Cross My Heart (12 page)

I put down my book and kiss his rough cheek. “Thank you, Father.”

He stares at me, seeming surprised by my gesture. “Good,” he says. “Don’t let me down.”

“Mother Mary! Can’t you keep it still?” Faustina grumbles as she topples into the wobbling gondola. Both the gondolier and I catch her hands, helping her to her seat. She rearranges her skirts and looks about her, her eyes bright in her kind old face. “What a treat it is to be on the canals today.”

The water is crowded with gondolas and tiny sailboats. Crowds throng along the lanes and bridges, chattering like gaudy birds. Our gondolier arranges a shady awning over us, then pushes his pole down and eases away from the bank.

The sun grins down at the world like a menacing rival, but I am cool in the shade. I trail my fingers in the water as our gondolier threads his way towards the southwestern shore. Another boatman calls across a challenge to a race
and our gondolier grins at us. “This man questions my skill. If I lose, you will travel for free.”

I agree, before Faustina can object, and the contest begins. Our gondolier lifts his pole in and out of the water with swift, smooth movements, and our boat cleaves the canal. Though a few splashes of water sprinkle over us, we overtake the other gondola, and even Faustina giggles like a young girl behind my fan.

The gondolier pulls up by a side canal and helps us out. I pay him, adding a tip for his success. From there, we walk to Piazza della Angela. The square is edged by tall, crumbling pink houses and dotted with people selling fruit and sugared almonds. Men and women walk in the sunshine, buying treats and laughing. And right in the middle, twirling a parasol, is Paulina. Her curly black hair tumbles down her back. Her blue dress has a tight bodice, with a skirt that flares with flashes of pale yellow.

Faustina kisses me on both cheeks. “Enjoy yourself, and forget about these last few days. Remember, you’re to come home before supper—don’t make me worry about you.”

“I won’t,” I say, and Faustina moves off among the crowd.

Paulina smiles and waves when she notices me approaching.

“How good it is to see you,” she says, taking my arm. She leads me into a narrow lane that seems half asleep. “Oh, Laura, I was so relieved to hear your news!”

She spins me around so our skirts fly out in a swirl of color. Our laughter echoes against the stooping stone walls.

“Everything seems so different now I’m free of him,” I say. The heels of our silk shoes tap against the cobbles.

“And now the
real
search for a husband begins,” she says.

I feel my cheeks reddening. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“But it’s what will surely follow,” she replies.

The street widens and market stalls crowd each other on either side. The people here are poor, their clothes worn and dirty, but their faces are happy as they joke and jostle each other, turning pigs on spits and grilling chops and steaks. The smell of food, bubbling and roasting, is thick in the air. A young man selling roast chickens raises his cap at me, and I smile.

“Anyway,” I say, “my father tells me that you’ve got some news of your own.”

Paulina’s face lights up. “Men! They know our affairs before we know them ourselves!”

“So is it true?”

She nods, and steps aside as a man carrying a tray of small cups high over his head darts past. From her skipping feet and the way her eyes shine, I know that she’s far happier about her upcoming marriage than I was about mine.

“Well,” I continue. “Are you going to tell me who he is?”

She twirls her parasol as we pass into another lane, where a cheering crowd is gathered around street performers. “Oh, Laura, it’s a love match! It’s what we all deserve. I pray that you will find the same happiness. I’m sure you will.”

We move to the front of the crowd and see a street dancer with bells on his costume, twisting himself in knots. The rhythm of the bells is enchanting, and we join the
others in clapping our hands in time. Through the laughing faces I see a tall man at the edge of the crowd, with a wide black hat that casts a shadow on his face. The angle of that face is different from the throngs around him. He seems to be looking at us rather than the dancer.

I nudge Paulina and point at him. “Is that someone you know?” But he pushes his way from the crowd and disappears.

“Where?” she asks.

“A man in a black hat,” I say. “He was watching us.”

Paulina smiles. “You should get used to that,” she said. “When you look as fine as you, men are bound to stare.”

The acrobatic display comes to an end, and people toss coins into the gaudy colored hat proffered by the performer. When a red-dressed young woman in front of me has made her donation, I take a coin from my velvet purse and follow suit.

“Thank you, ladies,” the performer says.

The young woman in red turns and stares, her eyes moving up and down Paulina. She raises her eyebrows at her companion and they snigger behind their open fans.

Paulina sighs crossly, then takes my arm and leads me away. “Ignore them,” she says.

“Do you know that girl?” I ask, when we’ve rounded the next corner.

“My uncle used to work for her father,” she says. “She looks down on my family. Though she won’t be so insolent when I’m married. Then no woman will be able to look down on me. Even the Segreta’s power won’t reach high enough to bring me down.”

My body tenses. I can feel the color drain from my face and I pretend to look at a passing carriage, hoping Paulina won’t notice.

“The Segreta?” I speak as calmly as I am able, then move my hand surreptitiously behind my back to hide the small bandage from my initiation ceremony. It’s silly, of course. She couldn’t know.

“That’s one name they use,” says Paulina. “Some call them the Society of Secrets, or the Hidden Women. Part of the appeal is the silly names, I expect.”

“Appeal of what?” I ask carefully.

She tightens her arm around mine, drawing me close and lowering her voice conspiratorially. “It’s a group of Venetian women. My sister told me about them when I was small. No one knows who belongs to the Segreta, or what they really do. My sister says they get rid of people.”

I feel a bead of sweat trickle along my spine.

Paulina laughs. “Don’t look so serious! Probably they just gossip about men and money and gowns, like all the other women of Venice.” She takes out her fan and beats the air, making her dark curls flutter. “It’s too hot; let’s go into the cathedral.”

I’ve lost my bearings, but she leads me across a few lanes and canals, and we emerge into the glinting St. Mark’s Square. The piazza is dominated by the silvery domes and intricate spires of the cathedral. Before it stands the bell tower, a square red-orange brick column, casting a shadow eastward over the Doge’s palazzo. The salty smell of the sea wafts up from St. Mark’s Canal, and gulls wheel overhead. As we walk towards the cathedral entrance, I glance around. Despite the heat, there’s a chill at my back, an eerie
breeze that doesn’t belong to a day like this. The man in the black hat is there again. He halts and I lose sight of him among the crowd.

Paulina and I step from the furnace of the Venetian day into the cool blackness of St. Mark’s interior. We genuflect. We dip our fingers in holy water and bless ourselves. These old rituals soothe me with the rhythms of my past. God is watching, and I wonder if He recognizes me now, no longer the little brown-clad novice I was. The air is like having a sweet, cool bath of oils, incense and holiness. If I close my eyes I could be back in the convent again. A statue of Jesus stretches over the crucifix, the agony of a world of sinners on his poor bleeding face. Little candles dance in the side chapel, where a statue of Our Lady stoops in divine humility. The great domed ceiling collects and swells the whisper of the worshippers.

Beatrice used to tell me that in St. Mark’s Cathedral every visitor has the same expression on his face. Dreamy but watchful, prayerful but alert—I see it on the faces of those here today. Knots of old women kneel in worship close to the altar, running rosary beads through their fingers. A friar bustles around the altar, busy and official. A woman in a yellow cape comes in after Paulina and me, glancing towards us with liquid brown eyes that remind me of those of a young deer. As she kneels facing the altar one of the old women shifts away, scowling.

“There’s something that I want you to see,” Paulina whispers.

I follow her to the southeastern end of the cathedral, from where covered passages run to the Doge’s palazzo. An ivory screen carved with scenes of Christ’s miracles has
been folded back to reveal two slightly elevated sarcophagi, one of purple-brown porphyry, the other polished black marble. They lie side by side, equal in length.

“Who were they?” I ask. My words are hushed, but they seem to violate the lingering tragedy suspended over the two tombs.

“You remember the couple whom the Doge sent away from the ball—the man and wife in black?”

Carina’s parents
.

“Julius de Ferrara and his wife,” I say.

“That’s right. Well, this is the cause.” She gestured towards the sarcophagi. “These boys were the doomed sons of powerful foes. I’ve never understood why they buried them next to each other like this—so the families could spit hatred across the tombs, I suppose. The de Ferraras lost their only son. At least the Doge and his wife still have their second boy, Nicolo.”

She smiles to herself and her eyes flick towards me, but I am thinking of Carina. I now understand the thread of toughness coiled beneath her golden exterior—she is mourning her poor brother.

Paulina continues. “The Doge and his wife, the Duchess Besina—their son who lies here was called Roberto.” She nods towards the porphyry tomb. “He was only eleven. The de Ferraras declared a vendetta after the Doge executed their son, Carlo, for treason. They found out that Carlo was innocent, so they took the life of the Doge’s boy in recompense. He was stabbed right through the heart. They say the knife came out the other side of him.”

“How could anyone do such a thing to a boy?”

Paulina shakes her head. “It’s easy enough to hire a man
at the docks to kill, they say. A few pieces of silver—it doesn’t buy absolution, but it saves getting blood on your own hands.”

Is it so easy?
I wonder. I think of the man who terrified Faustina that night. Did someone pay him to kill my sister?

I shake my head. “What wasted lives.”

“In a way their parents’ lives have been wasted too, considering how they’ve been at each other’s throats ever since,” she replies. “Carina is sick of it all. She doesn’t want anything to do with it. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she married Raffaello—to escape her family.”

I can’t help imagining the young skeletons contained behind these deathly decorations. I move between them to where a bank of candles flicker. I take a long taper and light two more, one for each boy, and then a third for Beatrice. I go back to stand by Paulina, and she bows her head and crosses herself.

“Listen, Laura,” she says, casting a furtive glance around. “I’ve something to tell you.”

She draws me by the elbow away from the tombs, and I feel the excitement in her touch. I am to learn another secret.

“What is it?” I ask.

Her face lifts. Her eyes sparkle. “I’ve told you all this because … because I may become a part of it.”

“Part of this vendetta?”

“Oh, no! Not like that … Remember I told you that the Doge has a second son—poor Roberto’s younger brother—called Nicolo?”

I nod, suddenly understanding where her story will lead.

“Well, guess whose name Nicolo has carved into the cypress tree at the back of the Doge’s palace? Go on, guess!”

I rest my chin in my hands, screwing up my face in pretend thought. “Faustina?”

Tendrils of joy seem to spread through her. She gives me a playful shove, then presses her palms to her breast.

“Mine!” she cries. “I’m almost sure to be married to him!”

A couple of the old women turn from their prayers, staring at us scoldingly.

I kiss her cheeks, and in a lower voice say, “I’m so happy for you. To marry someone you love—and to think, Nicolo might even be elected as Doge one day!”

“He’s wonderful!” she says. “I would love him if he didn’t have a penny to his name. So many girls have tried to get his attention, but he says his heart belongs to me. I think he’s going to propose at Count Raffaello’s hunting party this weekend. Have you been invited?”

My heart sinks. After my father’s argument with Raffaello, of course I’m not invited. “I don’t know,” I mutter.

“Oh,” she says, squeezing my hand, “I’m sure Carina will want you there. Laura, I’m so happy to have you here again. I’ve been keeping Nicolo a secret for so long, but I just had to tell you.”

We walk underneath the echoing domes back to the grand entrance.

“And don’t you worry,” she adds. “We’re sure to find a match for you soon as well!”

I smile, though inwardly I think that I should be grateful to have escaped marriage for now. I can’t imagine that I would ever feel a joy like that on Paulina’s face.

When we slip out into St. Mark’s Square, squinting in the sunshine, I spot the woman in the yellow cape. As we pass, she holds her hand out.

“Spare a poor sinner the price of bread, my ladies,” she murmurs. “God bless you. God bless you.”

There’s something fragile in her brown eyes that makes me rummage in my purse.

“You shouldn’t encourage beggars, Laura,” Paulina chides under her breath.

“I was a nun once,” I remind her. “Tending to the needy was the only holy act I saw in that convent.”

“Thank you, merciful girl,” says the woman. She smiles at me, dimples creasing her tanned cheeks. “Heaven reward you.”

I press the coins into her palm. But suddenly the noise of the piazza, of Paulina’s urges to move on, fade into silence and my world narrows to one point—the ring of twisted gold on the beggar woman’s finger.

It’s my sister’s ring.

My purse tumbles from my grasp. All its contents scatter, clatter and chime like little bells on the ground.