The Wolves of Venice

by Alex Connor

  “I know.”

  “You should be careful, Marco, he is not merely angry, he is enraged. A man like that could do something he would live to regret.”

  “You think Ira would kill me?” Marco replied, his tone incredulous. “We were friends –”

  “All the more reason for him to feel deceived. Perhaps if you wrote a letter to him first and then made an arrangement to meet, choosing somewhere where you would not be alone.”

  “This is Ira we are talking about.”

  “You are so foolish, Marco, like a child who has behaved badly but relies on his charm to be forgiven. But we are not children and this world is not a nursery.” Tintoretto’s tone was uncompromising. “If you wish, I will talk to him –”

  “No! I am not afraid of Ira Tabat.”

  “Then why did you run away!” Tintoretto exclaimed. “You were afraid of him before, and that when you didn’t know you had made his sister pregnant. Ira has every right to hate you, Marco, you have to realise that. He will not be reasonable. I know his kind of man. They are judicious, patient, forgiving – until they are not. Until they feel betrayed, and then they are vengeful.” He sighed. “I warn you, Marco, and you must listen to me – be very wary of Ira. Do not rely on old friendships or old memories. He has already forgotten those.”

  *

  With only one man to accompany him, Ferriti left the palazzo and headed across Venice. The gale had not lessened, the wind force increasing, the flags of the Republic lashing against the flagpoles, or wrapping themselves as tight as winding sheets. Their clothes already soaked, the two men struggled on, the servant holding a covered lamp aloft to help them see their way. But the fog was so dense there was nothing to be seen more than a foot ahead, and they had to struggle to keep sight of each other as they hurried on.

  Calling out, Ferriti‘s voice was drowned by the wind and he caught hold of the servant’s sleeve to get his attention.

  “That way!” Ferriti shouted, “it’s that way.”

  The man nodded and together they moved on, the lawyer ducking into an archway with the servant following. Together they stood in the shelter, both breathing heavily from exertion, the rain pelting down on the canal in front of them and vibrating on the walls of the stone bridge.

  “We have to cross.” Ferriti told the man. “Stay close by me.”

  “Hold onto my coat, signor” the servant replied, “while I try to keep the lamp alight.”

  “Keep by me!” Ferriti commanded, and together they headed over the bridge, the servant losing his footing once on the slippery stonework, the candle’s light flickering but still alight inside the glass cover.

  The gale was howling in their ears, Ferriti alarmed at the noise, an eerie sound that he had never heard before in Venice. It seemed to take a shape, to expand in the fog, to scuttle about the passageways and follow them over the bridge. An unimaginative man, Ferriti still felt the urge to cross himself, the servant calling out over his shoulder.

  “I see it! Just a little further.”

  “Thank God,” Ferriti replied, moving on a few yards, the gate finally coming into clear sight. Urgently, he rang the bell, an aged man wearing the forelocks of an orthodox Hasidic Jew, coming over to them.

  “What are you wanting here?”

  “I am come on vital business,” Ferriti replied.

  “It is past the curfew.”

  “I understand, but I must speak to Ira Tabat.” The lawyer explained, “it is of the utmost urgency.”

  The old man looked at him with an expression he did not understand, Ferriti repeating himself.

  “It is urgent –”

  “I heard you, signor.”

  “Then please let me speak with Ira Tabat.”

  “I cannot,” the old man replied.

  “Be you must!” Ferriti insisted. “I have news of which he needs to be informed, signor. It is a matter of the greatest importance –”

  “You cannot see him because Ira is not here.” The man explained. “He left just before you arrived when news came that Marco Gianetti had returned to Venice.”

  Book Five

  I am writing this recollection many years later, almost forty years, in fact.

  So much was to change so quickly that it is difficult to associate that young man with the person I am now. The man I became. You will meet me in the years that follow, and I will tell you everything. You see, a promise was made at the beginning that I would not lie to you, and I have not.

  I am aware that my character will now seem shabby, not at all like the elegant costumes that could be rented from the Castilano sisters. They had also left Venice, but – unlike me – they did not return. Theirs is another story. They are not gone, just gone for now. They will reappear, as will many, as this history unfolds. Remember we are not yet at the end, not even the end of the beginning.

  Looking back to the day I returned to Venice I was still young, and still naïve, thinking I could undo the malice I had created. Perhaps, if only for one instant, I even considered pleading with Aretino, but that thought was only ever half formed. My exile had finally given me insight; Aretino was now to me as he had seemed to others. Loathsome, greedy, amoral, cruel and pitiless. The game in which I had played a minor role had succeeded beyond his wildest expectations. His revenge on Ira was fulfilled two fold; Rosella’s reputation was destroyed and she was pregnant.

  At first Aretino did not know about the child, but when the ghetto discovered how Rosella had been used they swore revenge on Aretino, Baptista, and myself. Although I had not plotted the scheme, my part in it was considered greater because of my betrayal of the Tabats and the ghetto itself; the place which had accepted me. The place and people I had chosen to abuse.

  The reaction on the quayside from Hyman Golletz’s cousin set the template for everyone’s response. And rightly so, I deserved it. But I was still too young to realise that stupidity and impulsiveness can be forgiven, treachery can not. A plan has a mapping out, it is made with forethought, aimed to one specific conclusion. A plot is brooded over, thought about, perfected, each move considered, every flick and twist of the puppeteer’s hands conceived in advance. Malice is a patient man’s game.

  And Aretino was a patient man.

  He could plot and wait, and then hold a person to ransom for year after buckling year… Then I did not know he had been blackmailing my father, but I was soon to find out. And if, on that foggy night when I returned home to Venice, I believed I could make recompense to the Tabats, recover my life and inherit my legacy ... Well, does that not prove how great a fool I was?

  My return was not just awaited by Rosella and Ira, but by the ghetto and all its residents. My return was also anticipated by Pietro Aretino and Adamo Baptista, whose plans for me were hardly begun. Unexpected and vigilant enemies were gathering in ranks against me, and yet I blundered home like a Prodigal without realising some outcasts are fated to remain in exile.

  Yes, I came home that foggy night. But it was not the home I remembered... Forty years later a chill goes through me as I look back.

  Outside I can hear the guards changing their watch, the lights at the water entrance of the palazzo always lit, from the moment of dusk until dawn has come into her own. In my father’s study – which is now used as my own – and in all the rooms I knew as a solitary child, there are always lighted candles, the corridors also, and when the fog comes down and I remember the night of my return I send for a priest and ask him to hold Mass.

  He is searched on entry as is everyone and as the bells from St Marks sound the hour of four on a winter’s afternoon I know that they are preparing the curfew in the ghetto.

  I have my own curfew here.

  My own, private, ghetto

  Where I live alone.

  And some nights my mother comes to visit.

  I hear her and see her shadow on the wall

  Swinging like a pendulum.

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  “For the love of Christ, s
top them!” Tintoretto cried out, running towards the fighting men. Marco was on his knees, Ira striking him in the face repeatedly with his fist, the lawyer Ferriti running towards them and Tintoretto behind him. Still following the lawyer, the servant held the lantern aloft illuminating the two bloodied men. Although the fog was dense, Tintoretto could just make out another figure moving towards them, Rosella shouting at the top of her voice.

  “Stop him! Please, do something!” she was running directly at the fighters, Tintoretto catching hold of her arm and pulling her back.

  “No!” he said, signalling for Ferriti to hold her, then running towards the men.

  “Ira, Marco! Enough!”

  “Stop, please stop!” Rosella screamed, Ira’s voice replying, his tone hard.

  “Be quiet, Rosella!” He snapped, “I am doing what you should have done, I am going to kill this bastard.” He was walking around Marco, both of them upright, shadow boxing. “I am going to kill him for disgracing you. For making you into a whore.”

  Marco lunged forwards. “It’s not her fault —”

  “But she went with you anyway.” Ira replied, ducking out of the way of the punch and landing a fist on his opponent’s chin. It was only a glancing blow and Marco rocked on his heels but stayed upright.

  “It’s my fault, not hers.”

  “Let him be!” Rosella shouted. “Please, Ira —”

  Her brother’s voice was hoarse with fury. “You want to save your lover, do you? Isn’t that what a whore usually does? You should be working for Aretino now, Rosella, you’ve been broken in.”

  “You bastard!” Marco snapped, landing one punch on Ira’s cheek, but missing the next.

  Pushed to the sidelines, Tintoretto watched. He could see that Ira was beyond reason, his eyes fixed on Marco like a lion on a calf, his face bleached with fury. Although Rosella kept calling to him, he ignored her, refusing to look in her direction, Tintoretto moving forward again to try and stop the fight.

  “This is madness —”

  In reply, Ira pushed him out of the way again, his attention momentarily distracted as Marco managed to get back onto his feet. He was weaving, unsteady, and bleeding heavily from a cut over his left eye, his sight blurred as he lunged forwards. But Ira had already aimed another blow and it landed in Marco’s guts so hard that he vomited, bending over and gasping as he tried to get his breath.

  “You bastard!” Ira cursed him, “You fucking bastard. You disgraced my family, my name, you made my sister into a puttana!” he lunged out, landing a kick to his opponent stomach, Marco shouting at the top of his voice.

  “I didn’t mean it!” he gasped, staggering on his feet. “… I didn’t mean... for any... of this... to happen...”

  “Coward! Liar —”

  “Enough!” Tintoretto snapped, stepping between the men again, “Stop it!” he spread his arms, trying to separate them, his voice raised. “Stop it! This will prove nothing.”

  “I have nothing to prove to you.” Ira replied, “Get out of the way, painter, my quarrel is not with you.”

  Tintoretto held his ground. “Go home, both of you —” But before he could continue he was edged out of the way by Marco who launched himself towards Ira. His face was puffy, his left eye half closed, his mouth bleeding.

  “I’m sorry –”

  In one swift movement Ira punched him on the face, Marco’s head jerking back as he staggered to keep his footing.

  “NO!” Rosella screamed, “No more!”

  She had ducked out of Ferriti's hold and moved between the two men. Without seeing her, Ira aimed a final blow at Marco, his arm curled in a loop, his fist blooded and clenched as it came down – and struck his sister’s cheek. Stunned, Rosella faltered on her feet, Tintoretto catching her as she slid to the ground, blood coming from her nose and open mouth as the fog swirled around all of them.

  Chapter Forty

  Waiting in the doorway, der Witt listened for footsteps. The fog had remained heavy, making vision difficult, but he could hear every sound. In fact it seemed to him that the fog was intensifying noise; that the fluttering wings of a water bird were as loud as a ship’s mast battling a night gale. From somewhere close by came the noise of a bucket clanging against stonework, followed by a knife scraping the dirt off the sole of a boot. He could not see the man, but could imagine his posture, one leg bent at the knee, his head lowered as he cleaned off the dirt. Then the satisfied click of the pocket knife closing and a second later, footsteps moving away.

  The fog made the city into a chimera. With no horizon, Venice was suspended between earth and air, her watery home merging with the brooding sky. Shadows usually dense were furred with grey, the water a dull, unmoving velvet as der Witt waited patiently. Another ten minutes passed before he finally heard the faint approach of footsteps, followed by the movement through a passageway and then the stepping onto the bridge.

  Then a pause.

  Der Witt knew that he could not be seen in the fog, but he knew he had been sensed.

  “Hello there. Chi è là?”

  The Dutchman inched forward, the voice now demanding.

  “Chi è là? Speak! I can’t see you. And if you are thinking of attacking me, I wouldn’t, I’m armed.”

  “Why would I attack you, Adamo Baptista?” Der Witt asked, stepping onto the bridge and moving forward until the two men were facing each other, separated by only six feet.

  “So it’s you, Dutchman.” Baptista said, recognising the figure of der Witt. “What brings you outdoors on a night like this? Some girl in trouble? Or perhaps one of our Venetian Contessas needing some medic?”

  “I could ask why are you abroad. Are you on an errand for your paymaster?”

  “I have no paymaster. Like you, Dutchman, I am my own master.” He moved, his feet planted firmly, prepared for any unexpected movement or scuffle. “What do you want with me?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  “Ah, but I did not seek you out.”

  “And I did not look for you…” the Dutchman lied, feeling in his pocket, his hand taking hold of the pistol. “... Fate made our paths cross. As they have done many times before. Here in Venice, in Paris, and The Hague.”

  “The Hague is your country, der Witt, not mine.”

  “You do not have to be born in a country to visit it. Especially if you have business there.”

  “And what business would I have in The Hague?” Baptista asked, his voice emotionless. “Go home, Dutchman, you are getting old and nights like this can be dangerous.”

  “For me? Or you?”

  There was a pause, Baptista stepping forward. “What are you here for? Some midnight assignation? Or perhaps you are gathering some moon dust for your potions. There are rumours of your being involved with the occult, is that true? Do you have séances and dabble with the dead? It’s very fashionable, I believe, but not if they catch you. The nobility will escape but the Inquisition will have you hanging by your balls.” Der Witt watched as Baptista sat down on the stone wall of the bridge, apparently curious. “Tell me something, Dutchman, have you met the Devil?”

  “Perhaps I just have.”

  “You think I’m the devil?” Baptista replied, amused. “Why would you think that? What have ever done to you?”

  “Were you in The Hague four years ago?”

  “Were you?”

  Der Witt changed tack, his hand still clasping the pistol. The Italian firearm was small and inaccurate; at a distance of a few feet he might not kill Baptista, but it would certainly injure him.

  “Tita Boldini did not stay long in Venice.”

  “She’s a whore, they travel around.”

  “Only if someone pays for them to travel,” the Dutchman retorted. “I saw you talking with her, Baptista. And she and I ran into each other at the Castilano shop, where she was searching for something.”

  “Did she find it?”

  “How would I know? I didn’t even know what she was looking for. But
it must have been something of importance, or you wouldn’t have hired her.” The Dutchman replied, “Strange how much has happened around that shop. Gabriella Russo murdered and Marina Castilano abandoning her business. And now you – or your hireling - searching for something.”

  “What if I was to tell you that Marina Castilano owed money? And that Pietro Aretino had sent me to find it?”

  “No, you would never have let her leave Venice if she had been in debt to that bastard. And anyway, Marina would have told me.”

  “You think people confide? Open up their hearts exclusively to you?” Baptista replied, “Don’t you realise that they tell what you want to hear? The Contessa whose husband no longer fucks her, the seduction of the shop girl who pleads for you to abort her mistake. The old lady who wants to make contact with her dead husband and ask for his forgiveness from beyond the grave.” He sighed. “There is one birth and one death, Dutchman, all else is misplaced hope. You of all people should understand - isn’t that what your quackery is all about? Hope is your currency.”

  “And yours is fear.” Der Witt replied, choosing his next words carefully. “I wanted to ask you something. Who are The Wolves of Venice? Gabriella spoke of them, she said there were four. ‘...Don’t let them tell you less, there are four. Look for the four...”

  Baptista shrugged. “Four ‘what’?”

  “That’s what I don’t know.”

  “But I thought everyone confided in you.”

  “Gabriella died before she could.” The Dutchman replied. “And every time I seem to get nearer to the truth – whatever this truth actually is – someone warns me about The Wolves of Venice. And I don’t understand what it means.”

  “And I’m supposed to?”

  “Oh, I think you know exactly what it means.”

  “I will tell you one thing,” Baptista rose to his feet. “I know about your daughter’s murder, but I don’t know who the killer was. I don’t know who murdered Gabriella Russo either, or the woman in France. You look surprised, der Witt, of course I know about it. Remember, I’m a gambler, it pays me to know the cards a person has in their hand. That knowledge dictates when I should play. Or when I should hold back. You’re a gambler too, Dutchman, coming out here tonight to confront me. That took courage.”