“Of course not,” Mother says firmly. “Donata’s friends are all noble daughters.”
“But I’ve seen one of his maps, Father. At the Brandolini home. It shows Venice from above, as though the mapmaker were flying. I think we should have a map like that.”
Father’s mouth curves up at one corner. “You do?” He leans across his plate toward me. “That’s quite a suggestion from a daughter.”
“I didn’t mean it as a suggestion,” I say quickly. Please, I’m begging in my head, please don’t sweep this away as an impertinence. “It’s more a hope,” I say aloud. “The map is beautiful. And Venice belongs to all noble families, after all.”
“Venice does belong to all noble families. It’s a good idea, daughter. We can think about it later.” Father looks across the table. “We have other things to talk about now.” He clears his throat. “In fact, though, I’m glad our . . .” Father pauses and looks at me.
“Donata.” I’m used to supplying my name, just as Laura is.
“. . . our Donata has so auspiciously brought up the fact that Venice belongs to us, and, hand in hand, we belong to Venice—facts that carry certain duties. Yes, I’m grateful to Donata, for this is precisely what I want us to focus on today.” Father’s voice assumes the tone of an announcement. “By the Venetian law of 1242, all sons share equally in the inheritance of their parents. You know this law well,” he says.
We nod.
“It’s a good law,” says Father, “because it ensures a kind of equality among brothers that engenders family loyalty. In some of the other city-states outside Venice, only the oldest son inherits. The rest must prevail on the generosity of the oldest or join the priesthood or set out on their own, which almost certainly dooms them to a life of meager means.”
Yes, Venice’s way is better, I think. More fair. For the boys, that is. For the boys it is truly a serene republic.
“So, as you well know, the natural result of this law is that only one son can marry,” says Father. “This is not law, but, rather, a tradition based on common sense. If every son married and had sons of his own, the family wealth would be squandered away to nothing in the span of a few generations. So only one son marries, and the rest live in fraterna—in a state of brotherly companionship—in the ancestral home, with plenty of money all their lives.” He looks meaningfully from one to the next of his sons, all the way around the table. “When these brothers die, their wealth passes to their nephews—only one of whom, in due course, will marry and have sons. And so it goes, on and on, conserving the wealth and protecting the family forever.”
Nicola grabs something from Bortolo under the table. Bortolo jabs him with an elbow.
“Excuse us, please,” says Aunt Angela. She gets up and lifts Nicola into her seat and takes his, placing herself between them.
Bortolo makes a face at Nicola across Aunt Angela.
The little ones are restless—and with reason. Nothing Father has said so far is news.
“Francesco is twenty-two,” says Father, “only three years from manhood.”
“Three years from when I clothe myself in a black gown,” says Francesco. “But I am already a man, Father.”
“I stand corrected.” Father smiles at Francesco. “In any case, it is time to discuss the future of this family, and, hence, the future of my sons.”
“And not just marriage, Father,” says Piero. “Our educations must be discussed. My best friend has already been attending university for years, but I’m still working with a private tutor, after thirteen years.”
“For good reason,” says Father. “By having you boys study at home, I have the chance to talk with your tutor and to watch you. I understand your different strengths. And you have the chance to find your own preferences.”
“How can I find a preference when the lessons are so easy?” Vincenzo says. “The tutorials bore me, Father. Completely.”
“I agree with Vincenzo,” says Francesco. “I learn everything I need to know by walking round the markets, listening to the traders.”
“You see?” says Father. “Francesco has just proved my point. He’s learned things about himself. Your friends, Piero, may already be at the university, but they are pursuing a course of study chosen for them, not by them. A good life is one of service to the Republic, and, thus, to God. But a happy life is one in which that service brings personal satisfaction as well. Your grandfather was wise enough to teach me this.”
“And your father is wise enough to teach you, in turn,” says Mother.
“Francesco,” says Father, “your words reveal what I myself concluded. Your strengths lie in the love of the hustle and bustle of the marketplace.”
Francesco’s eyes shine and he smiles close-lipped, with appropriate dignity. Father is saying what we all know is true.
“I see a future for you in exports, wheeling and dealing.”
Francesco nods, his smile wider now.
“You can have this balestreria—a position on a merchant ship. The government will endow part and I can pay the rest. This will give you a chance to learn the arts of Mediterranean trading.”
“I’ve always wanted to travel,” says Francesco.
“I thought so. I’ve seen you enthralled, listening to Uncle Leonardo’s stories whenever he comes home.” Father’s eyes grow very serious. “And I can see more in your future. Eventually, I see a place in the Senate committee that regulates foreign trade.”
Francesco’s immediate surprise turns slowly to glowing pleasure. With his willful ways, not a one of us imagined him rising higher than a minor magistrate.
“We need contentious souls to hold our strength abroad,” says Father, “and I know no soul more contentious than yours, Francesco.” He laughs.
The sense of celebration in the air makes us all laugh, even little Giovanni, playing on the floor again, who cannot possibly have any idea of what this conversation is about.
“To do this well, an education is needed. If you’re willing, my son, you’ll study law at the University of Padua beginning at the start of the next term. A year will suffice.”
Francesco gets up and comes to Father’s side. He kneels and kisses Father on each cheek. “I’m more than willing, Father. I see a purpose to my studies now. I will add to our family fortunes, you’ll see. I won’t disappoint you.”
“You never disappoint me, Francesco.”
Francesco goes back to his seat.
“Piero,” says Father.
Piero leans forward. His cheeks filled with color when Father spoke of the University of Padua. Though university study is not that common even among nobles, Piero has been wanting that openly for so long. Father has already committed himself to paying for Francesco’s balestreria plus a year of university. But he has to be willing to pay for Piero’s education, too. He simply has to be, or Piero couldn’t stand the disappointment.
“You’re a thoughtful scholar, though you’re but twenty.”
I watch Piero’s Adam’s apple go up and down as he swallows his anxiety.
“And you excel at teaching your younger brothers. They respect you.”
Piero lifts his chin, accepting the well-deserved praise. For it’s true: When Piero plays with the little ones, the game usually transforms itself into a lesson of sorts. Father has observed carefully, to notice this in him.
“But a year at the university wouldn’t serve you well.”
Piero’s face goes slack, as does mine. I don’t want him sad.
“You have a developed sense of both precision and justice. The combination makes you suitable to govern men, my son. You will practice your legal skills in the Saviato agli Ordini, then move on to the Senate, without a doubt. So, with your assent, I’ve arranged for you, as well, to start studies at the University of Padua. But your education, unlike Francesco’s, will take several years. You must be able to converse well with the heads of states in perfect Latin and Greek. You must know jurisprudence to the last detail. You must represent
your family, your country, and God in the best way you know how.”
Piero sits a moment, clearly stunned. His future rolls out before us. Several ambassadorships, then a governorship. He’ll be like Uncle Girolamo. Or maybe even like Uncle Giambattista, who talks with the Pope himself. My skin prickles into gooseflesh.
Francesco laughs. “It’s perfect, Piero. I’ll rake in the ducats, and you’ll spend them.”
Oh, I hadn’t even thought of the money. Most ambassadorships are unpaid posts. So it will cost our family a lot.
Piero grins. “But my prestige, dear Francesco, will allow you to get that eventual post on the foreign trade committee.” He lingers teasingly over the word “eventual.”
“I take it the plan is acceptable to you,” says Father.
Piero gets to his feet so fast that his chair falls backward. We all laugh. He rushes to Father, kneels, and kisses Father’s cheeks. “I will do everything in my power to be worthy of your trust.”
“And expense,” calls out Francesco. But it’s a good-natured jest.
“And expense,” says Piero, with a smile.
“You are already worthy of both,” says Father.
Piero returns to his seat.
We all look to Father. Could there possibly be more announcements?
He smiles at us, obviously enjoying the way his proposals have been received thus far. “Antonio,” he says. “It’s your turn.”
Antonio’s chest rises and falls visibly, he breathes so hard. “I love Venice, Father,” he says quickly, before Father can continue. “But I have no inclination for trade or travel—unlike Francesco—nor am I clever at studies—unlike Piero. I hold dear the values of the Venetian Empire, and of the city of Venice, and of our own cherished family. I will always toil faithfully. I want to stay here, in this city, a member of the Senate, eventually, if I am fortunate enough to be elected. That is the life I want, serving however I can.”
I hardly breathe. Antonio is my most placid brother. I’ve never heard him take control like this. And with Father, of all people.
But Father shows no surprise; he doesn’t hesitate. “Precisely my assessment, Antonio. The family will thrive in your hands someday.”
Antonio blinks. He’s confused, as we all are. All of us but Mother.
Mother reaches across the table and puts her hand on Antonio’s. “You’re the one to marry.”
“Me?” Antonio looks from Mother to Francesco. “But what about Francesco?”
Exactly my question. Father was the oldest of the brothers in his generation, and he was the one to marry. And his father was the oldest of the brothers of his generation. The custom in our family is clear.
Francesco lifts both hands, palms facing Antonio. “In my opinion, there are too many lovely gardens in Venice to enjoy only one.”
Paolina perks up. “The palazzo of the Nani family is said to have the most wonderful garden in Venice.”
We laugh, Paolina joining, though our silly little sister doesn’t know the joke’s on her.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” says Francesco.
“And you, Piero,” says Antonio. “What about you?”
“I’ve never hoped to marry,” says Piero. “I took it for granted that Francesco would be the head of the family.” He speaks slowly, as though working his way through his thoughts. “With all my serious studies ahead, and then the hardships and dangers of life abroad, a wife would have no place in my future. And, Antonio, the very fact that your first reaction is to check the response of your older brothers is proof that you value the peace of the family above all else. Father and Mother have not erred.”
Antonio smiles. “I would enjoy a family, it’s true. My own children.” His eyes are warm with joy. “My own children to climb all over me.”
“Just as you’ve let your younger siblings do.” Father smiles. “An education serves a father, as it does a senator,” he says. “The more you’ve studied, the better decisions you make.”
Antonio nods. “I see that, Father. I see that in you.”
“So, then, it’s settled. You will join your older brothers in Padua next term. They will commence the study of law at the university of jurists. You will commence the study of philosophy at the university of the liberal arts. For how long is up to you.”
Antonio gets up and walks to Father’s side. He kneels and kisses Father’s cheeks. “Thank you, Father. You will be my model.”
“Not in physique, I hope.” Father puts his hand on his large belly and laughs.
Antonio goes back to his seat.
Father picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth, a gesture of finality.
“But what about me?” asks Vincenzo.
“You’re the quick one,” says Father. “No one doubts that. But you still have much to learn about yourself. It’s not time yet to discuss your future. The next order of business is the family’s marriages. Antonio’s and Andriana’s. Andriana’s first, since Antonio’s must wait until he finishes his education.”
Andriana jerks to attention.
“But not this moment. I have several matters to deal with now. These are enough decisions for one day.” Father gets up and leaves.
Once he’s out of the room, Vincenzo scowls. “All the good choices are taken.” He counts off on his fingers. “Francesco will make the money, Piero will spend it, Antonio will make laws and babies. What will I do?”
But everyone is getting up and going about their business.
Everyone but Laura and me. We look at each other in perfect understanding. Father has said the next order of business is the family’s marriages. Antonio’s and Andriana’s.
He said nothing about Laura and me.
CHAPTER FIVE
LOVE
You look so glum.” Paolina squeezes my hand. “Come with me. Please. Giulia’s mother is going to a garden party at the Fiorazzo family’s palazzo in San Trovaso. She’s taking Giulia. And she invited me. I know she’ll let you come, too.”
San Trovaso is in the neighborhood called Dorsoduro. They’ll go in Giulia’s family’s gondola, directly to the steps of the palazzo; they won’t travel any intriguing alleys.
Still, there are many things you can see from a gondola, even through a veil.
And the Fiorazzo garden might be marvelous.
But when Paolina gets home, she will describe every wide leaf of fig, all the white bells of japonica, the scent of laurel. I will shut my eyes and feel I’m walking through grass, and think I breathe the wisteria. I don’t need to actually be in the garden myself.
Besides, if I went, I would watch the mothers’ faces as they beamed on their marriage-bound daughters, the way they’d insist the girls stay in shade to keep their skin perfect, the way they’d hover.
“You’d get to miss violin lesson,” says Paolina, coaxingly. “I know you hate it.”
Not even her slyness can bring a smile to my lips. “You go and enjoy yourself, Paolina.” I look over at Laura, who stands by our bedchamber balcony, just inside so that no one can see her from the outside. Her back is to us, and the curve of her shoulders carries the sadness I feel. “I need to talk with Laura, anyway.”
“Both of you should come with me,” says Paolina.
“We don’t love gardens the way you do,” says Laura softly, without turning.
“You need to learn to love something,” says Paolina. “Something besides men.”
Laura and I both look at our little sister.
Paolina stands solemn-eyed. “A garden is a like a whole group of children. Very quiet children—but very beautiful children, too. If you take care of plants, they grow and bloom. And sometimes they grow in ways you don’t want them to; they can be naughty.”
My silly little sister isn’t silly at all. I cup Paolina’s round face in my hands and press my cheek to her forehead.
“How long have you known?” asks Laura.
“Giulia’s mother told me two years ago. She explained why she allowed me to dig in the sun
with her gardener when she wouldn’t allow Giulia.”
“I’m sorry, Paolina,” says Laura. Tears roll down her cheeks. “I’m sorry for all three of us. And for Maria, too.”
“Don’t be sorry for me.” Paolina goes to the door. “I’m going to spend my life in wonderful gardens—maybe even here in our palazzo. I could make the most fragrant garden ever if Father would let me.” She stops, her hand on the doorknob. “Do you want to come?”
“Not today,” I say.
Paolina leaves.
I put my arm around Laura’s waist and she folds herself against me in sobs. Beyond her shoulder, I see the traffic on the Canal Grande. The nobles and citizens are like a sea of black gowns and barete, dotted here and there with the crimson of a senator. I watch the standing men sway with each movement of the gondola oar. From this angle, I don’t see a single woman in the boats. “In a few years our brothers will join the men in those boats.” I work to keep bitterness from my voice. “And they’ll get a wonderful education. All those years at the university. We should be glad for them, at least.” I swallow. “And especially glad for Antonio.”
“Don’t be brave, Donata. I can’t bear it. It’s terrible enough that little Paolina has to be so stoic.” Laura rolls her forehead hard against my collarbone.
I put my hand on her neck. “You’re right.” I pull the pins out of Laura’s bun and smooth her locks free down her back.
And now a brush is passing through Laura’s hair. Mother has come in silently. She moves the brush rhythmically. How much did she hear?
I step back, but Laura remains curved toward me, her torso forming a bereft hollow for her tears.
I take the pins out of my own hair and shake it free. Mother is still brushing Laura’s hair. Laura is still crying. She cries double, for both of us.
“Can’t we both stay here to care for Antonio’s children someday? Please, Mother,” says Laura.
“Rooms will be needed for Antonio’s family to grow. No one can know ahead of time how many rooms. And it is custom to have only one maiden aunt at home. If two are kept, then they’ll argue.” Mother’s words lack emotion. They come in regular beats, like the movement of the brush.
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