The Venetian (7 page)

As glorious as the griffons were, the church was known more for its bones; the bones of Saint Donatus of Arezzo, and even more famously, the bones of the dragon he supposedly had slain in Greece, each over a meter long, hanging by wire behind the stone altar. Bones—Donatella’s bones, Ciro’s bones. There would be no peace here.

Tomaso rose to go. He hadn’t opened the workshop since the day Ciro was killed. He couldn’t. Ciro had looked upon it with his dying eyes, every corner, every wall, every piece of metal. He could not stand before his workbench.
Was this the last thing he saw?
They were all covered in blood. The glass that had so inspired Tomaso, had filled him with such joy, served now only to focus his horror. He would never work there again.

He had not spoken to Paolo since the interview with the deputy at the Palazzo Ducale. He could barely remember the incident, had already begun his descent by then, each moment more like a dream, there but not. He could see that Paolo did not understand, could not understand. He no longer had the words, or the will, to explain.

Tomaso walked from the church, out toward Murano’s Grand Canal, a scaled down version of the great Venetian waterway. He heard the soft lapping of the water and longed to be enveloped by its brine, to fill his lungs with brackish water, sucking at death greedily as an infant sucks at life. Tomaso would never visit the church again. There was nothing there for him, nothing but bones.

Ten

P
aolo read the note for the third time. He wasn’t sure why, it was all of twelve words. He would not glean any additional meaning from reading it more than once.
My father would like you to dine with us today. Three o’clock. Chaya.

Chaya. The thought of seeing her again caused him to stir with anticipation—and apprehension. Fool. He was acting like an idiot boy.
Think Paolo.
He hadn’t been thinking much lately. If he were at all honest with himself, he might admit that he hadn’t been thinking for quite some time. He had rejected his father and his trade, causing a rift that had devastated his family and, according to Tomaso, killed his mother. Of course his father would say that, but wasn’t it true? They both bore the responsibility, but who bore the greater share? And why? Why did he leave? Because he was the future and his father was the past? Because the Arsenale held wonders that couldn’t be ignored, and it was his duty to explore them? That’s what he’d been telling himself all these years. Was it not a father’s duty, his sacred obligation, to steer the child down his path? Not the father’s path, the right path. There was much of the self-righteous in the philosophical conversations he held in his head, when he chose to have them, which had been more and more infrequent over the years. He no longer felt the need to justify his actions. In truth, he no longer wished to think of those days at all.

Paolo sighed. Maybe it wasn’t that at all. Maybe it was simply because he was a child, and it was in a child’s nature to rebel. He didn’t know. Too many questions without answers. He had always been told that with time came clarity. A lie, however well meaning. With time the questions may have become clearer, but the answers proved as elusive as ever. He had loved his father, had wanted to please him the way Ciro had. And he had been able to, at least for a time. It didn’t last however. It couldn’t. What else could he have done save be himself? Why could his father never see that?

And here he was now trying to picture the supple curves of a woman he didn’t know, attempting to recall the pout of her lips rather than the hate in his heart when he had heard of how Ciro had died, like an animal. He was being swept along in a dark current, the freedom and control he had so eagerly sought as a young man proving once more to be just an illusion. Had his life ever been his own?

Think Paolo.
Why was the moneylender inviting him to dine? He was a former
Canever
at the Arsenale now running petty errands for a man Bercu found loathsome. He was nothing. And yet, being nothing, he held the invitation in his hands, the note smelling sweetly of lemon and promise.

***

SURPRISINGLY PAOLO FOUND
his way back through the winding streets of the Cannaregio with little difficulty, arriving some minutes early. Again he felt the heaviness of eyes upon him, dismissed it as nothing more than the discomfort of being in an unfamiliar place, and knew he was wrong.

He examined the narrow street more closely now. It was Venice, but not. Venice was a place where things were done in their own time. It was an old city that lived and breathed according to the natural rhythms of sea and season, the changing moods of nature. Yet this, the oldest
sestieri
, seemed to have been constructed with haste. He noticed again the cramped buildings, like books crammed on a shelf. Up and down, up and down they went; two stories, five stories, four stories, seven. There was no room to build out, so they built up.
How high could one building go straight up
? At what point would it topple from the weight of too much ambition? Twenty stories, thirty, a hundred? From what he had seen in the Arsenale, he believed anything was possible.

“Signore? Signore Avesari?”

Paolo turned to find Chaya emerging from the shabby orange structure behind him.

“I’m sorry” she said. “I called to you, but you did not seem to hear me.”

Again Paolo was struck by her beauty. Even his imagination, woefully lacking he now realized, had failed to capture its splendor.

“I…was admiring your street.”

Chaya swept the length of the narrow avenue with her eyes. “There is little to admire I know,” she said with a rueful smile, “but it is our home.”

Paolo reddened. “Signorina,” he stammered, “I assure you, I meant noth…”

“Ah, Signore Avesari!” said Bercu, clapping his hands together as he emerged from his home. “So nice of you to accept my invitation.” Paolo welcomed the interruption. He would have to be more careful about what he said to Chaya. He would not want to be misinterpreted again. Bercu was smiling broadly. He seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

“I would invite you into my home,” Bercu said apologetically as he gestured back to the house, “but it is not in a state to receive guests I fear, so we will have to make due once more with the café.” He smiled with a nod toward his daughter. “I admit I am rather indulgent when it comes to Chaya’s other…interests, and so on occasion the housework suffers.” Chaya shot her father an annoyed glance. He ignored it, gesturing down the street to the café where they had eaten at their first meeting. “I hope you do not mind? You seemed to find the fare agreeable.” Another smile, not expecting an answer. Paolo wondered what Chaya’s other interests were. “Please, come.”

They walked in silence, Paolo, Bercu, and Chaya, Paolo wondering what they were thinking. Once again, he could make little sense of their fellowship. They found a small table swallowed by sun, and sat. Paolo set his forearms down on the table, feeling the warmth emanating from its surface. Heat from above, heat from below, rising temperatures from all directions he mused. He felt that he stood at the middle of something, something just on the periphery of his vision. He only hoped that once it came into focus, it wouldn’t be too late.

“I seem to recall that you are something of a cook,” said Bercu, a wink in his voice. “So,” he began, rubbing his hands together, “I have taken the liberty to have ordered, only moments ago,” he held up a finger to emphasize the point, “Sarde in Saor. You know it well I imagine.”

“Of course,” said Paolo with a smile, warming to the topic. It was one of his favorite dishes—marinated sardines. “A man could not claim to be a Venetian should he deny love for such a gift.”

“Ha!” Bercu clapped loudly. “Well said my friend.”

Chaya rolled her eyes. Paolo sensed that she had little patience for the ritual banter men found necessary before speaking of more serious matters.

“Do you cook this yourself?” Bercu asked.

“I do. It was one of the first dishes I learned after Risi e Bisi.” Rice and peas, the most common of Venetian soups, Bercu knew. It was said the Doge himself would always eat it on the feast day of Saint Mark.

“Yes, and what better meal to represent the Republic.” Bercu smiled again. Sarde in Saor was a centuries-old dish favored by Venetian sailors. “Frying the fish and marinating it in olive oil and vinegar would make it last for weeks,” he lectured, “and the onions protected sailors against scurvy. Very important when your very livelihood depends on the benevolence of the sea, no?”

Chaya snorted. Bercu lovingly patted her arm, pretending not to notice.

“Why do you waste your time with such things?” she asked, no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice.

Bercu had made a considerable effort to understand the Venetian culture and way of life, and had actually come to appreciate it in his own way. Otherwise, how could he hope to become a trusted partner in business and the community? Chaya never understood this. Chaya wanted justice, as if she knew what that meant. Bercu loved her more than life, but she was a child in so many ways. What she had never been able to grasp, what Bercu to his dismay had never been able to teach her (at least not yet), was that justice could be achieved in many ways. So he had finally given up trying to convince her. No, they were not Venetians. Yes, they were persecuted. But the persecution here in Venice paled in comparison to elsewhere in the world. Sometimes one had to choose the lesser of the evils at hand. Bercu saw the world through eyes that had seen far too much, in shades of grey where Chaya saw only black and white. Lesser? Greater? Evil was evil according to Chaya. She wanted to fight every battle rather than choose those that truly mattered. There would never be compromise with Chaya, the unfortunate result of overprotection Bercu acknowledged. Still, he would have done nothing differently. He told himself that she would understand in time, once she had had the benefit of his experience, but knew in his heart that he was wrong. Chaya would never acquiesce with her principles at stake, would always fight, no matter how much she would see or how long she would live. It was what he most loved about her.

“Please forgive Chaya,” Bercu said amiably. “We are apparently born knowing everything, and only forget as we age.” Chaya rolled her eyes again, this obviously a well-trod path of discussion.

“Life will teach you my daughter whether you wish it or not.” Despite the girl’s obvious distaste for his approach to things, Bercu’s manner never strayed from one of love and indulgence. “The only question is whether you will choose to learn.”

Chaya blew a stray hair from her forehead in exasperation, and Paolo felt the attraction again—unwanted, inescapable.

The food arrived. It was delicious, the peasant fisherman’s daily bread as art. They ate in silence, savoring the meal, Paolo glancing up occasionally at his unlikely dining companions. Chaya too seemed wary of the arrangement. Only Bercu seemed obliviously content.

“I must confess,” Paolo said, breaking the silence and looking at Bercu, “I am once more at a loss as to why I find myself in your generous company.”

Bercu put down his fork, slowly dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. “You are just as suspicious as lovely Chaya. I do much business with Francesco. As you are his agent, it is likely that I will in turn do much business with you. I have found it advantageous to know the character of the men with whom I do business prior to engaging in such important matters.”

“I sincerely hope my friend,” Bercu continued after a pause, “that my explanation has satisfied your curiosity. It is the only one I have to offer.”

“But surely you do not spend so much time with each and every agent with whom you have dealings. You would never have time for business.”

Bercu laughed. “Like a dog with a bone you are. But yes, you are correct. I admit, your family’s renown, your odd association with Francesco and yes, I am somewhat embarrassed to say, the murder of your brother, all engaged my curiosity.”

Paolo believed him, saw that he was indeed embarrassed. He suspected it was not something that occurred often. “I appreciate your candor. And no matter the reason, I also appreciate your hospitality.” He continued, eager for a change of topic. “So, what kind of business do you have with Francesco? I confess he has told me very little of your dealings.”

Chaya exhaled loudly. It was clear what she thought of Francesco.

“I rather think that he should be the one to tell you that. You are his man after all, and I would not like to presume.” Paolo bristled again at the reference.

“Perhaps then,” he countered, “you could enlighten me as to what you do. Generally speaking, of course.”

“Well,” he began, “at the moment, our most important function, and mine in particular, is to provide capital for the Republic’s commerce in the Mediterranean.”

“And fund the ceaseless and costly wars to keep their precious trade routes open,” Chaya added contemptuously.

“And that,” Bercu agreed amiably.

“At least for today,” continued Chaya. “Tomorrow who knows? We may very well be thrown out, set upon by dogs, or accused of hideous atrocities by then. Whichever way the breeze may be blowing.” Chaya wiggled her fingers, pantomiming wind.

“Chaya, please. No politics at the table. Especially at this table.”

“On the contrary Father, at what better table to discuss politics than this one? We are entertaining a genuine oppressor.”

Paolo was amazed at the difference between the woman who had demurely called his name outside her home and the one before him now. The transformative power of conviction he supposed. Had he ever had such resolve? Only when breaking from his father, but that had been different. As a family of artisans, they had lived a relatively privileged life. Nothing like that of a noble family of course, but comfortable enough. When he had railed against the hypocrisy of Venice in its dealings with the glassblowers, it was not out of any higher calling, but rather a lower one—simply to shame his father. Despite the insult from Chaya, he found her passion alluring.