by Roberta Rich
Cesca hunted about the summer kitchen until she came across an elaborate teapot in a back cupboard that must have been original to the house, but of course no precious tea. She picked a handful of lemon balm she found growing in an overgrown kitchen garden near the back door and steeped it in boiling water. Then she arranged the pot and a couple of cracked mugs on a tray and walked out to the nyphaneum to meet Foscari. He was perched on the low balustrade of the pool, shifting his weight from buttock to buttock. There being nowhere else to sit, she set the tray beside him and arranged herself cross-legged on the ground facing him.
He studied the pot—the spout was shaped like a dragon’s mouth, the handle its tail—as though trying to puzzle out how on earth the steaming liquid could be persuaded to emerge and fill their mugs. He reached toward the spout as if to grasp it. Before he could scald his hand, Cesca seized the pot by its handle, her fingers protected with a cloth. “Allow me,” she said, and poured him a cup. “Have some bread and butter.” She passed him the plate, watching him help himself to a piece, slather it liberally with butter, then chew, his jaw swinging sideways like a goat’s.
“You have grown attached to the boy,” he said between bites.
Foscari’s words were so unexpected, uttered so seriously, without his usual bantering tone, that she startled. “Perché no? Of course I am. Fond as I would be of a lap dog or a prize lamb to be slaughtered in the autumn.”
“You pretend to be impatient with me,” he said, “and my little illnesses, but it gives you an opportunity to fuss and carry on about me—or rather it did before you became so infatuated with that child.”
“You make ‘that child’ sound like a heavy object dropped on a hard floor.” She took a sip of the lemon balm. “Let us not quarrel. There is room in my heart for both of you.” The truth was Matteo detested Foscari with all the ferocious energy of a five-year-old. He blamed the Marquis for taking him from Hannah and Isaac. He hated him for sometimes making Cesca cry.
Cesca was about to run her finger down Foscari’s nose, but feared dislodging it because then would follow the elaborate regluing Foscari was compelled to go through to keep it in place. Instead she squeezed his thigh. “Am I not cooking up a hideous brew to relieve your gout?”
All this chatter was getting on her nerves. She could stand it no more. “Tell me how your petition was received in court.”
Foscari picked up his hat, which he had brought with him from the kitchen, and pinched a pheasant feather between his fingers. “I appeared before Judge Abarbanel, a man I know slightly—he is married to the daughter of an old friend. I explained to him I am first cousin to Matteo’s late father, the Conte di Padovani.”
Perhaps it was true. Were not all noble families related either by blood or marriage?
“I assumed the order appointing me guardian would be granted readily. What more was required? A child in need of a guardian and here was I—a respectable, trustworthy relative, albeit a distant one—willing to assume the task. The judge proved obstinate. Although I explained the case to him, attested to my relationship to the Conte, and showed him the child’s christening blanket, do you know what he said?”
The blanket with the di Padovani crest worked in gold thread was Matteo’s favourite. He had sobbed when Foscari seized it from him during their voyage.
Foscari flicked the tip of the feather back and forth across his chin, gazing at the ground in remembered humiliation. “He said the evidence was sorely lacking. His very words, ‘sorely lacking’! What more had I, he demanded in the most peremptory way, than a ragged blanket with the family crest on it?”
Cesca listened with a growing sense of apprehension.
“ ‘That threadbare scrap could be a lucky find from a rag picker’s handcart,’ the judge added. Calling me a liar, in other words. As for Matteo, the judge asked, why this miraculous appearance after so many years? Where on earth had he been hiding? When I explained that the midwife who had attended his birth had been raising him, he demanded to know why she was not present to testify. The judge said, ‘She must explain to the court why she took him. Without her testimony there is no case.’ ”
Foscari did not meet Cesca’s eye.
“I replied, ‘But she is a Jew, my lord.’ And he replied, ‘Yes, it is unusual to accept evidence from Hebrews, but I can make an exception.’ ” Foscari cleared his throat. “I explained that she had kidnapped Matteo, a Christian, spirited him off to Constantinople, and had been raising him as a Jew until I rescued him, the poor mite. Why would you want to hear testimony from such a rogue of a woman, I asked the judge?”
How drawn Foscari suddenly looked, how rounded his shoulders, how sallow his complexion.
“I told the judge, ‘The midwife has violated God’s laws as well as the laws of the Venetian Republic. She will not come to Venice knowing she will be arrested.’ ”
Foscari got to his feet and began to pace—if his halting gait could be termed pacing. “Instead of congratulating me for saving the boy’s immortal soul, the judge said, ‘That is a problem you must deal with. The midwife must identify the boy as the child the Contessa gave birth to. She must explain to this court where the boy has been all these years and why she has not claimed the di Padovani fortune on his behalf. I should tell you, sir’—he called me ‘sir’ as though I was nothing more than a tradesman—‘they say the heir to the di Padovani fortune perished along with his parents in the plague of 1575. You know how servants gossip. A di Padovani servant is married to one of my footmen. Now you claim the boy is alive. I cannot take your word alone.’ ” Foscari grew very red in the face. “ ‘You have a heavy evidentiary burden before you, sir,’ said the judge. ‘I suggest you get on with it.’ ”
Cesca wanted to clap her hands over her ears. It was as though Foscari was relating the details of a tragic shipwreck.
“I replied, ‘May I at least write the midwife, Hannah Levi, that if she comes to testify, she will not be arrested for raising this boy as a Jew?’ ‘You may not,’ the judge replied. ‘I shall make that decision once I have heard what she has to say for herself.’ ” Foscari mopped his forehead. “And then he said the most hurtful thing of all. ‘This midwife must identify the child. You, sir, might pluck any child off the streets and then, like a conjurer pulling a rabbit out of a hat, shout, “Whoosh! Here is the boy.” ’ The judge snapped his fingers. ‘No, sir, I knew the Conte and the Contessa. Out of respect for their memory, I insist on the strictest proof that the child is who you claim. I won’t have any tricks in my courtroom. You find that midwife, Jew or gentile. Bring her before me. Without her, I shall not make your order.’ Then he slammed his record book closed.”
Could Foscari have foreseen any of this? Was something missing from his account? What had he done to make such an unfavourable impression on the judge? But Cesca could raise none of these questions without sounding as though she was making an accusation. “And if you cannot produce Hannah?” Cesca asked.
“This is the worst part. The judge said, ‘If you fail to find this midwife, then I have no choice but to allow the di Padovani estate to pass to the residuary legatee, the Monasterio San Francisco de Rosas. They commenced a claim on the estate some time ago. Their advocates will summon the family servant—Giovanna, I believe her name is—to testify she last saw the boy covered with buboes and lesions, more dead than alive in the arms of the midwife. Most unlikely, sir, that an infant could recover from the plague, would you not agree?’ ” Foscari looked down at his boots. “It was mortifying, my dove. I have never felt such a fool.”
“But Hannah will not—”
“We have two steps to take. The first is to present Matteo to the judge, which is easy enough. The second is the hurdle. How to persuade Hannah to come to Venice?” Foscari drew a brandy flask from his pocket and poured a healthy dollop into his tea. Cesca had never seen him so agitated. His mouth was tight, a line of white around it. His eyes had lost their customary confident lustre.
&nbs
p; “Of what possible use is the testimony of a five-year-old boy?” Cesca said.
“Exactly what I asked Judge Abarbanel. He replied, ‘The boy can identify his blanket. All children can do as much. They are as attached to their blankets as men are to mistresses.’ ” Foscari gave an unpleasant laugh. “And then he said, ‘I must see the boy with my own eyes. I knew his mother, the Contessa Lucia. Perhaps the boy inherited her flaming red hair.’ ”
“To which you replied?”
Foscari had anticipated the di Padovani fortune would fall into his lap like an apple from a tree. Had he tried to answer the judge’s objections or had he just stood there saying nothing? No, she was sure he had spoken eloquently. He was adroit with words, quick with a classical quote or a line of Greek poetry.
“ ‘Red as a winter apple,’ I replied. Then the judge bashed on as though I had not spoken. ‘I met the Contessa years ago—a remarkably beautiful woman. I might recognize her features in her son.’ Then he signalled the bailiff to call the next case.” Foscari straightened his nose with such force she was afraid it would leave his face. “Utter rubbish. I resembled neither of my parents. What about you? I suspect you cannot answer because you don’t know who your father was.”
Foscari could be wounding, but she was developing some quick-wittedness herself. “From whom else would I have acquired my good looks and gracious demeanour?”
He had the good grace to smile. “I do not mind confiding, my dear, that I am discouraged. If the estate were not so vast—the palazzo, the two brigantines, this villa, the thousands of ducats in the Fugger bank in Augsburg—I would depart the field of battle and let the monks prevail—”
“Stop! We are not defeated yet.”
“And God bless them. But what is to be done?”
Cesca willed herself to smile and tilt her head in a becoming way. “I know how to persuade Hannah and I shall do so, but in the meantime I need money to run the villa. I have to hire servants and buy provisions for the winter.”
“What makes you think I have anything to give you?”
“I am poor, Foscari. I have always been poor. I do not require you and your silver nose to be poor. I can be poor all by myself.” Cesca’s voice rose. “If you wish me to continue as your partner—” she held up a hand to stop him from interrupting “—yes, partner, you must give me some money. So far, I have nothing to show for my unceasing labour but an aching back and unbecoming muscles in my arms.”
Foscari began to walk around the garden. He was wearing a new pair of breeches tailored to make his buttocks look less like empty flour sacks and more like the ripe haunches of a young man.
“Credit, my dove,” said Foscari. “Convince the local tradesmen to extend you credit.” But he reached into the purse around his waist and fished out a few small coins, which he placed in her outstretched palm.
“This is not enough to keep the wolf from my door.” But she closed her fingers around them.
“Now,” Foscari said, “fetch me pen and paper. I shall write Hannah.”
“Leave the letter to me,” said Cesca. “I know what to say. The priest will pen it for me.”
I have already left too much in your hands, Foscari. If Hannah must be part of our scheme, so be it. She is easy to outfox. It is you, Foscari, who worries me.
CHAPTER 4
Port of Eminönü,
Constantinople
SISTER ASSUNTA STOMPED into the bedchamber, wearing only her billowing black robe. Without her wimple, she was an alarming sight. Bunches of cropped brown hair framed her broad face, bringing to mind the clumps of wool that dangled from the hind end of a ewe. With her hands on her wide hips, she announced, “There is no help for it, my girl. Pregnant or not, it is laundry day. Zephra is ill. The other servants are busy in the silk workshop. May God be thanked, there are silk orders to fill. Isaac claims he doesn’t need my assistance. With your help, I will see to the washing.”
The nun had been living with them for seven long weeks, performing chores Hannah could not muster the will to do. Assunta had been a tremendous help, which made Hannah feel obligated to like her. So far she had not succeeded.
Hannah rolled over, trying to ignore the imposing figure looming above her in a flour-streaked apron, the smell of wood smoke on her robes. Assunta tugged the coverlet off. The state of the house was appalling. Dirty linen overflowed in rush baskets lining the hallway. Isaac had not had a clean shirt in days. The underarms of all Hannah’s dresses bore perspiration rings. The bodices of her cotton dresses were stained with baby pap, which she had been feeding to Jessica, the daughter of Leah, a young slave girl from the Sultan’s harem who had died in childbirth. Hannah had regretted naming the baby Jessica because the name was coupled with the memory of her sister, Jessica, who had died so violently in Hannah’s arms. How long it had taken her and Isaac to cease calling the child zisele, sweetie, or ketzele, kitten, and start thinking of her not as the ghost of Jessica but as a person in her own right.
Hannah and Isaac had adopted Jessica and were raising her as their daughter. Now there were only two clean nappies left for the infant.
“There is not a scrap of soap the size of a baby’s fingernail anywhere to be found,” said Assunta.
If Hannah did not rise promptly, Assunta would drag her from bed to make soap, a chore Hannah approached with dread each autumn when, at the height of slaughtering season, there was plenty of rendered, pure white kidney fat to be had from the butchers.
Barefoot—Assunta detested shoes and wore them as seldom as possible—she hovered while Hannah removed her shift. “The job is half finished. I prepared the lye. You shall deal with the rest.”
Just the type of remark to provoke Hannah, as Assunta well knew. For Hannah, a half-finished job was an abomination. To her, action and deed were as twins, hands linked, floating in the same womb. Hannah’s mother had been a non-completer of chores and as a child Hannah vowed not to follow in her footsteps. The house of Hannah’s childhood had been strewn with knitted sweaters missing one sleeve; sheets covered with embroidered roses missing their petals; one little brother dressed only in a shirt, another only in a pair of breeches. Half-cooked vegetables languished over a fire smouldering for lack of kindling. Her mother had died in childbirth when Jessica, Hannah’s sister, was half emerged from her womb, leaving the midwife to wrap a cloth around the baby’s head and tug her the rest of the way.
“Give me a moment,” said Hannah, glancing at Assunta’s feet, which were planted on the floor in front of her. The feet both fascinated and repelled Hannah. Still bearing pink striations from the seams of Assunta’s leather boots, they were long and wide. Standing on such feet must be like standing on a platform. How comforting to be the owner of such substantial feet.
When Hannah finished washing her face, she brushed her hair into a neat coil at the back of her neck, dressed and padded downstairs after Assunta. The nun watched critically as Hannah poured the lye water from the bucket into the fat and stirred the mixture with a long-handled paddle. Hannah stood well back as the mixture heated and fumes rose.
“Faster—the soap will not thicken without hard stirring.” Assunta wrested the paddle from Hannah and commenced a violent motion, which soon had the ground around the cauldron ringed in a greasy mess. “Soap making is a perversely satisfying task, is it not? Just imagine! From two repellent things—grease and lye—we make something pleasant and useful.” She chuckled, pleased with her observation.
Assunta was right. It was no good lying in bed feeling sorry for herself. The sight of several pounds of soap cut into rectangles would give Hannah a feeling of accomplishment. The servants could have performed the task, but they were busy unreeling silk cocoons, and besides, they would not take care to get the correct proportions of fat and lye.
Hannah wiped a trickle of sweat from her face and stretched forward, a hand on the small of her aching back, to reclaim the paddle. “Calmness, Assunta. Watch me. Do it like this.” Hannah stirred, trying
not to splatter the caustic grease onto her hands. Her skirts were already full of holes burned by the harsh liquid. She waited for the emulsion to come to trace. To test it, she dribbled Matteo’s name to see if it would form a pattern on the surface. The letters held their shape. This was a hopeful portent. Hannah often worried whether her mourning over the loss of Matteo was affecting her unborn child. She would take the neat letters as a sign her baby was healthy.
Not only had Matteo vanished last year—Cesca and Foscari, she was certain it was them, had come back for him—but within a few weeks of his first disappearance, Hannah had suffered a miscarriage.
One rainy night the infant had ripped its way out—tearing and slithering and leaving a snail trail of bloody mucus behind. The pain had been almost unendurable—not the physical agony, which had been bad enough, but the pain of losing a child she had carried for three months. When the spasms subsided, Isaac buried the contents of the basin in the garden under a mulberry tree.
Throughout the gut-wrenching ordeal Hannah knew with certainty she had herself to blame for both misfortunes. If she had been paying better attention, Cesca and Foscari would never have been able to snatch Matteo. The grief and guilt she felt as a consequence had smothered the tender life growing within her; it had withered and died.
Isaac tried to persuade her to have hope. For the first time since her marriage, he pointed out, she had conceived a child, proving her body was receptive to his seed. Heartened by his words, as soon as she felt ready, Hannah encouraged Isaac to make love to her. Now she was, with God’s punishment behind her, once again pregnant.
In order to enjoy warmth, one must feel cold; in order to enjoy food, one must know hunger; and in order to cherish the sensation of a baby stirring under one’s heart, one must have known loss of a child who grew hardly big enough to make its presence known. This new infant nestled inside her, not restive, not impatient to be born. This baby curled up in her matrix, unfurling gently, reaching out like the bud of a rose seeking the light. And when he—Isaac spoke of the baby as a boy—emerged, he would be as brilliant as the sun.
