Daughters of the Silk Road: A beautiful and epic novel of family, love and the secrets of a Ming Vase (6 page)

‘
Buona sera
,’ the nun replied. ‘Would you like one?’ And she made to throw one up to Maria.

‘You’d better not, you might get into trouble. Are you allowed to speak to me today?’

‘No, not really,’ said the nun, ‘but there’s no one else around. What is your name?’

‘Maria, and you?’

‘Polisena.’

‘How are you Polisena?’ asked Maria kindly.

‘Rather lonely… Ooh, I had better go,’ she said suddenly, as an elderly nun appeared on the opposite side of the garden. She cast a last, longing look up at Maria and threw a pear up to her; she caught it, and as she did so whispered, ‘
Grazie. A domani
.’

Polisena smiled back before she picked up her basket and retreated into the cloisters.

Maria went to her father’s study every day after that; partly in case Polisena wanted to see her, but also because it helped her to feel close to her father. She tried to pretend to Daniele that she was strong and capable, but in reality she felt very alone and missed her father desperately. Sitting at his desk, fingering his pens and touching the box of seals that he kept there made her feel close to him. Once or twice she even took down the vase and placed it tenderly in the centre of his desk in order to study the painting, gazing intently at the dragon’s face. She wondered how such a fierce creature could be considered a symbol of good luck. It seemed curious to her, and yet there was something about the dragon – about its intent, beady blue stare. If she placed the vase so that the dragon’s face was towards her, its eyes would follow her around the room, tracking her as she crossed from one side to the other. She would stroke the porcelain, feeling it cool and smooth beneath her fingers before placing it carefully back on the shelf. In some strange way, it made her feel closer to her father. He had believed in its power and had been desolate that he had allowed it out of his sight when his son became ill. And he was a wise man, the wisest man she had ever known. If he believed in its power to protect them, then it must be true. She pondered sadly on the fact that it was intended not for them but one day would have to be handed over to the Doge. She hoped that her father might have a rare moment of forgetfulness once he returned from Florence, and somehow the vase would be allowed to remain with them forever.

The following day, she sat again at her father’s desk, the vase placed before her. She was writing to her father telling him about the little nun she had befriended.

‘
I think she must be one of those nuns who are there because their families have no dowry for them. She seems rather jolly and occasionally I catch sight of her beautiful red hair poking out from her wimple. I only speak to her when she is alone in the garden. The older nuns do not approve of the younger ones speaking to people outside the order. It must be so sad and lonely for her…’

She remembered what he had told her about the nuns in Venice and how so many of them were in the convents against their will.

‘Why are they forced to live there?’ she had asked him, horrified, when he told her.

‘They are often the daughters of good families, but perhaps their parents have died, or they are unable to find them a suitable marriage partner, or they cannot afford a dowry. The authorities in Venice demand that any girl must have a dowry in order to marry, and that does create problems.’

‘But that is terrible,’ protested Maria. ‘Does that mean that if you have no dowry, you cannot marry?’

‘It does,’ said her father.

‘But
Mamma
did not have a dowry did she? And you married her.’

‘Ah, little one, that is because I am not interested in rules, and I go my own way.’

‘Well I shall follow my own way too,’ said Maria enthusiastically.

‘Good,’ said her father, ‘let us hope that will be possible.’

‘So all these girls are in the convent against their will?’ Maria continued.

‘Well, not all, no. There are girls who have a vocation and a love of God. Sometimes a girl might be a little slow… You know? Not very bright, and her parents think the convent will provide a refuge from the demands of ordinary life. And there are prostitutes, of course.’

‘Really!’ said Maria, in horror. ‘In a place of God?’

‘Yes. The church here can be very broad-minded. Sometimes they have had enough of their life and retreat to the convent. And on occasion, I’m sorry to say, some are there at the invitation of a priest.’

‘No!’ said Maria. ‘Surely not here? At our church of San Zaccaria?’

‘No; our church and the convent here are very respectable. The nuns here are all from very noble families. It means they come with a certain amount of money which keeps everyone, even the Bishop, very happy.’

‘Oh, Papa! You are such a cynic,’ laughed his daughter.

‘Oh, they do some good work, you know. There are over thirty convents here in Venice – some on the tiny islands in the lagoon; a sort of physical manifestation of their separation from the ‘ordinary’ world. There is just enough space for the convent building, a church and a garden on which to grow produce.’

‘It must be terrible,’ said Maria. ‘They must be so bored!’

‘Ha, ha, yes, I think you are right. But they care for the sick on the
lazzaretti
that are dotted around the lagoon; it’s important work.’

‘Like that island we passed when we arrived?’ asked Maria.

‘Yes, like that one, and others.’

‘What was it called again?’

‘Poveglia. But you needn’t worry about it. They only take victims of plague and lepers there.’

The following morning, she found Daniele weeping in his room.

‘Little one, what is the matter?’ she asked tenderly, wrapping him in her arms.

‘I miss
Mamma
so much,’ he replied.

‘I know. So do I.’

‘And now Papa; he has not written for over a week.’

‘Yes. I shall write again to him today and perhaps we will hear from him soon. Darling Daniele, shall we go out? I need to order some provisions and we have not had a walk for a few days, and Papa did instruct us to continue to get to know Venice. We could take a gondola and go down the Grand Canal. We could go all the way to the Rialto Bridge and then walk back. Or perhaps, the other way around: walk first and then a gondola. What do you say?’

The house on Rio dei Greci had two entrances. The ‘front’ door was situated on the canal, and entailed arriving and departing by gondola from the small wooden deck that jutted out onto the water. The family had a gondola of their own, decorated with a pair of dolphins at either end, tethered to the dock. Niccolò had encouraged Andrea to learn how to operate it, but he had proved a poor student. On his first attempt to navigate the long dark boat he had jutted up against a neighbour’s jetty and damaged their gondola. Since that time, he had been nervous of attempting the task again. Daniele was desperate to be given the role of
gondoliere
for the family, but Niccolò was uncharacteristically reticent. Whilst a modern man in many ways, and open to new ideas, he was reluctant for his son, the son of a good family, to be seen in charge of the family’s gondola. And so it stood rocking in the breeze, unused, much to Daniele’s frustration.

‘We could take our gondola,’ said Daniele, showing some enthusiasm for the first time that morning.

‘No,’ said Maria. ‘I do not think Papa would be pleased with me if I let you do that.’

‘But he would never know,’ reasoned the boy.

‘No, Daniele. We will walk there, and then get a
gondoliere
to bring us back. We shall take Andrea with us, in case I purchase anything that needs to be brought back home with us.’ Frustrated, but aware that this was an argument he could not win, Daniele agreed.

T
he three young
people let themselves out by the side entrance that opened into a narrow alleyway running alongside the perimeter wall of the convent. From there it was just a short walk to the hustle and bustle of Piazza San Marco. They walked in single file up the narrow alleyway. To their right stood the convent, the high wall and terracotta roofs of its cloisters shielding the nuns from the watchful gaze of passers-by. No sound came from behind those walls as the three slipped past. Maria had heard the nuns singing mass earlier that morning, but as the sun rose high in the sky, the ladies of the San Zaccaria convent were involved in their daily tasks, undertaken with a minimum of chatter or conversation. Housework – sweeping the marble floors of the cloisters, polishing the gold candlesticks and cross on the altar, preparing food and gardening – all took up the hours during the day until evening vespers, when they would file silently into the chapel and fill the air with their singing and prayers. She thought of Polisena and wondered what she was doing. It seemed so sad that she was unable to come out of the convent and join them on their walk.

As the young people made their way along the dark alleyway, the heat of the day radiated from the high stone walls. It gave off a strong scent, which Maria could never quite identify – dusty, a little dank, sour. After a few moments they emerged into the brilliant, bright light of Piazza San Marco.

‘Let’s walk to the Rialto,’ said Maria. ‘Then perhaps, we could take a gondola back home.’

Leaving the heat and bustle of the Piazza behind, they turned into Merceria, a lane which ran all the way from the Piazza to the Rialto. It was lined with shops selling all manner of luxurious goods such as silk, tapestries, carpets and spices. As they got nearer to the Rialto, the crowds grew denser. Maria caught hold of Daniele’s hand. ‘Stay close to me,
caro
,’ she murmured. But her brother pulled his hand away. ‘I’m fine. I’m fifteen. You don’t have to treat me like a child.’

Andrea watched the pair out of the corner of his eye. He was fascinated by them, or at least by Maria. He was originally from the Dalmatian coast and had arrived in Venice at the age of twelve, in search of a better life. He had an uncle, a fisherman, who had offered him bed and board in return for helping to man the fishing boats that he ran from the Riva dei Schiavoni. But Andrea had ambitions for something other than the brutal life of a fisherman, and besides he had no head for the sea. He suffered terribly from sickness when on the water and had no intention of living the seafarer’s life. He had acquired some education before he left home and was determined to continue with it in Venice. He had already worked in several fine houses when he encountered Niccolò. He had been serving at the table of one of dei Conti’s friends and Niccolò, being egalitarian by nature, interested in everyone he met, had slipped into conversation with the boy. He sensed his desire to improve himself. When he established his own household, Niccolò had asked his friend if he might spare the boy to work in his own house. He had offered to tutor Andrea a little each day and was impressed by how quickly he had mastered the written word. He earned his keep and his education by helping the staff in the kitchen, serving at table, bringing in wood, and generally fetching and delivering for the household. But Niccolò sensed the young man’s ambition, and had hopes that, one day, the boy might amount to much more and perhaps become a secretary in his household. When, as was the custom in Venice, one of the great moral speakers of the day gave a public lecture on logic, philosophy or theology, Niccolò would, from time to time, allow the young man to visit Piazza San Marco and listen to the lectures.

Andrea was grateful for Niccolò’s kindness and the opportunities he had afforded him, but this kindness also served to create a sense of confusion in the young man’s mind. For at times he was required to behave like a servant – to fetch and carry and do the family’s bidding. At others, he was encouraged to improve himself, to imagine a future free of the shackles of service. Niccolò even allowed him to join in with the lessons of his own children. Andrea was a quick learner, and soon out-stripped Daniele in his understanding of mathematics and his love of reading. Niccolò’s son appeared to have little enthusiasm for learning, preferring more energetic pastimes. Maria, however, was a different matter. She had a huge desire to learn, and was an exceptional student. Andrea would watch her as she worked, fascinated by the way her long dark hair fell in a river down her back, or occasionally draped casually over one shoulder, revealing her neck – soft and inviting – on the other side. Her eyes, of course, were beautiful, remarked on by everyone who saw her. But she seemed to find any sort of compliment embarrassing and would brush such comments aside; this only served to add to her allure. For Andrea had fallen desperately in love with the daughter of his master.

Maria was completely unaware of the young man’s feelings and would have been horrified had she known. She did not dislike Andrea but saw him as one of her father’s household. As far as she was concerned, he was simply a polite young man in the service of her father – nothing more.

The three arrived at the Rialto just before lunchtime. There were stalls set up nearby selling all kinds of food and drink. Maria took it upon herself to order some meat and vegetables. She went from stall to stall discussing the produce and bartering the price like an old hand. She had watched her mother through the years as they travelled in the East, and had a good eye for both a quality product and a bargain. She chose some Tuscan mutton, but argued the price. ‘I will not pay three
soldi
for that. I will give you two.’

‘But
Signorina
,’ the stall-holder implored her, ‘you do me an injustice.’

‘Two
soldi
is all I will pay.’

The deal was done and the meat was wrapped. It would be delivered later that day, along with a selection of fresh vegetables.

‘Daniele, are you hungry? We could eat something here if you like?’

The three chose a little taverna called the
Cantina do Mori
, next to the Fondaco
,
the German merchant’s warehouse. They settled themselves at a table near the window overlooking the canal and ordered some wine and food.

Maria was not quite sure when she became aware of the blond man staring at her. She was spooning mouthfuls of ‘
risi e bisi’
– a mixture of rice with peas that was popular in Venice and which reminded her of the rice dishes she had eaten in the Middle and Far East, and giggling at one of Daniele’s childish jokes. As she laughed, a few grains of rice flew across the table, and at that precise moment she looked up and realised that the blond man from the gondola was gazing at her, smiling wryly. He was sitting at a table almost next to theirs.