by Alex Connor
“Why do you ask?”
“Why do I ask?” she repeated, “because the whore threw a mention of her at you and you flinched as though you had been struck. ‘Ask the Dutchman about it.’ Those were her words. Oh, of course she did add ‘when you next fuck him’ but at the moment that is not likely.” Caterina took a seat, folding her arms as she stared at him. “I thought we were friends —”
“We are friends.”
“ – friends should trust each other.”
“My daughter was murdered.”
Shocked, Caterina unfolded her arms, one hand extended to touch him. “Murdered?”
“Murdered and mutilated, just as Gabriella Russo was.” He looked up, flesh slack under his eyes, the frown lines deepened. “Now do you realise why I did not tell you?”
“So what was the rumour that little whore spoke of?”
“Word was that I had killed my own daughter.” Der Witt shook his head. “I could never have hurt her, and never, never cut up her body.”
Caterina could see him trembling. A big, heavily built man, shaking like an aspen. “Did they find her killer?”
“No. And soon after she was murdered I left The Hague. I had some information from a source I trusted that I might find her killer in Paris.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. But there was another girl killed just before I left Paris for Rome…” he looked her directly in her eyes. “It had nothing to do with me.”
“I know you are not capable of such things.”
“You may know it, but others thought me perfectly capable. Look at my reputation. I’m an abortionist – but I make made no excuse for that - the women I helped needed me. Some were rape victims, wives of brutal husbands, girls who had been seduced and abandoned.” He shrugged his bulky shoulders. “But soon other rumours began, I am not certain how, but I was no longer a simple apothecary, but a man with other skills, sorcery, witchcraft.”
“These are only rumours?” Caterina asked, pointing to the glass vial around his neck. “Rumours you encourage by wearing such things, that hair bracelet and the tattoo on your arm. I thought it was an affectation, a way to make it seem that you had magical powers.”
“Without actually possessing them?” Der Witt asked. “Perhaps I did encourage it, at first. But before long people would avoid me, whisper behind my back, nudge each other as I passed - and I admit, here and now, that accepted the part I was given. What people fear, they avoid.”
“You are not wicked, Dutchman, no one would be hurt by knowing you.”
He rubbed his eyes, the whites reddened. “Maybe... All I wanted was to discover who had killed my daughter, my whole life was devoted to it. It was easier to travel alone and make no friends. Easier to travel when you settle nowhere. So I went from The Hague to Germany and then to Paris – where, as I’ve just said, another girl was murdered.”
Caterina leaned towards him. “Was it meant to look as though you were involved? Did someone plan it that way?”
He nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Who?”
“I’ve made enemies.”
“There is no way you can pass through this life without them.” She thought of Tita Boldini then spoke again. “You mentioned Adamo Baptista, said you had seen that whore with him. You asked if she was working for him.”
“I think she is.” Der Witt replied, “I never told her what Gabriella had said, but she knew about The Wolves of Venice.”
“She frightened me. That was why I hired another guard.”
“But how did she know about what Gabriella had told us if she had been away from Venice and living in France? Tita could only have known through Baptista when he was in Paris.”
“Were you in Paris at the same time they were?”
“No.” he said emphatically.
A moment passed, Caterina shivering.
“Someone has just walked over my grave.”
“What?”
She moved over to the fire to warm herself. “A while ago I had an English girl working for me and that was what she used to say when she felt a chill run down her back.” Wrapping her arms around her body, Caterina looked into the fire and watched the flames. “Is your daughter’s death connected to The Wolves of Venice?”
Der Witt gestured for her to drop her voice and moved over to stand beside her.
“We must not be overheard, Caterina, we must be careful when we speak of this. There are spies everywhere, Aretino has many informers, spread over Venice like a fisherman’s net.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “I don’t know if there is a connection between my daughter’s death and The Wolves of Venice, because I don’t know if these Wolves are a faction or a fantasy —”
“They did not seem like a fantasy to Gabriella.”
He shook his head, exasperated. “If only I had met with her that night —”
“We cannot change what happened, however much we might want to.” Caterina said firmly. “We must think of the present now. What we know for fact.”
“Gabriella worked for Marina Castilano. Gabriella was afraid, so was Marina. And almost as soon as Marina had been scared away, Tita Boldini came to Venice.” He looked at Caterina. “She was lying, she wasn’t looking after the shop, she was searching it.”
“For what? You think Adamo Baptista hired her to look for something?”
Der Witt nodded.
“Baptista seems to follow me wherever I go. He was in Paris, he knew Tita Boldini, and he could have been in The Hague –”
“What?”
“I only thought about it last night, then I had to confirm the facts. Titian is now in Augsburg, working on a commission for the Emperor, and Aretino is his agent, as everyone knows. Apparently Aretino went to Augsburg four years ago to visit the Emperor and settle the terms, and dates, of Titian’s stay.” He looked at Caterina. “And who accompanies Aretino everywhere?”
“Adamo Baptista?”
“Yes. It’s a long journey from Augsburg to The Hague, but he could easily have done it, the man travels all the time, all over Europe. When – if – he was in The Hague four years ago it was the time my daughter was murdered.” Der Witt kept his voice low. “Baptista was in Paris when another girl was killed, and now Gabriella has been murdered here, in Venice, where Baptista is at present residing.”
Caterina glanced behind her, almost as though she suspected someone had entered. “Did these girls have anything in common?”
“Only their deaths. My daughter was seventeen, fair haired with green eyes, the French woman was forty, with red hair and blue eyes, and Gabriella —”
“Was dark haired and dark eyed.”
He nodded. “Why would anyone want to kill four dissimilar woman in four different countries? Aretino is a blackmailer and a swindler, but a murderer? I doubt it. He likes to torture people mentally, not physically. But Adamo Baptista – who is he? We hear rumours about him, hints and innuendos, but nothing substantial. No one comes forwards and says ‘he stabbed me,’ or ‘he raped my daughter.’ His reputation is all. And he carries it like a banner before him so that people see it and are afraid, without even being able to read what is written on it.” He paused, struggled to control his emotions. “If Adamo Baptista killed my child I will kill him. I swear it, as God is my judge.”
Caterina laid her head on his shoulder, her voice a whisper. “Are we in danger, Dutchman?”
“I think we may well be.”
“Then what are we to do?”
“I give my word that I will let nothing harm you, Caterina.”
“You might be able to stop a man. You might be able to challenge Baptista, if it came to that. But what of the rest? Is he one of The Wolves, one of The Four Gabriella spoke about? And if so, who are the others?” she watched the flames splutter in the grate. “Aretino? Tita Boldini? Marina Castilano? It seems ridiculous, but how do we know who they are? Remember what that whore said? ‘... The Wolves of Venice are real. You have no power
against them, no protection... You see the mist outside? How it gets into everything, unseen and unheard...’” She continued to stare into the flames. “What weapon is there that can kill an unseen opponent?”
“There is none.”
“There is one.” She corrected him. “Our protection is silence. To forget everything we know.”
“I cannot...”
Her gaze was still fixed on the flames and she nodded.
“... I am being manoeuvred, Caterina. Whenever I believe I am coming closer to the truth someone tugs an invisible rope, pulling me into a different direction. One day I am facing ahead, then looking behind, then to the right, then the left. And always there is the threat that I will be found responsible for these murders. That someone will come after me. Or kill me.”
“Then leave Venice.” She said urgently. “Save yourself.”
“I cannot save myself, I have no right. I made a promise to the memory of my child and I will honour it —”
“You death will not bring her back.”
“I know.” He said, resigned. “But if the answer is here, then here I must stay.”
*
The quick tempered cousin of Hyman Golletz had been working all day, with little result because of the bad weather. Being a burly man, used to hostile conditions, he had continued on the quayside until the gale became too much and he was forced to leave. Grumbling under his breath, his head down, he hurried along the dock, a man unexpectedly emerging through the mist in front of him.
“God, you scared me!” he said, staring into the stranger’s face. But it wasn’t a stranger, it was a someone he had seen in the ghetto, someone who had been welcomed at his cousin’s house. “It’s Mario Gianetti, isn’t it?...”
He nodded.
“… Come back home, have you? You fucking coward. I’d be careful you don’t run into Ira Tabat or you’re likely to find your teeth shoved down your throat.” He spat, a glob of spittle landing at Marco’s feet. “That fat pig Aretino and the black crow Baptista will be glad to see you, but they’ll be the only ones.” Marco tried to move away, but the man put a hand on his arm to detain him. “What’s it like to have everything and be despised? Well, go on, answer me! You’re shit, nothing more. Just a lap dog doing everyone’s dirty work, betraying Rosella and setting her up to be used like a common whore.” He grabbed Marco’s collar and twisted it, staring into his face. “You’re not even worth giving a beating to. Get back home, Gianetti, and claim your money. Your father’s dead, it’s all yours.” Roughly he pushed him, Marco falling back against a low stone wall as the man shouted his final words. “And another thing - don’t you dare to come near the ghetto again. If you do, God help you.”
*
“Have you ever seen weather like this before?” Struggling to her feet, Lavinia glanced over to lawyer, then moved back to the window, trying to see through the fog. “You say Marco has returned?”
Ferriti nodded. “He has been seen –”
“By whom?”
“A relative of someone who lives in the ghetto. He’s been going around talking about how he gave your grandson a beating and how he told him to leave Venice because no one wanted him.” Ferriti paused, “I wouldn’t believe his story, the man’s a drunk and a braggart. He probably did see your grandson, but as to the rest —”
“So where is Marco now?” Lavinia snapped, reaching for her stick. “How long is it since this man saw him?”
“Only a hour or so –”
“An hour or so!”
“I have just been told, Contessa, and went to the quayside myself to look for your grandson, but it’s deserted. The boats are tied up in this gale and there are no sailors or merchants working. The weather has driven everyone indoors.” He hurried to pass Lavinia her walking stick, watching her regain her balance. “I have organised a group of men to look for him.”
“With the reception he received, Marco might have left Venice again, taken the first boat away from here.”
Ferriti was firm. “No, Contessa, the boats are not sailing tonight, not even to the other islands. Marco is in Venice, we just have to find him.”
She leaned against a chair, thinking and rapping her stick on the floor. “Why did he not come here? Why did he not come back to his home?... Have you checked every entrance?”
“Yes, Contessa.”
“Not just the main gates, but the water entrance? The door by the bridge?”
“All of them.”
“He has keys, Marco can gain entry and be here without our knowing. There are so many rooms, so many unoccupied rooms.”
“All have been searched, Contessa.”
“When?”
“I set the servants to it as soon as I arrived, I wanted to check for myself if he was here, or not.”
“So where is my grandson?” Lavinia replied, her tone querulous. “If he’s not here, he must have gone elsewhere. But where?... He knows he will not be welcomed, he has already experienced one hostile reception, but he must want to make amends or he would not have returned... So if Marco chose not to come here for safety, where would my grandson go?” She looked over to the lawyer again. “Stop the search, cancel the men! I want you – and only you – to do what I ask.”
Chapter Thirty Eight
His fingers were cold and therefore clumsy, snapping off the head of little wax figure he had made earlier in the day. Infuriated, Tintoretto swore and threw it across the studio, then placed some more wax onto the top of the stove to melt. The gale had tossed much of the water from the canal onto the walkway outside, some of it sneaking under the studio door, a little pool gathering under a new portrait of the Virgin and Christ Child.
As Tintoretto’s apprentices had already left, the studio was deserted, candles and the light from the stove providing limited illumination. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, he waited until he could feel the prickle of some feeling return, before tossing a piece of bread onto the top of stove next to the pot of melting wax. Hunger was no way to work well, he told himself. If Titian was working tonight his belly would be full of delicacies, the fat oaf Aretino beside him, making his acerbic and witty comments.
Pre-occupied, Tintoretto flipped over the bread to toast the other side, looking around for the cheese he had set aside earlier.
“You are late. Very late, but then you always were.” He said, without turning.
“How did you know it was me?” Marco asked, stepping out of the shadows.
“I have been expecting you,” the artist replied, finding the cheese and setting out a plate with the bread halved and the cheese sliced beside it. “Eat.”
“The wax is getting too hot.”
Tintoretto took it off the stove and turned back to his food making no comment as Marco sat down beside him.
“I am sorry –”
“Yes, that is right, you should be,” Tintoretto replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have become an unlikely confidante of your grandmother’s. She had commissioned a portrait of you. Or I should say, she did commission a portrait, but when she discovered the reason for your leaving Venice I think the commission may well have been cancelled.”
“You told her what I did?” Marco asked, his tone muted.
“It was not a secret for many in Venice, but the Contessa does not hear gossip so it was a revelation to her ears. She called you a fool – and I agreed with her,” Tintoretto chewed another hunk of bread and cheese. “She called you a coward too, and I agreed with that,” he said, the words muffled in the mouthful of food.
“I’m so ashamed.” Marco said dumbly, “I am so ashamed for what I did to Rosella.”
Tintoretto swallowed, glancing over to him. “What exactly did you do?”
“You know what I did!” Marco said angrily. “Ira will have told you, or Rosella.”
“It was Ira. I have not spoken to Rosella for a while.”
“She does not sit for you anymore?” Marco asked, surprised. “I don’t underst
and, she loved being here. Nothing would have stopped her coming to you... Did you tell her not to come?”
“No, I would always welcome Rosella, but I don’t paint woman who are with child.” Stunned, Marco watched him as he continued to talk. “…… they say the paint smells are bad for a baby. I don’t know about that, but it is better to be safe. And of course there is the old wives tale about –”
“Rosella is pregnant?’
“I just said that,” Tintoretto replied, tearing off another piece of bread. “… and as she did not allow herself to be seduced by Adamo Baptista, he is not the father.” Carefully, he cut into the cheese with a knife, the blade catching the light from the stove. “And even as a good Catholic I do not believe in virgin births for those other than Our Lady. So...” he looked at Marco.
“It’s mine.”
“Yes, it is. And I am very pleased that you did not lie, or accuse Rosella of going with another man. If you had of done, Marco, I would have stuck this knife in your gut.” He turned back to his meal, pushing some food over to his visitor. “I would eat, if I were you.”
Listlessly, Marco cut into the cheese. “I didn’t know.”
“How would you? Rosella might not have got pregnant – but she did.”
“What does she think of me? What can she think of me?” Marco asked. “Dear God, what have I done?”
“What men have done since time began –”
“I don’t mean that,” Marco replied, “I have to see her. I have to make this right –”
“Do you love her?”
“I … I don’t know.”
Tintoretto’s eyebrows rose. “So it was merely passion?”
“No, it was something else entirely,” Marco replied, “a kind of pity. I had pity for her and she had pity for me —”
“After what you had done?”
“She knew how ashamed I was, how regretful.”
“And yet you lay together.” Tintoretto said wistfully. “For comfort, I suppose. Like a couple of little, lost animals, scared of what they had done, scared of what was to come.” He wiped his hands on a piece of cloth. “As soon as he hears you’re back, Ira will come after you.”
