Daughter of Venice (7 page)

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

BAREFOOT

P
aolina helps me braid my hair tight at the back. We work silently. There’s no one to hear us, even if we did talk; Giò Giò already came down and closed and secured the great gates to the Canal Grande. But somehow the dim light of this storeroom calls for quiet. The only sun is the thin strands that sneak in through the bars over the small, high window.

Paolina tucks my braid inside the fisherboy’s shirt, which is so long on me, it comes down to midthigh. “Watch where you step,” she says, her voice strangely nasal because she’s holding her nose against the stink of these clothes. She smiles and leaves.

I wish the fisherboy’s shirt gathered tight at the throat like my brothers’ shirts. Then at least I could be sure my hair wouldn’t work its way out as I walk along. But I’ll just have to hold my neck stiff.

I climb over giant spools of wool thread and hide my nightdress in a corner. Then I go to the tall doors that open onto the alley side of our
palazzo,
turn the key in the hole, and slip out. There’s no way I can lock these doors from the outside, so I simply close them firmly.

The stone under my feet is cool because this alley is in continual shade, with a
palazzo
on each side, both facing onto the Canal Grande. Only people coming to one or the other
palazzo
pass here. Luckily, the alley is empty. It’s so quiet, I can hear the hens cluck in the neighboring courtyard.

I walk to the end of the alley and turn. If I were going to Mass, I’d continue on, and over the small bridge ahead. But now I go only halfway down this alley, and, with my heart pounding in my ears, I turn down a side alley I have never ever walked before. I go to the end of it, and stop. The way I’m panting, you’d think I’d been running. I feel almost dizzy.

The wide street in front of me is raucous. I recognize it from the talk at our dining table: This is the Rio Terrà di Maddalena. It was a canal until a few years ago. Now it is among the most traveled passageways of Venice. It’s also one of the filthiest, for although the sweepers clean every night, merchants have been passing here since dawn. I gulp.

We go barefoot indoors all the time. But I’ve never before been outside in bare feet. When I go to church or to a friend’s home, I wear my fancy shoes—the ones I hate. But at least those high soles keep me safe from the mucky street.

Nothing protects my feet now.

I remember the fisherboy’s brown feet. Why, he doesn’t even have shoes. Of course not. It’s so obvious, I almost laugh at what a fool I was. And he probably doesn’t have a
bareta,
either. If he fishes with no clothes on, he certainly wouldn’t put a hat on his head. I was an idiot to put mine in the satchel. He’s probably sold them both by now.

Well, if he can walk back and forth from his boat to his home every single day with no shoes, then I can certainly go out just this one day with no shoes.

“Move, boy.” A water-carrier pushes me aside with a rough swipe of the arm. The two deep buckets swing heavily from the beam balanced across his shoulders.

I shrink back from the touch of his large hand. We have a courtyard with our own cistern. But many homes get their water from the public cisterns in the
campi
. The job of carrying water takes enormous strength, because it’s un-ending. This man will trudge all day long from that cistern to every home in our parish that doesn’t have a private cistern.

I walk in the direction that would be to the right as we look out our balcony window onto the Canal Grande. That’s the general direction of Dorsoduro, where the fishermen live. I stay close to the walls, trying to ignore the bits of rubble that tickle my arches and stick between my toes. Every man I pass seems larger than normal, more powerful. I know this is just because the water-carrier gave me a scare. I know I can manage this adventure. There’s nothing really dangerous about it. Just bare feet, that’s all.

A boy my size but a couple of years younger walks toward me. He’s barefoot and in trousers, too, though he has a
bareta
on. I press against the wall to allow him passage. But he catches my eye, and his own glints. He also hugs the wall closer. I swerve out to go around him, but he quickly swerves himself and our shoulders bash hard.

“What you think you’re doing here?” His face is mean. Three rings of dirt circle the creases of his neck. His breath smells of rancid figs. It warms my cheeks.

Warms my cheeks! No veil. I’m outside without a veil. That’s what it means to be a boy—but, oh, it makes me feel as if I were naked. I fight the urge to cover my face with my hands.

“This spot’s mine.”

His language is crude and hard to follow. I have to get away from his nastiness fast. I lower my head and try again to pass.

He grabs me by the hair at the nape of my neck. “What’s this? What you doing with hair like this?”

I twist away, but he pins me to the wall.

“Whatever gimmick you’ve got, boy, go use it someplace else.” His face is so close to mine, I fear his lips will brush my cheek. “Don’t ever let me see you begging around here again.”

So that’s it. “I’m not begging,” I say reasonably. “I’m a fisherboy.”

“With this white skin?” He pinches my cheek. “If you beg as bad as you lie, you’ll not last long in this world. Take your fake fancy talk and go die someplace else.” He spits in my face and walks on.

I’m breathing heavily as I wipe the boy’s saliva from my nose and brow. I want to go straight home. Now, this very instant. Straight into the arms of my clean, cooing sisters. But the beggar boy went in the direction of home. Oh, I spy him now, leaning against the wall by the opening of the alley that leads back to my
palazzo
. I have no choice; I hurry in the other direction, shaking with disgust.

I don’t want to go to Dorsoduro now. The beggar boy was right—I’d stand out, with my fishbelly pale skin against all the deep tans of the fisherboys. People would look, and then someone would notice my hair tucked into the back of my shirt and who knows what would happen then. I wouldn’t even be able to talk my way out of trouble; they’d all accuse me of acting fancy.

If only I could find a way to circle back through the alleys and home again. But I remember the confusing maze of alleys on the map in Cristina Brandolini’s home. I remember how Francesco laughs when he talks about all the times he’s gotten lost. I must stay on this street—I must walk in a straight line, so I don’t get lost. As soon as I’m sure the beggar boy is gone, I’ll go home.

What am I thinking? Here it is, my first venture into the world I’ve wanted so much to explore, and I’m about to run back home. What a fool. There is so much around me—so many marvels. I can’t let one vile boy ruin it all.

I must find strength. Strength and pride. The kind I had when I used to play procession with Laura and Andriana. I remember the words of the woman on the balcony beside me as we looked down on the Piazza San Marco that one wonderful day. “Peace to you, Mark, my evangelist,” I say inside my head. And I’m marching, marching.

Ahiii! I lift my right foot. A large splinter of wood has embedded itself in my sole, smack in the center of my birthmark. I lean against the wall for balance and try to pull it out. The end that protruded breaks off. Now the only way to get it out is to dig at it with a needle. And, Blessed Mary forgive me, but it burns like the fires of eternal damnation.

I want to cry. Who’d think that a thing so insignificant as shoes could ruin an adventure? For want of shoes, I’ve been labeled a beggar and banished from the alley that leads to my home. For want of shoes, I’m now a cripple.

I hobble along the street, my bottom lip trembling with self-pity. My path winds carefully around stray objects that might cause further injury to these poor feet of mine. Every step hurts.

The bell of San Marcuola rings loudly. The church is off to the left somewhere beyond the next bridge. It couldn’t be that hard to find.

The clothes for the poor mount high in a bin just inside the doors of the parish rectory. I could go to the rectory and ask for a pair of shoes. They’re sure to have wooden-bottomed
zoccoli
, at the very least. And I could beg a
bareta
, too.

But I would recognize the priests. They’re always slavish around Father and Mother, and they mumble pious words to us girls as we leave the Mass. So there’s a chance, no matter how small, that they’d recognize me, even though they’ve only seen my face when they’ve lifted the veil to offer the Communion wafer and wine.

And maybe there are other beggar boys watching me, too, not just that one boy. Maybe asking for shoes would count as begging to them.

I can’t go to the rectory.

My foot hurts worse with each step.

I come to the bridge. A group of boys swim naked in the canal. I blushed at the sight of the naked fisherboy this morning—but now all I feel is envy. A fine reprieve on a hot day. I’d smile if my foot didn’t hurt so much. I look back toward the alley I think of as mine. So many people clutter the street that it takes several minutes before there’s enough of a clearing for me to see—alas, the beggar boy stands beside the opening of the alley talking to a man.

I fight back tears and look ahead. On the other side of the bridge the pathway opens to the right into a wide street. I can see the opening to the first alley off of that. No one comes out of it. No one goes in. I’d be safe there, at least for a little while.

A cart loaded with summer melons from somewhere far south of Venice rolls past noisily. The vendor and his two helpers bump it up the steps of the bridge, roll it across the center, then bump it down the steps on the other side. The bridge is narrower than the passage, so walkers cluster impatiently behind the cart as it crosses the bridge, then quickly fan out and pass around it on the far side. I wait. When the hubbub quiets down, I limp over the bridge. I stay right behind the melon cart as it turns into the next wide street. Then I turn again, into the quiet alley.

I lean against a wall. It seems my whole body throbs now with the pain of the splinter.

A man comes out of a house and walks past me without a glance. But I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s a Jew. I know from the little cap on his head. Mother explained about those caps once when we passed a boat full of Jews. She said all Jewish boys and men wear them.

This must be the path to the Jewish Ghetto. I’ve heard Francesco talk about it. The newest synagogue of Venice stands in the Ghetto Nuovo—the New Ghetto. Why, I can go there and ask for shoes. Jews are famous for their charity. That beggar boy won’t care if I seek help in the Ghetto. He’s not a Jew, for he wasn’t wearing a little Jewish cap. And, yes, I can ask at the synagogue for one of those caps, too. Then no one will question me about my hair.

I move along the shadowed alley as fast as I can manage. The smaller alleys to the side are dark and cool and soothing, like the little alley beside our own
palazzo
. I realize that’s because the buildings here are extra tall, some of them taller even than the biggest
palazzi
of Venice. And the alleys here are hardly dirty at all. I don’t have to keep scanning the ground for sharp objects.

There’s light ahead—light and music. Children sing in another language. Not Venetian, and not the Latin I hear every Sunday at Mass. This must be the ancient language Hebrew. I get to the end of the alley and stop just within it, having a clear view of the
campo.
Small boys, ranging from perhaps six or seven to ten or eleven, stand shoulder to shoulder in rows before a tall, heavyset man of perhaps twenty years old—maybe twenty-five at the most. The high, sweet voices rise into the late-morning sunlight like doves.

When the boys finish singing, they drink from a basin of water and disperse. The choir master, or whatever he’s called, sends greetings to their families in a strong voice and in clear Venetian.

I wait for him to disappear down an alley, then I manage my way painfully to the basin and dip my sore foot in the water. It’s surprisingly cold. The shock almost numbs me, like the Chinese balm that Mother administers to our cuts.

A dark boy, much darker than the fisherboy, walks up to me and stands with a bucket, waiting, his eyes black stones in clear white. He stares at my foot.

I realize with a gasp that I have dirtied the water he’s come to fetch for drinking. I turn aside quickly, ashamed. “I beg of you,” I say softly, beckoning him to take the water. “Surely you can still use it for cooking.”

The boy doesn’t answer. He doesn’t wear the Jewish cap. He must be a slave.

Father keeps no slaves. He believes it is unjust for one human being to own another, since all human beings have souls. He’s right, as always. But some noble families disagree, and even ordinary citizens own slaves if they can afford them. This boy is probably Turkish. In our recent war with Turkey many slaves were taken.

The slave fills the bucket and drags it by the rope handle, walking backward. His eyes flicker from the vacillating surface of the water in the bucket to me. The water and me—we both worry him. Maybe he’ll get a beating if he spills too much water. But why would I make him worry?