Nevertheless, She Persisted

by Mindy Klasky

  “Be still! Such things should be discussed in private!” Gracia shook, whether with fury or terror, she could not at that moment tell. Whatever had possessed Brianda's tongue?

  “Go on home! Nobody wants you here!” Brianda's laugh burst from her like the raucous cry of a gull. She whirled and plunged back into the throng of merrymakers.

  Gracia trembled as she wrestled her temper under control. She was angry enough to go home alone and yet she could not simply abandon her sister. Around her, the music shifted to a minor key, and the masks took on a subtly altered character. The barge's lights looked pale and tinny, the surrounding water immeasurably deep. Were the eyes behind the bulging forehead of Dottore, or the hooked nose of Pantalone, truly human? Or had they taken on some quality from the sea-depths, the hidden shadows?

  Gracia had seen shadows before—in Antwerp, and before that in Lisbon. Sometimes it felt as if she had been hiding from them all her life. Yet the next time she gathered Reyna to kindle the Light, she felt a difference, as if something dark and brooding had seeped into the waters along with the tide.

  Brianda slept for the better part of two days, dosed with poppy elixir and attar of roses. Gracia had just finished her morning's correspondence when Esther came into the sunlit conservatory and said there was a gentleman to see her.

  “A Count dell'Sarto. He says you've met before, at the Doge's gala.”

  The half-written letter to Joseph fluttered to the carpet. Gracia found herself on her feet, with no memory of having risen.

  She recognized him by his tallness, although not much else resembled the masked reveler. When he bowed, he removed any possible doubt. He wore a high-necked doublet of Oriental brocade trimmed with velvet, slightly padded in peasecod style above Venetian breeches. His hair was clipped as short as an Englishman's, his face clean-shaven. She was surprised to find him slightly homely.

  “You are even more beautiful without your mask,” he said in that strangely resonant voice.

  She stepped behind the chair and ran her hands over its back, tracing the stylized wave pattern. “Signore, you presume upon an imagined introduction. I thought it the Venetian custom that neither words nor actions survive the night of masks. As for your flattering words,” she raised one eyebrow, keeping her tone light, “I am a widow, and surely my beauty is no concern of yours.”

  “Speaking frankly, madonna, I am here to court your daughter.”

  “My Reyna?” Gracia's breath caught in her throat. Her skin prickled. “Your pardon, signore, the notion took me by surprise. Whatever makes you think I am looking for a husband for her?”

  He gestured, shaking back the frothy lace at his wrist. Gracia noticed that the skin of his hand was unnaturally pale and smooth, as if stretched too tight. “It is I who am looking for a wife.”

  “Then you have made this visit in vain.”

  “I am well aware she has been sought after by others. But I care nothing for her fortune. You can keep that, give it to the poor, whatever you wish.” He sounded impatient now. “I want the girl.”

  The wooden waves dug into Gracia's palms. Her knuckles went white. Just then, the Campanile in the nearby Piazza San Marco chimed, signaling the end of morning.

  The count stepped back, as if repulsed by the sound. Gracia swept around the chair. “I wish you a pleasant day, then, and greater profit elsewhere. Esther, please escort the count to the door.”

  Dell'Sarto glared at her, eyes rimmed with red-veined white. “You are a rash and foolish woman. I warn you, the time will come when you will give her to me, and gladly.” He departed in a swirl of sable-trimmed cape.

  Shortly after Joseph concluded his affairs and joined Gracia's household in Venice, invitations arrived for the upcoming festivities of Martedi Grasso and the Festa della Sensa, Ascension Day, celebrated by the Marriage with the Sea. Haunted by a growing sense of unease, Gracia demurred. The more she hesitated, however, the more determined Brianda became. Reyna, too, complained when at the last moment, Gracia said she felt ill and desired them all to stay at home.

  “All my friends will be going!” Reyna whined, sounding very much like her aunt. “And Joseph, too, so it will all be proper! If you don't feel well, you can stay at home with Esther.” The three women were sitting in Gracia's rooms upstairs, with the sunlight slanting on the white walls and the wind from the Adriatic blowing softly through the lace curtains.

  Gracia considered, saying nothing for the moment. She'd used her fragile health as an excuse so many times she could not always be sure if she imagined the gnawing pain in her stomach. Besides, Venice was one of the few cities where women could attend such events without hindrance. What harm could there be in Reyna and Brianda enjoying themselves?

  Brianda's brows knotted together, and her lips went sharp. “If I had proper control of my half of the business—la Chica's half, I mean—then we would have no need to argue over this. We could go to all the parties we want. Why should Gracia be the one to dictate what we can and cannot do?”

  The answer that leapt to Gracia's tongue—that Brianda's husband had good reason to leave her in charge of the business and not his own wife—died unspoken. What purpose would be served by throwing that in Brianda's face? Instead, she said, “We already live a freer, more luxurious life than ever before. All our reasonable needs are met. And you have your dowry for your private use.”

  “My dowry! A pittance, while you command an empire!”

  Gracia shifted uneasily on her divan. “The money is not mine to spend,” she said carefully. “I hold it in trust.” And not just for our daughters, the thought came to her. She blinked, and it was gone. In its place came the vision of the hundreds of her people trapped on the Lisbon piers, without food or water, forbidden to set foot on the waiting ships without submitting to conversion.

  Brianda stood up, shoulders back, chin thrust out. Her eyes, which had always been dark, seemed all pupil, like pits of blackness. “I will go to the Festa,” she said in clipped syllables, “and I will have what is rightfully mine. And if you try to stop me, sister or not, you will regret it!” With a swishing of full skirts, she swept from the room.

  There followed a long moment of silence, during which Reyna twisted her lace handkerchief in her lap. “I didn't realize—”

  “Your aunt is uneasy in her mind, that is all,” Gracia said with a certainty she did not feel.

  “I wish I were like you, so patient and sure.” Reyna sighed. “Sometimes everything is clear, I know what I want and who I am. The next moment—tía Brianda says one thing or my friends say another, and I don't know what to think!”

  “Hush, preciosa. No one expects you to be wise all of a sudden. You will have years to learn about such things, as well as good advisors, just as I had my husband Samuel and his brother Francisco, and now your cousin Joseph.”

  “But right now I want so much to see the Doge go out in his gilded bucintoro and throw a wedding ring into the sea!” The girl's eyes shone with anticipation. “It isn't wrong to want that, is it?”

  “No, of course not, although I think we had better not let Brianda go alone. The pleasures of the world are not evil in themselves, but they can blind you to other things. Do you remember that night in Antwerp when you asked me why we call the Light?”

  “Yes, mama. And you said we do it to remember. And I said there were some things I'd rather forget. That's the danger, isn't it? And that's why we…” Reyna's sweet voice hushed. Her chin lifted, and her eyes seemed to see beyond the years. “Why the Light shines through us.”

  “We must hold on,” Gracia said with a fierceness which surprised her. “We must remember.”

  On Ascension Day, the sky over the Piazzo San Marco turned white. The water of the lagoon took on a strange, opaque brilliance, masking whatever hid beneath its surface. The Piazza thronged with the fair that had opened the day before and would continue for a fortnight; traders from all over Europe displayed their wares in wooden booths garlanded with flowers and ribbons
. Gracia remained behind on the pier with Esther as the Doge's elaborately decorated boat pulled away, trailing a flotilla of followers, city luminaries, foreign ambassadors, even the papal nuncio. She did not think Brianda could get into any difficulty alone on a gondola with Reyna and Joseph.

  Gracia strolled by the ranks of stalls, her gaze skimming the fine brocades, the incense, carved ivory, clumps of myrrh, polished amber, and jade, the piles of grapefruits, pomegranates, and local vegetables from Sant'Erasmo. She remembered how Reyna had smiled when Joseph helped her on board the gondola. Joseph's charm was undeniable. And he was clearly fond of his young cousin, he knew almost as much as Gracia about the family business, and there would be no question of Reyna being lost to the faith…

  “You cannot keep her from me, you know,” said a resonant voice at her shoulder.

  Gracia startled, caught herself. Today he was wearing white satin trimmed with gold. There was something mocking in the way he swept off his plumed hat and bowed to her.

  “We have already said everything we have to say to one another. Buon' giorno, signore.”

  “I think not.” He put out one hand, palm up. His fingers curled, first the index finger, then the others, one after the next, in a fluid ripple, like a slow ingathering of tentacles. Gracia's feet froze on the paving. Her nostrils flared at the smell of something rotten, like dead fish. The sea breeze turned sour. Beside her, Esther looked away, eyes filmy, smiling at the capering of a masked performer.

  Gracia's heart fluttered against her ribs like a caged bird. She saw for the first time how tightly the skin over his mouth was stretched, as if his face itself were a mask. She could almost trace the outline of his teeth through his lips.

  What does he want with her?

  “Even now,” he whispered. “Even now I can bring them back, the things I have set in motion. It is not too late. Speak. Give me what I need. I am not vengeful.”

  Anger, hot and bright, shot through Gracia. What you need! Always it comes down to needs—blood, lies, money most of all! She thought of the families waiting on the Lisbon pier, starved and beaten on the roads, the thousands more trapped in the iron cauldron of Iberia. She thought of all the gold that had poured through her fingers over those years, the gifts, the bribes, the imperial loans that would never be repaid. She saw the flames leaping between her daughter's hands, the pure and ancient Light.

  “Look!” a voice behind her cried out. “The Marriage with the Sea!”

  Trumpets blared out from the pier. Gracia strained her eyes against the brilliance of the water. The flotilla blurred, motes of shadow against the diamond surface. She could not tell which gondola held Reyna. Such a fragile thing, that little boat, to stand between her daughter and the dark beneath the waves.

  A figure stood at the prow of the foremost boat, arms raised, then tossing something into the water—a wreath tied to a golden ring.

  “Aaah…” A low cry reached Gracia's ears, more like raw animal pain than any human emotion. Despair mingled with defiance, quickly choked as the wreath disappeared beneath the waves. What a strange reaction to the ancient ritual! She turned, wondering, toward the count. But although she searched the crowd of merrymakers, she saw no sign of him.

  Masked, she wandered through il gheto nuovo, gazing up at the unadorned facades. It seemed to her like a moated prison, damp and dark, unbearably crowded. The gates, she'd heard, were locked every night. People thronged the narrow streets, Gentiles as well as Jews, many come to do business at the banking establishments or to consult with physicians. She heard the songs of children, the polyglot of languages, Ladino and Yiddish as well as Italian, the chanting from the synagogue. She could feel the vibrancy, the richness of the life around her.

  One word, and it would all be gone. Even as she thought it, an icy shiver touched her. She raised one hand to the mask she would take off at the end of the day and the one she would not.

  Emotions swept through her, fear and sorrow and more she could not tell. She went home to her sunlit palace and was silent for a long time.

  One morning, when Reyna and la Chica were visiting friends, Brianda stormed into Gracia's private rooms. Gracia had just refused to pay for an opulent supper-party that Brianda proposed.

  “You have made me the laughing stock of Venice!” Brianda cried. “Living on my sister's charity, with hardly two coins of my own to rub together. Do you know what people say about me? That my husband wouldn't trust me with my own money so he left his half to you! You, already richer than five kings put together! You're never satisfied, are you? You must have it all!”

  Gracia drew back. Her sister's face was distorted almost past recognition, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with reflected light. Even her voice sounded strained, barely human. She'd known Brianda would not be happy, but the vehemence of her sister's words took her by surprise.

  “Samuel and Francisco trusted me with good reason!” A tight, poisonous shimmer caught in the back of Gracia's throat. Once she'd begun, the words came boiling out of her, all the things she'd kept back over the years. “Do you think they would have given you custody of a single pin, you flighty, thoughtless woman? When have you given the least thought to running the business, to trade markets or travel routes, exchanges or loan rates? Your head is like an old stocking, stuffed with parties and gowns, who has the biggest jewels and how close you are seated to the Doge's table! Have you ever for a single moment thought of anything or anyone besides yourself?”

  “That is enough!” Brianda scrambled to her feet. “How dare you say those things to me!”

  “How dare you say such things to me?” Gracia could not remember getting up. For an instant, she caught the faint smell of a dead sea creature. Then it was gone and she a mere fleck on the surging tide of her fury.

  “—Ungrateful whore!—” “—shrew, harpy!—” “—scheming, greedy—” “—betrayer!—” “—thief—”

  Brianda ran weeping from the room. Gracia sank back into her own chair. Her temples throbbed and under her fingers her face felt hot and dry. She wondered if she were going to be ill, truly ill. She glanced up at the ceiling and her heart stuttered. Surely there had been winged putti, playing their sunlit harps among the painted clouds.

  And that great gray sea beast, that half-seen Leviathan, rising through the spumy waters, where had it come from? Why had she never noticed it before?

  Over the next few weeks, life assumed the semblance of normality, with the exception that Brianda took all her meals in her rooms and avoided Gracia's presence. One morning, the household awoke to find she had disappeared, along with her most valuable personal belongings. Gracia calmed the children and began a search. Quickly she discovered that Brianda had established herself in a small but elegant house, far beyond the means of her modest dowry, near the Ponte di Rialto. Brianda refused all overtures from Gracia, even to meet with her in public, and Gracia's agents soon discovered why. By then it was too late.

  Surrounded by witnesses of unimpeachable anti-Jewish sentiment, Brianda appeared before the Venetian courts and charged Gracia with apostasy.

  Beatrice de Luna, also known as Gracia Nasi, had only pretended to convert to the true faith, her sister avowed. Her real motive in coming to Venice was to prepare the way to Turkey, where she would once more revert to the ways of her ancestors. The move would place the souls of her niece and daughter, as well as their considerable fortune, beyond the reaches of Christendom.

  This was the speech Joseph reported to Gracia. She herself had no part in the proceedings, for persons so accused were forbidden to speak in their own behalf. She set aside her own emotions and began her defense, preparing testimony regarding her meticulous observance of Christian rites, strategic gifts, and all the intrigues she had mastered in Antwerp. Before she could set these plans in motion, however, the Venetian authorities stepped in, arrested her, and confiscated her assets. As if this were not enough, the next day, the papal nuncio assumed guardianship of Reyna and la Chica and placed them in a n
unnery, “to ensure the purity of their spiritual upbringing.”

  “Prison” seemed too harsh a term for Gracia's new quarters, and yet not harsh enough. It was not an underground cellar, dank and lightless, with chains on the walls and moldy straw for a mattress, but a suite of sparse, airy rooms with barred windows. The building had once been a nunnery, and Gracia had apparently inherited the Mother Superior's quarters. The outer room was furnished with a chair and a large, hideously realistic, wooden crucifix. The smaller room had a cot, a washstand with a cracked ewer, a chamber pot, and another, somewhat smaller cross.

  Clearly, Gracia thought as she inspected the rooms, I am meant to pray for my sins. A smile hovered over her lips as she unpacked the trunks Esther had sent after her, clothing, linens, brushes, mirrors, soap, candles, and, more precious, books and writing materials.

  A priest was sent to hear her confession, which she dutifully gave. But as she recited the litany of minor transgressions, her heart felt as if it were being squeezed in a vice.

  Work steadied her over the following weeks, as it always did. But as she sat at her own desk, in her own chair, thoughts weighed on her mind. Greed was a volatile thing—once aroused, it could flare up like tinder, whole families consumed, Brianda herself and la Chica, too, the entire Marrano community at risk, the Jews in il gheto nuovo as well. The Inquisition waited but an accusation away. Brianda might be flighty and short-sighted, but she was not an utter fool. She knew these dangers, for she'd lived with them all her life. Why had she risked such a thing?

  Joseph brought news of how Brianda had been caught in her own trap. Her agent in Lyons had demanded a portion of the proceeds and when she refused, had turned on her, denouncing her. The French king, scenting unanticipated gains, seized their property, thus freezing the very monies Brianda had counted on for her own.