The Midwife of Venice (23 page)

Hannah, remembering the sound of knife on bone in the abattoir, trembled. “I will place the knife under the bed pillow.” Could she do it again? Attack a man like a creature possessed by the devil?

Hannah settled onto a chair near the bed and tried not to grimace as her sister approached carrying a concoction with the viscosity of a raw hen’s egg. She said, “Paint me with your pastes and salves and then leave me to marinate in the stink.” For the first time, she noticed a drapery of red and gold silk behind the bed. “What is behind that curtain?”

Jessica pushed it back to reveal a door barely large enough to allow a man to pass through. “A means of escape for those who value discretion over the convenience of the main staircase.”

“It leads to the Fondamenta?” asked Hannah.

“Yes, to the canal.” Jessica’s face took on an expression of concentration. “First you need a layer of this paste, which will act as a basecoat, like gesso under a fresco. It will harden on your face, so you will not be able to talk without it cracking. This will give me an opportunity to say something I want to say to you. So listen, but don’t speak.”

Hannah was not accustomed to taking orders from her younger sister, but it appeared she had no choice.

“Often, Hannah, you do not wish to talk about what needs to be talked about. You hope it will go away of its own accord. But this will not.” Jessica began applying the stiff paste with a wooden stick, the tip as flat as a gondolier’s oar. “This may be my last chance to speak what is in my heart.” First daubing and then blending the cream on Hannah’s jaw, Jessica worked rapidly. “We are each of us wrong to criticize the other. If we do not survive, either
because Jacopo kills us or because the
Prosecuti
take us away and torture us, I want you to know I love you.”

Hannah tried to speak, but Jessica held a finger to her lips and smoothed a dot of paste under Hannah’s nose and on her throat. She continued, “In a few days, God willing, you will find Matteo’s parents, then sail to Malta to be with your Isaac”—she paused—“to whom you are so devoted. You are fortunate to have him. Coupling for me is an act of commerce. I know that you have experienced the kind of pleasure I have not.”

The mask of white paste concealed her feelings, but Hannah wanted to tell her sister that Isaac made her laugh, that he was kind and loving, and that in bed he waited for her to reach her fulfillment first.

Jessica saw her attempt to speak and shushed her. “Never mind, I know what you want to say.” She rubbed the paste on Hannah’s brow. “Love cannot be explained.” She went on, “You think I have grown too fond of luxury. You think I have sold my soul for porcelain, lace, inlaid tables, and a pillared bed covered in gold leaf.”

“I—” Hannah began, but she felt the paste crack.

Jessica kissed her on the top of her head and told her to stay still. She passed Hannah a jar of some foul-smelling, gelatinous unguent. “We will outwit Jacopo. Apply this to your groin and armpits. It will sting and redden your skin but will not do any lasting harm. To be convincing, you must be nearly naked and appear burning up from fever when he comes.”

Hannah had not considered this part of the plan. She
dipped her fingers in the jar and gave an involuntary shiver as she smoothed the greasy mixture as directed.

“Even looking as horrid as you do, I truly love you.” Jessica then took a comb to Hannah’s dark hair and teased it into a satanic nimbus.

Hannah spoke through lips only slightly parted, so as not to crack the facade drying on her face. “Suppose I lie for days like this stewing in this horrid stuff?”

“We will wait together. Our plan may work or it may not work, but it is our only hope. Fretting will not affect the outcome.” Jessica gave a final twirl to a strand of Hannah’s hair. Then she backed away from her sister, frowning, studying her pale face, the blackened circles under her eyes, and the boils on her chest and arms. She sniffed the air. “Yes, I think you will do.” She picked up a looking-glass from the bureau and handed it to Hannah. “Look for yourself.”

Hannah shivered at her reflection. She looked the very image of pestilence. Glancing at Matteo lying on Jessica’s bed, she was grateful he was too young to understand the meaning of the face in the mirror, haggard as that of a witch, covered with suppurating sores, vacant-eyed, with wild hair and a nose distorted beyond recognition. She quickly handed the mirror back to Jessica.

Reaching under her bed, Jessica said, “One last matter.” She fumbled for a moment and then drew out a packet wrapped in cloth. “Here is a partridge shell that has been emptied of its contents and then refilled with hen’s blood. I have a collection of these close at hand for my patrons who prefer me a virgin. Hold it in your mouth and, when
the time is right, bite down on it and let the blood trickle from the corner of your mouth.”

Jessica helped her remove the rest of her clothing and climb into bed, arranging the covers to expose the worst of the swelling and pus. She moved Matteo close to her side.

“Shall we play a game of backgammon to pass the time?”

Hannah shook her head. All she could think was:
Jacopo must come tonight
.

I
SAAC WAS LEANING
back against the olive tree in the square, his pine plank straddling his knees, when Hector came along the road on his mare. Hector dismounted and wrapped his reins around the pommel of his saddle so the horse would be free to graze in the square. Isaac was in the midst of penning a letter on behalf of a baker from the town of Zabbar who was seated next to him.

“I will be with you in a moment,
mio amico,”
he called to Hector.

Isaac hurriedly completed the letter and tucked the coin he received into his breeches. The baker slipped his letter
into the leather bag over his shoulder and sauntered off in the direction of the tavern across the square.

Isaac rose and shook hands with Hector, even though he was angry that this man from the Society had done nothing to help him, short of offering a prayer shawl. Today there was a sombre look on Hector’s face.

“What is the matter, my friend? You have more gloomy business? Let us sit in the shade and you can tell me your news.” He pulled Hector to sit next to him on a stump under the tree.

Hector sat as he had the last time they’d met, and began dragging a stick back and forth in the dust.

“Enough map-drawing, Hector. Speak.”

“It is about your wife, Hannah.” Hector continued to scratch away with the stick.

Isaac felt his heart contract. “Yes?” he said, struggling to keep the impatience out of his voice.

Hector spoke in a rush now, as though eager to get the words out before he lost his nerve. “Against the Rabbi’s orders, your wife delivered a Christian baby.”

It was as though Hector had punched him in the chest, forcing all the air out of him. After a few moments, he recovered sufficiently to say, “Hannah would never do such a thing. Not only is it against the law, but it would endanger the entire ghetto.” And yet, even as he spoke, he realized that it would be like her to risk herself for the sake of another. “Where is she now?”

“She is living with her sister …”

Isaac looked at him, confounded.

“I know nothing more,” said Hector.

“You are saying she has left the ghetto? No, I do not believe you. Who tells you this?”

“This is what the Society writes,” Hector continued in a voice meant to be reassuring. “But do not agitate yourself—all will be well. They say she saved the life of a Conte’s child and his wife. The Conte is influential. He will protect her.”

Isaac jumped to his feet and began pacing, mindless of the sharp stones digging into the soles of his feet. “No, all will not be well.” How could he explain the seriousness of the situation to Hector, a gentile living in this rocky outcropping in the middle of nowhere? “You must understand that if a sparrow falls from the sky in Venice, it is considered the fault of the Jews.” Isaac’s throat tightened with fear for Hannah’s welfare.

“You exaggerate, my friend.”

“Once, many years ago,” said Isaac, “a woman was found dead just outside the gates of the ghetto. She had been violated and murdered. No one knew her identity.”

Hector looked unhappy. “I fear this story will not be amusing.” He shifted on the stump and pushed his hat farther back on his head.

Isaac gestured for him to be silent. “The Jews were immediately accused. The priests exhorted the mob, ‘Kill the Jews. Spill their blood.’ A massacre was a certainty. The crowd was clamouring to enter the ghetto and cut off the heads of the men and disembowel the children. The Jews prepared to flee. The entire community was about to be uprooted, houses lost, businesses abandoned,
the ill and elderly left behind.” Isaac paused. “Suddenly, into the square raced a messenger. ‘Do not worry, fellow Jews,’ he announced. ‘I have wonderful news. The dead woman was Jewish!’ ”

Hector’s face creased in an uncomfortable grimace.

Isaac leaned over and squeezed Hector’s arm. “Now do you see? My Hannah might as well be dead.”

“Isaac, there is a way out, if you will listen.”

“How?” Isaac asked.

“The Rabbi has finally been able to raise the money for your ransom from private benefactors, but it is conditional upon your …” Hector paused.

“Upon what?”

“Divorcing Hannah.”

Had the world gone mad? Isaac grabbed Hector by his collar and fought the impulse to throttle him. “I would sooner cut off my arm! You can tell the Rabbi that if his help depends on that, he can take his ducats and shove them up the arsehole of a pig!” He released Hector and began coughing on the dust stirred up by his movement.

Hector, recovering his breath, said, “I am so sorry.” He hesitated, clearly preparing to deliver another blow. “I am instructed not to enter into any negotiations for your ransom as long as you remain married to Hannah. Your wife mortally offended the Rabbi by—”

“Delivering a Christian child.”

“By disobeying him.”

“Then the Rabbi is as much my enemy as the Knights,” Isaac said.

“No one will defy the Rabbi, Isaac. You must bend to his will. Divorce her and then remarry her.”

“Impossible. Under Jewish law, once divorced, a husband and wife may not remarry.” Once Isaac signed the
get
, the official document of his intention to divorce, it would be served on Hannah, and then the Rabbinical Court, a panel of three Rabbis, would consider the merits of the case and confirm or reject the divorce. With Rabbi Ibraiham presiding, there would be no doubt of the outcome. Isaac rubbed his face. His hand came away wet. Hot, angry tears spilled down his cheeks.

“Your laws are designed to create unhappiness,” said Hector.

Isaac shrugged, too dispirited to argue. “You are entitled to your opinion. The Rabbi has been urging me to give Hannah the
get
for many years on the grounds of her barrenness. Now, he has me like a lamb in the talons of an eagle. He and I have never agreed on anything, from the price of a barrel of pickled herring to the number of men who will appear at
shul
for morning prayers. But this? He goes too far.”

Isaac smashed his fist into the palm of his hand, and Hector drew back. How satisfying it would be if the Rabbi were sitting here instead of the kindly but useless Hector. Isaac visualized joining his thumbs and pressing them against the Rabbi’s Adam’s apple until the life departed his desiccated old body. Isaac cracked his knuckles.

“Hector, you are simply a messenger. I am not angry at you.” He paced the rough ground, kicking at dirt with roughened and callused feet. He had never felt so impotent.

Hector stood and took him by the arm. “Come and sit, Isaac. See what I have in my saddlebag,” he said, walking over to his horse. “You may change your mind.” He extracted a thick package of papers tied with a ribbon. Leafing through them, he said, “Ah, yes, here it is. You have heard of the
Provveditore
? This is a receipt for your passage on that vessel. She is expected in a week’s time from Constantinople, stopping here to take on fresh water, a load of cowhides, and your hide, too, if you will sign the bill of divorcement.” The papers fluttered in the breeze. “I also have the funds to pay your ransom, pending your signature on the get.”

Isaac eyed Hector and then asked, “Out of curiosity, who are my benefactors?” His older brother Leon had married into a wealthy family—perhaps he had contributed.

Hector said, “I am only at liberty to say it was raised by private financing. If you sign, you are free to sail.”

“Never.”

Hector shook his head. “What good can come of your remaining here in Malta? If you want to help your wife, it would be better to return. Your stubbornness is helping no one, least of all you.”

“I love her.” Isaac’s voice broke. “Should my wife’s sorrow be the price of my passage home?”

“It would be a poor world indeed if a woman’s unhappiness ruled a man’s actions.” Hector stood, brushed the dust off his too-short breeches, and strolled over to his mare, grazing a few feet away. He made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Slaving for a man such as Joseph is not helping you or your wife. Has hunger clouded your reason?” He
rummaged in his saddlebag for a second time. “I also have a safe
laissez-passer
. It will protect you against another capture on the voyage home. It is signed by the Grand Master, who has impressed it himself with a seal.” Hector looked directly at Isaac. “This is your last chance. Will you sign?”