by Laura Rahme
“Avogadore, welcome to my home,” I said. “Please forgive my absence yesterday. I had a pressing desire for confession.”
“There is no need to apologize, Signora Contarini,” he said with a quick bow.
We remained awkwardly silent for a moment. I for one, was cognizant that I had not greeted a man alone since my marriage. A moment of vanity struck me as I wondered what he must have thought upon seeing me. I had worn my mourning dress and in red velvet, I know that my face must have seemed older, perhaps older than he expected.
In the days following Zanetta’s death, I had not even bothered to pluck my brow and today, faced with the unsightly pores along my hairline, I had chosen to drape a turban along my forehead. At least the coils of my hair were tightly wound and respectable.
The avogadore had not said a word. He continued to examine the family gathering room as I ushered him inside. His eyes lingered over our regal lounge chairs and the Persian rug from Constantinople.
He noted with great curiosity the thick velvet drapes, heaped on the table. I rushed to gather the fabric and placed it on a divan, away from view.
“It is tradition,” I explained. “These red drapes are part of the mourning ritual. They are to be hung on the windows of every room.”
He gazed around him and I understood his preoccupations at once.
“If you think this place is a dark place, avogadore, then I must tell you, it will soon be darker still.”
He nodded at my solemn declaration. He seemed to understand my distress at such a time. His roving eyes rested on the green garland that I had made the day before. I explained that Zanetta was a virgin when she died, and this garland would be wrapped around her neck tomorrow, during the burial ceremony. The bodies of my husband and child would be paraded through the streets, their faces and feet bare, while I howled openly to show my grief. And beneath the marble stones of our church, the corpses of Santa Maria Formosa would be once again stirred to make way for the members of my family.
The Florentine said nothing. Even if he found it appalling that we should bury our dead under our very churches, he did not say so.
“Do you wish to show your respects?” I asked, offering to bring him into Zanetta’s room upstairs where the bodies lay, draped in silk. I had gone into that room so many times already. I could not detach my eyes from her. I could not let her go. He read into my eagerness but shook his head.
“No. That will not be necessary, Signora.”
“Will you come to the procession? I know all this must seem at odds with your…inquest, but I gracefully extend you this invitation, avogadore. You will see that we are a good family and what has befallen us is unspeakable.”
“I would be honored. But I do not believe it would be appropriate.”
“Nevertheless our parish would welcome you, avogadore. Forgive me, to which parish do you belong to?” I asked, as I poured rose water into his glass.
He seemed rather confused by my question, so I reassured him.
“Forgive me, I do not know how it is in Firenze. Here, everyone can name their parish. Your parish is your home and pride. Almost five hundred years ago, there was a parish in each little island of the lagoon. Si, si, if it were not for the bridges across the Rivoaltos it would be as though we each lived in our own separate island.”
I went on to explain that in Venezia, we all know quite well to which parish we belong and that our communities are closely knit and that we hold processions as part of the parish. It was only pleasantries. I was terrified of his silences.
The avogadore replied that it was a most honorable tradition and mumbled something about his own church in Tuscany, but he spoke so fast, that I forgot the name.
I ventured to ask him if he was truly a Roman Catholic, which was my way of jesting, as he did not seem in the least preoccupied by church attendance or parish affairs. My humor is dark at times and I thought I had gone too far and offended him. Strangely he did not look in the least offended.
His answer took me by surprise. “My father used to say that I could not verily belong to the Christian Church.”
“And why not?” I asked.
“On the day of my baptism, the priest collapsed with chest pains.”
“Oh, Signore! What grievous news.” I crossed myself. “Did he live?”
“Unfortunately not. He was taken ill for two days and, as he was not replaced for weeks, my baptism could never be completed. My parents thought the deed was as good as done and they soon forgot about it.”
He noted my discomfort. “I hope this revelation does not displease you, Signora. What is it? Have I shown disrespect?”
I could not look into his eyes.
To hide my turmoil, I turned away, seizing two porcelain plates from the servant. I then sent her back to the kitchen. He regarded me with such insistence that the platters rattled under my grip. I emitted a brief smile.
“I am sorry. It is nothing.” Could he hear the quaver in my voice? “I pray that your soul is saved, Signor Avogadore. As for your baptism…you must know that we have a belief in Venezia. We say that those whose baptisms are left unfinished…can see the dead.”
As I said this, I recovered from my previous emotions. A vague sense of pride overwhelmed me, as I placed the plate of sugar-dusted fritoli and the almond milk on the table. I expected my Florentine guest to marvel at our delicacies or to compliment me on the beautiful ware imported from the east, but to my surprise, Antonio Di Parma had stiffened in his seat. He clutched the armrest and stared cautiously in the distance as though pondering over something.
“I hope you like my fritoli, Signor Avogadore. You came at the right moment,” I said with a tinge of irony. “It is a specialty from here during Carnivale. This is my mother’s recipe. I soak the raisins in syrup long before frying the dough. Zanetta used to love them. She was always fond of cinnamon.” I was near tears as I spoke.
But he did not hear me. The avogadore seemed unaware that I had spoken at all. He was not even seeing the plate before him.
Then he emerged from his thoughts and sunk his spoon into the almond custard. Almost immediately, he replaced the almond dolci on the table as though finding it disagreeable that we should eat sweets in a time of mourning, and he gave me one of his forceful glares. “And what about you? Do you believe this, Signora?”
“Believe what?” I asked.
He gazed straight into my eyes. “That one such as I, that one who has not been baptized, can see the dead?”
His face was flushed. I trembled despite myself. I ignore if he was insulted by my previous remark on the subject of his incomplete baptism or if he sought to test my faith.
“I believe in Jesus our Savior,” came my reply. “But I am a feeble, superstitious soul like all women in Venezia. If you tell me you have seen a ghost, avogadore…” I held my breath.
“I told you no such thing.” His manner seemed cold.
“Yes, but even so, even so. If you confessed as much, I would believe you,” I confided, shaking with fear.
To which the avogadore nodded and evaded my questioning glance. He leaned into his cloak to retrieve a journal where I understood that he scribed notes. I knew he would not speak of the matter again, even though I could see that I had perturbed him before with my superstitious beliefs.
“Where is your son, Catarina?” he asked me, suddenly. He was hurried once more.
“Lorenzo is not here today. He is calling on Daniela Di Moro. She is a writer,” I added proudly.
“I must speak with him, Signora. It has come to my attention that his life may be in danger.”
Oh, that I had not known what I know. The avogadore’s words felt like an ice cold blade through my shoulders.
The loss of Giacomo had been a blessing in its own way. And the relief I feel today will be revealed to none. But if I grieve, I grieve for her. My Zanetta. My poor sweet Zanetta.
And now, the avogadore spoke of Lorenzo…
I was furious.
> “Why are you saying this to me?” I lashed out, bursting into tears. “Why do you come here, to the house of a mourning woman, to give me such news? Isn’t it enough that I have lost my husband and my daughter? Isn’t it enough that I am to grieve two loved ones?”
“Forgive me, Signora but I must see Lorenzo. The matter cannot wait.”
“I told you that he isn’t here!” I almost shouted.
He stared at me.
“Catarina…” No words came out. “Forgive me. It is something I must do.”
“Could you not have waited until after the funeral?”
“If it pleases you, Signora. But we must be cautious. What has befallen your family may be part of some political designs. As your son, Lorenzo may be in danger…” He paused.
I think he paused deliberately to see if I would respond. But there was nothing I could say. I rose and took away the dolci in haste, a little stung by his refusal to eat. Everything hurt, even the avogadore’s rejection for sweets.
I disappeared into the kitchen where I remained for longer than I wished, wiping away my tears. I wondered how I would once again face the stern avogadore with the handsome face and not collapse under the weight of emotions. This casa had seen too much. I feared that I could shoulder no further. And yet somehow, I regained my strength and returned to my guest. I found him in the same manner in which I had left him.
“What do you believe, avogadore? Do you think that Rolandino Vitturi was in his right mind when he murdered my husband?”
He was no fool, the avogadore. I understood it by his response.
“Rolandino may have murdered your husband,” he said. “But whatever his motive, it does not explain the other deaths. The other deaths remain a mystery. And you would agree that it is inconceivable that your husband would set out to murder his own child. Pardon me, Signora, but something vile, something wicked is at work, here. It baffles the spirits. The web is large and whoever spun it has grand designs we know nothing of.”
Oh, he was no fool.
Yet I hated him for saying that. It only reminded me that I was alone. I was alone with my fears.
“Signora. There is something else.”
“What now? Haven’t you said enough?”
“Signora…” He bit his lip. I quickly understood that he was about to speak on behalf of the Consiglio. I am familiar with their ways now. Nothing surprises me.
He swallowed hard and gave me a forceful glare.
“I will say this and you must speak of it to no one. Your husband’s name has been slandered.”
“I know. I know what they are saying.”
“You do? His reputation is at stake and through this, your own. If you are protecting him, you stand to be judged. You may even be seen as a willing accomplice. Do you understand, Signora? You have enemies in your own parish who have soiled his name. They have made claims that…about your marriage.”
Oh, that I had not already known what he set out to tell me. The stench of betrayal ripped through me as he spoke those words. I could not believe any of it was happening.
“Listen to me, Signora. Sodomy is seen as the greatest of crimes. Forgive me if I must sound to you like Bernardino di Siena whose preaching is endless and whose hatred of sodomites knows no limit. It is not in my nature to rile against men. What I say now, I say it for your own good. In the eyes of many, sodomy undermines the institution of family. The Consiglio is firm in this regard and has taken upon itself to prosecute those who defile the Republic with their crimes. Had your husband been alive—”
“He is not guilty!”
His voice fell back. He looked at me, a little stunned.
I remember that I turned my back away from the avogadore. I wrung my hands, still shaking from my outburst.
“How do you know this?” I heard him say behind me.
Oh, that I had the courage to tell him. But I held fast to my secret. It was too heavy a burden to bare. I wanted no one to know.
He stood closer and gazed at me.
“It is for your person, I fear, Signora. Only for your person. The Consiglio is unrelenting and you will suffer should your name be blemished.”
“Allow me some time, avogadore. I will tell you what you wish to know. You ignore the extent of the suffering that will also befall me if I were to remain silent. I know well what I must do. I will not stand for gossip. I will not be humiliated. You are not from here and so you cannot know how even the slight trifles can spread and grow and the harm they can do. I would rather flee from the Republic than be shunned and shamed by my own parish. But please, allow me time, and I will give you all that you need to preserve Giacomo’s name. The funeral procession is tomorrow. I…” I could speak no further. I had realized an enormous truth.
What had come to pass? Was this Florentine telling me to fear the Consiglio? Was this naïve avogadore trying to warn me, when all along, I knew! Oh, how I knew!
Oh, that he had known everything and seen through my loathsome soul. Oh, Antonio, my friend. My dearest friend.
I let out a whisper, clutching at the lace on my sleeves. I swallowed the tight knot in my throat. “After the funeral…when the procession is over, I promise that I will give you everything I have. So that you may present what you will to the Consiglio dei Dieci and save my name. They will listen…perhaps.”
“So then, you have documents? With signatures?”
I refused to look at him. I stared into the internal courtyard.
“No. I have a diary. Giacomo kept a diary for years. And in it, there is…”
“Are you trying to tell me that you have read it? I take it that you mistrusted your husband, Signora.”
He was no fool the avogadore. No fool at all.
“I read it,” I whispered. “I knew of it for years but never opened it until…”
I turned to face him. His face was illuminated by the afternoon sun and he watched me with an expression that I could have almost mistaken for adoration.
And still, even as his dark gaze pierced through my being, I knew that he saw nothing.
For I am more wretched than what he imagines.
Finally he placed his black hat upon his head, in readiness to depart.
“I will be patient, Signora. Here is my address if you care to write to me when you are so disposed to give the proof you speak of.”
“Soon. Await my letter,” I said, showing him to the door.
He seemed satisfied. He inclined his head quietly, stepped outside and turned. Such was his presence that even as he left, I felt as though he had eyes on the back of his head. I remained still, at the doorway, frozen by his words.
When he had gone, and only when I had watched him step out of our calle, did I realize how much I shook. Anger had twisted my face as I walked past the entrance mirror.
It had come to this. After all these years. All my secrets would soon be stirred from the slumber of the past and would return to engulf me. I was trapped.
I stared back into the kitchen, hearing it–that infernal sound. The din of her charms echoed in the house, gold chains around her neck tinkling in the darkness. I pressed my hands to my ears, refusing to hear anymore.
I had a thought that perhaps it was I, the dead soul of this house, the old Ca’ Contarini with its cold walls, soon to be airless, silenced forever, shut off from the world behind black velvet drapes.
Angelo’s Flight
The Testimony of Angelo
From an entry in Antonio da Parma’s journal
The evening approached fast as I parted from Catarina and sought out Francesco Visconti’s atelier. I was determined to find him before the signori di notte would. I ventured into Santa Croce, passing myself as a tourist in need of a lavish mask for Carnivale. In my most polished Florentine dialect, I questioned servants and slaves as to where I might find the brilliant mascheraro, Francesco Visconti. It was not long until I was quietly led to the edge of Santa Croce by a Nubian gondolier. Beneath a sottoportico, a small door with age
d cracked wood was pushed to usher me in. Here, I would find Angelo, said the slave. Angelo was a short nimble man of sixty who ran night errands for several artisans in the sestiere. It was known that he worked with Francesco and could lead me to him. Strangely for days, the slave noted, Angelo had kept to himself, speaking to none.
“Angelo!” he called out as we both entered. “Angelo, this Florentine seeks the Visconti atelier. Awake, Angelo!”
I stepped inside the miserly one-room home and shuddered. In the dim light, I could discern empty goblets still reeking of ale. The tiled floor was littered with chewed chicken bones and stale bread crumbs and even in the winter, flies buzzed upon every surface. The smell of despair pervaded Angelo’s abode.
“It is not like this often, Signore,” muttered the slave, pinching his nose. “It must be that he has taken ill. Angelo! Angelo, awake!”
I heard a weak wail from the kitchen and turned. In the dim light, I saw a form in a soiled white shirt, asleep on a stool. A head with a wild bunch of gray hair slowly lifted from a dirty table.
“Angelo, you have a visitor,” urged the slave, seeing him awake. “This Florentine wants you to lead him to the Visconti atelier.”
To my surprise, the man he had called Angelo seemed to tremble in the darkness. His haggard, unwashed faced stared at me, its red eyes filling with horror.
***
Angelo’s Tale
If you listened to him sometimes, you know, he talked to them. Yes. Yes. The masks. He talks to them as he paints their faces onto solid plaster. They come alive. They come alive for him. Gold, gems, feathers, the rubies in their eyes; you see them shine, and you know he sees them, just like I see you. But he sees their souls. And he tells them, “You are the night. You are the jewel of the night.” So gentle his fingers, a true artist, he drapes them with the silks and when he is finished with them, he smiles. He is not the only mascheraro in Venezia. But he is the only one who can breathe life into the masks. The only one. I always knew this. Always.
