Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I stare at the uneaten meal on my plate. It is not I who has musical abilities. It is not I who has been diligent in work. And, oh, dear Lord, obedient, me? I look up at Laura, whose tear-filled eyes hold mine fast.

  “Do I take your silence for gratitude?” says Father.

  “I am stunned,” I manage to say.

  “Life holds its surprises, doesn’t it? Laura, you, then, will be the sister to live at home and care for your brother Antonio’s children. Mother tells me you’ve always been patient with your younger siblings, so this is all working out well. And, Paolina, my little flower, Mother tells me you are fast becoming a master gardener.”

  Paolina smiles. “I could make our courtyard the envy of all Venice.”

  “There’s no need to make a new garden here,” says Father. “There’s already a garden that needs you. In a year you will enter the Convent of San Salvador, where the cloisters have a lovely courtyard that can benefit from your skilled hands.”

  Paolina nods. Her face shows no emotion whatsoever.

  And the meal goes on, though I know that three people at this table want to scream and scream and scream.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  PRAYER

  I’ll tell him.” I sit on the bed with my knees up to my chest and my arms hugging them as tight as I can. “I’ll just tell Father.”

  “And then what?” Laura makes two fists and holds them under her chin as though she doesn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t know what the punishment is for a girl doing what you’ve been doing, but I never want to know. It’s got to be horrible.”

  “That’s just like you,” I say. “You never want to know the bad things. But sometimes you have to know. Whatever the punishment is, I have to tell him.” I get off the bed.

  Andriana catches me by the arm. “You’re not alone in this. We all knew you were doing it. I’m the oldest; it fell on me to stop you. I did try—remember that, whatever happens. I tried.” Her voice shakes. “But not hard enough. So I’m in trouble, too. And Paolina got you the fisherboy’s clothes and helped you sneak back to your chamber each day. And Laura played the most important role—she deceived even Mother. If you reveal the deception, we’ll all be punished. And who knows what that will mean? Who knows?”

  “It couldn’t mean anything near as terrible as what will happen if I don’t tell.”

  “Of course it could, Donata. And it’s not just family punishment you risk. Girls who conspire—girls who help their sister go out into the city alone. Think about it. Oh, I was so stupid not to stop you. If anyone outside the family learned of this, we’d all become suspect. We’d become pariahs overnight.”

  I pull myself free and go to Laura. “All right, then, we won’t say anything about my going outside the palazzo. I’ll tell Mother that all month we’ve been playing a game, that I was you and you were me. Why make it any more complicated than that? As Francesco said to us, the most elegant solution is the most Venetian.”

  Laura looks at me with a glimmer of hope.

  “I’ll say you were the one working hard and I was the one who never finished my work. You were the one practicing violin and I was the one never practicing.”

  “Will you say Laura was the one Antonio and Messer Zonico think is so smart?” asks Paolina.

  I flush at being caught in my pride. “Yes, of course.”

  “That won’t work.” Laura shakes her head. “Remember what Piero said? Father’s always known you’re the one with a head on your shoulders. He believed Antonio and Messer Zonico only because that’s what he thinks himself. No one, no one at all, would believe it’s been me who says all those things about business at meals. And no one would believe I’ve been saying whatever brilliant things you say in tutorials.” Her voice is bitter.

  “I don’t say brilliant things in tutorial, Laura.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Donata. Father wouldn’t believe we’ve had a game.”

  “Nor would Mother believe it was Donata who came to the parties with us this month,” says Andriana, cupping Laura’s chin in her hand. “Donata can’t be charming the way you were all month. She could never have won over Roberto Priuli’s mother the way you did.” She kisses Laura on the cheek.

  Laura looks over Andriana’s shoulder at me with such savage pain, I can hardly think.

  “Then I’ll tell Mother and Father that we pretended to be each other only for work,” I say. “For work and music.”

  “But why?” says Paolina. “What kind of game would that be?” She shrugs. “It makes no sense even to me. I wouldn’t believe you.”

  “Nor will Mother,” says Andriana, turning to me now. “She’ll be alarmed and then she’ll force the truth out of you.”

  “Not out of me,” I yelp.

  “Then out of one of us. She will, Donata. Oh, I know you want to do the right thing.” Andriana holds out her hands to me. “But no one should do anything fast. My wedding will be first, in any case. We’ve got plenty of time to figure things out before yours.”

  I’m so confused. “What will waiting solve? An answer isn’t going to appear out of nowhere.” But, despite my words, I let Andriana fold me into her arms. It’s so good to be in the soft warmth of my big sister.

  “Donata’s right,” says Paolina. “And so is Andriana. Answers may not appear out of nowhere, but if you wait and pay attention to what’s going on around you, sometimes answers do come.”

  “You sound like you’ve already entered the convent,” says Laura. “The next thing, you’re going to tell us to pray.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” says Andriana.

  We get on our knees in a circle, cross ourselves in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, and offer our prayers, eyes closed, heads bowed.

  Oh, Lord, merciful Father, have pity on me. I never meant harm to Laura. It cannot be that I am the cause of her being cheated from what she wants so much. No matter who this Roberto is, he wants a partner with the attributes of Laura. And, so, he must be right for her, since she is so right for him. Please, please, Lord, don’t put me in Laura’s rightful place. Yes, I’ve begged you for a husband before on so many occasions. But this is not the way I want to get one. I want . . . no no no. I mustn’t even think about the kind of man I want. Not in this moment. This is the moment to think about Laura. Roberto Priuli is Laura’s man. Help me find a way to right this wrong. Help me, dear Lord. Please. No sin I’ve ever committed is so terrible as the sin I would commit if I married the man who really wants Laura—the man she really wants, too. Help me. Oh, please, please show me the way.

  I open my eyes.

  Paolina’s eyes are also open. She’s looking at the floor and holds herself so still that for a moment I think she’s not breathing. Then her eyes rise and meet mine. Her eyes are pools of pain. But her blink is like a door shutting; her eyes go empty. She smiles flatly.

  Laura is the next to open her eyes. She avoids mine.

  Finally, Andriana opens her eyes. She looks at me pleadingly.

  It takes me a few seconds to understand, and then it’s all clear. I can’t believe how selfish I’ve been. “Dear Andriana, here we are ignoring your good news. I am so happy for you.”

  “Dario Foscari is lucky to get such a wife,” says Laura, settling back on her heels.

  “You’ll be happy,” says Paolina.

  We’re all sitting back on our heels now, a circle of sisters on the floor, skirts touching.

  “Thank you.” Andriana blushes. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

  “He’s angelic,” says Laura.

  Andriana laughs.

  “No, I mean it,” says Laura. “In church with the light behind him, he seems to wear a halo.”

  So my twin has watched this man in church just as I have. I look at Laura’s profile. She steadfastly refuses to turn her face to me, but I know she feels my eyes on her. And she knows I know. How can I have brought such harm to the person I’m closest to in the world?

  “Mother
and I are going to another gathering today,” says Andriana. “The Grimani family wants to show off a daughter for us to consider as a potential wife for Antonio, and from what I’ve heard, she’s better than most. They say she’s kind.”

  “That might mean she’s ugly,” says Paolina.

  I smile—that’s exactly the reaction I had.

  “We’ll see,” says Andriana, her voice growing lighter and happier with each word. “Come with us. All of you. Let’s have a good afternoon.”

  “I’ll skip my harpsichord lesson gladly,” says Paolina.

  Laura touches Paolina’s cheek. “I thought you enjoyed the harpsichord as much as I enjoy my violin.”

  “I’ll have the rest of my life to play the harpsichord, and only one more year to go to parties.” Paolina stands up. “I’m coming.” She takes Andriana’s hand and pulls her to her feet.

  I look at Laura, who is looking down at her hands, folded on her lap. “We’ll stay here. Laura and I need to talk.”

  Andriana leans over Laura. “Is that what you want?”

  Laura nods without looking up.

  Andriana and Paolina leave.

  Bortolo comes in. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  “We were praying,” I say.

  “You’re not praying anymore. Why don’t you get up?”

  “We like it here,” I say.

  “Laura doesn’t. She’s crying again. Why is Laura always crying? Is it still that cursed toothache?”

  I look at Laura’s hands. They’re shiny with the tears that fall from her bent head. “It’s much worse than a toothache,” I say. “Everything hurts today.”

  Bortolo stares at Laura. Slowly his mouth opens in a circle. “Ah,” he practically shouts. “I know what’s going on. This is just your trick, not hers.”

  “What are you talking about, Bortolo?”

  “I came to demand you give me a gift to keep silent because you’re getting married when really Laura’s the one who should be. I thought you were both in on it. But it’s just you, Donata. Laura hasn’t agreed. It’s just your trick. That’s why Laura’s crying. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?”

  I forgot: Bortolo can tell us apart. He knows Laura’s been doing double duty every morning. I should be afraid of his knowledge, but right now I almost wish he’d go blabbing to Father. At least this nightmare would be over. “No, Bartolo. That isn’t why Laura’s crying. Because I’m not going to get married. Do you understand? I’m not getting married. It’s all a terrible mistake. Laura’s crying because we haven’t yet figured out a way to make everything right again.”

  Laura looked up when I said I wasn’t going to get married, and she’s still looking at me.

  Bartolo twists his mouth in doubt for a moment, then smiles heartily. “I knew you wouldn’t be that bad,” he says to me. “I knew you wouldn’t steal Laura’s husband.” He gets on his knees beside Laura. “Don’t be sad. You’ll find a way. Give me a great treat, and I’ll help.”

  “How, Bortolo?” I ask. “How will you help?”

  Laura’s looking at Bortolo now, just as tensely as she looked at me a moment ago.

  “Tell me what to do,” says Bortolo simply. “I’ll do anything you say. I’m great at secrets and adventures.”

  Stupid me, I was hopeful for a moment. Hopeful that my six-year-old brother could actually rescue us. And Laura felt the same way, I’m sure. “I don’t know what to tell you to do, Bortolo.”

  Bortolo reaches inside his vest without a moment’s hesitation. He pulls out the yarmulke. “When I don’t know what to do, I use my magic hat. It makes me think better.” He puts it on his head and closes his eyes. If he were to bow, he’d look as if he were praying, like a perfect little Ghetto boy.

  Laura takes the yarmulke off his head. “You mustn’t show that to anyone, Bortolo. That’s a Jewish hat. Someone might take you for a Jew.” Her voice breaks and she’s crying again.

  This can’t happen. Bortolo’s right: I can’t be this bad—the world can’t be this bad. “There’s no cause for worry, Laura,” I lie. “I have a plan.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  STARTING

  After the initial horrible celebrations that Mother holds for Andriana and me—a special Mass, a gathering of the closest family friends, little private speeches in which she assures us we’ll make good wives and mothers—I can finally get to what I need to do most of all.

  Work.

  I work like there’s no tomorrow—for it is only when I’m working that I can keep myself from thinking of Noè—from missing him. And I don’t want to miss him. There’s something worrisome about missing him. Besides, it’s ridiculous. So much else is important now.

  I finish my morning chores in record time, then help Laura finish hers. I play with the younger children enthusiastically, rolling on the floor with them, racing on the staircases, exhausting myself. In the afternoons I study and study and study. At night I play the violin—horribly, it’s true, but at least I do it.

  There’s no way I can make up to Laura for all she did for me in that one month while I was a copyist, but I try. At mealtimes, I grab the biggest pieces of dessert and place them on Laura’s plate before my brothers can get their hands on them. She protests when we’re alone, but I know she’s glad I’m doing it. I know she feels sorry that I’m suffering so from guilt, and she’s happy that I’m finding little ways to assuage that guilt.

  And I know, no matter how firmly I speak, that Laura’s beginning to lose hope. When Bortolo knelt on our bedchamber floor wearing the yarmulke, I was sure a plan would come to me. I promised Laura to tell all once I had all the details in place. Every day since then Laura has asked me if my plan is ready and every day I’ve said, “Not yet. But it will be soon.” The truth is, no plan has come.

  But one thing is clear to me: I must learn more. Answers do not lie in ignorance.

  There’s no way I can learn all of Latin overnight, though this is my heart’s passion. I’ve memorized the five noun declensions. That was relatively easy. It’s all the many verb conjugations that stump me. Sometimes I can guess what tenses the verbs are simply from how similar they are to Venetian verbs. But other times I’m totally wrong. I slave over Latin poetry late at night, by candlelight, when everyone else sleeps, but Ovid gets no easier.

  Still, tonight I’m more optimistic than I’ve been since Father’s announcement of my marriage two weeks ago. At tutorial today Messer Cuttlefish handed me a book. A small book, one of those put out by the Aldine press. The very feel of the book pierced me—for the man who first let me hold such a book was my sweet Noè. I had to put the book down on the table, my hand shook so.

  This text is bound in dark purple, straight-grain morocco, titled and tooled in gold. Messer Cuttlefish presented it to me like a treasure, almost as though he anticipated my reaction. “It contains several plays by Plautus,” he said in a reverential voice. I bent my head to hide my flush when he spoke. The last person to talk to me of plays was Noè, when he asked me to be the scribe for some Greek plays.

  Messer Cuttlefish says that Plautus wrote in a unique way: His upper-class characters speak in classical Latin, while their servants speak in common street Latin. He says this will be more satisfying for me, more encouraging, because the street Latin will feel almost familiar. He said it’s strange that a woman betrothed, as I am, is so intent on learning Latin fast, but he wants to feed my fervor, whatever its cause. When he said that, I knew he was asking, in an oblique way; I knew he sensed something and wanted to help. And I appreciated his discretion. But I didn’t answer.

  I’m not the only one our tutor gives personal attention to. Messer Cuttlefish assigns Vincenzo harder problems in mathematics than anyone else, and allows him to explain the problems the rest of us have trouble with. Vincenzo never seems so happy as in these moments. No matter how basic our questions are, he contemplates them and responds respectfully and lucidly. Even I, who am so new to mathematics, can follow most of wha
t Vincenzo says. Messer Cuttlefish says Vincenzo has a gift.

  And Messer Cuttlefish gives extra work in philosophy to Antonio, extra work in history to Piero, extra work in geography to Francesco. He has his eye on their futures.

  Our tutor is not the prissy pedant I took him for, that first day of lessons. With a heavy heart I realize that. My future, no matter what it may be, will surely take me away from this home, and I’ll lose the great privilege of studying with this fine educator. Let me learn while I can.

  Thus, I sit tucked in the corner of the bedchamber, the candleholder balanced on my knees, and open the little book by Plautus. Study study study. An answer will come.

  Suddenly I fall back, both shoulders meeting the walls. The candle tumbles and hot wax burns the back of my forearm. I right the candleholder and manage to place it by my feet. My stomach heaves.

  Everything is clear now. And everything is wrong. Everything. I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep myself from realizing it for so long. The worst will happen unless I do something to prevent it. This is the truth. This, and only this. It is a dishonor to Laura to act like such a fool—to look for the answer in a Latin verb ending.

  I lay the book beside the candleholder on the floor and tiptoe past Laura, sleeping in our big bed, and out into the corridor, down to Mother and Father’s bedchamber. Their door is closed. I lift my hand to knock, when shakes overcome me again, and I’m on the floor, retching on all fours.