The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (27 page)

I needed Battista Alberti. I had no choice. I set the folded parchment before him and pushed it forward on the table.

“Can you tell me what this says?” I asked in a near whisper.

He peered at the passage. His bright eyes shone no more.

“In reply to your question, Signor di Stasi
– a man can do all things if he but wills them
.  I see, it is not Latin…” he said, his brow creasing in the dim light.

“I know.”

“And certainly not Greek…
Perdonami
, but where did the signore find this parchment?”

“Let us say, that I accidentally encountered it in the
cancelleria secreta
.”

Alberti raised an understanding eyebrow and nodded.

“Ah.”

Then he said no more and lowered his head to absorb the mysterious letters. I saw his brow knit into a frown. Alberti sat back and gazed into space then almost immediately resumed his contemplation with a concentration I’d not seen, even from the finest glassmaker in Murano.

“If it is too much effort for you, I will not demand any more of your time,” I said, holding my breath.

He nodded, ignoring my remark.

“Between us, Signor di Stasi, mathematical games and puzzles are a most pleasurable pastime compared to the consumption of law books.  An impertinent request, if you permit me, Signore,” he said, without once lifting his eyes from the parchment.

“What is it?”

“My father died only last year. Between illness and family strife, times have been difficult for me. Between here and Bologna, I scrape what I can to make ends meet, but banking has not suited my temperament. I may wish to accede to another post someday.”

“I understand,” I replied.

“And were I, Alberti, to decipher this message for you, I would demand your absolute silence as to my abilities. My future profession may depend on it.”

I nodded. “My lips shall remain sealed. I promise you.”

“Excellent.”

He had spoken without even looking at me. With one hand, he held the parchment while in the other, he made illegible notes on another sheet of paper, only to cross them out yet again.  I watched the corners of his lips curl into an almost childish grin.

“It is what I expected. What we have here, is what one would call a ciphered message. Each true letter has been substituted for another. It seems the Republic is following in the footsteps of the Vatican. They have taken to securing codices by concealing their meanings with secret ciphers.”

“You have seen this cipher before?”

“No.  But all is not lost. If one has the
formula
, one can uncover its meaning.”

“The
formula
?”

He ignored my question.  Again, he drew out his quill and several sheets of yellowed rough paper and began to furiously make notes.

It was with some anxiety that I watched him, while he made tiny scribbles, crossed these out, shook his head, then pursed his lips, only to recommence all over again. He seemed to have forgotten that I was even in the room.

“It is my turn to ask you, young man, but…why is it that Esteban seems to believe you can help me read this parchment?”

Alberti seemed to be in some sort of trance.

“Oh, Signore,” he said in an evasive tone, “let us say, that you may not be the only member of the Signoria who has paid me a visit of this kind.”

It was my turn to raise one eyebrow.

“Ah.”

I continued to watch him.

I watched him until I lost track of time. To my shame, and perhaps because the room was so dim, and I had not slept the night before, I fell into a slumber. I ignored how many hours had passed but when I awoke, the
Nona
sounded outside. I started in my seat, afraid that I’d see a
sbirro
burst into the room.  But Alberti’s cabinet remained shut and dim. 

In the chair in front of me, Alberti did not stir. He continued scribbling further notes. He had stopped breathing.  He seemed close to some revelation.  I saw him count with his fingers and bite his lips once more.

“And besides,” he said, as though I’d never slept, “the fulfilment of my work requires that clients be provided with secret codes to confirm their identification. I am well practiced.” At these words, he sat back and looked at me triumphantly. “A changing code,” he pronounced.

“
Perdonami
?”

He pointed to the parchment. “The person who scribed this message has employed not one, but several encryption devices. The key to revealing the message is to look at the capital letters within. Here. Look, Signore–each capital letter signals to the reader that he must adopt a different
formula
were he to unveil the subsequent letters. You see how the capital letters occur randomly in this passage? They do not denote the commencement of new sentences. They are the key to the changing code. It is clever. But not so clever,” he added with a beaming smile. “How many hours do you have, Signore?”

I leaned forward. My heart was pounding wildly.

“I have all the time you require. If you can tell me what this message says, Signor Alberti, then Esteban must be right about you.”

“Oh. And what does Esteban say about me?”

“Only that yours is the most brilliant mind in Venezia.”

First transcript by Battista Alberti

1 January 1422

1416 Venezia

I, Signor Vivaldi, Chief of the Signori di Notte, seal here, my ultimate deposition and on this day, deliver it to the Signoria for better men to elucidate.

To whom it is an art to solve the finest enigmas and puzzles, let him peruse the notes I have scribed in despair and let him shame me.

12 January, 1416

On January 6, 1416 on the Feast of Epifania, in the district of Santa Croce, it came to pass that a young girl disappeared. She was last seen by the family servant in Campo San Bartolomeo.

The girl’s father is a certain Signor Francesco Visconti of the San Giacomo dell’Orio Parish, a mask maker from the nation of Santa Croce.  A widower since the loss of his wife, eight years ago, Francesco Visconti reported early in the night that his daughter, aged eleven, could not be found. He attested that he had last seen her in the presence of the family servant at the start of the races on the Feast of Epifania when the child and servant set out for the Rialto races.

On the night of Epifania, a search party was dispatched throughout the Republic.

A band of men from the San Giacomo dell’Orio Parish took to the streets with flambeaux and torches.  They searched every calli. They searched in every
campo
. 

Answering to fears that she may have drowned, the best sailors in the Republic were tasked with searching the Canal Grande in the hope of finding her alive before day break.

The aforementioned parties reported nothing.

In the following days, a curfew was applied in the three
sestieri
of Santa Croce, San Polo and Castello. The
sbirri
interrogated suspects and persons known to have had a criminal history. None of the guards returned with clues to the girl’s whereabouts.

Further expeditions beyond Santa Croce have yielded nothing.

16 January 1416

Elena Visconti remains missing ten days after her disappearance. Her burial has been arranged and her father has accepted the death of his only child.

21 May 1416

Months of fruitless searches have yielded nothing.

It appears that the sole witness to Elena Visconti’s disappearance was the servant, a gondolier of Armenian origin. The unfortunate man, answering to the name of Maffeo, was appointed by Francesco Visconti to oversee his daughter along the canal during the races.

It is to be noted that Maffeo presented a detailed deposition. Maffeo has since disappeared.  His testimony remains lost to this day.

2 August 1416

Maffeo cannot be found. He is reported to have drowned himself from guilt.

12 September 1416

It is with regret that we must abandon our search.

We put forward our conclusion that the girl, Elena Visconti, daughter of Francesco Visconti, almost certainly drowned in the canal, or was abducted by Maffeo, and that her body was dragged out into the Dalmatian sea on this regretful Feast of Epifania, in the year of Our Lord 1416.

Vivaldi,

Chief of the Signori di Notte

***

Journal of Antonio di Parma

1 January 1422

I could barely breathe as I read Battista Alberti’s deciphered letters. My awe for his divine art was soon overcome by dread.

I had only to absorb the second of the long winded messages, and soon, a greater horror unraveled before my eyes.

Signor Vivaldi had been wrong on one account. Elena Visconti was not dead.

The belief was that she had drowned in the canals but it was not true.

The truth glared at me from this perfidious parchment. I had in my hands, thanks to the most discreet Alberti, a sample of the most evil machination.

In the silence of Alberti’s cabinet, I read and reread the full decrypted message, until I knew it by heart and before long, it had met the flames of Alberti’s mantelpiece and shriveled to cinders. I retained the original but I wanted not a trace of what I knew upon me.

Alberti did not flinch. I knew at once that I could trust him.

Late into the night, when I finally stepped inside my gondola, I unfastened the
cimaruta
from around my neck and brought it to my burning eyes.

I knew what I had to do. If Magdalena had pleaded for me to help her, then it was for a reason.

Like the saint whose name I bore, a finder of lost things, a task now lay before me.

I had to find Elena.

6 January 1416

La Befana vien di notte

Con le scarpe tutte rotte

Con un sacco pien di doni

Da portare ai bimbi buoni

“La Befana comes by night,

With her shoes all tattered and torn,

And a bag full of presents

to deliver to good children.”

Sbirro account – May 1416

The recounted deposition of Maffeo the gondolier

To whom may read with an open heart, I entrust this deposition as it was recounted to me by a frightened man, an Armenian gondolier going by the name of Maffeo.

Where he is now, no one knows. But in the hope that justice be served, I have reconstructed his horrifying story and delivered it to the most just Consiglio dei Dieci.

What would an Armenian gondolier know of such things, you may ask? But surely the crime of his origins is nothing against the great crime that Venezia saw on the Feast of La Befana in the year 1416.

It begins an hour before the Nona bell rings. Even I recall this day, as I live near Campo San Toma. Here, along the Grand Canal, a band of old men, as old as tradition demands, have scrubbed their skin with paint, strapped disfigurement upon their faces and donned their tattered witch’s costume. Hideous they are with their crooked noses and wrinkled skin. Hirsute old hags, they would rouse fear if it were not for the cheerful tales spread of them. For everyone in Venezia awaits them now and only those children who have been bad ought to fear.

Each of the five men holds a broom and steps inside a boat. The race is soon to start, the race that will lead them to the Rialto.  And before long, the coarse haired witch rowers make their way in silence. They sweep with force toward San Marco, gliding beneath a clouded sun. A sinister sight they are these odd witches, hunched at the prow, their muscles tense where they ought to be frail, their vessels creeping forth through the gray winter mist.

The witches come! These lagoon creatures ought to make one shiver. Instead, the costumed men in their boats are serenaded by cheers all along the canals.

In the Campo di Rialto, all Venezia bustles. Maffeo watches them all. He recounts them all. He has a brilliant memory, Maffeo. Doctors and lawyers in their black robes, move among the rich citizens toward the Bridge.  Velvet clad patrician merchants and tradesmen alike—the Arsenalotti in their red sashes and white shoes, the Nicolotti in black—all have brought their children with them to see the Regatta della Befana.  Many of them are masked men and women, still eager to enjoy Carnivale before the Lenten days begin. It is a sinister sight, that of masked children of all ages, shrieking in the
campo
and singing La Befana songs, while their equally masked parents look on.

Nearby, young patricians from prestigious
calza
clubs are standing apart where they can be most conspicuous. Golden haired young men eye rival club members within the
campo
. Perfumed from head to toe, they stand proud, showing off their new brocade mantles, some hurling out Petrarch sonnets to attract the fairest of women.

Maffeo knows he does not belong. He looks upon the crowd in exasperation. He thinks of his master, Francesco Visconti. Poor Francesco is ill. In his stead, our Armenian gondolier is to escort the child to watch the Befana racers. It is his first time. What does he know? He is only a gondolier. Even on high traffic days, when he must compete with thousands of other gondolas, the calm of the lagoon remains inviting in comparison to the frivolous madness in the Rialto today.

More people than the previous year have gathered in the Campo di Rialto to celebrate this Feast of the Twelfth Night. The shrill of happy children cleaves the melody of lutes and drums. Among those in fancy Carnivale costumes, there are men on stilts and others who juggle fruits and flaming torches. Maffeo sees all. To his left, a woman sells roasted chestnuts. Beside her, another tends to warm pumpkin slices. In the distance, rows of freshly baked pork pies are ranged in large baskets and a lavishly dressed queue has already formed behind the inviting stand.

Maffeo inhales a whiff of the warm pastry and salivates at the thought of the orange flavored meats. Hard to keep one’s mind on the child by his side when there is hearty fare aplenty. He smacks his lips, feeling the cold. He’s only eaten a bowl of beans this morning. How he envies the children in the center of the
campo
as they happily sink their teeth into almond candy. 

The masked revelers intimidate at every turn. Maffeo is convinced they are laughing at him, behind their mask, laughing at his awkwardness. Of course he looks awkward. He wishes Francesco were here in his stead. He wears a simple pair of hemp pantaloons and a woolen cloak. On his head, is the gondolier
bereti
.  He wishes for a mask where he could at least veil his discomfort.

The girl by his side eyes the
campo
in silence. Her gaze is piercing and detached while Maffeo, he is overwhelmed.  Loud music screams in his ears and he barely hears the girl. But he can see her and for a moment, his heart goes out.

Elena, beautiful Elena. She giggles and points her pretty finger toward the canal. The racers are approaching and already a crowd has formed to see the winner. She tugs at his sleeve and motions in that same direction. Maffeo is content. Perhaps it is well that she delights in her outing. For a moment, the child has even forgotten to mourn her long deceased mother, for on the Eve of La Befana, the night before, a witch has flown over the parental home and bestowed her with a treasure. And no lump of coal was ever gifted to eleven year old Elena. La Befana must have known she is not like the other children and so can never do any harm; only sweets and kind gifts to reward this good-hearted child. The coal can only be for the other children, the bad ones.

Maffeo smiles. Still, he looks with apprehension at the child’s neck. A veil of distaste seizes him and he crosses himself. Poor Christian slave that he is. He ignores what the pendant is, from whence it has come, and why Elena is to wear it now, every day. He is only a slave, Maffeo, sold years ago in this very
campo
.  Served the child’s mother a mere three years before she died.

Now the child’s dark pupils meet his. Her doe-like eyes are moist with supplication, as though she has sensed his fears and dearly wishes he would relinquish them.

“Maffeo. Oh, Maffeo. Let us climb the Ponte and watch the racers come!” 

He winces. The sun has caught the silver on her pendant and he is blinded for too long.  Maffeo raises his hand and wipes his brow. He scrutinizes the crowds before him, lamenting once more that Francesco, the child’s father, is too ill to attend the festival. And then while he is still making up his mind, her hand has slipped out of his grip and in a flurry of ribbons, she has run out toward the Ponte.

“Elena!”

The clumsy Maffeo chases after the child. To shorten his course and evade the hawkers, he takes to an open space in the
campo
. But it is a mistake–the treacherous ground is thick with mud.

A horrified cry rises behind him.

A young patrician with one leg in bejeweled gold hose and the other in crimson, tries in vain to silence his
compagne
as this one baulks at the stain on her silk dress. Though she stands tall upon her wooden clogs, Maffeo’s clumsiness has soiled her train.

He mutters an apology and jostles past a clique of masked citizens who now scoff at him. He feels the iciness as their silver-coated masks bar his way.

“Watch yourself, Moor!” By Moor, he only means that Maffeo is darker than they are, for the slave has nothing of a Mohammedan.

“He is the Milanese mask maker’s slave. An imbecile!”

Maffeo shudders. He has lost sight of her. He raises himself on his toes to better survey the canal through the growing gathering. A brutal tap to his shoulder startles him.

“Are you dim-witted?”

It is once more the patrician. He is intent on preserving his honor and put the slave back in his place. Behind him, his
compagne
’s lips are bitterly pinched.

“I am sorry, Signore…” mutters Maffeo. The young man eyes him with contempt. Maffeo cowers but is no longer listening. He squints and gazes afar toward the bridge.

And then the silver on Elena’s neck blinds him once more. His eyes widen. He can see her now. Child of delight! He bolts. In his haste, a further spray of mud splashes the startled blonde whose veil is soon spotted brown. She gasps. But Maffeo has other concerns. He is still running.  He stumbles past a fortune teller.

From afar, the girl has reached the Ponte. There she is! She sighs when the first witch’s boat nears the ledge. Clap, clap, her little hands greet the winner with excitement. Maffeo is relieved. The crowd is cheering as each of the five racers reach the finishing line. One by one. Maffeo even finds himself counting as the boats halt. One by one.  Elena is ahead, running past the shop keepers and…

“Elena!”

In vain, he cries her name but her attention is elsewhere. The child is smiling from ear to ear.  A woman has approached her. Two large men stand by her side, each cloaked… in a witch’s garb. Maffeo can hardly breathe. There should only be five of them, he whispers to himself. He turns back toward the boats and counts the racers. Five. His head is spinning. Again, he counts. Five. The crowd begins to sing its discordant tunes amidst the sound of pipes and drums. Maffeo’s heart gives out.  So why are there seven?

Maffeo grimaces. He senses a cold fear run across his shoulders. He stumbles up toward the woman, out of breath. The crowd curses at this slave who will not hold himself properly in society. Maffeo ignores them all. He sees only her. And then the unthinkable happens, right before his eyes. The veiled woman leans forth to Elena’s neck. Her gloved hands unfasten Elena’s pendant. She slips it off her and kisses the child on her forehead. Elena seems startled. Her little hand rests on the empty spot where the silver once lay.

Maffeo gasps. He watches the veiled woman step back and signal to the two witches. He can see that the child has grown silent and ceased clapping. Something is wrong. Wrong, wrong, Maffeo! Stupid Maffeo! The witches move fast now. No one seems to notice them save for Maffeo. But Maffeo is too far. Elena’s little frame is clasped in the witches’ grip as they bolt through the
calli
, past the fishermen’s market.

They have disappeared.

Maffeo curses as he runs and grips his heart.

“Elena!”

His voice is lost to the pipes and drums. Maffeo is in tears. He holds his hands to his head in disbelief. The veiled woman has gone. He spins round, looking in all directions. Where is Elena? Where?

Maffeo takes a turn into another
calle
.  He has reached the place where the hooded men may have taken the child but now he is not sure. The alley is empty. Above him, a window opens just as peeled vegetables and urine are showered upon his shoulders. Maffeo cries out. He wipes himself with a handkerchief, eyes stinging, still searching in each
calle
. Then he remembers. On his way to the races early in the morning, there was a black gondola tied there. He had thought to himself, how odd it was that it should be here. He returns to it. Where has it gone to?

Further out, above the dove-gray lagoon, a thick winter mist has risen. The silhouette of a dozen gondolas blind him. And beyond, there are hundreds of them. Maffeo sobs. Dread fills him as he searches again for Elena.

Maffeo! So wrong, wrong.  Look what you have done! He feels the knot in his stomach and the tightness in his throat. He can see them now and his breath fails him. No breath comes as he stares.

The black gondola—for it is the same one—sweeps fast toward the East. The two witches are rowing further out, faster, faster.  Even if Maffeo tried, he could not reach them. They have begun a different race.

Poor Maffeo gives out a sob. Between the two witches, a little head bops up and down.

He calls and calls but his voice is strangled by the mirthful cheers rising from the
campo
. The witches gather speed. Strong and determined, they do not even look at the child as they row. They only look ahead. Rowing, rowing. Far, too far.

The mist closes around the black gondola, swallows it. Soon it is nothing but a black spot in the distance.

Maffeo weeps. What will he tell his master, the
mascheraro
?

“Ah, Francesco!”

The Armenian slave falls to his knees.  Before long, he has been tossed aside and kicked by the unforgiving crowd.

From the top of the campanile in Piazza San Marco, a bell begins to ring. It strikes midday on the 6th January.

A haunting sound it is. One, two, three… Each toll sends a dagger into Maffeo’s heart.

The bell echoes through the Rialto and beyond. It marks the day from which Francesco Visconti, the mask maker, will never again set eyes upon his daughter, Elena.