The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (22 page)

Letter from Antonio da Parma to Esteban del Valle

29 December 1422

Esteban,

Does it surprise you how rapidly I sought the man on stilts from the Piazza? I hope he delivers this letter. 

Something terrible has happened to me since our last encounter. I no longer dwell in Santa Croce. This morning, I heard loud noises near my lodgments.  I was forced to make a fast escape when, by my window, I saw three armed
sbirri
come running into the building.

I now reside close to the Rialto and my new masked existence has become a necessity. Esteban, the man you know is no longer free. I am under arrest. I have with me a letter from the Consiglio dei Dieci which they left to my name yesterday and whose contents are deeply unsettling.

I must speak with you.

Given the gravity of the situation, I am prepared to reconsider your proposition. I am certain that we can devise an ingenious plan to arrive to a more satisfying state of affairs. Shall we say, tomorrow midday, in the Piazza? I shall be sporting white hose and a green and gold tabard.

Yours in faith,

Antonio da Parma

***

Letter from Almoro Donato to Antonio da Parma

Antonio da Parma,

Not content with neglecting your duties and refusing to sign a document that would allow us to close the Contarini case, you disobeyed the Consiglio’s orders and pursued your inquest by visiting the Ca’ Contarini.

You were then seen lurking in a Santa Croce atelier, late into the night, knowing well that it would be visited by the
signore di notte
under my orders. You were also seen rousing the crowds when the swollen body of Rolandino appeared along the canal banks.

Antonio, why do you persist with a path which can only displease the Council of Ten?

I have, to date, been your staunch supporter under increasing disapproval of the Council members. I have had to provide them with excuses for your refusal to sign the deposition. Naturally I referred to your foible superstitious mind, but there is only so much I can do, Antonio, before your behavior arouses the ire of the Council.

Permit me to remind you that when you were assigned to this case, you were warned to cast aside your occultist delusions. Yet I find that you made a recent visit to the library, where you spent hours immersed in a certain book.

You have not only ignored my advice, but now it appears you have abandoned all reason. Your mind is clouded, Antonio. Your erring can only cost us both in reputation. 

Let me then, elucidate you, Signor da Parma, and leave no doubt as to the decreed resolution of this case. Read on and grasp its full meaning.

Following the discovery of Francesco Visconti’s body, the Contarini murders have been satisfactorily resolved as Acts of God.

Illness and death can arise from defects of the soul Antonio. Often, our own guilt precipitates this. Have you not, in a fit of depression, following your wife’s death, drowned your sorrows in abundant wine like Guido Canal did before he fell and drowned in the lagoon?

Have you not, in a fit of self-loathing, dreamed of poisoning yourself to swallow your guilt, like Ubertino Canal did, when he ingested shellfish and crab knowing full well that he would be ill from it?

And in regards to Morosini, do you dare deny, Antonio, that God has the power to inflict disease to punish the wicked? Because how else could Morosini have fallen ill in the span of a night and passed away into the next world so suddenly, if our Lord Almighty had not intervened to inflict this punishment?

And finally, we come to Giacomo. Giacomo who, no doubt, out of sheer madness, orchestrated the murder of the Visconti
mascheraro
and who, the following night, murdered his own daughter thinking her to be, as I am told, his son’s Jewess. Have you not been guilty of some crime and felt hunted by your enemies, seeing them even when they are not near? Giacomo’s madness was an extreme example but it stands in all evidence as a sign of his guilt.

There it is then, the truth you seek. You would agree this heavenly truth is no less formidable than the delusions you entertain to nurse the occult that has long been your fantasy. But God has set out his designs and he will not have you see shadows where they do not exist.

For as long as I have known you, you persist in your strange beliefs. Beware that they do not lead you away from God and into the path of heresy. Your delusions, whatever these may be, have no place in the Catholic Church nor do they play a role in the tragic demise of these Veneziani.

For now, I urge you to cease your wanderings before you, too, would lose your mind.

Now to the object of this letter. 

We are tired of seeing you dance to the whims of your imagination.

But it is more serious than that.

Antonio, from the beginning, I warned you. All your actions are watched and known.

Our spies informed us that upon your visit to the
carampanas
, you appropriated the mask left by the person of Balsamo Morosini on the night of his death. Your rigorous approach to gathering evidence would be commendable if it were not so macabre.

Did you think you could conceal this mask from us, Antonio?

Concealment from the Consiglio dei Dieci places you in infringement of the law.  Do you understand my meaning? No? Then read on.

On the night I spoke of, after you broke into the Visconti atelier and the body of Rolandino was found, one of the
sbirri
saw you take something from Rolandino’s neck.

The guards set out after you to retrieve this object. You know which object I speak of and I know it is in your possession. Despite what you probably believe, Da Parma, the
sbirri
were not intent on taking your life on that night. They were after the object you took in secret from Rolandino’s corpse. Why you would choose to rob a corpse is beyond my comprehension. But this object does not belong to you, Antonio. It belongs to the Council of Ten.

As of now, your actions are an offense to the institution that you were called upon to serve and I can no longer place my trust in you. I have tried to delay the inevitable but the Council is unanimous on the matter. I will though, salvage whatever amity still exists between us. Deliver yourself to us, tonight, with the pendant. I pledge that once we are satisfied that your mind has not wandered, we will let you go.

I am warning you, Antonio–there is an order for your arrest.  If you do not come tonight, expect the
sbirri
at your doorstep.

Almoro Donato

***

Almoro was lying. When I had last seen him, he had raved about Rolandino’s guilt for engaging in acts
contra natura
. He had expounded on Ubertino’s gluttony and Guido’s love of drink.  It seemed convenient that upon discovering Francesco’s body, no—it seemed too suspect that Almoro had leapt and found new explanations for the mechanics of each death. How fast he revised his judgments! How nimble and certain, his mind, on each occasion!

I saw well what he had set out. He was intent on closing this inquest
no matter what evidence
was found, discarding my reasoning at all times.

To what aim? Did he intend, at all cost, to quell the gossip already spurred by the merchants’ deaths? Was he using this case as a moral example to the
popolani
? He seemed to incorporate each new evidence to support his God theories.

There had to be more to these deaths.

I had to prove that I was not mad, if only to regain my freedom.

Giacomo’s diary had brought forth one piece of the puzzle and I possessed other clues. But I still needed more. And I was determined to find it in the Council’s
cancelleria
.

Upon reading Almoro’s letter a second time, I was struck by another curiosity. He had stated clearly of his contempt for my recent visit to Catarina Contarini. And yet, later, he had asserted that my movements were watched and known.  He had known from an earlier letter that the natural course for me to take in pursuing my investigation was to make an appointment with the Contarini widow. Then why had he not stopped me?  I had visited her in daylight without so much as hiding my actions. If he had wanted to, he could have stopped me and sent his
sbirri
after me. Even in the Giudecca gardens, their assassin could have arrested me.

That he had allowed the encounter to take place could only mean that he
intended
me to speak with Catarina Contarini. He had had every intention that I reveal to her the grave accusations against her husband. I had served their purpose.

And now, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. Twice, the Consiglio had made attempts to frighten Catarina. The first occasion was brought upon by my revelation that her husband’s reputation, much like Rolandino’s, was dubious. The second occasion came with the vicious attack upon her son.

But why frighten this woman? And to what purpose?

And why was Almoro insisting that I return a silver pendant? What did they know of it?

I retrieved Magdalena’s pendant from my neck and began to examine it. I realized that I felt strangely possessive over it, and as my resolve grew, and my mind seized upon an idea, I felt the rue’s branches burn into the palm of my hand. I closed my fist tight.

No, Almoro. You are wrong. I am not suffering from delusions.

But now was no time for debate.  If I did not discover further evidence, I would be branded a madman by the Republic and arrested by the Consiglio.

I had made a decision. I would break into the
cancelleria
.

Esteban would have his document, but I would set out to find more than a
condottiere
contract. I would not just enter into the
cancelleria inferiore
. I had to delve deeper. I had to find the
cancelleria secreta
and unearth the secrets of the Consiglio dei Dieci.

If Almoro was hiding something from me, then this was the place where I would find it.

Journal of Antonio da Parma

30 December 1422

It is said, although I cannot think who did say it, that in the festive spirit of Carnivale, the Piazza is a place where one can at once best remain hidden and be seen. There are more sights and smells here than anywhere in Venezia, save perhaps in the fish markets of the Rialto.

Upon first entry into this spacious
campo
, where reeking sweat mingles with cheap perfume, one is soon overcome by the brightly decked crowds.  During the warmer months, the stench and sounds are particularly oppressing. It is unfortunate that the respite offered by winter should be tempered by the overbearing Carnivale revelers.

I knew not where to look in this throbbing arena gorged with Veneziani and travelers alike. Meandering among the masked were the jugglers, jesters, a band of bare-footed dancers, minstrels, and those looking down upon us with mocking smiles on their painted faces, the stilt walkers. I edged my way, pushing through the sea of colors until, to my distaste, I was within it, the very heart of Carnivale.

Hundreds of voices rise from this melting pot so that one hears a multitude of foreign tongues. One can discern, here, a Greek, there a Frenchman and an Oriental, over there, a German—without as much comprehending what each has to say. When one finally grows accustomed to the myriads of odors and bustling stalls and one believes oneself to be a hidden entity within the crowd, there appears meddling hawkers and peddlers to bar one’s way. For their eyes are adept at scrutinizing among the faces and we are not as alone as we think because they have seen us among the hundreds.

The shrieks and laughter, the incessant vendor shouts, the cat calls to prostitutes who camp their luscious wares by the taverns and the random agitation of overwhelmed travelers–all, are given to frightening the pigeons who sweep past with a fluttering of wings, startling those nearby. 

I gathered that my footing would be best found behind closed doors, away from the madness of the
campo
. But where was I to sit in this crazed filled space? Not near the Palazzo’s pillars where patricians and vendors alike would lift their garments to relieve themselves in the latrines.  And not beneath the arcades where beggars congregated in tattered rags.  Close to this filth, traders had setup shops at the front of the Basilica and animated men and women swarmed like flies round blood dripping meats, salamis and vegetable stalls.

I spun round, looking out to the lagoon. No sign of Esteban; the ever masked Esteban that no one, most especially at Carnivale could ever find.

Clustered at the foot of the Campanile were the tourist guesthouses and money changers. Further out, beside the Piazzetta and edging the narrow
molo
which faced the sea, were cheese and meat vendors and again, more taverns.

After striding along the lagoon, I finally found the tavern I had been looking for. It was tucked behind a row of shops alongside the Mint and overlooked the Canal. I entered and sat quietly, adjusting my black
volto
. 

Esteban was not long coming. I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

He had worn a red turban and a glittering half-mask which permitted him to eat. Under a full-length cloak of scarlet, he was fitted into a pair of magnificent dark blue checkered
calza
. Aside from his hidden rapier, he had the allure of a leisurely tourist who had ostensibly adopted Venezia’s dress and was reveling in his stint at Carnivale.

We retreated inside the quiet restaurant that I knew, at a glance, I could not afford. Like the numerous merchants in this city, Esteban seemed to thrive on letters of credit. He took a glance inside and nodded his approval.

We were no sooner seated in a far corner, that he demanded to see the best wine and proceeded to make notes in a small journal, as though on a traveling holiday.

“You are doing splendidly,” I remarked with a tinge of sarcasm. “If you had not rudely tapped me on the shoulder with your cane, I may not have recognized you.”

He laughed.

“The secret, Antonio, is to believe who you are. Believe that you are the costume. And soon enough, it becomes you and you resemble the farce until the two are indistinguishable. My designs were to pass unseen. Like you, I desired no witnesses.”

“Today’s tournament is our welcome friend,” I said, pointing outside to the thickening crowds in the Piazza. Already, two richly clad jousters had taken their places on their horses and held their lances in readiness for combat. “Carnivale is a refuge for a man who hides from the
sbirri
. Besides, if I were not disguised, one would only ever see a poor Tuscan
avogadore
pretending to be a Venetian, and a grim one at that.”

Esteban appeared moved by my self-deprecating jest.  “I would never qualify you as grim, Antonio. There is an aloof charm in the Tuscan
avogadore
,” he assured me.  While keeping his little finger crooked aside to dip in the salt dish, he soaked a piece of bread in olive oil before chewing fondly into it. “I insist. The Tuscan is charming. Why berate him? But even so, permit me to say that is not who you really are, Signor da Parma. Are you certain that you’ve understood your own nature? Or is it defined for you by the Signoria?”

He took a sip from the offered wine, signaled his approval to the attendant and sat back. He continued to observe me, one hand on his newly grown tuff of a beard.

“Signor da Parma, in time, you may even discover yourself through one such costume.”

“You mean, lose myself,” I mocked, reaching for the wine pitcher.

“Oh no. I mean that the costume will liberate you, edge you closer to the reality of your being. But…if you really wish to lose yourself, Signor da Parma, then travel is the key. The ways of the Republic are a masquerade. They oppress one’s true nature. That is why the vilest creatures are revealed when masks are worn during Carnivale.”

“On that, we agree,” I said, casting a tired glance over the odious Piazza.

“The Veneziani are all merry about hiding behind their masks because their Signoria demands too much of its
cittadini
. But I, Esteban del Valle, I am not like the rest of them. I never let a city instruct me as to who I am. You see me here, in Venezia and I feed on her as I would in any city but above all, I remain my own man, whether I am at sea, in Cyprus, in the islands of Greece or in the Levant.” He brought the purple glass to his flared nostrils and inhaled the wine’s aroma. “Again, I speak of myself. It must be tiring for you. And you? What of your life in Tuscany which you care to never mention?”

“Tuscany is beautiful,” I replied, as I nibbled at rosemary bread.

He took note of the evasive tone in my voice and stared at me.

“Beautiful enough, yet, she does not impassion your speech. Am I right? Antonio! I am right. The
avogadore
flits from city to city never really finding what he seeks. Because what he seeks…” he paused, studying me with an intensity that I found disconcerting. “What he seeks is not of this world.”

“How you read me.”

“Perfectly, don’t you think?” He smiled. “Oh, I have known men like you, Antonio da Parma. Before Gaspar Miguel Rivera passed away and long before the brig was taken from us, I made a dozen voyages to the Holy Lands and carried aboard hundreds of pilgrims from all parts of the world. Onboard, I studied these spiritual men.  Yes, I did. Some, I believe, and this was evident by the ale they consumed and the women they bedded at the ports, were lacking in devotion. But the others, I come to them. These pious men who were—how shall I say—always here, but not quite here. You see, they have that distant look in their eyes, a sort of longing that burns slowly with the same glow that I see in yours.  They are the silent ones. But one can read the burning fervor of their faith upon their faces.  If one were to speak to them, one would realize that they were born only to see the Holy Lands. If they could dispense from food or drink during the journey, they would. These men have no anchors to their homes. They happily lose themselves to the places they visit. They exist to pray to God and lose themselves in him.”

“I am hardly ever at mass. Now, you exaggerate.”

“Do I? Yet, Signor da Parma, round your neck, I have seen the glow of a silver pendant.” He said it casually but I knew how it fascinated him. I had caught him staring at it many times since that night on the roofs.  I squirmed in my seat, raising a hand to assure that the pendant was tucked beneath my shirt.

“I take it, that it is not a Christian icon. But for you to choose to wear it so close to your chest…” He gave me a generous flash of his white smile.

“The pendant does not belong to me,” I offered, hoping he would change the subject. “I am safeguarding it for someone.”

“I see. So then, to whom does it belong, Signor da Parma? Or perhaps I should rephrase my question and ask whether by wearing it, you belong to
it
.” At this, he emitted a knowing smile whose meaning I took care to ignore.

“It is nothing. I had a dream. That is all. Some dreams you can never forget.”

His smile remained suspended as he stared at me with an inquisitive gaze. Then he moved his lips to his glass and drank in silence.

“Would you like to see it?” I asked, reaching for the cord when no one was watching. “Perhaps you might have seen one like it before. I’ve not shown it to anyone and I do not intend to tell you where I found it.”

“Certainly. I will examine that rare silver pendant,” he boomed.

He reached for it and cradled it in his large hands pondering over each charm with an intelligent gaze. He remained silent for a long time. I saw that he had lost his smile. He fingered the charms with a troubled expression.

“Fascinating. I can understand it now…”

“Understand what?”

“Nothing.”

He returned the pendant and looked away as though regretting having set his eyes on it.

“I believe it belonged to a Napoletana,” I said. “But I am uncertain as to its meaning.”

Esteban nodded. He was contemplating something. “There is an old crone by the Arsenal if you wish to chance a visit. I forget the street. She sells all manner of oddities. The pilgrims love to buy charms in Venezia on their way to the Holy Lands. They ignore that they can find similar jewelry in the Levant at more reasonable prices. Anyway, I think she might even stock similar charms. Not one like it, of course. I’ve never seen so much silver... But you could ask her of its meaning. It would be safe.  She wouldn’t tell a soul of your visit, Signor da Parma. She is just an old forgotten crone.” He saw the glimmer in my eyes.

“I will risk anything, Esteban, to find out more about this pendant. It is one of the reasons why I am under arrest.”

He set his glass down and stared at me.

“Why did you wish to see me?” he asked, suddenly.

“I have decided to help you.”

He leaned forward.

“You wish to enter the Palazzo just as the Consiglio dei Dieci are hunting you? Are you mad?”

“The Consiglio dei Dieci are toying with me. But I am not mad, Esteban.  They know I am nearing some truth and they do not like it. I can feel it.  I just need enough time to prove it.  Signor Del Valle, I can help you. All oaths, reports and the archives of the procurators of San Marco are held in the
cancelleria inferiore
, on the palace’s third floor.  I know where to find your document. I just don’t know…
how
.”

He contemplated me for a moment. I think he was slightly impressed by my words.

“
Avogadore
,” he said, “when we have carried out our plan and I have my brig at long last, you ought to join me for a voyage to the Levant.”

“When this quest is complete, you and I may find ourselves in the Wells,” I replied.

“Not Esteban. He has other plans. Besides the Wells are too damp for my liking. Do not despair Antonio, we will find a way. So let us now speak of it since it is the purpose of our appointment. I was secretly hoping it was.  I have thought over your little predicament and an idea has formed overnight. Yes, a splendid idea. It is brilliant. This morning, before Almoro Donato entered the palace, I followed him to the latrines and I took it upon myself to clumsily address him in French and pretend that I was lost.”

“You buffoon!”

“I thought so too. It was an altercation that I will not forget. But nevertheless, my short and rather vivid exchange with the old petulant judge has had an effect on me. I took care, while he was too busy scolding my insolence, to examine him closely and observe his speech and mannerisms. Based on this, Antonio, I conclude that you are closer to the
cancelleria
than you might think. Think of it, what if you, Antonio, were to disguise yourself as Signor Almoro Donato.”

I set my glass down to the table and stared at him lips apart. He seemed entirely serious beneath his lopsided color spray of a mask. “Continue,” I said.

“Think of it. He is of your height and build. Together we can agree on how closely you can adopt his speech and gait. First of all, I would encourage you to slur your words a little more. Remember that we are in Venezia and it ought to strike you how insipidly romantic you sound at times. You should abandon your pristine Florentine dialect. Try it. Try to think like a merchant even if that merchant has now become a judge. Merchants have scarce time on their hands, Antonio. Time is money. Also you walk quite straight and you tend to keep your limbs close, whereas Almoro, he is hunched forth a little and shuffles his feet like a monk while dangling his long arms from side to side. I am convinced you can manage the same. All we need… “