by Alex Connor
Chapter Thirty Six
Accompanied by her male servant and with her lawyer, Signor Ferriti walking alongside, Lavinia Gianetti was taken by sedan chair to the ghetto. Heavily veiled, she supported her body with cushions and rapped on the side of the chair when it jerked on uneven ground. The damp weather had affected her hip, pain making her irascible, her servant having to lift her out of her seat when they reached the entrance of the ghetto.
“Non sono uno storpio!” she snapped, poking the tip of her walking stick into the calf of one of her attendants. “I can walk!” Gesturing for her lawyer to approach, Signor Ferriti bowed and extended his arm.
“Thank you, I need to lean a little on you.”
“A pleasure, Contessa,” he replied as Lavinia righted herself and looked around.
The old woman was feisty today, he thought. He had tried to dissuade her, but she had insisted on visiting the ghetto, her mind fixed on a plan of action. One she had yet to share with him.
There was a sudden tug on his arm as they walked.
“Idiota! Slow down, you are here to help me, Ferriti, not to pull me over.”
Slowly, they made their dilatory way under the arch at the entrance to the ghetto. Her face veiled, Lavinia pointed out a man exiting a doorway. A man who had already noticed her and was staring curiously.
“Tell him that I am visiting someone,” Lavinia explained to her bemused lawyer, “and that I wish to call on the Tabat family.”
Ferriti turned back to Hyman Golletz, who had overheard and was ready with his own question. “You are visiting the Tabats?”
“Did he not just say that?” Lavinia retorted impatiently. “Would you be so kind as to point out where they live?”
“You are come to see Ira Tabat?”
“Signor, forgive my candour... ” Ferriti intervened, feeling Lavinia’s grip on his arm tighten. “… but whom the Contessa has come to see is no business of yours.”
“Contessa?” Hyman raised his eyebrows. The nobility coming to the ghetto, unheard of. And to see the Tabats. This was information he would be sharing later. “Contessa,” he said, making a stiff bow, “sadly Ira is not here. He is a doctor –”
“I know, he attended my late son,” she replied, brittle with pain and leaning heavily on her lawyer’s arm. “I am very weary, and would like to sit down.”
“Please, signor, where do the Tabat family live?” Ferriti asked. “If you would direct me.”
But Hyman was not going to be excluded from the event and, at the head of the small party, he lead them towards a narrow house with a warped wooden door at the end of a terrace. With a flourish he moved to lift the knocker, only for Lavinia to push him delicately aside with her walking stick.
“Thank you, signor, we need no further help.” She said, then nodded to her servant. “Knock!”
He did so.
Nothing happened, Hyman Golletz watching from the end of the street and wondering why Contessa Lavinia Gianetti was visiting the shamed girl who was now pregnant. The entire ghetto had been scandalised by the situation, Ira eager to share Marco’s involvement in his sister’s disgrace. His usual reserve was gone; instead he was brittle, scandal making him withdraw from his sister and spend as much time as he could away from the ghetto. Rosella continued to work for Hyman Golletz, but the walk from her home to his and the return journey – although short – was agonising for her. People whispered behind their hands and others turned their backs on her. Adamo Baptista had been hated by many; for one of their own to be associated with him was shameful.
Rosella had only one ally; Angelo Fasculo, her neighbour, encouraged by his mother to discover if Rosella was spying for Baptista. But Angelo realised quickly that she was no spy and although Rosella did not explain her situation it was clear that she had no affection for Adamo Baptista. Her humility and her gratitude for Angelo’s kindness touched him and as the weeks passed his feelings intensified, her disgrace minimised. He even fantasised, in secret, of their eloping, leaving the ghetto and going some place where he could have Rosella as his wife and the child as his own.
But now Angelo was standing at his doorway with Hyman Golletz, watching the unexpected strangers.
“Knock again, more loudly!” Lavinia ordered, the servant repeating the action whilst the damp mist closed in on the narrow street.
Again there was no response, Ferriti stepping forwards and rapping impatiently on the door.
“Ciao? Chi è la?” came a female voice from inside.
“Signora Tabat?”
“Si.”
“Please open the door, you have a visitor.”
“But I am expecting no one.” Rosella replied.
“Tell the girl to let us in!” Lavinia snorted, calling out. “I am the grandmother of Marco Gianetti and I would speak with you.”
A moment passed then the bolt was drawn back, Rosella’s head peering round the door. “Contessa, I am not –”
Pushing her way forward, Lavinia advanced into the shady hall, a narrow window at the far end illuminating a makeshift kitchen.
“Signora Tabat, I am very tired –”
“Forgive me, Contessa, but I did not ask you to come here.” Rosella replied, moving out from behind the door.
Defiantly she stood in the hall, her belly slightly rounded, her face tense. The large dark eyes that Tintoretto had painted were suspicious, her manner confrontational.
“I need a chair.” Lavinia said, “Whatever you think of my grandson, or of myself, it is only courtesy to an old woman to offer her a seat.”
Reluctantly, Rosella lead Lavinia and Ferriti into a small sitting room. Against the wall was the bed where Livia Tabat had died, now empty and sporting a pile of blankets and washed linen. On the window ledge was a menorah and several lighted candles, one spluttering as Rosella pulled out a couple of wooden seats.
“Grazie.” The Countess said, gesturing for Rosella to take the other chair.
“No, I will stand. That seat is for your companion.”
“Signor Ferriti does not need to be seated, but you do – in your condition.” Lavinia replied, impressed by Rosella’s appearance and pugnacity. “I understand your anger —”
“No, Contessa, you do not.”
“— very well, I will rephrase that. I would like to understand your anger. Tintoretto has explained what occurred; how my grandson manoeuvred a situation between yourself and Adamo Baptista...” Rosella said nothing and waited for the old woman to continue. “Naturally when I was told you were with child I thought the child was his —”
“Naturally?” Rosella repeated, “You naturally thought I was a whore? That I would sleep with, and carry the child, of a known thug?”
“Signora Tabat, I spoke without thinking —”
“Your grandson inherited the same failing.”
Ferriti, sensing the animosity between the two women, stepped forwards. “The Contessa finds leaving the palazzo difficult –”
“Marco did not. He found leaving a very simple matter. But then he responded as all cowards do, he ran. Before you ask me, Contessa - because I am sure that is the reason for your visit – no, I have no information as to the whereabouts of your grandson. He has not contacted me or sent word —”
“Perhaps he would if you told him that the child you are carrying is his.” Wrong footed, Rosella stared at her, but said nothing as Lavinia continued. “Tintoretto is very fond of you and it was he who told me what had taken place. I have said nothing to anyone else, but as time goes on and your condition becomes more and more obvious —”
“Quanto? How much?”
The old woman blinked and put up her hand to prevent Ferriti speaking.
“You want me to give you money? A payment to ensure that you will not divulge the parentage of your child?” she glanced at her lawyer before continuing. “Please let me understand what you are proposing, signora. For a sum of money you will protect Marco and allow people to think that you are going to have Adamo Baptista’s child?”
Rosella folded her arms defiantly. “Isn’t that what you came here to offer?”
“If it was, I would ask you to leave now, Contessa.” A voice said as Ira entered, catching them all unawares. He did not look at his sister, but stood facing the unexpected visitor.
“Rosella has been badly used, and it was your grandson who organised it for the amusement of Pietro Aretino. And yet, despite Marco’s guilt and his cowardice, you are bargaining for his honour – “
Lavinia rapped her stick on the floor. “Silenzio! I came here to assure your sister that my grandson will not be absolved of his responsibility.” She replied, regarding Rosella with astonishment. “You thought I would attempt to buy your silence?”
“Is that not how it is done in a situation like this?” Ira interrupted, answering for his sister, his tone bitter. “You do not wish the embarrassment to you family —”
The Contessa looked away from him, her penetrating gaze fixing on Rosella. “I will be honest with you, Signora, you are not what I would have chosen for my grandson. And I doubt, in light of his actions, that Marco would have fulfilled your hopes either, but there is a child involved and so the matter must be rectified.”
“How can it be rectified?” Ira replied. “Rosella is my responsibility —”
“Not entirely.”
“When she decided to keep the child,” Ira continued, his tone icy. “I told her I would support her decision. However difficult it will become, which it will, Rosella will be protected by me.”
“You are not the father of her child.” The Contessa replied, her tone as brittle as his. “It is the father who should be held accountable —”
“My sister is a Jew, Marco is a Catholic, there could be no talk of marriage between them and marriage would be the only way to prevent the child being brought into this world as a bastard.”
Lavinia turned to her lawyer, “Is it possible that Rosella could convert?”
He was about to answer when Rosella interrupted. “I do not want to convert! My religion is important to me.”
“More important than a child’s future?” Lavinia queried. “Be reasonable, you cannot continue as you are, an unmarried woman is viewed harshly —”
“We do not need to be reminded of the shame,” Ira replied, “But I have spoken to the rabbi and I am hoping to arrange a marriage for Rosella in another city where she is not known and where the child’s past will be hidden.”
“How proud you are,” Lavinia said, her tone musing. “And what a burden you place on your sister to fulfil that pride. You do realise that you haven’t look at her once? It is so difficult to look at her?”
He bridled. “Am I suppose to approve of what she has done?”
“Of what they have done.” Lavinia corrected him, looking towards Rosella. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
“At seventeen I was married with a son of four. I had no say in the matter as to whom I would marry, or if I wanted children,” she paused, her gaze piercing as she looked back to Ira. “It is very easy to condemn people for their actions where no emotions are involved. Have you never acted foolishly?”
“My actions are not the issue here.”
“Have you never been in love?” she paused, studying his face. “Ah, I see I have hit a nerve, forgive me. And yet you are not married –”
“She died.”
Lavinia shook her head. “There is so much tragedy in this world, isn’t there? So much loss, and you are now looking at me and thinking ‘Why is this old crone interfering in our affairs? Why is she even still alive? All dried up and bent over,” she smiled wryly. “But you must forgive me, in this situation I have to interfere.”
“No, you do not.”
“Your anger is like a heat coming from you. Such rage comes with great grief.” Lavinia replied, “You are a young man, you will love someone again no matter how deeply you feel the loss now. We are all replaceable.”
“Contessa, your visit –”
She cut him off.
“I have a confession to make; I do not know about love. Like all Venetian wives I was cocooned and expected to be an obedient brood mare. After Jacopo was born, my husband became ill and as he aged his condition worsened, until he was very unstable.” she nodded at Ira. “Yes, Leonardo passed down his illness to Jacopo, my son –”
“And Marco?”
“No, there has never been any sign of emotional disturbance.”
“He is young.”
“Ah, that may be so, but with Jacopo and Leonardo there were early warnings. Intimations in childhood and youth. Believe me, I may well have been distant with my affection, but I have watched my grandson’s health intently.” She sighed, returning to her previous theme. “When my husband died I was left a young widow… Love is no acquaintance of mine. I read of it and hear the songs, but I have no understanding of the passion that can make a woman act foolishly.”
“I accept what I did.” Rosella whispered. “It was madness.”
“‘Do not be afraid; our fate cannot to taken from us; it is a gift.’” Lavinia smiled, quoting Dante. “Do you love my grandson?”
“I care for him, but do I love him? I do not know...” her voice was low, almost as though she didn’t want Ira to hear what she was saying.
“How could she love a man like your grandson?” Ira asked, his tone incredulous. “Love has nothing to do with this.”
“I was not talking to you,” Lavinia retorted, looking back to Rosella. “Do you love Marco?”
“I… I don’t know...”
“Many a marriage has succeeded on less,” Lavinia replied, turning to Ira. “I know little of your sister, but much of you. I believe you a man of integrity and a gifted doctor. You would not be a liability but an asset to our family.”
Uncertain, he asked: “What are you offering, Contessa?”
“A father for Rosella’s child.”
“A marriage?” Ira replied, his tone mocking. “If this some kind of trick –”
“Whatever made you so cynical?”
“Life, Contessa, life made me that way. You come here with your opinions, but you don’t know what we are, where we came from, what struggles we have had. You cannot be expected to. I am respected as a doctor, but locked up at night. My sister, who can sing like an angel, works as a maid in the ghetto. We do not have courtly manners, because we are not of the court. We do not have a gracious home or elegant clothes, because we are not wealthy. You and I, Contessa, inhabit the same city, certainly, but you wear no leash or answer to any curfew bell.”
“You are bitter.”
“I am,” Ira agreed.
“And aggrieved.”
“Yes, that my sister should ruin herself in this way. Marco set a trap for her, but she could have freed herself, instead she rewarded her betrayer –”
Lavinia tilted her head to one side. “I do not think, Ira Tabat, that I have ever met such an angry man. You are unforgiving and cruel.”
“You are right. But I make no excuse for my feelings.”
“And you think yourself an honourable man.” Lavinia replied, shaking her head. “No, you are not. You are judgemental and heartless.” She put up her hands to prevent his interruption. “Hear me out. Marco has acted without honour. He has been foolish and cowardly and must be made to atone for what he has done. Furthermore my grandson has no siblings and I would welcome a man of integrity - like yourself, Ira Tabat – to guide him.”
“I thought I was angry, judgemental and heartless?”
“You are, but you are also a fine doctor and a man who stands by his family. A coward you are not.” She replied, “we must give this child its rightful name –”
“Excuse me,” Stepping forwards, Ferriti looked at the old woman with anxiety. “Perhaps we should discuss this a little more, Contessa? There is no immediacy to the matter –”
“And besides Marco is still missing.” Ira added coldly. “Your plan will fail without your grandson
. There is a chance that he will never return to Venice.”
“Knowing you are waiting for him?” Lavinia countered. “Oh, he will come back. Venice is Marco’s home, now he is lonely, uprooted. His flight will gradually seem less and less like an answer and more like an exile.”
“Men live out their lives in exile.”
She nodded sagely. “This is true. But my grandson is not a man for solitude. Loneliness will drive him home - and the child will keep him here.”
Chapter Thirty Seven
The wind had disturbed the sea, sending foamy waves over the quayside and into St Marks Square. The few people who had been outdoors hurried for shelter, the mist coming down hard with the darkness. It was the 1st November and in the churches Mass was being held to anxious congregations crouched together against the gale gusting outside.
Tita Boldini had not been seen since she had left Caterina’s apartment the day she had been confronted. She disappeared into the mist like vapour, taking all her possessions with her and leaving no trace. Cleared of all charges, Bakita had returned to his duties, always within sight or sound of his mistress, another guard employed to stand watch at the water entrance. From her window on the first floor Caterina could see anyone coming to her door or anyone approaching by boat, and all visitors were to declare their presence before entry. For a whore it was bad business.
She had not seen the Dutchman for several days and was wondering if he, like Tita, had evaporated. But finally he emerged, as solemn as ever, allowed entry to her bedroom and taking the window seat.
“You have been a stranger, Dutchman.”
He nodded, took off his hat and tried to smooth his hair. “I have been kept busy with little free time.” He jerked his head towards the window. “I noticed you have an additional guard.”
“Thanks to you, I have learned to trust Bakita. The other man I hired as an added precaution.”
“Has there been any trouble?”
“What kind of trouble should there be?” Caterina replied, her tone sharp. “Should I expect trouble? I thought that if we obeyed that little thief’s instructions we would be safe.” When he said nothing, she continued. “Forgive me, if I appear to be prying into your past, but I have to know. What happened to your daughter?”
