The Rossetti Letter (v5) (18 page)

As she studied him, she sensed that something was wrong; Andrew Kent didn’t seem like his usual bristly, rather off-putting pedantic self, but more like a guy who was apologetic about taking everyone’s time. Maybe this false humility was an English thing. Or maybe he didn’t feel well. Whatever the cause, she had the distinct impression that he wasn’t terribly excited about his own lecture. He cleared his throat once more and began to speak.

“One hundred years ago, Julian Corbett wrote, ‘Of all the mysteries of Italian history, there is none more dramatic or difficult to probe in all its dark recesses than what is known in Venice as the Spanish Conspiracy.’ I agree with him that it is one of the most enigmatic events in the history of Venice; its legend owes much to myth and rumor. I hope to retire some of those myths, silence some of those rumors. Why is this important? Because, as Horatio Brown has remarked, the story of the Spanish Conspiracy ‘throws so strong a light upon the causes which first corrupted and then destroyed the Republic.’

“But I get ahead of myself. The origin of the conspiracy is the primary subject of this lecture, as I mean to show that the events of 1618 were by no means isolated; tensions between Venice and Spain had been building for decades.”

Claire listened without taking notes while Andrew Kent gave an overview of what was, for her, familiar territory. By the sixteenth century, the Venetian Republic was in decline. Even so, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, Venice was the only independent power remaining in an Italy dominated by Spain, which achieved its dominion with its military might, its wealth, and its control of the papacy. In 1606, when Pope Paul V excommunicated the Doge and the Venetian Senate and placed all territories of the Republic under an interdict in retaliation for the arrest and conviction of two priests, Venice came into direct conflict with Rome and therefore Spain.

“By 1618, distrust between Venice and Spain was at its peak,” Andrew Kent said. “Although treaties existed between the two countries, the reality, according to the Venetian ambassador to Madrid, was ‘hostility and war.’ In his report to the Doge, the ambassador wrote of ‘fierce encounters and troublesome incidents’ between Venice and Spain.

“But does this provide sufficient grounds for a ‘Spanish plot’? Indeed, does the evidence even exist? It may help to review what we know for certain of the events of 1618.

“We know that the Venetian Senate wrote to its ambassadors: ‘The insidious practices of the Spaniards never cease…such tricks and artifices have never before been seen’; we know that the Spanish ambassador, the marquis of Bedmar, was summoned to the Doge’s Palace for a formal rebuke. We know that the duke of Ossuna, in Naples, was constructing a new fleet of warships. We know that a letter written by a courtesan named Alessandra Rossetti charged a group of mercenaries with plotting to overthrow Venice. We know that three men—two Spaniards and one Frenchman—were strangled in prison and their corpses hung from the gibbet on the Piazza San Marco.

“But these events do not add up to the account we have heard of the so-called Spanish Conspiracy…”

The
so-called
Spanish Conspiracy? Claire wondered. What was he getting at?

“…an account that has come down to us as history but frankly is based on testimony no more reliable than a child’s bedtime story.” Andrew Kent paused for effect before revealing his most important disclosure. “My research has revealed that what has been thought of as a Spanish conspiracy for four hundred years is, in reality, a Venetian conspiracy.”

“What?” Claire said, so loudly that people in adjacent seats swiveled their heads to look at her.

“I believe that the ‘Spanish’ Conspiracy was a fabrication created by the Council of Ten,” he went on, “a group of men known to have had the best spy network in Europe at that time, a group known to have used any means at their disposal, including hired assassins, to protect the sovereignty of the Republic.”

Murmurs rippled through the room.

“Those enigmatic enforcers of state security, the Council of Ten and its deadly subcommittee, the Tre Capi, or three heads of the Council of Ten, were so feared that they spawned a popular axiom: ‘The Ten send you to the torture chamber, the Three to your grave.’ The main architect of the Venetian Conspiracy, Senator Girolamo Silvia, was in 1618 the leader of the Three and as effective a spymaster as Walsingham had been in England. His network of informants included those from the lowest to the highest echelons of Venetian society. He used these informants, along with his own group of
bravi,
to wage a shadow war against the enemies of the Republic. He seemed to have a particular animosity toward the duke of Ossuna, but the advancement of his own political career was a significant motivating factor.

“Another issue raised by my research concerns the Rossetti Letter. For four hundred years, the mysterious Alessandra Rossetti has been considered a heroine of sorts, the courtesan whose letter to the Great Council exposed the plot and saved Venice from a brutal sacking and pillage. But if the Spanish Conspiracy is a fabrication of the Council of Ten, so, too, then is the Rossetti Letter. Indeed, Alessandra Rossetti was no heroine, but a pawn of the Three…”

“No!” Claire gasped.

“…their puppet, if you will, one whose false statements resulted in politically motivated deaths.”

“Oh god,” Claire moaned.

“I see that my time is up. Thank you all for attending. I hope you’ll join me on Saturday morning for my second talk, when I’ll elaborate on these issues.”

Claire was in such a state of shock that she hardly heard the applause. She stood up and inched her way out of the hall with Gwen and the rest of the crowd. They walked to the
traghetto
crossing near Ca’ Rezzonico in silence.

“Is something wrong?” Gwen asked.

There certainly was; it was even worse than Claire had anticipated. It was bad enough to oppose the opinion of an acclaimed historian, but if Andrew Kent destroyed the credibility of the Rossetti Letter, she might as well give up now.

“I’ve just discovered that I’ve wasted more than two years of my life, and that I’m going to have to throw my dissertation in the garbage and start all over.”

“Why?”

“If Andrew Kent publishes a book saying that the Spanish Conspiracy was based on lies, no one’s going to take my work seriously; in fact, it could be rejected entirely.”

“But that’s not fair.”

“Who said life was fair? All that matters is that he’s an authority and I’m not. Did you hear that introduction? He’s won the Prescott Prize twice. The frustrating thing is that I know he’s wrong. He’s completely wrong.”

“If you’re right and he’s wrong, you shouldn’t care about his stupid awards. I mean, if you’re right, someone else is going to know you’re right, right?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” At least she had the Biblioteca Marciana at hand to help verify what she believed to be true. “Look, do you mind if we just get a quick bite to eat and stay in tonight? I’ve got to go over my notes and make a plan for tomorrow.”

“What about Giancarlo?”

“Giancarlo!” Claire stopped. “I completely forgot.” Giancarlo would be a wonderful respite from everything that had occupied her all day: her research, the conference, Andrew Kent. “I did say we would go, didn’t I? It would be terrible to disappoint him.”

Gwen eyed her critically. “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

“Why, is there something wrong with it?”

According to Gwen, everything was wrong with it. It was shapeless, wrinkled, colorless, boring: a verdict she handed down on nearly every article of clothing in Claire’s suitcase. Then Gwen opened her own suitcase and began taking out blouses of a type that Claire had seldom seen: chiffons, silks, velvets, all of them fit for a gypsy or the cover of a romance novel, with low-cut necklines and fluttery sleeves, in a multicolored array of paisleys, floral prints, and rich jewel tones. Soon the beds and the chairs were covered with clothes.

“It looks like Stevie Nicks exploded in here,” Claire said.

“You can wear this black skirt of yours with one of my tops to dress it up. That one maybe?” Gwen pointed to a black chiffon number with dark blue flowers on it. “Wait, this is better.” She held up an emerald green velvet blouse with a low, rounded neck and long sleeves that gathered at the wrist. Claire slipped it on and Gwen nodded approvingly. “That’s your color. Plus there’s a tie in the back to make it a little tighter.” She tied the ribbon, then stepped in front to regard her once more. “It works, more or less. Have you ever thought about buying a push-up bra?”

“No.” Claire went into the bathroom to look in the mirror. She was pleasantly surprised. It was quite pretty, and romantic, in the sense that it looked like it belonged to a more romantic era. In fact, it reminded her of something Alessandra might have owned. In a certain way it suited her more than anything she’d ever worn, as if it revealed something secret about her—the part of her that lived in the seventeenth-century world. Not that she’d want to dress like this all the time, but for now, for tonight, for Venice—

“It’s perfect,” she said.

A
T SIX THIRTY,
two transformed women walked west through the
sestiere
of San Marco in search of an address adjacent to a
campo
near the Calle del Dose. The slightly smaller of the two, in an anachronistic combination of Renaissance-inspired top and conservative low-heeled pumps, carried a brown bag that contained a bottle of white wine and a selection of
dolci
the confectioner had recommended.

Claire hadn’t wanted to go to Giancarlo’s empty-handed. She suspected that he’d asked her to his family’s house because he couldn’t afford a dinner out—the restaurants in Venice were outrageously expensive—and worried that she hadn’t brought enough. On the other hand, if she brought too much, it might seem like noblesse oblige. As they walked the narrow lanes, she thought about what his house would be like, imagining a cramped living room with a view of the decrepit building next door. Her expectations for the flat of a waiter’s family weren’t high. Not that she cared in the least; she was more concerned that perhaps she and Gwen were overdressed.

Gwen was wearing black, flared pants and a black silk top with ridiculously large, witchlike sleeves and tottered along on shoes not vastly different from
choppines,
the high wooden platforms once worn by Venetian women. Not terribly practical, Claire had said when she’d first seen the outfit. Gwen had matter-of-factly replied that she wasn’t planning to do anything practical in the next few hours.

She had to admit that tonight Gwen seemed different from the gawky, inarticulate girl she usually was and looked rather mysterious and exotic. Her sense of style didn’t look as out of place here as it had in Harriot. Everywhere in Venice, Claire had seen women, young and not so young, fit and not so fit, who were squeezed into skintight, hip-hugging, bell-bottom pants. What had happened? Had someone decreed that all women must dress as if it were 1973? Or was it instinctive, something similar to whatever it is that inspires a flock of birds to suddenly turn as one, or that makes migrating monarch butterflies alight on the same trees as the generation that preceded them?

They reached the
campo
and consulted the map Giancarlo had given them. Following its instructions, they crossed a bridge over a small canal, turned three times into crooked, claustrophobic alleys, and kept walking until they got to a wrought-iron gate set into a high brick wall. The gate opened into an enclosed courtyard, across which was the main door to the building.

It was opened with sudden force only seconds after she knocked. Claire was surprised to be face-to-face with the tall, aristocratic man she’d seen earlier at the conference.

“I’m sorry, I must have the wrong house,” she said.

“You’re the Americans, yes?” he said brightly.

“I’m looking for Giancarlo Bal—”

“Yes, we’re expecting you. Come in, please. I’m Maurizio Baldessari, Giancarlo’s father.”

They stepped into an elegant entry hall with open doorways at each side and a wide marble staircase directly ahead. A phone rang in the room on the right. A murmuring voice answered it.

“I saw you today at the Ca’ Foscari conference…,” Claire began, still uncomprehending.

“I’m the director of the history department. Giancarlo did not explain? When he told me that he’d met an American who was attending the conference, I asked him to invite you.”

A younger man stepped into the doorway. “Professor Franco is on the phone.”

“Can you tell her I’ll call her back in just a few minutes?” He motioned for Claire and Gwen to follow him up the stairs. “Allow me to show you in. Giancarlo tells me you’re studying seventeenth-century Venice.”

Claire nodded as they walked up the stairs to the main floor of what was clearly a palazzo, one that was decorated in an exquisitely refined, classic style. Even Gwen, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly agape, was dazzled, although Claire figured she was probably unaware that the furniture was eighteenth century, the Oriental carpets antique, the piano a rare Bösendorfer concert grand, the mammoth chandelier Austrian crystal, or that the age-darkened paintings were portraits of actual Baldessari ancestors. As Maurizio briskly led them into this grand salon, they were met by a woman who entered from a doorway at the far end.

“Renata, these are Giancarlo’s guests,” he said.

“From America, yes?”

Claire introduced herself and Gwen, all the while wondering at the way everyone said “America” or “Americans,” as if they were special and rare, as if they’d just sailed from the uncharted New World and were about to relate strange tales of brown-skinned natives and wondrous crops of tobacco and corn. Or was this a feigned enthusiasm, meant to cover up a basic European dislike of them?

“We’re delighted that you could join us,” Renata said. She possessed a lush and timeless sort of beauty, accentuated by a simple black dress that displayed her voluptuousness to excellent effect. Her chestnut hair was swept back from her face and pinned up in a tangle of curls, showing off the delicate diamond and sapphire necklace circling her throat.

“Excuse me, please,” Maurizio said, “but I must return that call. It’s so busy right now with the conference.”

“Maurizio!” Renata exclaimed. “You promised that you would be done with your work by the time the party started…”

“I will,” he insisted as he rushed down the stairs.

“And don’t keep poor Enzo here all evening,” she called after him. “His assistant hardly ever has any time off,” she confided. “But then Maurizio works too much. It is a very big mistake to put an office in your home.” Renata shook her head with mock exasperation, then walked over to one of the room’s two tall windows and opened the drapes.

There wasn’t a window behind the curtain, but what Claire thought of as a French door (in Venice, she wondered, would it be called an Italian door?), which opened onto a balcony. Beyond the balcony was the Grand Canal. Claire had been completely disoriented by the time they’d arrived at the Baldessaris’ house and hadn’t realized where they’d ended up. They were in a palazzo on the Grand Canal. The palaces across the water gleamed under the warm brilliance of the evening sun as a few gondole bobbed in the wake of a vaporetto chugging its way toward the Salute. She had to make a conscious effort to keep her involuntary “wow” to herself. She glanced at Gwen who, now that her initial astonishment had passed, seemed to be taking it more in stride than she was.

“What a delightful surprise,” Renata said, “that you should meet Giancarlo by chance, and also be attending the conference.”

Was Claire imagining it, or did Renata’s seemingly gracious welcome carry an undercurrent of insinuation, as if to imply that she had somehow engineered such a shocking coincidence? What Renata might suppose her motive to be, Claire couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Funny, isn’t it? I mean odd funny,” Claire said. “We just happened to have dinner in the restaurant where he works, and here we are.” Maybe she was being oversensitive, but suddenly it seemed important to make light of it all, especially her attraction to Giancarlo.

“How long will you be staying in Venice?”

Again, Renata’s question seemed innocuous enough, but Claire had the distinct feeling it wasn’t. “Until Saturday afternoon. I have to take Gwen to Paris to meet her parents.”

“Oh!” Renata’s eyes opened wide and ricocheted between them. “So the two of you are not—Gwendolyn is not your daughter?”

“I’m Gwen’s chaperone for the week.” Claire had rehearsed it, after deciding that this explanation would prompt the least number of questions in reply, unless she was speaking to someone unusually nosy or rude. Indeed, it seemed to stop Renata’s intended line of inquiry; unfortunately their Italian hostess quickly adapted to the change and steered the conversation into even more treacherous waters.

“Then you have no children of your own?” Renata asked pleasantly.

“No, I’m not married.”

“How sad. Years ago a study proved that if a woman wasn’t married by the time she was thirty, she had as much chance of being killed in a terrorist attack as she did of ever walking down the aisle. But that can’t be true anymore. There’s so much more terrorism now, I’m sure that the odds must be
much
worse.”

Claire managed to stammer, “Well, I was married, once…”

“You’re divorced? So it’s true that American women are perfectly happy without a husband and children? For me, it would be terrible, I would not—”

Gwen suddenly doubled over and began coughing uncontrollably. She straightened slightly and gasped, “I think I swallowed a bug.”

“I’ll get some water,” said Renata, looking vaguely shocked.

The coughing attack stopped as soon as Renata left the room. “She hates you,” Gwen announced.

“She has no reason to hate me.”

“I didn’t say she had a reason, I just said she hates you.”

“You didn’t really swallow a bug, did you?”

“Duh.”

“Duh? That’s a reply?”

“You know what I mean. She’s never going to leave you alone with her precious son.”

“You’re only fourteen. You don’t know anything about anything.”

“At least I know when somebody doesn’t like me.”

“Had a lot of practice, have you?”

“Funny ha-ha. Not as much practice as you’ve been having.”

Renata returned with a glass of water for Gwen, who drank thirstily, then used her sleeve to dab at her convincingly watery eyes. Claire shifted the brown bag to her other arm, regretting it as soon as she did, for it caught Renata’s attention.

“May I take that for you?” their hostess asked.

The gift seemed rather meager, under the circumstances. “It’s just a bottle of wine,” Claire began.

“And dessert,” Gwen added.

“How thoughtful,” said Renata, without the slightest trace of sincerity. She turned toward the dining room and summoned a uniformed waiter. Good god, Claire thought, they have servants. Renata handed him the bag and instructed him to take it to the kitchen.

“I’m sorry my oldest daughter, Giulietta, is not here to meet you. She’s in Rome now, at the university there. These young girls, they want to be so independent, but I tell Giulietta, you
must
have children while you’re young, don’t put if off, twenty-five at the latest. She’ll be twenty-three next year and I’m starting to worry. I would just hate to see her wait too long—sometimes women are so old by the time they have their first child, you can’t tell if they’re the child’s mother or grandmother!”

How would she endure an entire evening of this? Claire wondered. Was Giancarlo really worth this humiliation?

Renata seemed to think of her son at the same time. She glanced up at the clock as it struck the quarter hour and said, “Giancarlo should be here by now. He works too much, just like his father. His firm keeps him so busy. Currently they’re supervising a big project in a palazzo near the Accademia.”

“Catering it?”

“Renovating it, of course.” Renata smiled as she realized the source of Claire’s misapprehension. “Oh yes, you met him at the trattoria. He didn’t tell you what he really does?”

“No.”

“Giancarlo is not a waiter. He just helps out his friend Sergio, who owns the restaurant, sometimes. Giancarlo is an architect.” The pride in her voice was boundless, as was the implication that he was much too good for her. No, definitely not worth the humiliation, Claire decided.

Then Giancarlo appeared at the top of the stairs, looking slightly flushed and out of breath and even more handsome than ever.
That hair.
There was something about the juxtaposition of the ringlets and his well-tailored Italian suit that was truly devastating. Giancarlo was almost superhumanly attractive, and possessed a kind of charisma that was even more noticeable here, in his native environment. All three women naturally turned toward him, like flowers toward the sun. So, what’s a little humiliation? Claire wondered.

Giancarlo greeted his mother with a quick kiss on the cheek, then took Claire’s hands in his. “I’m sorry I could not be here sooner, but I’m so glad you could make it. My mother has made you feel welcome, I trust.”

Claire mumbled something that sounded like yes and felt Renata’s eyes upon them, observing them with a curiosity not unlike that of a lioness watching over one of her cubs.