Daughter of Venice (15 page)

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

STARTING

A
fter the initial horrible celebrations that Mother holds for Andriana and me—a special Mass, a gathering of the closest family friends, little private speeches in which she assures us we’ll make good wives and mothers—I can finally get to what I need to do most of all.

Work.

I work like there’s no tomorrow—for it is only when I’m working that I can keep myself from thinking of Noè—from missing him. And I don’t want to miss him. There’s something worrisome about missing him. Besides, it’s ridiculous. So much else is important now.

I finish my morning chores in record time, then help Laura finish hers. I play with the younger children enthusiastically, rolling on the floor with them, racing on the staircases, exhausting myself. In the afternoons I study and study and study. At night I play the violin—horribly, it’s true, but at least I do it.

There’s no way I can make up to Laura for all she did for me in that one month while I was a copyist, but I try. At mealtimes, I grab the biggest pieces of dessert and place them on Laura’s plate before my brothers can get their hands on them. She protests when we’re alone, but I know she’s glad I’m doing it. I know she feels sorry that I’m suffering so from guilt, and she’s happy that I’m finding little ways to assuage that guilt.

And I know, no matter how firmly I speak, that Laura’s beginning to lose hope. When Bortolo knelt on our bedchamber floor wearing the yarmulke, I was sure a plan would come to me. I promised Laura to tell all once I had all the details in place. Every day since then Laura has asked me if my plan is ready and every day I’ve said, “Not yet. But it will be soon.” The truth is, no plan has come.

But one thing is clear to me: I must learn more. Answers do not lie in ignorance.

There’s no way I can learn all of Latin overnight, though this is my heart’s passion. I’ve memorized the five noun declensions. That was relatively easy. It’s all the many verb conjugations that stump me. Sometimes I can guess what tenses the verbs are simply from how similar they are to Venetian verbs. But other times I’m totally wrong. I slave over Latin poetry late at night, by candlelight, when everyone else sleeps, but Ovid gets no easier.

Still, tonight I’m more optimistic than I’ve been since Father’s announcement of my marriage two weeks ago. At tutorial today Messer Cuttlefish handed me a book. A small book, one of those put out by the Aldine press. The very feel of the book pierced me—for the man who first let me hold such a book was my sweet Noè. I had to put the book down on the table, my hand shook so.

This text is bound in dark purple, straight-grain morocco, titled and tooled in gold. Messer Cuttlefish presented it to me like a treasure, almost as though he anticipated my reaction. “It contains several plays by Plautus,” he said in a reverential voice. I bent my head to hide my flush when he spoke. The last person to talk to me of plays was Noè, when he asked me to be the scribe for some Greek plays.

Messer Cuttlefish says that Plautus wrote in a unique way: His upper-class characters speak in classical Latin, while their servants speak in common street Latin. He says this will be more satisfying for me, more encouraging, because the street Latin will feel almost familiar. He said it’s strange that a woman betrothed, as I am, is so intent on learning Latin fast, but he wants to feed my fervor, whatever its cause. When he said that, I knew he was asking, in an oblique way; I knew he sensed something and wanted to help. And I appreciated his discretion. But I didn’t answer.

I’m not the only one our tutor gives personal attention to. Messer Cuttlefish assigns Vincenzo harder problems in mathematics than anyone else, and allows him to explain the problems the rest of us have trouble with. Vincenzo never seems so happy as in these moments. No matter how basic our questions are, he contemplates them and responds respectfully and lucidly. Even I, who am so new to mathematics, can follow most of what Vincenzo says. Messer Cuttlefish says Vincenzo has a gift.

And Messer Cuttlefish gives extra work in philosophy to Antonio, extra work in history to Piero, extra work in geography to Francesco. He has his eye on their futures.

Our tutor is not the prissy pedant I took him for, that first day of lessons. With a heavy heart I realize that. My future, no matter what it may be, will surely take me away from this home, and I’ll lose the great privilege of studying with this fine educator. Let me learn while I can.

Thus, I sit tucked in the corner of the bedchamber, the candleholder balanced on my knees, and open the little book by Plautus. Study study study. An answer will come.

Suddenly I fall back, both shoulders meeting the walls. The candle tumbles and hot wax burns the back of my forearm. I right the candleholder and manage to place it by my feet. My stomach heaves.

Everything is clear now. And everything is wrong. Everything. I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep myself from realizing it for so long. The worst will happen unless I do something to prevent it. This is the truth. This, and only this. It is a dishonor to Laura to act like such a fool—to look for the answer in a Latin verb ending.

I lay the book beside the candleholder on the floor and tiptoe past Laura, sleeping in our big bed, and out into the corridor, down to Mother and Father’s bedchamber. Their door is closed. I lift my hand to knock, when shakes overcome me again, and I’m on the floor, retching on all fours.

Hands cup my shoulders and pull me back. “What is it, Donata?” I sink into the folds of Mother’s dress. Her arms circle me and pull me onto her lap and we’re rocking together on the floor in the feeble light of the oil lamp beside her door. “Are you ill?”

“Ill of spirit.” It seems like forever since I’ve been alone with Mother. I twist within her arms till I can face her and hug her tight. “I can’t marry Roberto Priuli, Mother.”

Her torso stiffens. “And why not?”

“I cannot do this terrible thing to Laura.”

“Oh, Donata, my poor, sweet girl.” Mother softens around me again. “Of course it’s hard for you two to face separate futures—you’ve always had identical lives. But only one of you can marry. And the very fact that even one of you can marry is an unexpected blessing we should all be grateful for. Be happy for yourself—as I am sure Laura is happy for you.”

“You don’t understand, Mother. Laura should be Roberto Priuli’s wife. She’s the diligent one, Mother. She’s the musician.”

Mother strokes my cheeks. “Laura has always been a hard worker. And she’s very fine at the violin. I know that, Donata. But you’ve matured lately. Your new work habits surprised me.”

“You don’t know my new habits, Mother. You just think you do.”

“Don’t be silly, Donata, I know you well. Roberto Priuli needs a partner like you. Father is right to recognize your business acumen.”

“The Priuli family cares about the wool industry, Mother. Laura knows as much about that as I do. Laura is the right partner for Roberto Priuli.”

“No, Donata, there are things you don’t understand.”

“Explain them to me, Mother. Please. For God’s own sake, please.” I clutch her with all my strength.

Mother shakes her head. “Your behavior is exaggerated, Donata. Calm yourself.” She runs her hands down my arms and holds me tight.

I flinch in pain.

“What’s this? Wax on your arm? You burned yourself?”

“It’s nothing, Mother. I was reading by candlelight and I knocked over the holder.”

“See? Reading at this hour. Your father and I were standing on the balcony watching Venice sleep—but you were awake, studying. That’s why you are the one to marry, Donata. Your mind is restless. You would rage inside if we picked another way of life for you. Even as a wife and mother you will meet challenges disciplining yourself to the confines of proper society. There is much of your father in you, Donata. You’re a little too rebellious for your own good.”

“But Laura—”

“Laura knows how to accept life.”

“That’s not fair, Mother.”

“Hush, Donata. The decision is made. And it’s the right one. Go back to bed now.”

“It’s—”

“Discipline yourself,” Mother says firmly. “Good night, Donata.” She goes into her bedchamber and shuts the door behind her.

I walk back to my room. The candle flickers in the corner. Laura rolls over in her sleep and sighs. My eyes blur with sadness.

What if there is no answer at all?

I envy Bortolo, who puts the yarmulke on his head and yields to belief in magic.

I cannot even yield to sleep; my entire body quivers.

I lie on my stomach on the floor and open the little book hesitantly. I force myself to read.

Soon I’m lost in the play. It is about a legal trial. At once my body grows rigid. I rise to a sitting position and read faster. The protagonist of this play is wrongly accused of a heinous murder. The servants give testimony that is true, entirely true, but misleading for reasons that have nothing to do with treachery, but purely with innocent misunderstandings. The circumstances sweep me away. I read deep into the night.

When I finish the play, I hold the book to my chest until my racing blood slows to normal. Then I put the book under my pillow and blow out the candle.

Trials can end in death. But those that don’t can change life radically. Sometimes even for the better, if Plautus is to be believed.

But is he?

I close my eyes and still I see the image of Bortolo in the yarmulke, eyes shut, hands folded together. I toss and turn in frustration.

The next day at tutorial when it’s my turn for individual instruction, Messer Cuttlefish asks me how far along I am in the Plautus play.

“Dearest Tutor,” I ask, “has anyone ever found himself in better circumstances after a trial?”

Without hesitation, Messer Cuttlefish answers, “Andrea Donà.”

“Andrea Donà stood trial?” I am astonished. “We know the family. Mother is friends with the Donà mother. We girls have gone with Mother to their
palazzo
on many occasions, just as the Donà girls have come with their mother to our
palazzo
. Signora Donà even came to the private gathering that celebrated Andriana’s and my betrothals but ten days ago.”

Messer Cuttlefish shakes his head. “The Andrea I’m talking about is not the father of the Donà family today. The trial took place over a hundred and fifty years ago.”

I sigh in relief. I would not want my friends to have suffered the humiliation of a trial. “What happened?”

“He was ambassador to the court of Francesco Sforza in Milan. He was accused of taking a bribe from Sforza to reveal secrets of the Venetian Empire. He was tortured until he confessed. Then he was fined, imprisoned for two years, and banished. He lived in exile until the state pardoned him and—”

“Why?” I interrupt. “Why did they pardon him?”

“The Senate never made public their deliberations.” He stops short from saying more.

But I can guess the nature of what he was about to say. Since that day when Francesco and Piero came into Laura’s and my bedchamber and talked about how tolerance is good business, I’ve come to learn that Venice’s history has always been guided by good business. “What trade was the family responsible for then?”

“They didn’t dominate any single trade. Instead, they exported many things—paper, pins, needles, ship riggings. And they imported just as many—spices, cotton, wheat, almonds. Why do you ask?”

“They must have been involved in something in a crucial way,” I say, “because the pardon must have been to Venice’s economic benefit somehow.”

A corner of Messer Cuttlefish’s mouth twitches; he fights a smile for sure. “The Donà men were mercenary generals. Venice wanted to use them in wars against the dukes of Milan.”

“Oh, no. So a man who had been ambassador to Milan was asked to come back from exile in order to lead wars against the very place that had hosted him?”

Messer Cuttlefish nods.

“But he must have been close friends with his old hosts, or he wouldn’t have been accused of accepting bribes from them in the first place. So how could Venice expect him to cooperate—and how could he consider it?”

Messer Cuttlefish just looks at me.

“All this treachery is hard to understand,” I say. “Did Andrea do it? Did he really come back to Venice?”

“Indeed.”

“And did the Donà men lead troops in battle against Milan?” I ask.

“Yes. But Andrea was not a general—he was always a statesman. And he went on to hold higher offices than he’d held before the conviction and exile. He was ambassador to Cosimo de’ Medici in Florence and to the sultan of Egypt and, finally, to Pope Nicholas V.’’

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I don’t see how anyone could have trusted him, and I don’t see how he could have trusted them. I don’t understand politics.”

“But you do, Signorina Mocenigo. You knew his pardon had to be to Venice’s benefit. You used the word ‘treachery.’ You understand perfectly.”

I shake my head. “This conversation has gone astray from what really interests me.”

“Exactly what interests you, Signorina Mocenigo?”