The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice
Page 5
“Oh, you look precious as a blossom, Giovanna!” said Ubertino. Rolandino gave him a warning glare.
My mother began to tie Giovanna’s silk ribboned sleeves, all the while chiding her for being so late. When I remember how fondly she gazed at Giovanna’s blue velvet gown, and the pride on her face, it stings at my heart.
“What will you wear, mamma?” asked our Zanetta. To which my mother replied that she was not feeling well and would rather sleep early. Ubertino gave a dramatic cry in protest, and even Guido attempted to dissuade her from remaining alone at the casa, but she laughed and said that my father would enjoy himself for both of them.
During all that time, my father had not said a word. He eyed the sealed cases, and then Giovanna. I knew he was deciding on whether to open them or not, seeing all of us already owned a mask for the evening.
I stepped up to the task. I lifted the first coffer and opened it.
“Bellisimo!” cried Zanetta.
I beheld a white and gold bauta mask of infinite beauty. The center of its forehead was adorned with a spray of gold and silver reeds. Large white feathers were arranged along the top of the mask to crown the wearer’s head. Above the cutout mouth piece was an almost sinister detail. It was a row of dentiles. Teardrop shaped pearls, gilded to resemble gold teeth.
I quietly noted the seal on the packaging. I had not seen the artisan’s name before.
My mother brushed past me and lifted the second coffer. This time it was a mask crowned by garlands of fruit and leaves to evoke autumn hues. There were mock grapes sewn in purple and green. It seemed to have been fashioned to honor the God Bacchus.
“Giacomo,” she said, in wonder, “you did not tell me that you had ordered these. Look at this one! Beautiful work.”
My father did not reply. Again, I witnessed his muted exchanges with Rolandino and I wondered what the two plotted.
Zanetta proceeded to open the other three cases. I was not the only one curious. We all noted the craftsmanship of each mask.
“How much did you spend on these, Giacomo?” asked Rolandino. He looked to my father and I could not read whether his expression was that of concern or reproach. I do not recall the response my father gave, but he had a calculating glimmer in his eye, one I know well.
Giovanna lifted the sinister dottore della peste mask. The hooked beak, where real physicians blend herbs, was gilded. The mask itself was red and white with gold inlets. My sister was now the only one of us absorbed by the artwork on the table. The rest of us eyed my father. After a moment, he let out a roar of laughter and slapped his thigh.
“Who does not like surprises!” he cheered. “It is Carnivale!”
“But Papá, it is not till days away!” protested Giovanna.
“We can have fun now, can’t we, carina?”
All the while my father smiled, but I could see that he was not happy. I understood that he had never ordered the masks.
Still, it was decided that they were too precious to not be revealed at the banquet.
Ubertino had soon chosen a plain leather bauta in flaming red. He said the mouth cutout would allow him to stuff his face all night, with minimum hindrance. Given Guido’s love of good wine, no question was made as to who should honor Bacchus. Pouting to himself, Balsamo happily placed his dottore della peste mask upon his face and Giovanna laughed because she whispered to me later that he looked like a girl for doing so.
My father, at first, did not want to exchange his old mask for a new one. But Giovanna insisted. So he kissed her hand and held up the first white feathered mask to examine it. Then he held up a card from the case and read it out loud.
“Il Mascherari. You have heard of that compagnia, Lorenzo?”
I replied that I had not.
“Did the gondolier say anything?” asked my father.
I explained that I had tried to engage the gondolier but that he might as well have lost his tongue. Either way, it did not matter. We agreed that my father would wear the mask as it was too good to leave behind.
That left Rolandino. Giovanna’s betrothed was in no mood for feasting. As we looked on, he made a sour face and reached for the black velvet volto.
With the exception of Balsamo who wished to make an eye-catching late appearance in his outlandish gondola, we departed by carriage. In one carriage sat my father, Guido and Rolandino and in the other, myself, Giovanna and Ubertino. I had brought with me a costume which my father had never seen, and it was my intention to mask myself as soon as we arrived at the marquis’ mansion, at which time I would be planning an escape to Daniela’s home without, or so I hoped, my absence being noticed. I was tense with anticipation. I admit that I was secretly worried the effects of my cinnamon mouthwash would wane before I could kiss her.
Moments before we arrived in the San Marco nation, Ubertino pasted his mask upon his bloated face and declared right then and there, that he was famished. Giovanna laughed. As the horses pulled up by the side of the marquis’ casa, I glimpsed the flambeaux and the insipid crowd outside and announced that I was not feeling well and that I would join them later–a simple ploy to don my costume in private. I left them at the marble steps, at which my father waved at me until Giovanna whispered something into his ear. He gave me a stern nod before following the odiously dressed marquis inside. That was my last encounter with him.
Did I ever believe that I would never see him alive again? I never reflected on that last moment. I was much relieved to see him up those steps and I thought only of Daniela. My sole regret is not to have held my sister to my heart before I left.
If you had seen how beautiful she looked on that night! Fair browed to the tips of her golden hair, bright eyed with life, her sweet lips tinted pink and her cheeks all crimson. Like an angel, she was. Her satin skin shimmered beneath the blue velvet of her high-waisted dress. I still remember the way I smiled in the darkness of our carriage when I spotted her little nails gilded to the tips. I should have held her one last time. I ought to have inhaled the innocence of orange blossoms and rose petals before the very flower of our casa had withered. My heart is broken, for she was an angel. An angel, Antonio.
But men of the law oft do not believe in angels. Perhaps then, you are the sort of person who only sees demons in the faces of men. That is another thing I see in your eyes, Signor da Parma. I fear you will not believe the true reason for my happiness. I fear you will look elsewhere where simple answers lie before you.
But I have told you all I know and hid nothing of my anger toward my father because I am innocent.
God bid you grace,
Lorenzo Contarini
The Third Body
A letter from Antonio da Parma to Almoro Donato, Consiglio di Dieci
Almoro Donato,
You will find attached to this letter, a condensed version of Lorenzo’s deposition, signed by him in my presence.
Lorenzo remains a primary suspect in this investigation but all this might change once I have spoken with Rolandino tomorrow.
Signore, I will relate to you my encounter, on that same night, with a certain Abram Elia, one of the best physicians in the sestiere of Castello. It is fortunate that Venezia did not expel Jewish physicians as it did its Jewish bankers in 1395. Abram Elia comes highly recommended. I am advised that before the Elia family expulsion from France in 1394, Abram’s father, who taught him everything, once served the French courts. He excelled in surgery, herbal healing and astrology. He spoke in the Venetian and Florentine tongues along with French, Castilian, Hebrew and Arabic. Abram has followed the same course.
Dottore Abram Elia was summoned by the marquis to carry away the bodies of the Signori Ubertino Canal, Guido Canal and Balsamo Morosini. Exactly as you said, Signora Contarini forbade that her husband and daughter’s bodies be touched.
Abram Elia washed and examined the dead merchants with the careful attention expected from a man of his skills. His account will astound you.
I shall begin with Ubertino.
Abram Elia apologized for the offensive odors, attributing them to an imbalance of humors. He explained that he had found evidence of shell crab in Ubertino’s stomach and that his blood, mingled as it was with black bile, did look to be poisoned. He then declared that none of these factors appeared to have caused the death.
“What is your meaning?” I asked him.
“Signor da Parma, Ubertino Canal has died of rupture of the stomach. See for yourself.”
As I gazed down into the folds of Ubertino’s belly, I was seized by a sudden urge to empty my own stomach. Abram replaced the cloth.
“Could a blade have caused this rupture?” I enquired, still recovering from the inflamed cesspool that I had witnessed.
Abram observed me. My question did not arise from ignorance. You will observe, Signor Donato, that I was still possessed with the thought that perhaps these multiple deaths were not coincidental and that the dead merchants had found themselves victim of some planned assassination.
The old Jewish physician shook his head and lifted a finger to instruct me.
“In certain circumstances one may account for this rupture by the presence of fire inside the stomach, or, should there be a poisonous substance, we could infer that some noxious gas had pushed upon the stomach membrane and caused it to burst.”
“Are you certain there was no wound on Ubertino?”
“I am absolutely certain.”
“Very well. Continue.”
“Signor da Parma, Ubertino consumed enormous quantities on the night of the banquet. Did you know him to be a gargantuan eater?”
“I can confirm that he had a solid appetite,” I answered, remembering Lorenzo’s account. “But... Are you suggesting that Ubertino’s death did not arise through poison?”
The physician nodded. “The stomach is strong, Signore. But not that strong. Shall I show you all that I found in Ubertino’s body? Perhaps you would like to see for yourself and leave no doubt in your mind as to the cause of death. ”
At that instant the thought of Ubertino gorging himself to death appeared to me somewhat senseless. I gave a nod and stared at the physician as he motioned toward a door. I was not prepared for what he was about to show me. He entered a smaller room and stood beside what appeared to be an enormous covered jar. He tugged at the cloth and I saw at once, the repulsive content of that glass jar.
“That is impossible!” I could not believe it. “He swallowed it all?”
Abram grunted. He stood by the jar, tracing the mottled glass with his fingers.
“You will see here and here, the blood from the accident. Yes, yes, everything. It appears, Signor da Parma, that Ubertino was a very hungry man. If only he had shown some discipline.”
I think that was his attempt at wit but the gruesome sight had stripped me of humor. I waved at him, hoping that he would promptly replace the cloth, which he did.
“Ubertino dies of a stomach rupture and loss of blood,” I pronounced, brandishing my parchment. “Will you, dottore, sign this deposition?”
He appeared unwilling to do so.
“We will now proceed to Guido Canal, younger brother of Ubertino,” he replied, ignoring my request.
I followed him to the first room where for the second time, he presented me with a covered corpse. As he removed the linen, I immediately shielded my face.
“Drowning, Signor da Parma. That is clear. Guido fell into the Canal. The stench of alcohol fills his lungs and they, in turn, are filled with water from the lagoon. That, I can assure you, was the state of his body when it was retrieved near the Rialto on the steps of some citizen’s water door.”
I grimaced at the bluish bloated corpse. Again, I presented the physician with a parchment and asked him to write a due statement and sign it. But he frowned and looked to his feet in silence.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked.
“Yes, yes.”
“Dottore, I shall need your signature. If we are to rule out murder of these two signori, your professional contribution to the case is necessary.”
“I am not certain that you would wish me to make this deposition, Signore,” he smiled almost apologetically, “once I reveal to you the unfortunate circumstances of the third signore’s death.”
“I do not doubt your abilities, dottore,” I replied as he grew even more unsettled.
I watched him bite his lips as he looked away, evading my gaze.
“Signore,” he whispered, “you may doubt in my capacity to advise this case, once you learn more of Balsamo Morosini’s condition. Certainly, I can attest to my honesty and the verity of what I am about to say. But...are you, yourself, Signor da Parma, a man devoid of prejudices? Will you, when you have heard it, question my judgment?”
“You would do me a great honor, dottore, if you could lay aside your fears. The man who stands before you is more open on matters of the metaphysical than you would believe... I shall will myself to listen to what you have to say. I will not question your diagnosis of Balsamo’s death. If you say it is, then I will write it as you say it. Even if I do not understand, which is evident, considering my humble background, I will defer the medical summation of this man’s death to your solid judgment. You come highly recommended, dottore.”
As I spoke, I felt the intensity of his gaze. The sagging skin beneath his eyes trembled.
“But what if, Signore... What if what I have to say lies not in the sound judgment that one would expect of a physician. What shall you say to that, Signor da Parma?”
“How do you mean? You mean, you are not certain?”
“Oh, no,” he shook his head, “I am certain, Signore. I know the cause of Balsamo Morisini’s death.”
“I am relieved, dottore. Shall we continue, then, since you have nothing to fear?”
“On the contrary, Signore. Let me explain. The medical diagnosis is clear. There is no question of the matter. What is not sound, or rather what eludes me, Signore, is how. You see, Balsamo Morisini is–how shall I say it…”
I hung on his every word but Abram Elia suddenly fell silent. He looked askance to the third cadaver. I shuffled past him, preparing to lift the linen.
“Do not! Do not...lift it,” he warned.
By now I was growing impatient.
“If we are to proceed with this case, dottore, we cannot continue to speak in riddles. I desire to know the exact cause of Balsamo’s death!”
I said this, even as I buried my face in a scented cloth, deeply unsettled by the third cadaver’s stench.
“Please, please...” he said, taking my hand and pulling me aside.
“Enough of this, dottore. I beseech you to tell me at once. How did Balsamo meet his death?” Upon these words, I motioned toward the cloth. But the little man squeezed between me and Balsamo’s body to bar me passage. Then he glowered at me.
“French disease,” he hissed. “His body is severely decayed. Do not come closer.”
“French disease? Is there such a thing?” I asked. I gathered my courage and shoved him aside, reaching for the linen.
Abram’s voice thundered.
“I would not lift that cloth if I were you, Signore! Balsamo is covered in pustules. His skin has fallen off in shreds.”
I stepped back in horror.
“Covered in pustules? Are you certain?”
“Red and gorged with the foulness of pestilence. Do not touch him!”
“His skin? Fallen off?”
“As much as to reveal bone. Si.”
“What I meant was, are we speaking of the same Balsamo? Balsamo Morosini?”
“My patient, the very same.”
My mind raced
. Balsamo Morosini… Youthful patrician, handsome, fair complexion of the finest grain, his skin smooth and shiny from olive oil lotions, dandy in dress–not a blemish on the negotiator’s hands or neck, not a pustule on his face when I had last seen him pout with insolence. Surely, the physician was mistaken.
“There may be two Balsamo Morosini in Venezia... It is not an uncommon name. If the dead man is disfigured as you say, then you would not know the difference.”
“I recognize my patient’s rings, Signore. I took his pulses four days ago.”
“Four days ago!”
“And I can vouch that he was as fit as a young stag. Signor da Parma, I have been Balsamo’s physician for years. He was sensitive and vain. He despised all ills and dreaded signs of ageing. The very idea of Carnivale and the eventuality of catching cold, or other disease during this festive season, was what drove him to me. I gave him herbal potions and oils. I prepared him and his vanity. That is all.”
“And you are certain that he was not ill when you saw him, then? If he had, what you call, French disease, could he have hidden it? Could he have treated it himself to conceal the symptoms?”
Abram shook his head.
“Only one remedy is known. It is an ancient Arab ointment called quicksilver. It is highly poisonous. Even if Balsamo had known of it, there is not a stain of quicksilver on his skin. He was not ill four days ago. I know my patient.”
I remained skeptical that the body was that of Balsamo. Abram regarded me with contempt before raising his voice.
“I can assure you that there was not a blemish on his skin. Nothing. I have said it before, but I will repeat it now. Balsamo Morosini died of the French disease which he did not have when I examined him four days ago. And I believe that if he attended a banquet, then there is not a chance he would have shown himself in public if his vanity would have suffered from it. I know my patient. No, Signore. Balsamo’s illness seems to have accrued in a single night and his death has resulted. Simple and clear. This is my medical report. You ask what and I tell you the cause. But if you ask me how, how– this, I do not know. I leave it to you now, if you wish to accept my deposition.