Daughter of Venice

by Donna Jo Napoli

  “Cretino!—hare-brain,” shouts the gondoliere.

  Stupid me. Girls sit in gondolas. Boys stand. It’s not a rule, it’s just the way it happens. I stand as tall as I can.

  When we arrive at the fondamenta, I get out quickly, mutter a thank-you, and carry the package to the entrance of the palazzo.

  A servant girl answers my call. She comes down the stairs in quiet slippers and opens the gate. She eyes the package while I eye her, my head turned to one side so she won’t see my full face. She doesn’t look in the least familiar, thank heavens. “Follow me,” she says.

  “It’s not heavy.” I hold the package in one hand to show her. “You can carry it easily.”

  “It’s a boy’s job to carry packages that big, lazybones. Can’t you give a good girl a hand?” She leads the way up the stairs to the kitchen.

  Baskets and pots clutter this kitchen. Several rounds of hot bread steam on the counter. The heavenly smell brings water to my mouth. I’ve gone out without eating again.

  The girl looks at me a moment in silence. I don’t know what to do, but I’m almost sure she doesn’t have any inkling who I am, so I just look back. “Set it on the table,” she says at last, “and I’ll call the mistress.”

  “Good-bye, then.” I put down the package and quickly head for the stairwell.

  “Stay put. Don’t you have any manners?”

  “I’m in a hurry,” I say.

  “Too much of a hurry for a tip? How about a thank-you kiss, then?” The girl smiles, and I realize with shock that she’s flirting with me.

  “Who’s there?” Signora Donà comes into the kitchen.

  I look down at the floor instantly. For a moment I think that I’m going to pass out.

  “This boy brought a package,” says the servant girl.

  “Who’s it from?” asks Signora Donà. “What is it?”

  “The boxes,” I mumble.

  “Oh, yes, the boxes. Thank you, young man.” She gives a little flustery noise. “I didn’t realize you were coming so early. I don’t have even a soldo on me. I’ll send Diana to get a coin.”

  “Or we could give him bread,” says Diana. “Would you prefer that?” she asks coyly. She’s an observant one, that’s for sure.

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  Diana hands me a round of bread and I turn to go.

  “Just one minute,” says Signora Donà. “Let me have a look at your face.”

  She recognized me. How could she not—she was in my home so recently? So it’s over. I’m caught. I look into the signora’s face with resignation.

  “What’s this?” She frowns. “Have you been fighting?”

  I shake my head, confused.

  “Yes you have. Look at that chin. And the dirt across your shirt. I won’t have ruffians in my house. Tell the shopkeeper to send someone else next time. Now get on your way.” She flicks the back of her hand at me, as though I’m a piece of trash.

  I race down the stairs and out to the fondamenta. Signora Donà peered right in my face, a face she’s seen so many times before, and didn’t recognize me. She didn’t even really look at me. Not really. She looked only at the wound on my chin. Why should she really look at a poor boy who’s come on an errand? Such a boy could never be anything to her.

  The bread is chewy and salty and wonderful. I rip it ferociously with my teeth. And I practically run to the printer’s.

  A group of five boys comes right toward me. Five. How can I possibly get away from five?

  But one of them smiles and I realize I know these boys.

  “Are you coming back to work, Donata?” asks Giuseppe.

  “I have to talk with Noè and see,” I say.

  “He’ll take you back in a minute,” says Rosaria. “You do good work.”

  I’m touched by her words of confidence. For the month that I worked here, I kept a good distance between us. I was afraid that if I tried to make friends, Rosaria would discover some inconsistency in my story—or maybe somehow sense that I was different. As a result, she considered me haughty—she said as much more than once.

  Well, I’ll make friends with her now. She can’t possibly get in trouble if things go wrong for me.

  As though Rosaria can read my mind, she reaches into a fold of her shirt and hands me something. A lily petal. It’s been crushed, and black lines run crisscross at the folds. I wonder if she picked it off the ground at a flower market. I think of the flowers we have on our dining table every day. Fresh flowers. Not a single black line on them. Rosaria watches me and her face tells me this is a treasure. I kiss the lily petal and tuck it inside my own shirt. Rosaria smiles.

  We go through the entrance door and down the central hall together, but at the last moment I hold back and let the rest of the boys and Rosaria go out to the courtyard. I stand in the rear room and watch through the window, feeling nervous and silly.

  Noè does everything I’ve seen him do so many times before. He moves with a long, confident stride, making sure everyone has the proper tools and space to work well, making sure everyone can see his models to copy from.

  He stands back a moment and looks over them almost like a proud father. I smile. This is something I hadn’t seen before, because when I used to sit at those tables, I’d be bent over my work, giving all my concentration to the letters.

  Noè turns to come in and I’m struck with an inexplicable panic of shyness. I flatten myself against the wall and hardly breathe as he passes through the doorway and goes down the corridor to the room that I know is his workplace.

  I stay pressed against the cool, inner wall, trembling, well after he’s out of sight.

  Have I come here just to back out of my plan like a coward?

  Yet the plan hasn’t even been on my mind. It’s Noè who makes me tremble.

  Slowly I walk to his workroom. My zoccoli click on the floor. I wish I could be like a Venetian cat, silent and quick, ready to disappear at the least threat. In contrast, I feel huge and clumsy and loud.

  Noè is already seated, quill in hand, writing some ancient Greek work. He hasn’t heard me yet. He’s oblivious to everything but the words in front of his eyes. I imagine them dancing inside his head. His yarmulke is on crooked; I can’t help smiling.

  I stand in the doorway while he finishes a line of script. Then I whisper, “Hello, my friend.”

  Noè looks up with a start. His smile is immediate and genuine. How could I have been afraid? He rests the quill on its little tray and almost lunges toward me, with a hug and kisses on each cheek.

  I was too late to stop the kisses, but this dear friend will never know I’m a girl, and what he does not know cannot hurt him. Still, I step away and smile from a proper distance.

  “What happened to your chin?”

  I think of Signora Donà. “You know what a ruffian I am.”

  Noè smiles but he pulls me to the window for a closer look. “Did you wash this?”

  “A woman did.”

  “You’ll live, I guess,” he says. “How’s the other guy?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Noè plays with the tips of his beard. “Still not talking, huh? I thought when we parted last time that you’d given up hiding from me.”

  I reach up and straighten his yarmulke, careful not to touch his head. What’s the point of hiding? “Noè, do you recognize errand boys?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When a boy delivers something here, do you look at his face?” I ask. “Do you remember him the next time?”

  “It’s good business to recognize errand boys. If you treat them kindly, they do their best for you the next time. I should know,” says Noè. “I was an errand boy before I was a copyist.”

  I wonder now if the servant girl at the Donà palazzo is someone I’ve seen many times before, but never taken the care to notice. I fight off the sadness. “I met a woman who runs her own box shop.”

  “Is that remarkable?” asks Noè.

 
“I don’t even know. Is it?”

  “She’s done well for herself, I guess,” says Noè. “Probably she’s a widow who took over the family business when there was no one else to do it.”

  “But maybe not,” I say. “Maybe she just loved paper and she found herself folding it into shapes as a little girl and before long she was making boxes and then someone bought one and then everyone wanted her boxes.” I’m practically out of breath. “Is that possible, Noè? Is it?” I pant.

  Noè hesitates. “I suppose so, Donato.”

  “Don’t look at me so worried, Noè.” I give him a smile. “Sometimes my head just fills with silly questions.”

  “They’re not silly.” Noè’s eyes change. “You know, I was thinking about you yesterday.” He races to a shelf and grabs a manuscript. “Look at this.”

  I read aloud, “Water Monsters. An unusual title.”

  Noè laughs, that deep-throated laugh I’ve missed so much. “A child wrote it. A boy called Giulio, but a mere seven years old. If you want to talk about remarkable things, this is one, for sure. His adult brother, Maurizio Strozzi, acted as scribe, for the boy’s own handwriting still leaves something to be desired, apparently.”

  “A boy with bad handwriting made you think of me?” I say, pretending to take offense.

  “Yes.” Noè grins. “It’s a play, for five characters. And it’s written in Venetian. The Strozzi family plans to have it performed at a special party for Giulio. They want five quick copies, one for each of the actors. And one professional copy to save in their library. I’ll do that one. But the others . . . well . . . I have to find someone.”

  “The quick copies don’t have to look perfect,” I say, as though on cue.

  “That’s right.”

  “And someone who knows only one language could do the job,” I say.

  “That’s right.”

  “Hmmm. Who might that be?” I make my lips protrude, as though in deep thought.

  Noè laughs again. “Take the job, Donato. It’s a good start.”

  “I know a bit of Latin. I never told you that. So I know more than one language—maybe I’m overqualified,” I tease.

  “A bit of Latin,” he mimics in a snooty tone. Then he breaks into a grin. “Actually, that’s good, because at three points in the play a character crosses the stage holding the Venetian banner, shouting the Latin words on it. No big deal—but it helps in copying without mistakes if you know the Latin.”

  I hand him back the manuscript. “I don’t have the time,” I say seriously.

  Noè’s cheek twitches. He flips through the pages. “It’s short. You can do a whole copy in a day, I’m sure.”

  “I have lessons in the afternoon.”

  “Right. Well, then, two mornings per copy. You could finish in ten sessions.”

  “Will you pay me what I want?” I ask.

  Noè looks surprised. “I’ll pay you the piece rate. The amount the master will pay me.”

  “I don’t want money, Noè. I want help.”

  He looks a bit wary. “What kind of help?”

  “Help with my Latin,” I say.

  Noè smiles in relief. “That’s the kind of help I’m best at. Count on me.”

  I will, I’m thinking. I’ve put the first step of my plan in your hands. It’s real now. My Great Plan.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ARGUMENTS

  Donata,” comes Mother’s voice, firmer than usual.

  I’m in the corridor with Laura and Paolina, heading for the eating table. It’s a surprise to see Mother standing before the entrance to the hall. “What is it?” I ask.

  Mother gasps. “What happened to your chin?”

  “I fell. It barely hurts now.”

  “How did you fall?” Mother holds me by the shoulder with one hand, while she carefully tilts my chin upward with the other. She examines me, just as Noè did. “Run along, girls.” She gestures for the others to go ahead. “What happened, Donata?”

  I remember the comfort of her arms last night and suddenly I’m hungry for that closeness again. I move toward her so that our skirts press together. “I was rushing and not watching where I was going.”

  “Well, it’s not surprising, given how much is on your mind.” She tucks my hair back behind my ears.

  My hair hangs loose and curly, hardly brushed. Laura’s hair, on the other hand, is in a bun of several complicated twists, undoubtedly the work of Andriana. But Andriana was so mad at me for going out again, she wouldn’t speak to me, much less offer to do my hair. I was upset at first. Still, there’s no point in Laura’s and my doing ourselves up identically now, though I did put on the same dress as her. It would have felt just too strange not to.

  “I’m sure it will heal evenly,” says Mother, giving me an approving look. “You’ll be just as lovely as you’ve always been.”

  It’s funny; until Mother said this, I hadn’t thought at all about what my accident would do to my looks. Even my sisters didn’t say anything about that. Instead, when I came home, they immediately clucked around me, fussing to check that the wound was clean, asking over and over if it hurt. “It doesn’t matter, Mother. I don’t care what my chin looks like.”

  Mother frowns. “Don’t think because you’re engaged you can forget your looks. Every woman benefits from appearing her best.” She walks back down the corridor, out of earshot of my hovering sisters, and I go after her obediently. “And don’t think that if you forget your looks, we will cancel the wedding plans.”

  “I wasn’t thinking that, Mother.”

  “Good. Where were you this morning?” she says quietly.

  “Working.”

  Mother folds one hand inside the other. “Not the work I set out for you, that much I know.”

  “Different work.”

  “You’re expected to fulfill your family duties, Donata. You haven’t left us yet. I looked for you everywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother. I have something I must do.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t, Mother. It’s a secret.”

  “A secret?” Mother looks bewildered. “What kind of secret could a proper girl keep?”

  I take her hand and hold it to my cheek, but I’m almost sure it doesn’t reassure Mother, for it doesn’t reassure me.

  “Did your secret cause your fall?” she asks in a nervous hush.

  “I told you about the fall. I didn’t watch where I was going.”

  “Does your secret have anything to do with your marriage?”

  “If I answer your questions, it won’t be much of a secret, now, will it?”

  Mother pulls her hand away and hugs herself. “You exasperate me, Donata.”

  There’s nothing to answer to that.

  “If Laura and you—”

  “Laura is not involved,” I say quickly.

  “All right, then. So this is a new worry of yours.” Mother sighs. “You are so high-strung. Marriage makes young women think of things—intimate things—in a new way. They can get frightened. It can help to talk.”

  I almost laugh. “It’s not anything like that, Mother. You’ve always answered that sort of question. I don’t need to talk.”

  “If you’re sure . . . but don’t keep secrets from me,” she says with a shake of her head.

  “I have no choice, Mother.”

  “Of course you have choices, Donata. These are important times for you. Your engagement carries with it responsibilities—toward the family, not just yourself.”

  “I’m being responsible, Mother. That’s precisely what I’m being.”

  Mother looks at me and I can see her face change to one of resolve. She smiles. She has decided to believe the best. “All right, then. Give me your word that you will perform your duties from now on.”

  “I’ll do the best I can,” I say.

  Mother takes my hand now. “The meal is waiting.”

  I allow myself to be led to the table like a dumb animal. I practic
ally dream through the conversation, dream through chewing and swallowing. I know I’m worried, but I’m not wiggling around, popping with ideas to try, the way I normally am when a problem presents itself. And this is a dreadful problem: Without someone to hide my absence over the next two weeks, I may well not be able to finish what I’ve started.

  And I won’t be able to see Noè.

  I chew and swallow.

  Afternoon tutorial is on biology. Messer Cuttlefish has brought a book of drawings of the animals of Africa by the Dutch artist Albrecht Dürer. My older brothers and I crowd around the little wheeled table that holds the enormous book. They ask questions and Messer Cuttlefish answers.

  After a while, Messer Cuttlefish gives me a curious look. “Signorina Mocenigo, what would you like to ask?”

  “I hardly believe Africa exists,” I say, though that isn’t what I meant to say at all. I meant not to speak.

  “And why is that, Signorina?”

  “I’ve never seen it.” What a foolish thing to say, I think, even as the words still hang in the air.

  “You’ve never seen God,” says Messer Cuttlefish, “yet you know He exists.”

  I should drown in a wave of embarrassment for making this prattling exchange take place. But I feel nothing. I wonder briefly if I’m getting sick. This sense of detachment isn’t like me.

  Finally, it’s time for working on our own. We sit at the study table and I take out the book of Plautus plays. I read silently until it’s my turn with Messer Cuttlefish.

  “Shall I try again today?” asks Messer Cuttlefish.

  I look at him, confused.

  “Yesterday you managed not to talk about Plautus at all. Tell me the truth, Signorina Mocenigo, have you read any of his work?”

  “I’ve finished the first play and am halfway through the second.”

  He gives an appreciative nod. “I take it you enjoyed the first play, then.”

  “The language was easier to understand, as you said. But the workings of the trial confused me,” I say.

  “What didn’t you understand?”

  It isn’t that I didn’t understand—it’s that I couldn’t glean the information that I wanted. I have to find the right phrasing to get what I want from Messer Cuttlefish now. But nothing clever comes into my thick skull. “I wonder how modern trials work. Here in Venice. Could I read something about that?”