by Laura Rahme
He turned and gave me a strong tap on the shoulder.
“I am glad that she did.”
He seemed troubled.
“Where is Blanca?” I asked. “The day of your departure draws near. I would have thought she would be here, preparing for your long journey on La Befana.”
“She is late,” he said, eyeing the port. He seemed all the more thoughtful. “She is late,” he repeated. “Women! Always at loss about what to take with them and what to leave behind.”
I returned his smile. “Soon, you will be a wealthy man, Esteban. I am pleased for you,” I said. “I hope you will be kinder to Venezia now that your long lost possessions are newly in your hands.”
“Ah, wealth! Ducats! Shares! A mansion! Yes, yes, I will be a wealthy man, Antonio.” He did not once look upon my face as he said those words. I felt that he must be mocking me. Then at long last, he evinced a smile, his eyes squinting across to the port where the waters glistened under the winter’s rays. There were brigs by the hundreds.
“Antonio,” he said, “you have met with Donna Blanca but you have still to set your eyes upon the most glorious creature in my life.”
I was startled. “How many women do you keep?”
To my great surprise, he laughed. His anxiety had left him. Now he seemed suddenly light hearted, as though expecting something. He tapped me again on the back, as friends do. I sensed a lightness in his voice.
“Donna Laura is no ordinary lady, Antonio da Parma. This, you will find yourself. In a moment. As for me,” he added, in a proud voice, “I rejoice that she is mine again. The day has come. I have waited long for this day.”
I could see that he was moved to the point of elation. Without warning, he moved toward the ships moored ahead, his mantle billowing in the cold draft. He gave a shout, motioning toward the distance. “Now, cast your eyes ahead, to the left and back of those galleys! You will see her.”
I squinted ahead behind my mask, wondering what could have seized the Catalan’s spirits to such degree. He beamed with happiness.
A shadow passed behind the galleys, moving swiftly, its wind-swept sails unfolding before me. I understood. I beheld, first, the white sails stretched taut atop a proud mast, and slowly, the gliding brig advanced toward us. On the prow, slightly blackened by years on the lagoon, were two gilded letters.
“Antonio, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Donna Laura!” bellowed Esteban, much to my amusement. He turned to me, giving way to much passion. “I vowed that I would take you to the Holy Lands. I am a man of my word, Antonio. When this is all over and you have found this Elena Visconti, if you are still alive, Antonio, you are welcome aboard. Come. Let us oar to her. The crew awaits.”
We boarded the Donna Laura among cheers and good spirits.
“Captain Esteban!” roared a round faced arsenalotto with a splendid moustache.
“Ronaldo! Ha ha! You rascal! So the compagnia finally let you bring her to me. Excellent!”
“She is not worn, Esteban. We’ll scrape her up and have her ready for touring the Levant in no time.”
“And so you shall, Ronaldo! So you shall. This delights me. Ronaldo, this is Antonio, a good friend. And one who keeps much to himself.”
I nodded and then let my eyes travel toward the tip of the main mast.
“So this is Esteban’s great secret,” I mused.
“You have seen nothing, Antonio. Come. There is something I must do.”
We moved out of Ronaldo’s sight and Esteban led me through the deck and toward a locked cabin. Outside, I noted two sailors opening an enormous wooden crate brimming with old condottiere uniforms, velvet gowns, wigs and other vivid costumes.
“These were all owned by Gaspar,” said Esteban as he followed my gaze. “Come.”
And before I could reply, he had seized a hatchet from the rigging deck. I looked further afield and noted that Ronaldo had joined the sailors and together they were amusing themselves with the lavish costumes.
“Come Antonio, leave them,” said Esteban. He seemed newly tense. His unusual disinterest in the garments alerted me to the importance of what lay ahead. But never in my mind, could I have imagined what he was about to show me.
He pushed the cabin door open. A musky scent pervaded the air. He inspected the inside walls as though to ascertain that nothing was amiss. Then he removed his mantle and folded up the sleeves of his silk shirt. Before I could comprehend what was happening, I saw him prod at the interior wooden walls with his blade. To my utter horror, Esteban raised the hatchet and began to pound against that wall. Shards of splintered wood flew up to our faces as he raised the hatchet again. I stood aside, horrified that Esteban seemed intent on demolishing his own brig. Was he mad?
“Esteban! Cease at once! Would you destroy your own—“
But Esteban was not angry. Not even drunk. The knot on his brow indicated that he was hard at work. He struck at the wall once more, tearing away the fallen debris just as the wood was split. He struck as though it were a duty. He pummeled at the wood until the entire cabin wall had given way. I felt myself grow pale.
“Esteban, will you speak to me! Please tell me the meaning of…” There was a dint. Dull at first. I saw the glint in Esteban’s eyes. I came closer, standing just behind him, mouth agape, refusing to believe what I saw. I heard the scraping of the blade against a rocky, smooth surface.
Curse me. He had known it was there. The hatchet was tossed aside as he regained his breath. Sweat pearled down his forehead. In a swift motion he had stripped off his mask.
For the very first time, I saw his face. I saw the lines that creased his eyes and cheeks and I saw that they were ripe with emotion. I could not but hold my breath as I took note of that noble face.
I watched as Esteban advanced toward an inner wall, pressing his hands lovingly against it. In the place of the wood which he had destroyed, there stood another wall. And embedded within, like a picture in a frame… I blinked. There was a sarcophagus made entirely out of marble.
He stood before the erect sarcophagus, still exhausted from the previous moment’s effort. Then he began to laugh. Joy, relief–his laughter was a blend of both.
“Antonio,” he whispered at last, his voice broken by emotion. “I must thank you for what you did. I am in your debt. I will repay no sooner than you wish to leave Venezia. But do you know why I pained myself for this brig? Why it is that for years, I sought that Gaspar’s contract be honored and that this very brig and not another, be returned to me?”
“Who lies in the sarcophagus?” I asked.
“Gaspar’s beloved wife.”
He faced me. “You spoke of riches and wealth. But if I am rich, Antonio, it is through the friendship of one man. The man who rescued me from who I was, a fearful urchin in the streets of Barcelona, son of a slave woman. He was the one man who believed in me and taught me to never be afraid, to hold my head high. I owe him much. I told you he died of an illness. His wife, Laura, flitted away three weeks before him. On the very day of her death, Gaspar heard rumors that he was suspected of treason. Laura had wished to be buried in the hills of Aragon, but he had to abandon the idea of sailing out of Venezia. It was too dangerous. He risked being arrested. He bemoaned fate, reproaching himself for never giving Laura the burial she desired in her native Aragon.
“But the worst was to come. A week later, the compagnia began to make things difficult for him, refusing to honor his contract. And then Gaspar fell ill. I, alone, attended Laura’s burial. One of the darkest days of my life. I watched the coffin being lowered to join hundreds of others and as I peered into the rotting church grounds, my spine grew cold. Gaspar was right. This was no way to be buried.
“But on his dying bed, Gaspar made a confession. He said that his wife’s body was embalmed in the old Arabian ways—a practice that had resurfaced in Aragonese royal circles—and that it was kept in a marble coffin. He said he had paid physicians an enormous sum for the embalming together with rosemary, wil
d thyme, mint and aromatic rose oils, and that he had hidden the coffin himself on the brig. ‘But I saw her coffin being lowered into the church!’ No, he told me. Empty. The coffin was empty. He had let parishioners bury an empty coffin beneath the church tiles. ‘Esteban, I have failed you. But please, promise me,’ he said. ‘Promise me. Do not let her rot in the lagoon. Sail to Aragon. You, Esteban, you are still young. You shall do this for me. Do it for my sake.’
“I, Esteban del Valle, was determined to fulfil my vow. But when Gaspar died, the compagnia rebuffed my lawyers until I had nothing to pay them. The very men who had hired Captain Gaspar Miguel Rivera now refused to honor the condottiere’s contract. They seized the brig. They went so far as claim that the contract had never existed. Gaspar’s entire fortune and his will to me, hinged on that damn contract. I lost my trading rights, along with this ship. I had nothing.”
He raised a hand toward the uncovered wall. “But look, Antonio! It has been here all these years. Donna Rivera’s coffin lies here, untouched. I feared I would not find it. But here it is.” He smiled. “She shall have her wish and I will honor my word. It is all thanks to you, Antonio.”
Again he pressed a strong hand to my shoulder and beheld me, barely hiding his emotions.
“And you thought I was a ruffian. But what do I see? The sun is high in the sky and you must keep your appointment with this old crone from the port. Let us tarry no further. You shall ask her about this…eerie place…”
“Constanziaca.”
“The very place.”
And we moved out, leaving behind the Donna Laura for our little boat. An oarsman waited. Esteban and I had conscientiously replaced our masks. The oarsman worked in silence. Our vessel meandered between the giant galleys, toward the port.
I was still moved by Esteban’s speech and I pondered over Gaspar’s love for his wife. Esteban had surprised me. Now he was humming with a low baritone and his eyes shone. He still stared back at the Donna Laura as though to ascertain that she was not an illusion.
As for me, I pondered over this strange man from Africa, whom I thought I had understood only to be once again surprised and humbled. The devotion he had shown for years struck something familiar within me. Without a soul to confess to, he had played his cards so close to his chest. He had veiled his honorable motives behind a mercenary employment, offering dubious services to those who would pay. He had resorted to costumery and artifice while all along, in his noble soul, a secret torch of fidelity had burned.
I looked at him. In the warmth of his smile, I saw a free man; a man who had delivered on his promise to a friend.
There was something in that which I envied.
I was so lost in my musings, that for a moment, I did not notice the prow of a blackened galley shadowing us in the distance. It was moored, much like two others, seventy feet from our little boat. The size of it was not large but I could discern letters on its side. At once the significance of those letters saw me rise to my feet.
“Esteban!”
“What is it?” He looked up.
“The third galley to your right, that to which the pigeons have flown at this instant. Do you see it?”
“Aye, I see it. An older model judging by the stern. It is not designed to carry a large crew. The model is possibly fifteen years old…”
“Yes. But can you make out the letters in black and gold, on its stern? Look now.”
I held my breath as he squinted.
“I can see… There are only two letters… Devil take me!”
“C.X. You have read C.X. Am I correct?”
“Damnation! Have they their own galley, now? And to think that I ignored this.”
“I would be careful if I were you. The port, it seems, has eyes. Hide well, my friend,” I told him.
“And you also, Antonio. It is you they seek. Are you certain you will be safe once you reach the charm maker?”
I nodded. But Esteban saw me frown. I was still perplexed at the ship I had seen. And I was a little sad to leave him. I stepped off the boat, wrapping my mantle around me.
“Esteban, if you leave Venezia, I will understand. But I must remain here until I find Elena.”
He stared at me with his usual noble expression and nodded.
“Do you think she will come?” he asked.
“Blanca? Of course she will. You ought not to doubt.”
He gave a half smile.
“She had long wanted to leave Venezia,” he said.
“And now she will have what she desired. Of course, she will come,” I added.
“Good. I wish you well, Antonio.”
“And you too, Esteban. I bid you farewell,” I said.
This was all I could say. There were too many eyes on the port to draw attention to ourselves.
***
After I had parted from Esteban, I ventured quietly into the cramped alleyways, on the edge of the Arsenal shipyards.
Before long, I had rediscovered the bustling campo where rowdy children played, dueling amongst themselves with wooden swords and bound sticks.
I was startled by a vicious grip on my left arm.
I looked down to the bony hand whose talon like fingers encircled my wrist. At once, I recognized the disheveled brown hair and the strange colored skirt of Zara, the fortune teller. She held on to my arm and would not let go. Before I could protest, she raised my hand forcefully and pressed a gilded card, face down, onto my palm. As she curled my fingers to fasten onto the card, Zara’s large round eyes fixed me with a frightening intensity.
I shuddered at the power of her words. She spoke them as one utters both a warning and a cry of joy from deep inside one’s belly.
“La Torre!” she cried. Her voice made my stomach churn. I wrestled to disengage myself but she kept my hand closed tight onto the card, forbidding that I part from it.
“La Torre!” she insisted. She regarded me for a moment longer before pulling away. Then she bowed to me as though–and this is strange–as though she had been blessed and then she disappeared through one of the calli.
For a moment, I remained stunned. I recognized the third card I had drawn, on my last encounter with Zara. It depicted a burning tower that had been struck by lightning. To my utter horror, two figures toppled down from the tower which looked to be crested with a crown.
I could not comprehend why the Castilian woman would part from this card, leaving her tarocchi pack incomplete. Perhaps she had deemed its message so important, that she was willing to sacrifice it. Alas, I understood nothing of it.
A little shaken, I slipped the card into my diary and ventured into the sottoportico.
Return to the Silversmith
When I reached the silversmith’s abode mid-way into the sottoportico, I found the old lady waiting for me.
“The amorous one has come,” she cheered.
I looked inside with apprehension. I was struck by the disorder in her home. I did not recall such disarray.
What was she hiding beneath that sudden gleeful expression?
I delayed no further and pressed her with the questions I had long asked myself.
“I want you to tell me more of what you spoke of last time.”
“Last time? I do not remember,” she said, as she stirred a giant ladle in a tin pot.
“You spoke of someone being held in Constanziaca. What is that place? Constanziaca.”
“Ah! Yes. Constanziaca.”
“Yes, Constanziaca. Where is that place?”
“My dearest Tuscan boy. You want to find her, mmm? Sit, sit.”
I did as she said, smelling the musk on her divan, much to my discomfort. She presented me with a cup of her steaming brew. I eyed it with suspicion. It was as black as the Mohammedan drink which I had never tasted but had heard spoken of. Legions of sailors secretly swore by it and loved its scent, but it was forbidden and the most pious patricians spoke of it as the Devil’s drink. The liquid in my goblet was not as dark and did not give off an odor. I pe
ered once more into my cup, deciding upon whether to drink the foreign liquid with its odd brownish hue.
“Try it! Try it! It harks from the Far East. I brought a sample from Constantinople. You will not find it anywhere here. I, alone, know where it can be bought.”
I took an immediate distaste to the brew. There was a bitter—no, tart flavor to it, even with the honey that she had no doubt added.
“What is it?”
“A herbal infusion from the land of the Catay. I do not know its name. But the little Catay men all drink it.”
I drank it straight, finding it less unpleasant with each gulp.
She stared at me with a certain contentment. I wiped my lips and placed the goblet on the small table before me.
“Old woman, I’ve not much time. Tell me, please. Where is Constanziaca? Is it far from here?”
She eyed me with malice.
“It is an island.” Her dark pupils glowed with curiosity and she continued to observe me.
“An island?” I blinked. For a moment, her traits had seemed less repulsive, almost beautiful. I closed my eyes and opened them anew.
“That is right, amorous one. An island. But you cannot reach it,” she snapped.
She seemed very pleased with herself even as she said those words.
“Where is this island?” I asked. I had not noticed how slurred my own voice sounded.
She did not reply.
She refilled my cup, placed it before me and returned to stir her pot. I watched her from the couch, as she hobbled about like a toad covered in her filthy rags. She had her back turned toward me, now. There was a gruesome efficiency about her as she ignored me and continued to re-arrange her pots, her pliers, canisters and numerous implements. All the while, she hummed some lascivious oriental tune.
Mercilessly efficient. The old crone had now forgotten her guest, as though she had completed a task…
And then, as I stared, she appeared to change form again. At present she seemed graceful and much younger. I drew a breath, blinking twice. The woman’s hair danced to her hips.
“Magdalena?” I wiped my sweaty face, unsure of what I had seen. The old hag turned to me, a wicked glimmer in her eyes.
