The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice

by Laura Rahme

  I have always scoffed at this popular pastime we Veneziani seem to have–of keeping diaries, of recording every idiocy that has amused us in a given day. It seems that the citizen of the Republic believes that what he does or says is of such importance that it ought to be noted for generations to ponder over. As for me, I never lay my deepest thoughts onto paper. If I open myself today, it is only because it will aid in Antonio da Parma’s investigation.

  And so I write.

  On this morning, Antonio presented himself to our home. My mother was upstairs, nursing an eternal headache. She has no tears left for my father, having cried already for twenty years of marriage. I invited him into my new apartments, in the adjacent building. I explained that the Contarini casa joins another via a marble and brick arch; that this arch, adorned with our family coat of arms can be seen to group the Contarini estates. He agreed to cross to the other edifice, so that we would not unsettle my mother in her mourning period.

  As we crossed to my apartments I gave him the Venetian welcome. That is to say, I spoke of death, of old age and naturally, of our very ill Doge Mocenigo. If I at all mentioned Doge Mocenigo’s illustrious time as an admiral, it was to point out that my grandfather had served under him at the Battle of Chiogga. We made small talk and Antonio shared that he had always been a great admirer of Tommaso Mocenigo since his earlier years as Doge, when he chose to make peace with the vanquished Saracens at Gallipoli. I asked Antonio if he had been to Constantinople and he replied that he had not, and had never ventured further east than Venezia.

  I offered him a tray of almond sweets, laced in sugar coating. He graciously declined and instead took some grapes. I took note that he baffled at my high spirits especially given the tragic circumstances. How one could eat sweets at a time like this, was the question I read upon his face. It would be deemed more proper if I adopted a miserable countenance even when forced to work at this testimony. The ways of society are twisted indeed.

  Antonio da Parma, meet Lorenzo Contarini. Yes, I am a happy man. You will frown at my joyful disposition and you will judge me and scorn me and entreat me as my mother does to shun Carnivale and the merry happenings of this period while I am a mourning son. But I tell you that from now, until the next year and the year after that, when this state of affairs is long forgotten and the soul of my sister is close to our Lord in Heaven, just as the memory of her angelic laughter brings a smile to my face whenever I think back to her, I will be a happy man.

  And you do well to ask me why, Signore, because I burst to tell you.

  Do you want to know why, Signor da Parma?

  Because I am a disciple of Petrarch. I am a man who loves. I am passionately in love. Courtship is all I think of, night and day and the scent of her enflames my soul, even when she is not by my side. And this love, this dear treasure that I hold near, she who haunts my nights and delivers arrows to my bleeding heart, I would have had no recourse but to tear her own heart to shreds had my father, Giacomo Contarini, lived today.

  But this is all too much for you, Antonio, may I call you Antonio? Your distant eyes tell me you are not a man who has loved the same way. What would you know of the passion burning in my blood? Forgive me, but you remind me of those priests who revile the flesh and expect women to lie still, waiting for their husband’s seed. But what do I know of the signore? Forgive me. We, Veneziani, are a little coarse, at times, with our humor.

  I think you will need to understand how it has been for me–the heavy burden of being Lorenzo Contarini, the only son of Giacomo Contarini.

  For five years, this honorable merchant has plotted away my life to reap the profits of a marital alliance. He has betrothed me to a woman that I do not love. What care I for her ample dowry and the rings on her fingers or the jewels that encrust her many silk dresses? What care I for the galley fortunes our alliance will secure? I do not even remember her name. Be her, Morosini, Canal, Contarini, or from another of our best patrician families– what care I? It is my Daniela that I love. I would kiss her bare feet if she were destitute.

  What care I for the fortunes to be made from a marriage between a tedious patrician and my unfortunate self? Must we breed children in a loveless marriage and squander this life for ducats? I have seen enough of my mother’s tears to choose this same torment. Giacomo can forget the family ducats. His son will marry Daniela. And now there is nothing Giacomo can do to stop him. Because, when he lived, how he tried!

  “Lorenzo,” he once told me, “I allow you to further your education with the Moro girl”–this is what he called her–“but nothing more! This marriage will take place.”

  “It will never take place, Father,” I would answer, always quietly, but with an assurance that never failed to displease him.

  I dispensed retorts without a thought, because I knew how easily angered he was.

  It was always the same. As I prepared for my night outings, perfumed with scented oils, a sonnet in my pocket for my beloved, Giacomo glowered at me. He knew where I spent my evenings.

  “Daniela Moro will never be a Contarini!” he thundered.

  And then at dinner, after a good meal, he would find other tortuous ways to dampen my devotion by sullying the very people I had learned to cherish.

  “Artisans,” he would say, as he fed morsels to his spoiled terriers. “I ask you. What do they do for the Republic? Signor Moro does not even paint. A true painter is an artist, one who creates masterpieces. Donatello! Now, that - that is an artist. None of this dabbling at paint, splashing about on canvas while his daughter writes. What does she write? Poetry? Humph.”

  “Poetry, Father. She also teaches.”

  “What is it with Venetian women these days? Writing? What kind of a woman who has never raised children or suffered the pains of childbirth can write? I ask you. Lorenzo? Where are you going? Lorenzo, I am not finished speaking. You will remain seated!”

  As he shouted, even the terriers at his feet set off to bark at me.

  You know what we say, here– ‘relatives, toothache’. Yes, such was my father.

  And sometimes I did not bother to respond to him. And he would venture into yet more malice, stinging at my heart with all the venom this Republic encourages.

  “It is not just the pitiful dowry, fio mio. Do you forget her Jewish descent? Do you want your children to be little bloodsuckers?”

  I shall spare you the venom of his ways.

  Yes, Father. Unlike you, I can forget. I am in love, you see? In love.

  But Giacomo Contarini had other designs. And we, the children of Giacomo Contarini, we were only pawns in his game and he saw fit to move us as he wished. It would have pleased my father to see our Zanetta married off to that lout, that imbecile Rolandino. What a splendid little arrangement if his own daughter could be married off to a primary commerce partner. The genius of Giacomo! How befitting that the dowry would not leave the Contarini coffers. What does it matter if his daughter inherited a toad for a husband?

  They want me to grieve, but I rejoice, Signor da Parma. In death, I know my sister is safe from this boor who would have never loved her for as long as he remained enslaved to my father.

  So I come, now, to the question of Rolandino. Because this letter has in it much rejoicing and you will frown at me and accuse me of such and such. You will deduce that I, Lorenzo Contarini, lover of Daniela Moro, is guilty of murder. For who else has much to profit as I, since I am blessed with free will and shall do as I please now that my father is dead. But I have nothing to hide. I will tell you what I know, Signor da Parma. And you will make up your own mind.

  Rolandino is owed many ducats. My father played him for a fool, but I do not think Rolandino knows it. Deep down he may, or at least, he suspects. But what can he do? For months, he was trapped. On the one hand, there was Zanetta, whom he very much wished to marry–much as an imbecile marries who will have him–and on the other hand, there was the sum of one thousand ducats he had lent to my father and expected in return with forty
percent interest.

  Forty percent. Even the Jews my father called leeches do not lend for that price. But these are the Vitturi dealings. It is not for nothing that we, Veneziani, say money is our second blood.

  So what I know, is that five days ago, Rolandino was at his wit’s end.

  “It does not add up, Giacomo,” I heard him say, as they peered into my father’s account book. I remember feeling amused. Like my father, Rolandino keeps two account books– one for the tax assessors and investors, and the other with the real figures.

  I heard my father’s voice soften and knew, already, that he was fibbing.

  “Rolandino, I know there were three ships. But only two of them returned. Shall I plunge into the Adriatic and retrieve the merchandise for you? Is it my fault if the mercenaries of the muda cannot do their work?”

  “Useless! They ought to have caught those Saracen pirates! Now I am ruined!”

  “Rolandino, Rolandino! Calm yourself.”

  There were muffled exchanges and then I heard Rolandino’s whiny voice through the door.

  “You told me it was a safe passage and that I’d nothing to fear. I invested all the ducats I had. I had faith in you, Giacomo! And look at me now. Everything I pay is through letters of credit. I cannot continue like this!”

  “I know, Rolandino. I know. Patience. You will have your money.”

  They continued for hours and when they emerged from the room, I noted that Rolandino was in a sour mood.

  As I passed into the kitchen, my father saw me and lowered his voice, but I heard him whisper something to Rolandino about visiting all debtors in Santa Croce to put both their affairs in order. He patted Rolandino’s hand before embracing him. That seemed to settle Rolandino a little.

  I come to the end of my deposition now.

  You will ask me to think back and to remember what happened before the banquet at the marquis’ house. Did Rolandino appear disposed to committing murder, perhaps? Was he at odds with my father? No. No, I can offer you nothing there.

  I have thought long about this. Maybe I have missed a meaning that you might understand, Signor da Parma. So I will tell you everything.

  I will tell you about that day. The day Rolandino murdered my father.

  I will start from the instant my mother presented the morning’s banquet in the main living room downstairs, to the moment when my father, his four friends, Giovanna and myself, headed out for the marquis’ home.

  What I remember, of that morning, is seeing our friends’ gondolas outside our house. Early. All of them.

  I can see into Rio del Pestrin from the top of my bedroom and as I looked down, the first person I saw arriving was Balsamo in his black and gold gondola, the drapes of his felze in brocaded velvet, emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Morosini–the entire gondola fitted and trimmed so as to best make an appearance as only Balsamo knew. I was furious at my father for refusing to invite Daniela. I longed to join her, but I knew I could not absent myself from the marquis’ salon until later that evening. And so I had little patience for Balsamo’s antics and his airs.

  Soon afterwards, as I dressed, there was a loud noise beneath my window. I leaned across, in time to see Rolandino’s rowdy Nicolotto gondolier take to our water door. Shouting to some other Castellano gondolier who had refused him passage, he was qualifying this one’s mother with all the nouns he could pronounce. There was much blasphemy downstairs as Rolandino tried to shut him up for good. Rolandino was still fuming when he entered our casa. I heard the bull terriers bark at him and he responded in kind.

  The Canal brothers came soon after. Only Ubertino seemed happy. Ubertino was always excited at the thought of a meal. He pressed my mother with his nonsense, kissing her hand and marveling at her toilette. No sooner had he parted from his mantle, that he ambled in the kitchen, hassling the servants. Ubertino had an appetite for everything. I knew well that he’s had his hands up one of our maids’ skirts. And I knew he was fondling more than fresh bread from the ovens, when I heard him squealing about. I’ve often wanted to report him, just to be a nuisance. Eight days in prison for his crime against our household would have taught him some manners. Of course, I knew the only thing he’d really miss was his food. Glutton that he was.

  He emerged from the kitchens and strode toward my mother, sniffing her with inflated nostrils.

  “Signora, what a lovely hint of damask rose. Si, si, I noticed it. Is it new? So lovely on you, Signora,” he said with a wink as he kissed her hand once more. She seemed to welcome his attention but I wanted to retch. As though Ubertino knew of anything else but to load his plate.

  Guido did not say anything. He had a gruesome wound on his knuckles and did not look to have slept at all. My father greeted Rolandino and the two left to talk affairs in the adjacent room where we stock the merchandise.

  At this, Balsamo flicked his hair and pointed out with his customary lazy nonchalance that there was a courier downstairs from the compagnia dei corrieri. I said, no, that it was not from the compagnia. I said that it looked to be a gondolier carrying a set of cases. My father, in his usual irritable humor, shouted at me to go to the water door and ask him what he wanted. So I did that, even though I resented him for indulging Balsamo’s superior manners. I placed the cases in the lounge for us to open later.

  At this, Ubertino rubbed his hands together and said, ‘let’s eat’.

  I believe we all ate the same fare. I can testify that my mother’s cooking cannot be blamed for the illness any of us may have suffered in the later hours. But I will leave nothing out. Let’s see if I remember.

  It began with a garlic and bean soup.

  When everyone had finished, the servants brought along an assortment of little pies. There was, I think, baby eel pie, squid pie and even pork in lemon juice. Ubertino said that eel made him ill and he abstained from it. This was then followed by the main dish, my mother’s Sarde in Saor which I cannot praise enough. The sardines were large and fleshy and looked appetizing under their bed of onions. There was also plenty of raisins and pine nuts in the sauce, the way I like it. Call me precious but I believe the sauce should neither be too sweet nor too sour otherwise the sardines do not taste the same way. But my mother’s varying mood seems to render her heavy-handed with the vinegar and I usually find her Sarde in Saor too sour.

  And that completes our early meal. All this was served with delicious breads from our ovens and a soft cheese delicacy from Candia. I forget the name. I can attest that the meal was fresh and none of us were ill afterwards.

  Again there was nothing exceptional about the morning or early afternoon. In the later hours, we spoke of this and that. The ailing Doge was a favorite. My father said that he could not wait to see Francesco Foscari’s face minted on Venezia’s coins. At this, Balsamo said he would miss Tommaso Mocenigo’s generous ways when this one was gone.

  “Generous? More like a foolish old admiral,” replied my father.

  “He is a good man,” retorted my mother. “He was the only one willing to pay up the thousand ducats and he did it for the good of the Republic, the good of Venezia!”

  “He ought to have given those ducats to the poor,” spoke Ubertino. I remember rolling my eyes to the ceiling. I am certain Ubertino would squash a mendicant under his boot if he could.

  “Our most honorable Doge behaved righteously!” continued my mother.

  “He seeks the glory. All of it is pride,” said my father.

  “Glory, indeed. When has Doge Mocenigo ever done anything for his own ambitions? He is a man of honor.”

  “Honor, you say? Women are so naïve. He remains a merchant, like all of us. Long before he was procurator, he traded in wine and fabrics with Damascus.”

  “And who was it, Giacomo, who led eight galleys into the Bosphorus to rescue the King of Hungary from the Saracens? It was Admiral Mocenigo! There is none as noble as he is and you ought not to speak of him in this manner.”

  “I’ll welcome the day I no long
er have to see his old face on my gazzetta!” said my father.

  And so it went on. I wondered if he might be vexed at my mother’s adoration for the Doge.

  The famous one thousand ducats. For years there was a decree imposing a penalty of a thousand ducats on anyone who dared speak of rebuilding the Ziani Palace. But a few months ago, Tommaso Mocenigo spoke up before the patricians and the Council. He offered to pay the sum in full and said that we should and ought to rebuild the Ziani Palace; that surely it was a sign of God’s displeasure that the Ducal edifice had been devastated by fire and that better construction was demanded by God to befit the state and glory of the Venetian dominions.

  It was the talk of the city for weeks. The old Mocenigo, it was said, was rebuilding the palace for his successors! He had prophesied that his own death would come before he could benefit from the reconstruction. But that did not stop him from presenting the state with ducats from his own fortune. Hence my mother’s loyalty to a dying man…

  In the thick of this conversation, Rolandino meandered upstairs and endeavored to catch Zanetta’s attention, but she protested that she would not come down until she had finished dressing. My mother scorned her for spending too long on the balcony catching the sun’s rays. I heard Zanetta protest that her hair looked too dark and my mother sighed.

  There is only one thing I remember, now, Signore. It is the moment after Rolandino had brought in the delivered coffers, when my father and he exchanged muted glances. I saw my father frown.

  Guido sat up, hardly breathing. And I know, that when he saw the cases, he covered his mouth with his hand. He had not eaten anything. I thought perhaps he was ill.

  At this, my father lifted the puppy terrier to his lap and began to pamper it. All along, I saw him eye the sealed coffers. There were five. Each of the same size, and each signed with an artisan’s seal.

  Someone gave a happy squeal.

  “Masks!”

  It was sweet Zanetta. She was tottering about on her cork platforms. Such a fool, I was. I laughed because they were the steepest velvet-covered wedges I had ever seen. Still, they were pretty and very up-to-date with purple lace frills and beaded silk. One of our maids held Zanetta’s hand as she walked proudly toward us. It was mid-afternoon and my sister had finally chosen to make an appearance. She looked lovely. Rolandino sat up and meekly offered his arm. I know he was very proud.