by Laura Rahme
We were friends since, how many years? Fifteen years. I come often, to the atelier, we are friends, yes? Angelo, he says, you waste nothing. I am poor. I have not much to give you. You will work hard he tells me. I laugh. Work hard, I always work hard.
He was happier when she was alive. But Magdalena died soon after the child was born.
They lived in Castello first. Surrounded by wealth and princely mansions, he despaired. A castaway noble without his riches. He could not even pay the Republic taxes for months.
But she was his strength. And she had all the ideas.
They say never trust the people of Napoli. But Magdalena was no ordinary Napoletana. She was an artist. She was carrying the child in those days. But she was not afraid. To be sure there was gossip at first. A lot of gossip from the Rialto right up to Castello. What is the Magdalena up to everyday in the markets? What is she doing out of the house? Shouldn’t she be at home? And the foolish woman is with child. Come to think of it, I’ve not seen her in Church. Have you? What is taking up her time?
Oh, I know what she was up to. It was a game at first. She told Francesco she could find him a trade in no time. She mastered all the tricks right from the start and she knew the art...I don’t know. Angelo thinks she was born to this art. When they opened the old atelier it was empty. But days, weeks went by and it soon became filled with pretty things. She had it all figured out the Magdalena. She learned when to order the metal ornaments, the feathers and beads, or where in Murano they could find and buy the cheapest crystal pieces. In Burano, she found a trader who would offer the most delicate lace and the best price. She listened to the news in the Rialto, until she understood when the plaster came in and the best days for the paint prices. She paid a broker who would bargain for the best value jewels. She parted with hundreds of ducats for that, and for the glitter, the gold and silver leaf, too. There was a time when she asked me to take the gondola right up to the seamstresses of the Arsenal, so that we could hunt down for leftover silk bails.
I knew she was up to something that Magdalena. Being a gondolier makes one silent but we watch and know much. And then two months before the child was born, she called me up to the atelier with a delivery of paints and brushes. Francesco was sitting in front of the most beautiful mask I had ever seen. I stared at it and the Magdalena rose and walked to me with a strange look on her face.
“What is it Angelo?” the signora asked me as I crossed myself. I was still staring at the mask when she added, “You look as though you have seen a ghost in the canal.”
“Signora, it is just… I have never, never in my life, seen such beautiful work.” And it was true. Oh, it was true! Such workmanship. The mask I saw that day! It was crowned with a Moor’s turban in folded silver silks. A red feather, jutting out of a ruby stone, set upright, in the middle of the brow. The eyes peered at me beneath turquoise hoods edged with gold glitter. The right and left cheek were sprawled with notes from a pasted music sheet and the lips were encrusted with gold and crushed jewels.
“You see what I was telling you, Francesco mio? You are improving!” she said. “Try it on, then, Angelo. Please yourself. Put it on, so we can see… Bellisimo!”
And Francesco let me have it. He let me hold it to my face. I stood before a mirror to see myself so masked. And I felt… Angelo, this is truly madness.
“Do you like it?” she asked, all lashes batting and mouth pouting. Oh, she was so beautiful.
“Oh, Signora…” I could only whisper as I peered into my reflection. My tattered gondolier clothes seemed improper beneath such mask. She was nodding to herself. Oh, she was very satisfied. And then Francesco spun to a thick velvet cloak resting on a nearby stool. With a big grin on his face, he had me put on this heavy garment so that we could all see the mask against a purple cloak. Such splendor. I’d never looked so dashing.
I felt myself blush.
“You make these, Signor Visconti, and perhaps more like this one, and the whole of Venezia will come to your door!” I chirped. I eyed myself pleasantly from head to toe, enough to make the Magdalena smile. I forgot that she was with child because there was much excitement in her face. She was not at all tired as one would expect from her condition. She had this passion about her and her dark eyes glistened wildly whenever she spoke. And in her voice, was life.
I remember this beautiful day because I was made to feel part of their family, the Ca’ Visconti. She placed her arms around Francesco and kissed his cheeks.
“You are ready!” I heard her say. “I will teach you all I know; all I know, Francesco.”
I felt dizzy, and for a moment the turban was heavy on my head.
“I shall remove it now.”
The Magdalena smiled again. I thought she looked like an angel then and I know Francesco thought so too. It was the way she had reached for the mask and then with her other hand was rubbing her belly with content. Was there ever a happier woman in all Venezia?
I tell you what, Angelo was a very happy man, too, that day. After months of being unsure, I had finally seen the Magdalena’s dream come alive and Francesco was a grateful husband. I liked seeing them both so sure and pleased with themselves. Is there anything happier than hope when a man and a woman are joined to raise a family? And happier still if one can create art such as that the Magdalena was capable of. And Angelo does not lie. Truly it was a glorious mask as the one that I was made to wear in the atelier. I remember that my poor heart was bursting with joy when I first glimpsed my reflection. I even think that the whole atelier was alight with music; as though there were angels singing and each note rang in my ear, resonating with the laughter of children.
After that day, I worked harder. I wanted to see their trade grow. They hired Maffeo to oar the gondola while I tended to the atelier and dispatched deliveries.
So now you ask me what I was doing in the night before the Winter Solstice. Let me tell you.
For years I clean the atelier at night. Francesco knows me. He trusts me. I never steal anything. Angelo is not a thief. I would have given my life for Francesco and for his little one.
So on that night, the night you want to know about, I come to the atelier when the time is right. It is past midnight. It is dark when I arrive. The canal waters are still. The neighbors lie asleep. The Visconti windows are shut. Only the moonlight guides me. But then I see a glow on the top floor of the atelier. I look up. This is where Francesco likes to climb when he is creating and wishes to remain in peace.
Ah! Francesco is still in the atelier I tell myself.
But I have to clean up. So I bang on the door but he does not come. And I think to myself, Angelo, should you enter now and disturb the mascheraro or should you maybe return later? I stand back and look up to the window where my master is at work. So late. And again, I think to myself, Angelo, but how many years has it been and never once, remember this, never once has Francesco worked so late without warning you first. So I turn, preparing to leave but then I see a black feather. It is hovering around me. Then two feathers. One settles on my shoe. So I take it between my fingers and I am not sure what to think of this black feather. I think– Angelo, this feather just flew out from Francesco’s atelier. Is the mascheraro throwing away his feathers now? I spin around and I look up to the room upstairs. Devil take me! What now? Now the shutters have flown open, banging on the outer wall and a light bursts out but, still, I do not see Francesco. And by some enchantment, I watch feathers, silver and gold dust spray out of the room, painting the sky it seems. The building glows like gold. Gold, I tell you! Signore, I cross myself. It is lit as though by that exploding powder from the Far East. It is aglow with the sparkling dust. And still feathers and swirls of fabrics are flying up in the space above and beyond.
At this, I rub my eyes and shake my head. Are you dreaming, Angelo, I ask myself? It is long past midnight, Angelo, I tell myself. But what I see, is the vision of a delirious drunk in the early hours of the morning; not one who is sober and has come to clean t
he atelier as he has for over fifteen years. I feel the hair rise on my head. I stare up again. The windows are shut now. How shut? Angelo, Angelo, think. Did one ever stir by the window? No. Did one ever shut them? No. No, I did not see a hand, I swear to you–the window shut as though... And not a sign of Francesco. Madre de Dios, I am frightened. My teeth chatter in the cold and I can take no more.
So I run. I drop my lantern and run.
That is the last time I have seen the atelier. I have not returned since.
What I think? You ask Angelo what he thinks. I think, Signore that something has begun. No, no, I cannot say. The moon saw. She saw it all. And how brightly it shone on that night, when I was there. The light on the atelier was gold if ever there was gilded light. Oh, Signore, to return there? Now? No. Never! You would not return if you knew what Angelo saw.
But what was it, Signore? What shone out from his window in the middle of the night, and like this, with all that dust flying around and the feathers? Old Angelo does not know what to make of it. But he is afraid. Very afraid.
Signore, I will tell you, if you do not think me mad. I believe something evil dwells in the atelier.
In the Atelier
“He saw into the internal
and the external world,
left and right,
above and below,
before him and after him.”
Journal of Antonio da Parma
Eve of Natale
Long before the arrival of the signori di notte, when I thought myself unheard and unseen, I followed a fearful Angelo into Santa Croce and there, he led me to Francesco Visconti’s atelier. No sooner had we neared it than he ran away, leaving me outside.
Angelo’s tale had chilled me, but I was determined to discover if Rolandino had told the truth. I had at first discounted the merchant’s violent confession, hoping to find Francesco Visconti alive. I gripped to the bronze knob and tapped on the door. Thrice, I was met by a deathly silence.
Across the nearby parishes, midnight bells chimed in unison. I drew a metal pin from my boot. I had at least an hour before the signori di notte arrived. With the aid of my dagger and the pin, I worked at the lock until it ceded.
A fetid odor greeted me in the cold darkness. I shuddered. My unsteady torch shone over dirty wooden benches. I saw craftsmen’s tools and to the back, a wall, smeared with large red letters. I stepped forth. Beneath my felt boots, came the rustling of crushed fabrics. I shone my light to the tiled floor. Streams of silks and gauze were strewn at my feet. Tiny sequins glittered in the dark. The once faint odor had grown oppressive. Someone was inside.
Distant wooden creaks echoed from above. I started. Was Francesco Visconti still alive perhaps? Was it his ghost that I sensed upstairs? Maybe Angelo was right and I had no place here. Again the rattling sound from above. I felt as though a ghost would claw at my neck at this very instant.
My eyes had grown accustomed to the dark and I could see, much to my terror, that Rolandino’s tale might be true. The back of the room had been ravaged; paint and bails of fabric lay on the floor; satin, lace and silks ripped to shreds and stained by paint. A row of hanging masks had been carelessly pulled to the ground. Drawers lay upside down with their contents spilled. I raised my torch to the red words on the wall, until I could discern their sinister message - “Death to the Milanese.”
Sadness gripped me. Where had such hatred come from? And all the knives, I realized, as a cold chill descended over me, all those cutting implements that an artisan has use of, those things–they were missing.
Nearing the spiral staircase, I looked up, to where Angelo had sensed much evil on that fateful night. He had spoken of gilded rays shining from the upstairs atelier. But up there, I could see only darkness. Whatever spirit had inhabited the top floor, was no more.
What had Angelo seen? What was it that had shone like gold? Basing myself on Angelo’s account, I knew the light had come alive long after the merchants had already left. Where had it come from, if not from Francesco?
I was startled by a gentle tap on my shoulder. Paint was dripping from the ceiling. I brushed over the slimy liquid on my sleeve and brought it to my nose. Not paint. It was the smell of death. Rolandino had not lied.
I raised my lantern to the wooden planks overhead. Blood.
For an instant, my light caught a face hiding behind the staircase.
“Who is there?” I waved my light ahead, feeling my pulse quicken. One glimpse, there! The outline of a shadow beneath the staircase. I froze. A tightness burned my throat. For a chilling instant, I could barely breathe.
“Who is there? Francesco?”
No. Not Francesco.
In that moment, I knew. I knew with every fiber of my being that even if there was still no sign of Francesco, even if I would find no mascheraro, I knew at least, that she was here, in this atelier. She was looking at me. The woman from my dream. It was her. I had seen her face in the darkness.
Slowly, I advanced. I peered into the shadows, shining my torch beneath the staircase.
Nothing.
I felt relieved and yet, a part of me was disappointed.
Perhaps Almoro was right and I did suffer from delusions.
Almoro’s words came to me. Because this reality does not please you, he had said.
I looked around the room. Again, no sign of Francesco.
Because, came Almoro Donato’s whiny voice, the reality, Antonio, is that Francesco is upstairs.
Francesco’s dripping blood on the floorboards above… My jaw tensed at the thought.
Images of slaughter flashed in my mind. I considered whether to go upstairs, or leave, before the signore di notte stormed in. I was running out of time and yet, perhaps due to Angelo’s warning but also, from dread, I could not bring myself to go upstairs. If the blood averred to be Francesco’s blood, I could not forgive myself.
Already, I was horrified by the madness that had driven the patricians: Rolandino, Giacomo, Balsamo, Guido and Ubertino. Already, I sought for their motives.
But was there even a reason for the savagery of Carnivale? Could the basest impulses ever be accounted for? I recalled my last visit in Venezia. The gruesome spectacle that was the last Thursday of Carnivale. Every year, in honor of a treaty that had taken place hundreds of years before between Venice and Aquileia, the Piazzetta overflowed with mad crowds and was transformed into an arena for bloodletting. Animals—pigs and bulls—were chased, captured and mocked under the gaze of Venezia’s noble Signoria, before being cut to pieces and devoured by the crowd.
Up there, in the upstairs workshop, I might uncover butchery of a similar kind.
But why? Why would they kill an inoffensive artisan? Questions ran unanswered until I had no choice.
I ran. I ran upstairs, clutching at my heart, the timber moaning underfoot. With every step, I lived remorse and terror. I regretted that afternoon when I had been forced to abandon Francesco to his fate.
And now, to my left lay the bedroom and to my right…
To my right, there was a light, seeping through a partly sealed door.
Behind the door, a familiar rattling. I peered ahead. Only the wind. The cold wind through an opened window... Perhaps there were no ghosts.
I held my breath. I could feel the quickening rhythm of my heart. Below, lay the magical world of sequins, feathers, silks and paints, the world of a great artist and, here, in this second atelier... there was…
The green door gave way.
Horror.
Abomination.
Blood–black, dried, smeared in hatred onto the walls, painting a horror this room had once known. My knees trembled.
Dismembered. Human limbs ranged where there should be none.
Was this my own voice? Had I cried out? I clamped at my mouth and dared another glance.
Headless, splayed on the wooden planks, in a blackened pool of decay, where humors mingled and seeped through the floorboards–his savagely cut, maggot infested disemboweled for
m, lay rotting at my feet.
Here was, then, the smell of death! Here, impaled on the leg of an inverted chair, the once noble head of the Milanese. The madness of it! Of seeing his dangling gray strands caked with blood. Of seeing that his own face was no more real than a mask. And the stench! All the while the stench was unbearable. A cesspit of rot and hell. It painted a memory of such violence, that a cry burst from within me.
“Francesco! Francesco, forgive me,” came my voice.
I tried to look upon his face.
I would have sought to close his lids, to transport him away from this murderous abode, a home that ought to have been his joy and love, the fruit of his art. But I had long realized that he had no face. There, the fleshy jaw with its row of broken teeth; there, the torn eye sockets where maggots fed; there, the lacerated flesh hanging off his cheeks...but nothing left of his goodness. No, not a trace of Francesco the Milanese.
I buckled to my knees as silent tears ran down my face.
And then, something that I cannot explain happened to me, in this very room.
As I tried to sift through the last moments of Francesco’s life, a sudden rage seized me. I asked myself what earthly debt a man could have ever possessed that would lead to such treatment of him. And I formed an answer.
Though it was more like a voice, a seething voice that somehow surged from my lips and echoed in this infernal room.
“He was wronged! Francesco was wronged!”
I felt my lips curl into a rage that I could not control.
“You will pay Rolandino!” I heard myself curse. “You shall pay for your deeds! I shall come to you. I shall find the keys to the Wells... I shall find you in your cell, I...”
And just as it had come, it bolted out of me. I remained stunned by the sound of my voice. I had spoken in an accent that was not my own. I had laid bare thoughts I knew were not even mine! And yet, how they possessed me!
