The Venetian (6 page)

Overlooking the Rio Madonna dell’Orto, the Palazzo Mastelli with its peeling paint, Moorish colonnades and airy balconies was intended to be a tribute to trade. The enormous decorative relief on the palazzo’s façade commissioned by the brothers depicted a camel laden with the African and Arabian spices they sold at enormous profit on the Rialto exchanges.

The spice again, touching every facet of life in the Republic. Paolo wondered whether there existed anything in the hearts of Venetians save the boundless appetite for wealth and its accumulation. The Mastellis could not have spent all of their money in three lifetimes let alone one, and still they died while devising new schemes to get more.

Legend had it that the statues were actually the brothers themselves, turned to stone by Saint Magdalene as divine retribution for their dishonesty and hypocrisy. A legend no doubt initiated by the Church thought Paolo, angry as it was by the fact that Venice was alone among Italian city states where the glory of God was subordinate to commerce and profit.

After roaming the
sestieri
for some three quarters of an hour and making discreet inquiries, Paolo found the man he was seeking. Bercu was described by local residents as thin and taller than most of his contemporaries with a fashionable grey beard framing a long, weary face, the wisdom for which he was respected etched beneath his dark eyes. He was holding court on a street corner at the edge of the cramped neighborhood that had been a copper foundry years before. The piles of buildings here seemed to cluster together as bodies do to stay warm. Paolo felt like an interloper in his own city. His arrival halted all conversation, though he had yet to speak. Five pairs of wary eyes settled upon him.

“Achaz Bercu?” Paolo inquired. He hoped the question hid his discomfort and immediately knew it had not.

“I am Achaz Bercu,” said the man that had been described to Paolo. “And who are you?” he asked slowly, his eyes taking in the visitor, flicking from head to foot, before quickly scanning the street corner. Paolo was the person he could see. How many might there be that he could not?

“Might we speak in private?”

“Tell me who you are and what you want with me and I will consider it.” Francesco was right about this man. He was not one to be easily maneuvered. Paolo was loath to mention Francesco’s name among these men, but it seemed he had little choice in the matter. If his relationship with Bercu was as turbulent as the wine merchant had implied, he might find himself in a suddenly hostile environment. Paolo was larger and stronger than all of them.
That
he, and they, could all plainly see, so he did not fear them physically. He was however a Venetian, and they, some would say, the oppressed minority. He was also in their domain, a fact they all clearly understood.

“I work with Francesco…”

“Ah,” he said softly with a rueful smile. “I might have guessed.” Although he spoke just above a whisper, there was something in his voice that stopped Paolo before he could finish his hastily constructed introduction. The group of men laughed amongst themselves. Paolo smiled uncomfortably, unable to determine whether this was a good or bad thing.

“I am sorry for whatever has befallen you my friend to cause you to seek association with the wine merchant,” Bercu said, still chuckling. “Come,” he said, waving Paolo on, “I will speak with you.”

Bercu led Paolo through the tight maze of streets which would remain in shadow until midday when the sun was fully overhead. The scent of spices mingled with wood smoke, fish, and the ubiquitous smell of the canals. Amidst the tangle of streets, buildings, and stalls Paolo felt at once both anonymous and conspicuous. Enveloped as he was by the jumbled mass of bodies and leaning structures, no one seemed to pay him any mind, and yet he could not dismiss the feeling that eyes were upon him. Children scurried, men murmured, and Paolo walked with his companion in silence.

“Tell your master I will come to see him tomorrow,” Bercu finally said.

Paolo bristled at the word. He had no master. Yet here he was scrambling about the city doing Francesco’s bidding. He silently cursed the fat merchant for his generosity.

“Is that all?” he asked.

“Should there be more?”

“I suppose not. Why did you not simply tell me this on the corner?”

Bercu considered the question. “You intrigue me. You do not seem the type typically employed by the wine merchant.” He stopped in midstride, glancing sideways at Paolo. “In fact, you have not told me who you are, as I believe I requested.”

“My name is Paolo Avesari.”

“Avesari, Avesari,” Bercu muttered, searching his memory. “I know that name.”

“My father is Tomaso Avesari, a glassmaker. Perhaps you have visited his glassworks on Murano.”

At the mention of Tomaso’s name, Bercu looked at Paolo, eyes wide with surprise.

“The murder,” was all he said.

“You know of this?” asked Paolo in astonishment.

“There is very little that I do not know,” Bercu replied without arrogance. He was, Paolo realized, simply stating a fact.

“Come, sit.” Paolo had been following Bercu, paying attention more to the man than the neighborhood. But rather than walking aimlessly through the streets, Bercu had been leading them to a small café. Paolo took a moment to observe his surroundings.

They were on yet another corner. Clusters of men huddled in conversation on the opposite side of the street. Lining the avenue, the buildings stood shoulder to shoulder in fighting formation. The color of the homes changed from one to the next, dark windows like hollowed out eyes. Warm breaths of sunlight scrabbled through breaks in the buildings, illuminating sections of street.

Bercu led them to a small table just beyond the reach of the shadows cast by the buildings. Paolo’s senses were once more challenged by the exotic tang of spice, cardamom and cinnamon, cumin and turmeric mixed with the earthiness of the streets. Bercu sat with his back to the sun, his face immersed in shadow. Paolo squinted at the dark silhouette.

“Tell me,” Bercu began, “why are you here?”

“I told you. Simply to deliver Francesco’s message which, now that I think of it, I never…”

“Yes, yes,” Bercu waved impatiently. “That he wishes to speak with me. I am sorry that I anticipated your message and did not give you the opportunity to deliver it. When I speak with Francesco, I will tell him that you performed admirably.” A sly smile stole across his face. “However I suspect that you do not care what I tell him.” Bercu sat back, mildly amused, and gave Paolo an appraising look.

Paolo was unsure of how to respond—it was all very odd. The Jew was right of course, he cared little for what Francesco did or did not believe. But where was this conversation headed? Why was he sitting in a dusty café still speaking to a Jewish moneylender when the message he was sent to deliver had already been received and acknowledged? Surely this man had more important affairs to attend to than planting riddles in Paolo’s mind.

He was about to ask Bercu exactly that when there appeared a delightfully scented and steaming dish of food. Paolo didn’t remember the old man ordering anything, and he certainly hadn’t. He would not have known what to ask for.

“Thank you Cham,” Bercu said with a smile. He gestured toward the food. “Please.”

Paolo eyed the moneylender. “Do people always give you food without your asking for it?”

Bercu smiled. “I am known here. Cham is a friend.”

“Dolma?”

“Yes, and quite good.” Paolo realized he was hungry, the aroma something he couldn’t place but inviting all the same. The grape leaves stuffed with rice, onion, and minced lamb was a favorite dish of his.

“Please,” Bercu said again, gesturing to the plate. “You will enjoy the seasoning I think.”

It was delicious. “Ah,” said Bercu, “I can see that you like it.”

“I have made it myself. But not quite like this.”

“No,” Bercu said in mock surprise. “You are not a cook as well?”

“I dabble.”

“Very good. However, perhaps you dabble differently than we do. The rice, onion and meat mixture is seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley and,” he held up a finger, “cinnamon.”

“Yes, the cinnamon is new. It is delicious. I must say that when I saw the food arrive, I was expecting something…different.”

“Ha! Our reputation in the kitchen precedes us,” laughed Bercu, slapping his hand down on the small table. “Yes, as Sephardic Jews in the Mediterranean, our cuisine is greatly influenced by the ingredients and flavors of the Orient and North Africa. A fact I see that you as an Italian find pleasing.”

“The spice trade.”

“Precisely! It is what Venice exists for, is it not so?”

“I am beginning to realize that.” Paolo was becoming more comfortable, the moneylender an amiable sort. “So tell me, now that you have received the message I had come to deliver, why is it that I am still sitting here with you, enjoying dolma, and talking about nothing in particular on a typical day when you would otherwise be engaged in important matters of business?”

Bercu smiled. “I told you Signore Avesari. You intrigue me.”

“Is it I that intrigue you or the murder of my brother?” It came unbidden, an accusation.

Bercu’s face darkened. “I am truly sorry. I meant no offense. It is a horrible thing.”

His own emotions, Paolo was coming to realize, while not as wildly fluctuating as those of his father, were still somewhat unreliable. “No, it is I that am sorry. Yes, it is a horrible thing as you say. I am not myself lately as you might imagine.”

“Of course.” Bercu cocked his head, peered at Paolo across the table. “Tell me though signore, why
do
you associate with that buffoon? Your father is known throughout Italy as a master of his craft. Surely he wishes for you to follow him.”

“He does. I, however, do not wish it.”

“Ah.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice, sweet and honeyed, but firm underneath. “Father?”

Paolo turned to see a young woman of 19 or so approach quickly, a full mane of ink black hair glistening as though wet. She had sharp green eyes and a delicate chin. Her nose was that of her father’s, so that some may have thought it prevented her from being truly beautiful. She wore a simple linen shift that fell to her ankles. As shapeless as the garment was, it could not hide the sinuous body beneath moving with an effortless grace.

“Yes my darling?”

“It is Yosef. He needs to speak with you.” She glanced curiously at Paolo before turning back to her father. She leaned forward, lowering her voice as though conveying the deepest of secrets. “He says it is quite urgent.”

Bercu chuckled. Paolo was coming to find that this was a man of good humor, quite unlike the shrewd and deceptive sort Francesco had described. “With Yosef it is always urgent,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. Paolo had the impression that the moneylender could be quite indulgent with those he cared for.

He rose from the table, as did Paolo. “I will see him.” He looked at Paolo. “Now I must take my leave Signore Aversari, but before I go, may I present my daughter Chaya.” Paolo smiled and bowed. Bercu’s daughter responded with a suspicious nod. “Her name means
life
and she is mine.”

“Father…”

“Yes, yes,” he waved at her, “I know. You are my only child however and therefore must indulge me.” They turned to go before Bercu turned back. “You know the way back signore?”

“Yes, thank you,” although he didn’t.

“Until we meet again then,” said Bercu with a smile, and they strode off.

Paolo watched them leave, once more bemused by his new circumstances. The woman seemed more the type Francesco had described than her father. Chaya. It was a lovely name. And unfortunately, she was also the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“It was a pleasure signorina,” he called after them. If she heard him, she gave no indication.

Nine

T
he church was quiet this time of morning. Tomaso sat motionless in the front pew, nothing moving save his hands wringing one another with greater and greater vigor. He glanced down, forced them apart like unruly siblings. The sunlight streamed in through high windows on either side of the building, angling down toward his inert form, meeting at the shoulders, heating the place at the base of his neck—
Tomaso, the anointed one
. It was a cruel jest.

Now, as when Donatella had died, this place gave him little solace. Yet he came, wishing, perhaps even praying, that he could receive just a small portion of the peace that others so clearly found here amidst the flickering flames and kindly saints. They gazed down, saddened stone eyes upon parishioners seeking some vague forgiveness, doomed from the start by their original sin, with little need to know the particulars of their crimes. They had faith, and that was enough.

He had been slipping away, could feel it, as surely as he could feel the cooling glass cradled in his hands each day. He had gone to the Arsenale full of pain and fear and anger, sought out Paolo to…what? To see him again? To avenge Ciro? Which or neither he did not know. Now he was just full of nothing. The emptiness had mass, weight. It filled his insides, stretching him out, suffocating whatever it was that gave a man life. Now all he wanted was to rest, to rest beside his beautiful Donatella. She was the blessed one amongst them, they had all known it, had always known it. Once she was gone, it was only a matter of time. Glass is strong, but once there is a crack, the rupture cannot be stopped. The split may be slowed, forestalled, but the glass will always break. He smiled grimly—
always the glass
.

He had come here to Santa Maria e San Donato to see if there was any wonder left in him, anything to banish the emptiness. He had come to see the griffons. The church had a beautiful Byzantine mosaic floor. Venice had grown as a subject of the Greek-speaking emperors in Constantinople and drew its art and ceremonials from the Byzantine world. So Tomaso would come here, not to ponder the mysteries of faith, but when he required inspiration. He would come, pretending to worship, promising to stay for just twenty minutes but inevitably would remain, staring at the floor for three times that. He would stare at the griffons, their ochre bellies with five white stripes, checkered necks and hindquarters, their unfurled wings, majestic in their breadth, sharp talons, and snapping beaks. When he looked upon them, he was filled with hope and amazement at the capacity of man to create meaning and celebrate beauty. He did not see God when he looked up at the cross. He saw God when he looked down at the floor. They were magnificent. But today, they were only stones.