Daughter of Venice (19 page)

“A dark room,” I say.

“I’ve never been inside a home of the poorest people,” says Messer Zonico. “But I imagine that’s right. And most of the poor die young.”

“Almost half the people of Venice die before reaching the age of twenty-one,” I say. “Father talked about that.”

“Yes,” says Messer Zonico. “But if you take out the nobles and citizens, if you look only at the poor people, you find that sixty percent of them never reach adulthood. They have many babies, but few live.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why do the babies die?”

“Sickness, lack of food.” Messer Zonico lifts his hands toward us, as though apologizing. “The sorghum we use for making brooms—do you know it? The state doesn’t even tax it because it’s considered inedible. But some poor make their bread from it. And bread is the mainstay of their diet.”

“Mother sometimes takes hot bread and puts it on our chests inside our clothes in winter,” I say. “To give us a special warm feeling—so we’re cozy. Bread made from wheat flour. When the bread grows cold, we throw it out.” I clench my teeth as I remember.

“We should be ashamed,” says Antonio so softly I can barely hear him.

“The very worst part of poverty, however, is probably not any of these physical discomforts.” Messer Zonico looks right at me now. “It’s the monotony. They have no education. We can take respite in our books, in our philosophy and theology. Our spirits can take flight no matter what happens to our bodies. The poor have none of this.”

Nor would I, I think, if I hadn’t fallen into this tutorial almost by accident, as it were.

“Antonio,” says Messer Zonico. “You can go to your individual study now.”

Antonio goes to the study table.

“Your mother has asked me to talk with you,” says Messer Zonico to me. “She says something troubles you.”

“Many things trouble me.”

“I can see that. And rightfully, Signorina Mocenigo. Rightfully. But your mother says there is something else—a secret.”

“Many things are secret,” I say. “Before I studied with you, all the things you’ve taught me were secret so far as I was concerned. They were kept from me.”

Messer Zonico takes off his eyeglasses. He rubs his eyelids with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Your mother fears you have taken up a practice that has, unfortunately, become popular among certain young women these days.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what’s popular among young women. I haven’t spent time with any of my old friends for months.”

“She thinks you’ve entered a period of self-flagellation,” he says.

“What does that mean?”

“She thinks you close yourself away from light and food and all comfort—that you harm yourself, to atone for some real or imagined transgression. Young women do that sometimes—particularly when they believe they have received a gift they don’t merit . . .” He pauses. “Such as an unexpected betrothal.”

“Mother is wrong,” I say. “I don’t consider the betrothal a gift I don’t merit. Anyone merits getting married. Marriage should not be reserved for the privileged few.” I didn’t know how strongly I believed this until now, as the words come out of my mouth.

Messer Zonico looks at me and his eyes seem huge and vague. “Then perhaps something else weighs on you, something else makes you punish yourself. You are about to enter into a noble marriage, but with a family of more modest means. Your outburst earlier—which I do not disparage in the least—indeed, we all benefited from hearing it—your outburst indicates a serious concern about economic matters. Signora Mocenigo, do you feel guilty for your wealth?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’ve never asked myself that question. But the answer is not relevant to my secret, Messer Zonico, for I do not practice self-flagellation.”

“I see.” Messer Zonico puts together lightly the tips of the fingers of both his hands. He looks at me imploringly. “Whatever it is you do—whatever secret—can you at least tell me why you’ve been doing it?”

“I’m trying to do the right thing.”

Messer Zonico’s chest rises and falls in deep breaths. He seems to struggle with my answer. He looks pitiful.

Why do I make so many problems for so many people? Why can’t I simply be like Laura, naturally good?

“The right thing in general, or in particular?” he asks.

“If one does the former, how can one not do the latter?” I say.

“Quite right. But I cannot return to your mother with no answers,” says Messer Zonico. “I must tell her something. If I tell her that you are concerned with questions of right and wrong—with questions of theology—would that be a deception?”

Questions of theology. Questions of and for God. “No,” I answer.

He puts his eyeglasses back on. “Then that is what I shall say. Do you want to return to your reading now?”

I get up and go to the long table and take up reading where I left off. It’s hard to concentrate after the discussion of tutorial today. But gradually the words on the page command my attention. I dig deeper and deeper into the beauty of Saint Thomas Aquinas’ arguments for the existence of our dear Lord.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

FINISHING WORK

I
wake to a noise in the corridor, like yesterday. Little Maria? I open the door stealthily.

Cara sits in a chair directly across from my bedchamber. She’s looking around and tapping her feet, probably to try to keep herself awake. Has she been out there all night? Or did Giò Giò take the first shift? When Cara finally turns her head to me, her mouth opens uncertainly.

“Are you my prison guard?” I ask, which isn’t totally kind, since I know that Cara isn’t to blame. She’s a slow woman, but an earnest one. I’m immediately ashamed of myself.

But the offense flies past Cara’s unsuspecting nature. She smiles her usual smile, just a bit more weary than normal. “The mistress told me to alert her when you came out of your bedchamber.”

I return her smile and step into the corridor. “You had better do so, then.”

Cara gets up heavily and walks up the corridor.

I am already on the stairs, taking them at breakneck speed, by the time I hear her knuckles rap on Mother and Father’s bedchamber door. I get over to the outer edge of the stairwell and run as close to the wall as I can, so no one looking down from above will see me.

“Donata!” Mother shouts. “Where are you? Did she go up or down, Cara? Which way?”

Bortolo and Nicola are playing already in their corridor. They both see me coming down.

I put my finger to my mouth in the hush sign and keep running.

Nicola opens his mouth to greet me, but Bortolo slaps his hand over Nicola’s mouth and wrestles him to the floor. They roll like kittens as I race past and down the last flight. I duck into the storeroom.

I’m afraid to stay here, though, even for the few minutes it takes to dress. Bortolo won’t say he saw me. But Nicola probably will. He’s never yet kept a secret. And I can hear Mother’s shouts. Everyone will be awake soon.

I climb over the large wool spool, grab my fisherboy’s clothes, and go out the
palazzo
door.

I’m in the alley in my nightdress—something unthinkable only yesterday. My arms feel chilled, though the morning is already warm. I jam the fisherboy’s clothes underneath the nightdress. I have to go left, because on my right the alley ends at the Canal Grande. And I have to go fast. One alley, the next, the next.

The traffic on the Rio Terrà di Maddalena is just picking up. Noè won’t be here for a while.

I wish I were invisible. I shake my head wildly, till my hair bushes out around me, half covering my face. A kind of natural veil.

A chimney sweep goes by with brooms and buckets. He looks at me, his eyes amazed, then quickly lowers his head, as though he’s afraid he’ll get in trouble for what he’s seen.

I press my back against a wall.

A man opens the shop next to me. He glances over his shoulder at me as he fiddles with the door lock, trying not to drop the sack under his arm. He goes inside, his head turned away. I’m almost sure he purposely avoided looking at me.

I need help.

Chiara. She’ll be opening her shop soon, if she hasn’t already.

I put on the
zoccoli
and cross the road, looking both ways. The beggar boy comes out of nowhere, sees me, then spins on his heel and goes the other way.

They’re afraid of me, these men and the boy. Afraid of a girl who’s somewhere she shouldn’t be, acting erratic. Maybe this is better than being invisible.

I knock on the door of Chiara’s shop. No one answers. I press my back against the door and slide my bottom down till I’m sitting, as small and inconspicuous as I can be.

“What manner of person are you, child?” comes the muttering voice.

I jump up in relief. “Oh, Chiara, kind woman, can I come inside just to change my clothes? Please, kind woman.”

Chiara draws back with a frown. “How is it you know my name?”

I smooth my hair back, hold it down with one hand while the other hand keeps my fisherboy’s clothes safe in place under my nightdress, and thrust my face into hers.

“Donato?” she asks, as though she can’t believe her eyes.

“I have to get out of sight fast. Please, Chiara.”

Her eyes burn into me. “Turn left at the next alley,” she whispers. “Then again left at the one after that. Count the windows. Stop at the seventh one. Don’t knock.” She steps back and raises her hands as though in alarm. “Get away,” she says loudly. “Scat.”

I race for the alley, stumbling at her rough words.

“And good riddance to you,” she shouts after me.

What’s going on? But I can’t think what else to do. I turn fast into the alley, run to the next one and turn again. Most of the windows are shuttered. I go to the seventh one and wait.

One side opens a crack. “Is anyone about?” she whispers.

I look up and down the alley. “I don’t see anyone.”

Chiara opens the shutter a bit more. She grabs me by the elbow and half pulls me in, as my legs and arms scrabble to help me climb.

Once my feet are on the floor, she closes the shutter again immediately. Dank darkness swallows us.

“Have you got a change of clothes with you?” asks Chiara.

“Yes.”

“Be quick,” she says. “Then come through to the front shop.” She walks away, knocking into things in the dark as she goes.

I’m accustomed to changing in the dimness of the storeroom, so I have no problem here. Then I roll my nightdress tight and feel my way across the room and into a little corridor. Now the light from the front windows guides me. I go into the box shop.

Chiara sits on her stool and stares at me. “It is you.” She puts her hands to her cheeks. “Are you bringing me trouble?”

“I don’t intend to. Someone’s coming to meet me out on the street soon. Can I stay just until he gets here?”

“Tell me, are you boy or girl?”

“Girl.”

“So is this a forbidden romance, you and the someone who’s coming to meet you? Are you running off together?”

“No,” I say.

“But it is trouble, it is something you’re not supposed to be doing.”

“Yes,” I say, though her comment wasn’t a question.

“You look like a normal Catholic child now.” Chiara regards me carefully. “Do you know what you looked like in the street?”

“I have some idea,” I said.

“But not a good enough one, I bet. You looked like a girl the devil had snatched and planted a child in. A lost soul. A witch.”

I shake my head in horror. “I’m no witch.”

“I know that. But others might not. You cannot go about looking like that.”

“I never will again,” I say.

“Keep that promise, for your own sake.” Chiara walks to the door of the shop. Then she rushes back in, grabs her broom, and returns to the doorway, shaking the broom over her head threateningly. She turns to me. “I just reminded your enemy not to bother my errand boy. You’d better go now, while his memory is still good.”

“Thank you, Chiara. I won’t forget your kindness.”

“Don’t think of repaying me, child. I may not be able to afford the consequences of another visit from you.”

“Take this, at least,” I say, handing her my rolled-up nightdress. “I can’t carry it around with me all day, and maybe you can sell it.”

Chiara feels the nightdress, her fingers measuring its fine quality. She looks at me in surprise.

“
Addio
—be with God.” I kiss her on each cheek. I’m sad to think I cannot come to her shop again. But after today, I will be saying good-bye to so many things—so what does it matter, one more good-bye? Why should it hurt this much? I go into the street without a backward glance.

Noè comes walking toward me.

Francesco walks not far behind him.

Oh, Lord, what mischief have you designed?

I turn my back to them. Have they seen me? I want to run, but that might draw attention. I get to the side wall and kneel over my shoe, as though adjusting it. That trick worked once before, it must work again.

Francesco passes by.

“Hello,” calls Noè.

I hold perfectly still. Don’t let him call my name. Don’t, don’t, please.

“Donato,” calls Noè.

Francesco stops and looks back.

At least Noè said the male version of my name. I should have known he wouldn’t use the female—he uses that only at the printer’s when someone else might hear. Francesco shouldn’t think long about it; Donato is a common enough name.

Noè has reached me now.

“I’m having trouble with my shoe,” I say out of the side of my mouth to Noè, my head lowered so close to my foot it almost touches it. “Just a minute, please. And, please, don’t say my name again.”

Noè bends over to take a look. “Can I help?”

“There’s someone up ahead. Someone I don’t want to see me. Please don’t look around. But tell me if the noble in the blue hose is still looking at us.”

Noè squats beside me and fumbles with my
zoccolo
. His face is all concentration. He lowers his chest and twists a little, as though to get a better look at my shoe. The position allows him to see up the road. He’s more adept at deception than I would have expected. “The young man has moved on.”

“As soon as he’s out of sight, we must go fast,” I say.

Noè takes a
zoccolo
off my foot and fools around with the straps. He puts it back on me. “Give me the other one.” I do, and he adjusts that one, too.

“They fit much better now,” I say.

“It was easy. You should have told me when I gave them to you,” he says.

“Sold them to me,” I correct him.

“He’s out of sight.”

I stand and walk so quickly even Noè’s long strides have trouble keeping up.

“Who was he?” asks Noè.

“My brother.”

“But I thought your brother knew about your escapades among the poor.”

“Only Bortolo. I have seven brothers.”

Noè lets out a whistle. “And a sister, who has a gold brooch.”

“Four sisters.”

“Your mother’s been lucky.”

“Three other sisters died.”

“I didn’t even keep track of how many of my brothers and sisters died.”

“Is that true?” I ask, horribly saddened at the idea.

“No. Four brothers died. Three sisters died. The only ones who lived are Sara and Isaia and me. I’m the oldest. Then there’s Isaia.”

This is what Messer Zonico talked about, but it’s worse than I imagined. “Did they starve?”

“No one in the Ghetto starves, Donato, unless everyone starves together. If a family needs, everyone gives. Sometimes we don’t give as much as we should, but we give. No, they died in epidemics.”

“Epidemics?”

“Sicknesses that sweep large parts of the city.”

“My sisters died in epidemics, too. And my mother’s sisters and some of my Father’s brothers and sisters. And my uncle Umberto went blind from the smallpox.” Then I remember. “Another girl answered your door once. She looked a lot like Sara.”

“My cousin Neomi. Our families live together.”

“I have cousins, too. But they live in Padua.”

“You can stop running now, you know. Your brother is far away.”

I slow down. “I can work all day today. I’ll finish the job.” I look up at him and give in to pride. “You’re amazed, admit it.”

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

Noè laughs. “My amazement passed late yesterday afternoon.” He gives an appreciative bob of the head. “I looked over your work before going home. In two mornings you finished two copies and did most of the third. The work is easy for you. In fact, I’m surprised you think it’ll take all day to finish it.” His voice rises as he teases me. “You must be feeling lazy.”

“Very funny.” But I’m pleased. “I’ll need that help you promised me with Latin, as soon as I finish the fifth copy.”

“But I thought you knew Latin.”

“Not enough,” I say.

“All right. I suppose I can give you ten minutes of my time.”

“Ten minutes?” I squeal.

Noè laughs. “I was just joking. How long a lesson do you want?”

“I don’t want a lesson. I want help writing a letter.”

“That’s easy enough.”

We arrive and I go straight to Noè’s workroom. With no delay, I’m bent over the third copy of the noble boy’s play. But now I hear Noè talking with another man. His voice is loud. I can’t afford to take the time to go into the corridor to listen better. I have to finish this job today. With all probability, I’d never make it out of the
palazzo
if I waited till tomorrow. Mother will realize now that I do, indeed, go outside. She’ll think I lied to her yesterday. And I guess I did. I violated her trust.

What has become of me?

What will become of me next?

I set to work.

After a long while, Noè comes in. He paces in agitation.

I give up. “I can’t work with you acting like that, so you might as well tell me what’s bothering you.”

Noè rushes to me. “It’s today’s handbill. The Inquisition is heating up again.”

I press my fists together in alarm. “But I thought Venice wouldn’t risk offending its Jews or Protestants because of business.”

“Right,” says Noè. “And the Vatican has noticed. They question Venice’s devotion to Catholicism. So the Senate has decided to prove its piety by clamping down.”