Daughter of Venice (14 page)

“I don’t understand,” says Noè.

“Let me keep working as a copyist.” I try to keep the tremble from my voice. “Please.”

“There are poor boys who need the money, Donato. I can’t give you work they can do. I had you work this month more as an indulgence to myself than anything else. I was sure you’d quit on me—and I sort of wanted you to. I wanted to show you that you couldn’t do what poor boys have to do all the time. I wanted you to realize how hard the life of the poor is. But you stuck it out.” Noè smiles. “I thought you didn’t have it in you. You proved me wrong, my friend. I’m glad.”

“Noè?” I stop and look away, squeezing my eyes tight to drain the tears back inside me.

“Are you all right?” Noè puts his hand on my shoulder.

The effect is like the shock of cold mountain water when we swim in summer. I shake his hand off quickly. If he knew I was a girl, he’d be aghast at touching me. I’m almost aghast myself. I walk slightly ahead of him. “Am I really your friend? Are you my friend?”

Noè shrugs. “We talk every day. I look forward to being with you. Yes, I’d call us friends. Wouldn’t you?”

I’ve talked to Noè about so many things this month. I feel that he knows me better than almost anyone. But, in fact, he knows so little about me. He doesn’t even know my true name. He doesn’t know I have no future. “How do Jews marry, Noè?”

“Ah, you’re back on the Jewish-Catholic question, are you? Well, we mate the same old way you do, Donato. Human beings have that much in common, no matter what their religion.”

“Don’t treat me like a half-wit,” I say.

“Don’t act like one.”

“I didn’t. You interpreted me in the stupidest way possible. I want to know how marriage works among Jews. Who gets to marry? Who chooses the person you marry?”

“I’m sorry.” Noè gives me a little punch in the shoulder. “Anyone who wants to can marry, so long as their proposal is accepted.”

“Anyone? Not just one boy in the family? Not just one girl?”

“You’re such a rich boy, Donato.” Noè laughs. “In my family we have no wealth to protect. And we have more than our share of self-confidence. I have only one brother, and I’m older than him. When he’s ready to marry, he will ask me to arrange it. My father would have taken that role, but he died two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. I loved him very much.”

“What will you do when you arrange the marriage? What will you look for in a mate for your brother?”

“If you’re talking about the size of a dowry, a lot of Jews care about that, just as a lot of Catholics do. It’s hard to make ends meet in this world that most of us live in—the world outside the
palazzi
. But, as I said, my family excels in self-confidence. If my brother wants to marry a particular girl, and if she wants to marry him, I’ll do whatever I can to get her family to agree to the match. I can take on more jobs if I need to.”

“But won’t you care anything at all about her? About what kind of person she is?”

“She’ll be his wife, not mine.”

“What do you want in a wife, Noè?” I ask softly.

“A partner,” Noè says without hesitation. “Someone to work through life’s problems with, someone to share life’s joys.” He smiles. “What about you, Donato?”

“I won’t get that choice.”

Noè pulls on his thin beard. “Has your father decided which brother will get to marry?”

“Yes.”

“And it won’t be you.”

“No,” I say.

“But you want to marry.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Donato.” Noè stops.

I wonder why he’s stopped, then I realize we’ve arrived at the Rio Terrà di Maddalena. I squint against the sun, looking up into Noè’s face. He is more handsome than any man I’ve ever seen.

He shakes my hand. “Visit me the next time you need a pair of shoes, Donato.”

“I will,” I say.

“Or anytime. I am your friend, Donato. Don’t doubt it. Your good friend.” He smiles and pulls me into a hug so tight my bound chest hurts. And something else hurts, too. Something deep inside.

I run down the alley, blinded by tears I don’t want to understand, and into the ground floor of our
palazzo
. I don’t even try to be careful not to be seen. Maybe it would be better if I were seen. Then Father would realize I’m not the sort of girl who could survive in a convent and he’d have to figure out something else to do with me.

But there is nothing else to do with me.

An old proverb comes unbidden, one Aunt Angela taught us girls when we were little—she is a font of proverbs and superstitions.
“Le piegore mate sta fora del sciapo”
—crazy sheep remain outside the flock. What is life like outside the flock?

I change and carry my disguise up the stairs tucked inside my nightdress, as I did the day Paolina and I crept down the stairs to exchange my clothes with the fisherboy’s. But that day I was full of the wondrous joy of unknown things to come. Now nothing new lies ahead.

Paolina waits for me, ever faithful. She gives the signal, and I race across the corridor to the bedchamber I share with Laura. I hide the disguise in the back corner of our closet cabinet.

Within minutes, Laura enters and helps me dress, so that we look identical to the world. She murmurs, “It’s over. You don’t have to go to that printer’s anymore. And I don’t have to do double duty.” She kisses my cheeks. “Welcome home, sister.”

I do my best to smile. We go out to the eating table and take our places.

There are
seppie
for the midday meal. I still call our tutor Messer Cuttlefish in my head, but really I don’t dislike him anymore. In fact, I rather like him. He’s a good teacher. But I still despise eating
seppie.
Which is fine, since I don’t have much appetite today, anyway.

Toward the end of the meal, as the fruit and cheeses are placed on the table, Father says he has an announcement. “The matter of a wife for Antonio will be settled in the future,” he says, “but the other matter, well, that’s in place.” He beams. “We’ve found not just one husband, but two.”

I look at Laura, but she’s looking at Father. My heart beats loud in my temples.

“Andriana,” says Father, “have you heard good things about the Foscari family?”

Andriana gives an open-mouthed nod of awe.

There’s really no need for Father to say more. The Foscari family lives in Cannaregio. They are practically neighbors. The son, Dario, is in his thirties. Mid-thirties, I believe. Older than might be ideal, but not too old. I’m being silly. Why, some men live to their nineties. Dario is definitely not too old.

Dario married years ago, and his wife, the lovely Catarina Trevisan, was rumored to be with child several times, unsuccessfully. A year ago, she died in childbirth. But the baby lived. A boy. Dario Foscari has been one of the most eligible men in Venice ever since, for not only does he have the wealth of his own family behind him, but because his wife left behind a child, her dowry belongs to that child—so it stays with the Foscari family. And her dowry was a summer villa on the mainland near Verona, a very desirable property.

Catarina had a younger sister, Marina. Normally, Dario would have been expected, at the very least, to seriously consider Marina as a replacement wife. After all, the Trevisan family had invested much in the union. But Dario feared that Marina, like her sister, would not be a good breeder. Everyone knows that. So Dario’s choice of Andriana makes sense. Mother is strong and healthy after giving birth to fifteen children, and twelve of them are still alive. There is every reason to hope Andriana will have many healthy babies.

Father is going through the list of Dario Foscari’s assets in a singsong tone, almost a litany. I want him to get to the end of it. I want him to get to that second husband.

“And, so,” says Father, “he is a wealthy man and will provide well for you.”

Andriana’s whole face smiles. And I understand. Dario is more handsome at his age than most men are in their twenties. Even I have watched him during Mass. She is lucky. So keep talking, Father, I beg inside my head, get to the second husband.

“And he is so impressed with your charms that he’s asked for a smaller dowry than I expected to pay.” Father looks at Laura, then at me. “That’s why I could afford to arrange a second marriage, with a second dowry, though it is not of a size that would be acceptable to a wealthy family.”

I don’t care one bit about wealth. And I know Laura doesn’t, either. Not when it comes to a husband.

“The groom is of the Priuli family.”

I know that name. Oh, yes. Father has talked about the Priuli father. They’ve been negotiating a joint proposal to the Senate regarding a piece-rate raise that will keep the combers and the weavers equally satisfied. It seems the Priuli family is as much interested in the welfare of the wool industry as our own Mocenigo family. Father has talked about this nonstop for the past month, boring everyone but the older boys to tears. Beyond this, I know nothing of the family. I’m sure Laura does, though, with all these gatherings she’s gone to. But I can’t remember her talking about them.

“They’re nobles, as is only proper,” says Father, “but they have nowhere near the worldly wealth that we do. My friend and colleague, Benedetto, the father of the family, wants a partner for his son, Roberto. Someone who will help him hold together a family as well as stand behind him in his business decisions. Someone diligent, with a good head on her shoulders.”

There’s that word again, that word that Noè used: “partner.” Roberto Priuli needs a partner in life, just as Noè does.

Noè’s slender face, his ropy arms with those long fingers, stained by ink, his slight sway as he walks, the way the wind ruffles the fine tips of his hair, the way his eyes flicker for a moment before he answers my questions—everything everything about Noè fills my head.

I must be possessed. This is a moment to think about the Priuli son. Roberto. The man who will be husband to either Laura or me. I’ve wanted so much to be married. I must focus on Father, listen to his words. I must want to drink in those words. I must beg the Lord for Father to say it is me he has chosen for Roberto. Me.

Father lifts his brows. “Which of you is Donata?”

“I am,” I say. This is the moment I longed for. Joy should fill me now. Come, joy, fill me. Blot out the image of my Noè.

“You’ve proven your intelligence in the tutorials. Antonio tells me all about you—and Messer Zonico assures me it is so. And none of us who shares mealtime conversation with you could fail to see your good mind for business. On top of that, you still practice your music at night, which is commendable, particularly since the Priuli family prizes the musical abilities of their women. You have a fine talent. And the Priuli mother is content with your looks, having seen Laura at these frequent gatherings and being assured that the two of you are as identical as fish eyes. But, more important, more to the point, your mother has told me of your outstanding conscientiousness in the work, as of late. You work much harder than your sisters, even going back to the workroom in the evenings. Diligence is the virtue Messer Priuli wants most in a daughter-in-law. Diligence, modesty, and obedience. You will make Roberto a fine partner, Donata.”

I stare at the uneaten meal on my plate. It is not I who has musical abilities. It is not I who has been diligent in work. And, oh, dear Lord, obedient, me? I look up at Laura, whose tear-filled eyes hold mine fast.

“Do I take your silence for gratitude?” says Father.

“I am stunned,” I manage to say.

“Life holds its surprises, doesn’t it? Laura, you, then, will be the sister to live at home and care for your brother Antonio’s children. Mother tells me you’ve always been patient with your younger siblings, so this is all working out well. And, Paolina, my little flower, Mother tells me you are fast becoming a master gardener.”

Paolina smiles. “I could make our courtyard the envy of all Venice.”

“There’s no need to make a new garden here,” says Father. “There’s already a garden that needs you. In a year you will enter the Convent of San Salvador, where the cloisters have a lovely courtyard that can benefit from your skilled hands.”

Paolina nods. Her face shows no emotion whatsoever.

And the meal goes on, though I know that three people at this table want to scream and scream and scream.

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

PRAYER

I
’ll tell him.” I sit on the bed with my knees up to my chest and my arms hugging them as tight as I can. “I’ll just tell Father.”

“And then what?” Laura makes two fists and holds them under her chin as though she doesn’t know what to do with them. “I don’t know what the punishment is for a girl doing what you’ve been doing, but I never want to know. It’s got to be horrible.”

“That’s just like you,” I say. “You never want to know the bad things. But sometimes you have to know. Whatever the punishment is, I have to tell him.” I get off the bed.

Andriana catches me by the arm. “You’re not alone in this. We all knew you were doing it. I’m the oldest; it fell on me to stop you. I did try—remember that, whatever happens. I tried.” Her voice shakes. “But not hard enough. So I’m in trouble, too. And Paolina got you the fisherboy’s clothes and helped you sneak back to your chamber each day. And Laura played the most important role—she deceived even Mother. If you reveal the deception, we’ll all be punished. And who knows what that will mean? Who knows?”

“It couldn’t mean anything near as terrible as what will happen if I don’t tell.”

“Of course it could, Donata. And it’s not just family punishment you risk. Girls who conspire—girls who help their sister go out into the city alone. Think about it. Oh, I was so stupid not to stop you. If anyone outside the family learned of this, we’d all become suspect. We’d become pariahs overnight.”

I pull myself free and go to Laura. “All right, then, we won’t say anything about my going outside the
palazzo
. I’ll tell Mother that all month we’ve been playing a game, that I was you and you were me. Why make it any more complicated than that? As Francesco said to us, the most elegant solution is the most Venetian.”

Laura looks at me with a glimmer of hope.

“I’ll say you were the one working hard and I was the one who never finished my work. You were the one practicing violin and I was the one never practicing.”

“Will you say Laura was the one Antonio and Messer Zonico think is so smart?” asks Paolina.

I flush at being caught in my pride. “Yes, of course.”

“That won’t work.” Laura shakes her head. “Remember what Piero said? Father’s always known you’re the one with a head on your shoulders. He believed Antonio and Messer Zonico only because that’s what he thinks himself. No one, no one at all, would believe it’s been me who says all those things about business at meals. And no one would believe I’ve been saying whatever brilliant things you say in tutorials.” Her voice is bitter.

“I don’t say brilliant things in tutorial, Laura.”

“It doesn’t matter, Donata. Father wouldn’t believe we’ve had a game.”

“Nor would Mother believe it was Donata who came to the parties with us this month,” says Andriana, cupping Laura’s chin in her hand. “Donata can’t be charming the way you were all month. She could never have won over Roberto Priuli’s mother the way you did.” She kisses Laura on the cheek.

Laura looks over Andriana’s shoulder at me with such savage pain, I can hardly think.

“Then I’ll tell Mother and Father that we pretended to be each other only for work,” I say. “For work and music.”

“But why?” says Paolina. “What kind of game would that be?” She shrugs. “It makes no sense even to me. I wouldn’t believe you.”

“Nor will Mother,” says Andriana, turning to me now. “She’ll be alarmed and then she’ll force the truth out of you.”

“Not out of me,” I yelp.

“Then out of one of us. She will, Donata. Oh, I know you want to do the right thing.” Andriana holds out her hands to me. “But no one should do anything fast. My wedding will be first, in any case. We’ve got plenty of time to figure things out before yours.”

I’m so confused. “What will waiting solve? An answer isn’t going to appear out of nowhere.” But, despite my words, I let Andriana fold me into her arms. It’s so good to be in the soft warmth of my big sister.

“Donata’s right,” says Paolina. “And so is Andriana. Answers may not appear out of nowhere, but if you wait and pay attention to what’s going on around you, sometimes answers do come.”

“You sound like you’ve already entered the convent,” says Laura. “The next thing, you’re going to tell us to pray.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” says Andriana.

We get on our knees in a circle, cross ourselves in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, and offer our prayers, eyes closed, heads bowed.

Oh, Lord, merciful Father, have pity on me. I never meant harm to Laura. It cannot be that I am the cause of her being cheated from what she wants so much. No matter who this Roberto is, he wants a partner with the attributes of Laura. And, so, he must be right for her, since she is so right for him. Please, please, Lord, don’t put me in Laura’s rightful place. Yes, I’ve begged you for a husband before on so many occasions. But this is not the way I want to get one. I want . . . no no no. I mustn’t even think about the kind of man I want. Not in this moment. This is the moment to think about Laura. Roberto Priuli is Laura’s man. Help me find a way to right this wrong. Help me, dear Lord. Please. No sin I’ve ever committed is so terrible as the sin I would commit if I married the man who really wants Laura—the man she really wants, too. Help me. Oh, please, please show me the way.

I open my eyes.

Paolina’s eyes are also open. She’s looking at the floor and holds herself so still that for a moment I think she’s not breathing. Then her eyes rise and meet mine. Her eyes are pools of pain. But her blink is like a door shutting; her eyes go empty. She smiles flatly.

Laura is the next to open her eyes. She avoids mine.

Finally, Andriana opens her eyes. She looks at me pleadingly.

It takes me a few seconds to understand, and then it’s all clear. I can’t believe how selfish I’ve been. “Dear Andriana, here we are ignoring your good news. I am so happy for you.”

“Dario Foscari is lucky to get such a wife,” says Laura, settling back on her heels.

“You’ll be happy,” says Paolina.

We’re all sitting back on our heels now, a circle of sisters on the floor, skirts touching.

“Thank you.” Andriana blushes. “He is handsome, isn’t he?”

“He’s angelic,” says Laura.

Andriana laughs.

“No, I mean it,” says Laura. “In church with the light behind him, he seems to wear a halo.”

So my twin has watched this man in church just as I have. I look at Laura’s profile. She steadfastly refuses to turn her face to me, but I know she feels my eyes on her. And she knows I know. How can I have brought such harm to the person I’m closest to in the world?

“Mother and I are going to another gathering today,” says Andriana. “The Grimani family wants to show off a daughter for us to consider as a potential wife for Antonio, and from what I’ve heard, she’s better than most. They say she’s kind.”

“That might mean she’s ugly,” says Paolina.

I smile—that’s exactly the reaction I had.

“We’ll see,” says Andriana, her voice growing lighter and happier with each word. “Come with us. All of you. Let’s have a good afternoon.”

“I’ll skip my harpsichord lesson gladly,” says Paolina.

Laura touches Paolina’s cheek. “I thought you enjoyed the harpsichord as much as I enjoy my violin.”

“I’ll have the rest of my life to play the harpsichord, and only one more year to go to parties.” Paolina stands up. “I’m coming.” She takes Andriana’s hand and pulls her to her feet.

I look at Laura, who is looking down at her hands, folded on her lap. “We’ll stay here. Laura and I need to talk.”

Andriana leans over Laura. “Is that what you want?”

Laura nods without looking up.

Andriana and Paolina leave.

Bortolo comes in. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“We were praying,” I say.

“You’re not praying anymore. Why don’t you get up?”

“We like it here,” I say.

“Laura doesn’t. She’s crying again. Why is Laura always crying? Is it still that cursed toothache?”

I look at Laura’s hands. They’re shiny with the tears that fall from her bent head. “It’s much worse than a toothache,” I say. “Everything hurts today.”

Bortolo stares at Laura. Slowly his mouth opens in a circle. “Ah,” he practically shouts. “I know what’s going on. This is just your trick, not hers.”

“What are you talking about, Bortolo?”

“I came to demand you give me a gift to keep silent because you’re getting married when really Laura’s the one who should be. I thought you were both in on it. But it’s just you, Donata. Laura hasn’t agreed. It’s just your trick. That’s why Laura’s crying. That’s the real reason, isn’t it?”

I forgot: Bortolo can tell us apart. He knows Laura’s been doing double duty every morning. I should be afraid of his knowledge, but right now I almost wish he’d go blabbing to Father. At least this nightmare would be over. “No, Bartolo. That isn’t why Laura’s crying. Because I’m not going to get married. Do you understand? I’m not getting married. It’s all a terrible mistake. Laura’s crying because we haven’t yet figured out a way to make everything right again.”

Laura looked up when I said I wasn’t going to get married, and she’s still looking at me.

Bartolo twists his mouth in doubt for a moment, then smiles heartily. “I knew you wouldn’t be that bad,” he says to me. “I knew you wouldn’t steal Laura’s husband.” He gets on his knees beside Laura. “Don’t be sad. You’ll find a way. Give me a great treat, and I’ll help.”

“How, Bortolo?” I ask. “How will you help?”

Laura’s looking at Bortolo now, just as tensely as she looked at me a moment ago.

“Tell me what to do,” says Bortolo simply. “I’ll do anything you say. I’m great at secrets and adventures.”

Stupid me, I was hopeful for a moment. Hopeful that my six-year-old brother could actually rescue us. And Laura felt the same way, I’m sure. “I don’t know what to tell you to do, Bortolo.”

Bortolo reaches inside his vest without a moment’s hesitation. He pulls out the yarmulke. “When I don’t know what to do, I use my magic hat. It makes me think better.” He puts it on his head and closes his eyes. If he were to bow, he’d look as if he were praying, like a perfect little Ghetto boy.

Laura takes the yarmulke off his head. “You mustn’t show that to anyone, Bortolo. That’s a Jewish hat. Someone might take you for a Jew.” Her voice breaks and she’s crying again.

This can’t happen. Bortolo’s right: I can’t be this bad—the world can’t be this bad. “There’s no cause for worry, Laura,” I lie. “I have a plan.”