Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Laura tells me all this, reporting word for word what the women say. She can’t go on the morning outings, of course, but she begged Mother so fervently that Mother relented and allowed her to come along to afternoon parties.

  Mother accompanies Andriana every time, as is required to protect her reputation. And when they are not on these outings, they are preparing for them. These facts are exceedingly lucky for me; there is almost no chance that my absence could go on for so long without detection if Mother were not thoroughly preoccupied. Each outing requires a dress for Andriana that no one at the hostess’s home is likely to have seen yet. So Mother takes Andriana to the dressmaker to be fitted. Then, when the basic dress is done, Mother and Aunt Angela and Cara and Andriana cluster together—leaving the care of the younger children to Laura—and they embroider the sleeves of the dress or sew on lacy decorations, as they sip the tasty Brognolo wine that Cara’s sister brought her from Friuli. When the hostess exclaims over Andriana’s dress, it is important that Andriana be able to say, “Thank you, but I really haven’t mastered this stitch so well yet,” as she points to a section she did—giving the impression she did all the decorations. Home skills are valued, even among the nobility.

  Last night Andriana modeled her favorite dress yet for all of us girls. The bodice isn’t so low as on some of her dresses, where I fear she’ll spill out if she leans forward. But, oh, this bodice is stunning: green silk, lush with pink and green ribbon flowers all over the front. The ribbon flowers were Andriana’s idea. So when the next outing comes, she will truly deserve the praise she receives.

  Laura will report it all to me.

  I can’t imagine that it’s anything but torture for Laura to bear witness to these events, since she so much wishes she was being looked over, too. And the thought that Andriana is now believed to be a fine musician has to grate on her, as well, since Laura is the true musician of the family. But Laura has said nothing sour to me. Not a word.

  Then there are other gatherings where the noble families are trying to show off their daughters to us, so that we’ll think about them as potential brides for Antonio. They’re smart to do this. Father, naturally, wants a young woman, so that Antonio can have sons and carry on the family line. And Father also wants a noble woman. Given that we are such a wealthy family, Father expects Antonio to marry a woman from a wealthy family as well. Because usually only one son from a noble family marries and because so many noble families have multiple daughters, there are plenty of young and wealthy women to choose from. That means that beauty and personality count. So young women do their best to show off their charms to Mother and Andriana and Laura.

  Father is content to leave so much up to the women, for he’s overwhelmed with the politics of his business these days. Just as the family predicted, the petition of the wool combers led to more petitions by the other subguilds within the wool industry. The funny thing is, I often know about these other petitions before Father: In the past month I’ve learned to read Venetian—oh, joy of joys. It’s quite simple; each letter corresponds to a single sound, so once I learned all the letters, I could read anything. And I’m quick at it already, because Vincenzo has done me the favor of writing down stories that I practice reading every night. Since the handbills are all in Venetian, even though the actual petitions are in Latin, I can now read what I spend all morning copying. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue at the dinner table to keep from revealing details before Father has brought them up. Other times I simply talk, and no one seems to notice that I know more than I ought.

  I haven’t gone to any of these women’s gatherings, and I never intend to. I am grateful that we are so rich and, therefore, so desirable that it isn’t necessary for us to act as host ourselves. I can ignore the matter of matrimony and devote myself to my lessons.

  I love studying even the lessons that seem bizarre to me, like those on the book Vita Nuova—new life—by the famous Dante Alighieri, in which the author falls in love with a woman solely through reading her eyes. Messer Cuttlefish appears enraptured at this idea, so enraptured that I sometimes wonder if he has been in love. Yes, lessons are far preferable to the women’s gatherings.

  Nevertheless, Laura tells me all about them in the evenings, when we’re alone in our bedchamber. I find myself listening almost against my will. These events have nothing to do with me. I will not marry. And what’s the point of taking part in helping to select Antonio’s wife? I will probably never live in the same household with Antonio’s wife, since Laura is certainly more appropriate for the tasks of maiden aunt than I am. After all, she adores children. And the more I go outside and see other people’s children in passing, the more I notice whining and crabbing. I like children when they’re funny or sweetly naughty, but not when they’re in bad humor—and they seem to be in bad humor often.

  When I manage to put all of this confusion about our futures out of my mind, I’m happy indeed. I wish this month would never end.

  This is what’s on my mind as Noè and I walk home today.

  “Your indentured servitude is up, Donato,” says Noè.

  I laugh more lightheartedly than I feel, and click the heels of my zoccoli together. “I’ve earned my first pair of shoes.”

  “Actually, you’ve become a good copyist. Your early work was messy and slow. Now you’re fast and accurate.”

  “Not so fast as Emilio,” I say, thinking with admiration of my speedy neighbor at the copyist tables.

  “No. But your letters are more pleasing to the eye.”

  “Who cares whether a handbill pleases the eye?” I say.

  “Precisely what I was getting at. You’d make a good scribe, if you’d like to continue your masquerade for a while.”

  The words stun me. There’s nothing I’d rather do. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course.”

  I’ve learned many things this month. But a scribe? A scribe needs to know so much. “I’m afraid I’m not up to it.”

  “I’d start you out on simple tasks. We just got an order for a collection of Greek plays. That sounds perfect as your first job.”

  I make a tsking noise.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t like the Greek plays? I’d have bet you loved them. Especially the tragedies.”

  “I don’t know them,” I say, feeling as if I’m speaking the truth to Noè for the first time ever. “I can’t read Greek.” My cheeks burn, but I have to keep speaking. “I don’t know Greek letters.”

  Noè tilts his head in surprise. “You must be younger than I thought.”

  I stand tall and square my shoulders. “I’m fourteen.”

  “Then your tutor’s choice of studies is lacking,” says Noè.

  “I’ve attended tutorials only for the past month. The same amount of time I’ve been working for you.”

  “I don’t understand,” says Noè.

  “Let me keep working as a copyist.” I try to keep the tremble from my voice. “Please.”

  “There are poor boys who need the money, Donato. I can’t give you work they can do. I had you work this month more as an indulgence to myself than anything else. I was sure you’d quit on me—and I sort of wanted you to. I wanted to show you that you couldn’t do what poor boys have to do all the time. I wanted you to realize how hard the life of the poor is. But you stuck it out.” Noè smiles. “I thought you didn’t have it in you. You proved me wrong, my friend. I’m glad.”

  “Noè?” I stop and look away, squeezing my eyes tight to drain the tears back inside me.

  “Are you all right?” Noè puts his hand on my shoulder.

  The effect is like the shock of cold mountain water when we swim in summer. I shake his hand off quickly. If he knew I was a girl, he’d be aghast at touching me. I’m almost aghast myself. I walk slightly ahead of him. “Am I really your friend? Are you my friend?”

  Noè shrugs. “We talk every day. I look forward to being with you. Yes, I’d call us friends. Wouldn’t you?”

  I’ve ta
lked to Noè about so many things this month. I feel that he knows me better than almost anyone. But, in fact, he knows so little about me. He doesn’t even know my true name. He doesn’t know I have no future. “How do Jews marry, Noè?”

  “Ah, you’re back on the Jewish-Catholic question, are you? Well, we mate the same old way you do, Donato. Human beings have that much in common, no matter what their religion.”

  “Don’t treat me like a half-wit,” I say.

  “Don’t act like one.”

  “I didn’t. You interpreted me in the stupidest way possible. I want to know how marriage works among Jews. Who gets to marry? Who chooses the person you marry?”

  “I’m sorry.” Noè gives me a little punch in the shoulder. “Anyone who wants to can marry, so long as their proposal is accepted.”

  “Anyone? Not just one boy in the family? Not just one girl?”

  “You’re such a rich boy, Donato.” Noè laughs. “In my family we have no wealth to protect. And we have more than our share of self-confidence. I have only one brother, and I’m older than him. When he’s ready to marry, he will ask me to arrange it. My father would have taken that role, but he died two years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I loved him very much.”

  “What will you do when you arrange the marriage? What will you look for in a mate for your brother?”

  “If you’re talking about the size of a dowry, a lot of Jews care about that, just as a lot of Catholics do. It’s hard to make ends meet in this world that most of us live in—the world outside the palazzi. But, as I said, my family excels in self-confidence. If my brother wants to marry a particular girl, and if she wants to marry him, I’ll do whatever I can to get her family to agree to the match. I can take on more jobs if I need to.”

  “But won’t you care anything at all about her? About what kind of person she is?”

  “She’ll be his wife, not mine.”

  “What do you want in a wife, Noè?” I ask softly.

  “A partner,” Noè says without hesitation. “Someone to work through life’s problems with, someone to share life’s joys.” He smiles. “What about you, Donato?”

  “I won’t get that choice.”

  Noè pulls on his thin beard. “Has your father decided which brother will get to marry?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it won’t be you.”

  “No,” I say.

  “But you want to marry.”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I’m sorry, Donato.” Noè stops.

  I wonder why he’s stopped, then I realize we’ve arrived at the Rio Terrà di Maddalena. I squint against the sun, looking up into Noè’s face. He is more handsome than any man I’ve ever seen.

  He shakes my hand. “Visit me the next time you need a pair of shoes, Donato.”

  “I will,” I say.

  “Or anytime. I am your friend, Donato. Don’t doubt it. Your good friend.” He smiles and pulls me into a hug so tight my bound chest hurts. And something else hurts, too. Something deep inside.

  I run down the alley, blinded by tears I don’t want to understand, and into the ground floor of our palazzo. I don’t even try to be careful not to be seen. Maybe it would be better if I were seen. Then Father would realize I’m not the sort of girl who could survive in a convent and he’d have to figure out something else to do with me.

  But there is nothing else to do with me.

  An old proverb comes unbidden, one Aunt Angela taught us girls when we were little—she is a font of proverbs and superstitions. “Le piegore mate sta fora del sciapo”—crazy sheep remain outside the flock. What is life like outside the flock?

  I change and carry my disguise up the stairs tucked inside my nightdress, as I did the day Paolina and I crept down the stairs to exchange my clothes with the fisherboy’s. But that day I was full of the wondrous joy of unknown things to come. Now nothing new lies ahead.

  Paolina waits for me, ever faithful. She gives the signal, and I race across the corridor to the bedchamber I share with Laura. I hide the disguise in the back corner of our closet cabinet.

  Within minutes, Laura enters and helps me dress, so that we look identical to the world. She murmurs, “It’s over. You don’t have to go to that printer’s anymore. And I don’t have to do double duty.” She kisses my cheeks. “Welcome home, sister.”

  I do my best to smile. We go out to the eating table and take our places.

  There are seppie for the midday meal. I still call our tutor Messer Cuttlefish in my head, but really I don’t dislike him anymore. In fact, I rather like him. He’s a good teacher. But I still despise eating seppie. Which is fine, since I don’t have much appetite today, anyway.

  Toward the end of the meal, as the fruit and cheeses are placed on the table, Father says he has an announcement. “The matter of a wife for Antonio will be settled in the future,” he says, “but the other matter, well, that’s in place.” He beams. “We’ve found not just one husband, but two.”

  I look at Laura, but she’s looking at Father. My heart beats loud in my temples.

  “Andriana,” says Father, “have you heard good things about the Foscari family?”

  Andriana gives an open-mouthed nod of awe.

  There’s really no need for Father to say more. The Foscari family lives in Cannaregio. They are practically neighbors. The son, Dario, is in his thirties. Mid-thirties, I believe. Older than might be ideal, but not too old. I’m being silly. Why, some men live to their nineties. Dario is definitely not too old.

  Dario married years ago, and his wife, the lovely Catarina Trevisan, was rumored to be with child several times, unsuccessfully. A year ago, she died in childbirth. But the baby lived. A boy. Dario Foscari has been one of the most eligible men in Venice ever since, for not only does he have the wealth of his own family behind him, but because his wife left behind a child, her dowry belongs to that child—so it stays with the Foscari family. And her dowry was a summer villa on the mainland near Verona, a very desirable property.

  Catarina had a younger sister, Marina. Normally, Dario would have been expected, at the very least, to seriously consider Marina as a replacement wife. After all, the Trevisan family had invested much in the union. But Dario feared that Marina, like her sister, would not be a good breeder. Everyone knows that. So Dario’s choice of Andriana makes sense. Mother is strong and healthy after giving birth to fifteen children, and twelve of them are still alive. There is every reason to hope Andriana will have many healthy babies.

  Father is going through the list of Dario Foscari’s assets in a singsong tone, almost a litany. I want him to get to the end of it. I want him to get to that second husband.

  “And, so,” says Father, “he is a wealthy man and will provide well for you.”

  Andriana’s whole face smiles. And I understand. Dario is more handsome at his age than most men are in their twenties. Even I have watched him during Mass. She is lucky. So keep talking, Father, I beg inside my head, get to the second husband.

  “And he is so impressed with your charms that he’s asked for a smaller dowry than I expected to pay.” Father looks at Laura, then at me. “That’s why I could afford to arrange a second marriage, with a second dowry, though it is not of a size that would be acceptable to a wealthy family.”

  I don’t care one bit about wealth. And I know Laura doesn’t, either. Not when it comes to a husband.

  “The groom is of the Priuli family.”

  I know that name. Oh, yes. Father has talked about the Priuli father. They’ve been negotiating a joint proposal to the Senate regarding a piece-rate raise that will keep the combers and the weavers equally satisfied. It seems the Priuli family is as much interested in the welfare of the wool industry as our own Mocenigo family. Father has talked about this nonstop for the past month, boring everyone but the older boys to tears. Beyond this, I know nothing of the family. I’m sure Laura does, though, with all these gatherings she’s gone to.
But I can’t remember her talking about them.

  “They’re nobles, as is only proper,” says Father, “but they have nowhere near the worldly wealth that we do. My friend and colleague, Benedetto, the father of the family, wants a partner for his son, Roberto. Someone who will help him hold together a family as well as stand behind him in his business decisions. Someone diligent, with a good head on her shoulders.”

  There’s that word again, that word that Noè used: “partner.” Roberto Priuli needs a partner in life, just as Noè does.

  Noè’s slender face, his ropy arms with those long fingers, stained by ink, his slight sway as he walks, the way the wind ruffles the fine tips of his hair, the way his eyes flicker for a moment before he answers my questions—everything everything about Noè fills my head.

  I must be possessed. This is a moment to think about the Priuli son. Roberto. The man who will be husband to either Laura or me. I’ve wanted so much to be married. I must focus on Father, listen to his words. I must want to drink in those words. I must beg the Lord for Father to say it is me he has chosen for Roberto. Me.

  Father lifts his brows. “Which of you is Donata?”

  “I am,” I say. This is the moment I longed for. Joy should fill me now. Come, joy, fill me. Blot out the image of my Noè.

  “You’ve proven your intelligence in the tutorials. Antonio tells me all about you—and Messer Zonico assures me it is so. And none of us who shares mealtime conversation with you could fail to see your good mind for business. On top of that, you still practice your music at night, which is commendable, particularly since the Priuli family prizes the musical abilities of their women. You have a fine talent. And the Priuli mother is content with your looks, having seen Laura at these frequent gatherings and being assured that the two of you are as identical as fish eyes. But, more important, more to the point, your mother has told me of your outstanding conscientiousness in the work, as of late. You work much harder than your sisters, even going back to the workroom in the evenings. Diligence is the virtue Messer Priuli wants most in a daughter-in-law. Diligence, modesty, and obedience. You will make Roberto a fine partner, Donata.”