by Laura Rahme
I gasped for air.
In the moment when I had cried out, I had glimpsed a vision of Rolandino. It told me that he had never escaped from prison. Someone had come to avenge Francesco. Rolandino was already dead.
Now.
At this instant.
I passed a hand over my eyes.
Had I gone mad? If I spoke in foreign accents, what would I see now? I had dismissed Catarina’s superstition on the subject of my incomplete baptism. But what if it were no superstition?
I gazed to the ceiling, struggling to calm my troubled spirits. I could not bear to look at the deceased. I feared I may soon see his ghost.
And then I noticed it–the hanging portrait beside the window. The portrait that had plagued Rolandino and haunted him since that day.
Rolandino had smeared white paint across the canvas as though to protect himself from her gaze. And as I stared at it, a gnawing tugged at my chest.
Suddenly I had sprung to my feet. I had reached for the portrait and begun to peal the sullying paint off. I had never known such urgency. Flake by flake, I worked at the canvas. White curls fell upon the floor as I etched off the paint.
Even then, I knew what I would find. Still, I came at it, gritting my teeth, my breath quickened by a sickening desire to see beneath–an urge to see her face. I wanted to see it. I had to see it because—
Because it was her.
I stepped back in horror.
The woman in my dream, the one I had seen on Rialto Bridge and then later, rising above Santa Croce as she wailed in torment–she was looking straight at me.
The portrait fell at my feet.
I recognized her by the pendant round her neck, black locks framing her oval face, black eyes of such savagery, such raw beauty—and her lips—I shook with fear.
Who was she? Why did she haunt my dreams? Could she have been Francesco’s long lost wife? The Magdalena that Angelo had spoken of? I did not doubt it.
Yet, Rolandino had seen her in a different light. He had seen her as nemesis incarnate.
He had been terrified.
To the Canal and to the Roofs
While I sat in the deathly atelier, outside, a loud murmur stirred the silence of the campo. Emerging from a narrow calle in the distance, masked young men and women spilled into the courtyard like phantoms on just another Carnivale night. The foreboding hum of their voices rose to a shrill. They ran, wading past the flooded courtyard, splattering the walls of this very house. They contoured this very edifice toward the canal nearby.
I gazed through the window.
“Why the noise?” I called out.
None of them even looked up. They seemed agitated.
Under the dancing torch lights below, I discerned youths in multi-colored calzas, some scantily clad, their camicias still open from a night of reveling. Their compagnes went unveiled, their long braids loosened provocatively. They had removed their cork platforms and walked bare-footed. They seemed much reduced in height, the trail of their gowns drenched by the muddy courtyard.
To my dismay, the unruly crowd came to a halt beneath the atelier. I dreaded what sport had newly taken their fancy. As though in pursuit of some mischief, they crowded to the moored gondolas.
A terrified voice rose above all others.
“Can you see it? Is it there?”
Then a reply. A woman.
“It could not be far. I saw it earlier...in the water...”
Then came a shriek.
I leapt. I bolted down the staircase and into the main room. I heard a further cry of terror and shuddered. What madness, what sport, what game had suddenly taken hold of these youths? I was short of breath from what I had seen an hour before. The rank smell of death festered in this diabolic house and now...
I stepped into the coldness outside, locking the doors behind me. I feigned to have been stirred from my bed as though I lived here. With a frown on my face, I wiped a speck of white paint off my tabard and advanced toward the youths.
They crouched forth, close to the waters, peering into the dark liquid.
“Step aside! Move away!” I shouted as I elbowed my way through.
“It is him!” whispered a woman still staring into the water. Then she buried her masked face into her companion’s doublet.
“What is it? You have disturbed the peace with your carrying on endlessly at such late an hour.”
Despite my pretenses, I was like them, overcome with a restlessness and the knowledge of some uncanny evil. In truth, I had been waiting for it all night.
“Signore, you must see! You must see!” The young woman was in hysterics. She had lifted her volto mask as though she wanted me to see how truly horrified she was. She wanted someone to read her fear and to believe in it. Her clammy hands were tight on my arm as she led me closer to the water.
“They have killed him!” sobbed a youth.
“They did not! He escaped!” protested another.
I hesitated. I had a sharp sense of what I would see, but in that moment, I dared not believe it. I took a step forth, feeling my heart thumping.
There was another stir from the crowd. Torches were raised and voices lifted at the sight ahead. I noted two large sbirri gondolas and the gleam of a dozen sbirri swords traveling fast toward us, along the dark water. The crowd emitted further cries.
“They want to hide him from us! They want to...”
“Who? Hide who?” I sensed the anxiety in my voice. There was not much time. I had to see.
“Signore, it is horrible! Guarda qui! Guarda!”
A flambeau was thrust into my hands.
I came close. Closer. I crouched at the edge of the canal. I dared not breathe as I peered into the shimmering surface.
There! Surrounded by the murky waters of Venezia, a drowned man–his body covered in filth—stared back at me. The flames danced in his face...
“It is Rolandino! Rolandino!” they shouted.
Rolandino Vitturi...
I could no longer hear the crowds. I barely took note of the sbirri as they stepped off and ranged themselves before the youth, barring the waters. They shoved the crowd away, one hand resting ominously on the hilt of their swords. I felt strangely distant, even as the young voices rose around me in protest. They were soon hushed by the relentless sbirri.
Somehow a deafening silence enveloped me. I could only stare. The armed men formed a shield around Rolandino’s floating cadaver. They untangled his hair. They detached his limbs from the two gondolas. They lifted him out, dripping with slime. They hushed the crowd, warning them—sending them off to their beds like children, after a game that they were meant never to have played.
I saw it.
Unmistakable terror on the sbirri’s faces.
Unmistakable confusion as they gazed upon one another and wondered. Because even they did not know.
But I knew.
I knew everything. Its truth burned my fingers.
Rolandino, I heard myself whispering. I see your death as though I were in the Wells.
I see it all.
You poor fool. You thought she would not find you but she did. It only took one stormy night. And as the sky thundered overhead, as lightning struck above San Marco, as the waters swelled and flushed the Wells, you dreamed your last dream.
She came for you. She dragged you out of your cell in your sleep and streamed you along, panting for breath in the waters of Venezia.
Deep, so deep in the lagoon. What night you have seen, Rolandino! Tangled in the black vine of her hair, gasping for life even as she cried for vengeance, cried for the man she loved and whom you murdered. And how you fought to tear her away, but she clung to you, filled your lungs and took your breath...
And when you died, when your body was defiled by the lagoon and had begun to rot, she brought you to him…like an offering. She tied this cord round your neck to mark you...
I knew not how. But I had seen it. I had felt it all.
The certainty of it stu
ng me as surely as the object that I now held in secret within the palm of my hand. My wet fingers curled tight round it as I watched the sbirri oar their gondolas away, carrying with them the bloated corpse of Rolandino Vitturi.
Before the sbirri had reached us, I had slipped a hand inside the waters and lifted the pendant from Rolandino’s neck. The witch’s rue. The one I had seen round her neck, in my dream. The one she wore in the portrait.
I had claimed it for her.
I receded quietly, moving past the atelier until I spun on my heels and lurched in the dark to regain my lodgings. I moved past an alley that I had taken previously. I was now well acquainted with the shortened paths through labyrinthine Venice. The events of the nights flashed in my mind.
Then a blow, fast and sure. For moments, I remained out of breath, stumbling back to my feet. Two black-clad men, wrapped in long fur-lined mantles, their faces hidden by black bautas, stood there, wielding their swords in my face.
A night of murder had begun.
“Signori, it is late,” I mused. “Have you, then, no lady to serenade with verses on this enchanting night?”
A sneer from one of the men who sprung forth, attacking me from the side. I evaded him.
“Signori, you are foolish to come at me. Do you not know that before you have the chance to skewer me, the most reputed bravo of Venezia, will come to my aid?”
Saying this, I clung, uncertain, to my rondel. An idea had crossed my mind. Throwing my flambeau in the face of one of my attackers, I sprung into the streets, evading the thrust of his blade. They chased after me, the sound of their heeled footsteps pounding against the marble paving.
I scaled a wall and hauled myself on a balcony, leaping to the roof of an adjoining house. They pursued, undeterred and we took on the rooftops of Venice in a mad chase. The sounds of slamming wooden shutters alerted us to the awakening citizens beneath. Lights flickered as numerous torches were lit in San Polo homes. And twenty feet behind me, I saw my pursuers closing in.
I tripped, cursing myself.
A raven crossed the night, his black mantle unfurling like wings against the wind. I recognized the proud velvet cioppa, the shapely thighs in their leather high boots. He stood before me, facing the other two men. His heavy mantle was thrust over one shoulder, as he drew out his blade and prepared to strike. He leapt forth with a savage snarl, his rapier swift, parring every feint, the thrust of his Aragonese blade, unmatched, the glimpse of his dark skin unseen behind his white mask.
I breathed a sigh. But it was disbelief more than relief as I watched him, watched the grit of his attack and the unsurpassed nobility of his swordsmanship.
He drove his blade into the first man who gave out a cry. The other one took fright and lurched aside, only to leap into a courtyard and disappear in the hidden calli of San Polo.
Esteban kicked the dead man at his feet. The body rolled down the rooftop and splashed into the canal waters below.
I clutched at my side, damning the night. Esteban put away his sword and knelt beside me.
“Are you badly wounded?” he asked, noting the red on my right arm.
“It is not my blood,” I protested. “I think I have torn a limb and my ankle hurts a little but I should be in one piece.”
“Antonio Da Parma,” he said, as he helped me up my feet, “it appears you have made an enemy of the Consiglio dei Dieci. Or at least, one of them disapproves of your actions... These two sbirri wanted you dead.”
I gave a grunt, still rubbing my bruised rib.
“I don’t know what you are harping about, Signor Bravo. These men were hardly sbirri. They were mercenaries. Mistaken identity; that is all. It happens often in these dark streets. I can assure you that the Consiglio dei Dieci is not the scourge of Veneziana society that you make of it.”
“Mistaken identity,” he repeated, mocking my words. He gave a short flash of white teeth before shaking his head in disbelief.
“Certainly. I can certify that the Consiglio and I are on very good terms,” I said, raising myself from the ground.
“Oh, I can see that. A moment ago, you were being chased by two sbirri who had every intention of murdering you, Signor da Parma.”
“They were mercenaries. Not sbirri.”
He glowered at me.
“You are not observant, Antonio. I have been watching you, from the instant you entered the Santa Croce house and long before Rolandino’s body floated up the canal. The two men you saw, they visited your dwelling early this evening. They were sbirri. First they entered your room and spilled the contents of all your drawers and when I sprung upon them, they fled. ”
“You broke into my lodgings?”
“As did those two men!”
I tensed at his words, but since I carried all my possessions on me, including the journal where I recounted my notes, I soon recomposed myself.
“Well I am pleased at the situation, however odd. For some reason, you take an obsessive interest in anything I do and have a passion for leaping in dark places where you are not invited...”
“Oh, is that so?”
“…spying on me, like a vulgar ruffian.”
“Vulgar now? I see.”
“Never showing your face…”
“That is my affair. If I am still alive today, it is partly because of it.”
I sighed. I was being unfair. The bravo had saved my life. I had no idea as to what these sbirri were looking for or why they had wanted to kill me.
“Signor Bravo...”
“Esteban. Here, lean on my arm.”
“Esteban, you have my gratitude. There—are you satisfied? But do not expect me to endorse your distrust of the Consiglio dei Dieci. I cannot share your grievance for the simple reason that I do not commerce with criminals.”
“You would comply with the Consiglio dei Dieci, even as they dispatch men to murder you?” he bellowed. “You are seeing the light, but choose to look the other way. “
His words might have spurred doubt in my mind but at that instant, I thought of nothing else except her. I had seen her light and I did not want to ignore it. No, not now.
I tied the pendant around my neck and put it aside, tucking it beneath my linen shirt. As I did so, it appeared to me that Esteban stared at me in great confusion. He gaped in silence, eyeing the silver rue with a sudden curiosity. After a while, he bit his lip and said nothing.
“Esteban, you say you know almost everyone in this city. What can you tell me about Signor Giacomo Contarini from the Santa Maria Formosa Parish?”
“A boor.”
“He is tied to the death of the mascheraro, whose home I broke into tonight. He murdered him with accomplices, exactly one day before their own deaths. The signori di notte will soon find the body and when they do…”
“A murder? Ha. No matter how violent our patricians, I did not know that Giacomo Contarini had it in him. Interesting. I may know something and it may or may not help you, Signor da Parma. But if I tell you what I know, will you vow to help me find the papers that are mine?”
“What papers? I do not recall that you spoke of any papers.”
“A contract belonging to Signor Rivera, my master. Before he died, he passed his estates to my name. But the will is of no consequence if the compagnia who hired him will not honor its debts. The Signoria possesses transcripts of such contracts in their chancellery. That is all I need to confront my debtors. There is only one problem. The documents are in the palace. They are forbidden from such as I. Only one who knows the ways of the chancellery may be of aid to me. You must enter the chancelleries to retrieve them. I will ask you, Signor da Parma. Will you help me find this document?”
I contemplated the offer. I would be bound to fulfil a dubious request in exchange for precious insight. As much as I was prepared for anything to understand the Contarini case, there was something about Esteban that I found unsettling.
“If I trusted you, Esteban, I would help you. You have my word.”
“If you trusted me?”
A smile lit his face. It was almost childish.
“How you irritate me, Antonio. But you find me relieved that there may yet be a way to corrupt you. Very well, it is better than nothing. I will accept your word. Now listen. What is there to say about Signor Giacomo Contarini? He was not so important a man.”
“But he was immensely wealthy, one of the most successful merchants in Venezia.”
Esteban shook his head.
“Look beneath this artifice. Venezia blinds you. Money, the dead Giacomo had in abundance. He possessed estates in the countryside as far as Milan, where he kept stables and many dogs. Alive, he governed these from afar, squeezing the peasants dry, tormenting their existence as only a treacherous lord can. But all this is nothing. It is his wife who has more riches than you can imagine and she is grooming her son, Lorenzo, to become a senator. One foot in the Pregadi and the Contarini trade monopoly is assured. The woman has a plan, a well-defined plan. But for those merciless politicians, she also has an Achilles heel.”
“The rumors.”
“Yes. Foul rumors that her husband did not sleep with her and preferred young men. These rumors could destroy her and her son’s future. That is all they need. Only a complicit woman could conceal her husband’s sin. If she is found guilty, she will be punished by the Consiglio dei Dieci and perhaps even stripped of her wealth. Lorenzo may not even be elected to the Maggior Consiglio. His political life will be over. Lorenzo’s political rivals are counting on it. Of course, they may not want to wait for the rumors to take effect. They may choose to eliminate him. Now, do you understand why his life might be in danger?”
“I must speak with him!”
“What do you hope to achieve?”
“Esteban, I think this family is the key to understanding Giacomo Contarini. If I can discover all I can about Giacomo, I may be able to shed some light on this horrible atelier murder… Perhaps even the patricians’ deaths may be related.”
“Then do what you must. When you have fulfilled your quest, I will require you see to mine.”
