The Venetian Contract (20 page)

Now warm with food and relief, she studied this curious man. He wore a waistcoat and shirtsleeves, knee breeches,
stockings and soft leather slippers. The reason that his hair stood out from his head in such a peculiar fashion was because he rubbed and ruffled it constantly. His cheeks were sunken and sprinkled with ashy stubble. His long, sensitive hands were stained with ink, but also flaking with scaly, dry skin and red raw where he scratched them nervously. He took off and put on his spectacles constantly, sat and rose again, as if he could not be still. When he spoke it was in a rush of words that twittered forth from him with nervous energy and the manner of his speech and his twitchy demeanour added to the bird-like impression.

‘I knew Cecilia Baffo, ’ he said. ‘Once, long ago when she was a young woman, I was her drawing master. I was in the employ of Duke Nicolò Venier, on the island of Giudecca.’ He stopped his pacing. ‘You know it?’

Giudecca
. ‘I do,’ said Feyra quietly.

‘Duke Nicolò wanted to raise his only child in possession of all the arts becoming to young ladies, so that she would one day marry so well as to fulfil all his hopes. I was a young draughtsman with a precocious talent. We were the same age. I was captivated by her; I never thought she would look at one such as I, but for a time her attention
was
caught by me.’

Feyra looked at him anew. She imagined him when the skyward grey hair had been black and the features taut and shaven of the stubble. She could believe that he had been handsome once.

‘She was just coming into her inheritance.’ He cocked his head at her. ‘Not her wealth, but her beauty. I had never seen a creature so beautiful; so gold of hair and blue of eye, with a waist as tiny as a greyhound’s.’ While he spoke he fidgeted and twitched before the little window, looking out
to another place and time as a thousand stars pricked through the sickly fog. ‘I was born on a Saturday, and in Venice if you are born on that day you are considered to be blessed by God, and named after the day. My father was born and named likewise, so I was doubly blessed with the name Zabato Zabatini. All my life, I had been waiting for this wondrous luck to manifest itself – we were not especially rich, nor noted. But I remember thinking, in those moments with Cecilia, that my namesake luck had come to roost at last.’ He turned back to Feyra. ‘I was powerless in the face of her beauty; and one day, in the schoolroom, we were caught in an embrace.’

Feyra’s eyes widened. For the first time she thought about her mother as a young woman, the Cecilia Baffo that she had never known: headstrong, beautiful and playing with her power, a woman who could seduce a young drawing master for sport, then run away with a sea captain after knowing him for an hour. For the first time, too, she questioned her mother’s lightness of conduct. Had she given herself to this man, before her father, before Sultan Selim? She did not know how to ask Zabato the question; she did not wish to.

But he answered it. ‘It was just a kiss. But Nicolò Venier was furious – terrified that I would take her maidenhead and would destroy his marriage prize and all his hopes of alliance. He dismissed me and moved Cecilia at once to their summer palace at Paros, where he began marriage negotiations at once. It was there, I suppose, that she was taken by the Turks.’

Feyra knew the sequel to this story very well; and knew too that the fire that had been lit in her mother by this strange, skinny man had not been easily put out.

‘And now she is dead.’

‘Two weeks ago. In Constantinople.’

Zabato sat again. ‘So it was all true,’ he breathed. ‘I heard that she had been taken by corsairs.’

She nodded. ‘My father. He was a sea captain. He brought her to Turkey.’

His eyebrows, black as his hair had once been, shot up. ‘And gave her to the Sultan?’

‘Yes.’

Zabato looked directly at her. ‘Was she happy?’

Feyra considered. ‘Yes.’ And she believed it. With the Sultan Cecilia had found both conjugal contentment and an outlet for her fierce intelligence in Byzantine politicking. She had probably been happier as Nur Banu than she would have been as Cecilia, the wife of a penniless draughtsman, or even Cecilia, the wife of a Turkish sea captain.

The thought of her father reminded her of what else she had to tell. ‘I am her daughter.’

Zabato was still for the first time that evening. He looked at her face, peering at her features through the thin
yemine
veil. ‘Yes,’ he said, slower than his accustomed speech. ‘Yes, you are.’

She told him then, haltingly, the rest of her history; of her mother’s end, and her father’s, of the disappearance of the ship and Takat Turan too. She showed him the crystal ring and she saw that he recognized it.

Zabato shook his head, as if blinking the tears away, and rose again, pacing at once. ‘I wrote to her at Paros. I even wrote to her at the Sultan’s court, sending my letters with our merchants, even with our ambassador. I wrote last to tell her of my situation here in this house, I told her I was ever her devoted servant, but I never knew if she received my notes.’

Feyra was in no doubt. ‘She must have.’

He nodded quickly, once, twice, three times. ‘Yes. Yes. Yes. And now that you are here, you will have all the help that Zabato Zabatini can afford you. What must I call you?’ He held out his hand.

She looked at it, not sure what to do. She touched it briefly with her fingers, then pointed to her chest. ‘My name is Feyra Adalet bint Timurhan Murad.’

Zabato let the hand drop and shook his head. ‘That will not do. If you are to hide here it is important that your origins are not known. The Turks have never been loved here, and the hatred burns hotter than ever since Lepanto.’

And will be worse still, thought Feyra if what my father has done ever becomes known.

‘We should give you a Venetian name,’ Zabato said.

‘Cecilia?’

Zabato inclined his head. ‘Of course. And for your family name you may take mine, Zabatini, for I will tell the household that you are my niece.’

‘I can stay here?’

He shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Where else?’

‘I want to see the Doge. He must help me to go home.’

‘To
Constantinopoli
? No and no and no!’

Feyra went cold. ‘Why?’

‘There are no ships coming to Venice, nor leaving, while the Plague is our guest, by order of the
Consiglio Marittima
. You must wait her out.’

Feyra swallowed. How long was she to be a prisoner in this place? ‘But the Doge? I can see the Doge?’

Zabato spoke gently. ‘I am not acquainted with the Doge, although Sebastiano Venier is brother to my old master. I worked for
Nicolò
Venier, but he turned me from
his door thirty years past. My luck departed with my love, and I moved from post to post since.’ He saw Feyra’s face fall and leaned forward, inky hands together, elbows on his knees. ‘Tonight we lost our maid. It is for this reason that I answered the door.’

‘Plague?’ Feyra caught her breath. If the pestilence was already inside the house then this kindly man and all his household were probably already doomed.

‘No. She fled to her family on the mainland.’ He stood again, and indicated a bundle of cream-coloured clothes slung over the back of the chair. ‘Here are her clothes. Rest now, dress in these at daybreak.’ He tossed them on the bed.

She fingered the strange fabric and looked up. ‘Can I wear a veil?’

Zabato Zabatini shook his head. ‘No. A veil will give you away at once.’ He saw the expression in her eyes and tried, once again, to brighten them. ‘You shall have our maid’s wages as well as her clothes. One sequin a week, and bed and board. In time, we will contrive a way to get you to the Doge or get you home.’

She wanted to thank him, but had nothing to give; so she gave him the only thing she had. ‘Your hands,’ she said. ‘Rub them with this.’ She passed him a little jar of salve from her medicine belt. He peered at it doubtfully through his eye-glasses. ‘Camphor and gum dragon. Every night. And in the morning, drink the juice of a lemon.’

He looked at his hands and back at her, then smiled his thin smile. ‘Rest now. I will call you at daybreak and direct you to your duties.’

Just as he was leaving she found the words for the question she wanted to ask him. ‘Why are you doing this?’

He turned back in the doorway and the smile died. ‘Cecilia was just toying with me, trying her teeth. For me it was more. You see, I
loved
her.’

In the morning Feyra was awake and dressed before the knock on her door.

Zabato Zabatini stood on the threshold. ‘Sleep well?’

‘Yes.’

The mattress had been lice-free, and soft; and, spared the rocking of a ship or the anxiety of her father’s health, she had indeed slept for several dreamless hours. He stood back as far as the dim little hallway would allow. ‘Let me look at you.’ She felt his eyes upon her; kindly, not predatory.

She felt uncomfortable in the maid’s clothes. The fabrics themselves were soft and forgiving, although stiff under the armpits with the sweat of the previous owner, but the style of gown was unseemly. There was no looking-glass in her room, but Feyra could still clearly see the many faults of the dress. The throat was far too exposed, with the neckline cut almost down to her nipples. There was no opportunity for her to wind her bandeau about her breasts either, for the bodice was underpinned by a tight-laced corset which made her bosom seem enormous. The sleeves were tight on the upper arms and a cuff of simple lace at the elbow barely fell to her forearm, leaving a great expanse of her wrist exposed. The voluminous skirts, shored up by half a dozen petticoats, nearly filled the little room with their girth, and yet in length barely fell to her calves, showing a great deal too much stockinged leg. Feyra was evidently taller than the absent maid too, which meant the bodice was lower,
the sleeves shorter and the skirts higher. Her bulky medicine belt which she had strapped on under the skirts, made the kirtle flare even more at the hips and her waist seem even smaller. There was a soft lace cap to be worn on the head, and by the time Feyra had bound and plaited her hair under it and viciously tucked all the tawny curls away, it only served to leave her entire neck and shoulders exposed. Her own clothes were no good for anything but the fire. Instead of the yellow slippers she put on the leather boots that sat under the chair. They were a little small and down at heel, but the leather was surprisingly soft. Her soiled, single yellow slipper she slipped under the bed, the only remaining memory of her original garb.

She straightened up and presented herself to the man called Saturday. She felt cold, uncomfortable and exposed, but Zabato seemed pleased with her appearance.

‘A proper Venetian maid,’ he said, and beckoned to her. ‘Come, I will tell you your duties. Do not speak to anyone, for your accent gives you away. I have told the household you have an affliction of the tongue. Especially do not speak to my master – he has no particular quarrel with the Turks but he has a very heavy task upon him at present, and it troubles him day and night. In time, however, we may, with your permission, take him into your confidence; as he
does
know the Doge. Personally.’

Feyra was puzzled. ‘Master? Are you not the master here?’

He laughed, an odd, snorting sound, with a bitter edge. ‘No. I told you that my luck departed with your mother. Times have been hard, and I have ever been someone else’s servant. Come.’

Feyra followed him out of the room and down the
narrow stair. Soon she would have to be silent, so she asked her last question. ‘And your master’s name?’

The stair was narrow and winding, so Zabato answered over his shoulder. ‘His name is Andrea Palladio.’