by Gwynn White
Vittorio opened the doors to the dining room to reveal a table heaped with a sprawling array of Venetian cuisine. Footmen dressed in grey uniforms with silver buckles seated each of us. Vittorio presented our meal. As he went over each dish, a footman poured us all bowls of brodo di pesce, a fish soup with saffron, and glasses of white wine. At the very center of the table was what he called an antipasto de frutti de mare, a massive plate of seafood from the lagoon dressed with lemon and Italian olive oil.
“A favorite of Lord Byron,” he told us.
Also on the table were Venetian style sardines, carpacci, muscles cooked in wine, heaps of fresh fruit, bread, and a dish called baccalà manteceta. “You might like this one, Scotsman,” Vittorio told Angus. “It is salted cod minced with oil, garlic, and herbs.”
Angus looked hungrily at the food, eyeing the salted fish dish in particular.
“Let us toast,” Sal said. We all raised our glasses. “To the lady with a kaleidoscope mind,” Sal said, referencing the line written on the kaleidoscope.
I smiled knowingly at Sal.
Angus looked at Jessup who shrugged, and they called “Cheers.”
Jessup and Angus ate excitedly, commenting on everything. I noticed that Angus asked the footman again and again to put more of the baccalà manteceta on his plate. I sipped my wine and took in the scene. I felt happy to see them happy. Whatever the harlequin had died for, it had led to this pleasure: good people enjoying a rare treat, something they surely worked hard enough to deserve. I would find the meaning of the kaleidoscope and discover the lady of the kaleidoscope mind—but not just now.
Chapter Eleven
That evening, Angus and Jessup, exhausted, overfull, and excited to try their rooms, headed to bed. Promising Sal I would be by later, I went to the small garden terrace on the roof. Once there, I found a comfortable wicker chaise and laid back. I pulled out my pipe and opium supply and lit up. I lay smoking as I looked at the stars. Air transport ships and gondolas, their lanterns blinking, passed overhead. The sounds of the canal gondoliers singing as they rowed past filled the night air. It was warm with a soft breeze coming in from the sea. The air smelled sweet and salty with a hint of a fresh seaweed scent. I gazed up at the early evening sky and noticed an extremely bright star located just beside the moon. In fact, it seemed almost brighter than the moon. I had not noticed it the night before.
I pulled out my spyglass to look at it more closely. It was exceedingly bright. Digging in my bag again, I pulled out the kaleidoscope. I hoped the starlight would illuminate the colors. When I centered the kaleidoscope onto the star, I was surprised. In fact, I was so surprised I jumped up, knocking over the glass of wine I’d brought with me. It shattered on the floor. Very clearly reflected in the kaleidoscope were a series of numbers. The colors of the kaleidoscope had rotated so the purples and blues fell together and clearly wrote out numbers: 36.6858. I dug around in my bag for one of Sal’s beautifully tinkered fountain pens. Unable to find paper, I wrote the numbers on the hem of my shorts. I looked again to be sure I had noted the digits correctly. I panned the kaleidoscope to another part of the sky only to see the numbers disappear. They only appeared when pointed to that bright star. Kaleidoscope in hand, I ran back downstairs.
I ran to Sal’s room, flung open the door, and rushed to his bedside. “Sal,” I whispered, shaking his shoulder. “Sal, wake up,” I said again, jostling him.
“Ahh, my Lily, here you are,” he said sleepily, raising his hand to stroke my hair.
“No, no, no. Not that. Sal, come on, I’ve seen something in the kaleidoscope! Please, get up! Come on,” I said, pulling him out of bed.
Sal rose sleepily.
“Sal, you’re naked,” I said with a laugh.
“Ah yes, I thought to save time,” he said smiling as he pulled on a robe. Sleepily, he followed me upstairs. “Ah, what a sight,” he said when we entered the terrace.
“Careful,” I said, guiding him around the broken glass. I thrust the kaleidoscope at him. “There,” I said pointing. “Aim it toward the bright star beside the moon. Tell me if you see it.”
Sal yawned then lifted the kaleidoscope toward the sky. After adjusting it a bit and moving it toward the bright star, Sal sighed an excited “ahh,” his eyebrows rising.
“You see it? The numbers?”
“Oh yes. 36. Is that a dot? 36.6858. Lily, did you write it down?”
“Of course. What is it? What does it mean?”
Sal was still gazing upward. After a moment, he lowered the kaleidoscope. “That is Venus as the evening star. She’ll sink from the sky in an hour or so,” Sal said.
I pulled Sal down onto a chaise beside me. Once we settled in, I lit the opium pipe again and took a toke. I handed the pipe to Sal and then drank a slug from the bottle of wine I’d brought with me earlier.
“What are the numbers? A combination?” I looked back up at the sky with a naked eye. Venus’ bright light held steady.
Sal coughed heavily as he smoked then set the pipe down. “I’m not sure,” he replied. I noticed then his eyes had taken on a glossy sheen. He examined the numbers I had written on my hem. “I’ll need to consider it a bit.”
I lifted the kaleidoscope again and shone it at the night’s sky. I centered on the moon and a few other stars; there was nothing. Only with the backdrop of Venus, the evening star, did the numbers appear.
Sal watched me move the kaleidoscope across the sky. “We must seek Venus. She holds the answer,” he said.
“Seek Venus? Like the Goddess Aphrodite?”
“As the Greeks called her, yes.”
“We all seek Venus, don’t we?” I joked.
Sal kissed me sweetly on the cheek. “Yes, we do,” he whispered in my ear.
I curled up into his arms and lay looking at the stars, the kaleidoscope hugged tightly to my chest.
We both must have slept then because I woke up on the chaise the next morning still lying against Sal. We were covered in morning dew. At a nearby palazzo, I heard the voices of workers and the sound of boxes being unloaded. It was just past sunup. Lingering pink light was fading from the sky.
I woke Sal who was still groggy and led him downstairs and back to his bed. Settling him in, I pulled his covers to his chin and kissed him on the forehead. I stroked his silver-streaked hair away from his face. How sweet he looked.
I then wandered back to my room where I startled a maid who looked like she’d been looking for me. She spoke some English so I tried to explain I had slept on the terrace. She seemed puzzled but told me to come with her. She was waiting to help me with my bath.
She led me to the small bathing room where an arsenal of oils, astringents, perfumes, combs, and two more handmaids waited. At once, I felt ill at ease. My mind, startled by the smells of the bathing oils, went back in time to my first day at Mr. Oleander’s and Mr. Fletcher’s alley flat on Neal’s Yard just off Covent Garden.
“Now Lily, this is Nicolette,” Mr. Fletcher had said. “She will get you cleaned up. We thought we were getting a boy so the only clothes we bought are men’s fashions, but you’ll be more comfortable on the Iphigenia dressed like that anyway,” he continued. “Oh yes, and Nicolette is French. She doesn’t speak English very well.” With that, he left me in a small room in their flat with a blue eyed girl who was about fifteen years in age. The girl looked at me like I was a rodent.
“What is the Iphigenia?” I asked her.
“Take off your dress,” she said in a heavy French accent as she began to pour water from a pan over the fireplace into a washing tub. “It is their air transport.”
“Like a balloon?” I asked.
Nicolette nodded then helped me pull off my shift. She then lowered me into the hot water. “I thought they were getting a boy,” she said.
I didn’t know why Nicolette seemed so annoyed. I was so happy to be out of the orphanage that I decided I didn’t care if two old men had been my saviors. I was going to make the best of it. “I’m so
rry,” was all I could think to say.
“Non,” she said, “it’s only…well, we’ll see. Come, let me clean your hair,” she said then poured warm water onto my tangled and dirt-covered tresses. She worked soap into the hair then rubbed in sharp smelling oils, lemon and lavender, trying to break the tangles free. “I will need to cut some,” she said, taking the scissors from the fireplace mantel. With a snip, she rid my hair of about six inches of length. I fingered my hair which now sat on my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said then threw the hair into the fire. The smell of burning hair filled the room.
“You speak English just fine,” I told her.
“Don’t tell them,” she said with a smile as she combed what was left of my tresses.
I was confused. After she got done scrubbing a year’s worth of dirt from me, Nicolette plaited my hair into a braid and helped me redress in the clothes the brothers had purchased: tan trousers, black suspenders, a mandarin colored shirt, and black socks and boots. She looked at me and frowned. “You are looking too pretty even dressed like this,” she said and then sighed. “Come. They will want to see.” Taking my hand, she led me back to the sparse sitting room where the brothers sat at worn wooden table looking over some papers. Light shone in from two dirt-stained windows at the front of the flat.
“Monsieurs,” Nicolette said with a curtsey, her eyes downcast.
I looked at the two men. Mr. Oleander rose to take a better look at me. “Well, look at the alley cat now,” he told Mr. Fletcher who laughed. “She looks like a girl again, don’t you, pretty kitty,” he said, tickling my chin.
Nicolette stiffened.
I tried to turn my face but his sharp fingers followed, poking at me.
“Now, now,” Mr. Fletcher chided Mr. Oleander, who sat back down.
“Can you read, Lily?” Mr. Fletcher asked me.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You see, even British orphans can read. French girls only look pretty,” Mr. Fletcher told Mr. Oleander.
“Well, Nicolette earns her keep on her back, not at the books,” Mr. Oleander replied as he poured himself a drink.
Both men laughed.
Nicolette’s face had gone pale. She looked at the floor and said nothing.
“You’re excused, Nicolette. Please go get Lily’s trundle ready. Come here, Lily,” Mr. Fletcher called and then motioned for me to come beside him. “What does this line say,” he asked, pointing to a sentence written in a book which otherwise contained lists of numbers.
“Fares for the month of May,” I read.
“Ah, very good. You know your numbers?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Then read these lines,” he said pointing to a row of figures which I read off.
“Can you do mathematics?”
“Only a little.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“We didn’t go to get a bookkeeper. I need a galley monkey,” Mr. Oleander said and grabbed a few tools from his toolbox. He was about to set them on the table when Mr. Fletcher stopped him.
“Not where we eat, brother,” he said.
Mr. Oleander nodded and motioned for me to come to his tool chest. “Which ones do you know, pretty kitty,” he asked.
I recognized most of the instruments but only knew the names of the wrench and mallet. “It’s a good start,” he told me, then schooled me on the names of the remaining tools. I paid close attention, wanting to impress my new caregivers. When he was done, he quizzed me, asking me to name the tools again. Thankfully, I was able to remember them all. “She’s a good choice,” Mr. Oleander finally determined.
“Indeed,” Mr. Fletcher said then leaned back in his chair and took a long, hard look at me. “Run off now, Lily. We’ve work to do,” he said and leaned back to look at his papers once again, pushing his small glasses up his nose. “Tomorrow we’ll take you out to the Iphigenia,” he added as I scampered back to the room where Nicolette had gone.
I found her sitting in my cold bath water. She looked like she had been crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. The room still smelled strongly of lemon and lavender. She shook her head but said nothing. The answer would become all too evident soon enough.
“All done, Signorina Stargazer,” the maid told me, interrupting my thoughts. She handed me a mirror. She had bathed me thoroughly and rubbed my skin with sweet smelling basil and rose oils. My hair was dressed in the same fashion I had seen the Venetian women wearing; it was woven into a bun at the back of my head and wisps of loose ringlets fell around my face. I gazed into the mirror. I felt like I was looking at a stranger.
“Beautiful. Thank you,” I said. I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. She offered to dress me, but I declined and hurried back to my room. I closed and locked the door then sat down on the bed. My damp skin prickled with cold. Tossing the lid aside, I looked at the contents of Byron’s dressbox. I pulled the lily pin from my pilot’s cap and affixed it to the satin top hat. I then took a drop of laudanum to build up my courage.
After I dressed, I went downstairs. I could hear the others in the dining room. The door to the room was shut. I took a deep breath and opened the door a crack. The men went silent.
“Lily?” Sal called.
“Promise not to laugh,” I said.
“At what?” Angus asked.
I stepped into the dining room. “At this,” I replied, entering in Byron’s chiffon gown.
Jessup set down his bread. Angus stared. Sal rose and took my hand. “Truly, a lily,” he said, kissing my hand. He guided me to my seat.
“Where the hell did you get that?” Angus asked.
“Byron. It was a gift.”
“You look like a dessert,” Jessup told me.
“Doesn’t she always,” Sal said with a wink, making me grin.
“I don’t like it,” Angus said.
“Well, we need to go into the city today, and I can’t wear my normal clothes,” I replied.
“Why the hell not?” Angus asked with a frown.
Vittorio entered before I could answer. “Ah, Signorina Stargazer, out of your traveling clothes I see. I have arranged for a gondolier. Signor Colonna suggested you might be going out?”
“Yes. Thank you, Vittorio.”
He nodded then exited.
I sighed. “Well, gents, ready to see Venice?”
Chapter Twelve
The Piazza San Marco was bustling with people and pigeons. The square, framed on its sides by shops and market stalls and capped by the Basilica, was an image of Venice I’d known only through paintings. Now I stood in the shadow of the Basilica watching the Venetians stroll past. The place was a feast for the senses. Warm wind blew in from the canal. The small cafes and bakeries surrounding the square offered up sweet aromas. Textile vendors sold brightly colored silks at outdoor market stalls. Glassmakers showcased a rainbow of delicately blown plates and goblets, trimmed with golden filigree, which caught the morning sunlight. Prisms cast rainbows all around. And then there was the sound of the thronging market crowd and clink of hammers from the tinker stalls. I watched, intrigued, as one vendor displayed his small clockwork pets to two delicately dressed women and their very clean looking children. The little girl squealed with terror and delight as a clockwork spider crawled from the tinker’s hand onto hers. Opposite the clockwork creatures, a vendor displayed wrist-holstered guns to two men wearing matching blue silk suits and top hats.
Angus and Jessup, armed with Sal’s drawing of propulsion modifications, headed into the market in search of parts. Byron had suggested I consult the clockworks about the kaleidoscope, but I wondered who I could trust. Sal, however, knew a man from Rome with whom he’d grown up. The man kept a small workshop at Torre Dell'Orologio, St. Mark’s Clock Tower.
“He’s on the second floor,” Sal said as we stared up at the building. The signs of the zodiac on a starry background spun around the Roman numerals on the dial. Above the clock face, the winged lion of Venice, also with stars at his back, s
tared down at us.
We headed into the building and followed a twisting staircase to a small room at the front of the tower on the second floor. The sound of the massive clock gears clicked loudly through the walls.
Sal knocked on the door.
From within, we heard a rustle and the sound of metal clanging to the floor. Moments later the door opened and a man wearing a leather apron appeared. He was about Sal’s age. He had cropped silver hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was a tinker, of that there was no doubt. Everywhere I looked in the room behind him I saw clocks: wrist watches, pocket watches, cuff watches, necklace clocks, wall clocks, zodiac clocks, replicas of the clock tower, and more. The tick, tick, tick sound of the room was nearly deafening.
“Salvatore?” he said, seemingly shocked.
“Anthony,” Sal said with familiarity in his voice.
“Salvatore!” the man yelled and pulled Sal into a hug, kissing him on both cheeks. The man turned and looked at me. “Chi è questo?”
“This is Beatrice. My wife,” Sal said.
Beatrice? Both Anthony and I were stunned to silence. I raised an eyebrow at Sal who simply smiled lovingly at me.
“English, eh? Well, she is still beautiful! Oh, Salvatore, you old devil. Someone finally captured you! And I thought you would never find a girl good enough for you. Too bad your mama is not alive to see it. She would be so proud of you,” Anthony said with a laugh then turned to me. “Mrs. Colonna,” the man said happily, kissing me on both cheeks.
“Beatrice, this is Anthony Arcumenna,” Sal introduced. “We grew up together in Rome.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Signor Arcumenna,” I replied.
“Come in, come in. My goodness, I cannot believe I am seeing Salvatore in Venice. And I thought you swore you’d never return to Italy.”
“Yes, well, under the right conditions, we all outgrow our past,” Sal said simply.
I looked deeply at Sal. I had never questioned him about his former life, his youth in Rome. It suddenly seemed odd to me to think he had a mother, a mother who would have been proud of him for marrying me…well, at least Beatrice. And I hadn’t known he’d forsaken Italy.
