by Sarah Dunant
This fish market is its own Venetian wonder, sitting on the edge of the canal under a high loggia with drains dug under the grilles into the stone floor, so that even in the worst heat they keep the fish watered and cool. I have seen slabs of ocean fish here so thick and scaly-tailed that you can almost trace the line where the fishermen might have sliced off the body of a mermaid at its waist. When the full purses are gone, there are always pickings for the poor, who loiter by the edges ready to grab the innards or discarded heads as they’re washed into the water, though they have to fight with the seagulls, which swoop in to land, big as well-fed babies and twice as noisy, their beaks sharp as hammered nails. You can hear their screeching all the way to the San Marco, and I’ve seen half a dozen senators streaked with bird shit as the gulls let out the remains of yesterday’s meal to make room for the next one.
One of those senators will be gracing our casa tonight, and it is his dinner that I am buying now, for he has a passion for roasted fish and meat in rich sauces. He is the jewel in our crown, a colored Crow (for a senator’s robes are dark red), as noble as they come; one of the Loredan family, which can trace its ancestry back to the ninth century, as he has told me more than once. He is a member of the Senate, has been on many of the state’s most important committees, and until recently was one of the Council of Ten, which is the nearest Venice comes to an inner sanctum of power. He wears these honors heavily. Indeed, he is a fellow of unparalleled pomposity, his jowls as weighty as his business, but he is our chief prize, for he has status and influence, and every good courtesan needs both in her portfolio (not least because, as a state, Venice has the tendency to be prim and censorious, and the better you know those who run it, the more easily you can predict their moods before they have them). He comes every Tuesday and Friday night. We usually entertain him alone, as members of the government are not allowed to fraternize with the citizen class, though this rule, along with every other in this great state, is as bent as the course of its waterways, and my lady much prefers company: “That way he can bore other people and I can be sure to stay awake until I have to go to bed with him. You have no idea, Bucino, how tedious power makes some men.”
I leave the cook to haggle and make my way back across the bridge to a tavern near the German Fondaco where they fry the morning fish in a batter so light and fresh that your taste buds confuse the sweet and savory and where the watered malmsey (an acquired taste, but my tooth has grown sweeter with age) is fresh out of barrels shipped from Cyprus. Early on I made it my business here to give tips as large as I am small to the growling proprietor, and now I have a seat of my own at a table near the door with its own bolster cushion, which I retrieve daily from behind the bar. In this way I sit as tall as any man and join in the latest gossip.
This morning the talk is all of an impromptu bridge battle that erupted yesterday on the Ponte dei Pugni, near Campo Santa Margherita, in which the Castellani Arsenale workers inflicted a savage defeat on the Nicolotti fishermen. It is festival time again: the great feast of the Ascension, when Venice celebrates her annual marriage to the sea and for a while the art of street fighting becomes a national sport. When the Turk was still living in the city, he had been as good as his word and sometimes bought a place for me with him on the pontoon to watch such battles (the company of my deformity was evidently more pleasing to him than to my native Italians). But he left for Constantinople more than a year ago, and since then I have not risked the crowds alone.
I glance up from my conversation and, through a gap in the crush, find myself looking straight into the eyes of a man a few tables away: a merchant, well dressed with a new hat, cloak, and nicely turned velvet jacket; and though there is something familiar enough about him, I have no idea who he is. But he, it seems, knows me, for he keeps on staring. A visiting client? Surely not. My memory is near perfect when it comes to business, and I have not taken a purse from him, or heard his moans through the walls of our casa. He stands and carefully makes his way toward me through the crowd.
“We know each other, I think.”
The voice is the true man. But my God, he is changed. The dangling curls and cap are gone, and the chin is freshly shaved. Even his walk seems taller. If one did not know, one might think he was a trader from Spain or Greece, for the Greeks have a great community in the city and there is talk that they will get their own church soon enough. Though where this man would worship I can only wonder, for while he is in some ways the very picture of a Christian gentleman, I know him to be a Jew.
“It is Signor Teodoldi, yes?” And one who after all these years still remembers my name. Well, why not? He saw me write it on enough bonds in that darkened little office in the Ghetto where I pawned our jewels a lifetime ago.
A big man standing close to us gives a small grunt, which I ignore.
“Yes, I am he.”
“I was not sure at first. You look different.”
“Not as different as you,” I say bluntly.
“Ah! Indeed. I should introduce myself.” He sits and holds out his hand. “My name is Lelio da Modena. Taken after the city I was born in.” He hesitates. “Though I was once known as Chaim Colon.”
The man is leaning over our table now and gives out a great guffaw, spewing out some venom on the gross corruption of deformity. A few heads turn. But he is marked by the stench of beer and, more important, poverty, which sits ill against the cut of our cloth, and when his taunts get him nowhere, he lunges off into the crowd muttering. We have both suffered worse, and it is a statement of our present status to be the ones who remain at the table.
“So. You are converted?” I say, and he must hear the wonder in my voice.
“Yes. I am converted.” His voice is clear and emphatic. “I left the Ghetto three years ago. I am a baptized Christian now.”
“And a successful one at that.”
“I have been fortunate.” He gives a small smile, which feels uncomfortable on him. He always had the air of a too serious man about him, and the change of faith has not made him any lighter. “I was able to use my skills for the cutting and selling of precious stones as a jewel merchant. But you—you also have done well.”
“Not bad,” I say.
“It is your lady’s business?”
“Yes. My lady’s business.” And I suspect we are both now thinking of certain images in a certain book which once so appalled a Jewish pawnbroker that he could hardly bring himself to talk to its owner, but which might perhaps be more acceptable to a more worldly Christian businessman.
A gong sounds from behind the bar. “Ah, I must go,” he says. It is too noisy inside to hear the morning Marangona, and so they must repeat it to make sure the city is ready for work. “I am due at a meeting near the Arsenale. Oh, but this is God’s fortune to have found you. I was hoping I might see you again.”
“Really?” And I feel again his fury and fear as he pushed the door closed in my face. “I thought you were pleased to be rid of me.”
“Well…I—It was a long time ago. I was…” He is clearly embarrassed. “Look, I must go. But I would like…I mean…if…”
“We live at Casa Trevelli near San Pantalon. Fiammetta Bianchini’s house. It is well enough known in the area. I am there most afternoons and evenings.”
“Thank you.” He is up now and shaking my hand. “I am due to leave Venice in a few days. For the Indies. But if I can come before, I will.”
“You will be welcome.” I shrug. And why not? We cater to all people. Well, all people except Jews, that is. As far as I know, there is no law in the city against a courtesan entertaining a convert, assuming his purse is big enough, though as I watch him disappear into the throng, I feel somehow disappointed that he of all people should be so changed.
Still, the encounter makes for a good story, and I have honed it perfectly by the time I reach home. My thunder is stolen by the chaos I find there. On the nearby bridge, a crowd is watching as a dozen workmen on a large barge roll up ropes and pieces of c
loth while shouting and laughter bounce out over the water from our piano nobile above.
I go up the stairs fast (wealth makes for shallower steps, which are better for smaller legs) and at the corner collide with La Draga coming down, though as always her ears are sharper than my eyes, and she grabs the stone banister to protect herself. She stays standing, but her bag flies open in her hand, a thick glass vial jumping out and hitting the step beneath.
“Ah—I am sorry. I didn’t hurt you?”
“No. No…I am fine.”
I pick up the vial and turn to her. “Here—”
But her hand is already out waiting for it. I might ask her how she knows I have it, but I will no doubt get some answer about the sound of glass breaking or not, or the different ways a man moves with a pot or an empty palm. As it is not Thursday, I did not expect to find her here, but a busy house has its fair share of aches and boils and fevers, and a clever courtesan keeps her servants as healthy as herself. For my part, I am too busy to cross paths with her often, and when we do meet, we are so mutually civil that if you did not know, you might mistake us for friends. Underneath, however, the scars inflicted by my suspicion and her retaliation all that time ago still remain, and we cannot help but be wary of each other. Sometimes I think if I had the will, I could find a way to heal things, for I am not totally without manners, and these last few years I have charmed my way into the affections of one or two women infinitely more appealing than she. But, if I am honest, they were also more stupid, and I think I fear that she would see through me, even with her eyes closed.
“What’s happened? What’s going on up there?”
“A gift has arrived. I cannot help you with it. You had best see it for yourself.”
And so I do—the second I enter the portego. For no one with eyes could miss it. It is propped against the wall: a great, full-length silvered mirror, bigger than anything I have ever seen before, shining like a starburst in the room, its surface catching the sun and reflecting the great distance of space and light flooding in through the loggia opposite. The whole house is gathered in honor of it: my lady, Gabriella, Marcello; and, standing, watching their glee, is our glass merchant client, Vespasiano Alberini.
“Oh, Bucino! Look! Look what my lord Alberini has brought us!” Her face is lit up almost as bright as its surface.
“Oh. You should have been here! It took eight men to bring it on the barge from Murano, and when they winched it up from below, each time it faltered, I thought my heart would stop for fear that it would smash. But my lord took charge of everything.” And she moves over to him and squeezes his arm, and he laughs at her enthusiasm, for gratitude always brings out the happy child in her. “I wish La Draga had not rushed away so fast. Oh, isn’t it the most remarkable thing you have ever seen?”
Indeed it is, and its presence in our house will be all around town by tomorrow, thanks to the drama of its arrival. Alberini is one of our better customers: a substantial merchant, in girth as well as talent, and a man who is abreast of the newest techniques in the foundries almost before the workmen themselves understand their potential. In love my lady says he is like a wild boar, all bristle and bellowing bulk, but hand him a piece of glass, from the most elaborate crystal to the finest ornamented majolica, and his hands are as careful and delicate as an angel’s and his voice puts poetry into commerce.
I remember the first time he dined with us. He brought my lady an exquisite crystal wine goblet decorated with her name in the newest diamond-point engraving. “Feed your eyes on this miracle, my friends,” he said as he showed it to the guests. “Into this transparent nothingness went sand and pebble and ash and a fire hotter than Hell. It is a testament to the glory of man and a lesson from God: beauty as perfect and fragile as life itself.”
And as he said it, he pretended to drop it, so that the whole room sucked in a great breath of fear before he grinned and held it up to the light like a communion chalice. I have watched him repeat the exercise half a dozen times at different gatherings, and I love his sense of theater and his salesmanship. It almost makes me wish I was a priest so I could buy up all the misshapen failures of the workshop and drop them from the pulpit every Sunday to put the fear of death into my flock. No wonder he has made his fortune—there are not many men who can sell philosophy in a glass and yet still know the best wine to pour into it. Luckily for us, over these last few years he has become enamored enough of my lady’s body to want to see it reflected every which way in his mirrors, for the business of glass exploits vanity as much as it peddles humility.
“You like it, Bucino?” he says, and his round face is split with a fat grin.
“As always, my lord—you bring us miracles.”
“Beauty for beauty. A fair exchange.”
“Oh, come, come closer, Bucino—you must see yourself in it.” And my lady is beckoning to me. “Really. It is the most amazing sight. Move away, Gabriella, and let Bucino come.”
I walk up and stand next to her.
And she is right: it is amazing. The morning sun is rich around us, and there we stand, revealed in our full-length glory: a tall, willowy beauty with a mane of flowing, golden hair and a squat, ugly troll, its fat head reaching barely as high as her breast. I feel my breath catch in my throat. I should have made myself more ready for the sight. God knows, I have done what I can. My clothes are expensively tailored to the proportions of my body, quality shining through the cloth, and my beard—which has many more than the few strands that Aretino once mocked—is combed and perfumed with musk and citrus to go with my kid gloves. Yet in this mirror I am still a shock to myself. For the truth is that in my own head I feel neither as small nor as different as I actually am, so that the sight of myself in any surface—not to mention such a vast, clean expanse of it—is always a greater pain to me than it ought to be.
“Oh, don’t scowl so, Bucino. Your face is sweeter without the frown.” And she pokes at me. “Isn’t it a marvel?”
“A marvel,” I say, trying to readjust my features.
“Oh, and look. Just see the way this seam on my skirt bunches to the left. I knew this dress was too bulky at the bottom, but the tailor told me it was only because I was bending to look at it. My God, this invention will make you a fortune, my lord. Not only does our room now seem as large as a palace, but it will change the art of dressmaking forever. We sack our tailor tomorrow, Bucino, you hear me?”
“I think we would do better to pay his bill first.”
And we all laugh.
“So,” says our benefactor. “I must leave you. The men are needed for another delivery.”
“Oh, my lord, surely not so soon.” And she pouts most prettily. “I tell you, when you come next, we will set up our table here, right in front of the mirror, so we can watch ourselves as we dine. Say it will be soon.”
Her enthusiasm makes him pause. “Well…if I finish at the warehouse, I might be able to return later tonight.”
She shoots a glance at me, for we both know it is Friday and she is booked out to the Crow.
“Ah, my lord, alas, we are already spoken for,” I interject, taking the blame on myself. “But…if something should change, I will send you word immediately.”
As soon as he is gone, she is again regarding herself critically in the mirror. I start my story of the Jew, but she is only half listening, for the bit of her that is not in thrall to her reflection is busy with her diary. “Oh…really?…But you must tell me later—I was getting ready when Alberini came, and now I am due at Tiziano’s within the hour, and you know how he complains if I miss the light…. Gabriella! Tell Marcello to get the boat ready now. I will be there when I have changed my clothes.” She turns back to me. “Why don’t you come, Bucino? He promises it will be the last sitting. Maybe he would let you see it today.”
And she is almost flighty now with good humor. Which is a relief, for in recent weeks she has been rather disgruntled and distracted with me; but then, like most women, my lady lives by the
moods of the moon, and over time I have found it is best to ignore what I cannot decipher. The stemming and flowing of such fluids are La Draga’s business, not mine.
I shake my head. “I am too busy. I still have the accounts to do.” Though the truth is, the mirror has depressed me more than I choose to admit, and I do not care to be seen outside.
“Really, Bucino! You spend as much time with your head in a book as a scholar these days. I am surprised you are not publishing a study of Venice like every second fellow here. My God, if I have to sit through another evening’s talk about the greatness of the Venetian state and constitution, I think I might fall asleep. Oh, I tell you, Loredan and his Crow guests spoke of nothing else last week.”
“Then maybe you should hold your soirees in front of the mirror from now on. That will keep their minds on the job at hand.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Once she is gone I settle myself in my room, which is at the back of the house off the portego, and take out my account books. For all my complaining, I love this place. It was built to my specifications, and each thing in it fits me precisely, from the wooden bed, small enough for me to feel not too lonely as I lie alone in it, through the bookshelves in perfect proportion to my height, to the desk and chair constructed so I do not have to use cushions or waste time clambering up and on. Once I am sat here, with my pen in hand, my account books open, and my hourglass in front of me, the sand running free, I am as close as I come these days to satisfaction.
