Daughters of the Doge (43 page)

She would not look into my eyes, but seemed to be looking at my chin. For a moment I wondered whether I had forgotten to shave, and touched my face apprehensively. At the movement I saw the slightest of smiles from her dark lips and finally, shyly, her eyes lifted and looked into mine.

Instantly, I felt as if I was hollow, my insides rigid and echoing like a drum. I felt she could see right through me and I took on an awkwardness I had not felt since childhood. I became strangely aware of myself, as if watching my own body taking part in a play.

Without taking her eyes from mine, she lifted one of the glasses and reached towards me, placing it carefully in front of me. I did not want her to be my servant and reached forward to assist her. As she placed the glass on the table, my hand met hers. Instantly, as if my hand had been hotter than the infusion in the glasses, she snatched hers back.

Gently, I reached forward and again took her hand. This time she did not flinch, but left it there. I had expected it to be on fire but it was cool to my touch. I held her fingers as gently as I could in mine and gave them the tiniest squeeze.

‘Hello. I am Richard Stocker. I did not mean to frighten you.’ My mind raced, but I could not think of anything else to say.

‘My name is Yasmeen. This is mint tea. It is from the Orient. I hope you like it.’ She smiled the smallest of shy smiles, turned and was gone.

I sat, facing the empty door through which she had disappeared, willing her to return.

‘Pretty, isn’t she?’

I dragged my eyes from the door and towards Veronica. ‘What?’

‘I said, pretty isn’t she?’ Veronica was laughing aloud as I sat with my mouth open.

My mind was empty. ‘Yes, very. Who is she?’

Veronica waited patiently until my eyes left the door and returned to hers. ‘That is Yasmeen Ahmed. Her father is a spice trader and her mother died when she was young. She works here. Jacopo says she is his book-keeper but in truth she is his manager and runs the
bottega
as a business. But take care. The apprentices look after her like a sister and are very protective.’

Veronica sipped her infusion of mint tea. I did the same, looking at the door across the courtyard. Silently we finished our tea, then I heard Jacopo inside calling us to begin again.

We rose and turned towards the studio door, Veronica grinning as she led the way inside. ‘I thought you’d like her.’

C
HAPTER
52

April the 25th 1556 – Festival of St Mark, Piazza San Marco

Piazza San Marco was crowded. The buildings had all been specially cleaned and shone in the fresh morning air. Some of the people, too, seemed to have had their annual wash, and with their best clothes on, the smell of the crowd was almost bearable. The alcoves around the square were full of hawkers selling food and drink, many cooking their wares on braziers. The wind was fresh and for most of the time, the smell of cooking meat, fish and spices overcame the smell of the crowd, but every now and again, the wind changed and many of us found our hands going automatically to our noses.

No peaceful crowd this; for with everyone in holiday spirit and wine made freely available by the Consiglio, most of the crowd were chattering like a cage full of monkeys. They had also clearly decided that they would not be outdone by the processions when they came, and the crowd itself showed every conceivable colour that the
tintori
could conjure up in their steaming vats of dye.

I had found myself a good position on a raised stand, and although I was three or four rows from the front, my height allowed me to look over the heads of the people in front of me.

As befitted the waterborne city, there was as much activity on the water as on land. There appeared to be thousands of small boats on the lagoon and anyone who had hoped to hire a last-minute gondola to join the festivities would have been disappointed. There were so many boats that the whole basin between the island of San Giorgio Maggiore and the granite columns forming the entrance to the piazza was impassable.

Even on the water the supremacy of the ruling nobility dominated the proceedings. The
navi
or trading ships had been banished to the outer moorings and the area was surrounded by the
galee
of the Venetian navy. Within this semicircle, status was maintained as the gondolas gave way to the wider and flatter barges of the nobility. These were ornate but cumbersome affairs, mainly kept for state occasions, with square, open cabins made of gold-leafed timber with crimson curtains, manned by servants dressed in silver and brocade.

The whole occasion had the busy atmosphere of a beehive, with boats wriggling their way hither and thither through the mêlée. Then the queen bee herself appeared in the form of the
Bucintoro,
the Doges’ ceremonial galley. It was a huge gold-encrusted structure two storeys high (and three at the stern cabins), with fifteen oarsmen on each side. As it ploughed into the crowded basin, the smaller ships seemed to melt away, and as it got closer we could see why. The bow of the great galley was built in the same form as the war galleys, with a huge spear-fronted prow which would have split open any unfortunate boat that failed to clear its path.

The
Bucintoro
swept shorewards, followed in strict family precedence by the smaller vessels of the nobility, and with the effortless skill of expert boatmen slid smoothly and with one single movement to its position against the shore between the two granite pillars. As the great ship slid to a halt, the Doge stood and raised his ceremonial hat. At this signal, the seated members of the crowd rose and the Doge led the nobles across the piazza to the ceremonial platform which had been erected for the occasion.

It was, indeed, a great spectacle, and one which epitomized the life of this great city. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, observing the procession and feeling uplifted by the cheering of the crowd. Why, I wondered, had Veronica tried to discourage me from coming?

Minutes later I had my answer.

The Doge swept by, only ten paces ahead of me and so close I could again see the tired old face and the steely determination in those eyes. Behind him, but maintaining a respectful distance, came the members of the Council of Ten, accompanied by their wives. They were followed in turn by the ambassadors and highest officials, before the remainder of the noble families could take up their allotted positions.

I saw him before I saw her.

Amidst all the gold and silver, the scarlet of his robes caught the sun and screamed out for my attention. There he was, ten paces in front of me, the fat cardinal from Titian’s house, walking with his nose in the air, confident in his superiority, and exuding pious self-satisfaction. And who held the pudgy multi-ringed hand which he raised so confidently aloft but Veronica Franco herself, dressed from head to toe in silver brocade, so bright in the sunshine that it appeared to be white.

I stopped applauding and watched silently as they processed in front of me, unaware of my presence. The red and the silver-white appeared to complement each other perfectly – a picture of noble elegance and superiority. Yet suddenly I saw the whole spectacle in a different light.

I saw a show, an artifice, put on to please the masses and to remind them of their humble place in this structured world, whilst reminding outsiders that the power of the Venetian Republic remained undiminished.

Beside me a child gave a cry. She was no more than ten years old, and dressed in her very finest for the special occasion. It appeared she had been fiddling with her ring and in the excitement had dropped it. Her father turned on her angrily and I saw the fear in her face as she stared forlornly down between the planks of our stand, where the ring had fallen.

‘Don’t worry, I will look for it. What colour is it?’

‘It is red – a deep ruby red, with gold around it. My grandmother’s ring.’ The girl was distraught.

Carefully, I made my way to the rear of the crowd and climbed down from the stand until I was able to burrow underneath. The stones of the piazza were recently brushed and clean, apart from the scraps of food dropped by the crowd above. I worked my way forward again, towards the green dress which marked the girl’s position, and looked around amongst the flagstones. The ring lay undamaged and I picked it up. Half-standing, for the height of the platform would not let me do more, I tapped the girl’s ankle and felt her jump. She looked down and I held the ring high for her to see. She bent and reached down, taking the ring gratefully and putting it on her finger. She gave me a little wave and I saw her relief as she showed the ringed finger to her father.

I worked my way towards the back, until the increased height allowed me to stand. This was another Venetian underworld. Like the workers who spent their lives in the Arsenale building ships, the gondoliers who plied their craft, the fishermen who braved the winter storms on the lagoon, and the pile drivers whose year-round work provided the physical base upon which the
fondamente
and the buildings of this great city were erected, I was, in this instant, part of the separate world which supported the other one above us.

I thought of the women in this world; the prostitutes who literally lay beneath the male nobles and merchants who controlled this city, and the nuns whom those same nobles locked away in order to maintain the narrow fabric of their highly structured society. Many of them had begun their lives confidently in the noble world, only one day to slip and fall into the underworld beneath. How many, I wondered, would ever be recovered and restored to their positions above?

Stiffly, I climbed out of the mass of scaffold poles and stood behind the raised platform. It seemed the procession had finished, for the crowd was dispersing and people were streaming past me. I stood back, out of their way, brushing at the marks on my clothing and feeling somehow dirty and withdrawn.

I heard foreign voices close to me, and saw a dark, slender girl walking past, talking to an old man who was holding her arm. The man was also dark, with a large hooked nose, and he held the girl tightly, like a possession. In an instant I could imagine the situation: an old man, perhaps reasonably wealthy after years of trade, comforting himself in his latter years by owning a beautiful young woman.

As they walked away she turned, and in that instant I recognized her profile. Yasmeen. Of that I had no doubt, but what was she doing being held so possessively by that old man? I hesitated, and they disappeared round a corner, and were lost once again, in the crowd.