Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  Hands cup my shoulders and pull me back. “What is it, Donata?” I sink into the folds of Mother’s dress. Her arms circle me and pull me onto her lap and we’re rocking together on the floor in the feeble light of the oil lamp beside her door. “Are you ill?”

  “Ill of spirit.” It seems like forever since I’ve been alone with Mother. I twist within her arms till I can face her and hug her tight. “I can’t marry Roberto Priuli, Mother.”

  Her torso stiffens. “And why not?”

  “I cannot do this terrible thing to Laura.”

  “Oh, Donata, my poor, sweet girl.” Mother softens around me again. “Of course it’s hard for you two to face separate futures—you’ve always had identical lives. But only one of you can marry. And the very fact that even one of you can marry is an unexpected blessing we should all be grateful for. Be happy for yourself—as I am sure Laura is happy for you.”

  “You don’t understand, Mother. Laura should be Roberto Priuli’s wife. She’s the diligent one, Mother. She’s the musician.”

  Mother strokes my cheeks. “Laura has always been a hard worker. And she’s very fine at the violin. I know that, Donata. But you’ve matured lately. Your new work habits surprised me.”

  “You don’t know my new habits, Mother. You just think you do.”

  “Don’t be silly, Donata, I know you well. Roberto Priuli needs a partner like you. Father is right to recognize your business acumen.”

  “The Priuli family cares about the wool industry, Mother. Laura knows as much about that as I do. Laura is the right partner for Roberto Priuli.”

  “No, Donata, there are things you don’t understand.”

  “Explain them to me, Mother. Please. For God’s own sake, please.” I clutch her with all my strength.

  Mother shakes her head. “Your behavior is exaggerated, Donata. Calm yourself.” She runs her hands down my arms and holds me tight.

  I flinch in pain.

  “What’s this? Wax on your arm? You burned yourself?”

  “It’s nothing, Mother. I was reading by candlelight and I knocked over the holder.”

  “See? Reading at this hour. Your father and I were standing on the balcony watching Venice sleep—but you were awake, studying. That’s why you are the one to marry, Donata. Your mind is restless. You would rage inside if we picked another way of life for you. Even as a wife and mother you will meet challenges disciplining yourself to the confines of proper society. There is much of your father in you, Donata. You’re a little too rebellious for your own good.”

  “But Laura—”

  “Laura knows how to accept life.”

  “That’s not fair, Mother.”

  “Hush, Donata. The decision is made. And it’s the right one. Go back to bed now.”

  “It’s—”

  “Discipline yourself,” Mother says firmly. “Good night, Donata.” She goes into her bedchamber and shuts the door behind her.

  I walk back to my room. The candle flickers in the corner. Laura rolls over in her sleep and sighs. My eyes blur with sadness.

  What if there is no answer at all?

  I envy Bortolo, who puts the yarmulke on his head and yields to belief in magic.

  I cannot even yield to sleep; my entire body quivers.

  I lie on my stomach on the floor and open the little book hesitantly. I force myself to read.

  Soon I’m lost in the play. It is about a legal trial. At once my body grows rigid. I rise to a sitting position and read faster. The protagonist of this play is wrongly accused of a heinous murder. The servants give testimony that is true, entirely true, but misleading for reasons that have nothing to do with treachery, but purely with innocent misunderstandings. The circumstances sweep me away. I read deep into the night.

  When I finish the play, I hold the book to my chest until my racing blood slows to normal. Then I put the book under my pillow and blow out the candle.

  Trials can end in death. But those that don’t can change life radically. Sometimes even for the better, if Plautus is to be believed.

  But is he?

  I close my eyes and still I see the image of Bortolo in the yarmulke, eyes shut, hands folded together. I toss and turn in frustration.

  The next day at tutorial when it’s my turn for individual instruction, Messer Cuttlefish asks me how far along I am in the Plautus play.

  “Dearest Tutor,” I ask, “has anyone ever found himself in better circumstances after a trial?”

  Without hesitation, Messer Cuttlefish answers, “Andrea Donà.”

  “Andrea Donà stood trial?” I am astonished. “We know the family. Mother is friends with the Donà mother. We girls have gone with Mother to their palazzo on many occasions, just as the Donà girls have come with their mother to our palazzo. Signora Donà even came to the private gathering that celebrated Andriana’s and my betrothals but ten days ago.”

  Messer Cuttlefish shakes his head. “The Andrea I’m talking about is not the father of the Donà family today. The trial took place over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

  I sigh in relief. I would not want my friends to have suffered the humiliation of a trial. “What happened?”

  “He was ambassador to the court of Francesco Sforza in Milan. He was accused of taking a bribe from Sforza to reveal secrets of the Venetian Empire. He was tortured until he confessed. Then he was fined, imprisoned for two years, and banished. He lived in exile until the state pardoned him and—”

  “Why?” I interrupt. “Why did they pardon him?”

  “The Senate never made public their deliberations.” He stops short from saying more.

  But I can guess the nature of what he was about to say. Since that day when Francesco and Piero came into Laura’s and my bedchamber and talked about how tolerance is good business, I’ve come to learn that Venice’s history has always been guided by good business. “What trade was the family responsible for then?”

  “They didn’t dominate any single trade. Instead, they exported many things—paper, pins, needles, ship riggings. And they imported just as many—spices, cotton, wheat, almonds. Why do you ask?”

  “They must have been involved in something in a crucial way,” I say, “because the pardon must have been to Venice’s economic benefit somehow.”

  A corner of Messer Cuttlefish’s mouth twitches; he fights a smile for sure. “The Donà men were mercenary generals. Venice wanted to use them in wars against the dukes of Milan.”

  “Oh, no. So a man who had been ambassador to Milan was asked to come back from exile in order to lead wars against the very place that had hosted him?”

  Messer Cuttlefish nods.

  “But he must have been close friends with his old hosts, or he wouldn’t have been accused of accepting bribes from them in the first place. So how could Venice expect him to cooperate—and how could he consider it?”

  Messer Cuttlefish just looks at me.

  “All this treachery is hard to understand,” I say. “Did Andrea do it? Did he really come back to Venice?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And did the Donà men lead troops in battle against Milan?” I ask.

  “Yes. But Andrea was not a general—he was always a statesman. And he went on to hold higher offices than he’d held before the conviction and exile. He was ambassador to Cosimo de’ Medici in Florence and to the sultan of Egypt and, finally, to Pope Nicholas V.’’

  “I don’t understand,” I say. “I don’t see how anyone could have trusted him, and I don’t see how he could have trusted them. I don’t understand politics.”

  “But you do, Signorina Mocenigo. You knew his pardon had to be to Venice’s benefit. You used the word ‘treachery.’ You understand perfectly.”

  I shake my head. “This conversation has gone astray from what really interests me.”

  “Exactly what interests you, Signorina Mocenigo?”

  Oh, how I want to ask him direct questions. I long for Messer Cuttlefish’s counsel in the things I mus
t do now. But I cannot confide in my tutor. Whatever plan I devise, no one must know of it. No one must be put at risk for my sake ever again. Finally, I say, “What happened to Andrea Donà’s family while they were in disgrace?”

  “The man was disgraced,” says Messer Cuttlefish, “not the family. In these situations, a brother will step in and make sure the family affairs don’t go awry. Nobility prevails.”

  His voice gives no hint of sarcasm, though in his own family’s history nobility did not prevail. Perhaps in this moment he’s uncomfortable. Perhaps he even suffers. I wish I knew the right thing to say. “Thank you,” I murmur at last. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

  Messer Cuttlefish licks his lips. “This is my duty, Signorina Mocenigo. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

  “Yes. Today when a person is convicted, does the family suffer?”

  “Not if they have resources.”

  Money, he means. And now everything makes sense. Of course a family is not disgraced when a man is disgraced. The family owns the wealth—not the individual man—and wealth cannot be disgraced. “And if the accused isn’t found guilty, what happens?”

  “A frivolous denunciation is punishable.” Messer Cuttlefish rubs his lip. “Anyone who tries to tarnish a man’s good name for capricious reasons deserves punishment fitting to the degree of slander.” He looks at me in silence for a while. “Is that all?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You have interesting questions, Signorina Mocenigo. You are a person of discretion beyond your years.” He walks around the table and begins Piero’s instruction.

  Discretion. I don’t believe anyone has ever considered me a person of discretion before.

  I go to bed that night without a word to Laura, though a plan has finally formed. I cannot tell Laura this plan because she’d stop me.

  I rise early the next day and take my fisherboy’s disguise out of the closet cabinet.

  “I thought that was all behind you,” says Laura, pushing herself up on one elbow.

  “I thought so, too.” Too bad, I think now. These clothes let off a sour odor. The last time I put them away, they were due for a rinsing. If I had realized I’d need them again, I would have washed them well. “I’m going out today.”

  “You’re crazy. After everything Andriana said, how could you?”

  I clutch the clothes in silence.

  “Don’t expect me to hide your absence,” says Laura. “I won’t be any part of this.” Her voice, though, is not unkind, but sad.

  “I don’t want you to do anything for me.” I kiss Laura on both cheeks. “It’s important, in fact, that you don’t.” I stuff the disguise under my nightdress. “Do you know where I’m going?”

  “No,” says Laura.

  “Good. That’s important, too.” I go to the door and peek out into the corridor.

  Laura gets out of bed and runs to me. She pushes the door closed. “You’re worrying me, Donata. What are you up to?”

  “Only good, Laura. I promise.”

  “So you have a plan at last?” Her voice rises to a thin screech.

  “Perhaps.”

  Laura bites her bottom lip. “Can you do it alone? Without help?”

  I blink as her question makes sense. There is something I need help with: the lock on the side door of the palazzo. “If I’m not home before the boys, tell Paolina to do the usual.”

  “What do you mean? What’s the usual?”

  “Just tell her.”

  “Will she get in trouble?”

  “I pray not. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. But I need this one thing.” I peek into the corridor, then dash for the stairwell. Within minutes, I’m in disguise and out in the alley.

  Suddenly, I’m fearful. Noè will not be on the Rio Terrà di Maddalena to meet me, and I will have no defenses against the beggar boys. My best chance is to move as quickly as I can.

  It’s wrong of Noè to leave me so unprotected.

  Even as I think that, I realize it’s irrational. Noè has no idea I’m coming to the printer’s today. Nevertheless, I’m angry at him. And afraid of the beggars. And afraid of what I’m about to do.

  I run out into the wide street, keeping my head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

  “Stop, boy!”

  At the shout I run faster.

  Slam, smack. A crushing weight crosses my middle, then it’s over.

  I’m lying on the stone ground, looking up at the bottom of a cart.

  A man drags me out and pulls me to my feet. “You ran in front of me,” he says loudly. “I can’t be held responsible.” He scurries about, gathering the wood and bone carvings that litter the ground. He tosses them back in the cart. “You ran in front of me.”

  I bend to clutch my middle. The front wheel of this three-wheeled cart went entirely over me. I heave, but it’s dry, for I’ve had no breakfast.

  Still, there’s a stickiness on my chin. I wipe it; the back of my hand comes away smeared with blood.

  The man stares at me as though he’s seeing some horrible specter. He picks up my bareta from under the cart.

  I snatch it and twist my hair into a clump that I stuff back inside the hat. My chin drips blood.

  “Come on,” says the man. “I’ve got a friend up the road here. She can take care of you. It was your fault,” he says again loudly, looking around at anyone who might be watching. “So it’s just the kindness of a spectator that moves me now. The kindness of a poor carver.”

  I stagger beside the cart. The man soon stops and leans into an open shop door. “Chiara, someone ran in my path without looking, right under my front wheel. Could you help?”

  A heavyset woman comes to the door.

  “Thanks,” says the man, and he’s back to his cart before she can respond.

  Chiara mutters a few complaints in the man’s direction. She puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me inside to a stool. I’ve got my own hands cupping my chin, so I won’t bleed all over everything, but she pries them away. Now her mutters change to words of comfort. She tells a small boy who emerges from the corner to grab a basin and go for water. Then she washes my chin.

  I’m thanking her and trying not to cry out as she picks bits of rubble from the gash. To divert myself, I let my eyes wander the room. Boxes of all sizes are stacked around the walls. Some are plain, but most are made of beautifully painted or printed paper. Laura loves paper boxes. She has a collection of particularly small and delicate ones. “Your boxes are exquisite,” I say. “My sister would love this store.”

  Chiara hands me a small square of clean cloth. “Hold this to your chin and press. And you can get up now.” No sooner do I get up than she sinks onto the stool with a little wuff sound. “So you know fine craftsmanship, do you? You’ve got good taste. I love this shop. I’m a slave to it, working every day, dawn to dusk, but I love it. This one’s my own design.” She reaches for a box, but her arm isn’t long enough. The little boy who brought the basin obliges again, knowing exactly which box she means and putting it in her hand, then going back to settle in the corner once more.

  Chiara holds the box before my eyes and rotates it. It has eight sides of equal dimension and it’s about the size of a man’s hand, with fingers spread. The corners are perfectly tucked. The lid is made of narrow folds of paper that radiate out from the center in a swirl, so that you expect it to be round. But somehow she managed to make perfect tucks at the eight corners.

  “It’s marvelous,” I say.

  “My best seller. I’d let you hold it, but for the blood and all.”

  I realize Chiara is the keeper of this shop. I didn’t even know women could be shopkeepers. Barmaids and laundresses and servants, yes. Prostitutes, yes. And I know that women do all sorts of work at home that serves the factories. But here’s a woman who runs a business from beginning to end. She’s in charge of her own destiny.

  Chiara puts the box on the closest stack and peeks at my chin. “It�
��s stopped bleeding. You’ll be good as new before long. Wash your hands now.”

  I rinse my hands in the basin and wipe them on the back of my trousers. “Thank you,” I say quietly. Then I kiss Chiara’s hand, as a gentle boy would.

  She laughs. “Now, aren’t you the ladies’ man? Go on, get out of here.”

  I look at her steady eyes. “I need help getting over to the Fondamente Nuove,” I say.

  “What do you mean, help?”

  “If I walk alone, I’ll get beat up by beggar boys.”

  Chiara looks out the door past me. “Is that why you were running without looking where you were going?”

  “Yes, kind woman.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Donato.”

  Chiara puts one hand on her hip and regards me with piercing eyes. “The Donà family has a palazzo on that fondamenta.”

  I stand stupefied. Yesterday Messer Cuttlefish talked to me about the conviction of Andrea Donà. Now Chiara is talking about that same family. I feel as though Chiara has seen into my thoughts. I stare at her in dread.

  “They’ve placed a large order with me. I was waiting for my sister’s boy to deliver it. But if you’ll deliver it, I’ll pay the passage on the gondola. It’ll get you to the fondamenta in one piece, at least.”

  “You’ve put your trust in the right boy, kind woman,” I say with genuine gratitude.

  “I’m a good judge of character,” says Chiara.

  I begin to smile, but it hurts my chin, so I simply give a single bow of the head. “I won’t let you down.”

  “You’d better not.”

  Moments later I’m in a gondola with a large package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The gondoliere knows the palazzo of the Donà family, which is good, since I don’t know how to get there by canal starting from here. All I have to do is carry the package into the palazzo.

  I sit back in the gondola and am enjoying the rhythmic motion when I notice that the gondoliere is looking at me oddly. I jump to my feet and almost knock Chiara’s package in the water. I have to leap to catch it in time, and the whole gondola rocks dangerously.