Daughter of Venice (6 page)

C
HAPTER
S
IX

CLOTHES

I
’m wrapping the white cloth around my chest. It’s soft, filmy silk, the finest Venice makes, which means the finest in the world.

Mother would blink at such a claim. Her cheeks would go ruddy and the corners of her mouth would pucker just a little and she’d wait for me to continue—for me to say, “That notwithstanding, the quality of this silk is clearly second to that of Venice’s wool.” Then she’d smile hugely and continue her rushing about.

My hands tremble a little as I tuck the end of the swath in place. It’s been three days since Father’s announcement of the family marriages, but it feels like forever. Everything has changed. I stand in profile and examine my changed self in the mirror.

“Flat as a man,” says Paolina with a giggle. She slinks up behind me and gives me a conspiratorial grin in the mirror.

I twirl around and kiss the tip of her nose.

Laura makes a tsking noise and plucks at the silk swath that binds my breasts flat. “Someone’s going to guess. Someone outside.”

“No one outside will guess,” says Andriana. “Neither of you will ever have enough bosom to arouse suspicion.”

“That’s the truth.” I laugh teasingly. “I saw you sitting in profile at the balcony windows yesterday. No one in Venice is ignorant of your ample charms. I bet half the bachelors in the city long for you.”

But Laura’s chewing on her bottom lip. She doesn’t give even the smallest smile. “Do you have to bind yourself so tightly, though, Donata? That can’t be good for your growth. Think of Chinese women’s feet, after all.”

Francesco has told us stories he’s heard about Chinese women’s feet, contorted so unnaturally from binding that the women cannot walk. They have to be carried around. And stories about their nails, grown so long that the women cannot use their hands. They have to be fed and washed. A spasm of distaste jerks me tall. I don’t want to be a man. I simply want the privileges of a man. Or at least this one privilege: free passage. And I must seize this privilege now, before it’s too late. But I wouldn’t give up my womanhood for it.

I loosen the silk swath and breathe deeply.

Laura’s face softens in relief.

“Laura’s right,” says Andriana. “You’re going to get caught. Not by strangers. By Mother. Then we’ll all get in trouble. And if that happens, I’ll say I told you not to do it. I mean that, Donata. I won’t get in trouble over this—not now—not when Father and Mother are looking for a husband for me.”

“That’s all right. I wouldn’t ask you to take any blame on my behalf. Besides, there won’t be any blame to take. And think of it, sisters. Francesco has been practically ignoring us lately—he almost never tells us stories anymore. But today I’ll go out and have adventures myself, and I’ll bring home wonderful stories for all of you, and no one will be the wiser.”

“We don’t need wonderful stories, Donata.” Andriana presses one hand against the spot between her eyebrows. I know she’s trying to keep her brow from furrowing—she does that to prevent those ugly lines that worriers get. “Don’t do it. You will get caught.”

“How?” My hand goes to my mouth and I look at Laura. “Oh no, you’re not going out yourself today, are you? You’re not visiting a friend?”

“No no,” says Laura. “But you will get caught.”

“Not if you pretend you’re me when Mother comes asking, as you promised.” I catch her right hand in both of mine. “You will be true to me, won’t you?”

“Of course. I’ll curtsy for you and hurry to whatever task Mother sets. I’ll be the most obedient and sweetest self anyone could want. All in your name, I swear.”

“So that will work,” I say. “Mother is so busy these days, carting Andriana around to the dressmaker’s and all those . . .” I stop myself. I was about to call the things Mother and Andriana do foolish. Jealousy can make me unkind. That’s truly foolish. Besides, I am happy for Andriana. I must remember that. “Mother’s never in the workroom. She hardly notices I am here now. She won’t notice when I’m not here.”

“She’ll notice,” says Andriana. “How could she not, if Laura is as obedient as she promises to be?”

I look at her quickly. Then Paolina laughs, and we’re all laughing.

I pull on the black hose and slip into the blousy, thin shirt common to noble boys in summertime, and, finally, the light sleeveless jacket. I stole these clothes two days ago from a pile of my brothers’ castoffs that Cara had gathered for the poor bin at the church of San Marcuola. It was actually that pile of clothes that started everything. It sat there, like an opportunity.

I snatched this outfit before my head could even think what I would do with it.

But, really, the thought was always there. After all, it was wearing boys’ clothing that gave me my one chance to go crabbing years ago.

If my adventure is successful, if I am not caught, life will be very good. At least until Father dispatches us to the futures he chooses for us. I am going out into the world today. Me, Donata. Out into the world, on foot.

“Your patch is less than artful,” says Laura. She’s plucking at me again, nervously trying to arrange my sleeve so the patch doesn’t show so much.

I put the patch on last night, working under the oil lamp late into the dark. What a pity that the one shirt I grabbed from the charity pile had a rip in the sleeve. But by the time I had the chance to spread the outfit out in my room and examine it, it was too late to pick another shirt; Uncle Umberto had already bagged up the rest of the pile and lugged it off over the one little bridge to San Marcuola yesterday, before Sunday Mass. When I asked him what had happened to the pile, he didn’t even question why I should want an old shirt. He just offered me one of his own. I didn’t take it—Uncle Umberto is three times my size—but I kissed him and thanked the Lord for the ripped shirt I already had.

“Who cares?” I say now, though I am promising myself silently that I will be extra careful not to get new rips in this outfit. It must last me, if I am to go on lots of adventures. “The boys who walk the streets don’t all look refined, you know.”

Laura’s eyes grow large. She didn’t know that, really. None of us know it with our own eyes. All of us understand that anything I say at this point comes indirectly via a brother, probably Francesco. Yet the very fact that I am about to go out in my disguise has somehow already lent me an air of authority. I warm to my subject. “Most of the boys outside aren’t at all like our brothers. They aren’t the sons of nobles, but of citizens. And not always well-to-do citizens. They’re rough characters.”

Andriana presses both hands to her brow now. “You need to look like one of the refined boys, Donata. Absolutely respectable. You don’t want someone picking a fight with you.”

“Or worse,” says Laura.

“What’s worse?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” Laura whispers. “I don’t want to know.”

Paolina claps her hands suddenly. “Ha!” she says, and climbs onto our high bed. She carefully spreads her skirt out around her in a circle. “You don’t have to worry about that patched shirt. I’ve taken care of it.”

“What?”

Paolina’s fat little cheeks almost burst with pride. “A boy is coming here. A guild member.”

Andriana steps close to the bed. “What do you mean?”

Paolina clasps her hands together and bounces on her bottom in glee. “I arranged a trade. Donata will give him her clothes—her boy clothes—and he’ll give her his.”

“My clothes are patched and worn threadbare. Did you tell him that?”

“Yes.”

“If he’s willing to take them, then, his must be just as bad,” I say.

“Not at all,” Paolina says. “His are good. I made sure of that.”

“Why on earth would he trade good clothes for bad?” Laura asks.

“Because . . .” Paolina sits up tall. “I also promised one of my outgrown dresses for his little sister.”

“But what about your own little sister?” Andriana’s voice is a scold.

“Maria won’t fit into it for years. And by that time, Mother won’t remember it. Besides, I wore it gardening at Giulia’s home. It’s so stained, Maria would be glad to avoid ever wearing it.” Paolina beams. “See? I thought of everything.”

I know the dress Paolina means. Last fall she wore it almost every day. Cara had to practically wrestle it away from her to wash now and then, muttering little angry words in her native Friulano dialect. Paolina has so many funny ways.

But stains or no stains, the boy is getting the better end of this bargain, I bet. He is assuredly less well-off than we are. So Paolina’s outgrown dress, despite the stains, will be far finer than this boy’s sister’s other clothes.

I take off the hose and sit on the floor cross-legged so I can rub at the birthmark on the bottom of my right foot. This is how I wish for luck. “Where is this boy?” I ask.

“He’s supposed to deliver fish within the hour.”

“A fisherman?” Laura’s voice rises in a squeal. “You talked with a fisherman?”

“A fisherboy. He’s nice,” says Paolina.

“A fisherboy,” says Andriana in a murmur. “I’ve never even been allowed to talk to the spinners when they take away the bobbins of yarn, but here you talked to a mere fisherboy. His father probably isn’t even a citizen. Did anyone see you with him?”

“Cook, of course. I went down to the ground floor with Cook and helped him select the eels yesterday,” Paolina says. “And when he was out of earshot, shouting orders to Giò Giò about where to lug away a barrel, I asked the fisherboy. And he said yes. Just like that.”

“Aren’t you something,” Andriana is saying slowly. “You may have as much mischief in you as Donata does.” She looks slantwise at me.

I stare at Paolina. A fisherboy? I’ll be wearing fisherboy’s clothes.

“Fishers wear terrible clothes,” says Laura. “Trousers and big, loose shirts. Donata would never want such clothes.”

“Yes, I do,” I say, suddenly realizing the possibilities. Fishermen don’t live in our section of town, in Cannaregio. The fishing industry is in Dorsoduro, the only section of Venice that is larger than Cannaregio—much larger. If I’m going to blend in wearing those clothes, if I’m going to be an anonymous fisherboy wandering the alleys, I’ll have to go to Dorsoduro. Alley after alley, all the way to Dorsoduro. “The fisherboy’s clothes will be perfect.”

“You can’t be serious,” says Andriana. “Fishers aren’t refined. You can’t go out dressed as a fisher. Someone awful could come up to you. Don’t do this, Donata. Forget the whole thing.”

“I’m going out,” I say. “No matter what.” Out.

My heart flutters, then slowly begins to pound, louder and louder. I feel like I’m passing through the giant, thick doors of a cathedral.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

THE EXCHANGE

T
here he is.” Paolina points.

The other three of us press together on the balcony and look out on the Canal Grande. There’s much to see in both directions. Too much. “How can you pick his boat out from the others?” I ask, counting three fishing boats in the direction Paolina points.

“I can’t, really.” Paolina takes the brown paper parcel that holds her old dress and runs to the door. “I have faith. Come on, Donata. We have to get down there.”

I snatch my satchel, which holds the boy shoes, the clothes for exchange, plus the
bareta
that Vincenzo used to wear over his messy hair. I stuff it under my nightdress, which I put back on after Paolina’s announcement about this fisherboy. The hidden satchel sticks out fat in front. My eyes meet Paolina’s and we’ve got the same thought. She puts her parcel under her skirt, too. We smile and parade our fake pregnant bellies for a moment.

Paolina peeks out into the long corridor. “All clear.”

Cara passes by just at that moment, with a bucket and a scrub brush. She doesn’t count. None of the servants count. At least not so far as Laura and Paolina and I are concerned. We girls are old enough to go about our day within the
palazzo
without interference from them.

So the only ones who might question what Paolina and I are doing are family members. Father is undoubtedly working already; he leaves at dawn and doesn’t return till the midday meal.

That means Mother is the one we need to avoid on this floor. But I cannot hear the shrill voices of Maria and Giovanni, so Mother may well be off somewhere with them—probably in the kitchen. At yesterday’s evening meal Maria blurted out that she missed Mother, she missed making treats with her in the kitchen. Mother said that was silly; she was right there. But her face showed that she knew she’s been too scarce lately. She’s allowed the whole marriage business to consume her. She must be in the kitchen with Maria and Giovanni now—I’ll bet on it.

Paolina and I walk to the stairs, our hands clasped in front under the secrets of our fat bellies. We could run, we’re both so excited. But that might arouse Cara’s suspicions.

The next two floors down present the greatest dangers: our other six brothers.

Cristina Brandolini once said she envied me for having such a large family. I was happy when she said it; I love all of us. But this morning I wouldn’t mind if I had fewer brothers to sneak past.

Piero and Antonio and Vincenzo are hardly a threat, of course, because they’re probably already strolling the Merceria, on their way back from walking Father to the Senate. But Francesco could easily be home still, especially if he spent his night frisking around with courtesans. If he caught us on the stairs in our nightdresses, he’d demand to know what we were doing. When we didn’t answer, he’d shoo us back to our floor and start who knows what kind of teasing tonight at the evening meal. And teasing like that could lead to a family inquisition.

Paolina takes the parcel out from under her skirt and puts it under her arm so that both her hands can hold the stair railing. Solemn, she walks on tiptoe.

I kiss her cheek and toss my own satchel over one shoulder. Then I take Paolina’s parcel from under her arm, so that she can hold the railing more firmly. We hardly breathe as we pass the entranceway to the rooms on the next level down.

And now there’s only one floor to go before the ground floor. This is where Bortolo and Nicola sleep, with Aunt Angela to watch over them. This floor is also where the kitchen is, though Cook and Giò Giò sleep on the fourth and fifth floors above the ground floor, with the rest of the servants. And this floor is where Uncle Umberto sleeps. But if he hears us, all we have to do is run. He’s slow in his blindness, and so long as we don’t say a word, he’ll never know who passed on the stairs.

That’s everyone. For now, at least.

We’re halfway down the stairs when laughter rings out—unmistakably Nicola’s. Aunt Angela’s lament predictably follows. Nicola has played some naughty trick on her again.

No sound of Bortolo. Oh, no. Sure enough, there he is, lying on the floor in the middle of the doorway, watching us come down the stairs. His big head rests on the back of his folded arms. His eyes shine like one of Venice’s zillions of cats. He lifts his brows without saying a word.

I nod, equally silent.

We’ve just agreed with our faces alone that I will bribe him, as I have many times before. For, although this is my first time going out on my own, I’ve had other secrets of various types and Bortolo has developed a special knack for discovering them. I’ll have to bring him a treat from outside.

Now he points at Paolina, ready to extort from her as well.

She shakes her head.

Bortolo gets to a sitting position and opens his mouth, but I rush to him and clap my hand over it.

“Please, Bortolo. It’s only me who has a secret,” I hiss. “I’m the only one who owes you. Paolina is going right back upstairs.”

His eyes bore into me over the top of my hand. He doesn’t look convinced.

“I’ll show you,” whispers Paolina, squatting beside him. “I’ll come by on my way back up. I’ll even take you up with me, to play.”

Bortolo peels my hand away from his mouth. “None of you other girls are fun. The only one who plays good is Donata. She’s almost as good as Antonio.”

I warm with pleasure. Antonio has always been the most fun to play with. It’s an honor to be compared to him.

Paolina takes a deep breath. “I’ll get Andriana to hold you steady as you stand on our balcony railing.”

“Andriana won’t agree,” Bortolo whispers. “Only Francesco dares do that.” That child is no fool.

“Yes she will,” says Paolina.

“Bortolo!” calls Aunt Angela, from down the corridor. “Where are you?”

“Nowhere,” calls back Bortolo. He shakes his head at Paolina and leans toward her. “And what if Andriana doesn’t agree?”

“I’ll bring you a plant from Giulia’s garden,” says Paolina. “A flowering plant.”

Bortolo wrinkles his nose. “Who cares about plants?”

Paolina takes a loud breath and I know she’s preparing to argue.

“I’ll bring you an extra-special treat,” I say quickly.

“A treasure,” insists Bortolo.

“Yes, a treasure.”

Bortolo gets up and runs down the corridor. “I’m coming. I’m coming to get you, Nicola, and turn you into a big fat goose with my big fat goose magic and eat you. Yum,” he screams.

Nicola shrieks in fear that is only half a game.

I stifle a laugh, and Paolina and I run the rest of the way down the stairs.

The ground floor is full of the noise of outside, for the big gates that open onto the Canal Grande have been pulled back completely and all Venice pours in with the unfettered stream of sunlight. The fishing boat already bobs in the water channel that cuts into the central foyer of the ground floor. Cook haggles with the fish vendor, who barks orders at a boy. The boy jumps here and there about the boat, finding exactly the fish the vendor wants to show Cook.

Paolina and I hunch in the cool, damp shadows and work our way along the wall until we can duck into the first storeroom.

“Give me those,” Paolina says. “And stay here.”

I’m not used to taking orders from Paolina. But this is her plan—so I hand her my satchel and her parcel and move a little farther into the storeroom. The strong odor of clean wool thread, the odor I’m familiar with from so many mornings of preparing bobbins for the looms, is at odds with the strangeness of the situation. I slowly wind a strand around my arm from wrist to shoulder. When I can’t stand the suspense any longer, I peek into the foyer.

Paolina sits on the stone floor behind Cook, perched on the satchel, which lies on top of the brown paper parcel. In that position, she seems tiny and much younger. Not even Father could be upset that she’s not wearing a veil in front of these fishers. Every now and then she says something to Cook. No one suspects her. She could get away with murder, that’s what Mother says. I bet when she finally enters a convent, the nuns will find her so unruly, they’ll try to marry her off even if it means putting up a dowry for her themselves.

At last Cook leads the fisherman up the stairs and Paolina tosses the parcel and satchel onto the boat. She stands now, with her hands on both hips, imperiously.

I watch for the boy to hand Paolina a satchel in return. But he opens the one she gave him, says a few words, then strips off his shirt. Right there in front of my sister. We’ve seen shirtless boys and men from our window on occasion, but never up close like this. Except for our brothers, and they don’t count. Though Paolina will never marry and, thus, her reputation doesn’t really matter, she shouldn’t be subjected to this sort of thing. I come out of the storeroom, despite the fact that all I have on is my nightdress. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The boy throws the shirt on the stone floor and turns his back as he pulls off his trousers. I go hot with embarrassment, but, even more, I’m amazed at the muscles of his back and bottom and thighs. And astonished that he is as brown under his clothes as on his neck and feet. Why, he must fish naked. The image of the lagoon littered with rocking fishing boats full of naked fisherboys leaves me speechless.

He has already donned the old black hose from my brothers, which look ridiculous, actually, and he’s pulling on the shirt, when we hear the fisherman as he descends.

I race back to my storeroom and peek out.

Paolina picks up the boy’s old shirt and trousers.

“What’s this?” asks the fisherman.

“A trade,” says the boy.

The fisherman looks from the boy to Paolina and back to the boy. The brown paper parcel is nowhere in sight. He turns up his hands. “Why?”

“For fun,” says Paolina. She gives her most charming smile and the fisherman finally laughs with confusion. In a flash I see her as the Mother Superior to her flock of nuns. No one could fail to take her word for anything.

The fisherman gets in the boat and they push off and paddle those long oars, almost as long as the oar of a gondola.

It’s only when Paolina thrusts the boy’s fish-stinky clothes into my face with a triumphant laugh that I put my hands into my long hair and gasp in realization. “A
bareta!
He didn’t give me his
bareta
. Or shoes, either.”

“Wear the old ones you stole from the charity pile,” says Paolina.

“They’re in the satchel.”

But the fishing boat is gone.