by S. D. Sykes
I caught her eye and smiled, as I could see she was ill at ease, but Filomena’s discomfort did not meet with universal sympathy. Each time she readjusted her posture, Mother gave a short snort of annoyance accompanied by a comment that the girl should really be staying in her bedchamber at this point in her confinement. In the end I asked Filomena, in Venetian, if she would like me to fetch one of the small feather bolsters from my bed, and given that neither her husband nor Giovanni was present, she was able to answer my question herself. When I returned with the bolster, she seemed genuinely grateful, and rewarded me with one of her sweet and seldom-seen smiles.
After this short episode we returned to an awkward silence, punctuated only by Bernard’s odd and nonsensical observations, to which nobody bothered to respond. It was only when Margery emitted a sudden and unexpected belch from beneath her wimple that the atmosphere was once again lifted. It was a resounding and rather odorous burp that prompted the rest of us to break out in laughter, but this moment of lightheartedness did not last, for a servant entered the room and handed me a letter.
“Who’s it from?” Mother asked, leaning over my shoulder, as I tried to open it. I pivoted, so that she could not read the thing, then pulled at the seal, opening the spool of parchment. “What does it say?” demanded Mother.
I cleared my throat. “It’s from the galley master. That’s all. He says that we will have to carry on waiting for a berth for Jaffa.” I quickly crushed the letter in my hands.
“Let me see that,” she said, trying to snatch it from me. “Of course we cannot leave yet for Jerusalem. Venice is still at war.”
I threw the letter in the fire before Mother could make a second attempt to grapple it from me. “He just likes to keep me informed of the situation. That’s all.”
She cocked her head. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
How could I tell her what the letter really said, and who it was really from? That it had been written by Vittore, saying that he had heard the sad news of Enrico’s death, but also warning me not to use this as any sort of excuse. I still had one week to repay my debt.
Chapter Eight
We set out at first light the next morning for Burano, after Giovanni had decided that we would hire a boat from the oarsmen who plied their trade on a jetty near the Rialto Bridge, rather than use the family’s sàndolo. This way, he argued, we would not have to answer any questions from the household regarding our destination.
However, it was impossible to leave Ca’ Bearpark without drawing the attention of my mother. “Where are you going, Oswald?” she asked, as we were about to close the main door of the house. She held Hector in her arms, though the small dog had spotted a rat in the street and was trying to free himself urgently from Mother’s grip.
I had to think quickly. “Giovanni is taking me to one of Enrico’s haunts. It was his favorite tavern.”
“At this time of day?”
“Yes,” I said. “So we’d better hurry.”
I tried to close the door once again, but Mother put her foot across the threshold. “Oh do let me come with you, Oswald. I feel so cooped up in this place.” She whispered so that Giovanni would not hear her words, though, as usual, her whispers were perfectly audible to anybody with even the poorest hearing. “They are cooking up that terrible food again,” she said. “The whole house reeks of it, and I can hardly breathe.” To demonstrate her point, she gave an astonishingly loud cough. “And the company is appalling, now that poor Enrico has been murdered, and John has taken to his bed. My only companions are that foolish wife of his and that pair of dim-witted pilgrims.” She turned back into the hall. “Just wait a moment for me. I’ll fetch my cape.”
I went to respond, but Giovanni did so on my behalf. “My lady,” he said with a patronizing bend of his head, “you cannot join us. It’s not possible.” I had already formed the impression that Giovanni preferred women to keep their opinions to themselves, and this latest episode only confirmed my suspicion.
Mother clasped Hector to her breast. “Why ever not?” The dog let out a low growl. “That’s right, Hector,” she said. “We can join them, if we care to.”
I touched Mother’s arm. “The tavern might be too dangerous for you, Mother.”
“Nonsense. I’m not afraid of drunkards,” she said.
“But you know how there are robbers and cutpurses at every corner of this city.” It was one of her favorite phrases.
“I go out most days, Oswald,” she said indignantly. “And I have not been set upon by criminals.”
“But we will be walking,” I lied, before pushing the door to the street ajar, so that she might look out along the muddy alley that ran from the house toward the Canal Grande.
She only shrugged. “It is no matter to me. I shall wear overshoes.” I thought about the strange, stilt-like pattens that the rich women of Venice fastened to their shoes, so that they could walk about the city without their gowns dragging along the mud of the paths. Sometimes these pattens were so tall that the women could walk only with the assistance of a servant holding a hand at each side.
“But you will not be able to balance.”
“Of course I will. If Monna Filomena can walk in the things, then I’m sure I can manage.”
The conversation was interrupted by a gaggle of children, who ran up to the house, and were soon baying for our attention like a litter of starving puppies. I noticed immediately that their leader was the boy who had led me back to Ca’ Bearpark on the night of Enrico’s murder. He and his noisy gang of skeletal friends must have been hanging around ever since, in hope of some farther charity.
“Goodness me,” said Mother. “Not this lot again. I gave them some money, as you requested Oswald, and now they won’t leave.”
Giovanni shooed the children away in the harshest terms, while at the same time threatening to send out the house guards and have them arrested. The children dragged their feet back into their various nooks and crannies, but not without making a selection of rude gestures and cursing at us in their shrill voices.
They had pricked my conscience, so I forced Mother to part with a coin that I then threw to the boy, telling him to buy some bread for the others. This pathetic gesture caused a cheer of joy that resounded about the street like the chorus of a crowd at a jousting match. The children soon disappeared in the direction of the nearest baker, but their appearance had been enough to change Mother’s mind about leaving the house. She could not possibly join us on an excursion into Venice, so we should stop trying to persuade her otherwise. Giovanni glanced at me with confusion, not understanding Mother’s proclivity for changing her mind, but I did not acknowledge his look of disdain. For my part, I was pleased that Mother had confounded him.
By chance, we had only to wander to the end of our street, Calle Nuova, where the alley ended abruptly at the Canal Grande, to find a boat willing to take us to Burano. The journey would be long—given the two hours or so it would take for the oarsmen to row across the lagoon to this far island—but they were not discouraged from taking the fare as trade was slow at this time of the day. If the wind was in the right direction, they might even raise their small, square sail, and be back in Venice by the early afternoon.
I sat next to Giovanni on the middle bench of this long sàndolo, while one oarsman stood in front of us and the other behind, each balancing nimbly upon a raised platform. They faced forward to row, each moving a single oar through the water with two hands, so that we were soon gliding silently along the Canal Grande with only the slightest sensation of being on the water. We moved at a good speed, but I still had the opportunity to study the many grand houses that lined this stretch of water. Whereas Ca’ Bearpark faced an almost identical house across a narrow and dark canal, the palazzi that adorned each flank of this wide waterway were like two rows of jealous courtesans, each trying to surpass the other with the most lavish dress and extravagant jewels.
With their pointed windows, balconies, raised
loggias, quoins, and even marble-encrusted oculi, the palazzi of the Canal Grande were nothing like the castles of England. Our grandest residences are surrounded by land. And yet more land. But in Venice, wealth has nothing to do with the ownership of fields, forests, or lakes. It has nothing to do with the wheat yield an estate can grow, or the number of sheep it can shear. Wealth comes from finding a trusted supply of goods from the East and selling these goods at a profit in the West. The wealthiest men of Venice are not earls and barons. Instead they are merchants, with a reputation to uphold. And what more visible way is there to announce your wealth to the world than by heaping more and more ornamentation upon your home, particularly if it is situated in the best location in Venice. And so most palazzi of the Canal Grande reach upward to the sky, perhaps three or even four stories high. They are decorated with statues and mosaics, twisted columns and great, ostentatious water gates that lead out onto the canal for all to admire. They are filled with beautiful furniture, carpets, tapestries, and art. And let us not forget—beautiful women.
Giovanni spoke constantly as we sailed, pointing out the many churches or monasteries that could be seen in the distance. His commentary was repetitive and dull, however, and I soon found myself paying little attention to his words, other than to make the occasional, empty response. Instead, I let the wind brush my face—a fleeting freedom from the constriction of the city, with its thin, stifling streets and tall, overbearing buildings. Out here on the water, there were no dark corners or hidden crannies. There was nowhere for my shadow to hide.
As we left the bustle of the Canal Grande, the oarsmen raised their small sail, and we ventured out into the vastness of the lagoon itself. The air now smelled of the sea, and the waters were harder to navigate. In the far distance, the mountains of the Dolomites rose into the sky—their jagged, angry peaks coated in snow. The wind was in our favor, and we soon passed the island of Murano, where the great glassmakers’ furnaces belched their smoke into a sullen sky. Heading east toward Burano, we then encountered an archipelago of lonely, unpopulated islands—hillocks of sand, tamarisk, and grassy reeds. Islands that might dissolve away into the marsh at any moment, and then be forgotten for ever.
Now that Venice had receded into the distance, I could let my hand fall into the water without fearing what I might touch. This was not something I would risk nearer to the city, where the water was infested with worse debris than rubbish—especially when the tides flooded the cesspits and pulled their effluent into the canals. Out here, on the lagoon, the water was clean, and the air was free of the eggy stink of humanity.
As we traveled farther and farther away from the city, we passed fishermen hauling their long nets into the hulls of their small piatte. Sometimes their catch was so large, I thought the weight of fish might sink the boat itself, but there was little danger of anybody drowning in this lagoon. In those areas where the channels are not dredged for larger ships, the water is only a few feet deep. I leaned forward and let a thin sun warm my skin, while a cormorant flew over my head, so close that I could almost feel the flap of its wings in my face. A distant bell tolled, and a seagull mewed. I felt content. I might even say hopeful. So much so, that I forgot about my debt to Vittore. I forgot about Enrico’s murder. I even forgot about my shadow, and for a moment, the world seemed at peace with itself.
And then a cold wind of winter stung my face, and I turned away to see that Giovanni was praying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The wind.” He pointed somewhere at the horizon. “It’s blowing from the island.”
“What island?”
He pointed again at an outcrop of land on the horizon. From this distance it seemed little more than a dismal, marshy bank, topped with a few ramshackle buildings that appeared to be falling down. “It’s the Lazaretto,” he whispered. “The lepers’ island.”
“What are you scared of, Giovanni?” I said. “You cannot catch leprosy from the wind.”
Giovanni closed his eyes again and returned to his prayers, so I looked back at the island. Now it was little more than a smudge on the skyline, disappearing beneath a low, billowing cloud that had rolled in from the sea. This cloud was dark and formless at first, but then it gathered into a familiar shape, with a lolling head, long arms, and fingers that reached out toward me across the lagoon. I closed my eyes and turned my back on it, for it was not real. I would not believe in it.
The oarsmen agreed to wait for us at the jetty in Burano, but only if we paid them another five soldini for their troubles. Giovanni made a great fuss about this expense, since he had made it clear to me on several occasions that he considered this whole journey to be a waste of time. In his opinion we should be following his master’s instructions and looking for Enrico’s lover. It was only when I convinced him that I would take full responsibility for this visit to Burano that Giovanni reluctantly untied the leather bindings of his money pouch and grudgingly passed over the coins to the oarsmen.
As we disembarked onto the quayside, I stretched out my arms and took a deep breath to fend off a wave of nausea. The cloud above the lepers’ island had unnerved me, though I pretended to be suffering from seasickness when Giovanni asked me if I was unwell. We then set off toward the house of the Bredani family, followed by gangs of children who gathered about us like noisy disciples, and watched by the men and women of the island, who conspicuously ended their conversations and turned to look as we passed.
Giovanni was aware of this scrutiny, but strode forward with the determination of a hound that has picked up the scent of a hind. When I asked him to slow down, he refused, pointing to the clouds that were gathering in the sky, before warning me that we should not delay, as we risked sailing back to Venice through a fog. At this resolute speed, we soon reached a small house in a backstreet, which, Giovanni claimed, was the right building—though I must say it seemed unlikely at first sight. This was an impoverished place, squeezed into a tight corner between two taller homes—its walls bulging into the street like the swelling in the fork of a tree. Much of the stucco had fallen from the walls, revealing weathered bricks that gave support to a spindly vine.
“Are you sure that Monna Filomena lived here?” I said, finding it hard to disguise my surprise.
My companion straightened his tunic and smoothed his hair. “Yes, Oswald. This is the exacting house.”
“You mean exact.” He tried to argue, but I held up my hand to prevent a reply. “How do you know?” I asked.
“Because I once lived on this island.” Giovanni delivered these words as if this were a confession. An admission of shame.
This was another surprise. With his fashionable, elegant clothes and his soft, manicured hands, there was not the slightest trace of Burano about Giovanni. “Did you know Monna Filomena before she married?” I asked.
He lifted his eyes to the sky. “I knew of her. Yes.” He grunted a laugh. “Which man didn’t?”
“Does your family still live here?” I said, ignoring his barbed gibe.
At this question, he reached instinctively for the ring of keys that still hung at his belt. “No. They died in the Plague. All of them. So I left this island soon after.”
“To work at Ca’ Bearpark?” I asked.
Giovanni nodded. “Yes. I can read, and I learned arithmetic,” he said. “I offered my services to many families in Venice, but Master Bearpark gave me the best opportunity.” He licked his finger and held it up in the air. “Now, we should be quick,” he said, deftly changing the subject. “The wind is turning.”
Giovanni then thumped at the door to the dilapidated house, causing some interest from passersby, but eliciting no response whatsoever from within. He tried again, and this time an ancient woman pushed open a shutter and then peered out at us, squinting to see Giovanni’s face. It was clear that she recognized my companion, but there was no affection in their reunion, and it was only with great reluctance that she admitted us into the house. We stepped through a low door into a sm
all and dark chamber, where the cries of a child in the neighboring house could be heard through the thin walls. Through the smoky gloom, I saw another individual crouched near the fire. I guessed this old man was Filomena’s father, for, though his face was as gnarled and twisted as a staff of waxed blackthorn, I could see something of her features in his profile.
The old woman offered me a bowl of wine in a dialect that I could not understand, but Giovanni refused it on my behalf, causing her to slam down the bowl with some affront.
“Don’t upset them,” I said. “We need their help.”
Giovanni inhaled, puffing up his chest. “They offered you bad wine, Oswald. It’s an insult.”
“I don’t care about the wine. Just ask them where Adolpho is.” I took his arm. “And do it politely.”
Giovanni bowed his head, though I noted that my question was still delivered in the tone of a man attempting to train a dog. It was therefore not surprising that Adolpho’s parents gave short, hostile mumbles in response to his questions.
“They say that they don’t know anything,” said Giovanni in the end. “They think Adolpho is at Ca’ Bearpark, working for my master.” He added a sigh, as if to emphasize his opinion that this whole journey had been a complete waste of time.
“Very well then,” I said, refusing to be riled. “Ask them when they last saw Adolpho.”
After a farther mumbled conversation, some of which sounded argumentative, Giovanni translated their answer. “They say they haven’t seen Adolpho since he left for Venice. Months ago.” This time the sigh became a more effusive Venetian shrug. “You see, Oswald. I knew it was foolish to come here.”
I would not be so easily defeated. “Ask them if they know where Adolpho might be hiding. Does he have friends on this island, for example? Or where does he like to drink?”
The old couple shook their heads in response to each question and shrugged repeatedly in earnest. It appeared that they knew absolutely nothing about anything.
