by Laura Rahme
The first time I saw them, it was at Mass. Francesco Visconti and his wife, his cloak of scarlet velvet merely hiding the dire misery that had brought him to Venice, and the trail of her gown, black on the campo’s snow, like the stains she would soon wreak into my life. In the early days, they’d not yet settled in the parish of San Giacomo dell’Orio. They lived in a rented house in north Castello and visited the Church of San Lorenzo every Sunday. In manner of servants, they could afford little, save for one Armenian slave.
I remember that Giacomo’s wife never took part in the service, and remained outside, by the well. She said that the incense made her ill. She also did not engage the women of the parish and I understood it to be because she would soon join another. I did not begrudge her. It is difficult enough to make new friends in Venezia let alone to have to belong to two parishes.
I can still see her tall silhouette standing on the white pavement, peering into the well of the campo. She had the sort of grace that gives one chills. She was a woman of maybe thirty years. Her name was Magdalena. I do not relish describing to you what she looked like because it wrongs me to think again, of her charms. But did she have charms, you ask?
Magdalena, she had charms in abundance. Here, the women who light a flame in men’s hearts are the fairest of skin, they are those with noble high brows, long gold locks, a carmine mouth–neither too small nor too large–with a hint of crimson on their pale cheekbones. And still, even though she looked nothing like the ideal I have described, the Magdalena had charms. Not just the sort you were sure to find in her languorous dark eyes and carnal lips, or in the haunting perfume she left behind and which drove men to despair. There were charms of another sort, too, in the gold and silver of her bracelets and chains.
As for me, I likened the din of these metallic charms to a serenade from hell. When the parish members congregated in the campo, gossiping of this and that, the noise grew thick around me. Still, I could hear her. It was the metal round her wrists that rose me most. The incessant din of those chains drove me insane. I was tense through the parish meetings.
And long before Giacomo placed his hand on his heart when he saluted her after the service, I saw the knowing glint in his eyes when they first rested upon her. I knew its meaning just as I knew him on my wedding night.
I was not yet jealous. Not yet. I was foolish enough, then, to still believe in my own charms as his lawful wife. I would have permitted him daily visits to the brothels of Castello, if he so wished, in the belief that he loved me and that the dreams he built were for our happiness.
“Magdalena Visconti has very little of a Milanese woman,” I told my husband.
Even then, I spoke with gaiety. You may not know the Venetian well. Still you would have heard what they say about our manners. How we can affect this gaiety even as we seethe and scheme and what not. It is not for naught that even French diplomats think of us as duplicitous. A Venetian, Antonio, is not easily read. But I assure you that even then, I spoke without spite, and nothing my husband would say could shake my belief that I was the pride of his hearth, and that this newcomer, with all her gold and jewelry, was mere distraction for his curiosity.
“Magdalena is not a Milanese,” came his curt reply. “She is the Napoli woman I once told you about, Cara Catarina. The woman I met in Verona…”
The long forgotten Napoletana. And she had returned in his life. Why did my husband’s gaze falter under mine? And why do we women persist with questions that will not be answered. His response had lessened my confidence for a short instant. But only for a short moment.
In his fading voice, I sensed the melancholy weight of his memories. Fond of him as I was, I began to recall his adventure for him. Or else, I invented it, you might say. I closed my eyes to dwell on his past, daring to imagine his love for another. My handsome Giacomo of many years ago! I felt that I had known him, then, when he was a young student in Padua, preening himself in his club’s mismatched colored calza to visit the city of Verona, singing the Napoletana’s praises in verses or else quoting Francesco Petrarch, vying for the attention of a woman who would never be his.
It was foolish of me but I thought that I understood the wound he had suffered when she neglected his advances, laughed at his songs and in his stead, chose the fleshy Francesco Visconti. Before long, or so I had been told, Giacomo had to return to Venezia without her. My dearest. He must have known that their union would be forbidden, she, with little to give, in way of dowry, and him, forever despised by his conservative family for diluting the Contarini fortune to a Napoli family. Yet it had not stopped his heart. Giacomo had tried his hand at Magdalena and he had failed.
Had he nursed his wounds after all these years or did they remain, still, muted in time only to be exposed again by her provocative presence? I sensed the glimpse of a torment. Was he to become the Petrarch he had once quoted and, in turn, serenade Magdalena, as our renowned poet had edified Laura? Unrequited love? I dismissed that thought as foolish.
Even at that moment, when we took to our gondola where the Slav gondolier waited, I could have despised Magdalena. But I did not. I could have shielded any trace of jealousy beneath a cloak of morality and scorned her, right there, for repulsing his advances years ago. How easy it could have been to dislike her. If only because she had once wounded the man who was now my husband.
It befitted me that I took on his wound as my own. I affected an offended air as I gripped his gloved hand and stepped aboard our wooden vessel. My poor Giacomo. How you suffered once! But even then, the felt barring me the touch of his skin sent a sudden chill to my soul. As though touching him would soon be forbidden.
We were now secluded in the privacy of our felze. We sat still with the drapes shut, savoring the warmth. The gondolier stepped to the stern and we were soon gliding along meandering paths, through the rios, along the many palaces of Castello, back toward our home.
The voices of Sunday’s parishioners grew distant, suspended in the cold mist of winter. I welcomed the respite. Magdalena’s presence haunted me no more. I could no longer hear the clink of her chains and bracelets. I drew my mantle close and heard myself whispering.
“She is with child,” I said, a taint of envy in my voice. I had only borne one son and Lorenzo was a fit boy of five now. The Napoletana’s belly had been ravishing, a tiny swell beneath the black brocaded velvet of her gown. Her breasts had been full, luscious and inviting. Even the lustrous locks of her unveiled black hair had attested to her ripened condition. An idea had formed in my mind that perhaps the gnawing in my chest was maternal envy. It soothed me to think that as soon as I could feel Giacomo’s seed grow in my belly, I would forget Magdalena.
He grasped my hands and brought them to his lips.
“I would like a little girl, Giacomo,” I whispered.
Yes, a little girl that I will call Giovanna, or in the child-like Venetian dialect, Zanetta. My womb aches at the memory of her.
We made passionate love that night. The instant we reached our bedroom, he tore off my ribboned sleeves and then my dress. I opened myself to him like never before, longing for the veiny shaft that he tore deep inside me, without once pausing to feel if I might be ready to take him. His skin met mine, white against white, in a sweat, strands of my long red hair devilishly cloying to our bodies, or else spread across the linen sheets. We wrestled like animals.
I must tell you this, Antonio, how I felt that night. Even today, it haunts me. And if you doubt that Giacomo was anything less than a lover of women, then you are wrong. Abundant fluids surged from within me, almost instantly, at the touch of his hardened manhood. I clung to him, angrily, eager to possess him, thrusting my own hips forward to meet his seed which I wanted, ached for and demanded.
In our rhythmic embrace, punctuated by cries and moans such as those I never knew could rise from my being, I sensed a spark in him. Yes, Antonio, yes! It blinded me. It was, a vision, the vision of his secret lust as though I knew instantly what he sought most. An
d what he sought, what he wanted, teeth-clenched, sweat seeping through the hairs of his chest, was something that was denied to him. I sensed, that with every savage thrust he was inflicting on me, it was someone else that he were stealing and making his own.
And when he raised my thighs high above his shoulders and charged ravenously inside me as I cried, I gasped at the tension in his limbs. I knew it for what it was, hunger, rapacious, unsated hunger for the Napoli woman. And when he finally gave out and had poured his seed into my womb, I collapsed on our soaking sheets.
No sooner did he draw away from me than I saw the tension in his jaw, the furious desire that saw no end, even as his body no longer responded. I stared at him, as he lay, caressing my belly. I knew what I saw then, Antonio, in the dark glaze of his eyes. Something unsettling. An expression I shall never forget. It was a distant stare toward a man. One man. Francesco Visconti.
I had met my jealous husband for the first time in my life.
***
Letter from Antonio da Parma to Catarina Contarini
26 December 1422
Signora, such a delicate matter as the one you have shared cannot be presented to the Consiglio dei Dieci without considerable compromise to your propriety. It is well that you have trusted me with this confession. The details are a testament to the passion you have kept for your husband and the distress you felt at seeing him so distracted.
As for me, I would see your overtness as a burden were it not for the relief I discern in your tone. I rejoice, for you, Signora, for you have brought your story to the attention of another. It is often difficult to bear torment alone.
Antonio da Parma
The Giudecca Gardens
Journal of Antonio da Parma
26 December 1422
On the Feast of San Stefano, after the Contarini funeral, I finally set off to warn Lorenzo. I had not seen him since the day of the Winter Solstice.
He was irritated. He carried on about the brazen Francesco Foscari and how he hoped such a man would be strong enough to stand up to the Consiglio dei Dieci.
I understood that Lorenzo hid the real motive for his anger. In the span of days, he had suffered the rumors around Giacomo Contarini. As Giacomo’s only heir, it fell upon him to preserve the honor of the Ca’ Contarini. Given his private grudge toward his father, to be thrust into such a delicate position could only confound Lorenzo.
“Antonio, I know he was no saint. I can’t forgive that he never stopped spitting venom at the mention of my Daniela. I know what a selfish swine he has been and the thorn in my mother’s side and mine. But to accuse him of such a vile crime! Devil take them!”
“Did you know that Balsamo Morosini was guilty of sodomy?”
He balked.
“Balsamo Morosini could not keep his hands to himself. I heard it from my own sister. The vile animal was worse than Ubertino. At least Ubertino contained himself to the working classes. Balsamo would have abducted any heiress for both her dowry and his selfish pleasure. He never forgot the slap he got from Zanetta. My spirited angel! We had a slave at that time… His name was Luca. He watched Balsamo carefully.”
He looked at me as though to gauge how much he could speak.
“Is it true?”
“What is true, Lorenzo?”
“The story that is circulating all over Castello. You think the Veneziani can keep themselves from gossip, avogadore? You need to remain in Venezia a while longer and you shall soon learn how one needs to excel at keeping secrets. They say Balsamo Morosini contracted an illness from the brothels.”
“A mortal illness, yes.”
His brows knotted.
“This does not help us.”
“No. It does not. Your father’s enmeshment with the Morosini has further fuelled the Consiglio’s moral accusations against both of them.”
“Damn them!”
He sent a savage kick into a stack of crates.
“I need to get out of here. I am suffocating, Antonio. The humid vapors do not suit me. I shall not remain a moment longer in this house. Will you join me for a drink in the Piazza, avogadore? I promise not to bore you.”
I nodded and draped myself again in my mantle. Lorenzo’s face lit up.
“To hell with Carnivale. I have a brilliant idea! Have you seen the Giudecca gardens, Antonio? You Tuscans are so proud of your rolling hills and blooming plains that you forget that Venezia, too, has its gardens. Giudecca it is, then! It is another world, so removed from the encroaching buildings and the stench of this city. There are few revelers there. You shall see. The quiet is a blessing. I will fetch us a gondolier at once.”
We left the Contarini apartments via the water door and descended along the rio into an alley. The sun was well hidden behind a church bell tower. We boarded a gondola. Our ride was smooth and mostly quiet. On a number of occasions, I sensed eyes upon our gondola, as though a presence were nearby, watching our every movements.
Ever since my two encounters with Esteban, I was wary of being followed. I peered through the felze drapes, scrutinizing the paved calli as we meandered down Canal Grande. Before long, among the masked crowds, I had distinguished a familiar silhouette at every turn of our vessel. I followed the moving shadow as it leapt across wooden bridges and weaved a path through the crowds, only to resurface moments later. We had neared the Rialto where he now stood. On our passing, I leaned across to better see his face but he paused, draping himself in his dark mantle.
“What are you looking at?”
“I think we are being followed, Lorenzo.”
“Do not be absurd, Signor da Parma! What a bore you are! It is I who ought to be in mourning and sensing ghosts at every turn.”
My eyes ran the length of the bridge and across to the nearby stalls. The shadow was nowhere to be seen.
“There was a man in a black mantle…” I said, pointing toward the throbbing Rialto.
It was Lorenzo’s turn to lean across. After a careful glance, he frowned.
“I see nothing.” He replaced the drapes and sat back. “And what if there was such a man? What of it? The only man I do not wish to see at this instant is my father. I half expect to sight his ghost whenever I call upon my Daniela.”
I shot him a meaningful glance.
“Your guilt plagues you,” I said.
He shrugged. He played with the cuffs of his camicia, refusing to meet my gaze. For some time, I watched him chew nervously at his nails. When he broke the silence, he seemed surprised by his own admission.
“Antonio, can you believe it? I, the disciple of Petrarch, could it be? Could it be that I am beginning to miss my father? I dare say, I am,” he added, half-heartedly.
For the remainder of the journey to the Giudecca, he said no more. He laid back in the cabin, seemingly at ease. Yet I sensed the worrisome knot upon his brow, like the burden of the Ca’ Contarini upon his young shoulders.
When we arrived in the Giudecca Gardens, I was pleasantly surprised. Silence reigned over an endless canopy of green. There were rows and rows of olive trees lined with hedges that had been fashioned into various animal shapes. I perceived the soothing sound of gurgling fountains and inhaled the freshness of heavenly flower beds. Marble statues of Roman Gods and Goddesses were scattered at intervals, their faces solemn, as though guarding the sanctity of this lush realm.
In the middle of a path, edged with flowers, I came to a halt and stared quietly at a small statue depicting a two-faced God.
Lorenzo noted my appreciation for nature and responded in kind.
“You ought to have come to Venezia in the late spring, Antonio,” he remarked, pointing to the flowers. “The scent of jasmine permeates the gardens. There are usually roses at this time too, and oh–the trees over there, are rich with fruit.”
“Do you come here often, Lorenzo?”
“I have no choice but to come here. This is where I meet with Daniela. She does not live too far from the gardens. There is a small Jewish community in the Giudecca
, along with other foreigners. Daniela paints here sometimes. But mostly, she likes to write.”
“Ah. What does she write?”
I gazed at his impassioned face. He seemed about to burst with emotion.
“Poetry mostly. But Venezia is not kind to her. She would fare better in Bologna, where it is said that some women are able to pursue a university education.”
I derived such peace from these elegant gardens, that when I noted the dimming afternoon light, it was too late. I perceived a flitting shadow behind the hedges but shrugged it off, convinced that these were tricks of the setting sun. I had, until now, been so absorbed by our wondrous surroundings that I had forgotten to speak of more serious concerns. I decided that it was time to reveal the purpose of my visit.
“Lorenzo, I believe you are in danger,” I began.
“What rich patrician isn’t? Really, Antonio da Parma, you are most endearing! One would think you see specters in every place. In danger, you say? I give you this–if I do not end up with my guts spilled out onto some calle, then…I still have Daniela! Daniela is the most dangerous woman in Venezia!” He made an absurd pirouette as though he had truly lost his mind. Then he turned to stare at me and his smile faded.
“Who is it? Name him.”
I breathed in.
“I heard it from an agent…someone who has ears for certain rumors in high circles.”
He seemed flattered by such unwanted attention.
“A mercenary? They sent a mercenary after me?”
“Perhaps. I would be careful if I were you, Lorenzo.”
“Damnation! A mercenary hired to cut out my heart!”
“Maybe so.”
“The Gods help me. What if it were true! Then I shall draw my sword and—“
Before he could finish, a masked figure stepped out from a nearby hedge. A chilling darkness seemed to envelop it as it stood ahead to bar our way. I realized to my great horror that there was not a soul in the garden, save for Lorenzo and I.
