’t produced?” inquired one of the lieutenants.
“She’ll be produced. Simone knows what she looks like. He’ll go door to door with the guardssss until they find her. We’ll offer a reward.”
“But if she manages to slip away?”
“That’ssss the beauty of my plan, the witch will be produced. If in a day or so, we haven’t found her, the cries for Jewish blood will be so great that some Jewissssh witch or other will be produced. The people are very resourceful on that score. Very capable of locating victimssss. Don’t worry. Some Jewissssh witch or other will be brought to public justice. A public burning. Nothing less will do. The people get something to gawk at, and the Jewssss get a lesson—a lessssson in politicsssss.
“And if we ever get word of this particular witch resurfacing, of little Giuditta, why, she will be dealt with precisely as we dealt with her unfortunate family.” So saying, the hissing man admonished his underlings to be vigilant, then he turned abruptly and walked out.
“Anything to drink?” the oaf inquired when their leader had gone. And the three guardians of order, business, and politics settled down in the front room, from where Niccolo soon heard, “To your health,” “To us,” “In a whale’s ass,” and similar expressions of alcoholic solidarity.
Their drinking proceeded apace, gradually yielding its usual combination of boisterousness and slurred speech. Niccolo saw the possibility of salvation in this development, since, drunk, they would be less likely to detect any movement on his part.
When he judged that an appropriate measure of the inebriant had been consumed, he stole from his hiding place. The front door was out of the question, since the guards were stationed squarely between him and it. The courtyard was his only hope.
Machiavelli: The Novel Page 11
