by Laura Rahme
“As much as I recognize that you have saved my life, I would never help you, Signor del Valle.”
I expected him to corner me to a wall and point the tip of his blade to my neck, but he merely tilted his head. He gave a quiet smile before finally responding.
“There is a man in a golden mask. He is covered from head to toe in bright crimson. After siesta, during Carnivale, he walks upon stilts every afternoon in the Piazza. This man will take any message you give him and deliver it to me.”
And upon these words, he had vanished.
Left alone, I beheld the witch’s rue in my hand and pondered over the woman in the portrait.
***
Letter from Esteban del Valle to his client
Today may well be the happiest day of my life but for all my joy, I know it is nothing compared to what you shall feel when I tell you that I have found what we have been seeking.
The very same pendant you described to me.
Leave everything to me.
I send my deepest esteem.
Your servant.
Diary of Esteban del Valle
Dearest Gaspar,
Today may be my longest diary entry yet. But unlike the dim-witted Antonio who loses himself so easily, I shan’t leap ahead until I am certain. So I will resign myself to a few lines. Besides, one cannot very well fill volumes of books when one dwells in four homes and is so often having to hide. And though this city’s outcasts have long aided me and there exist few that I protect who would hesitate to shelter me, still it would be a loathsome existence to have to carry volumes of prose on my person.
Words to the wind, Gaspar. That is what they are.
And of this existence which I owe to you, there is in it only a single purpose. Keep my sword animated by your protective spirit, for I feel that we are close. Not a day goes past that I forget my vow.
Fear not for me, Gaspar, my dear friend. The days and nights of your waiting have come to an end. And soon, I will deliver that which is dearest to your heart.
EV
Catarina’s Story
Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma
25 December 1422
You have beseeched me to give you the proof that you seek. You will find it in this parcel which I entrust to my servant.
But before you open my husband’s diary or read its contents, I will ask you to read my confession. I have lived in silence for too long. It will do me good to part with this burden. Often people who have not known each other for long are suddenly thrust into a bond of honor. You, Antonio, I sense, are a man of your word. And so even though I believe you are the Consiglio’s secret inquisitor, I will endeavor to open my soul to a complete stranger. Be that at my own cost.
But first to let you know of my deepest sympathies. I have learned of your wife, avogadore. Women of my parish speak often and too much. Even at the funeral, they resorted to gossiping about you. Forgive us this trait. It is how I have learned that you are newly widowed.
I feel your loss, Signore, as I do mine. You must pine for her terribly. I say this only because your expressions, as during your visit, have seemed to me to be much aggrieved and aloof. It must be difficult for you to set out with such a grim task when the burden of your memories still haunt you.
But I must press on to graver matters.
I will begin. My story.
As a young woman, I thought life would be like a wondrous tale.
I was lucky to be born to a wealthy family. My father had always indulged us with silks and embroidered cloths from as far as the Orient. We lived in a mansion in the Giudecca, surrounded by groves and olive trees. My childhood is a tale of love, sweets and the joys of play. We, Canals, have estates in the islands of Candia and Mykonos and my father’s sugar refinery thrives even to this day.
But the true wealth of the Ca’ Canal, the wealth I knew, the only wealth I ever wanted, was my mother’s laughter. For her happiness was all I aspired to. You ought to have seen the Signora Canal, decked in beaded velvets, ribbons on her sleeves, her hair always braided nobly upon her high forehead. Oh, she was proud of us, the fruit of her womb. And how tall she stood beside her husband as we entered the parish campo on every feast day. I remember how she danced, even in her older years and I remember the enduring softness of her skin made ripe by happiness. During my childhood, I longed for nothing less than my mother’s peace. And I had sworn, as young as ten, that I would one day find a husband who would bring me such peace.
One day I was struck by thunder. If you believe in destiny, you will understand that I saw my fate on that day, the day I met Giacomo Contarini. I was fourteen and at the ideal age for marriage. Giacomo was twenty-three. He had returned from his military service and was studying civil law and philosophy at Padua University. On his short visit to Venice, which we later discovered, much to our amusement, had been orchestrated by his parents, we both attended a patrician ball held during Carnivale.
My parents had set their minds on marrying off one of their daughters. I remember that both I and my sister were smitten by Giacomo. But only one of us could have him. On that occasion, we both wore new dresses and our hair fell loose on our shoulders. The youth parties danced long into the night. And when we did not dance, we sang songs, drank wine and ate almond sweets. Toward the middle of the night, we ventured toward the Piazza San Marco and watched a spectacle of dazzling fireworks sparkle late into the sky.
All this time, my sister and I followed Giacomo and his friends. I cannot say if it was the heavily accented Hungary water that wafted past wherever he strode, or his perfectly sensible manners, but Giacomo soon had me charmed. He was no Adonis, if you ask me, but he was powerfully built with a long aquiline nose, much like the noblest patricians. I saw him peer over his shoulders and smile in my direction many times. I cherished that night because I knew he had chosen me over my sister.
Over the next few days, we somehow found a way to speak to each other in the gardens. I soon learned of his studies at Padua university and of his fondness for dogs which I thought endearing. He was as every young patrician should be, skilled in swordsmanship, archery, adept on the saddle but he also enjoyed sketching. He was a good artist, my Giacomo. That’s what he told me then.
When he set off to Padua for his final years of university, we wrote to each other. Courtly letters and poems were exchanged on scented parchment over many months. Our parents did not suspect, but my sister knew. I asked that she keep it secret and she did. And then all of a sudden, I received nothing from him. Months went by. I would ask our gondolier for the latest courier. Each time, I heard nothing, and the letters did not come. I was heartbroken.
I learned later what had happened. While on a visit to Verona, Giacomo had met a woman of liberal manners. It was said that she took lovers and cared not for her reputation. Many things were said of this woman. That she was a dark-haired beauty from Napoli and flaunted her breasts like the meretrice of San Polo. They said that her lovemaking was certain and that her virginity was dubious. It was said, and I blush when I write it, that she defied the orders of the Church by mounting her lovers in bed. And finally, it was said, and many have said it since but only behind closed doors, that she was a witch and that she had smitten Giacomo.
I overheard, once, that she knew spells which could enthrall men to do her bidding. I had heard of such spells. Presumably, one could mingle sage with menstrual blood. When served to a man, this brew was enough for him to succumb to one’s charms. I had never given thought to this and now as I felt the aching sting of jealousy across my breast, I wondered if such potion could work on Giacomo.
In my youth I had wished many times to have never had red hair and instead that my hair were golden like the fairest Slavs. But for the first time in my life, during these months, I began to envy the dark locks of the Southern women. In Venice there is always rivalry for all that is new and everyone wishes to outdo the other–in fashion, in furnishings, in wealth, and with knowledge of all the latest. That is why
we listen to the news in the campo and we gossip often.
But in my family, I was the dreamy one. I ignored the ways of women to entice men with their dress. While my friends knew how to laugh at the appropriate moment so as to charm their male companions, I was ever clumsy with words. In my diaries, I can say anything. The written word is always easier for me. And now I remember, that for the first time, I felt a sense of powerlessness before this distant rival. Maybe she possessed more wit, or else was more graceful? Perhaps she clothed herself more fashionably and outdid me in every way. If so what chance did I have?
I doubted my own charms, Antonio. I had even less faith that with a poem, or else a witty letter of my own pen, I might reach into his heart and win him back. No. If Giacomo wanted her, then he would have her. Who was I to fight for him? If even the promise of a generous Canal dowry could not lure this ambitious patrician back to me, I was resigned to my fate. In my mind, the Napoli woman already owned him.
I did what Venetian women do. I resorted to prayer and invoked the saints. At night, in my bed, when I thought no one could hear, I often wept. I lamented that Giacomo would never return my love. I had just turned fifteen and despaired ever getting married. This carried on for months. For months, I prayed to our Lord that if only he would grant me Giacomo’s love and if only Giacomo became my husband by Holy Law, I would do all to keep him happy and he would not need stray.
And then, as suddenly as he had ceased writing to me, there was a glorious miracle. Giacomo’s letters suddenly resumed with renewed passion and fervor. He confided in me that he was to soon complete his studies and if I so wanted, he cherished the hope our parents would favor our union. He spoke nothing of the Napoletana. I was too humbled by my answered prayers and too blissful with his restored devotion to even think of mentioning what I knew of her. Perhaps it is pride, too, which silences a woman on the subject of a suspected rival. To devote any time and thought to a rival is to diminish one’s worth. I had my dignity.
With the Napoletana only a memory, I took care to inform my younger sister that Giacomo and I were in love. I think this played a part in her resolution to abandon all hopes for marriage. Our father had made it clear that he sought to send one of us to a convent while the other would become wedded, sealing the fortunes of the Contarini to the Canal, as has been done for hundreds of years between patrician families.
I felt for my sister, but she told me that my happiness was all she desired and began to prepare herself for her new life in the Benedictine convent of San Lorenzo. She had suitors, do not doubt. But my father saw no value in her marriage to a man beneath her class and he, like many Venetian fathers, had far more to gain in social standing by her seclusion. She was a prize that none could afford.
I became betrothed to Giacomo on the very last year of his studies at university. I wore my gold and pearl engagement brooch with pride. I counted the days to when I would be his. When the gifts began to arrive–the linen, the silverware, the jewelry, the gowns and the books–more than could ever fit in my two cedar cassoni, I felt swept into the spirit of my upcoming marriage.
What is that you say, dear Antonio? That we, Venetians, only marry for profit? If this be true, I hereby proclaim that Catarina Canal was the happiest bride of them all. Know this–know, that I was no mere party to a contract and that every part of my being longed for the honor of becoming Giacomo’s wife.
The four days of my marriage were the happiest days of my life. In those days, how I paraded! And how, by my happiness, did envy and awe paint itself on the faces of disbelieving parishioners! Did they understand, that I was in love? Did they know? I remember how proud I stood, amidst the flowers of my gondola, with my veil windswept, barely hiding the smile upon my face, and after the procession, how I blushed with emotion as my father handed over my hand to Giacomo.
Night after night, the festivities unraveled with no expense spared. We banqueted on embroidered tablecloths and danced for hours. We feasted on tender roasted meats and sculpted sweets depicting all manner of birds and animals. In our honor, there were fireworks to light up the night skies and wedding poems read out by talented troubadours, and one night, there was even a spectacle of acrobats who climbed atop one another in a giant pyramid.
Each day, I awoke bursting with gladness. Parade after parade, I stood in my cortege, triumphant. I, the chaste virgin, honorable bride of Giacomo, future mother of the Contarini heirs, I not only embodied all that was virtuous in our society, but I had it all–Giacomo was all I had ever wanted.
Years passed and we were happy. A woman becomes more than she ever was when she is married. I felt this, Antonio. I grew vain and fond of the pleasures of fabrics. I loved pleasing my husband and when we took outings together, we always attracted the appreciative eye of our parishioners.
“There goes Catarina,” the older women would say.
I knew my place beside Giacomo. In his arms, I grew strong in the knowledge of my own charms. I grew more wilful still when I learned I was carrying his child.
Our son, Lorenzo, was born not long after our marriage and our lives were mostly joy and mirth. Giacomo took partners among his trusted patrician friends and his trade grew profitable. He was known to have a sharp sense for the trade and to smell a profit well ahead of others. I was proud of him and deeply in love. These were prosperous years.
I never saw my sister again for some time after she left my parents’ home. But the San Lorenzo convent is wealthy and she lacked of nothing.
And one day, while one of our servants was dusting Giacomo’s work desk, I came upon a drawing. One that Giacomo had once drawn in Verona. It was an ink portrait on parchment. It had slipped out of Giacomo’s thick journal and the servant had picked it up. I asked Giacomo to explain himself and he told me of his brief affair with the Napoletana.
“I did not know you drew so well, Giacomo,” I remember saying as though to let the matter rest. In my heart I knew that the sketch meant nothing and that Giacomo was entirely mine.
“Is it very good, then, do you think?” he laughed, heartily.
We embraced each other as he discarded the portrait.
Then I looked into his eyes.
“I would not ask you to part from your art but I never want to see it again. Do me this favor.”
He did not reply but kissed me with fondness.
I had my heart’s desire and nothing would take Giacomo away from me.
You will see, Antonio, in the last page of his journal, the sketch that he drew. It is a little dated now, but he kept it. He never said whether or not he held on to it. I discovered this myself. But I will come to this later, in this confession.
The portrait incident marks the ending of our happy life together. And then five years into the reign of our Doge Michele Steno, the contentment I had known would end. It began with the death of my parents. I was grief-stricken. I miscarried a child. I fell ill. For a while Giacomo thought someone, a jettature had cast the evil eye upon my womb.
It had always perplexed me that Giacomo, knew so much of charms. I never questioned his knowledge. Of course, I was naïve. I refused to understand.
And then everything came crushing down. A Milanese, a certain Francesco Visconti arrived in Venezia.
The Milanese
Letter from Catarina Contarini to Antonio da Parma
25 December 1422
I remember when the white-haired Milanese came to Venezia. Him and his wife. It was after Venezia had taken Verona and Padua. These were joyous days in the Republic. You would remember, Antonio, the alliance forged between the free Republics of Florence and Venezia to overthrow the Visconti family. And then it happened. The Milanese families had fallen. Their armies were in disarray and the Visconti estates in Verona suffered losses. Francesco would have been penniless if he had not sold his family’s land. But he was also a man of many follies. I shall come to it.
He took the journey from Verona to Venezia. He had decided to live in the Republic as only a Milanes
e noble can, a second class citizen who pays taxes until granted full rights. A journey of a mad man. And he took her with him. Her! Wretched Francesco. Did he know that our people, no matter which parish they attend, refuse to suffer the Milanese? I know what they say about them even if I choose to remain tight lipped on the gossip I hear. If he knew, if he knew, he would have remained in Verona. He ought to have remained in Verona… Why did he come? I have wanted to know, Antonio. As a young married woman I have wanted to know for years… Oh, that cursed January day when I first saw them. I tremble as I write for my mind is clouded with sorrow.
Antonio, it comes to me with clarity that my husband was forever changed when Francesco Visconti settled in our city. As for me, I began to know a black curse. A veil had settled upon my heart the very day I first saw his wife and I knew at once that the happiness I had known would end.
Oh, that I had relented and permitted my sister to wed Giacomo in my stead. Oh, that I had closeted my lonely soul in a cold stone convent, sheltered from envy’s grip. Oh, that I had cheapened my body like these unwanted Venetian women, these convent nonnes who oft sell their bodies for warmth and a little love from travelers. But I did none of these things. I clung to my sweetheart with the claws of a desperate heart. I chose to wed Giacomo Contarini. And now love would soon fail me, Antonio. For in the later years, I began to feel, there, there, its clutch round my heart, insipid and dark, I felt this jealousy as I’d never known before. And it had a face. Hers.
What is jealousy in a woman, inquisitor? You who have delved into the hearts of men and purged them from their errors. You would understand the dark matters that move us humans, perhaps better than priests. Do you know what jealousy can do to a woman, Signor da Parma? Men who laugh at our weakness would soon scorn and punish us if they knew to what ends we were driven by it.
