Dark Shimmer (6 page)

“
T
ell me about yourself.”

Bianca's father has spoken, but every head at the table turns toward me. Black eyes—monks and Bianca and her father alike. Shining, attentive eyes.

The table is outside, among pines and olive trees. The benches we sit on are rough pine. I run a fingertip along the spot beside me till I find a sharpness. I press hard. The setting sun paints the sky red beyond the rim of cypresses. The aroma of the sardines we just ate envelops me still. I float in this wonderland.

The father clears his throat. “You must speak.”

Bianca yanks on his sleeve. They exchange a look.

“Say something,” says the father, in more of a plea than a command. “Some clue.” He hesitates. “Please, Princess.”

I rest one hand on top of the other, palms upward. Blood drips from my right index finger where the splinter pierced it. “I float among monsters.”

Eyes shift, alarmed.

“We are not monsters,” says a monk, at last.

“Of course we are,” says another. He lifts a finger. “Everyone is…in comparison.”

“I'm not,” says Bianca. “Papà's not. And you are not. Monks can't be monsters.”

“We aren't monks,” says a third monk. “We are
frati
—brothers. We are the little brothers of San Francesco. Monks seclude themselves, for lives of contemplation. Franciscan brothers work among the people to help the needy, the poor, and the sick.”

“You're not among the people,” says Bianca. “You're out here on this island.”

“We are not secluded, though. You've heard us blow the horns every day. That's an invitation to the faithful. They can renew their beliefs here, with us.”

“Who comes?”

“Nobles, like you. And holy men from everywhere. Even the pope, in 1466. He recommended us heartily, so for the past thirty years this island has had visitors.”

Bianca's face squinches with perplexity. “Why build a church so far away in the first place?” The child is dogged. I silently cheer for her.

“San Francesco came here and founded this chapel hundreds of years ago. The island of Torcello was too crowded and noisy. So he made this chapel as a sanctuary for anyone who seeks it.” The brother leans toward Bianca. “Maybe San Francesco came because of the birds. Have you noticed the birds?”

“That's how I met Princess Dolce,” says Bianca. “We were watching a heron.”

The brother looks at me. “You understand birds.”

Everyone looks at me now.

“Why do you call us monsters?” asks a brother.

“Not just you,” I say. “All of us. We are huge. Clumsy. Misshapen.”

“A good description of mortals,” he says.

“You talk like someone who might be drawn to convent life,” says another.

The idea astounds me. Mamma talked with reverence of a holy sister who treated her well when she was a girl. “Would a convent take one such as me?”

“You can't go to a convent.” Bianca shakes her head. “You're mine.”

“Bianca!” Her father puts his arm around her shoulders. “Whatever are you saying? Princess Dolce must do what she is called to do.”

“Aunt Agnola told me that women go to convents when they have no one…when no one wants them. Princess Dolce has no one….”

“You don't know about—”

“She told us! She said she escaped. She has no one and nowhere to go. That's what she thinks. But she has us. We want her.” Bianca stands, comes around the table to my side, and wraps her arms tight around me. I twist so that we face one another. Her head presses against my breasts. I stroke her hair. I don't understand why this child wants me, but all I can do is want her back.

Her father looks at me, aghast. “I apologize for my daughter. She's not usually like this.”

“My mother died,” I say softly, over Bianca's head. “I miss her so much.”

“I'm sorry. Very sorry. Bianca's mother died years ago,” says her father. “Bianca was so small, she can't remember her.”

“She remembers the color of her hair.”

The father's eyes glisten. “Well…We recently moved into a new home. Perhaps leaving her old home still upsets Bianca. She never acts like this.”

Bianca turns her head to look at her father, but doesn't release me. “You saw her smock. She must have dressed as a poor girl to hide so she could escape. She was so thirsty, she drank from the birds' cup. She is lost. She is alone. And we are here.”

“Your imagination has always been rich, my daughter.”

“Look! She's real.”

Bianca's words bring me up short. This child's heart beats against my own. Her hair tickles my throat. Maybe this is no dream. Maybe I'm surrounded by monsters.

I cannot breathe. I cough and cough. I can't stop coughing long enough to suck in air.

“Sea onion,” Bianca says to the brothers. “Sea onion, fast!”

I fall off the bench with my knees tucked up, coughing so hard that my head hammers.

Something is shoved into my mouth. I know this…the bulb of the sea onion. I chomp down on it. I hold my hand in front of my mouth to keep the bulb in when I cough. Slowly, gradually, the coughs subside. I lie limp on my side.

“Do you want to go to bed?” the father asks.

I shake my head.

“Bianca, go with the brothers now. They'll tell you Bible stories and put you to sleep when you're ready. I'll take care of Princess Dolce.”

“But she has to sleep with me.”

“She'll sleep in my bed.”

“Your bed is narrow. There's no room for the two of you.”

“Of course not. I'll take a cot. There has to be an extra cot.”

“I'll prepare one,” says a voice. “Come, child.”

I hear them leave.

“Let me help you.” The father bends over and extends a hand.

I look away and push myself up to sitting. My chest and throat feel raw inside. Birds have alighted all over the table. They eat our crumbs, our remnants. “The birds. They're joyous.” I laugh. I laugh just like Bianca.

The father drops his empty hand. “You do talk like a religious soul. Even a mystic. Is that why you cut your finger?”

I look at my finger. The blood has crusted. I lick it clean.

“Are you going to tell me about yourself?” he asks.

“You first.”

He flinches. “Would you like to walk along the water as we talk?”

We walk to the cypress trees and pass through them to the shore.

“What do you want to know?” asks the father.

“You know my name.”

“My name is Marin. My family name is Cornaro. Will you pretend you don't know it, since you're a foreigner?”

“Pretend?”

“You speak Veneziano. You are not foreign born.”

“I didn't say I was.”

“You called yourself a princess. We have no kingdoms here.”

“Who are you to say whether or not I have one?”

“Is this some kind of sophistry?”

“I don't know that word.”

The father stops. “Do you trick us?”

“No. I have found it helpful to live inside my head, my realm. There I am a princess, rather than a monster. It's simple.”

He studies my face.

I study his. “Do you like how you look?”

He blinks. “I'm considered to be…fine-looking.”

“Among monsters, perhaps. But what do you think of yourself?”

He stands taller. “I think I'm handsome.”

“I suppose that's good. Maybe I could learn to think I'm pretty.”

“Pretty? You're beautiful.”

I laugh. I'm getting quite used to laughing. “Who's pretending now?”

“You sound sincere.”

“I am never otherwise.”

“Shall we walk on?” He steps carefully on the shells and pebbles. “Can I ask questions now?”

“Not yet. You know why I am here.”

“No I don't.”

“My mother died. Without her, my island would have been unbearable. So I left. That is the full story of my life.”

He has stopped to stare at me again. “It can't be.”

“It is. And you?”

“You want the full story of my life?”

“I want to know why you came to this island.”

He walks again.

“I want my library to be the finest in all Venezia. Monasteries house old books. Beautiful things. Ancient Latin manuscripts. Sometimes Greek. I purchase them.”

“What did you find on this island?”

“Nothing. I expected that, though. The Franciscans take a vow of poverty. No hidden treasures. So I came mostly because I heard it was a beautiful spot. Tranquil, peaceful.”

“Bianca called me that.”

“Called you what?”

“A treasure. Something she'd heard you say, obviously.”

“My daughter is perspicacious.”

“Another word I don't know.”

“How old are you, Princess Dolce?”

“Fifteen.”

“Are you married?”

It's my turn to flinch. “Who would have me? Besides, my mamma said girls shouldn't marry until they're past eighteen.”

“Francesco Barbaro—have you heard of him?”

I shake my head.

“He wrote a treatise on marriage. He says marrying a young girl is best, because it gives a man a better chance to mold her personality.”

“What if she wants to keep the personality she already has?”

“Ah!” He laughs. “Is it true you have nowhere to go?”

“Bianca said that, not me. I will find somewhere to go. I have to believe that.”

“Come to Venezia.”

“Big cities are full of tormenters.”

“What on earth could you mean?”

“Everyone says it. And while I don't believe everything everyone says, I do believe my mother. She hissed when she spoke of cities. Venezia is horrid.”

“I live in Venezia. And I am not horrid.”

“But surely they are horrid to you. You're like me, after all.”

“They are by no means horrid to me. And they will not be horrid to you. I won't stand for it.”

I fold my arms across my chest. “You want to be my protector?”

He takes a deep, noisy breath. “Come look at this sculpture.” He leads me away from the beach and back through the cypresses to a small clearing with three thick logs leaning against each other. Maria the Virgin has been carved into one of the logs. Into the next, angels. Into the third, a dove. “Do you like it?” he asks.

“They're beautiful. Who made them?”

“Probably one of the brothers.” He scratches the stubble on his chin.

I imagine his roughness and my neck goes hot. I look at the sculpture. “Carved wood left outdoors like this…” I shake my head. “It will rot fast.”

“But in the meantime, anyone can enjoy it.”

“You smell like wet earth,” I say.

“Dirt?” He looks alarmed.

“Like mushrooms. Or a fire that's just gone out.”

“That's myrrh.”

I nod. “It's nice.”

His face goes solemn. “Bianca has become attached to you.”

“She is dear.” My voice breaks.

“I don't understand you.”

“I use plain talk. It's you who is hard to understand.”

“I've never known anyone from the
popolo
—the ordinary people. No one except servants.”

“I've never known a noble.”

“Even in a
frate
's robe you're fair.”

My mouth goes dry. “My mamma used to say that. She believed it.”

“I am more than twice your age. Do you think of me as an old man?”

I shake my head.

His hand comes toward me. He touches my cheek so gently, it takes a second to know that's what has happened. I cry.

“Tears? What do you feel now?”

The image of Mamma talking about crabs…how sometimes nothing else could satisfy her, and when a craving came, she was willing to go into the water she feared so much. I look in this man's eyes. Everything feels simple. And dangerous.