After a while I feel the gondola make a turn into the cool darkness of the painter’s cavana. I stand and gather my package of pastries, knowing that Antonella will be waiting in the kitchen to see what I have brought. But when I try to climb out of the boat, the boatman is blocking my path. I try to go around him, but he moves to stand in front of me. I hesitate for a moment, then meet his gaze.
“Perdoname,” I say, squaring my shoulders to his. But he does not budge. His eyes form large, expectant orbs.
“Surely you cannot expect a boat ride without paying the fare, signorina.” The corner of his mouth rises into a smirk.
“You have already been paid,” I whisper, meeting his gaze.
“And I have sealed my lips,” he says. “So far.”
The cold canal water laps against the stones and makes wavering patterns of light against the dark, cavernous space of the painter’s boathouse.
“I cannot continue to siphon off gold leaf,” I say. “Soon I will have exhausted the supply I brought with me from my father’s workshop. I cannot go back home to get more. I will also not have any more to work on our commission, and the painter will know that it is missing,” I say.
The boatman shrugs. “But you misunderstand, signorina. I am a reasonable man and payment may come in many forms. Surely you have access to more of value than gold leaf.” His pupils look wild and shiny in the darkness of the boat slip.
“What are you suggesting?” My whisper echoes off the cavernous, damp walls.
“I am suggesting that I am only getting what is rightfully owed to me. There are many things of value inside the painter’s house,” he says.
I remain silent.
“The painter’s wife has a jeweled necklace,” he continues. “Her husband gave it to her, but she never wears it. It now sits in the back of a cabinet; at least that is what I have heard. They will never know that it is gone. But for me it will bring a pretty penny with the secondhand brokers.”
I feel sick, as if I might vomit right there in the boat.
“You cannot expect me to steal from Master Trevisan and his wife,” I whisper loudly. “That is out of the question.”
“Unfortunate,” says the boatman. “Well. Perhaps I might be satisfied with something slightly more meager.”
“Like what?” I say, hoping that dread has not crept into my voice.
His eyes flicker again in the darkness. “I understand that you have a necklace of your own. You might part with that one instead.”
Antonella. That wretched woman has described my golden ingot to the scheming boatman.
I try to stop myself, try to deny the truth of its existence, but it is too late. My fingers have already crept up to protect the battiloro’s gold ingot, where it is hidden beneath my linen undergarments.
Chapter 25
Gold is a beautiful and reflective metal, one of the most precious materials known to man. But in spite of its sparkle, gold can be deceiving. For what lies underneath is often dull, dingy, mean. Gold makes even the most common object seem something it is not. It can melt in a heartbeat. When beaten out into a leaf, it is as thin as a hairbreadth and can blow away with the slightest breeze. Gold leaf is a foil. It lies.
Our city is full of shimmering materials: mosaic shards, glass vessels, metals precious and shining. But just as you might introduce your finger to the surface of a shimmering lagoon, one touch and everything shatters.
Things are not as they appear.
When I was a child my father showed me how to lay the gold leaf around the corners of a panel so that the wood beneath was invisible. “Bene, Maria,” he began. “What kind of wood is underneath this altar?” Although his voice was stern and serious I saw the skin around his eyes begin to crinkle. It was another one of my father’s endless questions.
A game. A challenge.
Now I see that it was his way of teaching me, of showing me the way with the gold. Of course it was impossible to know what kind of wood was there as long as we had done our job well.
I turn the wooden box over in my hands now, considering how I will attach the molded figures just like the box above Master Trevisan’s hearth. The rest of the house is asleep. Everything is dark. I pick up my brush and swirl it into the pot I have prepared with the glistening medium. I add a little egg from Trevisan’s hens to thin the paint. It jiggles and reflects the flickering candlelight.
In the silence, I feel my heart beating through every fiber of my body. The fact of my pregnancy is irrefutable, and Antonella is right; it cannot remain a secret forever. The battiloro. He must know about it first, before anyone else. I must know if he will claim his child, and if he will claim me. I must reach him before the painter, the gastaldo, my father, or anyone else discovers it.
For now, I must keep Antonella and that boatman quiet.
But I am not a thief.
It is not within me to take something that belongs to someone else. I know that now. As much as we have had our uncomfortable moments, the painter and his wife have been kind to me, and I cannot steal from them.
But that boatman has gone out of his way to extort me, and I must respond.
The last thing I want to do is hand over the most precious object I own, the golden ingot strung around my neck by the battiloro’s own hands.
But if that boatman is to ask something precious of me to keep his silence, then I think that I must ask for something from him in return. He has named his price and now I must name my own.
Chapter 26
Green shoots have begun to push their way through the cracks of the cobblestones. Among them, a few brave, pale blooms open their delicate faces to the new angle of the sun that heralds the Easter season. The light has lured children into the campo, and their voices echo against the walls as they play at pallina. At Rialto, boatmen unload purple heads of radicchio and white asparagus spears into the market carts from cargo barges shipped down the rivers from terra firma.
Trevisan’s boatman has removed the wooden felso of the gondola’s passenger compartment, with its slatted windows and curtains of heavy brocade. I have seen the awkward contraption placed for storage on trestles in the shadows of the boat slip. He has replaced it with a lighter, more open wooden frame with silk curtains the color of the spring sky.
I watch the light curtains unfurl in the breeze as we float toward the studio of Pascal Grissoni. Master Trevisan has insisted that all of us come with him—his wife, his journeyman, and myself. Antonella has stayed behind to tend to the children. Trevisan and his journeyman have ceded the passenger compartment to us women. They sit on the wooden chairs toward the stern of the boat and the boatman silently rows toward San Marco.
I steal a glance at the painter’s wife, seated on the cushioned bench across from me. She has expended great effort getting ready for today, her hair coiffed with two points at the forehead in the current fashion, with pearls intertwined in her fine curls and looped around her neck. The beads disappear into the neckline of a gold and green satin dress cinched tightly under her breasts. She seems not to know what to do with her hands, devoid of her infant daughter. She twists the lace of her sleeve in the fingers of her opposite hand and, through the opening in the blue drapery, she watches a water-seller’s skiff pass within a hand’s breadth in the narrow canal.
A small bulge emerges below the beaded trim of her gown, and as if reading my mind, she runs her palm over the front of her dress and rests it on the side of her rounded form. Her full breasts break the surface of her neckline. She has already given birth to two children, and her body knows what to do. She has taken to wearing dresses cinched up under her breasts so that the drapery falls across the perfectly rounded form of her abdomen, showing her blossoming shape to full advantage.
While the painter’s wife has done everything she can to highlight her pleasant, burgeoning form, I have done everything in my power to conceal my
own. My breasts are swollen and sore, and I have taken to binding my midsection with a roll of firmly woven linen before putting on my shapeless shift. In the studio I leave my apron untied, and wear an extra layer of underskirts, which make the bottom of my dress flair and look fuller, drawing attention—I hope—away from my midsection.
The painter’s wife turns her gaze to me. “Your dress flatters you,” she says.
“It is kind of you to say,” I look down at the floor of the gondola. “I did not have anything suitable for this occasion, so I altered an old dress from my trunk.”
Not owning an elegant gown appropriate for today’s visit, I have reconceived the only dress in my trunk that is not reserved for working. It is old; I have only worn it to funerary masses, marriages, the procession of our guild’s feast of Saint Luke. Over several days, working in my room by candlelight, I have let out the stitches at the back of the dress and added two swatches on either side of the waist that Antonella has retrieved from her own mending box.
Before leaving the painter’s house I considered my reflection in a faded mirror in the corridor. I felt satisfied with my handiwork and felt that the swatches coordinated closely enough, not a bad solution under the circumstances. Now, sitting across from the richly appointed painter’s wife, I see that the edges of my neckline are frayed, the once-rich deep blue turned grey from many washings. My hair is twisted into my usual braids and tucked under a worn cap. Compared to the colorful finery of the artist and his wife, I look like a dull, grey moth.
“Pascal Grissoni lives in a fine house with a large studio, one of the most beautiful of all the guild,” the painter’s wife tells me. “His grandfather did well with commissions for the Council of Ten.” She pauses. “You would do well to marry someone of his kind,” she says. “Any girl would.”
If I suspected that Pascal Grissoni was being offered for my consideration, or rather I for his, there is no longer any doubt. I am being offered up by our guild’s gastaldo, and probably my own father.
“I am sure I would have nothing to offer in return,” I say. “Our gastaldo means well, but he must know that my father has no way to amass a dowry on my behalf.”
The painter’s wife lowers her voice to a whisper and casts her eyes outside the passenger compartment to ensure that the men are not listening. “A beautiful woman is always in demand,” she says. “Besides, women may be of use to their husbands in ways other than beauty, possessions, or wealth.” The painter’s wife sets her clear blue eyes on me. “You may not have a dowry, Maria, but you have beauty and skill with the gold. If I possessed the skills you do I might have been of greater use to my husband.”
“You underestimate yourself, signora.”
She shakes her head. “My father was a gilder, like yours, but he saw worthy only to pass on the trade to my brothers, not to me. I wish that I possessed the knowledge that you do. It serves you well. You must accept it—and use it to your advantage.”
The painter’s wife’s words echo inside my head as we turn our attention to a group of children skittering across a sagging wooden bridge with no railings. I squint into the bands of sunlight that streak down the water beneath it. Through the glare, two dark-skinned merchants elbow forward over the bridge, rugs and colorful silks draped from their outstretched arms. They move toward a cluster of ladies at the corner, muttering prices with one of the thick accents we hear from Slavia, Ifriqya, Arabia, Albania, and other faraway places. I hear the languages but do not know how to tell them apart. We move into San Marco, a bustling, prosperous part of the city with fine façades reflecting their pale colors like a rainbow in the canal. Along the quayside, a group of women chat loudly as they negotiate a barter of glass beads at a small table.
The boatman slides his oar into the bottom rung of the oarlock and turns it to slow the gondola. We approach the mooring poles outside a house with large, coursed stones.
“Benvoglio Trevisan!” A man on the quayside waves his hand in the air. There is a cluster of fellow painters, plus a few wives, waiting at the doorway of Pascal Grissoni’s house. Trevisan looks embarrassed; he is not one to make a grand entrance. The boatman leaps onto the stone stairway to offer his hand to each of us as we alight from the boat.
As soon as the painter and his wife exit the boat they are swarmed by fellow guildsmen. A man grasps Trevisan’s cheeks between his hands and kisses him. A woman engages the painter’s wife in conversation. She beams and chats, as if she has finally found an appreciative audience. The painter’s journeyman skulks behind his master like a stray dog.
For a moment the boatman and I are left behind, standing awkwardly. I see my opportunity.
“I might give you your next… payment,” I say to the boatman under my breath.
His eyes widen.
“But in exchange, you must help me,” I say.
“And what does that entail, signorina?” His voice lowers, tinged with anticipation.
“I am trying to reach a man in Cannaregio. You may be in a position to help me.”
“What kind of a man?”
“In my father’s workshop near the Campo Sant’Alvise, we have a battiloro who beats the sheets of gold into the thin leaves you know so well.” My eyes stay straight ahead, but from my peripheral vision I can see that he is closely tracking each word. He says nothing. “He is a tall man with skin the color of walnut.”
“A dark-skinned man in your father’s workshop. A Saracen?”
I nod.
I hear the boatman snort. “You must be mad to suggest that I go there. The streets in that section of Cannaregio are blocked, signorina,” he says. “None of us can get through.”
“It will be worth your while,” I say.
He hesitates. “You might pay a boatman from one of the traghetti to deliver a message. I am not your man.”
“No,” I say. “I am not looking to send a message.”
“What then?” He shrugs.
“You must bring him to me.”
The boatman’s eyes widen into great orbs, then he huffs. “Signorina, surely he will not be allowed to leave. The entire quarter is under a ban. They have stationed guards at each one of the barricades.”
I know he is right, but I push again.
“Our Most Serene City is best navigated by water, not by alleys, you know that. Surely you can find a way. You must tell him that I have sent you, that it is critical that I see him.”
The boatman says nothing, but his face has turned contemplative. For a few long moments, he seems to wrestle with the offer I have presented. I feel dirty, and I do not want him to know any information about my personal life. But I am so desperate to see Cristiano, to decide the future of the life growing inside of me, that I am risking my sense of decency and privacy.
“None of the boatmen want to go into the quarter,” says the boatman finally. “They are all afraid of being infected. And I am not going there. You can forget about it.”
“I see. Well, that is unfortunate.” I bunch up my skirts and begin to climb out of the boat.
“Wait.” He grasps my sleeve. “You want him to know of your condition.”
I feel his eyes burning my skin. My mouth moves but no words emerge.
His eyes flash. “And if I am successful in bringing this man to you, or at least conveying this… information?”
Ahead, the small group of painters is filing into the door of Pascal Grissoni’s studio. Trevisan’s journeyman looks back and gestures for me to follow. I see the artist and the other guests filing into the doors of the house.
I hesitate, but only for a second. I have come this far and so I continue. I lower my voice. “In exchange, you will have my necklace. An ingot of pure gold. You might imagine that I know its value. Bring me my man, and I promise it will be worth your while.”
Ignoring the boatman’s outstretched hand, I climb out of the boat and fol
low Master Trevisan without looking back.
Chapter 27
“Do you see, Maria?” Master Trevisan says, reaching out as if to grasp my arm. He hesitates just before his fingers brush the ragged trim of my sleeve. “See how the paint has been built up in thin layers? The oil captures and reflects light in ways tempera cannot.” His hand leaves my side and his finger traces a drapery fold on an elaborate red cloak of Saint Jerome.
“Mmm.” I try to concentrate on the picture, but I am distracted. Pascal Grissoni’s workshop is overwhelming, a feast for the eyes. There is a pinkish, blown-glass chandelier suspended from an iron hook in the coffered ceiling. An arched loggia overlooking the wide canal. Light streaming from leaded windows on three sides, making bright streaks along the marble floor. Smiling angels swooping from a lofty ceiling painted to resemble the sky. Crackled mirrors along one wall. Velvet-upholstered chairs and impressive-looking swords and halberds mounted on the walls. Pascal Grissoni’s home could be that of a nobleman rather than a humble painter.
Yet there are paintings. Dozens and dozens of paintings. As in Master Trevisan’s studio, pictures are hung floor to ceiling, with others stacked haphazardly along the walls or propped on wooden easels. I recognize some old panels, but there are also new canvases stretched and nailed across wooden frames.
Grissoni’s father, a strapping man with a broad chest and a generous beard, guides us to an elegant room filled with men. In addition to the four of us who have traveled to Pascal Grissoni’s studio, there are a handful of others who have come to see the pictures before they are sent to a monastery where no one other than the brothers will see them.
Master Trevisan and his journeyman join the group of guildsmen, but I hesitate, unsure where I should stand, or where I belong in the makeup of this esteemed group. I hang back with the painter’s wife, close enough to hear the conversation but not in a position to join it. Alongside us, a portrait of a woman with a small dog stands on an easel. I pretend to examine it with great concentration, and in truth, I am captivated with the rich colors on the canvas surface.
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