by Laura Rahme
Almoro Donato had no sooner received me in the entrance hall, than he began to insist I assume the inquisitor role he had long praised me for. His gaze was uncertain and his felt footsteps seemed more hurried than when he had first greeted me.
Was I imagining it, or was Almoro Donato shaking with fear?
“Yes, yes, I understand that investigative work is not what you had envisaged, Antonio, but a serious occurrence has come to pass. It is a crime of such sinister nature. Please sit,” he said and gestured to a high back studded chair. I reached for the seat, my mood as dark as the black of my tabard. Almoro seemed agitated as he rifled in his drawer.
“The Consiglio is taking this very seriously in light of Carnivale,” he began. “Morality, you understand? Morality must be upheld for the peace and continuing order of La Serenissima. There is one problem. We’ve already much on our hands with the upcoming election and now with the rebuilding of the Ziani Palace. Admiral Pietro Loredano is keeping us on our toes. He is far too popular. Senator Malipiero is being his bitter self at every Pregadi session. It never ends. Francesco Foscari may well win the next Doge election and we must, you understand, we must be prepared for any changes to the Consiglio... Antonio, are you listening? I need you to take on this case. We have a good moment before the Collegio holds its next session. The Doge is still to arrive, if he has awoken at all. Please do sit.”
I sat still, unconvinced. I had slept badly again, haunted by the wailing woman, and the sudden turn of events disoriented me.
“The Ziani Palace?” I asked, confused.
“Mocenigo has asked that it be rebuilt. I, for one could not agree more to the Doge’s motion. The place is in shambles since the fire a few years ago. It has been decided that the Western wing will be expanded toward the Basilica. There is this, and there is the refurbishing that you no doubt noticed in the Southern wing when you gazed upon Guariento di Arpo’s fresco on your first visit. The inauguration of the new Sala di Maggior Consiglio draws near. There is much on our hands. And now we have…” His voice fell back.
I was ill-prepared for Almoro’s next words. He leaned across and looked into my eyes, before continuing in a hushed voice.
“A Venetian merchant of the name Giacomo Contarini has been murdered overnight in San Marco.”
I started.
“Giacomo Contarini! Murdered?”
Almoro’s eyebrows met with force.
“At the unfortunate period preceding Carnivale, yes. The circumstances of his murder are of such a nature that I was convinced you would be the most suitable person to hold an inquest. Your contribution to the arrest of the harelip murderer, several years ago, did not go unnoticed.”
“But Almoro, I’ve not held the role of inquisitor for some time now since my marriage.”
He waved a hand in my face and resumed.
“It was a difficult case and you persisted. I have spoken highly of your merits. You will report to me at all times. The Consiglio must be given the opportunity to interfere at any time depending on your findings. Antonio, are you willing to take the case of Giacomo Contarini’s murder?”
“You said Giacomo Contarini?” The patrician’s cruel eyes flashed in my memory.
“A merchant from the Santa Maria Formosa Parish. What is it? You know him?”
“I...well... Murdered, you say? Signor Donato, that is remarkable. Only two days ago I met this man in Santa Croce. Saw him as I see you, strong as a boar and…”
He stared back at me for a long moment with slight irritation.
“Coincidences, Antonio, and nothing more.”
He presented me with a leather case filled with loose sheets of Fabriano paper.
“Here are his books and accounts, if they at all help with the case.”
“Yes, but what I meant to say, Almoro, is that…I saw him and his trade partners...”
“Men of repute and highly respected in all Venezia. The matter is obscure, Antonio. Three of Giacomo’s partners also met their deaths last night. Listen to me carefully. The signori di notte have found five cadavers in one night. Five. It seems four men and a young woman attended an evening banquet and none of them returned home.”
“How is this possible?”
“Most unusual, wouldn’t you say? I suspect you like these coincidences. But this is not a game of chance. La Serenissima is at stake.”
He sighed before lowering his voice. I felt his tight grip on my arm as he reached across.
“Antonio, honor me with this one favor, I beg of you. I know that inquisitor work is your strength even if you’ve long tired of it. I can count upon your attention to detail and your remarkable intuition to advance this case considerably. What am I saying? Just…do be careful of those voices in your head. That is all I ask.”
“You say the matter is obscure, what do you mean?”
Almoro seemed pained. I knew that there was much more.
“Early this morning, the signori di notte presented their report. They have made three depositions.”
Almoro stood.
“The first such deposition is that a certain, Rolandino Vitturi, Giacomo’s primary trade partner, has been arrested for the murder of Giacomo Contarini.”
“Rolandino?” The dark man’s aghast voice echoed in my mind.
“The second–please do not interrupt, Antonio–is that Giacomo’s young daughter was also found dead beside her father’s cadaver. We posit strangulation, but the Contarini family has refused that her body be defiled to test for organ poisoning. No matter what the physicians discover, Rolandino is being accused of both murders. As for the other three deaths...”
He interrupted himself before turning to me again, his gaze more stern than before.
“There is a certain madness in this case, Antonio. Something is not right and the Consiglio will stop at nothing to reach the heart of it. With your help, I hope.”
I reflected.
“What is the third deposition?”
“They have found the other three bodies– two brokers, brothers I am told, and a young negotiator with a promising career. I can make no sense of these findings. Evidence thus far leads us to suspect both Giacomo and Rolandino. The disorderly circumstances of these murders, the locations where the bodies were found and the state of the cadavers–all of it is here, in the files.”
There was a fleeting annoyance in his voice. I suspected that Almoro knew something of the case that unsettled him, something he refused to share.
I took to my inquisitor role without a moment’s reflection. Now that I recall, it was something Almoro had always suspected I would do.
“What are your intuitions, Signore?” I asked Almoro.
“If it was just for the murder of Giacomo and his daughter I could give you my impression.”
“Please.”
“As his primary investor and partner, Rolandino stands to inherit Giacomo’s trade. Giacomo’s wife has her own dowry, an astounding sum of four thousand ducats, which Giacomo’s estates will repay, as per the terms of their marriage contract. Their son inherits the rest. Those are the terms, look into the accounts. Evolving from this and upon first observing the case, I say Rolandino is guilty. He murders the father and is found out by the daughter whom he murders in turn, to conceal his crime.”
“Simple explanation.”
“It is too simple. I told you, if it were just Giacomo and his daughter, Rolandino would be my first suspicion, yes. But the problem, Antonio, is that there are too many dead bodies and nothing to account for their deaths. That is your task, now, avogadore. Remember, keep me informed of all your discoveries.”
And at this, he lapsed into silence and looked upon his desk, bracing himself against saying more. I took this as a cue and departed, promising to inspect the files as soon as time permitted.
Stepping out of the Palazzo Ducale, still immersed in thought, I found myself standing in the middle of the Piazza, amid raucous laughter and discordant lute tunes. All round, the childish rituals o
f Carnivale were set in motion.
My non-festive expression was soon remarked, spurring the less inhibited to games of provocation. Two men in giant gold turbans and monstrous feathered garments laughed into my face, showering me with a spray of red and purple confetti. Ignoring them, I meandered through the crowd and hastened toward Canal Grande.
A hot burst of air made me wince. An obnoxious fire blower standing upon stilts had stooped to my level as he blew flames into my face. Startled, I stumbled against two teens– two red-heads behind silver masks their manner as stiff as dolls. The girls peered into my eyes, their heads tilting, questioning my intrusion. Now they spun about, barring my way with their hands clasped such that everywhere I turned, I could not escape. Such was I, locked within Venezia’s embrace at the most unfortunate time of the year.
It did not press upon my mind, not yet anyway, that my irritation had stemmed from Almoro’s cloying insistence and the oppressive feeling of finding myself at the whims of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I had no choice.
To hell with the gondolas, I thought. I hailed one of the few horse carriages.
“To the Rialto markets. Trample on the crowd if you must.”
The coachman tilted his head with a grin.
“Si, Signore.”
And I plunged into the files on my lap.
***
I had acquired the dubious reputation of inquisitor almost three years ago. I had just turned thirty-eight and graduated from Padua University with high honors. I came to Venezia as a highly recommended intern and found myself at the service of the Consiglio dei Dieci. At this time, a wave of macabre murders had seized the Republic. The signori di notte found women as young as fifteen, lying dead, their bellies cut open and their insides spilled in a pool of blood. It was evident that the peste was not at cause. By what Almoro had described as my remarkable intuition, I examined the women and determined that their murderer had use of his left hand. He was a sinestra. A wounded witness had later reported his attempts to duel with the masked man, one with a confounding talent in swordsmanship. Tearing off his attacker’s mask, he had noted a harelip upon his face. The unmasked had fled the scene.
The murderer’s peculiar traits left him with nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. It was my inquisition which had soon delivered him into the hands of the sbirri. The mysterious man had been hurriedly hung for his vile crimes. He was not given a trial. And yet the case had haunted me. Even after questioning him for days, I had learned little of the Albanian. I had watched him at length and saw only a madman.
Aside from vendettas and crimes for profit, Venezia suffered few murders, if at all. La Serenissima's numerous guilds and parishes were bastions of morality, while the overseeing Consiglio dei Dieci guided the Republic’s moral principles with a firm hand. What had driven this man to madness?
To abandon oneself to such brutality, he would have had to exist in the shadows; a silent outcast, without family, without a parish, unguided by guilds and well outside the social order of La Serenissima. At last, I had come to reason–to have wielded the sword with such skill, he must have been, in all likelihood, a foreign mercenary. But when I pursued this idea and enquired into his background, I could discover no file with his name upon it. Not even the signori di notte came forth with further information. From whence had he come?
I had confabulated on this for months but Almoro had pressed me to desist. This was the moment when he had first shook his head and asked me if I were not driven to obsession by my delusions.
Ever daring in the advancement of my ideas, I had persisted with my research, even if I did not share my findings with Almoro. I returned to Tuscany to work as a teacher and marry, leaving behind the darkness I had seen in Venezia.
And today, here I was, faced with the death of three wealthy merchants and their leader, Giacomo Contarini.
***
It was believed that after a sumptuous banquet at a private party held by the marquis, Giacomo Contarini had taken to a balustraded balcony with his daughter, Giovanna. Witnesses had watched him follow her as the evening drew to a close.
The servant had presented Giacomo with a drink but the signore had flatly refused. The servant recounted that Signor Contarini had a mean pout on his mouth as he stepped out into the night behind his daughter. It was, he said, a chilling contrast to the smiling row of pearl teeth which dangled from Signor Contarini’s mask.
All this I learned from the marquis who then promptly invited me to question two of his servants before excusing himself for a courtesy visit to the Signora Contarini.
“Where was Rolandino at that time?” I asked one of the servants, as I took notes.
The servant fumbled with his memory. Signor Vitturi? He had spoken to no one on the night. He brooded in contempt in a corner. His betrothed, the delightful Giovanna, had attempted to cajole him many times before fleeing to the balcony in tears. She fed him cakes and flounced around him like a child but Rolandino was in no festive spirits. No doubt he plotted to murder both father and daughter.
“Ubertino. What about Ubertino?” I asked.
The servants looked at each other.
“I think he died of food poisoning. Shell crab, it was, Signore.”
“Or the devil’s work,” said the other, crossing himself twice.
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“They found the bloated body of Ubertino Canal shoved between silk cushions on a divan. We thought he was asleep but he was dead. A physician took him away to have him examined for blood poisoning. You should visit him, Signor da Parma. The third street down the San Lorenzo Church in Castello. A Jewish doctor–he won’t make a mistake.”
“Si. I shall see him. And, what about Guido Canal?”
“Guido, drunken Guido,” one of them chuckled.
The other servant gave an indignant huff and shrugged his shoulders.
“He was an embarrassment to the marquis. A man with no breeding. Intoxicated quite early in the evening. Drunk himself to death,” he replied.
I stared at them for a moment.
“Could he have been poisoned?” I asked.
“No, Signor da Parma. Guido was drunk. He fell into the canal and drowned.”
So simple, I thought. Two simple, unrelated deaths that Mother Nature engineers while a man commits two other murders on the balcony. Why had Almoro Donato boasted of obscure circumstances? Is Nature’s simplicity too unsettling for the Consiglio that it should frown upon it? For a fleeting moment, I surmised that Almoro knew something that I did not.
“And, what of the fourth dead man?”
“Balsamo?”
I nodded.
There was a moment of hesitation as they looked at me, unable to speak. At last, one of them spoke, appearing a little flustered.
“Balsamo Morosini left early, Signore,” he said sheepishly.
“Do you know what became of him?”
At first, they refused to answer, eyeing each other with concern. At last one of them broke the silence.
“He took to the brothels in Carampane,” he whispered in my ear, before standing back and looking sternly the other way.
I frowned.
“How did he die?”
“I do not know, Signore. You must see the Jewish physician who examined him. He will tell you,” he answered, smiling forcefully.
His voice was light and high-pitched, a tone I’ve often glimpsed in a lying Venetian. He handed me a card with the doctor’s cabinet address. I took it in silence, not understanding their sudden reticence to speak.
“You say Balsamo took to the brothels. Which was it? Did one of you order a carriage for the Signor Morosini?” I asked as they escorted me out.
“I will take you to the place where he was found. Tomorrow. I bid you good day, Signore.”
I left the marquis’ home much perplexed.
For now, these deaths were in want of motive. The simplicity in Rolandino’s presumed murders, the unconcealed nature of his crime and its locatio
n–a public place out on a balcony, surrounded by guests–seemed to me an improbable proposition. No man in his right mind, that is, assuming that Rolandino was in his right mind, would endeavor such a feat without being sent to a certain death by the three Capi.
Once back in my Santa Croce apartment, I wrote notes in my diary:
Visit the dottore, Abram Elia.
Visit the carampanas.
I shuddered, unnerved by the imposition of this case and its brutality on my senses. The Tuscan hills seemed faraway.
With a sigh, I added what appeared to me the most evident duty:
Question Rolandino in prison before his trial.
And finally, I took it upon myself to enrich my notions of the Contarini family. The files spoke of a son, three and twenty– Lorenzo Contarini. The funeral would not be held until days later. Perhaps he would not mind speaking of his sister and father.
It dawned on me that Lorenzo, in classical thought at least, was a suspect.
I mused on that thought. A son would inherit all from his father’s wealth if the latter and his primary partner were eliminated. Was Rolandino Vitturi a victim of circumstances, perhaps?
I hailed a carriage and took to the Contarini estate in Castello.
The Testimony of Lorenzo Contarini
When a son is asked to mourn his father by a society as hypocritical as the said father, I am convinced it is justifiable to laugh in society’s face and decline. I would rather much expose my father for who he was, than lament upon his death. This I will do gladly and hope it profits the avogadore in his inquest.
Antonio da Parma has asked me to write down, as my deposition, everything I know about Giacomo Contarini and the circumstances of his death. He has promised he will burn the letter before me as soon as he reads it and that it will never be seen by any member of the Consiglio dei Dieci. He will, however, relate as he sees fit, those ideas that serve his investigation. This letter is to remain between us and the only reason I bring such a volume of words to paper is to give me enough time to recollect all that has transpired between the eve of Carnivale and the murder of my father and my dearest sister, Giovanna who I prefer to call Zanetta.
