Daughter of Venice (8 page)

I wait till he’s gone. Then I dip my hands in the water and let it trickle over my sore foot.

“Do you have a disease?”

I practically jump at the voice. “No, gentle sir.” The man has a small start of a beard. He looks around Antonio’s age—seventeen. Or perhaps eighteen.

“Your foot is turning black.”

“What? No it’s not.” I look down at my feet, which seem obscenely white against the gray stone.

“Hasan told me.”

The boy. I wonder if he told that I had my whole foot in their drinking water. “Your slave boy was mistaken, as you can see.” I offer a small smile.

“Hasan is no slave. We don’t keep slaves here.” Scorn sharpens the man’s voice.

“My father doesn’t keep slaves, either,” I say quickly.

The man’s eyes narrow. Then he laughs. “Your father, who cannot even keep his son in shoes, does not keep slaves. What a surprise.”

He’s laughing at me, as though I’m a fool. I go hot.

He stops laughing and squats, so that his head is now at my waist level.

The unexpectedness of his action makes me fall back a step onto my right foot, my injured foot. I wince from the pain.

“Let me see,” he says kindly. “Hasan said the blackness is on the underside.”

Ah, now I understand. “It’s a birthmark,” I say, twisting my foot upward. “But I got a splinter in the center of it.” The splinter forms a ridge under the skin. It’s long. The sight of it makes it hurt more.

The man takes my foot in his hands. I pull back instinctively, but he holds firm. His hands feel around the edges of my foot. He looks up at me with questioning eyes.

“If you have a needle, I can work it out,” I say at last. “Please, sir.”

“Why did you come here?”

“I saw the basin,” I say. “I came to wash my injury.”

“Tell the truth.”

“As the Virgin Mother is my witness, this is the truth.”

The corners of the man’s mouth twitch. I’m almost sure he’s holding back a smile. “The Virgin Mother, indeed,” he says. “But why here, in the Ghetto?”

I try to free my foot, but he’s got a strong grasp. “I was going to visit your synagogue and beg for shoes and one of your caps.”

“A yarmulke? What does a Catholic boy want with a yarmulke?”

There’s nothing to respond to that.

“All right, boy, we’re used to people seeking refuge. We turn no one away. But if you’re spying, that’s another story.”

“I’m not a spy.” The idea is absurd. “Who would I spy on? And why?”

The man turns his back, still in a squat, still holding me by the foot. “Climb on my back and we’ll take care of that splinter.”

I’ve both gotten rides and given rides before. But only with my family members. The young man waits, tensed in his squat. The very position makes his shirt press against his flesh, revealing the outline of muscle. What if he senses my femininity? Or, worse, feels the evidence against his back? But what else can I do? Barely breathing, I climb onto his back and curl my hands around his shoulders lightly, holding my torso stiff and as far from his spine as I can.

He carries me across the
campo,
up an alley, to a doorway. He kisses the fingers of his right hand and touches a metal marker on the doorway. Then we pass through the dark storage area of the ground floor, and up the stairs. He opens the door of that first floor above the ground floor and walks inside, me still on his back.

I am in the home of a Jew.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

QUESTIONS

A
n older woman, with a basket over her arm, is clearly on her way out. She gives me a glance, hears about my splinter from the man, and leaves, without a word.

The man deposits me on a bench at a kitchen table. “One minute.” He goes into another room.

I’m alone with a strange man in a strange house. The thought makes me shake. Mother would be appalled. So would my sisters. And I can’t begin to describe the way Father and my brothers would react. I should go down the stairs and out as fast as I can.

But I don’t want to limp home, a failure. Laura and Andriana would argue that this is proof that I shouldn’t go out in disguise ever again. Only Paolina would take my side, and she hardly counts. If this were my only reason, I’d have no choice but to go immediately.

But there is another reason: simple curiosity. The very reason why I’ve come on this adventure. I never even hoped to find myself in someone else’s home, much less that of a Jew, much less alone in his kitchen so that I can freely look among his things. And it isn’t dangerous to be here, because the man doesn’t know I’m a girl.

The ceiling is low. The wood of the furniture and counters and door and floor is as dark as Paolina’s hair. I run my hand along the table. The surface is worn smooth; it feels almost soft. I stand and hop on my left foot as quietly as I can, over to the counter. The wood dips in one spot, forming a shallow indentation. This must be where they grind nuts, or maybe pound meats. Our counters at home have similar dips, but the counters are marble, so the dips are but slight.

The smell of onions permeates the air, but I don’t see any bins of them. And there’s another smell, a sour smell I don’t recognize. And the odor of sweet wine.

Plates, bowls, cutlery are stacked neatly on the sideboards in a funny arrangement. Some of the bowls are on one board, and others are on the other board. The same number of bowls, in fact: eight. And exactly half the plates are on each board. I count the spoons.

“Hello.” A girl comes into the room from the stairway. Though she’s small, her face shows she’s at least Bortolo’s age—six.

“Good day.”

She wrinkles her nose and I remember the reek of fish in my clothes—I’ve become used to it. “What happened to your yarmulke?”

What a funny first question. She doesn’t even ask who I am. But at least she didn’t say something rude about my smell. I smile at her and quickly put down the spoon I’m holding. It clacks against the others.

“No!” The girl rushes to the sideboard. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“What?” I clutch my hands together in front of my chest. “What did I do?”

“Sara? Is that you?” The man comes into the kitchen. “Can you find me a needle?”

“This boy mixed the spoons.” Sara picks up the spoon I was holding.

The man takes it from her. His other hand goes to his head in dismay, and he knocks his yarmulke off center.

I look again at the sets of spoons on each shelf. They are identical. I merely set the spoon on the wrong shelf in my haste.

Sara spreads out the spoons on both shelves and counts. “See, Noè?”

“Did you move anything else?” the man called Noè asks me. His voice holds a frightening fierceness.

I press my clutched hands to the underside of my chin and shake my head.

“Tell the truth,” Noè says. “This is important. We separate our eating utensils by what they are used for. We cannot mix them.”

Sara gasps. “Doesn’t he know how to keep a Kosher home?” She looks at me with awe. “So that’s why you don’t have a yarmulke. Are you a Lutheran, then?”

“A Lutheran? Of course not.” My eyes burn. I know in a moment I’ll cry. “The spoon is the only thing on those shelves that I touched.” I turn my head away and blink fast. “I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Sara comes around in front of me. “Don’t cry. Sometimes babies make the same mistake. The rabbi can fix it.” She lifts her chin coaxingly. “We’ll use forks in the meantime.” Her tone is that of a mother.

I smile in spite of myself.

Noè puts the offending spoon in his pocket. “What are you doing home at this hour, Sara?”

“I came to fetch a cushion for Mother’s back.”

“Then fetch it and be gone.”

To my surprise, Sara runs off obediently, all her spark suddenly subdued.

“Sit back on the bench,” Noè says. He picks up a wine jug and a knife.

“You’re not using that knife on me.” I sit on the bench and tuck my right foot under my bottom.

“I won’t cut. You’ll see.” Noè puts out his hand for my foot.

I don’t move.

Noè laughs. “I won’t cut. I promise.”

Grudgingly I extend my foot.

Noè pours wine over it. It stings. Then he uses the point of the knife to nudge the splinter toward the hole where it entered.

I suck in with a hiss.

“This might take some time.” Noè’s voice is casual. “So. What are you doing in the Ghetto?”

“Exploring.”

He uses his thumbs now to squeeze toward the splinter. It hurts a lot. “Exploring what?”

“I already answered one question. It’s your turn,” I say, more boldly than I feel.

“All right. Ask.”

“Did I make a terrible problem with the spoons?”

Noè smiles. “It can be fixed. So what are you exploring?”

“Everything,” I say. “Why are the buildings here so tall if the ceilings are so low?”

“Don’t you know about the decree back in 1516? All the Jews of Venice were ordered to move to the Ghetto. So the buildings have to be built tall enough, with enough floors, to hold us all.”

“How sad that they had to leave their ancestral homes.”

“But they didn’t.”

I cock my head in confusion. “What?”

Noè jabs the point of the knife a little too deep.

“Ahiii!” I yelp.

“Sorry. This splinter is stubborn.”

A bubble of blood forms on my sole. I look away. “What do you mean, they didn’t leave their ancestral homes?”

“Some of them had their ancestral homes here. Jews have lived in the Ghetto for the past five centuries. But others have lived on the island of Giudecca even longer, so they stayed there. And there are plenty on Murano.”

“They didn’t obey?” I ask in alarm. State punishments can be severe. “So what happened to them?”

“Nothing.”

I can’t believe that.

Noè squeezes from the sides of my foot again. “Ah, at last.”

I look down. An end of the splinter sticks out.

Noè puts his head to my foot and, with his teeth, he pulls the splinter out. “Ta-da!”

I’m still amazed at the fact that this man’s mouth was just on my foot. But the relief of having the splinter out surpasses the amazement. “Thank you. It’s maddening that something so small could cause so much pain.”

“You owe me,” Noè says, pouring wine over my foot and finally letting go.

Now the wine stings worse than before. I cradle my foot in both hands and blow on it. When the sting stops, my foot feels much better. I look up at Noè. “I owe you for more than just this. I owe you for the water in the basin. I dirtied it with my foot. It was thoughtless. I’m sorry.”

Noè smiles. “Hasan told me.”

“I’ll pay for it. I have no money on me. But I can bring some back.”

“I bet you can.” Noè puts the wine jug away. “But that’s not what I meant. You asked several questions in a row. So you owe me several answers in a row. Where do you live?”

“Do you promise not to tell anyone?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t answer.”

Noè folds his arms across his chest. “You said you wanted shoes. We have
zoccoli
that will fit you, but we can’t afford to simply give them away.”

“Sell them to me then,” I say eagerly. “I’ll bring you back the money.”

Noè makes a small whistle. “Now, why is it that you’d rather buy
zoccoli
than simply borrow them? I know you’ve got shoes at home. Your feet are too soft and tender to travel the streets barefoot. I bet today is the first time you’ve gone outside barefoot.”

“You’re the one with the mind of a spy,” I say.

Noè laughs. “Answer that one question and I’ll sell you a pair of
zoccoli
. Why buy rather than borrow?”

“I want to own them so that I can use them over and over.”

“Why don’t you use your own shoes?” Noè says.

“I already answered your one question.”

Noè grins. “All right. I’ll get the
zoccoli.
”

“And a cap, too,” I say. “A yarmulke.”

C
HAPTER
T
EN

TOLERANCE

I
run home, despite the small ache that remains in my foot, holding the yarmulke in place with one hand. Noè gave me one that fit just right. But when I went into the alley and twisted my hair up inside it, it no longer fit. Instead, it balances loosely on the coiled braid. These
zoccoli,
likewise, flop a little, and since they are open-toed, I cannot simply stuff a little ball of wool yarn inside each sandal. But I’ll find a way to tighten the leather straps. I’ll make them fit perfectly. The yarmulke may be a lost cause, but the
zoccoli
are not. And that’s all right, anyway, because I’d rather have a
bareta,
which wouldn’t mark me as a Jew. I have to figure out a way to get one.

I duck in and out of the crowd on the Rio Terrà di Maddalena, keeping an eye out for the beggar boy. Everyone’s going home to eat. I spent more time in the Ghetto than I realized. Please, please, dearest Lord, don’t let me be late. And, oh, if I am late, my brothers will have come in already and surely locked the door behind them. I run now.

I go in the side door of our
palazzo
, which is, mercifully, still unlocked, straight to the storeroom where I left my nightdress. Within seconds, I’ve changed.

The sounds of my four older brothers are loud outside the storeroom door. They’ve just come home, only steps behind me, and they’re joking about something. A woman, I think. A woman from the Castello area of Venice. Perhaps it is not only Francesco who wastes his time with prostitutes, for Castello has so many of them. All of us girls know that.

They pass by the storeroom door, which I realize with a skip of my heart is slightly ajar. One of them closes it. Oh, thank you, Lord. I bet that was Piero. He cannot abide disorder.

And I cannot believe my good luck to have arrived without their seeing me and then to have them be so involved in conversation that they didn’t even investigate an open storeroom door. This is a very good day, despite how it started.

I hide my
zoccoli
and the yarmulke in a corner. Then I roll my trousers and shirt tight and hold them under my nightdress, as I held the satchel when Paolina and I played pregnant this morning. When my brothers’ voices fade to nothing, I peek out.

The side door opens again.

I duck back into the storeroom, my heart thumping. I cannot risk the noise of pulling the door shut all the way.

Footsteps fall heavy. It must be Father. And he’s tired—he passes slowly.

I run to the foot of the stairs. Father clomps upward. His footfalls echo up and down the empty stairwell. I walk as softly as I can, staying a floor behind him. He enters the
piano nobile.
I creep up the remaining flight and peek into the corridor.

Laura sees me; she’s been waiting for me. She gives me a quick glance, then she rushes down the corridor after Father. “Papá,” she calls, “Papá, tell me about your morning and I’ll tell you about mine.” She chatters as she pulls him into the dining hall.

I slip across the corridor into Laura’s and my bedchamber. I hide the fisherboy clothes in the bottom of the closet and dress as fast as I can.

Andriana comes in. “You’re late. But you’re lucky; it seems everyone is late.”

“Help me,” I say, unbraiding my hair.

Andriana sniffs at my hair. Then she takes a jar of rose water and sprinkles it lightly. “Be gone, fishy smell,” she says in a mock-religious tone.

I laugh, but I’m grateful to have been saved from difficult questions at the meal. Tonight I will rinse my disguise thoroughly.

Andriana picks up the brush now and works her wonders. “Was it wonderful?”

“I think so.”

“What does that mean?”

“Things happened. I’ll tell you everything tonight.”

We walk down the corridor toward the dining hall. I stop in the hall by the glowing portrait of Father’s grandfather. An artist called Bellini painted it. Great-grandfather is in a crimson robe on a black background. Beside it is a portrait of Father’s father by a different Bellini. He’s in a black robe on a gold background. The colors are alive.

Both Bellini artists were masters whose colors Venice’s nobles said could never be equaled. But Venetian painters since then have excelled with colors over and over again. Father just had the famous Tiziano make a portrait of Mother. Her eyes actually glisten in it, and her lips are rosy and seem to tremble. And recently Father’s been talking about an artist called Tintoretto, who uses colors so marvelously, he’s been appointed to paint ceilings in the Palazzo Ducale itself, in rooms used by the Senate and the Collegium. Father intends to have his own portrait done by this Tintoretto.

What Mother said was true: Venetian colors and dyes are the envy of the world. Venice has to protect them.

That’s what Mother said. She talked of secrets and spies.

My eyes burn. I feel as though I will burst into tears. Everything I’ve looked at since that morning with Mother has conspired to make her words—words that I was so eager to hear more of—gain in meaning and hurt horribly. The mysteries of Venice are like a rainbow—and I am soon to be shut away from them. It’s as though my future has lost its color.

“Come.” Paolina is beside me. She stands on tiptoe and kisses my cheek. “There’s sausage from Modena. You like it. Come.”

“Please, Paolina.” I clasp her hand desperately. “The next time I go out, if I’m not back before the boys, I’ll need you to unlock the side door for me. Promise you’ll do that.”

“Will you really go out again?”

I nod.

“I promise.”

We’re the last to take our places, but no one cares. This is an ordinary meal, no announcements today. People talk and laugh. Nicola knocks over Aunt Angela’s wine glass. The sweet smell of Malvasia tinges everything. This is wine Uncle Girolamo brought back from Cyprus last time he was home. As Giò Giò rushes to help clean it up, Aunt Angela kisses Nicola on the cheek and fusses happily, for overturned wine brings good fortune. Bortolo stabs Nicola with a carrot that is so soft from boiling, it smushes on his sleeve.

“Don’t do that, Bortolo.” I point a finger at him. “Poor Cara will have a terrible time trying to get that stain out of your shirt.”

“Since when do you worry about Cara’s work?” asks Francesco.

And it’s true. I never do. None of us do. The worry over my disguise has made me consider things I never thought about before. I flush and look quickly at Mother. But she’s talking with Father; neither of them heard me. Perhaps no one but Francesco and Bortolo heard me, and maybe Uncle Umberto—for his head is turned toward me now and there’s a quizzical expression on his face. The rest of them are all busy cleaning up the spilled wine or eating. This is a lucky lucky day.

Bortolo throws a carrot at me. It lands on the edge of my plate. I go to scold him, but he’s looking at me hard. Oh no, I forgot my promise to bring him home a treat. And he already rejected the remaining baubles in my jewelry box the last time I had to bribe him. Maybe Andriana will let me give him something of hers. I smile at him reassuringly.

The rest of the meal passes without event, but when Father puts his hands on the table to push himself up to a stand—the signal we recognize as the end of the meal—I blurt out, “Father, where do the Jews live?”

The table goes silent. My brothers and sisters look at me as though I’ve suddenly gone daft.

“In the Ghetto,” says Father.

“All of them?”

“No. Some live on Giudecca and some live here and there around Venice.”

“But aren’t they supposed to live in the Ghetto, all of them? Wasn’t there a decree passed years ago?”

“Yes, there was a decree.” Father looks to the boys, as though asking who has told me about this decree.

But I press on: “Why aren’t they punished?”

Father’s mouth curves up at one corner. “Is my daughter taking an interest in Venice’s government?” He leans across his plate toward me. “Don’t be hostile to the Jews, my little daughter. They are important to the well-being of our Republic.”

“I’m not hostile,” I say quickly. “I just want to understand.”

“Then your brothers will explain to you later.” Father looks across the table. “Francesco and Piero know about these things.” He stands and leaves.

Laura and I go back to our bedchamber for our usual rest before the afternoon music lessons. As soon as we shut the door behind us, Laura takes my hand. “Tell me about it.”

I shake my head. “I’ll tell everyone tonight, when we all gather after dinner.”

Laura squeezes my hand. “Then just tell me this: Did it make you happy?”

Her question takes me by surprise. But it is, after all, the heart of the matter. What else could merit the risk of my parents’ wrath? “Yes. Bad things happened. But good things, too. I’m happy I went out.”

“Then I’m happy for you.” Her voice catches.

“You don’t seem happy. Did something happen?”

Laura shakes her head. And now she’s crying.

I pull her to me and cradle her head in my hands.

“Where’s my treat?” Bortolo yanks on my skirt.

“I told you to knock first,” I say crossly. I give him a small pinch.

Bortolo goes to the door and knocks. “Where’s my treat? And why’s Laura crying?”

“Don’t talk about me as though I’m an idiot who can’t answer for herself.” Laura stamps her foot. “Besides, how did you know it was me crying and not Donata?”

“You have different faces.”

This is true. But no one else has ever noticed the small differences. Or no one has let us know if they have.

“Why are you crying?”

“I have a toothache,” lies Laura.

Bortolo looks at her with respect. Toothaches are common at our age, but he’s too young to have ever had one. “Too bad,” he says in his most grown-up voice. He kisses Laura on the back of her hand tenderly. But a second later he turns to me with his usual eager face. “Where’s my treat, Donata?”

I put my hand on his head heavily and am about to explain that I forgot, when I realize that his head is about the same size as Laura’s. So it must be about the same size as my own. “I have a treat for you, Bortolo. But it’s special. And, in a way, it’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Bortolo’s eyes narrow. “I have a knife. Francesco won it gambling and gave it to me. The blade is sharp, but I’ve never cut myself.”

“Does Mother know?”

“No. And don’t tell her.”

“I won’t,” I say. “But this treat for you also has to be kept a secret. And not just from Mother. From everyone.”

Bortolo licks his lips. “I understand.”

“But, as I said, this is very special. You don’t get it for free.”

Bortolo frowns. “I get it because I’m not telling on you for going down the stairs this morning in your nightdress.”

“That’s not a big enough secret for such a special treat,” I say.

“What else do you want?”

“Your
bareta
.”

Laura looks at me quickly.

Bortolo sticks out his bottom lip.

“Not your velvet one,” I say. “Your plain cotton one. For when you play in the
campi
.”

Bortolo shrugs. “All right. If it’s a really good treat, you can have my old
bareta
. I’ll tell Mother I need another.”

“But you mustn’t tell her you gave it to me,” I say.

“I’m not stupid, Donata.”

I smile. “Stay here with Laura while I fetch it.”

“I’ll go get my
bareta
.”

“No!” I don’t want him in the stairwell, where he’ll see me running past him. I don’t want him to know I have business on the ground floor. “Stay here and wait. Promise?”

“Yes.”

I go out, shutting the door behind me, and cross to the stairwell quickly. I race to the bottom and into the storeroom. The shoes and cap are exactly where I left them. I take the yarmulke and fold it small enough to fit in my fist. Then I race back up the stairs.

I go into Laura’s and my bedchamber.

“There you are,” says Piero. “We’ve been waiting.” Francesco sits on our bed.

Laura looks at me and her shoulders lift the smallest amount, enough to let me know she was helpless to stop them coming in.

“I’m going downstairs.” Bortolo runs and stands directly in front of me. “Aunt Angela’s looking for me,” he says more loudly than normal. His eyes search mine.

I put my hands behind my back. “See you later, Bortolo.”

He smiles. As he goes past me, he takes the yarmulke from my hand and slips out the door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep the anxiety out of my voice.

“We came to talk about the Jews,” says Piero.

I wring my hands behind my back. What could they know of my morning? Who saw anything? I stare at them.

“Father wants you to understand. He says you’re the daughter with a head on her shoulders.” Piero looks at Laura with a teasing grin. “No offense, Laura.”

My knees go weak with relief. They’re here merely to finish the conversation I started at the midday meal.

Laura smiles and I know she’s feeling the same relief. “How can I take offense from someone incapable of accurately representing Father’s ideas, my poor half-wit brother?” she quips back.