“Unfortunately, before this most important debut, I enjoyed myself with a huge meal and lots of wine. I stood up in front of everyone in church, went blank, and—whether in fright or to save myself further humiliation—I fainted.”
“Oh, my!” was all I could say, losing myself in laughter. “I could have told you myself you are not fit for an ecclesiastical career!”
“You are very intelligent, Caterina,” he said. “I wish I were half as observant about myself. I wasted four more years chasing after a position in the Church. But it was not suited to my temperament.”
At this, he grabbed me and pinched my behind. I pretended to slap him in outrage. He responded by catching my hand in the air and kissing my palm. Our lovemaking becoming real, he pressed me against the curved apse wall of the church. The sky had become cloudy, with only a few stars glimmering above. He deluged my neck and bosom with kisses, to which I surrendered with the sweetest moans.
“Aren’t you happy you gave up the life of a priest?” I teased, pulling him even closer by the top of his breeches.
“Extremely,” he breathed, pressing against me with a moaning gasp. “A man cannot change who he is.”
CHAPTER 13
“Caterina—no!”
Zulietta jumped up from the turf seat where we sat in my garden the next afternoon and paced anxiously.
“Why are you upset?” I asked. “Nobody saw us!”
“How do you know?” She sat back down and started picking at the tufts of chamomile that covered the seat. The soft, thready leaves released a smell like fresh apples.
“We were seated high up,” I explained again, “in the fourth tier—”
“Exactly,” said Zulietta. “The fourth tier of any theater is notorious, Caterina. It is where men take their mistresses for all kinds of—of things they should not be doing. Are you so easily won?”
I shrugged my shoulders and blushed. Zulietta looked at me with disapproval.
“Cousin,” I said, “please do not worry about me. Giacomo is a good match. My heart tells me that.”
“I think,” Zulietta said, “that other parts of your body are telling you that.”
I did not know what more to say. Yes, Zulietta was older. But she had not yet discovered this sweet new world. Already that morning, I had taken a big pillow in my arms and imagined it was Giacomo, kissing it over and over. The furies of love had built to a frenzy. I had touched myself very lightly at the end, feeling a cascade of pleasure.
“Are you—jealous of me?” I asked.
Zulietta jumped up again and put her hands on her hips. She reminded me of a chiding washwoman at the well—Stop splashing the water! Stop—stop—
“I am not jealous, Caterina. I am scared for you. If you let him up your skirts, soon enough, no better man will want to have you.”
“There is no better man for me!” I insisted.
“I do not trust him,” Zulietta said. “He has no profession. What is he after? An innocent girl—and her sizable dowry? Ten thousand zecchini is a lot of money.”
“He does not need money,” I shot back. “Can you not believe he would love me without it?” I was shaking with hurt, and sudden doubt.
Zulietta fell silent. She came over and put her arm around me.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered in my ear. “Of course I do.”
Reassured, I laid my head on her shoulder. “Are you starting to wonder . . .” I asked her, “what man your father will choose for you?” I wanted to make peace between us.
“I am.” Her voice sounded faraway. “He tells me he has something clever in mind. Maybe”—she paused—“a nobleman.”
“How is that possible?” I lifted my head in surprise. Yes, Zulietta was very wealthy. Her father was a merchant, like mine. He dealt in exotic silks and spices. Still, ours were not noble families. And nobles only married other nobles.
“I don’t understand it, either,” she said. “He tells me there is an official process that makes it possible for a very few. You apply to the magistrates of the Avogaria di Comun, and make the case that you are worthy of a prestigious marriage. The doge must approve it.” She cast down her eyes. Zulietta was modest, but her father was always grasping. He wanted his only child to have everything.
“Bene—” I said, “if anyone is worthy of making such a marriage, you are!” I meant it sincerely. She was not a great beauty, but she possessed the manners and grace of someone higher born.
We heard the bells of San Gregorio start to clang nearby.
“Are you going to Mass?” she asked me.
“Oh—I went this morning with my mother.” It was a small lie. I did not feel like going to church.
“Of course,” she said, rising. “How late I am!”
We walked arm in arm across the crushed shell path toward the main door of the garden. On our way, I glanced at the back door and spied a folded piece of paper waiting for me in the same place where Giacomo had left me the poem. I hurriedly said goodbye to Zulietta, my heart jumping. I ran across the lawn and plucked my secret message from the blooming vines.
Beautiful Caterina, you move the sun and other stars for me.
I stopped and stared up at the blue midday sky. By now, I knew that the sun did not move. But it made the words even better. I was the one who moved the heavens for my lover, the sun and all the stars.
CHAPTER 14
I decided to pawn some jewelry. If I wanted to see Giacomo alone again, I needed money. I didn’t want him to have to empty his pockets each time he wanted to see me—and Pier Antonio would not help us unless he got something in return. After all, he was chronically in debt. He had recently been denounced for bad credit in one of the Lion’s Mouths at the doge’s palace. These are special wall slots Venetians use to report wrongdoings.
I owned quite a lot of jewelry because my father often brought me gifts from faraway ports. I kept these trinkets in an ivory box by my bed, the same one where I keep . . . other precious things now. I was very young when my father gave me the box and told me it was made from a real elephant in the land of Africa. I have always treasured it.
I opened the box and fingered the jewels inside, finding forgotten things. Ornate cuff bracelets, gemstone rings I never wore. But I began to feel uneasy. If I pawned these gifts from my father, would I invite the Evil Eye on myself? Closing the box, I went over to my dressing table mirror. Inside one of its drawers, I kept a pile of fans.
I rummaged through the pile, opening each fan. Some had rips or stains or broken handles. But I already knew in my heart the one I was going to sell. It had once belonged to my grandmother—my father’s mother. I had never known her.
It was a magnificent fan, this one. Not parchment, but silk. I had been told it came from Russia. The handles were mother-of-pearl, inlaid with tiny crushed diamonds. Its painting was very fine, too, showing pairs of lovers in a garden. How happy they looked! I wanted to be just like them. Alone with my lover under a leafy tree, my cheeks turning pink as he whispered secrets in my ear.
I folded the fan and dropped it into the pocket beneath my skirts. I rushed to find a pair of flat leather slippers, so that I could move about quickly. I needed to hurry, before my mother discovered I was gone.
I slipped out our land door and ran toward the church of the Salute at the tip of the city to hail a gondola. I found several boats gathered there, waiting for passengers. I stepped into one, hid in the cabin, and drew the shutters closed. The Jewish ghetto was where you went to pawn things, every Venetian knew that.
It was a long ride north, about a half hour. The boat finally docked near a hinged wooden bridge. I’d heard about this bridge—used to shut in the Jews at night. It lay open now in the sunlight, guarded by a watchman peering down from a small square window. I walked across this bridge and down into a narrow passageway. Rats scurried near the dark, damp walls. I shuddered and hurried through as fast as I could.
I found myself in a large public square surrounded by tall, crumblin
g buildings. There was no church, as in every other square I knew. And where were the synagogues? I saw no sign of them, though I’d heard they were set high up, to be near the sky and stars.
I saw dark-skinned Jews in turbans, Jews in high black hats, Jews (or were they Christians?) in fashionable tricorn hats. A man dressed in rags was selling dented pots out of a basket as if these were his last worldly goods. Under the arcades, women darned old clothes in the shade. Pawnshops lined the square on every side, and I noticed a pharmacy, as well, the Casa degli Speziali. Next door was a pawnshop that appeared to have the finest things for sale. I made my way there.
The sign over the door read Vivante in gold. When I entered, the place smelled like old books, and dust. A girl no older than I was stood behind the counter.
“Oh—scusì—do you—” I lost my courage.
“Buon giorno, Signorina. Is there something you wish to buy?” She was an exquisite girl, small in stature, with brown wavy hair and almond-shaped eyes.
“To sell,” I said. I took out the fan and opened it up for her.
“Oh—how beautiful!” She picked it up and pretended to fan herself like a nobildonna. We both giggled.
“Papa!” she called out. A bearded Jew came out from a back room. He was small, like his daughter. He held a soiled rag and his fingers were black from tarnish.
“See this fan that the signorina has brought to us!”
He put out his hand to inspect it, but the girl held it back. It was too precious to be touched by dirty hands; she knew that.
He realized it, too, and smiled at her.
“Elia, hold it open for me then.” His eyes brightened at the sight of the diamonds. “Ah.” He stroked his beard with his black fingers. “Did you want a loan for it, or to sell it?”
I was confused. I had never pawned anything before, and didn’t understand the choice he was giving me.
“I can give you one hundred silver zecchini as a loan,” he explained. “This way, when you are ready to repay me—with a little interest, not much—you can have your fan back.”
“And if I sell it?”
“One hundred fifty zecchini.”
“I will sell it,” I said without hesitation.
What did I care if I ever got the fan back again? I just wanted to leave that rat-filled ghetto with as much money as possible. And I hoped I would not have to come back anytime soon.
CHAPTER 15
“That’s it?” my brother said when I handed him the silver coins. “Five zecchini?”
“By God, how much more do I have to give you?” I snapped. “All I want is a copy of your key so I can let myself back in.”
“Seven zecchini,” he said. “I also have to lie about where I’m taking you. What if I am discovered?” He put a hand to his heart and batted his eyes at me, innocently. My blood burned.
“Fine. Seven. Now, I want that key.” Ahead of me I saw an entire night alone with my lover, and nothing was going to stand in my way.
Pier Antonio told my mother we were going to a choir concert at the famous Pietà orphanage, in the neighborhood of Castello. But instead, he would take me across the lagoon to the garden of San Biagio, on Giudecca.
Many times before, I had walked along the edge of the city on my mother’s arm, or holding her hand, and stared out to this long, green island across the water. I had often wondered, what secrets hid behind those high garden walls? What lay at the feet of the tall cypress trees, waving in the wind? I was about to find out.
We left our house a few hours after pranzo, the day still hot. I was quite satisfied with my choice of dress: a yellow silk gown with painted flowers on it, to capture the look of a bright garden. I tried to ignore Pier Antonio as much as possible in the boat—he was busy cleaning his teeth and fingernails with a toothpick. Nauseating.
The lagoon current was against us. By the time we neared the tip of Giudecca, almost an hour later, our gondolier’s white shirt was drenched with sweat.
My heart soared when I spied Giacomo, waiting for me. He was leaning against a stone statue next to a wide iron entrance gate. The sun was lower now, creating deep shadows across the pavement. As we got closer, I could see that the statue was of Pan, the Roman god of desire. And, true enough, Giacomo had attracted desiring company, a mother and golden-haired daughter, busy fanning and fawning.
I felt a sting of jealousy. Oh, it was the first of many times. But, seeing me approaching, he gave them a quick bow and went down to the mooring poles to meet us.
“Here she is, delivered with her seal unbroken!” called out my brother as our gondola bumped into place. I flushed, feeling suddenly very warm. I yearned to loosen the ribbons of my bodice, but after that comment, how could I?
Giacomo regarded Pier Antonio with disdain and lifted me out of the boat. He put his arm around my waist and led me away. He did not even acknowledge my brother.
“I don’t know how I restrain myself from cutting his throat,” he hissed in my ear as we walked to the gate. I could not get any words out. Instead, I held on to his arm tightly. He wore no jacket or waistcoat that day, and beneath his linen shirt I was aware of his muscular strength for the first time. I felt safe.
Once inside the garden, I forgot immediately about my bad mood, and my rotten brother. I had never seen—or imagined—such a large and beautiful place! Wide brick paths were flanked by tall evergreen hedges. Hidden behind these were hundreds of beds of roses, a sea of pinks and yellows.
We wandered down the central path, which was intersected by gushing fountains—a rarity in Venice. Along the way, inspired by the roses, I presumed, Giacomo began to sing a verse about the rose, and desire. It sounded old-fashioned to me, which made it all the more amusing as his voice rose:
Queen Venus’s ardent torch does fire
The Lover’s bosom with desire
So fervid that he dares the Rose
To kiss, in faith ’twill heal his woes.
Each time he reached the words To kiss, he would lean in and kiss my temple or cheek, until I was giggling and singing along. Strolling couples coming the other way smiled and blew kisses to us as they passed by.
Finally, we reached the edge of the garden facing the open lagoon, the air salty and fresh. The day was closing, the sun still strong but getting ready to descend into the water. Giacomo led me to a bench shaded by an arbor covered with sweet jasmine.
He sat down and pulled me onto his lap. I nuzzled his warm, powerful neck and laid my head on his chest, delighting in hearing his beating heart beneath my ear. He was one of those people you can’t ever imagine growing old, or even dying. They are forever strong, sensual, and vital.
“I have some presents for you, my angel,” he said, reaching into a pocket of his breeches and pulling out a pair of ribbon garters. They were pink silk with a French verse embroidered across them, in red.
I dripped the smooth ribbons over my fingers, marveling at their luxury. I remembered the plain white garters I was wearing and could not wait to replace them with these finer French ones.
“What do the words mean?” I asked Giacomo.
“Imagine the garters are speaking,” he explained, fingering them as if they were fond companions. “They say, ‘In seeing every day the jewel of Caterina’s beauty, Tell it that Love bids it be true.’ ”
“Oh—” I stammered, blushing furiously. I imagined a set of spying eyes up my skirts. “I will—go put them on!” I sprang off his lap and hid behind a nearby hedge. I untied my old garters and threw them in the dirt.
Giacomo followed, peeking behind the dense wall of leaves. “You ran away before I could give you your second gift,” he called. He came and knelt close by me in the grass and began to gently pull off my stockings. From his other pocket he produced a pair of new pearl-gray stockings, more finely spun than any I had ever seen. These, he rolled slowly onto my feet, over my ankles, my calves, my thighs. He began to shake, almost violently.
“Why do you tremble?” I asked, reaching t
o touch his cheek. This was always my favorite part of his face: sculpted so finely by God.
“My desire makes me lose control,” he said, tying the garters above my knees and kissing a soft circle around them.
I melted back onto the grass with my skirts still partly up and he climbed over me. Our desire felt like something alive between us—too strong for me to resist. I ran my fingers through his hair, and he kissed my neck and bare shoulders.
“Come,” he whispered, his lips suspended just over mine. “Let’s find the casino I have rented for us. The sun is almost down.”
I obeyed, grateful—once I had come to my senses—he had the strength of mind to exert control over us. I sat up and rearranged my skirts. Giacomo clasped both my hands and helped me up off the grass.
We came out from behind the tall hedges. The other couples I had seen before in the garden had all vanished. The sky had turned dark blue-gray, and the hedges loomed in the coming night. I turned back to watch the last sliver of the orange sun lowering, still burning, into the water.
Giacomo reached for my hand. I gave it willingly. I felt I was about to change the course of my life—and I was ready.
CHAPTER 16
Our casino sat by the water’s edge. I’d heard about these little pleasure houses found all around Venice—but never been inside one, of course. This one was built in the Roman style, with a deep porch and four slender marble columns framing the entryway. An old servant woman greeted us and told us to call her when we wanted supper. But food was the last thing on our minds! Giacomo pulled me up the well-worn stone stairs. My excited laughter echoed all around us.
We stepped into a cozy room that was furnished with a rustic table and two chairs, and a bed laid out with clean linen sheets. Giacomo picked up where we had left off in the garden, pushing me toward the bed with hungry kisses.
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