The Venetian (22 page)

Paolo said nothing, still looking miserable. “He is right Paolo,” Chaya said softly. Paolo looked at her now. Her face was open, her eyes wide, almost imploring. It was an expression so different from the hard, challenging look he had become accustomed to. Soft curves replaced the sharp angles of her jaw, her dark hair falling to her shoulders in fluid waves. Her lips parted slightly as though to speak, then closed, offering a small, reassuring smile instead.

“I will go,” he said softly to Bercu, but looking at Chaya.

***

HE WAS RUNNING
, and while he never thought of himself as a hero, or even an overly brave man, it bristled all the same. In truth, he had never had cause to be brave, truly brave, so he didn’t know whether he was or not. It seemed he would have much opportunity to find out. How they had fallen, the house of Avesari, once master craftsmen and now, according to the Republic, a den of villains. But he had no choice, did he? No. He was getting used to this, his free will gone, as though a gift rescinded for having been used improperly. His father had died for this, his flight. He knew there could be no justice, at least not now, not yet.

He had tried to stay hidden on board the ship, crouching in shadows, but it was unnecessary. A plausible story had been invented. He was an agent of the moneylender,
Signore so and so
, and was traveling to Candia to talk about iron or wax or some such thing that simply had to be in Venice in large amounts in six weeks, not a day later. No raised eyebrows there. True, he was a Christian working among Jews, so obviously of low birth, dirtying his hands in the base world of money. Still, it was his life to defile. He stood at the galley’s rail, squinting at the horizon. There was no sun, instead a sharp winter glare, bright but not bright, enough to hurt the eyes. The sea was like a sheet of ice, flat and cold. The calm of the ocean was in stark contrast to the chaotic tumble of his life, collapsing about him like the ruins of Torcello, where he had imagined for a silly moment he could live a life of hidden exile. His crumbling castle, a little boy’s dream. He couldn’t get warm, no matter how many layers he piled upon himself. The galley pushed its way through the water, head down, an ox in a field. In less than a month, a different world.

***

THEY HAD SAID
goodbye hesitantly, at first. When the moment came, he had no idea what to do. He realized with alarm that he didn’t know what she thought of him. He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of it. His family was dead. He was running for his life, and yet his stomach was churning because he was afraid of looking foolish in front of a woman.
Does she care for me?
Still the little boy in his fort on Torcello.
Do I kiss her, and what happens if she feels nothing, or looks away in embarrassment? What then?
Well, not so bad in the event. He was leaving after all.

But she did feel something. When he had put out his hand in farewell, she looked at it in bewilderment. So, with a burst of courage he would surely need in the coming days, he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her with an urgency that had simply materialized, as such things sometimes do. Despite what he saw on her face, he still half expected a knee to the groin, but there was nothing but her lips, a soft moan, and her mouth opening just a bit more. Bercu had gone to “attend to some business” and they were alone. He had made it very clear however that he would return in an hour, his face twisted in concentration as though he were wrestling with something more confounding than estimating the length of his absence. So, knowing he had very little time, Paolo buried his hands and his face in her thick mane of hair, inhaling the scent of cinnamon and olives and lilac and loss.

***

LYING QUIETLY ON
her bed, they watched as the day slid away, the winter light fading early and earlier still in the narrow streets of the Jewish quarter. The sounds of a day’s end, people going about their mundane business—
what shall we eat tonight?
Oblivious that there were people like him who would no longer live normal days. He sighed. Quite amazing actually where he found his hands this evening, tracing the curves of her body, memorizing its geography, locking it away to be taken out when he needed it, touching what had only been left to his imagination in fleeting moments when there had been time for such a thing. She moved slowly as though they had nothing but time, nestled her face into the curve of his neck just below his chin and murmured. It seemed she did care for him after all. And that was certainly something.

***

BUT CANDIA WASN’T
a different world at all. It was Venice all over again. There was an island, water, light, and wind, and with these elements the Republic had forged a copy of itself. On closer inspection though, Venice, but not quite. It was imperial Venice, colonial Venice. It was Candia, but at its heart, it would always be Crete.

Paolo walked slowly up the Ruga Maestra
,
sloping gently uphill from the harbor, a battered bag slung over his shoulder, used last when Paolo had left home. It was a sad thing, packed only in times of strife, a bruised bundle with which to flee. The harbor was a gurgling cauldron, the water churned with a dull fury, agitated by the north wind pummeling the breakwater. Paolo ducked his head beneath the collar of his coat, trying to walk with purpose, to seem familiar with the place—an old hand at the comings and goings of the island. He did his best to hide the wide eyes of the fugitive. He passed the Church of Saint Mark, fronting the ducal palace across the main square, a child’s model of Venice. Pressed into the city’s walls, pushed far from the center, at arm’s length but there when needed, the
zudecca,
the Jewish quarter.

It was even more stifling than its counterpart in Venice, buildings like old women bent by age over narrow streets. Paolo was looking for a man named Adnah. Bercu had chuckled when he had mentioned him. Adnah was the name of a captain in the Bible who had led 300,000 men in the time of Jehoshaphat—big, strong, and impossible to resist. Adnah of Candia was cut from a very different cloth. Small, timid, with darting eyes and twitching nose—invisible. A good heart hidden by a rodent’s face. Of course, such a cowering thing would never defy authority. So, in short, Adnah was rather perfect for the task.

Paolo found him at the predetermined meeting place, the
beit hakneset hagavoha,
the upper synagogue, located on higher ground than the other three. All four synagogues were close to one another, a function of Venetian policy that the Jews live segregated from the rest of the city. He recognized him straight away from Bercu’s description. True, a rodent did indeed come to mind, but one you wished to protect rather than step on. Paolo liked him immediately.

“We should go,” said Adnah, forgoing pleasantries, eyes darting. He was a very careful man and that was exactly what Paolo needed. Paolo nodded as though he did this sort of thing every day and followed the little man silently through the twisting maze of the
zudecca
. Paolo had a hard time keeping up as he shouldered his bag, growing heavier by the minute, with a tighter grip.

When they were far enough away from the open space fronting the synagogue, Paolo spoke. “Thank you.” Adnah, three steps ahead and to Paolo’s right, acknowledged the words with a barely perceptible nod and quarter turn over his shoulder without breaking stride. Very careful indeed.

After a winding route Paolo could never hope to remember, they soon arrived at Adnah’s home. It was small, occupying the ground floor of a swaying layer cake building. Paolo was ushered through the narrow entryway, and was immediately enveloped by a sublime aroma. “Budino di riso,” Adnah said. Rice pudding. Adnah’s wife, short and round with unruly wisps of brown hair marching to gray, stirred a pot simmering over a low fire. She turned to him with a warm smile, and Paolo was suddenly filled with gratitude. These people were risking their lives to help him. He bowed deeply, ashamed that he had been thinking only of his own predicament. He was hungry. In the nearly month-long journey he had eaten little besides dried fish of indeterminate origin and
bussolai,
the heavy biscuits favored on Venetian ships for their unique ability to outlast any voyage.

“Come.” Adnah on the other hand seemed less welcoming, but Paolo knew it was simply the way of a serious man. He was led to the back of the house and shown to a small room. There was a straw pallet on the floor and little else. The dull, patched walls gave the room a melancholy feel, as though its occupant must truly be lost to the world to have ended up in such a place.

“The food will be ready shortly. If you would like to rest beforehand, I will come and retrieve you.”

“Thank you, yes. It was a long journey.”

“Then I will leave you.” Adnah left, gently closing the door behind him, his steps so light and quick Paolo could hear nothing of his retreat. He looked around the room once more—empty and bleak. Had someone like him been here before? A fugitive, someone without hope. Or perhaps a child who had died. Something about the room suggested despair. He dropped his bag on the floor and stretched out on the pallet, the straw poking him through the coarse blanket. He closed his eyes, determined to think of Chaya, wanting to erase the feel of the room with the smell of her hair, the touch of her skin, the hush of her breath. He tried to draw his mind back to their brief time together, to the memories that had sustained him during the long journey to Crete. But he wasn’t able to return to Chaya’s bedroom and the pale light of winter. Instead he slipped away into a deep sleep. He never did get any rice pudding.

***

HE WAS FAMISHED
. Adnah was apologetic. “I had returned to fetch you but you were sound asleep. I wanted to wake you. I knew you would be happy, as tired as you were, to have some food in your belly.” At this he leaned conspiratorially close. “But Esther would not let me. It’s her fault,” he whispered with a wink. So, some humor after all. The light streamed through the filmy window, the same unending gray interrupted only by the black of night.

“Pfft,” said Esther as she placed a large plate of bread, cheese, and olives before Paolo. A small fire provided some protection against the morning chill. She smiled. Paolo decided that she looked exactly like an Esther should.

“Thank you,” he said, barely waiting for the words to be gone before grabbing for the food.
Slowly
he chided himself. It was enough that he looked the barbarian after his voyage. No need to complete the picture by acting like one as well.

“When you’re finished we’ll take a walk,” said Adnah. He rose from the table and pecked his wife on the cheek.

***

NO SIDELONG GLANCES
, no clandestine signals. Not this morning. Adnah and Paolo walked the narrow streets of the
zudecca
together, openly, in complete contrast to the day before. The air was sharp and chill. The smell of morning cooking fires mingled with the briny scent of the sea. “Be careful what you say and how loudly you say it,” was all the instruction Paolo received before they had set out. “Forgive me for yesterday,” Adnah offered by way of explanation as they walked. “I am but a simple merchant. All this,” he waved his arm in no particular direction to indicate
all this
, “is new to me. I was being…cautious.”

“Of course,” replied Paolo. “I did not have the chance yesterday, but I would like to thank you for all that you are doing. It means a great deal.”

Adnah waved away the gratitude as though embarrassed. “You did thank me in fact, but no need. You have been through a great ordeal, one I cannot imagine surviving myself. It is a disgrace what has become of you. A disgrace.” He spoke with vehemence, a man of obvious passion. Bercu had chosen well. “As you know,” he continued in quieter tones, “you are meant to be an agent here in Candia to facilitate the shipment of wax to Venice at the greatest possible haste.” He chuckled at Paolo’s doubtful expression. “Oh yes, it is the perfect disguise, do not concern yourself with that. Candia is overrun with such men. The world will end, in an instant there is no doubt, if that wax is not in Venice in six weeks’ time.” He shook his head at the folly of it all. “You can speak of such things with some semblance of authority if need be, yes?” Paolo nodded, thinking back to Francesco’s infuriating debits and credits.

“I think so.”

Adnah studied him for a moment. “Good,” he finally said. “You will have to ensure that you are seen where you are expected to be as such an agent. The explanation of your presence has preceded you. I know your first instinct will be to hide away, but your absence will only arouse suspicion.”

Paolo nodded. Adnah was right of course, but even here, now, Paolo felt exposed and in danger. How would he do this? And more to the point, how would he do this convincingly?

“Do not worry,” Adnah said, reading his face. “You will do fine.” The neighborhood was coming to life now, and Paolo had to make an effort to keep up with Adnah’s darting form while avoiding the bustling merchants. “Now,” he said, getting down to business, “it is important that you understand a little of the history of this place so you can effectively appear as who you pretend to be. No merchant’s agent would come to a place without having a firm grasp of the various nuances of its business and politics.” He peered at Paolo. “How much has Bercu told you?”

“Not very much I’m afraid.”

Adnah grunted. “Left it for me I see,” he grumbled under his breath good naturedly. Paolo tried to be attentive. This was important. No, more than that, his very life could well depend upon it. But he longed to be back in Venice despite the danger. How long would he be forced to be here, living a false life? But at least it was
living
. It was the alternative to living, Paolo reminded himself, that almost certainly awaited him in Venice.

“Well, to begin with, this is not always a very happy place,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Candia welcomed us from Spain back in 1492, but still we lie somewhere between the feudal nobility and serfdom, depending on the prevailing winds.” He smiled grimly, pointing to his head and the red hat he wore identifying him as a Jew. Paolo recalled seeing one similar at Bercu’s shop, although the moneylender never wore it in the Jewish quarter. “Us being the Jews I mean.” There was a similar mark on the outside of the building where he lived. “It was a yellow badge back in the late 1300s, changed to a yellow hat a century later. Ten years ago, a red hat. I do hope we stay with the red for a while. It is no easy thing refitting a wardrobe to match.” Paolo smiled. It was a joke, but one that masked a deeply held ire. “We own no land,” he continued, “although still we have more freedom here than in Venice. Here we can practice a trade, even a profession. We are artisans, lawyers, physicians. But, always the hostility. From the Venetians, the Greeks.” He spread his arms,
from everywhere
.