The Venetian

by Mark Tricarico

  As is often the case with black thoughts and the absence of sleep to dull them, he had begun the day feeling lost and hopeless. He sat at the table, the morning light streaming through the window, staring blankly at the stain left by the wine from the night before. The booming knock came again, more insistent, and seemed to shake the sunlight itself. When Paolo looked at the wine, he saw his brother’s blood.

  “Canever!” came a familiar shout. “I know you are in there!”

  Paolo was too tired to even venture a guess as to why Francesco would be outside his door at this hour trying to knock it down. He had briefly entertained the idea of going to the Arsenale as usual, but thought better of it. The deputy said that he had been removed from his position, and while normal business wasn’t conducted in the dead of night, even in the great merchant city of Venice, he knew that men such as the deputy did not abide by such tedious customs as working hours.

  “Canever! Come out or I shall come in. Do not doubt Francesco!”

  Paolo didn’t, although he did doubt whether the wine merchant could get his ample frame through the narrow entry. Wearily he made his way to the door.

  “Yes, yes, Francesco. Please, no more,” said Paolo, waving his hand absently. He opened the door but could see nothing, Francesco’s bulk blotting out the sun, his body consumed by shadow and lined with a phantasmal corona.

  “Canever,” the apparition said, “what are you doing here? I arrived this morning, punctual as always with my delivery and ready to greet my friend the Canever, and who do I find?” Apparently Francesco was too offended to wait for an answer. “That little pig Fazzari.” Francesco theatrically spat on the ground.

  Paolo could not argue. Indeed, Aldo Fazzari was quite unlikable. More of a weasel than a pig however, he thought. He was the creature of Donato Quaglia, one of the Arsenale’s Provveditori al Arsenale, a three-person magistracy created by the Senate to oversee the Arsenale. Fazzari was the secretary attached to the magistrates. Since Fazzari was held in such low esteem by virtually all those with whom he had dealings, it was assumed that he was in possession of some rather inflammatory knowledge regarding his mentor, and had been particularly effective in parlaying that knowledge into ever increasingly lucrative appointments. Always one to respect character rather than position, Paolo had crossed swords with the man on several occasions, and a deepening enmity had been the result. No doubt Fazzari was enjoying himself and the surprised looks he would be receiving from Paolo’s men this morning. Paolo could only guess at the story he was weaving to explain his absence. Whatever it was, it was not likely to be sympathetic.

  “Francesco,” Paolo said softly, “how did you find me? I do not recall ever telling you where I lived, and now I realize for good reason.”

  Francesco wagged a fat finger at Paolo. “Ah, Francesco is like the bloodhound, no? You cannot hide from this.” Francesco tapped his rosy, bulbous nose. He became serious. “Canever, why are you here? What has happened?”

  Paolo shook his head slowly. “Too much, too much,” was all he said.

  “I understand,” said Francesco. “Francesco does not make a man speak who does not wish to do so. Some things are meant to be left unsaid, but that does not mean that I require an answer before I can offer my help. I do not know what events have transpired to bring you to such a state,” he said almost formally, “but I believe you are a good man. You have always dealt fairly with me, even though those above you would have preferred otherwise.”

  Paolo looked at Francesco, eyebrows raised. Francesco waved the look away. “Yes, yes, Francesco knows. Francesco knows many things. Of course I have never given a man cause to treat me otherwise,” he said stuffily with a sardonic grin, “but nevertheless they have tried. You however Canever, are not one of them.”

  He slapped Paolo on the back. “When you are ready to speak of your troubles, I will be here. Until then, I would like to offer you employment.”

  “Now why would you do that?” asked Paolo.

  “For all of the reasons I have just stated,” replied Francesco. “Were you not listening Canever? I need a man who can listen.” He held up his hand, citing reasons on stubby fingers. “You are good with others. You are fair but not to be taken advantage of. And I have seen the way you deal with the thirsty men of the Arsenale. You are not to be trifled with. And,” he paused, “I need a little help with the Jews.”

  Ah, the Jews. Paolo was not a man of business, he would be the first to admit, and didn’t believe himself to have a head for figures. In truth it was one, while perhaps not the largest, reason he did not want to take over the glassworks. The act of creation, whether it be glass or ships, was what fired his imagination. The tending to the details—orders and shipments and payments and records—were meant to be left to other men, men who took an interest in such things. He was of course aware that Venice as an entity existed for business and business alone. And he was also aware that the Jews played an important role in the mercantilism of the State. But beyond that, he was an innocent in the ways of commerce. He often found it quite ironic that he was a Venetian.

  “I am hardly the man you need Francesco,” Paolo began. “I am no merchant and my bookkeeping skills could very well lead you to ruin.”

  “Oh I am sure Canever, I am sure.” Francesco let out another hearty laugh. “No, what I require of you is your head for human nature, not numbers. I will deal with the figures. What sort of a fool would I be to let an employee of the State, recently relieved of your duties though you may be, near my books? No, I need help with the Jews.”

  “I know very little of their ways Francesco. Might not an actual merchant who has dealt with them before be better suited to your needs?”

  “I am offended, how you go on so. If I did not know better, I would say that the prospect of working with Francesco seems distasteful to you. Is this the case Canever? If so, I will leave you to contemplate your future.” Francesco, surprisingly nimble for such a large man, moved toward the door before giving Paolo a sidelong glance. “I believe you now have ample time to do so.”

  Paolo winced. He was right. However ill-suited to the task he may be, he had no money and was in desperate need of employment. As to why Francesco chose him, he decided it was beyond his power to ferret out the reason. Such a man was a riddle, and to attempt to divine any pattern of logical thought would likely be an exercise in futility. Besides, the merchant’s indefatigable joviality and bluster could provide a welcome distraction from his troubles.

  “I accept your offer Francesco, though I may live to regret it.”

  Francesco smiled, holding out his hands expansively. “My search is over then. I congratulate you Canever on your clarity of mind. No, no, you will not regret it. Of that I am certain.”

  ***

  PAOLO SAT MOTIONLESS at the edge of his bed, staring. At the wall. At the floor. At the door only recently assaulted. Yes, he had been tempted to let the matter go, but once Francesco had left with his bombast in tow, leaving the small apartment feeling unnaturally silent, he was suddenly inclined, in the newfound stillness, to do just the opposite. It was odd, he thought, the timing. After being inexplicably removed from his position at the Arsenale, not a full day had passed before the equally incomprehensible job offer from Francesco.

  No, something was not right. Someone was lying. He no longer had a job at the Arsenale—now he had a new one. And as far as he was concerned, it had nothing at all to do with the Jews.

  Eight

  Paolo’s first duty for Francesco was to seek out a Jew named Achaz Bercu in the northernmost sestieri of Venice, Cannaregio. He was apparently a shrewd negotiator, and worse still, completely impervious to Francesco’s unique brand of charm.

  “What shall I do once I find him?” Paolo had asked. He was standing in Francesco’s large office. Francesco’s place of business was near the Campo San Bartolomeo, near the great spice warehouses, and no less impressive. Magnificent tapestries covered one wall, opposite which stood windows of
such exquisite craftsmanship, Paolo wondered whether Tomaso himself had made them.

  “You look surprised Canever,” Francesco smiled. “I am a merchant. I must be at the heart of things,” he said, patting the area of his chest below which resided his heart, “not all the way down by the little toe.” Francesco illustrated his point by apparently wiggling his toes, although the effect was lost inside his shoe.

  It was true. Paolo had not expected such lavish surroundings. He hadn’t thought about it much, but now realized that he had in fact looked upon Francesco as a bit of a fool. And Francesco obviously knew it. Perhaps it was a perception the merchant wished to cultivate, his fellow businessmen never realizing they were under the influence of a shrewd negotiator until it was too late. He promised himself he would not be fooled so easily again.

  “You seem to think I can be of service in the area of negotiation,” he said, returning to the matter at hand, “however that matters little if I lack expertise in the affair for which I am negotiating.”

  “Just find him Canever,” Francesco replied. “I need to speak with him. The Jews are slippery as eels at the fish market when there is unpleasant business to discuss.”

  ***

  WADING THROUGH THE Campo dei Mori the next day, Paolo reflected on the bizarre events that had brought him on this strange errand amidst the bustle of the aged neighborhood. The savage murder of his brother, the unlikely reunion with his father, the sudden appearance of the Council of Ten, the loss of his occupation, such as it was, and the almost immediate employment by a man he normally only tolerated, but to whom he was now inexorably bound for his survival. It was a tempest with no discernible pattern. He had to think. And Francesco; he didn’t dislike the wine merchant. Actually, he had no feeling about him one way or the other, which may be the worst punishment of all for a man like Francesco. But how he expected to carry on amidst this discord he did not know. He had to find out what had happened.

  To the north of the campo, the serene waters of the Canale delle Navi danced with morning light. Separating this most northern sestieri from the mainland, the canal was home to wharves perpetually in motion, their wood warped by the elements, twisting and squirming as though alive as they received cargo at all hours.

  How was he going to find Bercu in all of this? Paolo had asked Francesco for an address, but the merchant waved away the request. “The Jew knows I am looking for him, so he is sure to be elsewhere.” Francesco wasn’t giving Paolo much to go on, his face betraying his thoughts. “Perhaps I have misjudged you Canever,” Francesco said. “An intelligent man would not need his hand to be held.” Meaning the statement as a jest, Francesco could see that Paolo did not take it as such. He quickly brightened. “Money is all the Jews think about Canever. They cannot help themselves. They conduct business everywhere—the market, the corner, the synagogue, although they are not supposed to.” Francesco swept the air of the vast room with a fleshy arm, implying every back alley and shadowy doorway of Venice contained a fiercely negotiating Jew. “Their place of business,” he said, arm lingering in space, “is often where they conduct the least amount of business.” After delivering this profound insight, Francesco slapped Paolo on the shoulder. “You will find him Canever. Just look for the man with the large nose and the greedy look in his eyes.” Delighted by this latest witticism, Francesco walked out of the office clucking softly, leaving Paolo to wonder how a fair-minded Christian could have such an opulent place of business.

  ***

  ODDLY SHAPED FOR a Venetian square, the Campo dei Mori formed a funnel rather than the traditional rectangle, making the square’s narrower end difficult to navigate amidst the dense traffic forced into near immobility by the crush of bodies.

  Paolo glanced across the expanse of the square, shielding his eyes against the sun. Statues of the Mastelli brothers stood vigil above their homes in the white morning glare. Surely they would appreciate the throng before them, alive with the hum of commerce. Tomaso had told him the legend of the brothers as a boy. Medieval traders from Morea in the Peloponnese, Rioba, Sandi and Afani had settled in Venice nearly four hundred years earlier. Successful entrepreneurs, the brothers invested heavily in the fourth crusade which, in avaricious preference for the rewards of this world to those of the next, sacked Constantinople instead of liberating the Holy Land from the vast unbelieving horde. The Mastellis shared in the looted treasure and made a substantial return on their investment.

  Overlooking the Rio Madonna dell’Orto, the Palazzo Mastelli with its peeling paint, Moorish colonnades and airy balconies was intended to be a tribute to trade. The enormous decorative relief on the palazzo’s façade commissioned by the brothers depicted a camel laden with the African and Arabian spices they sold at enormous profit on the Rialto exchanges.

  The spice again, touching every facet of life in the Republic. Paolo wondered whether there existed anything in the hearts of Venetians save the boundless appetite for wealth and its accumulation. The Mastellis could not have spent all of their money in three lifetimes let alone one, and still they died while devising new schemes to get more.

  Legend had it that the statues were actually the brothers themselves, turned to stone by Saint Magdalene as divine retribution for their dishonesty and hypocrisy. A legend no doubt initiated by the Church thought Paolo, angry as it was by the fact that Venice was alone among Italian city states where the glory of God was subordinate to commerce and profit.

  After roaming the sestieri for some three quarters of an hour and making discreet inquiries, Paolo found the man he was seeking. Bercu was described by local residents as thin and taller than most of his contemporaries with a fashionable grey beard framing a long, weary face, the wisdom for which he was respected etched beneath his dark eyes. He was holding court on a street corner at the edge of the cramped neighborhood that had been a copper foundry years before. The piles of buildings here seemed to cluster together as bodies do to stay warm. Paolo felt like an interloper in his own city. His arrival halted all conversation, though he had yet to speak. Five pairs of wary eyes settled upon him.

  “Achaz Bercu?” Paolo inquired. He hoped the question hid his discomfort and immediately knew it had not.

  “I am Achaz Bercu,” said the man that had been described to Paolo. “And who are you?” he asked slowly, his eyes taking in the visitor, flicking from head to foot, before quickly scanning the street corner. Paolo was the person he could see. How many might there be that he could not?

  “Might we speak in private?”

  “Tell me who you are and what you want with me and I will consider it.” Francesco was right about this man. He was not one to be easily maneuvered. Paolo was loath to mention Francesco’s name among these men, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter. If his relationship with Bercu was as turbulent as the wine merchant had implied, he might find himself in a suddenly hostile environment. Paolo was larger and stronger than all of them. That he, and they, could all plainly see, so he did not fear them physically. He was however a Venetian, and they, some would say, the oppressed minority. He was also in their domain, a fact they all clearly understood.

  “I work with Francesco…”

  “Ah,” he said softly with a rueful smile. “I might have guessed.” Although he spoke just above a whisper, there was something in his voice that stopped Paolo before he could finish his hastily constructed introduction. The group of men laughed amongst themselves. Paolo smiled uncomfortably, unable to determine whether this was a good or bad thing.

  “I am sorry for whatever has befallen you my friend to cause you to seek association with the wine merchant,” Bercu said, still chuckling. “Come,” he said, waving Paolo on, “I will speak with you.”

  Bercu led Paolo through the tight maze of streets which would remain in shadow until midday when the sun was fully overhead. The scent of spices mingled with wood smoke, fish, and the ubiquitous smell of the canals. Amidst the tangle of streets, buildings, and stalls Paolo felt at once both an
onymous and conspicuous. Enveloped as he was by the jumbled mass of bodies and leaning structures, no one seemed to pay him any mind, and yet he could not dismiss the feeling that eyes were upon him. Children scurried, men murmured, and Paolo walked with his companion in silence.

  “Tell your master I will come to see him tomorrow,” Bercu finally said.

  Paolo bristled at the word. He had no master. Yet here he was scrambling about the city doing Francesco’s bidding. He silently cursed the fat merchant for his generosity.

  “Is that all?” he asked.

  “Should there be more?”

  “I suppose not. Why did you not simply tell me this on the corner?”

  Bercu considered the question. “You intrigue me. You do not seem the type typically employed by the wine merchant.” He stopped in midstride, glancing sideways at Paolo. “In fact, you have not told me who you are, as I believe I requested.”

  “My name is Paolo Avesari.”

  “Avesari, Avesari,” Bercu muttered, searching his memory. “I know that name.”

  “My father is Tomaso Avesari, a glassmaker. Perhaps you have visited his glassworks on Murano.”

  At the mention of Tomaso’s name, Bercu looked at Paolo, eyes wide with surprise.

  “The murder,” was all he said.

  “You know of this?” asked Paolo in astonishment.

  “There is very little that I do not know,” Bercu replied without arrogance. He was, Paolo realized, simply stating a fact.

  “Come, sit.” Paolo had been following Bercu, paying attention more to the man than the neighborhood. But rather than walking aimlessly through the streets, Bercu had been leading them to a small café. Paolo took a moment to observe his surroundings.