Daughter of Venice (16 page)

Oh, how I want to ask him direct questions. I long for Messer Cuttlefish’s counsel in the things I must do now. But I cannot confide in my tutor. Whatever plan I devise, no one must know of it. No one must be put at risk for my sake ever again. Finally, I say, “What happened to Andrea Donà’s family while they were in disgrace?”

“The man was disgraced,” says Messer Cuttlefish, “not the family. In these situations, a brother will step in and make sure the family affairs don’t go awry. Nobility prevails.”

His voice gives no hint of sarcasm, though in his own family’s history nobility did not prevail. Perhaps in this moment he’s uncomfortable. Perhaps he even suffers. I wish I knew the right thing to say. “Thank you,” I murmur at last. “Thank you for answering my questions.”

Messer Cuttlefish licks his lips. “This is my duty, Signorina Mocenigo. Is there anything else you wish to ask?”

“Yes. Today when a person is convicted, does the family suffer?”

“Not if they have resources.”

Money, he means. And now everything makes sense. Of course a family is not disgraced when a man is disgraced. The family owns the wealth—not the individual man—and wealth cannot be disgraced. “And if the accused isn’t found guilty, what happens?”

“A frivolous denunciation is punishable.” Messer Cuttlefish rubs his lip. “Anyone who tries to tarnish a man’s good name for capricious reasons deserves punishment fitting to the degree of slander.” He looks at me in silence for a while. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“You have interesting questions, Signorina Mocenigo. You are a person of discretion beyond your years.” He walks around the table and begins Piero’s instruction.

Discretion. I don’t believe anyone has ever considered me a person of discretion before.

I go to bed that night without a word to Laura, though a plan has finally formed. I cannot tell Laura this plan because she’d stop me.

I rise early the next day and take my fisherboy’s disguise out of the closet cabinet.

“I thought that was all behind you,” says Laura, pushing herself up on one elbow.

“I thought so, too.” Too bad, I think now. These clothes let off a sour odor. The last time I put them away, they were due for a rinsing. If I had realized I’d need them again, I would have washed them well. “I’m going out today.”

“You’re crazy. After everything Andriana said, how could you?”

I clutch the clothes in silence.

“Don’t expect me to hide your absence,” says Laura. “I won’t be any part of this.” Her voice, though, is not unkind, but sad.

“I don’t want you to do anything for me.” I kiss Laura on both cheeks. “It’s important, in fact, that you don’t.” I stuff the disguise under my nightdress. “Do you know where I’m going?”

“No,” says Laura.

“Good. That’s important, too.” I go to the door and peek out into the corridor.

Laura gets out of bed and runs to me. She pushes the door closed. “You’re worrying me, Donata. What are you up to?”

“Only good, Laura. I promise.”

“So you have a plan at last?” Her voice rises to a thin screech.

“Perhaps.”

Laura bites her bottom lip. “Can you do it alone? Without help?”

I blink as her question makes sense. There is something I need help with: the lock on the side door of the
palazzo
. “If I’m not home before the boys, tell Paolina to do the usual.”

“What do you mean? What’s the usual?”

“Just tell her.”

“Will she get in trouble?”

“I pray not. I don’t want to hurt anyone ever again. But I need this one thing.” I peek into the corridor, then dash for the stairwell. Within minutes, I’m in disguise and out in the alley.

Suddenly, I’m fearful. Noè will not be on the Rio Terrà di Maddalena to meet me, and I will have no defenses against the beggar boys. My best chance is to move as quickly as I can.

It’s wrong of Noè to leave me so unprotected.

Even as I think that, I realize it’s irrational. Noè has no idea I’m coming to the printer’s today. Nevertheless, I’m angry at him. And afraid of the beggars. And afraid of what I’m about to do.

I run out into the wide street, keeping my head down, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

“Stop, boy!”

At the shout I run faster.

Slam, smack. A crushing weight crosses my middle, then it’s over.

I’m lying on the stone ground, looking up at the bottom of a cart.

A man drags me out and pulls me to my feet. “You ran in front of me,” he says loudly. “I can’t be held responsible.” He scurries about, gathering the wood and bone carvings that litter the ground. He tosses them back in the cart. “You ran in front of me.”

I bend to clutch my middle. The front wheel of this three-wheeled cart went entirely over me. I heave, but it’s dry, for I’ve had no breakfast.

Still, there’s a stickiness on my chin. I wipe it; the back of my hand comes away smeared with blood.

The man stares at me as though he’s seeing some horrible specter. He picks up my
bareta
from under the cart.

I snatch it and twist my hair into a clump that I stuff back inside the hat. My chin drips blood.

“Come on,” says the man. “I’ve got a friend up the road here. She can take care of you. It was your fault,” he says again loudly, looking around at anyone who might be watching. “So it’s just the kindness of a spectator that moves me now. The kindness of a poor carver.”

I stagger beside the cart. The man soon stops and leans into an open shop door. “Chiara, someone ran in my path without looking, right under my front wheel. Could you help?”

A heavyset woman comes to the door.

“Thanks,” says the man, and he’s back to his cart before she can respond.

Chiara mutters a few complaints in the man’s direction. She puts a hand on my shoulder and guides me inside to a stool. I’ve got my own hands cupping my chin, so I won’t bleed all over everything, but she pries them away. Now her mutters change to words of comfort. She tells a small boy who emerges from the corner to grab a basin and go for water. Then she washes my chin.

I’m thanking her and trying not to cry out as she picks bits of rubble from the gash. To divert myself, I let my eyes wander the room. Boxes of all sizes are stacked around the walls. Some are plain, but most are made of beautifully painted or printed paper. Laura loves paper boxes. She has a collection of particularly small and delicate ones. “Your boxes are exquisite,” I say. “My sister would love this store.”

Chiara hands me a small square of clean cloth. “Hold this to your chin and press. And you can get up now.” No sooner do I get up than she sinks onto the stool with a little wuff sound. “So you know fine craftsmanship, do you? You’ve got good taste. I love this shop. I’m a slave to it, working every day, dawn to dusk, but I love it. This one’s my own design.” She reaches for a box, but her arm isn’t long enough. The little boy who brought the basin obliges again, knowing exactly which box she means and putting it in her hand, then going back to settle in the corner once more.

Chiara holds the box before my eyes and rotates it. It has eight sides of equal dimension and it’s about the size of a man’s hand, with fingers spread. The corners are perfectly tucked. The lid is made of narrow folds of paper that radiate out from the center in a swirl, so that you expect it to be round. But somehow she managed to make perfect tucks at the eight corners.

“It’s marvelous,” I say.

“My best seller. I’d let you hold it, but for the blood and all.”

I realize Chiara is the keeper of this shop. I didn’t even know women could be shopkeepers. Barmaids and laundresses and servants, yes. Prostitutes, yes. And I know that women do all sorts of work at home that serves the factories. But here’s a woman who runs a business from beginning to end. She’s in charge of her own destiny.

Chiara puts the box on the closest stack and peeks at my chin. “It’s stopped bleeding. You’ll be good as new before long. Wash your hands now.”

I rinse my hands in the basin and wipe them on the back of my trousers. “Thank you,” I say quietly. Then I kiss Chiara’s hand, as a gentle boy would.

She laughs. “Now, aren’t you the ladies’ man? Go on, get out of here.”

I look at her steady eyes. “I need help getting over to the Fondamente Nuove,” I say.

“What do you mean, help?”

“If I walk alone, I’ll get beat up by beggar boys.”

Chiara looks out the door past me. “Is that why you were running without looking where you were going?”

“Yes, kind woman.”

“What’s your name?”

“Donato.”

Chiara puts one hand on her hip and regards me with piercing eyes. “The Donà family has a
palazzo
on that
fondamenta.
”

I stand stupefied. Yesterday Messer Cuttlefish talked to me about the conviction of Andrea Donà. Now Chiara is talking about that same family. I feel as though Chiara has seen into my thoughts. I stare at her in dread.

“They’ve placed a large order with me. I was waiting for my sister’s boy to deliver it. But if you’ll deliver it, I’ll pay the passage on the gondola. It’ll get you to the
fondamenta
in one piece, at least.”

“You’ve put your trust in the right boy, kind woman,” I say with genuine gratitude.

“I’m a good judge of character,” says Chiara.

I begin to smile, but it hurts my chin, so I simply give a single bow of the head. “I won’t let you down.”

“You’d better not.”

Moments later I’m in a gondola with a large package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. The
gondoliere
knows the
palazzo
of the Donà family, which is good, since I don’t know how to get there by canal starting from here. All I have to do is carry the package into the
palazzo
.

I sit back in the gondola and am enjoying the rhythmic motion when I notice that the
gondoliere
is looking at me oddly. I jump to my feet and almost knock Chiara’s package in the water. I have to leap to catch it in time, and the whole gondola rocks dangerously.

“
Cretino!
—hare-brain,” shouts the
gondoliere.

Stupid me. Girls sit in gondolas. Boys stand. It’s not a rule, it’s just the way it happens. I stand as tall as I can.

When we arrive at the
fondamenta,
I get out quickly, mutter a thank-you, and carry the package to the entrance of the
palazzo
.

A servant girl answers my call. She comes down the stairs in quiet slippers and opens the gate. She eyes the package while I eye her, my head turned to one side so she won’t see my full face. She doesn’t look in the least familiar, thank heavens. “Follow me,” she says.

“It’s not heavy.” I hold the package in one hand to show her. “You can carry it easily.”

“It’s a boy’s job to carry packages that big, lazybones. Can’t you give a good girl a hand?” She leads the way up the stairs to the kitchen.

Baskets and pots clutter this kitchen. Several rounds of hot bread steam on the counter. The heavenly smell brings water to my mouth. I’ve gone out without eating again.

The girl looks at me a moment in silence. I don’t know what to do, but I’m almost sure she doesn’t have any inkling who I am, so I just look back. “Set it on the table,” she says at last, “and I’ll call the mistress.”

“Good-bye, then.” I put down the package and quickly head for the stairwell.

“Stay put. Don’t you have any manners?”

“I’m in a hurry,” I say.

“Too much of a hurry for a tip? How about a thank-you kiss, then?” The girl smiles, and I realize with shock that she’s flirting with me.

“Who’s there?” Signora Donà comes into the kitchen.

I look down at the floor instantly. For a moment I think that I’m going to pass out.

“This boy brought a package,” says the servant girl.

“Who’s it from?” asks Signora Donà. “What is it?”

“The boxes,” I mumble.

“Oh, yes, the boxes. Thank you, young man.” She gives a little flustery noise. “I didn’t realize you were coming so early. I don’t have even a
soldo
on me. I’ll send Diana to get a coin.”

“Or we could give him bread,” says Diana. “Would you prefer that?” she asks coyly. She’s an observant one, that’s for sure.

“Thank you,” I mumble.

Diana hands me a round of bread and I turn to go.

“Just one minute,” says Signora Donà. “Let me have a look at your face.”

She recognized me. How could she not—she was in my home so recently? So it’s over. I’m caught. I look into the signora’s face with resignation.

“What’s this?” She frowns. “Have you been fighting?”

I shake my head, confused.

“Yes you have. Look at that chin. And the dirt across your shirt. I won’t have ruffians in my house. Tell the shopkeeper to send someone else next time. Now get on your way.” She flicks the back of her hand at me, as though I’m a piece of trash.

I race down the stairs and out to the
fondamenta
. Signora Donà peered right in my face, a face she’s seen so many times before, and didn’t recognize me. She didn’t even really look at me. Not really. She looked only at the wound on my chin. Why should she really look at a poor boy who’s come on an errand? Such a boy could never be anything to her.

The bread is chewy and salty and wonderful. I rip it ferociously with my teeth. And I practically run to the printer’s.

A group of five boys comes right toward me. Five. How can I possibly get away from five?

But one of them smiles and I realize I know these boys.

“Are you coming back to work, Donata?” asks Giuseppe.

“I have to talk with Noè and see,” I say.

“He’ll take you back in a minute,” says Rosaria. “You do good work.”

I’m touched by her words of confidence. For the month that I worked here, I kept a good distance between us. I was afraid that if I tried to make friends, Rosaria would discover some inconsistency in my story—or maybe somehow sense that I was different. As a result, she considered me haughty—she said as much more than once.

Well, I’ll make friends with her now. She can’t possibly get in trouble if things go wrong for me.