Dark Shimmer (12 page)

T
he stickiness on my thighs wakes me. I rise from the bed.

Marin catches my hand. “Stay.”

I look down at his innocent face. “Don't roll over. The sheet may be wet. I'll tell Lucia La Rotonda to scrub well.”

He sits up. “Again?” He pulls me toward him.

I yank my hand away.

“Where are you going?”

“Shhh. Go back to sleep.”

I leave and hurry down the stairs. He won't follow me. Men leave women alone when they are menstruating. Besides, we've had this conversation over and over for three years. I can't bear it. Better to distract myself…and I have just the chore to do it.

Blood rolls down the insides of my legs. I have the same sensation down the center of my back. That's not my monthly pains. That's anticipation of what's to come. I'll get sick from making mirrors. I always do. I'll feel like creatures are crawling all over me.

But that's tomorrow. Or the day after. It will last a week, at most two. It seems to be lengthening out, that mirror malady, taking longer to recover from.

In any case, right now I'm strong. It's been three months since I last came down to my little workshop.

I heave open the heavy storeroom door, let it fall shut, feel my way past the wine casks. My fingers press along the edge where floor meets wall to find the tinderbox. I wrest off the top and spread the linen char cloth on the floor. Now the flints.
Smack.
A spark catches the char cloth, just like that.

So many things happen just like that. But they don't happen to me. Marin and I have been married three and a half years. Where, oh, where is our babe? I cover my face with my hands.

And my thigh burns. This damnable anticipation of pain. Ai!

Good Lord, my shift is afire! I flatten myself on the floor and rock side to side till the flame is out. My leg hurts. It's what I deserve, though. It feels right to sear like this. I clench my teeth against the pain.

In all the rocking about, I extinguished not just my shift but the char cloth, too. I start over.
Smack.
An instant flame. I lift the char cloth by a dry corner and stand. The candle sits in an iron sconce on the wall. Our servant Carlo secured it there for me years ago. Carlo does anything I ask without question. I like that.

The candle lets off a gentle glow. I slap the char cloth against the wall to kill the fire. Then I crush the cloth back into the tinderbox, with the flints, and push it to the edge of the room. I set up everything and make my mirror.

I have made many mirrors since I came to Venezia. Signora Laura was well worth it. Bianca is close with her daughters. Agnola and I are invited to all the ladies' parties at her palace. She kept her word, though she never forgave me for not accepting the gift of Zitta.

Zitta was undoubtedly sold at a high price. But not to anyone inside the Republic, or I'd have heard. No, she's gone.

The second mirror I made was for my beloved Agnola. She wanted a tiny mirror, like Signora Laura's, to hang at her waist and walk around with wealth sparkling off her, hushing others who might want to make unkind remarks about her size and shape. They can say things not quite out of earshot, so that you know they're gossiping, but you can't scold them.

I don't have friends among the ladies of Venezia. I have only family: Agnola, Bianca, Marin. Some noblewomen are kind to me, though, like Franca.

I feel tired when I think of Zitta. I did exactly the wrong thing. But I've been doing the right thing since. I can't do anything about the dwarfs who are servants; they live their lives as they choose. But I know of every dwarf slave in Venezia. I am buying their freedom with mirrors. I've made many. The noble ladies of Venezia now curry my favor, yearn to be the next to receive my special gift.

No law has yet been passed saying a child belongs to the nobility only if both father and mother are of noble families. But it's coming. If I'm lucky, our babe will arrive before then. If not, the ladies with my mirrors will convince their husbands that I am noble. I count on that.

I give mirrors only to those noblewomen who have dwarf slaves. I offer a mirror in return for two things: the freedom of their dwarf and their utter silence about our conversation. The silence was not my idea. It came from my conversation with Agnola on my wedding day—when she said that if I gave mirrors to those who treated me the worst, others would figure it out, that they'd be encouraged to treat me badly. If the recipients of my mirrors told people I was giving them to those who had dwarf slaves, others would buy dwarf slaves. So I worked out a plan: they free their dwarf, with enough of a stipend that the former slave can begin life anew somewhere, and if anyone asks why, they find an explanation that will neither expose me nor cast aspersions on dwarfs. Then, many months later, at an event we agree upon together, I give them a mirror.

I cannot free Zitta, I cannot make up for whatever happened to my mamma in her youth, but I am doing the best I can. Sometimes I feel Mamma's spirit watching me. And she's proud of me. I'm her beautiful daughter, body and soul.

No one has yet seen a pattern in my gift giving. Not even Agnola.

I don't meet the dwarfs. I don't want to. Seeing Zitta shook me to the core. She didn't trust me. Why should any dwarf trust any tall person in this town? My past is past.

I finish making the little mirror and set the broken base of the planter pot on top of it. This one is for Iole Venier. Her dwarf left more than a half year ago.

I wipe my hands on my ruined shift and blow out the candle.

I limp into the kitchen.

Lucia La Rotonda takes me in with a gasp and rushes to help me up the stairs and into Agnola's room. Soon I'm submerged in water.

I love this tub. I squat with my arms over the sides and rest my head against the high back and fall into a half sleep.

Agnola and Bianca sit on the bed nearby and talk of their plans for the day. Sewing. Music. Watching the world from the balcony. It's tiring, this life of doing nothing. It exhausts all the women of Venezia.

Maybe I wouldn't even have the energy for a baby if it came. Besides, Bianca is sturdy. At age eleven, she still practically skips from room to room. I'm used to this invincible girl who enters into conversation with the wit of an adult. What would I do with a newborn, a tiny mystery?

I rise and dry off carefully, wrap white cloth around the blistered burn, and dress. “Shall we invade Lucia La Rotonda's realm today?”

Agnola and Bianca have been discreetly ignoring me. Now Agnola tilts her head. “She does make rather tiresome meals during Lent.”

“Franca gave me a nice recipe,” I say. “What do you think?”

Bianca jumps to her feet.

And so we march down to the kitchen and give Lucia La Rotonda an unexpected holiday. I send Carlo to buy
merluzzo
and oysters.

“Oysters?” Agnola perks up.

“Enough for four guests,” I say. I send Antonin to the Crispo palace to invite Franca and her husband, and our friends at the Giustiniani palace as well.

Agnola, Bianca, and I stand side by side and chop onions and parsley, beat eggs, grate ginger, soak raisins, then strain the soggy pulp. The golden sauce that will go over the baked fish will be cooked at the last minute so the aroma will remind everyone of the word Signora Laura persists in using for me:
exotic.
Ha! Exotic? I'm a peasant from Torcello. But only Marin knows.

Agnola and Bianca make the oyster cake, working so sweetly together, like Mamma and I used to do. We finish and go upstairs. I look at myself in my wedding mirror. I look like Mamma's daughter, that girl Marin married. But maturity has ripened me. In this mirror I can see what he sees. As the day progresses, I pass by the mirror again and again, glance sideways, look over my shoulder to catch my departing image, sneak up on the unsuspecting crystal. Every time, I am still me.

Marin is nestled within his library. Since spring has come, he's begun traveling again. Every year he travels intermittently, from the start of spring till the end of autumn, collecting books. I hope he's happy.

I'm standing on the balcony, waiting to catch a glimpse of our guests when I hear Marin come up behind me. He kisses the back of my neck. I smile and turn to face him, my burned leg pressing against his by accident. I yelp and pull away.

“What happened?”

I touch his cheek. “Do you want a child?”

“I have a child.”

“I've heard the men tell you that they feel sorry for you, that our luck will turn. But it never does.”

“We have each other. We have Bianca. I'd say the good Lord is treating us as well as anyone might dare hope.”

Our eyes meet. His are wary.

I take his hand and kiss it.

“I missed you all day today,” he says.

“But surely you were in the library learning something wonderful.”

He smiles. “I was, in fact. I read about surgeries on eyes by Galen, that physician of ancient times. He removed cataracts with a long needle.” Marin talks on and on.

I nod when I should. I try to follow what he says. He is a smart man, he absorbs knowledge easily.

This day began badly. But I changed it; I made it good, and I'm behaving well.
Please, don't let me make it end badly.
When Marin is finally done with his description, I turn and look out over the Canal Grande.

T
he next afternoon, Bianca is at the Contarini palace; Marin, in his library. Agnola and I are in the gondola, going to the Crispo palace, to see Franca. I listen to the regular dip, then the drip of water, then the dip, as Antonin circles the oar in the curve of the wood pedestal that holds it—the
forcula.
The sound usually mesmerizes me, like some sort of wordless song. Now, though, it adds to my restlessness.

The wind is sharp and the water of the canal rocks us hard. My hand gets splashed. Cold. Spring seems to have turned her back for one more glance at winter. I want to slap her. Hard. Sometimes I long for the old days on Torcello, to be alone, for the chance to scream without anyone hearing.

Screams fill my head.

Soon we are inside Franca's palace. I realize she and Agnola are talking, and we're sitting on a bench on their balcony, despite the chill. How we got up here, what everyone has been saying, I can't recall. One moment I was in the gondola, the next moment I am here. I must wake up.

“Franca,” I say softly.

She looks at me. “So you are alive.” She smiles and her fingers play along the delicate chains of gold at her neck. Her eyes are attentive. “You were quiet at supper last night, too. What have you been thinking about, Dolce?”

“I'm bleeding.”

Franca purses her lips. “I'm sorry.”

“I hate this.”

“Agnola?” Franca's voice is light. “We're going to talk frankly of…married matters. Would you rather go inside?”

Agnola stiffens, but she maintains a smile. “Not at all. I'm interested.”

All the little humiliations she suffers. I'd like to smack Franca, though Franca is by far the kindest of the lot. I must control myself.

Franca looks inquiringly at me.

“Go ahead.” I keep my voice soft. “Speak frankly.”

“We're lucky,” says Franca. “You and I are very lucky. Our marriages have been consummated.”

I nod.

“It's a blessing. Some men…cannot…” She glances sideways at Agnola, who blinks at her. Franca turns back to me. “I hear that Fiorenza has called in a healer for her husband, Marco.”

“What can a healer do?” asks Agnola.

“Marco had to urinate through the wedding ring he gave Fiorenza.”

“That's absurd,” says Agnola.

“Now he's sleeping with the blade of a plow under his mattress.”

“Ridiculous,” says Agnola.

“What would you know about it?”

Agnola clamps her mouth shut.

I will myself to stay quiet. Franca is a friend.

Franca's cheeks color. “Signorina Agnola, I shouldn't have snapped at you,” she says. “Probably you're right. Nothing has changed. Fiorenza wants the marriage declared invalid.”

Agnola folds her hands in her lap. “She'd have been better off to stay unmarried.”

“No.” Franca shakes her head. “It's best to take a chance on marriage.”

“You say that because your husband is kind to you. But wedding nights can be…Vittoria…well, her father said he'd slit her throat if she didn't marry Giovanni. He needed the family bond, for some plan he has. He needed it more than he loved Vittoria. By the second week of marriage she had sewn her nightgown together so Giovanni couldn't get at her.” Agnola shakes her head. “I'm better off unmarried.”

“No you're not,” says Franca. “You'll never have children.”

“Will you?”

Franca's bottom lip quivers.

“I'm sorry.” Agnola touches Franca's shoulder. “It was unkind of me to say that. I don't know what came over me. Sometimes I'm thoughtless. I'm so sorry.”

“You were right to say it, Agnola,” I say calmly. “You are never thoughtless. You are clearheaded. Franca and I may never have children. And you almost assuredly will not.” I rub my own head, which now pounds, and lean toward both of them. “We have so little control over our lives.”

Franca pulls on her fingers. “If I don't produce a child, Sergio may find a courtesan and set up a second household.”

“Has he said that?” asks Agnola, a look of horror on her face.

“He doesn't have to. It's what happens. Men need sons.”

The idea of Marin in another woman's bed…I hug myself. “Marin says he doesn't care.”

“He does,” says Franca. “He must.”

“I don't think he cares.” Agnola takes my hand, holds it warm between hers. My pink fingers stand out in stark contrast against her white ones. I must have taken off my gloves when we came inside. I can't fathom why. “I don't think he cares at all,” says Agnola, a little louder.

“Why wouldn't he?” says Franca.

“He has Bianca already. No one needs more than one child.”

“Bianca's a girl.”

“So what?”

“If a man has only one child, he wants it to be a boy. The Lord may decide to give only one child, but if He does, He should be fair and bestow a son.”

“Listen to yourself,” says Agnola. “If you were your parents' only child, would you feel sorry for them?”

“Of course I would. And I feel sorry for Marin, as sorry as I do for Sergio.”

“Marin is happy with Bianca,” says Agnola.

“Every other man in this city wants a son, an heir. Marin would trade Bianca for a boy any day. If he says different, he lies.”

“My brother doesn't lie.” Agnola squeezes my fingers. “Besides, he looks on childbirth with open eyes. His first wife died. Lots of women die. He doesn't want to lose Dolce. She means more to him than anything. I'll bet he feels relief each month.”

“Sex when you don't want children to result…that's a sin. As bad as what homosexuals do. Those special police—the Signori di Notte—they punish men for that.” Franca presses her fists together. “Decapitation. Then they burn the body. Besides, it's disloyal to the Republic not to want to have children. It's everyone's duty.”

“Every married person's duty, you mean,” says Agnola.

“Stop,” I say. I cough and cough, stumble inside, collapse in the hall in a heap of coughs. Finally they cease.

Someone pats my forehead with a wet cloth. It's Costantina, Franca's servant. My head and shoulders now rest in Agnola's lap. She has joined me on the floor.

Franca bends over me. “You're ill.”

Such attention from women. “So what happens to us?”

“Us?” Franca looks alarmed. “I'm not ill.”

“If it's a married woman's duty to have children, what happens to us?”

Franca looks stricken. Why is it people are shocked when you say what's on everyone's mind? “Without children, I am nothing,” says Franca.

Ah, that's why—it gives them license to say the worst. I wish I could suck back my words. “That's not true. You will find a way to keep Sergio's interest.”

“You can say that because you're beautiful. But even a beauty like you worries. Look at your pink fingers.”

“What?”

“You dyed them. To be special, of course. You do odd things, say odd things, and I know you do it so that Marin will think he can never predict what you'll do. You maintain the mystique we all have before marriage, but almost none of us have after.”

I hold my hands up to the light. “My pink fingers are part of my illness.”

“Really?”

I put my hands together as if in prayer and nod.

“I'm sorry. I had no idea, Dolce.”

“We better get going.” Agnola strokes my cheek. “I want to put you to bed. Lucia La Rotonda can make you a nice broth.”

Broth won't put a child inside me. Maybe nothing will. Maybe Franca and I are both doomed.

Once at our palace, Agnola accompanies me to my room.

Marin is stretched out on the bed. His look speaks of the exhaustion I feel.

Agnola clutches my hand a moment, then lets go. “Excuse me.” She leaves and closes the door behind her.

Marin swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits. He looks at his knees. “You made a mirror again, didn't you?”

I take a step backward and steady myself against the closed door.

“The answer shows all over you. Why?” He rubs his chin. “We agreed that you wouldn't, Dolce. It makes you sick.”

“Someone needs a mirror.”

He scratches his chin. “Who?”

I look away.

“Whoever it is, after this you'll find someone else to give a mirror to. Some other potential enemy. You want those women to be beholden to you for the extravagance of a mirror.”

He doesn't know the true design of my gift giving any more than anyone else does. If he did, he'd say that a much cheaper way to do things is to buy the slaves' freedom outright. But then it's Marin's money that's doing the job. I need to have a part. “You said you didn't care how much I spend.”

“I don't. I have no heir, and Bianca's sons will inherit from their father. You can spend all you want.”

“No heir…”

“It's a fact, Dolce, not a complaint. Money's not the point. You're trying to stupefy everyone.”

“Stupefy? The mirrors I make are tiny.”

“They're still costly. That awe that you manage to create—it's become a fetish.” He drops his hand from his chin. “Making mirrors is a plague. It sickens you, body and soul.”

“Only for a little while,” I whisper.

“It seems like a long while. Last night you turned from me.”

I have to fight to keep my hand from going to my throbbing forehead. “A woman is allowed to refuse her husband at these times of the month.”

“Dolce, your head will ache. Your eyes will blur. You will have flashes of ill humor. I can't bear it.”

“Franca says every man wants a son.”

“I am not every man, Dolce.”

“Franca says the Lord may decide to give only one child, but if He does, He should be fair and give a son.”

“Franca may be an idiot.”

“You really don't care if you have a son?”

“No.”

“But you said Bianca will have sons. You didn't say daughters.”

“Because I was talking about money. Inheritance passes to the oldest son.”

“Maybe you don't know yourself, Marin. Maybe you want a son so bad, your teeth crack. Sometimes at night I listen to you grind them.”
Maybe you'll kill me if I don't produce a son.

Marin's mouth opens but nothing comes out. Good Lord, he looks as though I actually said the words in my head. He gets to his feet, opens his wardrobe, and spreads clothes out on the bed. He folds them precisely, edge to edge. He moves in some unreal place and time. Floating.

He drops a comb. It hits the floor with a
thunk.
This is real.

A little cry bursts from me. “Where to this time?” I ask.

“There's always a next place.” He looks up at me. “Like you with your mirrors.”

“Don't go.”

He smooths a jacket and tucks it into the small wooden chest he uses for traveling. He picks up the comb and runs his thumb along the teeth.

“Please, Marin.”

He shakes his head, slow and heavy. “Do you realize how much your words wound me?”

“My headaches…I can't stop my mouth.”

“I don't ask that you stop your mouth. I want you to tell me your thoughts. I just want the awful ones to end.”

I stagger to the bed and sit beside his growing mound of folded clothes. “I'll try. I will. I promise.”

He reaches for a shirt.

I put my hand on the pile. “You should stay.”

“We need time apart.”

“I hate it when you're gone. There's nothing to do.”

“Do what other women do.”

“That's the same as telling me to do nothing. Women of my position…I've never walked the alleys even closest to our palace.”

“The alleys you so long to walk reek with garbage and sewage, until the street cleaners come along each day. There are beggars. Pickpockets. The wheels on carts make a tremendous racket in stone alleys. Hawkers follow you. You would hate it.”