Daughter of Venice (9 page)

Piero laughs.

“Jews are bankers, little sister,” says Francesco. “And they’re bankers who take chances. They lend money to the poor. If they didn’t, there would be even more poor in Venice than there presently are. And we already have way too many beggars. So it’s in Venice’s best interests to let the Jews do what they want, including live where they want.”

“And it’s not right to force people to live in a given place,” says Piero. “If we want a serene republic, we cannot behave like brutes.”

“But if that’s the case,” I say, “why was the law passed in the first place?”

“To appease the Vatican.” Francesco slaps his hands on his knees to accent his words. “We pass a law, the Inquisition is satisfied. Whether we enforce it or not is no one’s business but ours.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “The Holy Office of the Roman Inquisition has an agenda against Protestantism as well. Do you want to know about the Lutherans, too?”

Lutherans? That’s what the little girl Sara accused me of being. “What have the Lutherans to do with the Jews?”

“Because of the Pope’s grumblings, the Lutherans haven’t been welcomed into most Venetian neighborhoods,” says Piero. “But the Jews have sheltered them in the Ghetto.”

“How strange, Jews and Protestants together,” I say.

“That’s not all,” says Piero. “The Ghetto is a hodgepodge of everyone who doesn’t have Venetian heritage. Jews from Spain and Portugal, Protestants from Holland, Muslims from Constantinople and Salonika and Cairo. Somehow they all manage.”

“It’s no mystery how,” says Francesco. “They tolerate each other well because they rely on each other for survival. And the Republic of Venice tolerates all of them for the same reason. It’s a question of money, little sister. Tolerance is good business.”

“But immigrants rarely have money, I thought.”

“It’s not the immigrants themselves,” says Francesco. “It’s the countries they come from. We trade with Amsterdam and Barcelona and Alexandria. We trade with almost everyone. If Venice mistreats the immigrants, the countries they come from will curtail trade.”

“We are a tolerant republic,” says Piero. “When a complaint is lodged against a Lutheran, the Tribunal and the Committee on Heresy—as well as the locally chosen Inquisitor—listen carefully and decide whether to investigate, or simply to take measures toward absolution, or, even more simply, to drop the whole matter on the grounds of insufficient evidence.”

“And the evidence is rarely sufficient,” Francesco says. “Yes, tolerance is good business. As I told you girls the other morning, Venice is practical.” He winks at me, like Father.

I know Francesco expects me to feel privileged to be part of a discussion that’s supposed to be among men only—and I do, and yet . . . The world that’s been presented to me by Mother, the world that I hear about at church, that world operates on principles that have to do with goodness and godliness. But despite Piero’s talk of not acting like brutes, both brothers spoke mainly of money.

“Any other questions?” asks Piero. “The tutor is waiting for me.”

“And for me,” says Francesco. “I’ve returned to my studies. I can’t let Piero outshine me too much at the university next fall.”

“I have a question,” says Laura. “Can we come listen to your tutor with you?”

My lips part involuntarily. Never has Laura asked anything so bold.

Piero looks at Francesco.

“Why not?” Francesco gives a wry smile. “The famous courtesan Veronica Franco got an education, after all. She wrote poems.”

Laura’s face opens in horror.

“Don’t tease,” says Piero to Francesco. “All right, little sister, why would you want to do that, anyway? Going to afternoon tutorials would mean missing your music lessons.” He looks at Laura. She doesn’t flinch.

“In any case,” says Francesco, “that’s a decision only Father can make. And he’s already left for a special meeting of the Senate. You can ask tonight. If you dare.”

Piero and Francesco leave.

I turn to Laura. “I didn’t know you cared about studies.”

“I don’t.”

“I thought you truly loved the violin,” I say.

“I do.”

“Why did you ask that, then?”

Laura tilts her head. “Isn’t it a request you would have liked to make?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why, then.” Laura smiles sadly. “Paolina was right the other day. We have to make the most of what we love. I love you, Donata.”

We hold each other tight.

C
HAPTER
E
LEVEN

THE BROOCH

T
he first morning light breaks over the roofs across the Canal Grande. I watch it gradually filter through our room, lighting up the painted white and green walls, bringing to life the plaster flowers and ribbons and tassels that decorate our ceilings.

I’ve been waiting for that light for what seems like hours.

I roll to my side and kiss Laura on the cheek. She murmurs in her sleep. Then I take Bortolo’s
bareta
out from under my pillow and stuff my hair up inside it. It all fits, every strand.

The Catholic boys my age wear their hair cut to the chin. With this hat on, my hair looks as if it’s very short all over. But that’s all right. Some boys do cut their hair that short, especially if it’s curly. Some boys and men have beards, others are clean shaven. Some wear wood-bottomed sandals, others wear boots that come up to midcalf. There’s a lot of variation. I shouldn’t feel sick when I look in the mirror. Everything’s going to be all right. I won’t stand out as strange.

Besides, in the fisherboy’s trousers I look poor, and there’s no regulating the dress and appearance of the poor.

But looking poor is precisely the problem. The revolting beggar boy who spat in my face yesterday told me to stay out of his territory. I can’t do that, though. I have to pass through his territory to get to the Ghetto. And I have to get to the Ghetto; I owe Noè for the
zoccoli
and the yarmulke.

If only there were a way to get to the Ghetto
campo
without going through the streets and alleys between here and there.

A gondola. Our private
gondoliere
would never take me, naturally. He’d look at me as though I were crazy, just like Father looked at Laura last night at the evening meal when she asked if she and I could listen in on the boys’ tutorial. I just sat there like a dummy, so disappointed at his reaction that I was unable to argue in our defense. And the evening meal was
seppie
—those horrible, tough cuttlefish. That made me sadder still.

But in my disguise, a public
gondoliere
would not look at me askance. I can’t go on a gondola in the Rio di San Marcuola. That’s too close to home. If a neighbor happened to get into the gondola with me, I’d have nowhere to hide and I could be recognized. But I can go over to the next canal—I think it’s called the Rio di Noale. I can take a public gondola up to whatever canal runs along the far side of the Ghetto, and never have to risk seeing that beggar boy at all. It’s a good plan.

I pull the
bareta
off my head and open the balcony doors. Across the water and down a way, a new
palazzo
is being built. Its arches and columns are different from the other buildings of Venice that I know. I don’t like it.

But the Canal Grande itself is a marvelous sight. Fishing boats and fruit and vegetable boats dot the water. A barge goes by, filled with barrel hoops. It’s from Padua or Treviso, where the wood is plentiful. It’s going to San Polo, just across the Canal Grande, where the barrel-making factories are. I know, because last night I made Mother sit down with me and tell me where all the different factories of Venice are. I thought she wouldn’t really know. But after she talked about the wool factories the other day, I wondered. She knew everything.

Another barge passes, piled high with cow hides. The butchers in Dorsoduro and Cannaregio sell the hides to the tanners over in the San Marco section, who sell the finished leather to the shoemakers that line the Merceria. I know all this, some from Mother, some from my brothers, some from listening to Father. I know all this though I’ve never stepped foot in a butcher’s or a tanner’s or a shoemaker’s.

I look down at my hands. I’ve twisted Bortolo’s
bareta
so hard that it’s begun to rip. In a frenzy, I stash the
bareta
back under my pillow and race out of our bedchamber, down the corridor to Mother and Father’s chamber. I burst through the door.

Father sits on the end of the bed in his long nightshirt, looking out the window onto the canal, just as I was doing a moment ago. Mother sleeps behind him. He looks at me groggily; clearly he’s just woken.

I kneel at his feet. “There are three hundred ninety-three members of butcher guilds. Two hundred forty members of tanner guilds. One hundred four members of shoemaker guilds. There are seven guilds altogether that deal with leather, if you include the guilds of artists who engrave and gild belts and purses.”

Father knits his brows. “This is true.”

“The fire that burned the Rialto bridge was in 1514.”

“Yes,” says Father. “How do you know these things?”

“My head is filled with numbers, Father. You put them there. I listen when you talk. But all you talk about is who manufactures what, who sells what, who buys what. The only reason I know the year the bridge burned is that it mattered to the flow of business, so you mention it now and then, Father. You talk about it. Before yesterday I didn’t know about the decree of 1516 that said the Jews should live in the Ghetto. I don’t know any history at all, I know nothing about the world, unless it has to do with commerce—and then I know whatever you say at meals or in conversations I overhear.”

“What are you talking about, daughter?”

“I’m Donata, Father. And I’m talking about an education. Please let Laura and me attend the boys’ tutorial.”

“The boys have been studying since they were seven. How could you possibly understand anything that goes on, joining them now?”

“We only want to listen. That’s all. We don’t have to be tutored ourselves. We won’t disrupt. We won’t slow anyone down.”

Father slaps his chest and gives a deep cough, as though to clear his lungs. “You need your lessons on the harpsichord.”

“It’s Paolina who studies the harpsichord, Father. Laura and I play violin. And we’ve had lessons for many years—just like the boys, we’ve been at it since we were seven—why, it’s been so many years that all we really need now is practice. And we can do that in the evenings.”

Father rests his hands on his knees. He’s silent.

“You are a wise father to your sons,” I whisper. “Please be wise to your daughters.”

Father sucks in air and sits up tall. “Your audacity almost offends me, Donata. I fear for you.” He drums the fingers of his right hand on his knee. “But a mind that can hold so many numbers needs more nourishment, or it will languish and die. Yes, Donata. You and your sister may listen in on the tutorial.”

I rest my cheek on the back of his right hand. “Thank you, Father. Thank you, thank you.”

“But if I hear of any problems, this experiment ends. Immediately.”

“I understand.” I stand and bend over to kiss him on each cheek.

He pulls me onto his lap and holds me tight. “Be a good girl, Donata.”

“I am, Father.” I hug him back.

“And I’ll look into that map you asked about. The one by Jacopo de’ Barbari.”

“Thank you, Father.”

I return to our bedchamber and shake Laura awake. “Be good when you pretend to be me today, sweet sister.”

Laura sits up and rubs her eyes. She looks around the room. “It’s barely dawn. What evil possessed you to get up? And what worse evil possessed you to wake me?”

“I’m going out.”

“In disguise? But you just went yesterday.”

“I have to pay Noè for the
zoccoli
and cap.”

“So I have to do all your work plus all mine two days in a row?”

“You get to hear the stories of my adventures.”

Laura makes a face. “Some adventures—getting spat upon and having a huge splinter in the middle of your foot.”

“And entering the home of a Jew,” I say.

“Yes,” Laura breathes. “All right, I admit it’s exciting. But you’re the one who actually gets to live the adventures. All I do is double work.”

“How hard was the work yesterday?”

Laura gives a sheepish smile. “Actually, Mother left instructions with Cara and went off early on some errand. So we didn’t do much else than a little stitching. Still, work is work, Donata.”

“Would you rather be the one who goes out in the streets?”

Laura shivers. “Never.”

I smile and poke her in the ribs. “Then stop complaining. Besides, I have a surprise for you.”

“Another Jewish cap?”

“No. Noè only gave me one. It’s about this afternoon. Or, rather, every afternoon.”

Laura curls her legs under her and sits on her feet. She looks like a curious cat. “What?”

“We’re going to listen in on the tutorial.”

Laura shakes her head. “But Father said . . .”

“He changed his mind. I went to him this morning and he agreed.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing,” says Laura. “You’re the one who loves learning that sort of thing.”

“It won’t be any particular sort of thing, Laura. The boys learn about everything. History, philosophy. The world. We can learn, too.”

Laura gives a weak smile. “I’ll give it a try.”

“Good.” I kiss her on both cheeks. “And now good-bye.”

“You’re going so early?”

“Yes. And you don’t mind if I give Noè my bead bracelet, do you?”

“Why would you do that?” asks Laura.

“I have to pay him somehow. And I don’t know how to get my hands on any money.”

“I love Murano glass beads. If you give away your bracelet, then I can’t wear mine anymore. We wouldn’t want people to be able to tell us apart by our jewelry.” Laura goes to the dressing table and opens the jewelry box. “Here. Give him this gold brooch, instead. You lost yours, so I can’t wear it anyway.”

“You’re right.” I take the brooch. “Wish me luck.”

“
In bocca al lupo
—may you wind up in the mouth of the wolf,” says Laura.

“
Crepi il lupo
—may the wolf burst,” I answer. I spin away, grabbing the
bareta
from under the pillow, and the trousers and shirt I washed last night. I race to the stairwell and down.

No one’s about yet except Cook and Giò Giò. They’re banging around in the kitchen.

I reach the ground floor and realize with a shock that Uncle Umberto is in the wine storeroom, which is next door to the yarn storeroom, where my shoes are stashed. While he cannot see, he hears everything.

I hold my breath and strain to see into the dark of that windowless room.

Uncle Umberto has clustered maybe twenty bottles on the floor of the storeroom. He fits a short bamboo cane into the spigot of a wine barrel. He takes one of the bottles and fits the other end of the bamboo into its mouth. Then he pulls the stopcock. The wine runs black into the bottle; the strong smell of Vernaccia wets the air. As it nears the top, my breath quickens. But at just the right moment Uncle moves the end of the cane to the next bottle, using his thumb as a stop in that instant between bottles. Though I cannot see the floor clearly from here, I know he doesn’t spill a drop—he never does. He fills the next bottle.

Uncle works by sound. He explained that to me when I was little. He made me shut my eyes and listen and try to call out when I heard that the bottle was almost full. It was a good game, but I never mastered it. Uncle can do it with wine and oil and any other liquid I’ve seen him pour.

It’s his job to empty the remains of the barrels so that they can be scrubbed out and brought to our summer home, where they’ll be refilled in the fall. He’ll probably do the entire job in a single day. Too bad. I like to be his helper at this sort of thing. I wish he weren’t doing it precisely today.

As Uncle moves the cane to the next bottle, I tiptoe past and change in the wool storeroom, rolling my nightdress into a tight ball and jamming it in the back corner again. The
bareta
is slightly loose, because of the rip I made on the headband. But it will hold in place, I’m sure.

Then I poke my head out of the storeroom and listen. When the sound of the wine stops for an instant, then restarts, I tiptoe quickly to the door and step out into the alley.

I made it.

I work my way along through the back alleys toward the Rio di Noale, keeping an eye out for beggar boys. But there aren’t any here. Naturally. They’ll stick to the wide roads where the merchant traffic is heavy.

It’s easy not to get lost when my goal is simply to get to the next canal. That’s because all I have to do is keep my ear open for the noises of the Canal Grande and stay as close to those noises as I can. I quickly come out on the smaller
rio
and flag down a gondola. “To the Ghetto,” I say, climbing aboard.

“The Rio della Misericordia. Right away.” The man pushes off from the bank. Then he looks me up and down. “Do you have the fare?”

Oh no. I forgot to bring anything to pay for the gondola ride. How stupid I am.

We’re bobbing in the center of the canal and the
gondoliere
is just looking at me. Another
gondoliere
yells at us to get out of the way. My
gondoliere
moves us to the far side of the canal. “Well?”

“All I have is this gold brooch,” I say, trying hard to mimic his style of talk. “But it’s worth much much more than a simple ride. I can’t give it to you. I’m sorry.”