Daughters of the Doge (67 page)

I could see the fruits of Niccolò’s life’s work – and no doubt his father’s and grandfather’s before him. The carefully pruned olive trees on the scrubby hillside opposite would provide more than enough oil for our daily needs – and excess to sell in the market. And directly below us, the golden Fior d’ Arancio grapevines would produce a good crop of the region’s rich yellow Moscato wine. Catching the sun in the cleft of the small valley, protected from the wind, were apricot and almond trees.

It was a magical place.

The farmhouse was dry and spacious. There was fresh water in plenty running down the stream and a pipe had been installed to bring it into the house. Dry logs were already stacked roof-high against the end of the barn, which was well-provided with sweet hay for the winter. I could see us being very happy here.

Yasmeen and I talked about our wedding plans. Understandably, she had wanted the Muslim wedding to come first, and the mullah had suggested their New Year’s Day, the first day of Muharram, 964 Anno Hegirae in the Muslim calendar. She had explained to me that the Muslim year was eleven days shorter than the Christian one, which meant that their days of celebration moved round our seasons year by year. This year the Muslim new year would fall on Wednesday November the 4th 1556 in the Christian calendar, and would allow us to remarry in the presence of a Christian priest well before the Christmas period was upon us. Everybody was happy with the arrangement, not least Yasmeen, who seemed to glow with pleasure at the prospect, now that the initial strangeness of the double ceremony had worn off.

‘Is your father now really content?’

Although he had given his authority for me to marry Yasmeen, I still worried about the effect on him, deep down, for in many respects he was a lonely man and kept his feelings to himself.

‘Do not worry, Richard. You have no idea how happy he is that at last he has a son to continue the business. Make no mistake, he will have you working hard, for he has great plans for expansion, and no longer fears the decline of Venetian influence upon his business prospects.’

‘And Jacopo? He has always been generous to me and took the news of your departure and replacement by Faustina remarkably well. In truth, was he upset by being put under pressure to agree?’

‘Jacopo is more than happy. I was making a good attempt at managing his affairs, but I know my religion was beginning to get in the way when we approached Church customers. He never mentioned it, but I knew. Now he has a pious Contarini to represent him. With her looks and her brains she will have them eating out of her hand. Have no fear, the change will be strongly to Tintoretto’s benefit.’

She smiled, as if remembering something; it was the smile women use when thinking of children. ‘And Felicità is an added bonus. She loves little Marietta, and the child loves her, too.’

She smiled out over the valley, and then turned slowly to me. ‘You never told me the full story. How did you and Faustina meet? What happened in your assignations? Did you ever. . .? You know.’ She nudged my ribs with her elbow. I shook my head, vehemently.

‘I have told you before, she is not like that. She was a nun. In any case, she has Felicità. I never touched her.’

‘Yes you did. She told me so.’ I stared at her in disbelief, and she shook her head. ‘Not physically, I know that, but you touched her heart and you changed her life.’

Relief flowed over me, but at the same time, a concern. ‘But have I sinned? Have I taken her away from her God?

It was clear they had discussed the whole thing. ‘No. Quite the reverse. You have enabled her to rediscover her God as of choice. Such is her independence of spirit that she would have continued to fight against a God thrust upon her. But now that she is in a position to choose, she has been able to reach out and embrace God for herself. And for that I am sure she will remain truly grateful.’

‘Truly grateful.’ I could not tell Yasmeen that it was not I who had identified the opportunity.

Yasmeen had not finished. ‘But in seeing her predicament, in seeing that beauty, that spirit, captured in that place, did you not love her a little – in your heart – even if she was unattainable?’

I put my arm tightly around her shoulders. We were in love and about to be married, and yet there was much I did not know about her. The last thing I wanted to do now was threaten our relationship.

‘Perhaps a little, as I would love a young colt, with long legs and knobbly knees, but with spirit in its eye and its whole life before it.’ I could not look her in the eye as I gave what I thought was a safe reply. Perhaps, by now, it was a truthful one also; I had to admit to myself that my reaction to Faustina might have modified as her circumstances became clearer.

Yasmeen looked at me carefully. I knew she was thinking what I had just been thinking, and that there was much she did not know about me. We were feeling our way towards each other, both scared of losing the joy we had so recently found.

Then she smiled and, for a moment, looked out again across the valley. ‘I will tell her you think she has knobbly knees.’

She turned back to me, watching my expression, and I saw a look in her eyes, as if she had finally put a worry behind her. We leaned on the wall and looked across the lovely valley before us. Yasmeen was silent and I knew she was thinking again.

‘And Veronica? Did you love her? ‘The words were muffled, but not unexpected.

I looked away. ‘No, of course not. I was never in love with Veronica, nor was she interested in me.’

Once again, Yasmeen pushed me to arm’s length and looked at me as levelly as our respective heights allowed. ‘Come on. I can feel it whenever you are together, the easy way she touches you as she passes. I can always tell. I accept that you no longer sleep together, but once, at least? But don’t fool yourself. It means nothing to her, it’s Veronica’s way of saying hello to someone she likes. It’s also a powerful tool for manipulating men she thinks may be useful to her.’

I blustered, and Yasmeen smiled.

‘I am not as simple as you think, Richard. I may have been brought up by a strict father and saved myself for marriage, but for years I have worked in the art business, where sex is as common and casual as eating and drinking. Particularly with Veronica. Do you think Tintoretto hasn’t? And Titian? He has quite a reputation.

Everybody in the trade knows that Titian says: “I cannot paint a woman unless I can taste her.” But what he really means is, “I cannot paint a woman until I
have
tasted her.” He’s a randy old goat.’

I was surprised at her worldliness, which I had never seen before. She was normally so demure.

‘Does it upset you? About Veronica?’ I watched her face carefully.

‘Strangely, no. I have talked to other women about it. Veronica is so likeable, and so much on our side, that somehow we know she is no threat to us.’

I kissed her. It was good to have these things out in the open, and I was quietly relieved.

‘Come,’ I said, ‘let’s go down to Niccolò and see if we can get him to sign those papers.’

C
HAPTER
89

October the 30th 1556 – Fattoria Costante, Treponti

It was a rare, quiet moment in my new life. Yasmeen had returned to Venice and I was alone in the farmhouse, writing to my parents in England. Autumn had set in fully now and the leaves were a deep gold and russet. The first frosts had arrived and I had welcomed them as a milestone in the year’s progression. After the heat of the summer, it was comforting to be able to sit indoors and light a fire.

Somehow, the process of writing to my family (for the first time, I no longer thought of it as ‘writing home’) was helping me to marshal my thoughts.

I sat back from the page. My love for Yasmeen. So impossible to describe adequately in simple words. It was like trying to value a Tintoretto painting by its weight.

For many years I had wondered what true love felt like. For a moment I cast around, trying to find the right terminology. There was something missing.

Then it came to me: it was not perfect. That was the missing piece: love was not soft; love was strong, almost hard. Nor was it kind, or slavish, for in time it took as much as it gave.

To me, in the end, it was about worth; it was the recognition that the person I loved was worth more than the value I gave to myself, and when the day of reckoning came, I knew I would be willing to give up my life for hers, not as an act of generosity or kindness; not as a heroic act by which to be remembered, but in the simple belief that the world would be better-served by her survival than by my own. The thought, when it came to me, surprised and consumed me and I felt almost frightened by it.

There was a sigh of wind through the open window and the candle on the table flickered and guttered. For a moment the page lifted and I trapped it with my hand. Then I returned to my writing.