A Trial in Venice

by Roberta Rich

  “The boy is a rock in the middle of a field. I cannot shift him.” Pausing, Foscari said slowly, “Perhaps, like a farmer, I must plow around him.”

  Cesca went to the kitchen and commenced stirring linseed oil, olive oil, pine resin, rosemary and wormwood. Then she sprinkled in oats to form a thick paste. It was another poultice for Foscari’s gouty foot. The hot linseed was so acrid it filled the room with a stink like that of burned hair. No herb, not even rosemary, was strong enough to mask the stench.

  Together they walked out into the garden and sat under a holm oak. Cesca placed the basin filled with the mixture on the ground. Foscari perched sulkily next to a statue of Dionysius and rested his back against the tree trunk. “The boy’s outburst could not have happened at a worse time.”

  “What if you told the judge that Matteo is ill?” Cesca said. “Then wouldn’t Hannah’s testimony be sufficient?”

  “Abarbanel made it clear that without both Hannah and Matteo, he would give the estate to the Franciscan monks for their wretched monastery and we will have not a scudo to show for our efforts.” In his impatience, a little puff of air escaped his lips. “The monks will strip the ducats from the estate faster than a butcher singeing the bristles off a pig’s hide.”

  “When must you return to court?” Cesca pulled off Foscari’s boot and helped him to ease his foot into the steaming basin.

  He winced with the heat of it. “In a fortnight.”

  “Postpone the trial. With God’s grace and my instruction, Matteo will come around, but it will take time.” Foscari had managed to bungle the simple task of persuading the boy to acknowledge the blanket. Five minutes of testimony was all that was required of Matteo.

  “I have already explained a delay is impossible.”

  “But why?”

  “Judge Abarbanel may have all the time in the world, but I do not. My creditors circle like wolves bringing down a stag.” He shifted his foot in the basin, wiggling his toes. “I tell you, I have nothing left, and without the prospect of an imminent court date, no moneylender will lend me another scudo.“

  Nothing left? What a liar you are, Foscari. I left you with a fat purse even after helping myself to a few of your ducats.

  “I shall be in court with Matteo. If I must, I will beat him until his bottom is raw.”

  Through the upstairs window, she heard Matteo calling for her. For once Cesca welcomed his summons. She needed a few minutes alone. “Excuse me while I go inside to check on him.” She got up and went in the house.

  As she passed through the upstairs hallway, she noticed marks on a door jamb where a previous occupant—perhaps Matteo’s father—had measured the height of a child over many years. What child? A neighbour’s boy? A nephew? She touched the marks. The stone felt cool on her hand. She pressed her cheek against it as she thought of what she should do next. Would there be another set of marks for Matteo—another slash of candle soot, Matteo wriggling in protest, as her hand pressed his red curls to get an accurate measurement? He exasperated her with his crying and his refusal to cooperate, yet Foscari’s fury with the child worried her.

  She found Matteo in bed, eyes open as he thrashed about in his usual restless manner. He must have snuck in the back way and flopped into bed—fully clothed, judging by the bunched-up covers. His chest, so defenceless, like the breast of a plucked pullet, rose and fell with shallow breaths. She kissed his forehead and pushed damp hair off his cheek. Then she helped him off with his clothes. There were red stripes on his back. She drew the coverlet over him. In the morning she would apply an unguent. Please relent, Matteo. Your future and mine are entwined like a grapevine on an arbour. I am trying to be a good mother to you. Now you try to be a good and obedient child to me.

  She returned to the garden.

  “There, you see?” said Foscari when she settled back under the oak. “This is the troublesome way of children. In an absolute passion one moment then fast asleep the next.”

  “It is hard to fall asleep when you are in pain. You should not have thrashed him.”

  Foscari continued in what was for him a humble tone. “Perhaps you are right. You take over the duty of instructing him. I am sure he will then be letter perfect by the court date.”

  “You have made my task more difficult by antagonizing him. If only I had had charge of him right from the start. Now I must undo the damage you have done by screaming at him and whipping him. You cannot break a child the way you would an unruly horse.” To Cesca’s surprise and embarrassment, her voice started to falter—she had also seen welts on Matteo’s bottom after some of his sessions with Foscari—and she had trouble finishing her sentence. “Cruelty only makes him more resolute.” She pretended to cough, and bent to brush a rose petal off her skirts. “Your ill treatment provokes him to be sulky and ill-tempered.” She adjusted the position of Foscari’s foot in the poultice. “If only you had obtained that order months ago when you first went to court.”

  “Is that so?” He shot her a look of annoyance. “And if only you had persuaded the boy to be more agreeable.”

  It was all Cesca could do not to pick up the rusty scythe lying in the grass and strike him. “I have done my best.”

  “My dear, of course you have.” A long moment of silence followed as Foscari moved his foot to and fro in the basin. “I see a way out of our difficulty, but I need your help.”

  This time, Cesca decided, he would not inveigle her into doing his bidding then stab her in the back. She crossed her arms over her bosom. “When will you go to the notary?” Weeks had elapsed since Foscari’s promise, but there was still no letter of intent.

  “Oh, that. Never fear. I shall arrange to visit the notary straightaway. It’s just that I have been so consumed with worry about the boy, I have had no time to think of anything else.” Foscari cleared his throat. “An idea has occurred to me, though.”

  “And what is that?”

  “If Matteo cannot testify properly, I must find a boy who can.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You have said yourself. Matteo is disobedient and wilful. I am not convinced even under your guidance he will ever be cooperative.”

  Foscari was going to suggest something she would not care for. Cesca could tell by the way he tugged at his earlobe as though milking a miniature cow.

  Foscari said, “I know where I can find a compliant, healthy child of about the right age.”

  “But then what will become of Matteo?”

  Foscari glanced at her, an unreadable expression on his face. “Well, he is of no further use to us, is he?”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jewish Ghetto,

  Venice

  BEFORE HER PREGNANCY Hannah would have bounded up the steep staircase to Asher’s apartment ahead of him, as nimble as a mountain goat. Now, the skirts of her cioppà bunched in one hand, she was slow and clumsy. By the time they reached the third floor, Hannah was panting and holding her sides.

  Through the apartment door came the yells of boys and Tzipporah’s shouts. Hannah recalled her sister-in-law as a very improving kind of woman. Improving of herself, improving of Asher, improving of everyone around her whether they wished to be improved or not. But that had been five years ago. Perhaps grief had smoothed the rough edges of her nature.

  From inside the apartment came the sound of a heavy object crashing to the floor. Without waiting for Hannah to catch her breath, Asher flung open the door and, standing to one side, made a sweeping bow as though ushering her through the portals of a palazzo on the Grand Canal.

  All apartments in the ghetto vibrated with industry—sewing, soap making, carpentry, hat making and boot repair. When Hannah and Isaac had lived in the ghetto, they considered themselves fortunate to inhabit a cramped, airless place not unlike Asher’s. Hannah had owned a pair of brown hens, which roosted in the cook pots at night for lack of a nest. But in this apartment was chaos of a different order. The scene within Asher’s dwelling recalled the destruction of Ki
ng Solomon’s temple. The two narrow rooms overflowed with stacks of books and papers, clock mechanisms, embroidery hoops, thimbles, thread, a tortoiseshell cat batting spools of blue yarn along the floor, a small loom, the hull of a half-carved toy boat.

  Suspended from the sill of the only window was a wooden rack. Damp breeches and shirts flapped in the breeze. Open baskets hung from the ceiling bulging with second-hand clothing and quilts taken by Asher in pledge. Heavier articles sat stored in sacks on the floor, which overflowed with brass candlesticks, Turkish carpets, paintings, tapestries and God knows what else. The boys, all miniature replicas of Asher, were everywhere, the smaller two playing with dreidels. They seemed to be all sharp elbows and scabby knees poking through mended shirts and breeches. They were much too thin. Hannah glanced at Asher, noticing for the first time his jacket was worn at the elbows and his shirt cuffs tattered.

  Hannah remembered only the friendliness of the ghetto. The street vendors, the smell of pickled herring and the winter peaches arranged in a pyramid on the vendor’s table, the bakery fragrant with yeast and sugar and raisins and precious cinnamon. Now, looking around the loghetto, Hannah realized her mind had winnowed out the bad memories, leaving only the good behind. She had forgotten the dim rooms bursting with large families, with no place for storage, no place to escape on summer nights so hot the pine pitch between the boards of the building stank and oozed—if one brushed against them, they would leave streaks of sticky, black pitch on clothes and skin.

  Of course, there were no glass panes in the windows, no cristallo, the clear glass the glass-makers on the island of Murano were so famous for. The ghetto windows were covered with oiled parchment, which as time went on ripped and let in the fever-making vapours of the night air. What a contrast to her airy, spacious, well-appointed house in Constantinople, with its gardens, summer kitchen, mulberry orchard and, most of all, her beloved Isaac.

  Since she had left Constantinople, sleep had not come easily without Isaac next to her. Hannah would remember their nights together and grow hot and restless, thrashing in a way that had nothing to do with the thinness of her mattress or her threadbare covers. She would throw a leg out then bring it back under the quilt, trying not to think of him: the smoothness of his chest; the areola of hair around his nipples; his long, strong back arched toward her; the salty taste of his skin; the way he grabbed a handful of her hair and tilted her head back to kiss her throat; her nightgown a silky pool on the floor in the morning.

  In the midst of Asher’s tiny apartment, like a large-prowed ship in the calm eye of a storm, stood Tzipporah. Hannah walked to her, trying not to hit her head on the low ceiling or trip on a sack. She felt giddy from the climb up the stairs and from the heavenly odour wafting from a pot on the brazier.

  “Shalom aleichem, Hannah,” Tzipporah said, thrusting aside a sheet drying from a rope suspended from the rafters. Her belly was protuberant—she was at least seven months along, Hannah judged. Her sister-in-law stirred something on the charcoal brazier. Hannah inhaled and sighed with pleasure at the floral fragrance. Lily of the valley. Her favourite scent, one that brought back memories of her mother arranging a few delicate white-belled stems in a vase on the Shabbat table.

  “Aleichem shalom, Tzipporah.” Hannah gave her sister-in-law a hug. Tzipporah must have felt the thrust of Hannah’s pregnancy in the embrace. She grinned and pinched Hannah’s cheek.

  “At last! I am so happy for you.”

  Tzipporah was a handsome woman, as tall and straight as a glassmaker’s borsello with a wide, generous mouth that still boasted all its teeth. She flailed her arms like a windmill, as she admonished the boys for shouting, rocked the youngest one, slicked down a cowlick and stirred the concoction on the stove.

  Tzipporah had acquired creases around her mouth and eyes, but her skin was otherwise unwrinkled and free of pox scars. Hannah reached up to stroke it; it was soft as a baby’s. Tzipporah smiled and tilted her head into Hannah’s caress.

  “Still so thin! In another month you will look like the snake that swallowed the elephant!”

  Tzipporah let out an embarrassed chortle as she realized how tactless her remark sounded. The giggle made her seem younger than her thirty-five years but sounded odd coming from so stern a mouth.

  “So sorry, Hannah. You look pretty. Pregnancy has made you radiant.” She clasped Hannah’s hands in her own and drew her closer to the small window. Tzipporah took her chin and turned her face this way and that, running a thumb along Hannah’s cheek. “How was your journey? No, do not tell me. I can read it in your skin. Your face and neck are chapped from the wind. Your hair is coarse from the sea air.”

  Tzipporah’s fondness for Hannah was genuine. Asher must have complained to his wife about the missing violin, but such accusations had not diminished Tzipporah’s affection for her sister-in-law.

  “The journey was long and tiring.” Hannah peered over Tzipporah’s shoulder to see what was in the pot. Something thick, honey coloured and smooth, with a lovely lustre to it.

  Asher was trying to separate two of the boys who were wrestling near the brazier. Tzipporah ignored them. “What are you cooking?” asked Hannah, standing as far from the brazier as she could in case one of the boys overturned it as they shoved each other.

  “The very thing you should be rubbing on your skin. Cream made of beeswax, almond oil and lanolin. Here—hold out your hand.” Tzipporah drizzled an amount the size of a small coin onto Hannah’s palm. “Smooth it on those rough cheeks.”

  Hannah did as she was told. First Assunta, now Tzipporah. To be surrounded by good-hearted, bossy women seemed to be Hannah’s destiny. The cream was rich and fragrant. It absorbed into her skin, leaving a rich sheen behind.

  Asher glanced up, holding the two boys at arm’s length. “Tzipporah is famous for her potions. Her coltsfoot salve sells before it is off the stove and poured into jars,” he said.

  “The rich noblewomen in the grand palazzi send their ladies’ maids to buy it from me.” Tzipporah nudged Hannah with her elbow. “It also works as dubbin on Asher’s old leather boots.”

  Hannah took a deep breath. “I would be grateful for your hospitality. I need a place for a few nights before I leave for San Lorenzo.”

  The affable look left Tzipporah’s face. “I thought you would be staying at a public inn. We cannot…”

  Hannah waited for her to continue, but Tzipporah, turning to Asher, said, “Send the boys out.”

  “Before I do that,” said Asher, “let me introduce you—Samuel, Tubal, Solomon, Benjamin and—” he gestured to a crib in the corner, from which a fist waved “—Elijah, the youngest, aged three. Come, boys. Say hello to your aunt Hannah.”

  “What lovely boys. So handsome, so strong.”

  “And who could they take after not to be handsome?” asked Asher, grinning.

  Hannah smiled in agreement. Elijah was the best looking, with wide-set black eyes and an impish expression on his face. The others might be too thin, but this clever child had somehow managed to acquire a nice layer of flesh.

  “And may we also remember little Jacob and Saul, of blessed memory, who will never grow up to be strong or handsome but who will always be in our hearts,” said Tzipporah.

  Asher nodded.

  Hannah pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.

  Just then one of the boys—Tubal, Hannah thought—punched Samuel in the arm, making him howl with fury then retaliate by thumping Tubal on the back.

  “Enough! All of you! Outside this minute,” Asher said.

  There was a stampede of footsteps on the staircase as the boys raced out. Matteo would take pleasure in the fierce camaraderie of his cousins. They would race around the campo, playing tag and wheedling oranges from the fruit vendor. In the midst of such good spirits and hilarity, Matteo’s grave nature would give way to playfulness.

  “Good,” declared Asher, as the last boy clattered down the stairs. He closed the door. “Peace at last.”

/>   Hannah turned toward her sister-in-law. “I understand your reluctance about me staying, Tzipporah, but I have nowhere else.” A pleading tone crept into her voice, shaming her. “I know I am one more mouth to feed, another body taking up space in a crowded house.” When Tzipporah just stood and shook her head, Hannah went on, “Just until I can find my son, Matteo.”

  “Food and space are not the problem.” Tzipporah shot Asher a glare. “You didn’t write her?”

  Asher looked as though he wanted to follow his sons out the door.

  Tzipporah said, “Bah, too busy worrying about your father’s miserable old fiddle.”

  “Placing such news in a letter, which anyone with a knife could unfasten and read, would not have been wise.”

  “Tell her,” said Tzipporah.

  Asher turned to Hannah. “You know how people gossip in Venice. A servant of the di Padovani household put out the rumour that the Conte gave you two hundred ducats for delivering his heir. When you left Venice so abruptly, everyone assumed you had sailed to Malta to ransom Isaac.”

  Hannah’s stomach tightened. Sometimes the body senses disaster before the mind comprehends it. “And so I did.” There was more; she could tell by the hesitation on Asher’s face.

  “You left in the middle of the worst outbreak of the plague,” said Tzipporah. “All was death and confusion. Thousands died. The city stank with the rotting flesh. And not just the poor died. Nobles, as well, including one of the di Padovani brothers, Niccolò. Some say he died of the plague, but others say he was murdered.”

  Hannah would not ask if Niccolò’s body had been discovered. She did not want to arouse curiosity by showing an interest.

  Tzipporah glanced at Asher as though seeking his support. “Some said the Conte’s baby died of the plague soon after his birth. Some said you stole him.”