by Debbie Rix
She carefully pulled out the rolled-up tree and laid it out on the kitchen table, after first wiping away all the crumbs and butter smears left over from breakfast. She moved her coffee cup onto the dresser. God forbid that she spilt anything on this now.
Laid out, the tree measured over three feet. At the top was Niccolò dei Conti. Beneath him were his two children, Maria and Daniele. There was the name of his wife, Roshinara, and two other children who appeared not to have survived into adulthood. In fact, looking carefully at the dates, she realised that Roshinara, Magdalena and Dario had all died in the same year. Maria had married Peter Haas and had four daughters. Her eldest daughter Magdalena had married Cornelius. They, she now realised, were the couple in the painting that Anstruthers showed on the day of the sale. It was fascinating to discover what had happened to them; they had had eight children, two of whom had not made it to adulthood.
Fascinated, she read on through the generations. A delicate sepia-painted line ran down through the tree, through the names of Maria, Magdalena, Maria Margret, Beatrice and on and on until it arrived at Greta Kaerel, Hubert’s mother. Hubert had been an only child and as he and Celia had never had children, it seemed the direct line had come to an abrupt end. What was the meaning of the line? Was it, as Celia had suggested in her letter, the line of inheritance?
An only child herself, Miranda had no one to consult, apart from her mother, who appeared to have little interest in the tree. ‘Well, it’s not really our family, Miranda,’ she had said when told of the extraordinary parcel Miranda had received that day. ‘It was really Hubert’s lot – nothing to do with us.’
Miranda rolled the family tree carefully back up and put it away in her bedroom. But when Georgie came home from school, she took it out and laid it out on the sitting room floor.
‘That’s so cool,’ was her daughter’s verdict. ‘I mean, granny is right. It’s not as if these people are our actual relatives, but we are sort of related, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, G, I think we are.’
Miranda thought about the generations that had gone before her; she felt a bond with these women going back through time. Some had noted their occupations, or, presumably, their husband’s occupations, next to their names: maiolica potter, merchant, importer, founder of the VOC. Later generations had diversified: landowner, banker, mine owner. Some had joined the professions: doctor, engineer, architect. The cities where they had lived – Venice, Bruges, Antwerp, Amsterdam, Stockholm, Gothenburg, Copenhagen, New York, Hong Kong, Sydney, Cape Town, London – were also marked, as if this was crucial to their identity. It read like a roll call of the development of the merchant classes from the Middle Ages to the present day.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t know Aunt Celia better,’ said Georgie. ‘I only met her a few times, at Granny’s house.’
‘Yes… I’m sad about that too,’ said Miranda. ‘I saw more of her when I was a child of course, when my own grandmother was alive. They were close – the two of them.’
Miranda took an old photo album down from the shelf and laid it on the coffee table for her and Georgie to look at. There were pictures of her in her grandmother’s house in the country, playing in the garden, doing handstands and cartwheels. Showing off. Two elderly ladies sat in deckchairs gazing at her and laughing – her grandmother and great aunt Celia. They would have been no more than seventy then, but seemed ancient to her at the time. Behind them stood a tall, gaunt man, smiling faintly. He looked tired, exhausted almost. This must be Hubert, she thought. She had a distant recollection of him smoking his pipe, banging it on the edge of the table to empty the contents of the bowl. A sudden flash of memory came to her – Hubert doing magic tricks at the lunch table, bringing coins out from behind her ears. She had been fascinated. He must have died soon after. He’d had cancer, and looking at him she could see the illness was already there, already taking him away from his beloved Celia. Next to Hubert stood her own mother, looking on fondly at her only child. How like her own daughter she had been then. Tall, graceful, fair-haired, wearing a peasant skirt and cheesecloth shirt, she looked quite trendy; nothing like the grey-haired, elegant matron her mother had become. She wondered who had taken the photograph – her grandfather, perhaps? Or her own father? There were other pictures from that time: the family on a stilted walk round a park, the older members all gazing on fondly as Miranda fed the ducks, or played on the swing. There were pictures of her in school uniform, her in a Brownie outfit. As she turned the pages, she watched herself growing up through the lens of her father’s old camera. Miranda in a long dress for the first time – on her way to a dance. Miranda with her arm through Jeremy’s; he standing tall and erect, skinny and uncomfortable in his black suit and shiny shoes. Miranda in a pretty dress and hat, at a friend’s engagement party.
Miranda’s wedding to Guy. And there, at the edge of the family wedding portrait stood Celia. No Hubert – he had died by then. She smiled bravely for the camera, but Miranda realised it must have been very hard for her that day, looking on as her only niece married, setting off on her own journey in the world.
The family tree gave Miranda, and to some extent Georgie, a sense of their own history. They became fascinated by the cities where Hubert’s ancestors had lived.
‘We shall visit them all, Georgie – over time; would you like that?’
‘I’d love it! It sounds amazing. Where shall we start?’
‘Venice,’ pronounced Miranda. ‘It has to be Venice – where Niccolò came from. I’ve always wanted to go there. Your Dad and I were going to go for our honeymoon, but in the end we never did.’
Georgie squeezed her mother’s hand.
‘It’s all right, G, I’m over him long ago. The only good that came out of our marriage was you and I thank God for you every day.’
* * *
And now here they were, approaching Venice from the sea, much as Maria dei Conti had done all those years before. Stepping onto the launch at Marco Polo airport, Miranda could see Venice in the distance. As the boat picked up speed they roared past the island of Murano towards the main island, skirting the northern edge of the district of Castello. As they motored round the tip with Castello on their right, the Lido – a long thin sliver of an island – far away to the left, they passed the island of San Giorgio Maggiore, with its magnificent church, its grey green cupola glittering in the sunshine. The boat slowed down as they got closer to their destination, the driver skilfully jockeying for position amongst the pleasure boats, motor taxis, vaporetti and gondolas. The cupolas of churches and spires of the campanili rose up amidst the russet and yellow roofs of the city.
And then the Piazza San Marco lay before them; a picture-perfect postcard of a place. The landmark buildings: St Mark’s Cathedral, the clock tower, the Campanile and next to them the Doge’s Palace, all unchanged since they were captured so spectacularly by artists through the years, so familiar and yet, to Miranda and Georgie, utterly new and exciting; their ancient exteriors at odds with the camera-laden tourists and the hawkers of cheap tat who filled the Riva degli Schiavoni.
The driver expertly manoeuvred the launch up to the landing point for the Danieli.
Once the boat had been made safe fore and aft, he helped Miranda, Georgie and Jeremy out of the boat and up onto the quayside. A bellboy from the hotel rushed to assist them, carrying their cases and gushing enthusiastically, anxious to demonstrate his mastery of English. Miranda had booked a pair of suites on the top floor and they were to be treated with kid gloves.
As the three walked into the imposing lobby of the hotel, Georgie looked around her at the impressive pillars that drew the eye to the intricately carved and painted ceilings. Collections of velvet chairs were clustered together in front of leaded windows. The overwhelming effect was of comfort and old-fashioned glamour. They registered at the desk that stood beneath the imposing oak staircase.
‘Welcome to the Danieli,’ said the hotel manager.
‘Wow! What a place,’ Ge
orgie whispered to her mother. ‘Not exactly Venice on a shoestring, is it?’
‘No, G, it’s certainly not that,’ her mother whispered back. ‘Not sure there’s a useful “austerity” blog to be done from this place.’
Once installed in their apartment, with its bedrooms and en-suite marble bathrooms on either side of a large sitting room, Georgie opened the French windows and stood on the balcony, gazing out to sea. There was a knock on the door.
‘That will be Jeremy,’ said Miranda. ‘Let him in, will you?’
‘So, Jeremy – what do you think of this?’ Georgie gesticulated wildly around the sitting room. ‘Is your room nice too?’
‘Yes my love, it’s fantastic, and it’s just next door. I too have a sitting room all to myself! Thank you so much, Miranda. A normal room would have been fine for me, you know?’
‘It’s my pleasure. A bit of luxury, I know. But I thought, just this once – we’d go a bit mad.’
They stood together on the balcony overlooking the lagoon. If they looked straight down they could see the Riva degli Schiavoni, full of traders and shoppers; slightly to the right they could clearly make out the church on the Isola San Giorgio Maggiore; if they leant over their balcony and peered far to the right, they could see the edge of the Piazza San Marco; and far away in the distance, the Lido.
‘There is so much to see here. Where shall we start?’ asked Miranda.
‘With lunch,’ said Jeremy firmly. ‘Then we should just wander, I think. We can make a proper plan tonight over dinner. How does that sound?’
They spent their first afternoon getting their bearings, moving in increasingly large circles from the Danieli. They explored the dark narrow alleyways, emerging into sun-filled squares and piazzas. They drank freshly squeezed orange juice and dark coffee at cafés dotted around the city. They wandered into gloomy churches and gazed at frescoes and paintings. As the afternoon wore on, Georgie said, ‘Ma, couldn’t we go on a gondola?’
They stopped at the gondola station at San Marco and negotiated a price.
‘My God,’ said Miranda, ‘it’s jolly expensive.’
‘Well we don’t have to go,’ Georgie said pragmatically.
‘No, we can afford it, can’t we? Come on, pile in.’
‘Is there anywhere in particular you want to go?’ the gondolier asked in perfect English.
‘Not especially,’ said Miranda, ‘but maybe some of the smaller canals.’
Their journey took them first down the great waterway, the Grand Canal. It carved its way through the city exploding with traffic: vaporetti filled to bursting with tourists and locals going about their business; slick speedboats cruising slowly along the waterway, their inhabitants surveying lesser mortals on public transport with disdain. Gondolas bobbing along, the wash of the vaporetti creating eddies, the gondolieri expertly navigating the tricky waters. The buildings on either side impressed and excited – perfect examples of Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque architecture; Byzantine and Ottoman influences abounded everywhere.
Occasionally, smaller, more intimate properties nestled between larger, grander palazzi, with tiny gardens leading down to the canal, a wooden landing station positioned at the water’s edge, a private speedboat rocking gently as the larger craft swept by. A cleaning lady shook out a carpet in one garden; clouds of dust flew around her as she banged it with a cheap plastic carpet beater; in another, a young man sat in a deckchair reading contentedly, in the shadow of the palazzo next door. He looked up as the family floated by. Georgie waved at him and he waved back before returning to his book. Everywhere were signs of humanity superimposed on a remarkable living, breathing architectural miracle. They floated beneath the Rialto Bridge, teeming with shoppers and tourists, and drifted on past the Fondaco dei Tedeschi.
‘The merchant house,’ the gondolier said, pointing at the building. ‘For the Germans.’
He manoeuvred his craft expertly to the far side of the broad waterway and slipped silently down a side canal. The sounds and sights changed instantly. Gone were the tannoys of the vaporetti, the low gurgling of the speedboats idling along the Grand Canal, impatient to be out into the lagoon where they could open up the throttle and let rip. Here in the small waterways, it was mainly the silent gondolas that held sway. Just an occasional greeting between gondolieri interrupted the silence. Swans sailed past in stately fashion; birds flew overhead, heading towards the Riva degli Schiavoni and the open sea.
As their journey came towards its close, they found themselves on Rio dei Greci. They floated gently down towards the lagoon at the far end, and Miranda gazed up at the houses to right and left.
‘That’s a beautiful house, isn’t it?’ She was staring at large house, painted a shade of dark red, with eighteen windows overlooking the canal. A small speedboat was tethered to the wooden landing station. Adjacent to the house was a gated archway.
‘Where does that little archway lead to?’ she asked the gondolier.
‘To the convent. That house backs onto the Church of San Zaccaria. The convent was next door.’
‘Was?’
‘Si, it’s the local police station now.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said Miranda. ‘Is there no call for convents anymore?’
‘Venice was filled with convents, signora; now, not so much. The Church has less power and we have no need to banish our daughters to a convent life.’ He smiled at Georgie and winked at her, causing her to blush.
The gondola floated under the bridge connecting the two sides of Riva degli Schiavoni and deposited the family at the landing station of the Hotel Danieli.
‘Let’s go and look at that church, shall we?’ suggested Miranda.
They walked round the corner and found themselves almost instantly in the Campo San Zaccaria. The Church and convent stood side by side. But the convent, as the gondolier had said, was now a police station, its ancient exterior at odds with a pair of automatic sliding glass doors. Miranda rang the bell.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’ asked Georgie.
‘Here, if you look through the doors you can see the convent behind. I’d like to see it. Wouldn’t you?’
A bored-looking policeman buzzed the three tourists in.
Miranda, fumbling with her novice Italian, attempted to explain what they wanted. ‘Vuolo visitare, il convento – e posso?’
The policeman held up his hand and called through to a colleague in the next office.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ asked the policeman in English.
‘Oh, thank you, yes,’ said Miranda with relief. ‘I am interested in looking round the convent.’
‘I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that won’t be possible,’ responded the policeman firmly.
‘I am a writer,’ continued Miranda. Georgie and Jeremy looked at her with surprise. ‘And I am writing a history of this beautiful church and its convent. I would so appreciate the chance to look around.’
The policeman looked at his colleague, who gave a subtle nod of his head. ‘OK, but only for a few minutes. We are busy, you understand?’
‘Yes, yes I do. Thank you so much.’
He held his pass up to an electronic reader at the side of a second pair of glass doors, which slid open, revealing the pale apricot and cream interior of the cloisters. The family wandered through, accompanied by two police officers.
‘May I take a few pictures?’ asked Miranda, indicating her phone. ‘For research?’
‘Si, si, but no police.’
‘No, of course.’
The cloisters stood around a central grass courtyard. Wooden doors intersected the white inner walls at regular intervals, presumably leading to the nuns’ cells. A pair of elaborate carved doors led to an old chapel, now a small sitting room and café for the police – an incongruous mix of high church and fast food. At one point, Miranda wandered towards a heavy iron grille that led onto the canal – the Rio dei Greci. A policeman stepped in front of her.
‘No, signora.’
As Miranda stood in the cool cloisters gazing about her, she thought back to the family who had returned to Venice from the East all those years before – Maria and Daniele with their father. In preparation for their visit to Venice, she had visited the British Library a week earlier and had been allowed to view dei Conti’s diary. She had taken photographs of it on her phone and had since done some further research on the merchant explorer. She was fascinated by his extraordinary life. He had left Venice as a young man, barely out of his teens, and studied Arabic in Damascus. He had joined an Arabian caravan en route to Baghdad, sailed the Persian Gulf as far as Oman, where he learned Persian. He had crossed India, and on to present-day Sri Lanka. From there to Sumatra and thence to China. Leaving China he visited the Spice Islands – Sunda and Banda – before travelling to Vietnam and Cambodia. On his return journey he travelled via the Malabar Coast, across the Red Sea and to Cairo, where his disguise as a Persian merchant was uncovered. His life and that of his family were threatened, forcing him to convert to Islam. He then tragically lost his wife and two of his children and servants in an epidemic in Cairo. He arrived finally in Venice accompanied by just two of his children – Maria and Daniele. On his return he had begged absolution and had dictated his diary to the scholar Poggio Bracciolini. In all, he had lived a long and remarkable life.
But after reading the detail of Niccolò’s journey, it was frustrating to know so little about his life once he returned to Venice. What had their lives been like? Where had they lived in Venice? What had happened to Maria and how did she come to meet her husband Peter and move to Bruges?
