by David Hewson
My mind was overwhelmed by both the sacredness and the ordinariness of these surroundings. Here, Rebecca pointed out, was the ark where the laws were kept. Here, the eternal light and the raised platform from which lessons were read, much as they are from a Christian pulpit. This was the seat of the daily round of ritual which the Hebrews used to explain their place in the world, why men lived and died, fought and loved, just like anyone else who walked the earth.
Rebecca sat close, watching my face avidly as I scanned this holy temple, wondering what it meant to me. I wore a plain white shirt, the neck open. It disclosed the Star of David she had given me. She reached forward, took it with her hand, and was flattered, I think, that I wore it.
“Do you think God’s here, Lorenzo?” she asked. “Do you think He is hiding behind the Torah, His face like thunder, all because two hapless mortals happened to walk where other men said they shouldn’t?”
“No,” I said honestly. She was right, of course. My grief had eaten into my mind. Lucia was dead because of some accident of fate, not the actions of her foolish brother. “But God is with us, I think. Not your God or my God, but something more simple, and more complicated. I don’t believe we are like the animals, Rebecca. When I listened to my sister sing to me in my bed, when I watch you play in La Pietà . . . Whatever Jacopo says, I don’t believe our lives can be written down as numbers on a page. I don’t think love is an affliction of the blood, like palsy. We are more than we seem, and we build these places to try to explain our bewilderment at our imperfect state.”
“Jacopo,” she murmured with a gentle laugh. “He is my brother, and I love him dearly. My impetuousness mirrors his caution. But one day a woman will trap his heart, and then his pretty theories will fall down like bricks in a child’s toy castle.”
I felt well, I felt whole. Rebecca had healed me. And why not? The Levis were a family of physicians.
“Thank you,” I said, and gingerly, with the soft, remote tenderness of a brother, I kissed her pale, warm cheek. She did not move. The temple was silent save for the erratic sputtering of the lamps below.
“Here is another piece of God,” she said, and quickly, with not a moment’s hesitation, unfastened the back of her dress, letting the black fabric fall open to expose, in the half light that came through the shutter, the fullness of her breasts, the colour of a marble statue in a rich man’s palace, and as smooth and perfect too. “Here.”
She took my hand and pulled it towards her, splaying the fingers. They came to rest upon this warm and lovely place. I felt her life pulsing beneath my touch. I felt the tightening of the tender rosebud trapped lightly in my grasp, heard the sudden short, halting breaths sucked between her teeth.
I brought my hand to her hair and, slowly, wishing that we might both record every moment of this for eternity, kissed her open mouth, our lips pressed firm together, our breathing as one.
She broke away, an urgent look on her lovely face, then stood up and, in one swift movement, pulled her dress over her head, clutched it modestly to her chest for a moment, then bent down to lay it carefully on the bare wooden floor as if to make a bed for us. I swear that at that instant I felt as if I could die. My lungs were starved of breath, my blood refused to course its natural path.
“Lorenzo,” she said, and tugged at my shirt, twisting open the buttons with a flick of the hand. “Lie with me now and I will remain yours always.”
I started to babble ridiculous sweet nothings, and she laughed, silenced me, and bade action. I threw an arm around her naked back, feeling the gracious form of its curves. Her body pressed urgently against mine. I disrobed and, wrapped around each other, we wound slowly to the floor. Thus, in the narrow corridor on the first floor of the Ashkenazi synagogue, on the island ghetto of Venice, I left my childhood behind and entered, willingly and with much joy, the adult world.
Afterwards, in the most unforeseen of locations, while setting a line of type or walking alone across the Rialto, a detail of that encounter would appear in my head out of nothing. This act is a blur of passion, a string of confused images and sensations. I recall the shock of feeling Rebecca’s tongue probing my mouth. I remember the sudden alarm and just as sudden passion that followed when, with her guiding hand, I found that secret part of her and discovered, beneath the luxuriant locks, the unexpected well of heat and dampness within.
That night shall live with me always, whatever the future holds for the two of us. Rebecca threw open the shutters of the world for me, and I can never remain the same hereafter. But one image remains uppermost in my mind. Ecstasy and agony walk hand in hand in this act, much as they do in life itself. At that point when our two bodies moved in such tight rhythm that we might have been a single creature, I opened my eyes, anxious to see her face in the moment of rapture. It remains an image I find both hypnotic and shocking. Eyes tight shut, mouth half-open, she had the look of the dead upon her. The long moan that issued from her throat might have been her last breath upon this earth. The French call this the little death, with much justification. I watched her so and found my own cries rising to mingle with hers in that narrow, ill-lit corridor, on the clumsy pile of clothes that scarce hid the hardness of the boards beneath.
I saw my love at this instant of rapture, and her face made me think of Lucia, distant Lucia, dead Lucia. Here was Rebecca’s most important lesson. That when life is as ephemeral as the beat of a butterfly’s wing, these moments of wonder give us reason to exist. And that, in itself, might be a gift from God.
33
The eel contest
PIERO INTRODUCED HIS VISITORS TO THE ESTATE slowly. He showed them the small vineyard and let them taste his homemade wine, which was brash and young, but very drinkable. There were fields of artichokes and broad beans. In a corner of the plot sat a patch of Treviso chicory sown for the winter, solid red hearts growing fat on the rich island soil.
They ate and drank, perhaps a little too well. Then Piero announced the “entertainment” and, bucket in hand, lurched to the small channel that ran inland from the lagoon. They watched him busy himself there, then walk to the cottage. In a few minutes he returned with the bucket, which was now full to the brim with what looked like black water. Beneath the surface, creatures moved, long, sinuous bodies circling, half-hidden.
“Squid ink!” Piero declared. “You see how it blackens the water. I caught them myself! And the eels too!”
Amy gave them all a worried look. “Before we go any further, let me say, here and now, I am not eating that.”
Piero stared into the murky bucket. “No, no, no! This is not about eating. This is the gara del bisato!”
Daniel saw the growing bewilderment on Amy’s face and translated. “The eel contest?”
“Sì! You come back in October, after we harvest the grapes. That’s when we do it proper. But now I show you. Watch!”
Piero walked forward, knelt, took a deep breath, then thrust his head almost completely into the bucket. The black water boiled with frantic bodies squirming around his scalp. Bubbles frothed on the dark, inky surface. Xerxes sat patiently by his master’s side, watching the show as if it were the most natural act on earth.
After an unconscionable period with his face in the water, Piero finally emerged. Gripped tightly between his teeth, wriggling to break free, was a large eel. Piero’s jaws had it firmly by the middle. With a bizarre, fixed grin on his face, he turned his head slowly so that everyone in the party might see. They spoke not a single word. Then he went back to the bucket, opened his mouth, and let the stunned eel fall back below the churning black surface of the water. Piero wiped his mouth with his sleeve, took a long gulp of wine, then beamed at Amy and said, “Now you.”
“Not for a million bucks.”
“Scacchi?”
The old man opened his mouth and pointed at his very yellow, very false, teeth. Piero made a small gesture, accompanied by a sympathetic noise. Paul shook his head. Laura stared at Piero, aghast, but a little intrigued too.
“And you wonder why they call you ‘matti’?” she declared. “I thought this was all a myth, Piero.”
He bristled. “It is a tradition. I guess you city folk aren’t up to it, huh? You just want to bob for apples.”
Laura swore gently, walked over to the bucket, and did her best to tie back her short hair.
“No!” Amy cried. “This is disgusting!”
“Listen. If this bumpkin can do it, so can I.”
“Not easy,” Piero said slyly. “There’s a trick. You want the bumpkin to tell you?”
Laura uttered a curse of such vulgarity Daniel was glad Amy seemed not to understand, then, without another word, pushed her head into the bucket. The surface writhed once more. Her auburn hair turned a darker shade with the ink, making Daniel believe, in an oddly disconnected moment, that this was perhaps its true colour.
She emerged, gasping, choking. There was nothing in her mouth.
“I told you there’s a trick,” Piero said, gloating. “You want me to tell—”
“Shut up!” She plunged back into the inky water again, was there for no more than a few seconds, then emerged. In her lips, struggling maniacally, was a large, powerful eel. Piero leapt into the air, shouting with glee. Scacchi and Paul, who appeared fascinated by this turn of events, applauded heartily. Daniel joined them. Amy simply stared, aghast.
Laura dropped the eel. It missed the bucket and darted off into the dry grass, looking very much like a snake. Then she stood up and waved her arms in the air, yelling nonsense, triumphant. The black water stained her skin and hair. She looked like a fake minstrel whose makeup was running. The applause grew louder. Piero sang, very briefly, an unintelligible dialect chant in which the only recognisable word was bisati, after which Laura sat down, picked up a teacloth, and wiped her mouth.
“What does it taste like?” Daniel wondered.
“Slimy. Don’t take my word for it. Try yourself.”
“No!” Amy almost screamed at him.
Daniel considered the decision. It was, in some way, a question of taking sides. “I’ll do it,” he said firmly.
Scacchi looked at him. “There’s no need. It’s just one of these crazy island things.”
“Please . . .”
Piero, sensing his determination, put the bucket back on the ground. Daniel walked over, knelt in front of it, and stared at the surface, which moved occasionally with the ripple of the creatures below. It was impossible to see precisely what lay beneath. There could be just a couple of eels or an entire clan.
“There is a secr—” Piero began to say, but Daniel didn’t wait. He breathed deeply, then sank his head into the water, eyes closed, mouth open, trying to work out what Piero’s trick might be. The water was icy cold. Soft, slimy shapes brushed against his cheeks. Once, a narrow, powerful body bumped against his lips. He tried to seize it tentatively with his teeth. The eel was free in an instant, and no more came close before the need to breathe forced him to the surface, gasping, shivering.
Amy had turned to one side, refusing to watch. The rest couldn’t take their eyes off him, Scacchi most of all. It was irrational, but in some way the old man seemed worried.
Daniel stared up at Piero and gasped, “Tell me.”
“You have to bite, Daniel,” the big man explained. “Not gently. Not like some aristocrat picking at his food. Eels are the most slippery things in the universe. You have to bite them like you want to eat them; otherwise, they’ll just get straight out again. It’s all or nothing.”
Laura had understood this instinctively, he realised. This was what set him apart from the lagoon people: his sense of distance, his unwillingness to engage himself fully in the sport of existence.
Daniel pushed his head back into the water, mouth open, jaws ready to seize, knowing Piero was correct. The creatures taunted him, touched his cheeks with their sleek, greasy bodies. Then one, a large one, brushed against his upper teeth and he gaped wide, biting, biting, until he sank into its flesh, holding on as tightly as he knew how.
He broke surface, opened his eyes, thrust his arms above his head. The fish struggled in his mouth with an astonishing strength, curling its long body into his hair, around his ears, struggling to be free. Daniel jerked himself upright with it still in his jaws. The city’s outline stood in the distance with the sun starting its downward journey to set behind the mountains. He opened his mouth, let the eel tumble to the ground and disappear. Its aftertaste, of slime and mud and grit, was disgusting. Laura was by his side in a moment with a glass of spritz. Daniel gulped at it and found, between the bittersweet drink and the taste of the eel, some odd resonance.
“Magnificent,” Laura said, and gave him a firm pat on the back. There was, he thought, an edge of sarcasm in her voice. “You and Piero are now blood brothers. Clearly you will make a Sant’ Erasmo matto any time. And a composer too!”
He choked a little, laughing, and found his head swamped by the idea that he might take this peculiar woman in his arms and, still tasting the mixed flavours of live eel and Campari in his throat, kiss her with a sudden, fierce passion. The notion was utterly bizarre, yet enticing too. Perhaps eels were hallucinogenic.
Something turned in his stomach, a dim, deep, bilious rumbling. Daniel belched, then, realising what was happening, raced to the small channel. When he was by the water, he began to vomit with a violent rapidity. He sat down and watched the proceeds float slowly away on the sluggish tide. His head was still spinning from the drink and the bizarre encounter with the eel. Something nudged at his knee. Xerxes’ face, comically concerned, stared up at him. He patted the dog’s damp fur, laughed, and closed his eyes. When he opened them, Laura was there, alone, rifling her bag for mints.
“Do you feel better now, Daniel?”
“Only physically. The rest of me feels as embarrassed as hell.”
“Oh, dear.” She handed him the sweet. He took it gratefully.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Laura asked, astonished.
He looked back at the rest of the party, who were now packing the picnic away, preparing to return to the boat. “For behaving like a fool.”
“Silly boy. You are too conscious of yourself, Daniel. You don’t honestly believe Amy thinks any the worse of you for this, surely?”
The idea had never occurred to him. Something else was on his mind, though he was unwilling to admit it.
“Daniel,” she said, suddenly very serious. “I’ve some advice for you. It is time for you to learn how to hold on to something real. This game you’re playing with Scacchi isn’t enough.” She hesitated. “You need to find out what it’s like to love someone. There. I have said it.”
He felt the heat rise to his cheeks and wondered what he looked like. He gazed at her hand on the ground and considered reaching for it.
“I know,” he said, not moving. “And I—”
“Good,” she interrupted. “This secret life you pursue is unhealthy.
Even Scacchi tires of secrets after a while. Tomorrow, he says, he has one to share with me. I am grateful for that. You three have been cooking something up in my absence, and I should like to know what it is.”
There was only one secret Scacchi could mean, and that was the existence of the elusive fiddle which had now, he assumed, been sold on to some new owner. Daniel could not understand why Scacchi would choose this moment to reveal it.
“And furthermore,” Laura continued, “Amy is so nice. So interested in you, Daniel. You. Not this music you are supposed to have written.”
“But...” His mind whirled.
“Good,” she declared, smiling, and patted his damp head before rising to her feet. “Then it is agreed. Tonight you will take her home to her hotel. Go into the city with her, Daniel. Escape from us for a while.”
“Laura!” he cried. But she was gone, back to the boat, where Xerxes now sat at the tiller, ready to depart.
34
Questions of authorship
&n
bsp; VENICE LOVES A MYSTERY, AND IT HAS TAKEN THIS ONE to its heart. Here are some of the theories bandied around the coffeehouses, though no member of the Venetian public outside the rehearsal room of La Pietà has yet heard a note of the work.
The mysterious figure is none other than Vivaldi himself, attempting to revive his flagging career with a little showmanship and a new name on the frontispiece. Or the German Handel, who has not been much heard of in the city since his Agrippina made an apparently sensational debut here more than twenty years ago. Handel now lives in London. The gossip says he smuggled the new work into Venice to test the water for his return, fearing the English taste for Italian-style opera is somewhat on the wane. The German doubts the lessons he learnt at the knees of Corelli and Scarlatti will pay his English rent much longer. There is, I am told, a satire on his style called The Beggar’s Opera, which is much in favour there.
After these two comes the real nonsense. The composer is a local gondolier who learned his talents singing for his supper while paddling the Grand Canal (find me a gondolier who knows a sharp from a flat and I’ll place a pile of ducats in front of the Basilica after breakfast and expect to see them there at supper time). The work is a lost opus of Corelli’s, recovered from his tomb when his cadaver was exhumed during building works in the Pantheon in Rome. A churchwarden in Santa Croce is telling his drinking friends he wrote the piece on the parish organ after the nightly flock went home. A man has heard from another man, whose impeccable sources must never be revealed, that a half-blind watchmaker with a tiny stall on the Rialto has painstakingly assembled the work note by note over many years, knowing he suffers from a terminal disease and impending deafness. Now this poor soul desires nothing more than to hear his creation played in La Pietà by Vivaldi’s gorgeous band before expiring, content in the knowledge that he has bequeathed to the world a musical masterpiece which will live forever.
