Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I’ve been waiting for that light for what seems like hours.

  I roll to my side and kiss Laura on the cheek. She murmurs in her sleep. Then I take Bortolo’s bareta out from under my pillow and stuff my hair up inside it. It all fits, every strand.

  The Catholic boys my age wear their hair cut to the chin. With this hat on, my hair looks as if it’s very short all over. But that’s all right. Some boys do cut their hair that short, especially if it’s curly. Some boys and men have beards, others are clean shaven. Some wear wood-bottomed sandals, others wear boots that come up to midcalf. There’s a lot of variation. I shouldn’t feel sick when I look in the mirror. Everything’s going to be all right. I won’t stand out as strange.

  Besides, in the fisherboy’s trousers I look poor, and there’s no regulating the dress and appearance of the poor.

  But looking poor is precisely the problem. The revolting beggar boy who spat in my face yesterday told me to stay out of his territory. I can’t do that, though. I have to pass through his territory to get to the Ghetto. And I have to get to the Ghetto; I owe Noè for the zoccoli and the yarmulke.

  If only there were a way to get to the Ghetto campo without going through the streets and alleys between here and there.

  A gondola. Our private gondoliere would never take me, naturally. He’d look at me as though I were crazy, just like Father looked at Laura last night at the evening meal when she asked if she and I could listen in on the boys’ tutorial. I just sat there like a dummy, so disappointed at his reaction that I was unable to argue in our defense. And the evening meal was seppie—those horrible, tough cuttlefish. That made me sadder still.

  But in my disguise, a public gondoliere would not look at me askance. I can’t go on a gondola in the Rio di San Marcuola. That’s too close to home. If a neighbor happened to get into the gondola with me, I’d have nowhere to hide and I could be recognized. But I can go over to the next canal—I think it’s called the Rio di Noale. I can take a public gondola up to whatever canal runs along the far side of the Ghetto, and never have to risk seeing that beggar boy at all. It’s a good plan.

  I pull the bareta off my head and open the balcony doors. Across the water and down a way, a new palazzo is being built. Its arches and columns are different from the other buildings of Venice that I know. I don’t like it.

  But the Canal Grande itself is a marvelous sight. Fishing boats and fruit and vegetable boats dot the water. A barge goes by, filled with barrel hoops. It’s from Padua or Treviso, where the wood is plentiful. It’s going to San Polo, just across the Canal Grande, where the barrel-making factories are. I know, because last night I made Mother sit down with me and tell me where all the different factories of Venice are. I thought she wouldn’t really know. But after she talked about the wool factories the other day, I wondered. She knew everything.

  Another barge passes, piled high with cow hides. The butchers in Dorsoduro and Cannaregio sell the hides to the tanners over in the San Marco section, who sell the finished leather to the shoemakers that line the Merceria. I know all this, some from Mother, some from my brothers, some from listening to Father. I know all this though I’ve never stepped foot in a butcher’s or a tanner’s or a shoemaker’s.

  I look down at my hands. I’ve twisted Bortolo’s bareta so hard that it’s begun to rip. In a frenzy, I stash the bareta back under my pillow and race out of our bedchamber, down the corridor to Mother and Father’s chamber. I burst through the door.

  Father sits on the end of the bed in his long nightshirt, looking out the window onto the canal, just as I was doing a moment ago. Mother sleeps behind him. He looks at me groggily; clearly he’s just woken.

  I kneel at his feet. “There are three hundred ninety-three members of butcher guilds. Two hundred forty members of tanner guilds. One hundred four members of shoemaker guilds. There are seven guilds altogether that deal with leather, if you include the guilds of artists who engrave and gild belts and purses.”

  Father knits his brows. “This is true.”

  “The fire that burned the Rialto bridge was in 1514.”

  “Yes,” says Father. “How do you know these things?”

  “My head is filled with numbers, Father. You put them there. I listen when you talk. But all you talk about is who manufactures what, who sells what, who buys what. The only reason I know the year the bridge burned is that it mattered to the flow of business, so you mention it now and then, Father. You talk about it. Before yesterday I didn’t know about the decree of 1516 that said the Jews should live in the Ghetto. I don’t know any history at all, I know nothing about the world, unless it has to do with commerce—and then I know whatever you say at meals or in conversations I overhear.”

  “What are you talking about, daughter?”

  “I’m Donata, Father. And I’m talking about an education. Please let Laura and me attend the boys’ tutorial.”

  “The boys have been studying since they were seven. How could you possibly understand anything that goes on, joining them now?”

  “We only want to listen. That’s all. We don’t have to be tutored ourselves. We won’t disrupt. We won’t slow anyone down.”

  Father slaps his chest and gives a deep cough, as though to clear his lungs. “You need your lessons on the harpsichord.”

  “It’s Paolina who studies the harpsichord, Father. Laura and I play violin. And we’ve had lessons for many years—just like the boys, we’ve been at it since we were seven—why, it’s been so many years that all we really need now is practice. And we can do that in the evenings.”

  Father rests his hands on his knees. He’s silent.

  “You are a wise father to your sons,” I whisper. “Please be wise to your daughters.”

  Father sucks in air and sits up tall. “Your audacity almost offends me, Donata. I fear for you.” He drums the fingers of his right hand on his knee. “But a mind that can hold so many numbers needs more nourishment, or it will languish and die. Yes, Donata. You and your sister may listen in on the tutorial.”

  I rest my cheek on the back of his right hand. “Thank you, Father. Thank you, thank you.”

  “But if I hear of any problems, this experiment ends. Immediately.”

  “I understand.” I stand and bend over to kiss him on each cheek.

  He pulls me onto his lap and holds me tight. “Be a good girl, Donata.”

  “I am, Father.” I hug him back.

  “And I’ll look into that map you asked about. The one by Jacopo de’ Barbari.”

  “Thank you, Father.”

  I return to our bedchamber and shake Laura awake. “Be good when you pretend to be me today, sweet sister.”

  Laura sits up and rubs her eyes. She looks around the room. “It’s barely dawn. What evil possessed you to get up? And what worse evil possessed you to wake me?”

  “I’m going out.”

  “In disguise? But you just went yesterday.”

  “I have to pay Noè for the zoccoli and cap.”

  “So I have to do all your work plus all mine two days in a row?”

  “You get to hear the stories of my adventures.”

  Laura makes a face. “Some adventures—getting spat upon and having a huge splinter in the middle of your foot.”

  “And entering the home of a Jew,” I say.

  “Yes,” Laura breathes. “All right, I admit it’s exciting. But you’re the one who actually gets to live the adventures. All I do is double work.”

  “How hard was the work yesterday?”

  Laura gives a sheepish smile. “Actually, Mother left instructions with Cara and went off early on some errand. So we didn’t do much else than a little stitching. Still, work is work, Donata.”

  “Would you rather be the one who goes out in the streets?”

  Laura shivers. “Never.”

  I smile and poke her in the ribs. “Then stop complaining. Besides, I have a surprise for you.”

  “Another Jewish cap?”

&nbs
p; “No. Noè only gave me one. It’s about this afternoon. Or, rather, every afternoon.”

  Laura curls her legs under her and sits on her feet. She looks like a curious cat. “What?”

  “We’re going to listen in on the tutorial.”

  Laura shakes her head. “But Father said . . .”

  “He changed his mind. I went to him this morning and he agreed.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” says Laura. “You’re the one who loves learning that sort of thing.”

  “It won’t be any particular sort of thing, Laura. The boys learn about everything. History, philosophy. The world. We can learn, too.”

  Laura gives a weak smile. “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Good.” I kiss her on both cheeks. “And now good-bye.”

  “You’re going so early?”

  “Yes. And you don’t mind if I give Noè my bead bracelet, do you?”

  “Why would you do that?” asks Laura.

  “I have to pay him somehow. And I don’t know how to get my hands on any money.”

  “I love Murano glass beads. If you give away your bracelet, then I can’t wear mine anymore. We wouldn’t want people to be able to tell us apart by our jewelry.” Laura goes to the dressing table and opens the jewelry box. “Here. Give him this gold brooch, instead. You lost yours, so I can’t wear it anyway.”

  “You’re right.” I take the brooch. “Wish me luck.”

  “In bocca al lupo—may you wind up in the mouth of the wolf,” says Laura.

  “Crepi il lupo—may the wolf burst,” I answer. I spin away, grabbing the bareta from under the pillow, and the trousers and shirt I washed last night. I race to the stairwell and down.

  No one’s about yet except Cook and Giò Giò. They’re banging around in the kitchen.

  I reach the ground floor and realize with a shock that Uncle Umberto is in the wine storeroom, which is next door to the yarn storeroom, where my shoes are stashed. While he cannot see, he hears everything.

  I hold my breath and strain to see into the dark of that windowless room.

  Uncle Umberto has clustered maybe twenty bottles on the floor of the storeroom. He fits a short bamboo cane into the spigot of a wine barrel. He takes one of the bottles and fits the other end of the bamboo into its mouth. Then he pulls the stopcock. The wine runs black into the bottle; the strong smell of Vernaccia wets the air. As it nears the top, my breath quickens. But at just the right moment Uncle moves the end of the cane to the next bottle, using his thumb as a stop in that instant between bottles. Though I cannot see the floor clearly from here, I know he doesn’t spill a drop—he never does. He fills the next bottle.

  Uncle works by sound. He explained that to me when I was little. He made me shut my eyes and listen and try to call out when I heard that the bottle was almost full. It was a good game, but I never mastered it. Uncle can do it with wine and oil and any other liquid I’ve seen him pour.

  It’s his job to empty the remains of the barrels so that they can be scrubbed out and brought to our summer home, where they’ll be refilled in the fall. He’ll probably do the entire job in a single day. Too bad. I like to be his helper at this sort of thing. I wish he weren’t doing it precisely today.

  As Uncle moves the cane to the next bottle, I tiptoe past and change in the wool storeroom, rolling my nightdress into a tight ball and jamming it in the back corner again. The bareta is slightly loose, because of the rip I made on the headband. But it will hold in place, I’m sure.

  Then I poke my head out of the storeroom and listen. When the sound of the wine stops for an instant, then restarts, I tiptoe quickly to the door and step out into the alley.

  I made it.

  I work my way along through the back alleys toward the Rio di Noale, keeping an eye out for beggar boys. But there aren’t any here. Naturally. They’ll stick to the wide roads where the merchant traffic is heavy.

  It’s easy not to get lost when my goal is simply to get to the next canal. That’s because all I have to do is keep my ear open for the noises of the Canal Grande and stay as close to those noises as I can. I quickly come out on the smaller rio and flag down a gondola. “To the Ghetto,” I say, climbing aboard.

  “The Rio della Misericordia. Right away.” The man pushes off from the bank. Then he looks me up and down. “Do you have the fare?”

  Oh no. I forgot to bring anything to pay for the gondola ride. How stupid I am.

  We’re bobbing in the center of the canal and the gondoliere is just looking at me. Another gondoliere yells at us to get out of the way. My gondoliere moves us to the far side of the canal. “Well?”

  “All I have is this gold brooch,” I say, trying hard to mimic his style of talk. “But it’s worth much much more than a simple ride. I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry.”

  “Where did you get that?” The gondoliere’s voice is harsh. “Thief.”

  I get out of the gondola, but I’m on the wrong side of the canal now.

  “Thief!” he shouts after me.

  I turn into the first alley at a full run, my too-big zoccoli slopping wildly. I haven’t had the chance to try to adjust them yet. The gondoliere’s shout follows me. I turn down the next alley.

  Smack. I’m on the ground.

  Screaming yowls fill the air.

  The big man looks down on me, each of his huge, gloved hands holding a struggling cat by the scruff of the neck. “Ran right into me, buddy.”

  “I’m sorry, gentle sir.” I get to my feet and brush off. I can’t hear whether the gondoliere is still shouting after me, the cat screams are so loud.

  “Now that’s a first.” The man laughs. “No one calls a cat castrator a ‘gentle sir,’ and never in such fine diction.” He laughs again. “Anyway, there’s no need for apology. The cats didn’t get away.” He purses his lips and throws back his head as though he’s sizing me up. “You look like you could use a job. And I could use a helper. Think you could catch cats?”

  I back around the man, keeping close to the far wall to avoid the thrashing claws of those feral cats. “I’m on my way somewhere, sir. Thank you anyway.”

  I go on quickly, but no longer at a run. If the gondoliere were going to follow me, he’d have caught me by now. But I should have known he wouldn’t follow me—for who, then, would have guarded his gondola?

  I follow the noises of daily business out to a wide street. It’s the Rio Terrà di Maddalena. Oh, thank everything that’s holy, I know where I am again. It’s a straight stretch from here to the Ghetto. But I have to avoid the beggar boy, and all beggar boys, no matter what. Somehow I have to find protection to get me down this road, over two bridges this time, to the wide road that marks the border of the Ghetto.

  And there’s a beggar boy. Not the same one as yesterday, but one who seems just as rough. He’s looking at me.

  Why can’t they leave me alone? I don’t have my hand out. I’m not crying for alms. I don’t put my bareta on the ground and sit beside it forlornly.

  He swaggers toward me.

  A cart rolls past with a stack of three new mattresses. A man pushes it, and a boy smaller than me runs along one side with his hand up to steady the load if the wheels should bounce too hard.

  I run around to the other side of the cart and hold my hand up to steady the load.

  “Get away,” calls the man. “I don’t need your help. I won’t pay.”

  “I’m not asking for pay, sir.” I skip the “gentle” this time and talk in the same colloquial way he does.

  “What are you doing, then?”

  “I have to go this route anyway. I might as well help till I get where I’m going.”

  “I don’t believe you,” says the man. “Scat.”

  “There are two bridges between here and where I’m going,” I say. “If you’re going that far, too, I’ll be of help getting the cart over them.”

  “You’re up to something. Scat, I said!”

  “Please, sir.”
I look at the man with my most pleading face. “If I’m with you, on this side of the mattresses, a boy I want to avoid won’t beat me up.”

  “Ah.” The man looks around and spies the beggar boy. “You should have said that in the first place.” He pushes the cart faster, encouraged by the fact that he has a helper on each side now.

  We go over the first bridge, clumping up and down the steps. It really is hard work. He wouldn’t have managed without extra help. I look over my shoulder. The beggar boy follows. I stare ahead. Shopkeepers call attention to their wares—eyeglasses, pins, needles, papers, Murano glass beads that Laura loves. So much. I want to look at everything, but I can’t take the chance of leaving the protection of the cart.

  We cross the second bridge, clump clump clump up and clump clump clump down. I look over my shoulder. The beggar boy has disappeared. Maybe I passed out of his territory. Maybe the whole city is marked off in grids by the beggar boys.

  We’re finally at the edge of the Ghetto. “Thank you, sir,” I say. “This is as far as I go.”

  The man reaches into a cloth bag hanging over his shoulder. He hands me a badly bruised orange. “A mattress-maker isn’t rich, but this should be a treat to you. Bet you haven’t seen fruit this season yet. That orange came all the way from Sicily.”

  “You’re generous, sir. Thank you, sir.” And I am truly grateful, even though in my home such a battered fruit would be considered unfit to eat. I am grateful because the feel of the orange reminds me I didn’t stop by the kitchen and grab my usual bread and jam for breakfast. I duck into an alley, peel the orange, and take a bite. The smell of sweet juice mixes with the smell of straw on my hand from the mattresses. It’s altogether pleasing. I sigh as I eat.

  It’s not easy to find Noè’s home. Every home seems to have that same metal marker outside it that Noè kissed when he carried me inside yesterday. But I’m almost sure I have the right one. I knock loudly.

  After a bit, a girl opens the door. She’s a little older than Sara, and I think I see a resemblance. She looks at me blankly.

  “Hello,” I say. “I’ve come to see Noè.”

  “Oh. I know who you are. Sara told me about you.”