Dark Shimmer (11 page)

I shake my head slowly. “Friendship is all I want.”

She touches my arm. “I will be a good friend.”

She leaves me in the sewing room.

I will go to the party, but hold on to Agnola's arm all afternoon. I can sit quietly while the women chatter. This will mean that Bianca is included in Venetian society. She'll be invited to everything. She won't grow up lonely. I shut my eyes and will the pain away.

S
unlight sparkles off the Canal Grande, and I can enjoy this beautiful day, for I have no headache, no cough, and no itchiness, and my vision is clear. I listen to Bianca playing dress-up in the music room behind me. She traipses around in old costumes from masked balls, then goes up and down the grand hall, stopping to talk with imaginary people. I laugh.

An exceptionally long gondola rounds the bend. I recognize the iron on the front: Contarini.

I hurry down the stairs to the docking area. Signora Laura climbs out with the help of her servant Manfredo. We kiss each other on the cheeks and she darts past me up the stairs. I haven't seen her since the garden party a week ago.

Antonin intercepts her. “Shall I announce your presence, Signora?” He bows low.

“I'll surprise him. Is he in the map room?”

Agnola comes up beside Antonin. She smiles. “Marin loves his new library.”

“That's obvious. He might be a lunatic.” Signora Laura sweeps past Agnola into the library.

Agnola and I watch from the doorway. Antonin pretends to be busy adjusting a painting, but he stays within earshot too.

Marin wipes dust off his nose and smiles limply. “Signora, what a pleasant surprise.”

“I've come to take Dolce away.” She turns to me. “Gather your belongings.”

I stare at her, then look at Marin. His eyes question me, but I know nothing. A frozen lump forms in my chest. I shake my head vehemently. I'm so stupid; I thought I had won her over.

“I don't understand,” Marin says.

“She is of marriageable age. Fifteen is on the young side, but it's acceptable. Letting her stay in this house threatens her reputation.”

“She shares a room with me,” says Agnola.

“Which is fine if she's your younger sister or Bianca's older one.” She turns back to Marin. “Dolce will live with us until a suitable marriage can be arranged.”

“I intend to marry her,” says Marin. He looks at me.

He said it. And in front of others. I can be his bride! I rush toward him, but Signora Laura catches my arm. “That's all good and well. The tradition, then, is for you to negotiate with her father.”

“My father is dead,” I say. “You know that.”

“Which is why Messer Contarini will negotiate on your behalf.” She turns to Marin again. “He'll meet with you in the cathedral of San Marco and—”

“Negotiate?” says Marin. “Dolce has nothing. I presume Messer Contarini does not have an extra 1,750 ducats lying around to furnish a dowry.”

“Of course he doesn't. But he will speak for Dolce's well-being.”

“I will care well for her. You know that.”

“All right, then. I suppose you're right. In a few months, come by our palace and you can seal the agreement. You can touch her hand or give her a ring, and you'll be wed.”

“A few months? Don't be absurd! If you take her today, I'll come tomorrow morning.”

Signora Laura tsks. “You're acting like a boy, not a widower with a child. What's the rush? I come to take her away and you can't bear it?”

“Exactly. I'll come tomorrow.”

Signora Laura sighs. “All right, all right. We can set a transfer date for changing homes. Perhaps in spring.”

“Spring!” shouts Marin.

“Eight months is proper,” says Signora Laura.

“It will be day after tomorrow,” says Marin.

“Impossible,” says Signora Laura. “That's a Wednesday. No one transfers homes on a Wednesday. It is a day of abstinence. Wednesday and Friday. Surely you intend to observe abstinence rules.”

Marin's face goes red.

“Please,” I say. “Will someone explain?”

“Really, Dolce. Sometimes you behave as though you've been living under the sea. Transfer—like in every marriage. Marin will come with his gondola and bring you and all your belongings to this house to live.”

“My belongings are already here.”

“We're taking them to my home now. This is how it's done, Dolce. Hush. Everything must be done correctly. You will be transferred here on…” She pauses.

“Thursday,” says Marin.

“Sunday.” Signora Laura brings her hands together in a loud clap. “No one works on Sunday. That guarantees the greatest audience for the transfer. I will lend Dolce an old chest for her possessions. A giant one so her audience can see she is a person of substance.”

“We don't need an audience,” says Marin. “And keep your old chest. All we want is each other.” He looks at me. “Am I right, Dolce?”

His face is as open as a flower. I want to breathe him in.

“Don't answer him,” says Signora Laura. “Talk to him through me. And believe me, you want an audience. You must be recognized in Venetian society as a proper wife for Marin. Proper, do you understand? For Bianca's sake. You want everyone to see you. We'll have to rush on getting a new gown. You can borrow some of my jewelry.”

“I will buy her jewelry,” says Marin. “And she will choose it. She will decide what it means to be proper.”

“Then…”

“Signora Laura, please stop,” I say. “Am I to be loaded into Marin's gondola like a sack of fruit?”

She smiles. “Not at all. Like spices. Pepper and cloves and cinnamon and ginger—exotic spices from India and the far islands and China. Everything wonderful from anywhere else comes through Venezia. You need to be recognized as something different from us, but just as good. Better, perhaps.

“Listen, Dolce. As Marin knows, there's been talk lately about changing the rules of who is a member of the nobility. Right now it's entirely patrilineal. Through the father. But they might change it so that the mother's origin matters too. It may take a year or more before they vote, but I'm betting they will pass a new law. What will become of your children if Venetian society doesn't recognize you as noble?”

“I have no idea.”

“You don't want to find out.”

“None of us do.” Agnola comes into the room. “Now, here's my plan. Lucia La Rotonda makes a wonderful dish of roasted chicken with cheese, sugar, and cinnamon. We can have a feast on Sunday and invite everyone. The aroma of cinnamon will fill our palace. Everyone will accept Dolce as noble. We will start planning right now. Thank you a thousand times, Signora. And now you must excuse me.” She races away.

“I'll help Dolce pack.” Signora Laura takes me by the elbow.

I look over my shoulder at Marin. Our eyes meet. It's going to happen. We're going to marry.

“Thank you, Signora,” he calls.

Signora Laura ushers me into the room I share with Agnola.

Bianca sits in the middle of our bed, her legs folded under her. “Don't go.”

I should have known she'd be eavesdropping. I hug her. “I must.”

“Then I'm coming with you.”

“Don't be silly,” says Signora Laura. “Dolce will be back on Sunday. And she's got a busy week in between.”

Bianca's eyes are on me. “I'm talking to Dolce. I'm coming with you.”

“There's no need to be rude to me, Bianca,” says Signora Laura. “I know you want to be part of things. You'll act like a little hostess at the feast on Sunday.”

“Take me with you.” Bianca stares at me, solemn. “You're my mamma now. I need you.”

I want her to come with me. But Signora Laura…“I'm coming back,” I say softly. “In less than a week.”

A tear makes its way down Bianca's cheek. “Promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Will you have children with Papà?”

“I hope so.”

She clasps her hands together. “Will you still love me if you do?”

“Yes.” I climb onto the bed and pull her onto my lap. “Yes, Bianca. I will always love you.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

Bianca turns her face to Signora Laura. “Will Dolce be recognized as noble?”

“I hope so.”

“You only hope?”

“I can't know for sure. I will do my best to help. Dolce found a way to make me accept her. She'll find a way to make other families accept her.”

“How?” Bianca pulls on the sleeve of my bodice. “How did you make Signora Contarini accept you?”

I put my mouth to her ear. “I made her a mirror,” I whisper.

Bianca pulls my head down and whispers into my ear, “Then make mirrors for everyone.”

“If I have to,” I whisper, “I will.” I fall backward onto the bed and look up at the plaster molding—grapevines with clusters of bursting fruit—on the ceiling. I love feeling clearheaded, seeing without pain. I don't want the mirror malady to come back. It's so much worse than it used to be. I don't want to go murky.

But those children, my unborn innocents, must be nobility. I don't understand why, but Marin accepts it. And I cannot bring harm to Bianca. Never.

I
jump from the bed and stare down at the tiny girl who looks steadily at me. “Who are you?”

Signora Laura stands behind the girl, and laughs. “We call her Zitta, because she says almost nothing. She's from Africa and speaks some strange language. She's my wedding gift to you.”

“Gift?” I jerk my head up toward Signora Laura. “Are you insane?”

“You gave me a gift that was far more costly.”

“You can't give me a person!” I clutch my forearms.

“Of course I can. Messer Contarini bought her for you at a slave market in Ferrara. He had to fend off Isabella d'Este, who desperately wanted Zitta. You've heard of her. Everyone else's slaves come from Eastern Europe and Central Asia. No one has slaves from Africa except Isabella. She collects them like art. But your slave is better—not just a black African but also a dwarf.”

“No.”

“You don't know what a dwarf is, do you? She's special. She won't grow but a little taller. Really. And once she learns to speak Veneziano, you'll laugh. There's nothing funnier than seeing dwarfs gesticulating with their short arms. You'll love having her around.”

“No! Not in our home. No!”

“Dolce! I know Marin doesn't have slaves, but Zitta is a gift. He can't refuse you that.”

“It has nothing to do with Marin. I refuse.”

“Don't be foolish, Dolce. We all must act loyal to our husbands, I understand that, but an African dwarf…nothing will bring you more attention in the transfer today. She can stand at the prow. The whole city is talking about it. Everyone wants to see her.”

“The whole city? How could you do this without asking me?”

“I'm supposed to ask your permission to give you a fabulous gift? You ingrate! This is my strategy. I'm thinking of you! And Bianca!”

I drop to my knees in front of the girl. She must be ten or eleven. I take her hand gently. Her eyes try to mask emotions. Fear for sure. Hatred. “I wish I could talk with you. I wish we could understand each other. Please listen to the tears in my voice. Please look at my face and know what I'm feeling. I wish I could apologize for all that's been done to you. I'm sorry.”

“Get up!” Signora Laura says sharply.

I stay on my knees. Zitta still stares at me. She pulls her hand from mine and hides it behind her waist.

“I am not a monster,” I say.

“Get up right now, Dolce!”

“Please, Signora, if you want to give me a wedding gift, have this girl brought back to her home, to her family, where she belongs.”

“Back to Africa? They're savages there. It's an unholy life.”

“Who are you to judge?”

“I'm a Catholic! Aren't you?”

My poor mamma would grieve to know the doubt within me now. “Signora,” I say, “I beg you. It's her life. It's where she belongs.”

“I misjudged you. I thought you were simply a country bumpkin, but you might be as much a lunatic as Marin. Maybe more so.”

The image of Marin bent over one of his books in concentration overwhelms me. I miss him. I miss all of them. “Can I go to him now, to my wonderful lunatic? Please?”

“I'll send in Raffaella to dress you.”

“You know very well that I'll dress myself as she stands by.”

“You exasperate me, Dolce.”

“Did you expect a trained dog?”

“I certainly didn't expect one that would bite my hand.”

I glare at Signora Laura, then smile at Zitta and stand. “I'll be ready in minutes.”

Signora Laura leaves. Zitta looks from her to me.

“Go,” I say. I stroke her shoulder, her hair. “Go, and good luck.” I turn my back on her and dress myself. My heart bashes against my ribs. Maybe I'm making a mistake. Maybe I should bring this girl to Marin's palace and he can find a boat going to Africa to put her on. That's what I'll do. I spin back around. Zitta is gone.

I burst from the room to find Raffaella waiting. “Please, Signorina, come down the stairs. Your husband's gondola waits for you.”

“Is the signora downstairs?”

“She's on the balcony with her daughters. They'll wave goodbye to you from there.”

“And the girl?”

“The dwarf? The signora said you didn't want her. She's already gone.”

“Where?”

“I wouldn't know, Signorina.” Raffaella clears her throat. “Your husband awaits you.”

I go down the stairs ready to weep. And there is Marin. Good, solid Marin. He takes my hand. I lean into his chest, and his arms come around me instantly. Yes. This is what I need.

“Are you all right, wife?”

“I don't know. I missed you. I was so happy that Sunday morning finally came. And then Signora Laura tried to give me a gift.”

“And?”

“It was a slave girl. From Africa. I refused to take her.”

“Good. We don't own slaves in our palace. You did the right thing.”

“She's a dwarf.”

“Oh.” He cradles my cheek in the hollow of his throat. “Oh, Dolce.”

“Maybe I should take her. We can send her back home, to her people.”

“All right.”

“Only she's already gone somewhere else.”

“I will give Messer Contarini the fee for her passage home. Don't worry.”

“Maybe they've taken her someplace awful. What if—”

“It won't be awful, or not awful in the Contarini eyes. Dwarfs are prized. We are husband and wife today, Dolce, at last. Let's go home. I can pursue this later. The girl will not be abused.”

“She's already been abused. She's been stolen from her home.”

“But she will be well treated. Besides, I couldn't bring her with us now. Everyone would think I was supporting a practice my whole family finds loathsome. Agnola would be mortified. My sister, Teresa, is coming out of the convent just for this wedding—I told you. What a way to meet each other. Let me handle it. Later.”

And so we ride in the gondola with Antonin standing behind us, pushing and pulling on that single oar, and Signora Laura's huge old chest in front of us, empty but for my shift, my underclothes, and my one other dress.
Slip, slip, slip
through the quiet waters. But there's noise from the sides. Nearly every balcony from the Contarini palace to Marin's is crowded with people waving colored handkerchiefs and shouting good wishes.

It feels unreal. These people have no idea who I am. And I doubt they have any real sense of who Marin is.

I look back and see that a flotilla has formed. Each gondola behind us holds a family that is coming to our feast. So many. “Marin, look. Look. Can we really feed them all?”

“This is your wedding ride, and you're spending it worrying about feeding our guests?”

“I can't help it.”

“Lucia La Rotonda and Agnola have helpers. The palace has been busy all week. And the festivities over the next three days: parties at friends' homes; the doge, the leader of all Venezia, is offering a feast in our honor; and—”

“Three days!”

“Many go on for a week. But today and tonight, especially tonight, I will not think about all that. I have only one thought.” He takes my hand and laces his fingers between mine. His hand is hot and firm. It is real.

As soon as we arrive, Marin brings me to a slight woman with lips too thin for a kiss, but eyes that are just like Agnola's. My heart responds. Before Marin can speak, I embrace her. “Teresa.”

She embraces me. Perhaps it is the way of nuns, or perhaps it is just her. She whispers warmly, “Welcome to the world.”

I pull my head back. Has she somehow seen inside me?

We're interrupted by a group of men who whisk Marin off without apology. An instant later Teresa is absorbed by a group of women. She moves from me to them without a backward glance, asking questions, catching up, hungry for details. I find myself at the edge, excluded.

But Mamma would tell me that's the wrong way to think—I'm free to look around and take it all in. Our palace is decked out splendidly with flowers on every surface and colorful silks draped on the walls; guests mill about drinking wine; musicians play in the grand hall and in the courtyard; children and tiny dogs race around.

I wander slowly among the small clutches of women everywhere. When I approach, they hush.

Finally, I retreat to a corner. Agnola sidles up beside me, her hair pink as rhubarb, happy.

“Dear sister,” I say, for we are now truly sisters, “do you think I'll ever be accepted?”

“Has someone been nasty?” Agnola's eyes glitter. “And on your wedding day.”

“Perhaps if I give mirrors to the most important ladies of Venezia?”

“That will just cause jealousy among those without mirrors.”

“Maybe I'll give to the ones most set against me.”

“The others will figure out the pattern and then they'll all be mean to you. No, Dolce. You'll win them with your personality.”

“My personality wasn't enough to hold on to your sister, Teresa, for even two minutes.”

Agnola looks around and spots Teresa. She nods. “Can you blame her? She grew up going to parties with the women here. Their lives go on while she's stuck in the convent.” She smiles. “This is your wedding day. Think about Marin. Come.” She takes me by the hand and we weave through the crowds to Marin. Agnola twines my arm in his.

Marin lays his hand upon mine. I'm safe. After that, every time we part, I find him staring at me across the crowds with a ferocious thirst. Everything within me responds in kind.

We talk and eat and dance as in a dream. Finally we retreat to Marin's room…our room. I don't know if the guests have left. It doesn't matter; we are alone, husband and wife.

And now, at the worst moment possible, a headache comes. I rub in a circle between my eyes.

Marin takes my hand away and presses his fingers in exactly the right spot and rubs and rubs. He doesn't speak. I lean into Marin's touch for dear life. We fall onto the bed, fully clothed, his fingers never leaving that spot, and I realize how weary the day has left me.

With his other hand he wipes away my tears. “It's all right, Dolce. We have a lifetime ahead. Close your eyes. It will pass.”

“I never told you I have headaches,” I whisper.

“Shhh. Sleep now.”

He pulls me toward him and my gown is crushed like a cushion between us, and his fingers keep going round and round. I close my burning eyes and yield to the pain.

When I wake, it's not yet dawn. Marin sleeps openmouthed. I untangle myself from him. He rolls onto his back and his eyes open.

We explore each other all through the glowing morning, far into the day, and then he falls back asleep.

This is my husband, here in my arms. This is his smell, his warmth, his taste. I dig the fingers of one hand into his hair and leave them there. This is Marin. My Marin.

Every time he tells me I am beautiful, I don't want it to matter, but it does. It helps me. He bought me that mirror he said he would—his wedding gift to me. It leans against the wall in this room. This morning he had me look in it. He made me believe I am good to look upon; I am beautiful.

And I am strong. I know I can fight my way. He is a thousand times more fragile than I will ever be. He has loved and lost—death robbed him. He hesitates to hope.

But with me, he is ardent. Overcome. Out of control. I do that to him. I make Marin happy. I do that to someone. We are not alone, each in a private darkness. Marin and I are together. I change him. I make him happy.

I wake him again with a kiss.