2 - Painted Veil (22 page)

My friend swallowed and shuffled his feet. The immobile, yet compelling figure was taking the edge off Gussie’s bluster.

“Speak man, my time is not to be wasted.”

Gussie drew a deep breath. “I desire all that and more.”

“Then you are in luck, Signore. I can introduce you to a temple where God’s highest servants submit to the commands of ordinary mortals, where your every wish can be fulfilled.”

“What beings are able to grant such favors?”

The eerie voice deepened, turning from hissing to hollow. “The Holy Seraphim.”

“Seraphim? Angels, do you mean?”

For the first time, the figure showed some movement. His shoulders twisted in what I took to be a hint of irritation, and I had the sense of an ordinary man behind the hideous white mask.

“The Seraphim look on mere angels as men do ants on the pavement. The Golden Seraphim guard the throne of God. They stand at his right and left hands. In days of old they carried coals burning with celestial fire to the lips of the prophets. After years of wandering the East and devoting myself to the study of mystical texts, I have discovered the rites that command the Seraphim to quit their airy abode and heed my will.”

Gussie let his mouth go slack. He feigned a perfect picture of reverent amazement before voicing the question that should provoke our agreed-upon signal to forcibly unmask our quarry. “And whom do we have the honor of addressing, learned Signore?”

The figure drew himself up. The beaked nose pointed first at Gussie, then swiveled in my direction, lingering there for a long moment. The eyeholes above the beak could have been tiny pools of gray fog. Gussie’s feet made a scraping sound on the gravel pathway. I tensed every muscle.

The mask spoke. “I am the Magister of the Temple of the Golden Seraphim. You may call me Dr. Palantinus.”

That was it. I made to spring on the scoundrel in the lilacs and expected Gussie to do the same, but feet were crunching on the path behind me and a feminine voice cried, “There he is, Bassano. There’s Tito. Hold him.” Before I could move, a pair of strong arms pinned me in an encircling grasp from behind. I writhed and struggled, succeeding in merely pushing my mask askew. Blackness surrounded me as I gasped at the air drenched with the stink of rotting flowers. The din of a furious struggle sounded a few paces in front of me, but I could not free myself to help Gussie. In answer to my bellow of rage and frustration, my captor bent backward, lifting my feet off the path, then set me down hard, buckling my knees but somehow righting my mask. I saw a flash of white drapery and Rosa, unmasked and triumphant, stood before me.

“We found you at last, Tito Amato. You’ll learn you can’t ignore me and get away with it.” With a determined flourish, she bobbed to her tiptoes and tore off my tricorne and mask. “Try enjoying the rest of the ball without these.” A rumbling laugh came from her companion applying the bear hug.

I sputtered in fury, frantically trying to look around her into the shadows where Palantinus had been standing. “Rosa!
Santo Dio
, woman. You don’t know what you’ve done.”

She gave me a coy look as she tucked my hat and mask under her arm. “Surely, a lady is entitled to a little revenge. Just remember this the next time I do you the favor of asking for a dance.”

My arms suddenly freed, I turned to confront the heavy, unmasked face of Bassano Gritti. That patrician stripling simply chuckled and offered Rosa his arm. They strolled back down the pathway leaving me unhurt but seething with anger.

I had no time to deal that pair their just retribution. Where had Gussie and Palantinus got to? I plunged into the thicket of lilacs. In the deep gloom, I could discern nothing but twisted trunks and leafy branches crowding against a wall of blackness where I knew a stone wall existed. Sweeping leaves and flowers away from my face, I fumbled forward. Then, a flash of a glass bauble and a patch of muted blue appeared at a rectangle that seemed somewhat less black than its surroundings. Gussie parted the branches and lumbered toward me.

“He got away, Tito. I had my hands on him, but I couldn’t hold him. He’s not overly strong, but he’s wiry as an eel. There’s an old gate in the wall over there. He had it off the latch and a boat waiting on the canal.”

The unsuccessful hunt concluded, Gussie pulled the whiskers off his chin and removed the turban that was unwinding down his back. He sighed. “I say, feels good to get those off.” He must have had a good look at my face then, for he placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Save your wrath, Tito. It can’t help us now. We’ll get our fox. We’ll run him down and I’ll personally rip that long-nosed mask off his face.”

Chapter 23

For the next two days, I went out but little. I flopped around the house, fretting over our failure to unmask Palantinus and hatching useless plans to corner him again. When I tired of those futile fantasies, I read his pamphlet over and over until I could stomach his inflammatory accusations no longer. One particular phrase hung in my mind and refused to be forgotten. Palantinus aimed his most emotional invective at “the Hebrew swindlers who would make capons of us all.” Why capons? Was Palantinus referring to the general weakening of the shrinking Venetian Empire? Or was this a more personal issue? Did the man who wrote those words feel that his masculine role had somehow been threatened by a Jew? I stared at the page until the print blurred before my eyes, but no answers were forthcoming. In the end, I threw the pamphlet across the room and myself down on the bench at the harpsichord where I sang furious scales until the cat begged to be let out on the
campo
and the humans retreated to the farthermost reaches of the house.

On the day of the grand wedding, Annetta begged me to come to the Piazza. Gussie was taking her to view the procession of the bridal party from the palace to the Basilica. I knew that the huge square would be decked with golden hangings and miles of flowered garlands, and I could picture the splendid entourage. Musicians with long trumpets supported by children dressed as cherubs were set to herald the start of the procession. Waves of councilors, guild dignitaries, military commanders, and Savii would march by in dazzling robes and uniforms. Finally, the Doge and his daughter would be borne along the route in separate chairs covered with cloth of gold and canopied by gem-encrusted Burano lace. It would be a magnificent sight, but I wasn’t in the mood for such a display. I bid Annetta and Gussie
addio
and settled down to examine the project that my neighbor’s fruit press had helped me complete.

My decision to forgo the wedding was fortuitous. About noon, the bell at our front door jangled. I had given Benito leave to go to the Piazza, and I knew that Lupo was drowsing in the kitchen. Opening the door myself, I was surprised to find Liya standing on the threshold. She was carrying a basket that contained a wide-mouthed jar covered with a bit of cheesecloth.

“I brought you something,” she announced with a hint of a nervous laugh. She wore a day dress the color of yellow corn and had a pretty white shawl crossed over her shoulders. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

I showed her into the sitting room and relieved her of her basket.

“It’s
garato
,” she told me. “I made it from Nonna’s recipe, with special herbs and spices.”

“Thank you. It smells wonderful,” I replied as I bent my nose to the cheesecloth. “I don’t think I’m familiar with the dish.”

“It’s pickled whiting steeped in olive oil and lemon. In the ghetto it’s considered a delicacy.”

“I’m sure I will find it so.” Wondering what else Liya had on her mind, but mostly just wanting to continue gazing at her, I indicated the most comfortable armchair. “Will you sit? My sister has gone down to the Piazza, but I can have our servant make us some tea. Or lemonade, if you prefer.”

Liya consented to sit but declined refreshment.

“Did you have any trouble getting here?” I asked.

“No. No one bothered me. Since the fire, Venice has slipped back to her regular habits. It’s helped that no more wells have turned foul. Besides, the whole city is down on the Piazza.”

We passed a few more comments on the improved weather, then Liya took a deep breath and cleared her throat. “Tito, I came to apologize again. You and Signor Rumbolt did a very brave thing on the night of the fire. Fortunata and I might not be alive today if you had not climbed to our roof. Instead of thanking you, I accused you. I can’t believe how thoughtless and stupid I was.”

“Your anger was understandable. You thought I was somehow responsible for the rumor that Isacco murdered Luca.”

“Yes, but Nonna and Uncle Baruch have set me straight on that. I’m just sorry that my grandmother drew you into her meddling.”

I hesitated for a moment, then replied, “Your grandmother seems like a wise woman. And a good judge of character.”

“She certainly had poor Isacco pegged. Nonna knew him for an underhanded huckster the minute he walked in our door.” Liya’s nimble fingers plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and she raised her chin. “I know I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but it’s the simple truth that Isacco won’t be missed, not in my household anyway. He was bossy to me, rude to my mother, and argued with my father almost every day. Papa should have packed him back to Livorno weeks ago.”

I thought back to the conversation that Signora Gallico and I had shared before the disastrous fire. Liya’s grandmother believed that Pincas meant to marry Liya to his young cousin. “Perhaps your father thought Isacco could be of some use to your family.”

The Jewess waved her hand dismissively. “I can’t think in what capacity. I certainly had no use for him.”

So much for Signora Gallico’s fear that her exalted blood would be further mixed with what she called the Del’Vecchio rag pickers. It was difficult to imagine anyone forcing my determined Liya into a marriage she wouldn’t agree to. I asked my next question cautiously, striving to keep my manner free from rebuke or jealousy. “What would your grandmother have made of Luca if she had known him?”

Liya’s eyes locked on mine; her lips were pressed in a straight line. I feared I had risked too much, but she began answering in a dry voice. “I think you have formed a bad impression of Luca, but if you had known him as I did, you might understand.”

I cocked an eyebrow and she went on. “Luca was an orphan. His father died young and his mother Theresa might as well have been dead for all he saw of her. The printer that Luca and Silvio were apprenticed to took a liking to Silvio. To this brother, their master was kind and generous. But to Luca, just the opposite. The printer blamed Luca for everything that went wrong in the shop, ripped up his drawings, and never missed an opportunity to belittle him. He beat Luca almost every day. Through all those unhappy years, Luca lived on dreams of coming to Venice and making his fortune. He knew that his artistic talent was his most precious commodity, and he set about learning to put it to his advantage.”

“But Liya, Luca was a master of illusion. He could have had an outstanding career creating sets for the theaters or painting frescoes on the walls of great houses. He didn’t have to go into the business of fake relics.”

She lowered her eyes. “Luca was impatient. He couldn’t wait for a good life to come his way bit by bit. And…” She seemed to be searching for words and continued awkwardly. “Perhaps I was impatient, too. Perhaps I pushed him too hard. I wanted him to take me away from Venice.”

“Away from Venice… where? How?” I asked quietly.

“We were going to run away. My family would never have consented to our marriage—they would disown me for marrying a Christian under any circumstances. Luca and I were going to a place where it doesn’t matter who is Christian or who is Hebrew.”

“Does such a place exist?”

“I have longed to find one all my life. The rabbis and the priests both think they own the truth and teach their followers to hate anyone who doesn’t believe as they do. What foolishness—I am sick to death of their arrogance, sick to death of this simmering battle between Christians and Jews. Luca and I had talked of crossing the ocean, going to the American colonies.”

“Do you think it would really be different there?”

“Perhaps not, but at least no one would know us, and we could be anyone and anything that we pleased.”

“Rather like putting on new masks for Carnival.”

“What is wrong with that, Tito? Why not join all those who are making new lives in that new land?”

“Liya, you astonish me. America is a wilderness populated by savages. Besides, your father would be devastated if you ran away.”

She shook her head firmly. “It was the only way. I refuse to spend the rest of my life making costume frippery from castoff rags. And I wasn’t going to give up the only man who has ever made me happy because he chanced to be born into a different religion.” She sighed and her voice softened. “Besides, Papa would still have my sisters. Fortunata has always been his favorite anyway.”

I didn’t want Liya to see the emotion that her intimate words about Luca engendered in me, so I turned the conversation to practical matters. “Passage for two on a decent ship costs a great deal of money—not to mention the funds it would take to start over in a strange land.”

She bit her lip, dark eyes searching mine. Was she seeking for understanding, forgiveness? “Luca was expecting a large sum of money. He told me to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice.”

My heart quickened. Here was useful information. “Where was this money to come from?”

“I don’t know. Luca enjoyed being mysterious sometimes.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“Oh, yes. I was burningly curious. The more secretive Luca became, the more determined I was to worm his secrets out of him. I was usually successful, but not in this. Perhaps if I’d had more time.” A spasm passed over her face and she looked around the room as if searching for a new topic of conversation. She found one lying on the round table in front of the window.

“What is this, Tito?” she asked, crossing the floor to inspect the project I had been working on that morning.

I followed her to the table and unfurled the topmost silk rectangle that represented the most successful of my experiments. “I’ve been trying to discover how Luca produced the Madonna’s image on the veils Isacco sold.” My finger traced the crude face I had managed to apply to the fabric. “My work is not nearly so elegant as Luca’s but I think I have the process fairly well figured out.”

She looked askance at me with a funny crooked smile. “How did you make these?”

“The easiest part was buying some short remnants of old silk that the draper had been keeping in his storeroom. For the pigment, it was trial and error. My friend Gussie is a painter. He identified ground cinnabar in Luca’s room. We also found a jar labeled
dragon gum
on Luca’s shelves. The chemist told me that is an old name for gum tragacanthe, a powder that mixes with water to form a paste that can be pigmented with cinnabar or any number of substances. I kept trying different combinations of the gum and the cinnabar until I got a brownish hue that seemed to match the image of Luca’s Madonna.”

“You have one of Luca’s veils?”

“Ah, yes. I took one from his lodging. I didn’t know what it was then, but I thought it might become important in some way.” She was definitely smiling then, so I felt emboldened to go on. “The Madonna’s face is not a painted image—there are no visible brushstrokes. It almost appears to have been burned into the cloth. It puzzled me, but then I remembered that Luca was a printer before he was a painter. One of the carpenters at the theater gave me a block of soft wood and I carved a face on it as best I could. Gussie could have done a better job, but this was something I was determined to do myself. I applied the pigment to the raised areas of the block—it took much less than I thought—my first efforts were just messy blobs. I pressed the cloth over the carved block in my neighbor’s fruit press.” I held my veil up to the window’s light. “Not bad for a singer who knows nothing about art. Now it’s the background that needs work. This veil looks too new. Luca’s seems positively ancient.”

She chuckled. “Luca had developed a system. He boiled the veils in coffee, then buried them in the flowerpots on his balcony. A month in the dirt and they could fool almost anyone.”

“You know all about this then?”

“Yes. I often helped him finish his work so we could… have time for other things. You have the process nearly correct, only Luca didn’t use a fruit press. He just applied the cloth to the woodcut, stacked heavy books on top, and had me sit on them.”

“The woodcut that you modeled for, I think.”

She nodded, regarding me with a look I fancied held more respect than she had accorded me in the past. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble, Tito. I’ve heard that Messer Grande has no intention of reopening his inquiry and that he and the Savio are not pleased with your efforts to find out the truth about Luca’s murder. Why do you keep trying?”

I refolded the cloth. “It is just simple decency. Luca’s killer is out there somewhere. He cannot be allowed to go free.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but I forestalled her. “I haven’t seen you at the theater since the fire. How do you know what I’ve been doing?”

She cocked her head and smiled again. “Someone has kept me abreast of your activities.”

Genuinely mystified, I asked a bit gruffly, “Who is it that interests himself in my affairs?”

“Not him, but her.” I was getting annoyed, but Liya decided to stop teasing me. “It was your sister Annetta. Where do you think she got your costumes for the masked ball?”

“The Del’Vecchios are back in business?”

“We are indeed. Uncle Baruch is helping Papa get the shop going again. We have rented a little place just down from his house. Annetta visited us several days ago. Since then, I’ve been trying to work up enough courage to come apologize and ask how your investigation progresses.” She moved closer and touched my arm. “Please, Tito. If you have any idea who took Luca from me, you must tell me.”

I was in my shirtsleeves with the lace cuffs pushed back to the elbows. Liya’s fingers were cool, but my bare skin burned under her touch. I asked, “Is it revenge you want?”

Her eyes widened. “Revenge? What good is that? Can it bring Luca back? No, I have had enough of hate and violence.” Her face took on a melancholy expression as her hand left my arm and came to rest on her belly. “I simply want to know what happened—who killed Luca and why. When I know that I can go forward and do what I have to do.”

I longed to pull her to me, bury my face in her dark braids wound up with the red kerchief, and assure her that everything would be all right, that I would trample on any prejudice to see that she was safe and happy. I resisted the urge. It was too soon after Luca’s death to burden her with a eunuch’s declaration of love. Even so, I might have succumbed to temptation if Gussie and Annetta had not chosen that moment to return from the Piazza. My sister’s face was glowing with excitement, and she was full of tales about the beauty of the bride and the magnificence of her dress. Liya quickly left me and crossed the room to Annetta to discuss the details that so consume women when a wedding occurs.