by Alex Connor
He sat down in the seat next to hers in front of the fire.
“A little would be good. Thank you.”
“You sound morose, Dutchman,” she teased him.
“I would have thought to find you the same.” He replied, “That is why I came here today, to talk to you about this business with your guard.”
Caterina clicked her fingers in a gesture of annoyance. “Bakita attacked Tita. If she hadn’t have got away from him God knows what might have happened. The poor girl was shaken, she didn’t stop crying for an hour. And he denied it!” she said incredulously. “Can you imagine? With scratches all over his face and poor Tita with her chemise ripped —”
“You are wrong.”
She blinked, confused, then waved aside the maid who had brought in the cognac on a tray. When they were alone again, Caterina turned to her visitor,
“I am wrong?” she repeated, pouring two glasses and handing one to der Witt. “But I have seen the evidence with my own eyes.”
“No, you have seen the evidence you were supposed to see, and you have drawn the conclusion you were supposed to draw.” Der Witt paused, sipped the cognac and felt the warmth flood his gut. “Tell me, Caterina, did Bakita ever – by a look or a word – make you feel threatened?”
“No…”
“Did any of the your girls complain about his behaviour?”
“They teased him for being shy!” She sipped at her drink. “But that does not mean anything —”
“Did they complain about him?”
“No.”
“And although Bakita went with you everywhere, he never did anything to displease you, did he?...”
“No, he didn’t.” she agreed, “but that does not absolve him of guilt.”
“...and the only time he allegedly did anything wrong was the one night you did not require his services?”
She nodded, but was unconvinced. “He could have been waiting for when I was absent and then took his chance.”
The Dutchman shook his head. “Then let me ask you something else, Caterina. Did Bakita show any particular interest in Tita Boldini?”
She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t.”
“In fact, he avoided her, didn’t he?”
Caterina drained her cognac before replying. “Perhaps he did avoid her...”
“He did, I saw him. I also noticed that if Tita Boldini approached him, or passed by him, he would avert his eyes and step away from her.”
“Shyness makes men act strangely at times.”
“It wasn’t shyness,” der Witt replied, “your guard was afraid of her. He always has been. Surely you noticed, Caterina? He would never look at her directly —”
“This is not proof of anything! But the scratches are proof —”
“Proof of what?” The Dutchman took hold of her hand and examined the nails. “You could reproduce the scratches on Bakita or on Tita Boldini. Any woman could inflict those injuries to make it look as though they were done in self defence. Any woman could rip her clothes and say she was attacked... Has Tita Boldini any scratches, any bruises?”
Caterina frowned. “No… no, nothing.”
“Bakita is a big man, if he had attacked her she would have some injury on her body. Yet she has none. She is lying, I do not believe that your guard harmed her in any way. It was a lie.”
“But why would she do that?”
“She wanted to have you to herself, to have power —”
Caterina shook her head. “The girl is a whore, like the rest of us - what power could she wield over me?”
“You are not thinking clearly.” Der Witt replied, “Bakita is your guard, the person who keeps you safe. You brought him here because you were afraid, remember? You told me how much safer you felt with him in the house and how much it pleased you that he remained outside your door, day and night, even sleeping on a bench there.”
“That’s true, I was reassured by his presence.”
“Naturally. The death of Gabriella, and Marina Castilano’s visits, had terrified you. You forget how you were, Caterina, but I don’t. You could not sleep, could not stop thinking of what Gabriella had told you – and her murder.” He paused before continuing. “Then Bakita came here as your guard, shortly after you had taken on Tita Boldini...”
She was listening intently. “Go on.”
“How did she react to his arrival?”
“She was dismissive.”
“Cruel?”
“At first she would taunt him, yes. I heard her a couple of times mocking him for his uniform. She said that in France only a eunuch would wear such silliness. I admonished her for it and told her to —”
“To what?”
“Apologise.”
Der Witt grimaced. “My dearest Caterina, even a whore would resist apologising to a slave. I imagine the animosity she felt for Bakita intensified then.”
“I still don’t understand why Tita would want to get rid of him. We are women, we need each other for support and company, she should have been pleased to have a man guarding us.”
Der Witt clicked his tongue.
“How do you survive in this city, Caterina?” he asked, irritated. “So clever between the sheets, so naïve with people. Tita Boldini has presented one face to you and you have taken it for reality. Whereas I have seen her other face. I have seen who she really is ...”
The Dutchman paused, listening, then quickly rose to his feet and opened the door. Tita had been eavesdropping, and although at first startled, soon recovered her composure.
“I apologise, Caterina, I did not know you had a guest.”
“Tita, what a surprise.” Der Witt studied the girl. “Do you need any treatment for your injuries after the brutal attack on your person?”
Her gaze held his. “You are very kind, but no, thank you.”
“Bakita has been taken to the new prison, did you know?”
She glanced over to Caterina, then looked back at der Witt. “What of it?”
“Earlier today I visited him. He had a story to tell. One which bore no resemblance to yours, Signora Boldini. In fact, Bakita told me that he had caught you in your mistress’s bedroom whilst she was out —”
“Is this true?” Caterina asked, getting to her feet and facing Tita.
“ – and that you were stealing.”
“You little whore!” Caterina snapped, lunching towards the younger woman.
But Tita ducked behind the Dutchman and held her ground. “How could you believe that slave over me? It’s not true! He’s lying! Everything Bakita said is a lie! I wasn’t even in your bedroom. He’s jealous, he wants you to himself. He told me so. And the only way he could do that was to get rid of me.” Her voice wavered. “Bakita attacked me and I defended myself. How could you even suggest that I would make up such a story?”
“Perhaps it was not your story at all, Tita,” the Dutchman replied, “Perhaps you merely performed this fiasco on the orders of someone else —”
“What are you talking about!”
“— there are many spies in this city, many informants. It is often difficult to know who is in whose pocket. Villains work for their paymasters but their allegiance changes like the wind outside.” His voice hardened. “I saw you, Tita.”
She hesitated before answering.
“I told you, Marina Castilano asked me to look after her shop.”
“What has Marina Castilano got to do with any of this?” Caterina asked dumbfounded, der Witt silencing her and turning back to the girl.
“I’m not talking about our ‘meeting’ at the shop. I’m talking about your meeting with Adamo Baptista.”
Defiant, she threw back her head. “What of it? He hired me. I’m a whore and he paid me for my time.”
“You were arguing, not having sex.”
“Perhaps you’re too old to remember passion.” She replied slyly.
“Are you working for him?”
“He fucks me
!”
“Apart from that. Are you spying for Adamo Baptista? Is that why you came to work here, to spy on Caterina Zucca?”
She sighed, putting her hands on her hips. “This is insanity. Folie!”
“Adamo Baptista lived in Paris for while, didn’t he?”
“How would I know?”
“Because he used to frequent Madame Dinette’s whorehouse and that was where you two became acquainted. You were one of Dinette’s whores.” Der Witt glanced over to Caterina, “You have a cuckoo in your nest, a very dangerous one, who wants to isolate you and will do everything in her power to make that happen.”
Caterina stared at him, baffled. “But why?”
“I think she’s been hired to do so.” He glanced over to Tita. “What is your purpose here?”
“I’ve told you, old man, Adamo Baptista is just a customer —”
Impatient, Der Witt turned back to Caterina. “Where do you keep your jewellery?”
“In my dressing table.”
“You have a key?”
“Naturally,” she replied, moving into another room and returning a moment later with a key. “Here you are.”
“Is this the only key?”
“Yes.”
“And is it always hidden?”
“Always.”
“But someone could search and find it, couldn’t they? Someone with access to the house, someone free to look around when you aren’t here.”
Tita interrupted them. “Why would you immediately think that it was me who took the key! Bakita must have stolen it when he tried to steal your ruby bracelet —”
Der Witt sighed. “Why would this woman know about a ruby bracelet” he asked Caterina, “... if she hadn’t been the one stealing it?”
Wrong footed, Tita started to bluster. “Everyone knows you had that bracelet!”
“No, they didn’t. I was given that piece just before I went out.” Caterina replied coldly. “In fact, I was going to wear it, but decided not to and locked it in the middle drawer of my dressing table. Where only we knew about it...You lying bitch!” she hissed at the girl, hurrying over to the drawer and then looking back to der Witt, her voice relieved. “The bracelet’s still here.”
He nodded. “I know. Bakita said Tita had dropped it when he confronted her. When she ran off he put it back in the drawer. Meanwhile she had alerted the coachman and he came up here, armed, to challenge Bakita —”
“Lies!”
“No, Tita. You knew that by charging him with assault he would be put in gaol, most likely shipped out of Venice. You got rid of him to protect yourself.”
“I could report you to the authorities,” Caterina said, her voice icy. “I could have you flogged —”
Hesitant, Tita looked at der Witt and then turned to Caterina. Her uncertainty had gone, replaced by a chilling poise.
“You could have me flogged? I could do a lot worse to you,” she said unpleasantly. “You do well to be afraid, Signora Zucca, you are not safe, and never will be again.”
Unnerved, Caterina took a moment to answer. “What are you talking about?”
“The Wolves of Venice. Sound familiar to you, Caterina? And to you, der Witt?” Tita asked.
Cautious. the Dutchman nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard the phrase before. But I don’t know what it meant. I wondered if it was just a sobriquet for the vagabonds in Venice, or if it referred to anyone in particular.”
“You think yourself so clever, don’t you?”
“On the contrary, I am floundering.” He admitted. “Then remain that way,” she replied, moving towards the door. “I’m leaving now. Both of you stay where you are, and let me go. If you do not, Dutchman, I will personally see to it that the Inquisition know of the abortions you perform and the black magic —”
“Rumours, nothing more.”
“Like the rumour concerning your daughter’s death?”
He flinched, Caterina staring at Tita. “What rumour?”
“Ask der Witt what I mean - when you’re next fucking him.” She paused, opening the door. “I tried to warn you, Dutchman, but you wouldn’t listen. And as for you, Caterina, I would keep very quiet about Gabriella Russo. Forget everything she said, everything she so unwisely confided in you. She had a bad death, one you would not wish to suffer yourself —”
Der Witt moved towards her, but she put up her hands.
“No further, or I will keep good my threat. The Wolves of Venice are real. All four of them. You have no power against them, no protection —”
“You think you can frighten anyone with fairytales?” der Witt said, his tone dismissive. “Stories to scare children, nothing more.”
She shook her head, pointing to the window. “You see the mist outside? How it gets into everything, unseen and unheard? How it moves where it wishes and hides wherever – and whatever - it chooses?” She paused, glancing at the Dutchman. “As you well know, Marina Castilano was afraid. So afraid that she has now left Venice.”
“And why were you in her shop?” der Witt asked.
“I am looking after the premises.”
“No,” he said flatly, “you were searching them. Did you find it?”
“Find what?”
“Whatever you were searching for.” Der Witt replied, “The shoes perhaps?” he said, moving towards her. “They aren’t there, I’ve looked. Did you steal them, then return them later? It would have been easy for you, being a clever thief. Did you do it on someone’s orders? To scare away the woman who owned the shop and leave the place empty and available to search?”
She sighed extravagantly. “You are old, and your mind is wandering.”
“No, Gabriella worked there and she was afraid - just as Marina Castilano was.”
“I wonder if she has returned safely to Spain...” Tita replied coolly. “... Or maybe her trip was interrupted.”
“Dear God —”
She smiled at Caterina, her tone harsh. “God will not help you, but I can - if you listen to me. Say nothing. Do nothing. Remember nothing. And forget everything that has passed here tonight.”
Caterina glanced at der Witt and then looked back to Tita Boldini. “And if we don’t?”
“If you do not follow my instructions it would be a pity, and you may find yourself following in Marina Castilano’s footsteps.”
I had moved from Sicily to Naples, then on to Rome.
The Gianetti name – and the fortune that was mine for the claiming – was enough to grant me entry into the most affluent and influential of circles. A fugitive I was not; I ran only from myself. And I wondered daily what had happened back in Venice. If Rosella had been seduced by Adamo Baptista, or if she had managed her escape.
It would not have been possible, I knew that, however much I lied to myself. Aretino wanted his sport and would not have been denied his trophy. At times I convinced myself that it was not just my fault, that it was due, in part, to Ira’s hatred of the writer; he had insulted him and Aretino would never forget a slight. But in reality I knew his ploy had been a three pronged attack; to revenge himself on Ira, corrupt me, and dishonour Rosella. How better to punish Ira than by smearing his sister’s reputation. Reputation was all in Venice, in any Italian city, her association with Baptista – however innocent - would have dishonoured her and severely lessened her marital chances.
Would Angelo Fasculo still drop flowers outside her door? Would the badly written notes with the fingerprint smudges on them still slide under the Tabat entry? Or had the flowers died on the step and the paper withered, blown away by a push of wind? Did Rosella attend the synagogue with Ira, or speak in private to her rabbi? She had always been devout, was she still? And did she sit for Tintoretto and perhaps, once in a while, did they talk of me?
They should have cursed me, but their hatred would have been nothing to my self loathing. My cowardice bewildered me, my stupidity unbelievable. Such had been my devotion to Aretino I had betrayed my friends and failed to attend the funeral of my ow
n father. Truly I can say that not one day passed without a sickening regret, without seeing myself as the writer’s puppet, played to perfection by a master’s hand.
“Hide it, quick, quick,” Rosella had commanded me once in the studio, and I had bundled up Tintoretto’s smock and hidden under his portfolio.
We watched like children as he roared and cursed, tipping over a small table and declaring that he would dismiss me and never paint Rosella again... Looking back, I believe he was entering into the game with us, as willing to be duped as we were to dupe. Then later I would walk Rosella home and she would stare at the courtesans in their extravagant gowns, believing that I did not notice her envy.
But what was I but envious?
Even with my gilded name, the Gianetti fortune and the ridiculous, absurd, frigidly glorious legacy, what was I but envious of others’ influence and power? And hadn’t I proved the depth of my envy by betraying those I loved in return for the favour of a charlatan?
I make no excuses for what I did, there are no excuses, and I swore I would make amends. But it took two weeks for me to find the courage. Finally I went to see Rosella, but she would not open the door to me. I waited outside, but she never left the house that night, or the next. At dawn on the third day, I returned, seeing her make her way to the market. Her eyes were swollen from crying and I ached – ached – with remorse. I called her name and she ignored me, and Hyman Golletz saw us, looking down as he turned away.
Only the previous week he had invited me to his home to eat with his family but in the ghetto everyone saw and knew everything. And he had known – even hours after the event – that Rosella Tabat had been out walking with Adamo Baptista. And before long he would know that I had plotted the whole wretched scenario.
“What do you want?” Rosella asked finally, turning to me. “Do you want to know what happened with Adamo Baptista?” her voice wavered, “What did you want to happen, Marco?”
“I didn’t mean –”
“‘Mean what!’” she hurled back. “Why did you trick me? Why would you do that?”
“I did not think –”
“No, you did not.” She agreed, her tone bitter. “You would you do anything to please Aretino and his ilk. You are no better than a pack of dogs.”
