Any Jew, male or female, adult or child, who wanted to live outside the walls and canals that ringed the ghetto had to pass through a certain religious house for instruction in Christian teaching and eventual baptism. Many did, if only to better their lot in matters of import or commerce—and a good proportion of those continued to practice their ancestral religion in secret. To join my household after our sojourn in Rome, my own Liya and Titolino had been forced to undergo this charade at the House of Catechumens.
I asked Signora Grazziano, “Was your daughter allowed to come back to visit?”
“Allowed, yes. Malpiero was quite liberal with her. Besides all her finery, he bought her books and taught her how to understand them. It was by her own choice that Mina barely set a foot through the gates these past eight years. She seemed content to go nowhere except in her protector’s company, and the company Malpiero kept I don’t even want to think about. Mina did do right by us, though. In addition to the dowries, she saw to it that the old reprobate sent a monthly purse by messenger.” She nodded toward Pincas and spoke with a touch of relish. “That money went to keeping my two youngest in school—fat lot your precious confraternity cared about that.”
Sensing another eruption coming on, I quickly asked, “Was Mina able to continue giving you money after Signor Malpiero died?”
“Yes. She was a good woman of business, you see. Davide could never have imagined the sort of business she would conduct, but he taught her well. Once she was on her own, she sent even larger purses. At first, a maid as black as the ace of spades brought them, then that ridiculous mannekin.”
“Pamarino?”
“If that is what the misshapen creature calls himself,” she replied. “I certainly wasn’t going to strike up a conversation with him. He’s like a golem in the old tales—a man that shouldn’t even exist. But I mustn’t complain. Gold is gold, whoever brings it. Over the past year, by being very careful, I eked out enough to set Aram up in business.”
Pincas shook Liya’s hands from his shoulders and sat forward. “That’s something else I’ve been meaning to discuss with you, Esther. Aram is trolling in dangerous waters—”
“Wait,” I cried, suddenly bewildered. “Who is Aram?”
Chapter Eight
“Aram is a shiftless wastrel who never did an honest day’s work in his life.” Pincas sprang up and began to pace the narrow floor space that was clear of furniture.
Signora Grazziano shook her head vigorously. “Aram Pardo is the husband of my daughter Reyna, Mina’s next youngest sister. He also happens to be the cousin of my aunt’s sister-in-law.”
As I mentally unraveled those tangled relationships, the widow continued with a proud smile. “Aram does very well selling furniture and household goods from a shop on the main square.” She sent a glare to the man pacing the floorboards. “And I’ll thank you to speak of him with more respect, Pincas.”
My father-in-law halted in his tracks. “If Aram earns my respect, well and good. So far he’s done just the opposite. Do you know what he’s doing with that shop you bought so dearly?”
The guarded expression on Signora Grazziano’s face made me think she knew exactly what Pincas was talking about, but I could hardly wait for him to answer his own question.
“Aram has managed to open the bricked-up windows that overlook the canal at the rear of his building. When they’re closed they look right and tight to the passing patrol boats, but when he swings them back, he has an unauthorized market. Goods go back and forth all night long, in between the patrol’s rounds. Mind my words, he’s going to bring trouble down on all our heads.”
Signora Grazziano was beginning to look uncomfortable. She worked her jaw back and forth as Pincas continued.
“The Board of Overseers makes no distinction among us,” he said, face red and brow sweating. “We are many nations here, but to them, a Jew is a Jew, and if one Jew transgresses, we are all punished.”
“You must speak to him, Papa. You and the other men,” Liya said forcefully. Her face was growing pink, too. Since when had Liya cared a fig about the trials and tribulations of the ghetto? Though our new house existed practically in its shadow, weeks had gone by without her so much as mentioning it.
“We have talked to Aram,” Pincas went on. “Several times. He always promises to shut up his illegal entryways but then goes on as he pleases. You can tell him this for me, Esther. Aram had better mend his ways, or we will see that he does.”
Signora Grazziano nodded with a scowl, but didn’t have time to form a reply. The door flew open and a pair of small boys rushed through it on a burst of pumping knees and boisterous laughter. Each claimed a portion of Signora Grazziano’s wide lap. Hugs and kisses were bestowed, and suddenly the widow was all smiles.
I got to my feet and joined Liya at Pincas’ side. A bone-thin woman followed the boys into the room. With only a sidelong glance and sharp nod to acknowledge our presence, she flopped down at the table with a girl of perhaps three years on her lap. The woman’s red slash of a mouth never stopped talking, warning the boys of dire punishments that would follow any misbehavior and throwing questions at the older woman without pause for reply.
The next person through the door was a weasely looking fellow attired in a dark broadcloth jacket and a black tie-wig that wouldn’t have looked out of place at the Piazza’s most respectable coffeehouse. A jaunty red rosette on his tricorne enlivened his dour ensemble and seemed at odds with the tight, belligerent expression he aimed at Pincas most particularly. Signora Grazziano introduced him as Aram Pardo and the woman as his wife, Reyna. Speak of the devil, they say.
While Pincas offered the newcomers a cool nod, I bowed from the waist, one eye on Liya. Her nod was even frostier than her father’s. Aram’s suddenly blossoming smile twisted back into a sneer.
I didn’t need Liya’s cards to divine that Aram was known to my wife and she to him, but I would have to wait until later to learn just how. While the two boys charged around the room picking up small items and tossing them aside, the conversation turned to Aram’s recent call on the rabbi.
“Did you manage to persuade him?” Signora Grazziano asked anxiously once Aram was also seated at the table.
The young Jew shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Oh, I had so hoped…” The widow hung her head, hand to her brow. “Rabbi Uziel seems to set great store by your opinions.”
“You do me too much honor, Mother Grazziano. I did argue that Mina had continued to help you while she lived among the Christians, and I explained that she had made a will that splits her estate among all her family members…” He shook his head. “I even went so far as to claim that Mina had never truly relinquished her beliefs and celebrated Shabbat so far as—”
The last drew a derisive snort from Reyna as she contended with her small daughter. The girl wiggled and struggled on her mother’s lap, arching her back in search of freedom to run with her brothers.
“Give her here, do,” Signora Grazziano said in a subdued voice, holding out her arms.
“You can’t handle her. She weighs a ton and she’s into everything.”
“As I was saying…” Aram frowned, clearly annoyed at being booted from the center of attention. “Mina cannot be buried as a Jew and that is the rabbi’s final word on the matter. If her body goes in the ground, the Christians will have to arrange it.”
“No more than she deserves. Miss High and Mighty made her choice long ago.” Reyna punctuated her remark with a loud slap on the bare skin between her daughter’s skirt and the stocking bunched around her ankle.
“Reyna, Reyna.” Signora Grazziano heaved herself from her chair to rescue her pipe from her rampaging grandsons. “What a thing to say. And after Mina has made such generous bequests to all of us.”
Reyna shrugged her bony shoulders. “It’s th
e least she could do, after the shame she’s brought to our name and our family…”
Her rising inflection made me think she might go on, but Aram trapped her gaze with his own dark look and Reyna locked her lips tight together.
The din from the boys and the fretting girl and their grandmother’s ineffectual protests made it impossible to discover much else of consequence. The two middle Grazziano sisters had married cousins from Livorno and hadn’t visited Venice for well over a year. The two youngest were still in school and, like most well-brought-up young ladies, Christian or Jew, were kept close to home when not attending classes or marketing under their mother’s watchful eye. Liya, Pincas, and I soon took our leave.
Once we reached the crowded pavement, I let Liya and her father stroll ahead while I scanned the recesses and doorways for our turbaned follower. His identity had me completely baffled. What had I done to become the object of veiled scrutiny? I saw several men in eastern robes, but not the man I sought.
Putting that matter aside for the moment, I gave my watch hasty consultation. It was already after ten, the time that Maria had set for her assignation with Emilio. How long would she wait for my arrogant rival? Squeezing between Liya and Pincas, locking elbows with father and daughter, I did my best to hurry them along.
“Where exactly is Aram’s shop, Papa?” Liya was asking.
“The northwest corner of the Campo Nuovo. Turn right directly as you step off the north bridge and you’ll run right into it.”
“I know just the place,” Liya replied excitedly. “The rear of the building overlooks the canal just off the Rio di San Girolamo, and across the water is the sheer wall of the convent. No prying eyes. How convenient for Aram.”
“He’s certainly exploiting it to the utmost,” Pincas said in a low voice. “Esther thinks he has the rabbi’s ear because of his scholarship and piety, but I’ve never been impressed with Aram’s learning. At prayers, he’s as likely to be dozing as paying attention. I hate to say it, but Aram’s influence depends more on the fat donations he’s been giving to the synagogue.”
The pavement had broadened, allowing us to move more quickly. As we would soon reach the gates I posed a question that had occurred to me back at the widow Grazziano’s apartment. “Forgive my ignorance, Pincas, but how does trading out the back door benefit Aram? Can’t he get the same price for his bits and pieces through the front?”
Pincas emitted a short laugh, rather like a bark. “Though our commerce may look like a topsy-turvy jumble to an outsider, matters of trade are actually highly regulated by the overseers. Since dealing in new commodities is a Christian prerogative, our shops sell only secondhand goods. Every business has a license to provide certain types of goods, to certain people, in certain circumstances. The prevailing fees and regulations would take me an hour to explain.”
“No need. I’m beginning to see how Aram orders his affairs.” I lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Aram’s sharp, hungry expression should have been enough to tell me his interests would be dishonest.
Liya had been thinking, too. She halted, pulling on my arm. “Aram is not the man,” she announced, staring at me with a keen, pensive look.
“What man?” Pincas and I asked in unison. We had come to the gates where we’d entered the ghetto earlier that morning. The sun had climbed high enough to clear the tops of the buildings, and the noisome alley seemed even dirtier under its penetrating rays.
“Aram is not the honest man my cards foretold, the one who hides behind a disguise.”
At the mention of divination, Pincas dropped Liya’s arm and gave a dismissive shake of his head, but she seemed not to notice. Despite my cautioning whistle, she plowed on in a voice loud enough to be heard on the roofs above us. “Aram is hiding something to be sure, though it’s not an honest face. But Reyna must be the openly disagreeable woman I saw in the cards. She’s clearly jealous of Mina—now that I recall she always was—and she makes no effort to disguise her vicious character. Did you see how she smacked her little girl? And Aram said that Mina had made a will that left money to them all.”
I didn’t like the triumphant glimmer I saw in Liya’s eyes. Sensing my dismay, her voice became even more strident. “Don’t you see, Tito? Aram sneaked out of the ghetto through the back of his shop, went to the theater and killed Mina. He and his greedy wife wanted their inheritance. Aram is the murderer.”
This struck me as highly unlikely for several reasons. I voiced one: “Liya, how do you suppose Aram would have known that Mina would be at the Teatro San Marco that night? Her appearance in the Pino box was supposed to be a great surprise to everyone except her closest associates.”
For a moment, I thought Liya was stumped. She scrunched her forehead and balled her hands into fists as she pulled her cloak up to her throat. Finally, she murmured, “I don’t know, but I intend to find out. I’ll go back to the cards. And I heard of a new method for consulting the scrying pot—melted candle wax dripped into still water. I must get home right away.” After giving Pincas a distracted kiss on the cheek, she hurried through the open gates and out into the Christian world that scorned her pagan beliefs even more than those of the Jews who lived behind these walls.
Pincas and I could only watch her go. While his doughy face drooped with regret, mine, if I could have held a mirror to it, would have reflected worry and concern.
***
As promised, Luigi was waiting for me as I hurried toward the gondola landing by the Ponte della Guglie. He was slouching against the bridge’s spired corner post, whistling a popular tune from last year’s Carnevale. His musical efforts didn’t interfere with his ogling of the water girls bearing their precious liquid from a well in the nearby square. I admit they made a winsome sight, their hips swaying in easy motion as they balanced copper buckets suspended from wooden yokes. To his credit, Luigi abandoned this pleasant vista and sprinted to the boat the minute he caught sight of me.
“Murano, Signore?” he asked as he handed me in.
“No, Luigi. The Campo San Barnaba.”
His jaw dropped. “But Messer Grande—”
“You heard me—San Barnaba—and row like it’s the Holy Week regatta and your most hated rival is two boat lengths ahead.”
He still looked dubious.
“There’s an extra zecchino in it for you if you get me there in twenty minutes.” That brought the desired result. As I settled in against the leather cushion, Luigi’s strong, young arms propelled the boat under the bridge and toward the Grand Canal. There, an endless line of balconied palaces rose from sun-kissed waters, and heavily laden barges seemed to wallow motionless in our wake. If my mind had not already been overloaded, I would have enjoyed the swift, gliding ride immensely. But I couldn’t forget Messer Grande awaiting me on Murano, no doubt checking his watch, wondering when I would arrive. To add a few grace notes of unease, another thought occurred to me about the time Luigi swept us under the Rialto Bridge. As Liya had hastened to consult her oracles, I had neglected to find out just how she’d known the oily Aram Pardo in her old ghetto days.
When the gondola made an abrupt right turn into a smaller channel, I forced my thoughts to the matter at hand. Reaching inside my waistcoat, I fingered the thick paper of Maria’s note. She was a naïve, convent-educated girl, seventeen at most. How she had fallen in with Emilio I could only imagine. In other circumstances, I would treat her gently, coax information out of her as if I were a kind uncle concerned only for her welfare. But there was no time. I was planning how to wield the note as a weapon, and suddenly, I didn’t like myself at all.
Luigi set me down at the canal-side square that plays host to Venice’s down-at-the-heels aristocrats. Snuggling the pavement, a barge offered pyramids of vegetables half-wilted by the unseasonable warmth, and across the campo, a leaning bell tower threatened to flatten a shabby church. In between, the flagstones were crow
ded but not jammed. I waved away several professional beggars and a man selling anise water. A barefoot, hooded Franciscan begging for Christ fastened himself to my elbow, and my purse was considerably lighter when I finally found the calle that Maria had specified.
At the end of this narrow alley was a café with a front window nearly obscured by bars and steam. The door stood open to admit the warmth of the day. I hesitated on the threshold, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dimness, letting the hum of conversation and clatter of cups and saucers wash over me. Had Maria waited? Or was I too late?
My heart started beating a little faster as I spied a slender, well-dressed woman masked in black velvet. She sat at a table in the corner, fiddling with a small cup; her demeanor made her stand out from the common citizens that filled this none-too-clean establishment. She obviously recognized me, because she removed her mask, sat up very straight, and watched warily as I wove my way through the café. Emilio must possess charms utterly unapparent to me; this poor girl had waited a full hour after the appointed time for their rendezvous.
Maria Albergati wore a black zendale that had fallen onto her slender shoulders and stood out against the bright blue of her gown. Her hair was done up in complicated curls too mature for her years, and a few pockmarks that could have been easily concealed by powder and paint marred her cheeks. Her moretta lay on the table, forgotten among the china and utensils.
“May I sit, Signorina?” I asked with a small bow.
“Oh, yes, Signor Amato. Please.” She pushed her coffee aside and leaned over the stained white tablecloth. “Did Emilio send you? Has something happened? I’ve been so worried.”
Dodging her questions, I asked several of my own. “Surely you’re not here all by yourself? Where is your chaperone?”
She ducked her head. “I’m alone for now.”
5 - Her Deadly Mischief Page 11
