2 - Painted Veil (6 page)

Annetta and I both laughed, but I answered. “Not at all. Despite the limiting regulations, there are many wealthy families in the ghetto. The trades allowed the Jews by law are restricted to moneylending, pawnbroking, and dealing in used and wholesale goods. But everyone knows that many of the maritime trading houses have their capital supplied by patricians who are only providing a legal front for Jewish investors.”

“And yet, Liya delivers her wares to the theater. Is that not a retail business?”

This time Annetta answered Gussie’s question. “Her family buys second-hand clothing. Not rags, but good quality items from Christians who are hard up for some ready cash. Most of the clothing they repair or sell as is. From the finery too tattered to repair, they snip off the intact trims and bits of good fabric and use them in masks and headdresses. In the strictest sense, the theaters are buying used goods.”

“Are Christians allowed in this ghetto?”

“Of course,” Annetta answered. “The economy of Venice would surely collapse if the ghetto were off limits. I can’t think of a single person I know who hasn’t gone in to pawn a cloak or some household item at one time or another.” She shook her pile of chestnut braids and pointed to the candelabra. “When our father was alive, these candle holders spent more time in the pawnshop than on this table. Father always had notoriously bad luck at the gaming tables.”

I sighed theatrically. “Sister, you are letting Gussie in on all our family secrets. What will this good Englishman think of us? I am sure the Rumbolts were never forced to pawn the family plate.”

Gussie laughed uproariously at my weak sally, or perhaps at the very thought of the squire of Rumbolt manor hauling his valuables to a Jewish pawnshop. “Well,” he finally said, “I’m sure you two have had your fill of this ignorant northerner. It’s been a long day and I’m off to my lodging and a soft bed. Will you walk with me a bit, Tito?”

Annetta let us out the door with an open invitation for Gussie to dine whenever he liked, and we strolled across the Campo dei Polli and down the narrow
calle
that led to a gondola mooring. Dusk was well past and the moon had not yet risen. The only light filtered through the curtains and shutters of the houses that lined the way. I could barely see Gussie’s face but I sensed his newly somber mood.

“Your city is most pleasing to the eye,” he said, “but not so much to the heart.”

“I would not attempt to argue with that. Venice has always been a city of contradictions, never more so than in these difficult times.”

“Her glory years are fast retreating.”

“True. We lost most of our eastern empire at the beginning of this century. It must have been a crushing blow at the time, but the defeat turned out to be of little consequence in the long run. The profitable trade continues to shift to the west, and the English and Dutch ships have always dominated those waterways. People no longer come to Venice to launch armies or conduct business. They come to be entertained.”

“Or to escape,” whispered my friend.

We walked on in silence for a moment, approaching the mist-laden canal. “You said you had been here three months,” I observed. “You must have witnessed the last few weeks of Carnival.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you notice all the masks?”

“How could I miss them? Everyone went about in disguise, even if it was just a simple half-mask that covered the eyes and nose. I bought one myself.”

“How did you feel when you first donned your mask?”

Despite the darkness, I knew he was grinning. “Liberated. Boundless,” Gussie replied. “It was downright intoxicating.”

“You are not alone in that. Disguise is a seductive lure, especially when it seems that everything you have learned to count on is fast disappearing. Venice herself wears a mask these days. If you stay here much longer you will find that nothing is truly as it seems.”

“You make Venice sound like a dangerous place.”

“She can be. My city dons a mask of grandeur and dances to a gay tune, but snatch her mask away and you will see fear and desperation.”

“Does this melancholy line of thought have anything to do with your missing scene painter?”

“I sincerely hope not,” I answered quickly. But once I had made plans for Gussie to attend rehearsal the next day and watched the Englishman’s gondola slide into the mist, reason forced me to consider Luca’s disappearance in a more sinister light than I had at first. Though it was really none of my business, I was decidedly unhappy with Luca’s secret relationship with Liya. I had to wonder what other secrets lay behind Luca’s mask of careless bonhomie and what difficulties they might have caused.

Chapter 6

The next morning I rose early, made a hasty breakfast of bread and fruit, and started off for the ghetto with my manservant Benito in tow. Luca’s artful likeness of the Jewish seamstress had convinced me that the Del’Vecchio establishment was my best hope for obtaining information about the missing painter. I knew Maestro Torani would be expecting some news at rehearsal later that morning, and I was loath to disappoint him.

We didn’t stop to hire a gondola; the ghetto lay only a few squares away from my house on the Campo dei Polli. Venice had gathered her Hebrew inhabitants onto several islets in the Cannaregio over two hundred years ago. The site was a former iron foundry, a
geto
, hence the current designation. Several thousand Jews lived behind the stout walls and were shut in by locked gates from sundown to sunup. During the night, two barges manned by archers of the Republic patrolled the canals ringing the walled enclave. My city looked on the Jews not only as foreigners inherently separate from the rest of Venetian society, but also as enemies of her devoutly held Catholic faith. Venice was also suspicious of any outsiders doing business within her territory. Even the Germans, Europeans and Christians all, had their trading activities confined to a compound on the Rialto.

Benito and I soon reached the wooden bridge on the east side of the ghetto. The massive gates had been thrown back and traffic over the bridge was brisk in both directions. We stepped aside to let several handcarts of caged geese trundle by.

“What do you want me to say to the Jewess, Master?” asked Benito, plucking at a snowy feather that had floated onto my sleeve.

“Just apologize. Beg her pardon for causing her extra work.”

“But I was only looking after your interests. Signor Florio’s costume should not be allowed to outshine yours.”

“I know what you were trying to do, and I don’t blame you. But I need to get into Liya’s workroom. Your apology will be our entrée.”

Benito’s sharp features danced with curiosity. I forestalled his questions by darting through a break in the crush on the bridge. I crossed a noisy
campo
, then started down a twisting street just wide enough to accommodate two people passing sideways. The buildings around us reached toward the sky. Like trees enclosed in a narrow space, the ghetto dwellings had grown up rather than out. Layer had been added to layer in seemingly aimless fashion. Crooked foundations and oddly slanted rooflines were the order of the day. Above us, jutting balconies blocked the light and kept the walkway damp and musty. When we emerged onto a rambling, untidy square, I saw that Benito was pressing a perfumed handkerchief to his nose.

This brick-paved
campo
was lined with shops disgorging a profusion of goods from open doorways. A bustling crowd intent on morning errands swirled around us. This could have been any neighborhood in Venice—almost. Here the Venetian dialect was spiked with bits of Spanish, Hebrew, and other tongues unfamiliar to me. The expressions on the faces of the shoppers were more mobile, their eyes sharper, and their lips more generous. Bright colors accented the women’s dresses, and many of them wore festoons of gold chains that I would never have seen on the neighbors in my own dull
campo
.

I hesitated uncertainly, looking for the Del’Vecchio shop. Benito pointed to another dark alley, really more of a tunnel formed by an addition spanning two tall buildings. One had been washed with a fresh coat of pink plaster, the other presented a less well-kept façade. At its entrance sat two young girls. They were surrounded by large baskets of clothing and had their heads bent to their laps. As we approached, I saw that one was ripping the seams of a damask garment and the other was repairing a cloak. Her needle flew down a seam, working the thread over and under the layers of thick wool. I reached for a handsome waistcoat hanging on a line tacked to the side of the building. The proprietor was instantly upon me.

“A wise choice. Signore shows good taste,” said a stooped Jew with a rounded belly and fleshy jowls. He wore a black wig dressed with an oily pomade and a snuff-colored coat adorned with stamped gold buttons. Limp ruffles tickled his chin, and worsted stockings covered his lumpy calves. Officious to a fault, he brushed the hanging waistcoat with a short-handled broom, talking all the while. “An elegant garment, Signor. Fit for any occasion. Shall I wrap it up for you?”

“Is this the Del’Vecchio establishment?” I asked, ignoring the waistcoat.

“The very same,” he answered, eyes suddenly wary. “I am Pincas Del’Vecchio and this is my shop. What can I interest you in? The weather is turning warm. Perhaps you have need of a taffeta coat that will withstand the summer heat?”

“No, no. I am not looking for something to wear. I came to speak with your daughter.”

Giggles erupted from the girls at their mending. The look in the Jew’s eyes turned from wary to puzzled.

“I am Tito Amato, from the Teatro San Marco. I wish to speak with Liya, the one who makes headdresses for the opera. Her workshop is here, is it not?”

The merchant knew who I was. On hearing my name, his eyes darted to my cheeks, my throat, then farther down. It is always so when someone realizes I am a
castrato
. The looks can vary from outright disgust to veiled admiration. The look Pincas gave me was of the curious variety, followed by a slight blush of his loose jowls.

“Is there some problem, Signor Amato?”

“Not at all. My servant wishes to apologize for misleading Liya on the requirements for one of my helmets. That is all.”

As Pincas stood in the doorway, chewing at his lip, another face appeared over his shoulder. I recognized the hungry, hollow eyes, elongated jaw, and prominent teeth of the young man who usually accompanied Liya to the theater. He must have been listening from the dim interior of the shop.

“Cousin,” he said near Pincas’ ear, “I will convey the gentleman’s apology upstairs.”

Pincas started to smile, but I shook my head and attempted a stern expression. “My servant has overstepped his bounds. I am requiring him to make reparation with a formal apology. Please allow us to speak with your daughter.”

The two clothing dealers passed a veiled look, still hesitating.

I reached out to finger the fine cloth of the waistcoat again. “And perhaps I could take a look at the other items you have within.”

The young Jew scowled, but Pincas pasted his wide, seller’s smile firmly in place and ushered me inside with a low bow. After the morning sun of the
campo
, it took my eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloomy interior. Shelves and counters were piled high with male and female attire. Dresses and coats hung suspended from wires that crisscrossed between the rafters. The small shop was neatly kept but pervaded by the heavy, sour odor of garments worn by a multitude of people and only superficially cleaned. Benito’s handkerchief drifted toward his nose, but I pushed his arm down with what I hoped was an unobtrusive motion. I glanced back toward the sunlit doorway. One of the girls had left her mending and was peering around the doorframe with bright, curious eyes.

Pincas frowned, gently chucked the girl under the chin, then softened his expression with an apologetic smile. “Mara, the cloaks must be finished by dinner time. Get back to work with your sister.” Leaving the surly cousin on duty below, the clothing dealer passed through a drapery at the rear of the shop and led Benito and me up a short flight of stairs. The slanted ceiling of the enclosed staircase was so low that I had to stoop as I climbed. The hallway upstairs was no taller. It stretched on toward another dark staircase, but we turned to our right to enter a room that seemed palatially spacious by comparison.

I straightened up and immediately met a pair of wide black eyes. We’d clearly taken Liya by surprise. She cocked her head in a questioning manner, running her hand through the fine curls of a tiny girl who clung to her skirts. The child wore a length of colored glass buttons that someone had fashioned into a necklace. She toddled forward a few steps and held out her arms. “Papa,” she cried and was immediately scooped up in Pincas’ arms.

An old woman occupied a low chair by one of the open casement windows. “Pincas,” she chided in a croaking voice, “that child will be the death of us. She won’t drink her milk and won’t keep her hands out of the pin box. She is into everything.”

The miscreant grinned at her father and gave his cheek a noisy kiss. “Ah, my wicked Fortunata,” he said. “You must mind Nonna and Liya while Mama is at the market.” He returned the child’s kiss and smoothed her silken curls. “Where is your doll, my precious one?”

Liya tapped her foot. “Fortunata has thrown her doll out the window. That’s the second time this morning.”

Pincas puffed out his cheeks. Fortunata squealed with delight and beat her little fists on his swollen jowls, causing his breath to spurt out through pursed lips. Both father and daughter laughed uproariously.

“The doll, Papa.” Liya sighed, irritation rising. “I won’t be getting any work done until Fortunata has something to play with.”

“Ah, yes.” He kissed the girl in his arms. “Don’t worry, little princess. We’ll go down to the courtyard and rescue the fair dolly.” The child clapped her hands. More kisses were exchanged. As they headed for the stairs, Pincas called back to Liya, “These gentlemen wish to say something to you, my dear. You know them, I believe.”

Liya raised an eyebrow. Without prompting, Benito stepped forward and made his apology with all the grace and considerable charm of which he was capable.

“It’s good of you to come up,” she replied with a smile, “but you needn’t have bothered. I often have to make changes in my creations, for a host of different reasons. So, as I’m working on a mask that must be finished before my mother returns…” She inclined her head toward the doorway.

I couldn’t let her dismiss us so easily. Spying my helmet, now shorn of its plumes, on the wide worktable in front of the windows, I walked over and plucked it out from a tangle of ribbons and lace.

A note of irritation crept back into the seamstress’ voice. “You can stop fretting over your headgear. You may have lost your feathers, but I’ll make sure it is decorated with enough trim to satisfy even the most exalted prince.”

I winced inwardly. Is that how she saw me? As vanity obsessed as Il Florino? I set the helmet down quickly. “I’m not concerned about that. While we’re here, there is something else I need to ask you.”

I looked around the airy workroom. The old woman had closed her eyes. A bit of forgotten piecework had fallen from her limp hands, and her chin had sunk to her chest. In the opposite corner, a trio of slat-backed chairs fenced an unlit stove.

“Perhaps we could sit?” I ventured.

“All right.” Liya glanced toward the stove, but gestured to the nearest window instead. “Here. Papa may need me to point out Fortunata’s doll.”

Benito retreated to the doorway. He affected an air of unconcern, but I knew his ears would be prickling. Liya and I settled ourselves on the wide windowsill, knees almost touching. The sun had risen high over the ghetto buildings and fell directly on the woman who sat so near but seemed determined to distance herself with an air of dignified reserve.

She wore a gown of dusky blue with the sleeves pushed up above the elbows. A light apron wrapped her bodice and covered the front of her skirt. Her back was straight, pressing against the window frame as she looked down to the courtyard behind the shop. A healthy glow suffused her finely textured olive skin, and the sunlight caught highlights in the thick braids entwining her head.

I cleared my throat, and her dark eyes turned to meet mine with a hint of amusement that recalled her expression in Luca’s painting. I cursed myself for not planning what to say. Suddenly, the alluring portrait on Luca’s easel was the only thought in my head.

“Look, there’s Papa.” Liya waved and pointed. “He won’t be able to reach the doll unless he climbs. He should have sent Isacco.”

“Isacco?” I asked, glad for the distraction.

“The son of Papa’s cousin in Livorno. Papa produced a family of women, but his cousin’s family has sons to spare.” Her well-formed mouth worked itself into a sneer. “Papa imported one of them to help with the shop.”

“A reasonable solution, surely?”

The black eyes flashed, no longer amused. “Papa has good help right here. I am capable of much more than piecing these scraps together. I could help Papa run the business.”

“But daughters usually marry away. Where would that leave your father if you went off with a husband?”

She gave me a withering glance. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk over our family’s business arrangements.”

“No, of course not. Maestro Torani has sent me on an errand.” Shifting my weight on the window ledge, I took my verbal plunge. “One of the theater staff is missing and he is desperately needed to finish the sets for the new opera. I’ve come to ask if you know where Luca Cavalieri has disappeared to.”

She stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Signor Cavalieri? I’m sure I have no idea. Why on earth do you ask me? I barely know him.”

“I’ve been to his rooms.”

The Jewess stared out the window.

“And examined his paintings,” I added quietly.

A dull flush formed at the hollow of her throat and crept up to her cheeks. The vessel at the angle of her jaw fluttered. If I had entertained any doubts that the painter and the Jewess were seriously involved, that subtle yet definite display put them to rest.

Liya jumped up and leaned out the window. “There Papa, she’s on top of those mattresses.” The courtyard must have lain at the end of the tunnel that bounded one side of the Del’Vecchio shop and home. Reconditioning mattresses was one of the traditional ghetto industries, and mounds of old bedding reached to the first floor windows. Several women were hard at work: laying the laundered batting out to dry in the sun, combing, fluffing, and stuffing it into lidded baskets. Pincas borrowed one of their stools to retrieve his daughter’s doll.

Liya left the window to pace at the head of her worktable, hugging her arms to her chest. I followed. “If Luca is in trouble, perhaps I can help. He will surely lose his position if he doesn’t get back to work or send some word to…”