by Laura Rahme
Oh, I knew that the atelier was well furnished. I knew for months that Magdalena had been at work and that the Milanese lout reaped the profits of her art. It infuriates me to see his smile whenever our paths cross. Does he think I ignore the providence in his life? Were it not for Magdalena, he would have wallowed in his dire lot and remained useless. I take comfort in her new fortunes and in the birth of her daughter but his misplaced arrogance is more than I can bear.
Yet, I was prepared to face defeat.
But nothing, nothing prepared me for what I learned today, that my own Catarina had been making visits to see the Visconti! She has done so four times since she recovered from her labor. Four times! She brings them gifts, she tells me.
“You know well, Giacomo,” she says, “how sweetmeats can strengthen the blood humor and I’ll have you know that Magdalena has been much weakened since she gave birth. She is struggling to regain her strength. As women, we must help each other.”
She said it in a way that even, I, her own husband, did not believe it. “As women, we must help each other.” What women do not invent! Catarina, my own wife, the mother of my children, visiting the Visconti household, making an imbecile out of me. I would rather chain her to our bed than have her frequenting the likes of Francesco Visconti. I will not have it! I told her so. I threatened to have Luca watch her and report her wanderings outside the home. She accused me of being hateful and unfairly suspicious. “What are you afraid of Giacomo?” she asked me. That sent me over the edge and I flung her to the floor. I know better than to strike at her as I will have the parish women cursing after me, but she has behaved in a manner most improper.
1408 – October
The tears have mixed with the ink and my heart is torn. My torment continues even as you have passed to your own world. Did you see your Goddess, Magdalena? Your Diana? Did you see her when your heart cried out?
I still do not understand it. She died so suddenly. They say it was a harmful substance in the paints. Francesco has had the stock replaced. But I know he ought to have died in her stead. All this is his fault. I curse you Francesco. I curse you and your insipid masks. I hope you die in your own filth.
Magdalena, you should have been mine. If you had been mine, you would have lived. Without you, Francesco will not survive. And I will see him fall.
1415 – 3 February
My encounter with Luca as I scribe it today. I must not forget these details, in case they return to haunt me.
First of all I knew that he had been following me at night even down to the carampanas. I thought it an event of chance but it had taken place now too many times. Each time, I pretended not to be aware of his presence. I jested with the girl and whispered in her ear to let me know who she saw hiding behind us. And more than three times, the girl would describe Luca.
Yesterday I summoned him.
I told him to be very clear, to explain himself. He denied everything. I used force. I shoved him brutally against the wall and held the blade of my dagger in his face. He uttered something about Catarina being ‘worried’ for me.
I told him that from now on, he would work for me. And that if I saw him one more time lurking behind me at night, that I would have someone slit his throat.
The cunning of that woman. Why do I have to suffer it?
I resent her. I resent her and her self-righteous airs. Who does she think she is setting a servant to spy on me? The stench of hypocrisy that surrounds her fills me with repulsion. I know all about her yearly visits to see the young Elena Visconti. Doing her parish duties, she says. But I know better. The young girl looks more and more like her mother every day. Catarina must know this just as I know it. Yet she visits the child... Catarina savors her own suffering it seems. Women!
1422 – 20 September
Magdalena, if your soul has joined with the saints, then look upon your true lover. Look now, cast your eyes to your humble servant in love, for what he is about to tell you. You will never believe who has had the arrogance to present himself to my casa today.
Your ageing and most detestable husband, Francesco Visconti, arrived this morning. I had not seen him for years and to my great surprise, here he was, lurking outside my home, his mud encrusted boots at my water door. It is a cold, wet autumn. The acqua alta floods the Piazza and the many calli beyond reek with human excrement and all manner of refuse. When I saw him, I wondered what could have impelled him to leave his home and to wade through the rising waters of Venezia in this bitter season. He had this affected humility as he entered my home, drenched like a filthy dog and smelling of shit. Our exchange, as I recall, went something like this.
“Signor Visconti. To what may I attribute your sudden visit?” I said, gesturing to my servants to leave us in peace.
He removed his shabby hat and began to fumble with it like an idiotic adolescent. I could see that he had not slept for days and appeared pale.
“It is, Signor Contarini, about your wife.”
I took an immediate distaste to what he was about to say.
“My wife?” I regarded him and clenched my fist.
“Si, Signore. She has wronged me terribly…” he began.
I rose from my seat, perplexed at the tears that now streamed down Francesco’s face. Was I hearing this clearly? Was the poor fool attempting to endear me with his pathetic appeals to pity?
I looked him in the eye. I did not bother to conceal my utter disgust at what he had dared put forward. I repeated his words, right to his face. “Wronged you?”
“Forgive me, Signore. Please, forgive me. It pains me to speak of this after so many years. But I must ask you to believe—”
“Of what wrong are you accusing my wife, Francesco?” I roared. I would have murdered him on the spot.
“Your gondolier and my own servant, Angelo…they speak...they are good friends. Angelo told me that she said…” He seemed about to weep anew.
“Oh, mercy, Francesco! You listen to the babbling of servants?”
He trembled under the force of my words. He remained there, helpless, tears welling in his eyes, his lips apart in a painful rictus. He seemed intent to speak but was too afraid to say more. I watched his nervous fingers on the rim of his hat. As much as he inspired my scorn, I can only say that, by then, I was not impervious to his words.
Seeing that I had grown quiet, he summoned his courage. “Hear me out, Signor Contarini. What I have to say is the truth. It is a tragic truth but it must be said. Your house maid told the gondolier that she has discovered, in one of your wife’s cassoni, an object that should not be there. Luca has spoken of it to Angelo and that is how I learned of it. You, yourself, will recognize it and when you do…when you do, Signor Contarini, I will demand that…”
“Demand? You shall demand nothing of me, Francesco!”
But he continued. There was more! So much more! And what he said chilled me. Word after word, the accusations flowed. Had he accused Catarina of drowning his child in the canal, I would have felt outrage. Had he accused Catarina of losing his daughter from negligence, I would have felt angered. But it was worse. Much worse.
“How do I know you are not lying, Francesco?” I asked, feeling myself blanch.
The naïve cur revealed it all. Catarina, it seemed, had hidden something from me and if I were to discover it, I would recognize the verity of his claim and so on and so forth.
“Have you spoken of it to the sbirri?” I asked.
He shook his head and wiped a tear.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Let us speak no further of it, Francesco,” I said, tapping him gently on the shoulder even as I seethed internally. “I shall speak to my wife. I am certain there has been a misunderstanding. Let there not be animosity between us. The matter will come to light,” I added, pressing my hand to my heart to bid him farewell as he left.
My heartbeats thundered in my chest at the thought of what he had just told me.
I watched him drag his filthy boots acro
ss the water door and walk miserably into the rain. I ignored what I would do if I discovered that he had spoken truth.
So I waited. I waited all day and then all evening, until Catarina had sighed as she put away her Il Fiore sonnets and extinguished her candle. I waited until she lay still. And when I was certain that Catarina lay sound asleep, I rose slowly from the bed. I slinked to the smaller room beside our own, fumbling through the dark. I found the two cassoni where she keeps her linen and jewelry. I searched well. I looked in each cassone.
And I found it.
I hate you, Francesco. You want to play this game? By your own ineptness, you have lost your wife and your child. It was all your doing. And now you seek to blame another. Now, you come to me. Now, you have the callousness to present yourself to my home, to impregnate the walls of this house with your putrid Cologne and you frame my own wife, you soil the honor of this household and slander our family name? Oh no. This will not pass, Francesco.
I will see you fall. Mark those words. I will see you fall.
***
Journal of Antonio da Parma
So enraptured was I by Giacomo’s diary, that I burned several candles. The ruthless attack in the Giudecca Gardens, on the night before, was almost cast out of my memory. I lay exhausted on the ground, pages of rust parchment spread around me. I drifted into an unbroken sleep.
In my dream, I was one of the night wanderers.
I flew atop Venezia, bidding goodbye to her canals, passing over the Basilica and the two granite towers. I found myself traveling further out than in previous dreams. I could no longer see the Campanile below and still, I flew further, a cold gust upon my face. After passing Firenze, Roma and what I thought was Napoli, I then found myself lost deep in the South, running through a maze of olive trees. It was neither day nor night but the sky was charcoal and the sun, absent.
Plaintive sobs echoed in my ear as I erred, deep into the maze. For too long I wandered, turn after turn, until the sobs grew louder. The lament in her voice filled me with misery.
I emerged from the maze to reach a barren hill. The sky had darkened. I could see an ancient gate and through it, the starry night. Vines of silver clung to the aged stone and under the moonlight, beneath the arch was her lone silhouette. Her black hair was windswept and she wore a blue gown. She seemed to be holding something to her heart as she cried. She had her back turned toward me such that I could not well see what she held.
Without even touching the ground, I had flown to her side and saw that it was Magdalena.
And as I cast my eyes to the form that she cradled in her arms, I saw that it was an empty cloth fashioned into the shape of a child. Magdalena seemed to be staring into the cloth as she sobbed. Her face was ashen.
I reached for her. I sought to soothe her tears and hold her close. I sought to understand why she wept.
“Magdalena?”
She did not respond.
“Ma perché piangi, Magdalena?” came my voice.
Her sobs had ceased.
She turned to me.
I recoiled. Such terror upon her face! Her mouth opened wide but no sound came out of it. I could only stare into her eyes–black eyes, so consumed with the evil they had seen that they all but screamed in the silence.
“Magdalena! Perché?”
Then I saw that her tears were tears of blood. Magdalena’s lips parted anew and what she said to me, took my breath away.
I awoke, gasping for air.
My heart still raced. I was shaking with emotion. I had soaked my camicia and yet the glacial wind howled outside.
I rose, walked to the window and sealed the shutters. Removing my wet camicia, I stared, naked, into the deserted campo. I was unsettled by my dream. Magdalena’s sobs still rang in my ear. I knew I had seen her ghost once more. And ever since my strange behavior in the atelier, I understood that she had chosen to haunt me. I just did not know why.
I recalled Giacomo’s disturbing account of what he had found in his wife’s cassoni and how it had enraged him. I was burning with curiosity but I could not question Catarina about such a delicate matter without revealing Giacomo’s secret diary pages.
From what I could deduce, it seemed that something terrible had happened and which had led Giacomo to murder Francesco Visconti three months later. What had Francesco accused Giacomo’s wife of having taken? Why was it so important?
I was not a believer in the meaning of dreams. Yet despite all reason, this last vision of Magdalena had seemed too real.
But it was more than that.
I traced a finger onto the thin layer of steam on the window’s glass discs, until I had written out the word; the word she had whispered.
Aiutami.
Help me.
In the Library
Journal of Antonio da Parma
28 December 1422
Haunted by my latest dream of Magdalena and still brooding over Giacomo’s diary, I decided it was time to uncover more about the cult of Diana. In the early hours of the morning, when the crowds were still thin, I boarded a gondola to San Marco and strode to the western end of the Piazetta.
I presented myself to the Piazza library, not far from of the Ducal Mint. Sixty years ago, in 1362, an impressive collection of Petrarch’s work had been lodged within these walls. With a little luck, I might chance upon one or two books that would shed light on the cult of Diana.
A little man greeted me as I entered the musky hallway.
“And you are?”
“I am a Florentine. My name is Antonio Mauro. I am here at the behest of the Parrochia di San Lorenzo,” I invented.
“Signor Mauro, what may I do for you?”
“It has been said that in this very library, one can find century old books written in Greek and Arabic,” I began. “Even antique works from Aristotle. But what do you keep on the subject of an ancient Roman cult?”
“That depends. Of which cult do you speak, Signore?”
“The cult of Diana.”
He stood back in alarm and examined me.
“The Parrochia di San Lorenzo, you say? So you are not a scholar. Hmm. And what is your interest with the cult of Diana?”
“We are…that is to say, the parrochiano priest…” I composed myself and my tale. “There have been a rising number of parishioners who have taken ill with the peste.”
“Dio mio!” He crossed himself.
“Si. It is frightening. I am looking into the possibility of witchcraft.”
He nodded. “Ah, I see. Please, please. Follow me.” He shuffled in haste toward the adjacent room. We passed several rows of dusty bookshelves which he ignored as though he knew them all. He seemed suddenly enthusiastic as though the prospect of an occult mystery delighted him.
“I will ask you to not repeat what I have said to anyone,” I cautioned. “We do not want to frighten the popolani until the matter has been looked into.”
“My lips are sealed, Signor Mauro. Peste maledetta! It is not good. Not good. Such are the times we live in.” He raised his lantern before a wooden cabinet with six large panels. He pushed a key through the left middle door. I stood a foot away. I heard him mumbling to himself as he leaned forward and inclined his head to read the names of each document.
“Between us, I will tell you something, Signor Mauro,” I heard him say, from behind the cabinet door. “The state of things is worsening. So much evil in Venezia these days. That is why la peste is returned again. I had a word with a young scholar the other day and he told me that if this continues, the Signoria will have to do something about all the sick. And do you know what he said to me?”
I was amused at how shut out from the world the librarian was–surrounded by his thousands of books, with only a rare glimpse of life outside–and yet, to my surprise, he somehow had ears for the latest news.
“I ignore it. What did he say?” I asked, genuinely intrigued.
“He said, that there is talks of opening a new hospital—a lazaretto, they cal
led it—for the plague sufferers. They are looking at an island…now what was it…ah yes, Santa Maria di Nazareth! Can you imagine carrying all the sick to an isolated island and leaving them there? I will tell you this, Antonio, it makes one shudder. I hear it is not far from the Arsenale. Far enough from here, at least.” He had been speaking on his knees and not having found the book, he rose to unlock the top left panel. “This is odd. I could have sworn…” He raised himself on his heels and slowly slid out a hefty bound volume. “Here it is! A Study of Pagan Practices.” He blew off a layer of dust from the leather cover before taking a look at the first pages. “It has not been borrowed for some time. You are the first in eleven years, Signor Mauro,” he observed.
I did not respond. Eleven years was a long time. It seemed that nobody was even remotely interested in this book. Then as he returned to his work table, I was taunted by a thought. Eleven years ago… It had been a few years after the first appearance of Magdalena in Venezia. Had Giacomo perhaps borrowed it? Had his obsession resurfaced?
“Who was he?”
The librarian turned to me with a perplexed expression. “He?”
“The last person who borrowed this work. What was his name? Are you able to tell me?”
Returning to his working cabinet, he peered into his files for a good moment before finally responding.
“It was a woman, Signore.”
I was startled. “A woman?” My heart beat faster.
He glanced again at the recorded name. “Catarina…si. Catarina Contarini of the San Lorenzo parish,” he said. “Oh, that is strange. The same parish you made mention of. You might have even met her, Signore.”
I was stunned. Catarina had been delving into the cult of Diana. I could scarcely imagine the reason for her interest.
“Are you certain?”
“Si. Catarina Contarini. She borrowed it twice. What is the matter?”
