The Midwife of Venice (14 page)

He stood well away from the low guard railing of the roof, and for a moment gazed at the sagging clothesline hung with bedding jammed in the corner and a barrel of washing water buzzing with flies. “So this is how it is in the ghetto. How high above the
campo
you are. It makes me quite dizzy.”

“Matteo is well?” Hannah asked a little anxiously.

“Healthy as a tick, and eating like a stone mason.”

“And the Contessa? How does she fare?”

“Coughing every night. Fever. Colour so high you would think she had just come back from a walk in the country. She cannot catch her breath. Plucks the covers, talks like a woman possessed by the devil. I hear the Conte in her room some nights, propping her upright so she can breathe, holding the basin for her.”

“I am sorry to hear that.”

Surely he had not come to give her a report on the family’s health. She waited. Finally she asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

“My brother sent me,” Jacopo said. “You are to come tonight for dinner and collect your amulet.”

Hannah was speechless for a moment. It was unusual for Jews and Christians to dine together. Her work at the palazzo was finished. It was not a social relationship she
had with the family but a working arrangement, much like a tutor or perhaps a trusted ladies’ maid.

But when she recovered her wits, she said, “It would be an honour.” She was about to add,
There is another matter that concerns me
—but she decided that the subject of the birthing spoons could wait until tonight.

Jacopo shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun. “Such an interesting part of the city. Look, I can see the stalls of the moneylenders, and the butcher shop. I feel like a bird up this high.” He put his hands on his hips and studied the fruit spread on the cloth. “You will need to turn them in a couple of hours—otherwise the sun cannot reach them and they will spoil.”

She waited for him to state his business, which was not to discuss the picturesque nature of the ghetto or to give her advice on drying apples. Whatever he had come to say seemed to be causing him some discomfiture. Finally, she said, “It is a great honour for me to be invited for a meal.”

“I am delivering this invitation myself because I wished to have a word with you. Do not look so surprised. I found something which I believe belongs to you. Along with your amulet you left behind a curious contraption.”

He reached under the cloak draped over his shoulder. She caught a flash of the familiar silver.

“Oh, thank you.” Hannah held out her hand, relief flooding over her, but Jacopo did not proffer the birthing spoons.

“I found it under the Contessa’s bed when I stooped to retrieve a handkerchief. I assume you used this device in the delivery of my nephew?”

“Yes, but—”

“Very careless of you to leave it behind. You must realize how dangerous something like this could be in the hands of certain people. Not me, I hasten to add. I feel as grateful to you as the Conte does. You saved my nephew. I would like to ensure that no harm befalls you as a result of that generous deed.”

“That is very kind of you. I thought, perhaps …”

“Any of the servants could have found it. A Jewess delivering a Christian baby, using an unlawful device? It would not look well to an investigating magistrate, would it?”

“I am grateful to you,” Hannah said, wishing he would hand the spoons to her and be on his way.

“For my part, I would like nothing more than to give the device back to you this very instant, but there is something we must discuss first. My brother, the Conte, paid you handsomely for your attendance at the Contessa’s travail. Two hundred ducats, if I am not mistaken.”

“Money I earned fairly. The Contessa was more dead than alive when I arrived at your palazzo.”

“Do not misunderstand. I do not dispute the value of your service. It is your use of witchcraft that troubles me. I have an obligation to report you. You know that, do you not?”

“I could no more use witchcraft than I could sprout wings and fly off this roof to the
campo
below.”

“So you say.”

“I speak the truth.”

“I have no wish to see you prosecuted, Hannah. It would serve no purpose. So I am willing to ignore my
responsibility—but the price of my dereliction is two hundred ducats. If you wish your device returned, I suggest that you bring the money with you tonight. Our gondola will call for you at sundown.” Jacopo made a show of moving toward the stairs, then placed a foot on the first step, about to descend. He turned. “Do we understand each other?”

“Those ducats are to buy my husband’s life.”

“The ducats will not be of much use to you or to him if you are arrested and tortured to death.” He tapped his polished nails on the buttons of his waistcoat.

As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Do not think that you can avoid me by sailing off to Malta. The captain of the
Balbiana
transports a great deal of cargo for our family. A word from me and he will withdraw his offer of passage.”

She wanted to spring at him. She was overcome with a sense of despair, but she had no choice but to nod. Jacopo continued down the stairs.

Hannah needed time to think. Returning to the blanket of apple slices, she sat hunched, rocking back and forth. As she fanned away flies, the afternoon shadows lengthened.

Back in her
loghetto
, when it was nearly sunset, she washed her face in the basin and slipped on her only good dress, a red velvet gown with a square-cut bodice and full skirt with silk insets on the sides. Without the aid of a looking-glass, she used her reflection in the basin of washing water to arrange her hair. Her hands were shaking so, she dropped her hairpins and comb and had to crawl under the bed to retrieve them. Then she pinned a snood over her chignon and left her room.

When she entered the
campo
it was dark, and the black-and-red sign that read
BANCO ROSSO
—the “paupers’ bank,” as it was called—was barely visible under the
sotoportego
. At first she thought Signore Rosso had left for the day, but her eyes made out a flicker of candlelight in the rear of the bank. She knocked on the door until Rosso, an elderly man pale as the Rabbi but with eyes crinkled at the corners, unlocked the grille covering the door and admitted her.

“Hannah, my dear, I was wondering when you would come to collect your ducats.” He handed her a small hessian sack and wished her a good journey. “You look pale. Are you unwell?”

“Just a little tired.”

“May these ducats be used to purchase Isaac’s freedom.”

An impulse seized her to throw herself into the arms of this kindly man whom she had known since her girlhood and ask for his counsel. She knew her choices. It was simple: she could pay the money to Jacopo or be arrested as a witch. Tonight she must use Isaac’s ransom money to buy her own life. She said goodbye to Signore Rosso as she tucked the sack of ducats into her bag and marched across the
campo
to the massive gates leading to the Rio della Misericordia, where the Conte’s gondola waited.

Her only hope was to confide in the Conte and tell him of his brother’s deceit. But why would he take her word against Jacopo’s? She was of no significance, just a Jewess from the ghetto.

Isaac was lost to her.

B
Y THE TIME
the
Marangona
in Piazza San Marco chimed seven times, Hannah was pulling the bell cord at the entranceway of the ca’ di Padovani. The Conte’s cloak was draped over her arm, her bag slung over her shoulder. At the sound of the bell, a cry of recognition issued from one of the upper windows and Lucia leaned out, clutching a kitten, waving and calling. The sight reminded Hannah of the story she had recounted to the Contessa during her travail to illustrate how poorly wedged the baby was within her. Now the Contessa was planted in the middle of the window, not to one side as Hannah had explained the baby was. A few moments later, Lucia was at the
entranceway smiling and extending her arms. She wore a green silk dress; her red hair fell around her shoulders.

“I am so happy to see you, Hannah. I am grateful you were able to take time from your travel preparations to come and dine with us.”

Hannah felt a surge of affection for this woman she had saved from the Angel of Death, though at the thought of how near she had come to murdering her, Hannah shuddered.

Lucia said, “Come in. I think of you every day and wonder how you are. I wanted to thank you for all you did for me and Matteo. Without you and your gifted hands, we would both be dead. The Conte will not stop singing your praises. I know that he wishes to thank you as well.”

“I am pleased to see you, too.” But Hannah could not in good conscience tell the Contessa she looked well. Lucia had a pale, ethereal look. Dark circles smudged the skin under her eyes. Her hands trembled.

Lucia glanced over her shoulder as though hoping the Conte would materialize behind her. “Alas, my husband has been at our villa in Maser checking on his figs. He fancies himself a farmer, except”—she laughed—“when the grasshoppers swarm. Then he turns the whole disaster over to the estate manager. He will return tonight because tomorrow at first light we leave for Ferrara. My father is sick and the doctors fear he is dying. I wish to see him one last time.”

“I am so sorry to hear of your father’s illness. May God come to his aid,” Hannah said.

The Contessa acknowledged her words and explained, “He is not young—past sixty. He has enjoyed a long life.”

Lucia told one of the servants to let them know when dinner was ready. And as they climbed the main staircase to the
piano nobile
, the principle floor, past the familiar fresco of nymphs in green and gold, she slipped her arm through Hannah’s as though they were intimates rather than two women separated by the chasm of class and religion.

They entered Lucia’s bedroom. It did not seem possible that this was the same room that only a few weeks ago had been redolent with the smell of blood and had echoed with the screams of childbirth. Now, she heard only the high-pitched wail of a healthy infant. Lucia’s bed was draped in brocade, and in the corner stood Matteo’s cradle, adorned with four pillars supporting a splendid
padiglione
of striped silk. The night of Matteo’s birth, Hannah had been intimidated by the splendour of the room. Now, with the chandeliers lit and light bouncing from looking-glass to terrazzo floor, it felt warm, luxurious, and inviting.

“Matteo is a darling, a perfect little being.” Lucia kissed the black-and-white kitten she held in her arms, and motioned Hannah toward the cradle. “There is not another baby half so sweet in all the world.”

Good, the path of salt still encircled the baby’s bed to keep away Lilith. Hannah approached, stepping over the salt, and then bent to pick up Matteo. He had lost the scrunched red look of the newborn. His face was smooth, his cheeks rounded, his blue eyes alert as they tried to focus on her. She brushed back the curls on his forehead. The red marks left by her birthing spoons had healed without a trace.

“
Che meraviglia!”
She had never seen such a beautiful child. Wrapped around him was a white receiving blanket with the family crest embroidered in gold silk thread. She tucked the blanket more tightly around him and felt the outline of her amulet on his chest.

He cried, tossing his head from side to side, searching for a nipple. Hannah felt a tingling in her own breasts. Lucia must have experienced the same sensation, for she placed the kitten on the coverlet, climbed onto the high bed, and unlaced the front of her gown. She gestured for Hannah to pass her the infant.

“Maybe my milk will flow better today.” She exposed her breasts to Hannah, who winced in sympathy, so painful was it to see the deep fissures scoring her nipples. In the ghetto a woman would not expose herself in this way, nor would she treat a guest with such informality, yet Hannah felt herself relaxing and enjoying the sisterly camaraderie.

Most patrician women hired wet nurses so they could be at liberty to entertain and enjoy themselves, and Lucia was far too ill to be nursing Matteo.

“Apply some almond oil. That should help. Perhaps wait a few days and allow them to heal before you try nursing again.”

But Lucia did not appear to be listening, and coaxed the crying baby to her breast. Hannah took a small vial of almond oil from her bag and handed it to Lucia.

“I am endeavouring to feed him myself. My milk is better suited to Matteo than any wet nurse’s.”

“Does the Conte not want Giovanna to nurse Matteo to save you from the pain?”

“The truth is that my husband is so afraid of … of this child joining the rest of our babies in the family crypt that he is determined that I be the only one to nurse him.”

“Your husband is a devoted father.” Hannah was touched by the thought of the Conte’s being interested in the particulars of suckling a newborn. In her experience, fathers rarely paid attention to their offspring until they began to speak. Perhaps she could have a word with the Conte and convince him to allow Giovanna to nurse the child.