by Laura Rahme
Here, even the women, unlike their patrician sisters, were hard at work. In these parts, there was no idle basting under the sun in the quest for golden locks. The Arsenalotti women were far from sheltered. They moved with great freedom, setting about their work, or running the stalls in the garden markets which spilled onto the Eastern side of the Arsenal.
The women held their own. They were the sail makers, the crafty artisans and the rambunctious retailers. Here, perhaps, lay the root for this odd belief that Venetian women were hardier than their men.
I passed a maze of shops and wine houses. When I had ventured deep into a narrow calle, a lithe woman, donning a cotton dress of many colors and draped in a black shawl, ran to me. She pressed her bare hand to my mantle, her green eyes eager for a zecchino. I started.
“Pick a card from the tarocchi! Pick one, Florentine. And the second one and the third! Vi dirò la vostra fortuna. You will see,” she cheered, as though promising wondrous things. “Let Zara read your future, Signore.”
A fortune teller? One who had somehow recognized my origins! I shuddered to think of the task that lay before me tomorrow night. If I could not fool these people into believing I was a Veneziano, then perhaps there was no hope.
I gaped at the gilded cards brandished in my face. They were numberless and hand-drawn. On one side, they depicted some obscure iconography that I’d never seen before. At first, I had mistook them for Mamluk cards. Those, I knew, were forbidden, at least in Florence. But the ones Zara held up were different. They looked to be foreign. She shuffled them with her knotty fingers and presented them to me, face down, a wily expression beneath her hooded pupils.
I hesitated. Fortune telling was illegal and invited papal scorn…
Holding my breath, I reached for a card.
“Now the second one, Florentine! Vi dirò la vostra fortuna,” she urged, with her oddly Castilian accent.
I obeyed, presenting three cards, drawn from the tarocchi pack.
“Now, we will see. We will see. But first!” She eyed me expectantly. “Zecchino.”
I handed her another coin.
“Alas, Florentine!” She shook her head. She showed me a depiction of a staff-bearer in a high hat. It appeared to be a priest of some kind.
“This is your past, Florentine. Tradition. Tradition has been your lot. You bring wisdom and fear in your path and you never stray from your path. What are you afraid of, Florentine? What are you afraid of?”
The second card seemed to startle her. I saw that it depicted a golden crescent beneath which two dogs were howling.
“La Luna! Confusion!” she sighed, her eyes suddenly ablaze. Then she pressed my cloak with frantic urgency. “Give me more money! Money now, before anyone sees us,” she hissed.
“You wretched woman. Be gone!”
I scrambled out of the calle, while her hand still clung to my cloak.
“A little zecchino for the pretty Zara and she will take away your confusion. You are unsure of the path, Signore. Si! Signore, vi dirò la vostra fortuna. Vostra fortuna!”
Appalled, I stumbled back onto a fruit vendor who protested with such fury that Zara was startled. Her cards slipped from her hands. As she leaned forth to gather her pack, my third card was revealed. For an instant, I remained stunned, staring at it, not comprehending. Then I turned away, running through a dark sottoportico and into the next calle.
It was here, Esteban had assured me, that I would find the charm makers and those who peddled gifts to the touring pilgrims before they set out to the Levant. Beside a broad stall, selling both silver and cheap metal jewelry, sat a little girl in a dirty dress. She was tossing about a set of dice. Children in rags played with little wooden dolls and fought with improvised wooden swords. I ventured into the next alley which I knew from the bustling crowds was frequented by more pilgrims.
The delicious aroma of roasted chestnuts wafted in the cool air. Beside the chestnut vendor, I noted a dilapidated stall where hung all manner of coral and silver amulets. These looked large and promising.
I peered under the curtained awning, my face still covered by a leather bauta.
“Do you make one like this?” I asked in a broken Venetian accent. I flashed the silver pendant into a young girl’s face. She shook her head.
“Where can I find one of these?” I repeated.
She eclipsed herself and emerged again with her mother; a woman veiled from her head to toe with kohl-lined eyes. The Mamluk woman examined me in silence then reached forth to my neck. A reddish dye stained her fingers down to her palms and wrists, yet I let her cradle the pendant as she inspected it thoughtfully. It seemed to intrigue her but she shook her head with a scowl.
“Do you know where I can buy one? Like this?” I asked again.
The woman merely waved me away. She did not seem to understand me. And then the little girl gave a tug on her mother’s veil and this one craned her neck to take in the whispered words.
At once, the Mamluk woman nodded. As she could not leave the store for decency’s sake, her child took me by the hand and led me to the end of the street. We meandered toward the northern port, in what seemed like a cluster of narrow alleys, thick with Arsenalotti, until at last, we had reached a dead end calle, smelling of incense and amber. Here, the cold of the lagoon stung at my eyes.
I was distracted by a flight of doves pecking the ground at my feet and when I looked again into the infernal campo, the little girl seemed to have disappeared. To my left, in a narrow sottoportico dampened by moss and ferns, her slight silhouette moved in the darkness. I could still hear her lithe footsteps flit away into the distance. I stooped to avoid hitting my head then stepped cautiously inside, reaching for the grimy walls to avert a slippery fall. I ventured deeper, where the light had ceased to shine.
“Where have you gone to, child?” I called. My voice returned to me in an eerie echo.
“I am here.”
I halted. In the doorway, on my right, was the shadow of an old crone. The little girl stood by her side, solemn and satisfied with her guiding skills. Much to her delight, I took out a coin and handed it to her. With a joyful sigh, she dashed out of the sottoportico.
“What do we have here?” said a gleeful voice. “A stranger from the Tuscan lands. What has brought you here, stranger?”
I had never seen a woman so utterly deformed as the one that stood before me. She was maybe five feet tall, her stout form swathed in a torn shawl of various hues. She stared insolently at me, her eyes as black as the night. But it was the wart like appearance of her wrinkled skin, her hirsute protruding chin and her sagging cheeks, that horrified. She seemed like a diseased spirit, carrying with her all manner of ills. I stared with fright at the bulbous formations on her giant hands whose fingernails were torn and shriveled beneath swollen fingertips.
I reached for the pendant with trembling fingers and held it up for her to see.
“Greetings, Signora. I wish to know if you have seen this pendant.”
Her narrowing eyes rested on the silver rue with its six dangling charms. She grunted and curled her upper lip. If she had teeth, one could not see them. It would seem that this woman knew of her horrendous appearance. Perhaps she had chosen to hide, deep in the entrails of the port, where the superstitious Venetians, whose sensitivities were soon appalled by anything that did not meet their standards for beauty, would never be offended by her presence.
“Signora,” I persisted, stepping into the doorway closer to her, despite my fear. “I need to know if you have seen this pendant before.”
“And what if I have?” she snapped.
“I want to know what it means.”
She examined me as though to gauge whether I might survive a further encounter with her. At last, she relented.
“Come in.” She moved aside to let me pass. She seemed to sniff out my clothes as I entered.
I crept forward, ever hunched, into the den of this old devil. The smell of burning silver and other metals re
ached my nostrils. I could see from the ornaments in her abode that she had been at work and could fashion silver jewelry like the very best smiths of the city.
“Now,” she said, hands on her wide hips, “let me see what you have brought here, Signore.” And before I could respond, she gave a startle. “You are a widower, si?”
“I…”
“Si, si… I see you now. Come closer. Into the candle light. Come! Closer, don’t be shy. A widower. You are searching…searching for your one true love!”
Without warning, she emitted a hardened cackle and eyed me with a mockery I could not stand.
“Si, Signore, your true love!” she gloated.
Her eyes widened abruptly and she began to whisper.
“Signore. I know where she is! I know! She is here! She is here! Constanziaca! I have seen her!”
“Signora, I don’t know anyone called Constanziaca,” I muttered, pulling away from her grip.
“I have seen her!”
“What are you babbling about? Signora, have you or have you not cast your eyes on this pendant before?” I shouted, shoving the silver before her frenzied face. At once her childlike expression disappeared and she roared at me.
“Of course I have seen it! I made one just like it!”
I was taken aback.
“You have?”
She stepped away and began to move around inside her little one-room house as though she was suddenly weighted down by memories and refused to mention them. Her hands probed the couch, the rugs, the spoons and silver pieces as though every touch could revive the past and send images to her failing mind.
“Si, Signore. I made one like it. Many years ago…for a beautiful woman. So beautiful. She found me just like you did. She came to me with the cimaruta. One just like this one.”
“The cimaruta… Wait. Who was this woman?”
She stared at me and slowly, her thin lips curled into a sinister smile. “A strega from Napoli.” The jagged row of her blackened teeth sent a chill through me. But it was nothing compared to the chanting in her voice when she whispered the next words. “You believe in witches, Signore? Si. I know you do! Or you would not be here.”
“Tell me about this woman.”
“I don’t know her by name. But… She wore the cimaruta every day. To keep her safe, Signore and…to give her the second sight.” She smiled. “You understand?”
I gave a frown. Her black eyes shone as though they were welcoming me into the gates of hell.
“Guardalo,” she said, pointing her crooked finger toward the rue’s branches. “Look carefully. Each of the branches has its own power. You may believe this is just a silver adornment but the pendant lives. It carries its own life force.”
“Do you…do you know what it means?”
“Si, Signore. I do.”
She gave a furtive glance around the room and appeared anxious. It was impossible that anyone would have ventured in this infernal sottoportico but for some strange reason, the old hag had determined that we had best speak softly. She looked at me with foreboding.
“La cimaruta è molto vecchia. Very old. Each one of its charms is an old amulet. My people, the ancient people of Tyre, once knew of some of them. La cimaruta is meant for protection, protection from spells. And…it has been known to give second sight.” Her face lit up as she pronounced those words.
“The branches, the rooster, the crescent moon–what do they all mean? And that serpent? Is it evil?”
She fixed me with her black eyes.
“Listen well. The rooster protects her from the evil. The dagger is her strength. It points to the moon to give her light. The crescent moon are the forces that live in her. La luna, she is very important. It is the sign of the janara.”
I felt a tug in my chest. “La luna! Yes, of course. Diana, the Moon Goddess!” I eyed the pendant with renewed fascination. “And the serpent? What of the serpent?”
“Wisdom...but, together with la luna, it can stir evil. And here, the key–the key to all knowledge. I told you, it is a powerful amulet.”
“And what is this flower?”
“Verbena. The tears of Isis. Also for her protection.”
“Protection from what?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“Was she really a janara?”
“Si. Do not doubt her. She was a priestess for the Queen of all witches, a very powerful witch, Signore. And me? I did what she wanted, of course. I made for her the other pendant. For her little one.”
“There are two? Two pendants?”
“Si. Two of them in Venezia. She wanted another one, another one for her little girl. She told me of many, many evil persons in Venezia. Me, she said, I am safe with the cimaruta, but my child will face great danger. Great danger, she said.”
“What danger?”
She grew indignant.
“From the jettatura! What do you think?”
“Old wives’ tales. Superstitions.”
“Foolish widower. You are in love with a ghost,” she spat.
I bit my lips. “And how would you know what is in my heart?”
“The owner of the pendant you hold, she is dead!” she went on.
I stepped back.
“I know this,” I replied, taking care to conceal the disappointment in my voice. “Thank you for your time. I shall leave—”
“But the other one…”
I froze by the doorway. My heart skipped a beat as though suddenly rejoicing. I listened on, wanting her to speak and tell me more.
“The other one, Signore—”
She did not finish. Her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Her body shook. Then she came to and raised a withered palm to her head as though parting from saddening memories. A pained expression contorted her face.
“Donna maledetta! The poor child… It is so sad. Oh, Signore. So sad…”
She seemed exhausted. She sat herself on a Mamluk couch and rocked back and forth in silence.
I remained by the door, waiting for her to reveal more of the second pendant. Who did she mean when she spoke of the poor child? I had since learned that Magdalena’s child had drowned but the crone was responding strangely.
“What about the other pendant?” I asked.
“Stolen from her! Donna maledetta! The poor child…” She shook her head once. She was trembling from ire. “Thieves! Thieves!” A harrowing expression possessed her face. She froze. Her eyes looked up in sheer terror. “Please go. Signore, you must leave. You must go now!”
Against my will, I resigned myself to abandon the old silversmith. At least for now.
As I emerged from the sottoportico, I held the pendant tight in my palm. I could feel its sprigs and its charms scorching my flesh but I did not care. The visit had confirmed what I knew of Magdalena. The Napoletana possessed powers of witchcraft. She could divine and she could protect herself.
Yet, as I left the Arsenal, it was not this new knowledge which revived me.
No. It was the senseless words the old crone had repeated when she had first spoken.
She is here! She is here! Constanziaca! I have seen her!
These words echoed in my mind, thrilling my being, until I, the somber mood Florentine with the dark gaze, I found myself running through the calli with a smile on my face.
And I knew not how and why, but somehow, I felt at peace.
I felt, without a doubt, that she was truly here.
Blanca’s Secret
Journal of Antonio da Parma
31 December 1422
In the early morning of Saint Sylvester, I set off to meet Esteban in a hostelry, off Salizada dei Greci. It was a calle to the east of the San Zaccaria Parish. The lodgings were one of twenty. This particular one was tended by Greeks who seemed to have settled the area in great numbers. It offered food, linen and plenty of beautiful women. Esteban himself was dressed like a pilgrim and gesticulated in Castilian toward me as soon as I approached. I took his cue and nodded with a smile
as he led me inside.
I noticed that Esteban paced our small room. He seemed a little tense, until finally a woman slipped her head in and, having ascertained who we were, gracefully stepped in. Under one arm, she held a wig of fine white hair which would soon have me transformed into Almoro Donato. She spilled the contents of a large satchel onto the bed to reveal clothing, waxes, paints and facial pomades. Also in her possession was a bucket of water donated by our host.
No sooner had she deposited these items than Esteban took her in his arms and dragged her to him by the waist.
“Blanca mia. Luce dei miei occhi,” he murmured, inhaling the nape of her exposed neck. Then he placed a hungry kiss on her lips as though I was not in the room.
“Allow me to introduce you to Blanca,” he said, turning to me with a sparkle in his eyes. “Blanca has a talent for disguises.” He smiled in her direction. “Si, si, donna, sei un tesoro.”
She gave a cheeky pout of her carnation lips and mock-curtsied.
In a few moments I understood that the woman who stood before me was a common prostitute. Though she was in her thirties, she was exceptionally beautiful, of satin white skin, expressive eyes and high cheekbones. Her oval face was dotted with no less than three strategically placed false moles and the black taffeta of those mosche did wonders to enhance the pearl-like quality of her skin. Her rich red hair descended in bountiful locks down her bare shoulders. She wore no gold chains around her neck but two amber beads dangled from each earlobe. What she revealed of her ample bosom which flounced at the rim of her low cut silk dress, was enough to confirm my suspicion.
We observed each other–I, wondering where I had seen her before and she, possibly assessing the judicial world that I had come from. There was a mutual tension arising from the sudden manner in which our respective identities had been revealed.
“I shall leave you to it then,” said Esteban with a wicked grin. “I must hasten and find you a trustworthy gondolier, Signor Donato!” And before I could protest, he had left us.
I did not resent him for long. I was intrigued by Blanca’s noble movements and the manner in which she set out to complete her assigned task.
