Daughters of the Doge (53 page)

June the 30th 1556 – Island of Murano

‘First date?’

The gondolier winked at me as I helped Yasmeen into the gondola. She was treading carefully, though whether from a general nervousness with boats or because she was wearing her best clothes was not clear.

‘Picnics are always popular, sir: plenty of time to talk, and private too.’

I looked at him, at the small boat, and back to him. Somehow I saw little room for privacy. He winked again.

‘I am deaf and blind. It is part of our training. It’s a miracle we find our way round the city and across the lagoon. Murano?’

I nodded. It was far enough to make a nice evening trip, and although parts of the island were filthy with the waste from the glassmakers, every gondolier was skilled at ensuring his passengers enjoyed a civilized arrival and departure, preferably clutching an expensive glass object made by his ‘cousin’.

Yasmeen settled into the wide seat and I sat next to her. She seemed as nervous as I was, and as we set off across the lagoon we both realized we had left as much space as possible between us. I leaned towards her. ‘Shall we both move in a bit? If we stay like this, we will have to shout, but if either of us alone moves, we may tip the boatman out, and neither of us is dressed for rowing.’

She giggled and we moved together. As we did so, I took the opportunity of putting my arm along the ridge of the seat, and when she didn’t object, I gently wrapped it around her shoulder. She shivered for a moment, and then snuggled against me.

‘It may be cool out on the lagoon. The blankets are in front of you.’Yes, this gondolier really did know the routine. I removed my arm, leaned forward for the large waterproof blanket and covered us, my arm quietly returning to its position. It was a perfect, tranquil June evening, the sun still above the horizon, hot and orange, but we left the blanket in place as, no doubt, all lovers did.

The movement of the boat was soporific and we soon forgot the presence of the boatman behind us and began to relax. ‘I told my father I was visiting a friend. It is not easy to get away; he is very protective,’Yasmeen confided. ‘Have you been out here for a picnic many times?’

I could sense the uncertainty in her voice. ‘With other girls, do you mean? No.’

I felt her relax a little more. ‘This is my first time also.’

I looked down at her. Tintoretto had told me her mother had died some years before and that her father was very protective towards her. The
maestro
had been a neighbour of the family since he had first established his
bottega
on the Fondamenta dei Mori and had given Yasmeen part-time work there when she was only fourteen. He had taken her under his wing, made sure she was safe and that the apprentices did not take advantage of her, and she had grown with the business, steadily becoming an essential part of its smooth operation.

True to her name, tonight she had jasmine flowers in her hair, and the scent was intoxicating. With the sun shining on her hair, I could see a dozen of the colours we used in the studio: from the shadows, now glowing a deep burnt sienna, to the highlights, ranging from yellow ochre to Venetian red, and shining like a fresh new nut the moment it is first opened. She was quite the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

‘What was your life like before you came to Venice?’ The voice floated gently up to me, mingling with her scent.

‘I was brought up on a farm, the second son, with a younger sister also. I always knew my elder brother John would eventually inherit the family farm, so I set out at the age of fourteen to find employment. I worked in a small manor house, called Shute House, one of several properties belonging to a wealthy and powerful lord. One day he and his three daughters visited our manor house and there was a great storm. I managed to save the daughters from drowning and he gave me employment. The marquess, as he then was, became the Duke of Suffolk, and I became his personal secretary and travelled to the English Court with him.’

‘Why did you leave?’ The small voice floated up again.

‘When King Edward died, a number of the lords of the realm made his eldest daughter, Lady Jane Grey, Queen of England because she was a Protestant. But there was a successful revolt against her, and she was imprisoned. I stayed with her in that prison for seven months, until they executed her. Two weeks later her father, my employer, was also executed. From that moment, I had little reason to remain at Court and returned to the country in Devon, where I have been studying medicine under Dr Marwood.’

‘How long will you stay here?’

‘To some extent, that depends on the earl. Until September, I feel a sense of obligation towards Edward Courtenay, but from then on, I will make my own decisions.’

She looked at me intently. ‘We are similar. My life, too, is determined by another. My father, having lost my mother to illness, is very protective and clings to me, as his only daughter and only close friend. It is understandable. His life has been difficult – his grandfather had to leave Granada when our people were pushed out of Spain sixty-five years ago. My ancestors used to live in the Alhambra Palace itself, but they had to leave everything behind. Since then, the family has been endlessly on the move, trying to make a living from the spice trade, first in Lisbon, then in Sicily and now here in Venice. He makes the joke that the family arrived here from Lisbon just as the centre of the spice trade was moving in the opposite direction. He works hard, but he is getting older and is very tired.’

I tried to reassure her. ‘But you have your freedom. You now work for Jacopo Tintoretto and play an important part in managing his business for him. He would be lost without you.’

She returned her head to my shoulder before replying. ‘As the only child of a widower father, I am tied. My father would like me to marry a Muslim boy and continue to live with him and look after him in his old age. But Muslims are constrained in this society, especially while the wars with Turkey and the Byzantine Empire keep smouldering. There are few eligible Muslim boys here. And since he would not want me to go abroad, I am left in limbo. I live in two worlds, the painters’ world and my father’s world, but I have no world of my own.’

This was a subject I had strong feelings about. ‘You have to
make
a world of your own.’

I felt her shaking her head. ‘But if I am placed in an arranged marriage, I will simply be moved from one man’s world to another man’s world.’

This was something Lady Jane and I had debated many times. ‘The conundrum is whether getting married necessarily means entering somebody else’s world or whether it can mean creating your world
with
somebody else. My view is that a woman is not a chattel, but someone in her own right. The understanding which forms the basis of a marriage should first and foremost recognize that each of the parties should create a world of their own.’

She sat up again. ‘It is an enlightened view, Richard, but what happens the first time you disagree? The man tells the woman what to do. That is how it works, is it not?’

I shook my head.

‘It need not be so. When issues arise that create conflict between the separate worlds of a husband and wife, decisions about those issues should be made jointly.’

‘What issues do you mean?’ I could feel her stiffen, perhaps in apprehension, and I looked away over the water, to soften my reply. ‘For example, if I was deciding whether to study painting here in Venice, or medicine in Padua.’

She remained very still, listening hard. ‘Not in England?’

Now I guessed the true source of her apprehension and it encouraged me. ‘At this stage, no, not in England. England is not a safe country for me, just as your people were driven from Spain, so religion forms a barrier between people in England, and those who believe in my Protestant Church are distrusted there and hounded by the Catholics. I have no plans to return to England at the moment.’

I felt her relax, and for some minutes she remained quiet. I did not dare hope she was thinking what I was thinking, but if she was, the last thing I wanted to do was to break her train of thought. Finally, after many minutes’ silence, she asked the question I had hoped she would ask. ‘Are you also considering marriage as part of this decision about your future?’

I answered as lightly as I could. ‘Yes, I would like to get married, to the right person, if she would have me, and I would try to approach that relationship using the principles of equality I have just described. But in a sense, it seems unfair to consider marriage before I have decided what future I desire for myself I felt her pull away from me, as if my words had put distance between us. ‘When will you decide your terms?’ She nodded for emphasis. ‘For this bargain?’

I shook my head. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I am trying to be fair.’

We were approaching a small, clean beach on a tiny deserted island close to Murano. The place was treeless but sheltered from the wind, and the little beach was remarkably clean. I wondered how many other couples the gondolier had brought to this spot before us, and how many more would come in the future. The gondola grounded lightly on the beach and I helped Yasmeen out. The gondolier waved us forward.

‘Please. Go ahead. It is your evening. I will bring your picnic things and then take the boat round to the next bay. When you want me, just follow that path over there.’

Yasmeen took my hand and we started up the beach to a sheltered corner. I felt her squeeze my hand. ‘Veronica told me that you are a very complicated man. But I know from Jacopo and Gentile that you are also a very honest one.’

Somehow, as we reached our little corner, I began to feel that I had not, after all, been the architect of this evening. The hands of others had been at work. Looking across the lagoon to Venice, I thanked them, whoever they were.

Whether it was prompted by our arrival at our picnic spot, or the diplomatic departure of the gondolier, our mood seemed to have changed. Both of us had come to the evening with questions, and both had found it hard to relax until our worries had been addressed. Now our conversation turned to gossip about the apprentices in Tintoretto’s studio, to our parents, our childhoods, our hopes and our fears.

Being unsure what food she would eat, I had brought chicken, fish and bread, fruit and fruit juices. It seemed I had chosen well, for despite her small build she appeared to have a healthy appetite.

We talked of life in Venice. Yasmeen explained that her childhood, although happy, had always been overshadowed by the thought that somehow she and her few Muslim friends were different from the other children around them; she had never fully understood why, and her father had simply avoided her questions.

As she grew older, her father had begun to tell her stories of his grandfather’s time, when he had been a physician, and highly regarded in the Muslim court of Emir Boabdil, the last of the Nasrid dynasty to rule the emirate of Granada. Life had been so different in Al Andalus, with Jews, Moors and Christians living in harmony; not only tolerating each other, but recognizing the best of each others’ cultures and borrowing from them – exchanging technology, laws, architecture, recipes and poetry. This was a world in which men were judged by their abilities, and given unfettered opportunity to make what contribution they could to the society they shared.

I leaned against a tussock of marram grass and listened as she repeated these stories from the past, watching how her eyes shone with pleasure at her family’s memory of a happier period, and enjoying the sheer poetry of her language as she pronounced the Arabic names of people, places, animals, plants and foodstuffs. It was as if she had lived there herself, and I found myself wondering why the great cosmopolitan city of Venice could not treat people just as equally.