The Harem Midwife (13 page)

She squared her shoulders and fingered the wooden beads in her pocket, praying to the Virgin to give her strength. She kissed her rosary and crossed herself. Before they landed, she must fling the beads overboard. Rich Jewish widows did not swan about with rosary beads. Cesca stared at the deck, gooseflesh rising on her arms. She stepped on the creature. Even dead, it gave off an aura—of furtiveness, of clinging to walls, of pressing itself into crevices, of scurrying, nose twitching, among the crates in the cargo hold.

It was no worse than salted cod or beef—just greasier and stringier. She glanced around. Not a soul in sight. She grabbed the tail between her index finger and thumb and let it dangle within a hand’s span of her mouth. She bit in, holding the carcass away from her so the blood would not stain her frock, which was Grazia’s best velvet with taffeta inserts in the sleeves. Picking tiny bones off her tongue, she spit them into a tidy pile at her feet.

She felt better a few moments later. The breeze refreshed her. She gathered her skirts and began to rise from between the casks. By sheer force of will, she had accomplished what she did not think she could manage. She felt absurdly proud of herself.

A tall shadow striped her dress. “Hello, my dear,” said a voice behind her. She looked up, shielding her eyes from the sun. It was the Marquis Foscari in his fine white jacket and wide-brimmed hat. His remarkable silver nose gleamed as he smiled at her.

How long had he been watching her? What was he doing
on the ship? There could be only one reason. He wanted a share in her ducats once she had obtained them from Isaac. But he was the Venetian ambassador in Constantinople. Why then would a man in his position want anything from her? Perhaps his presence on the
Aphrodite
was nothing more than an innocent coincidence?

“How lovely to have the pleasure of your company once again.” He removed his hat and made a sweeping bow, as sweeping as possible between the confines of two water casks. He offered his hand.

Cesca took it, trying to look pleased to see him. Then, after hesitating longer than she should have, she said, “It is good to see you, Foscari.” The sheen of robust health on his skin was like the blush on wild grapes. The perfume of food wafted from him.

“It is a hard matter to argue with the belly. For it has no ears,” he commented in the Venetian dialect.

So he had seen her.

As a girl, Cesca had experienced the same rage she felt now in the presence of this rich man who no doubt pitied her. Once a week, if her mother had not the few
scudi
required for their rent, she would send Cesca to stand half naked in front of their landlord. The old man would gaze at her breasts while he drank his Madeira wine and sucked the spiced marrow from veal bones.

Cesca swallowed her acrimony and smiled sweetly at Foscari. Leaning toward him and tilting her head, she said, “What brings you on board?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“We have business to discuss.”

Cesca felt the blood rush to her face. So he had guessed her scheme and now here he was, greedy pig, clamouring for his share.

She would have liked to smash his silver nose clean off with the barrel stave lying in front of her on the deck.

Instead, she took his arm and together they picked their way across the rolling deck, side-stepping carelessly coiled rope and overflowing buckets, working their way along the railing of the foredeck, using the spars for handholds. She nearly stumbled into an empty hammock slung between two cannons and would have fallen if Foscari had not caught her around the waist. The sailors slung their hammocks without regard for others, settling like stray dogs where and when they could.

Foscari stood too close to her while he talked. Cesca beamed in response to his remarks about the weather, taking every opportunity to touch his hand or his arm or even his cheek to underline a point, even going so far as to cluck in sympathy when he mentioned the trouble he had finding food to please him.

Finally, when they reached the quarterdeck, Foscari cleared his throat and said, “Would you not be more comfortable in my cabin?”

She put her hand to her forehead and brushed away a strand of hair. Glimpsing her reflection in his nose, she was pleased to note that in the humid salt air, her hair had sprung becomingly into tight curls.

The exchange of sexual favours for food was an attractive prospect, but before matters proceeded any further between them, there was something she must find out. There were only two ways a man could lose his nose—from the French pox (which her mother had once contracted from a sailor from Cádiz), or in a duel. When Cesca’s mother died, still a young woman, her mind was addled from the disease. If it was the pox, Cesca wanted nothing to do with Foscari. Starvation would be a kinder, quicker death. But if this injury was the result of a sword’s blow, then that was a different matter altogether.

Hunger had not made her lose all reason. Men infected with the pox often treated their nether parts with a foul-scented, oily, mercury-based cream. She bent down on the pretext of retying her bootlace and sniffed. No foul odour. On the contrary, Foscari smelled of roasted meat, wine, and lavender water. One could not be too careful. She straightened.

“Perhaps you can tell me about …” She wasn’t sure how to frame the question, but Foscari did it for her.

“What, this? Alas,” he said, tapping his nose. “It happened on the Ponte degli Scalzi in Venice. I could not jump fast enough from my mistress’s window to avoid her tiresome husband. One swipe of his broadsword and the tip of my nose was off faster than a pig’s tail under the butcher’s cleaver. A pity, but I rather like this one. It was fashioned by the Doge’s personal silversmith.”

She felt dizzy with hunger and gripped his arm.

“Perhaps you will do me the honour of dining with me?” He tucked her hand firmly over his forearm and
rested his own on top. “My valet is setting out a meal even as we speak. Then he will depart, leaving us to dine in privacy. After we have eaten our fill, we shall discuss the business that propels us to Constantinople.”

Us?
She sensed Foscari was about to lay a torch to her carefully laid plans.

“I have wanted to see what the cabins in the aft deck look like,” Cesca responded. She imagined the delights awaiting her in his. The hard pecorino that Venice was so famous for. Or an icy bottle of wine, perhaps? Potatoes fried in the lard of fat-tailed sheep? What liberties must she permit this man before he would part with his victuals? She would gorge herself until her stomach burst, agree with everything he said, and when they docked in Constantinople, she would lose herself in the populous city, never to lay eyes on him again.

As he led her down a narrow passage toward the first-class cabins, the wind shifted the ship so violently that Cesca was tossed from side to side, banging first one shoulder and then the other against the walls. When they reached his cabin, Foscari motioned her inside and closed the door. She took a seat in front of a table laden with food. Foscari lowered himself into the chair across from her.

What a feast! Inhaling the fragrance of the meat, she eyed the crisp skin of peacock, browned to the colour of deep molasses, honey dripping off a cake, cream sauce with yellow islets of butter floating in it, gravy swimming with morels, a roast squab, a fresh grouper, chicken baked in a carapace of salt, a joint of beef, and a flagon of wine. He had obviously
orchestrated this moment, watching her grow hungry first, and then, confident in her desperation, offered this array of delicacies as bait. Was it her ducats he sought, or something else? She was too ravenous to care. There was a sulphurous taste in her mouth as though her very organs were devouring themselves. All she knew was that she must eat.

“I will strike a bargain with you, Cesca. If you tell me what you are playing at wearing the widow Grazia’s best bib and tucker, sailing on this fine ship, you may eat your fill.”

What plausible lie could she tell him? “I am going to visit my sister. She lives in Pera.” It was the only district she could name in Constantinople. “She is governess to a rich pasha and his wife who wish their children to learn to speak the Roman dialect.”

“Tsk, tsk. Such a pretty mouth, such clumsy lies.” He sliced a piece of peacock, dipped it in the gravy, and popped it in his mouth. “I love well-roasted meat, don’t you?”

Cesca watched as his jaws worked, savouring the flavours before swallowing. “It is hard to listen on an empty stomach.” She longed to grab the entire chicken and cram it in her mouth or, better still, put her head down to the table and wolf down everything like a dog. The thought of how very rich Foscari must be made her feel faint. “I think you have already guessed my plan, Foscari,” she said.

“Well, let us see.” With his napkin, Foscari dabbed some grease off his mouth. “The documents, the widow Grazia’s dress—forgive me if I have misjudged you—but you are impersonating the good widow Grazia to claim the return of her dower money?”

“May I eat now?” Cesca asked.

“Help yourself.”

She reached for the chicken and put it to her lips, trying hard to control her desperate gulps, ignoring the smile that played across Foscari’s mouth. Cesca had never eaten such tender chicken, scented with rosemary and basil and sage. She poured herself a mug of wine and drank it down in two swallows. He pulled her mug back. “Not too fast, my dear, or you will make yourself ill.”

Foscari was right. Her stomach was not accustomed to such richness. She had to be careful. She looked at Foscari, who had settled back in his chair.

“And what are
you
doing on board, Foscari?”

He swallowed a bite of cheese. “It is rather a long story, but I think it will interest you. Years ago, I had a friend in Venice, the Conte Paolo di Padovani. As boys, we were inseparable. We hunted, we fished, we fought gangs on the bridges. Later, when we came of age, we visited the whores in Castello. Paolo once saved my life when I was drunk and set upon by robbers. I saved him from drowning in a canal. We were closer than brothers. When we grew up, he took over his father’s trading company and ships. I became ambassador to the Ottoman Empire at the Venetian embassy in Constantinople. Three years ago, on a visit to Venice, I learned of Paolo’s death. I was heartbroken.”

Cesca was trying to listen and not snatch more food, but the lovely cream sauce was enticing; the meats would soon grow cold. “What has all of this to do with me?”

“Once I learned my friend and his wife were dead, I felt
I owed it to their memory to find out if their child was alive. If the child lived, then it was only right that he should inherit his father’s fortune. Otherwise, because Paolo’s brothers were believed dead, that lovely big estate would go to a distant relative or to some dreary monastery. I went to Paolo’s palazzo on the Grand Canal. It was deserted except for the deaf old caretaker and a nursemaid, a peasant woman named Giovanna who had been with the family for ages. She told me the Conte and Contessa were dead but confirmed that the Contessa had given birth to a son before the plague claimed her and Paolo. The last time the maid saw the child, he was covered in buboes and was in the arms of a Jewish midwife. Giovanna ordered the midwife and the pox-ridden child away. She was sure the child must have died and the midwife along with him.”

What on earth could any of this rubbish have to do with her? She wished he would fall silent so she could savour the grouper and the beef. There was a hard slab of pecorino hiding behind the jug of wine. Her hand crept forward as he droned on.

“I went to the Jewish ghetto, I talked to the shopkeepers, the moneylenders, the rabbi, and the neighbours. It is amazing how a few
scudi
in the right hands can loosen tongues. Before I knew it, the pieces of the story fit together as neatly as a puzzle.” He paused. “The Jewish midwife was Hannah Levy.”

Cesca’s hand froze. She set the lovely wedge of cheese back on the platter.
Hannah Levy
. Isaac’s wife. Yes, of course.

“This midwife sailed to Malta to redeem her husband,
who had been taken slave on a ship sailing to the Levant. Apparently, the Conte’s son survived the plague, as did Hannah, and the child sailed with her. Neither she nor her husband have been heard of since.”

“Hannah. Leon’s brother’s wife.”

“Clever girl,” said Foscari. He twisted off a wing from the squab and took a few bites. “Delicious, but full of lead shot.” He spit a mouthful onto the floor. “The rabbi in Venice told me that Hannah’s husband, Isaac, had a brother in Rome who was a moneylender. I visited Leon on the pretext of borrowing money. That, my dear, is when I first set eyes on your lovely face. You served Leon and me tea in his study when I signed the promissory note for my loan. How gracefully you handed us each a slice of seedcake. Leon told me about his brother in Constantinople, how he was married to the best midwife Venice had ever known, and how, despite years of unfruitfulness, their union had been blessed—seemingly by a miracle—with a beautiful copper-haired child they called Matteo. Alas, a few days after Leon told me this story, he died. When I heard the news, I went to his funeral to console his widow, Grazia—and that’s when I saw you for the second time.”

“You must have loved your friend the Conte very much to go to such pains.” Cesca coughed, a fish bone caught in her throat.

“I did, and that is why I was most interested in the papers you liberated from Leon’s study.” The corners of his mouth twitched. “Imagine my amazement when I followed you”—he tapped his nose, making a hollow ring—“and
watched you purchase a ship’s passage to the very city where I was headed.”

When Foscari first approached her on the deck, Cesca had feared he meant to demand a share of her ducats or he would turn her over to the authorities for theft of Leon’s documents. Now she realized he had a use for her, something more than a quick fumble and grope in the berth of this cabin.

“What is it you want of me?”

“To arrive at an agreement for our mutual benefit.” He patted her hand. “Together, my dear, we will save a Christian boy from the heretic Jews and, at the same time, we shall line our pockets with riches.”