Dark Shimmer (9 page)

“Years of loneliness as she grows,” I say. I shiver and stare at Agnola.

She nods. She names each splendid palace along the canal and tells me about the families within, pausing often so I can repeat their names.
Lord, let me learn quickly.

A
gnola has walked me around, introducing me to every group of women and girls. They ask the same questions and I give the same answers.

“Where are you visiting from?”

“Not far.”

“How do you know the Cornaro family?”

I smile slyly. “Better all the time.”

“But how did you come to know them in the first place?”

“We met on the island of the brothers—San Francesco del Deserto.”

“What were you doing there?”

“Retreats don't lend themselves to conversation.”

“But, come now, tell us a little about yourself, won't you? What's your family name?”

We had no family names on Torcello. That's what startled Marin when he introduced me to his household: he realized in that moment that he didn't know my family name. Agnola has prepared me for this question, of course. “Speaking of the dead saddens me.” Which is true. This question makes Mamma linger in the back of my mind. I miss her more as time passes. How I wish she could know that a man might marry me.

Questions keep coming, and my answers remain evasive. Before long, the girls and women turn to asking each other questions, as though I'm not there. I can't blame them. They talk mostly of what they know about other Venetian families that have no one at this party. Mamma would have called it nothing but gossip. Druda often tried to draw her into talking about the others, but Mamma said our island was too small for that sort of nonsense.

Venezia is huge, and gossip appears to be a favorite pastime.

I am standing silent in a small group of women, wondering where Agnola has gone off to, when someone brings up the name Francesca. Suddenly, nearby groups come to join ours and listen.

“Do you mean the merchant's daughter?”

“What other Francesca is on everyone's lips?”

“That's exactly it—on everyone's lips—you're so clever.”

They laugh.

“How do you know a merchant's daughter?” I ask.

They all look at me, startled.

“Well, we certainly don't go into shops,” says one.

“But our brothers do.”

They laugh again.

“Oh, don't look so baffled. Francesca is a loose one. They say she gives kisses.”

“And more.”

“My brother Sizzo says she's so beautiful that she'll wind up on the arm of a noble.”

“Or on some other limb.”

The women laugh. It feels like some sort of ritual.

“We should have a yellow gown made and sent to her as a gift.”

“How kind,” I say in surprise.

They laugh.

“Silly, yellow is the mark of the courtesan.”

I just look at them.

“Of the prostitute,” one whispers. “By law, women who sell themselves have to wear yellow.”

“Just like Jews. It marks them.”

I know about Jews. “Gesù was a Jew before he started his own religion.”

“That was a long time ago. Jews are different now,” says one girl.

The girl beside her looks askance. “Really, Martina, watch how you talk. My father says Jews bring good business to Venezia and we should all be grateful for them.”

“Grateful doesn't mean we have to like them.”

A smiling girl comes up.
“Baicoli!”
And everyone follows her out to the table, where piles of oval cookies are surrounded by bowls of fruit floating in water.

I take a fig in each hand and go back inside to sit by myself on a chest-bench.

The smiling girl sits down beside me. She takes a big bite of pear, and juice runs down her chin. She must be around eight or nine. Her hair is curled and pinned in place with pearls. “Don't you like
baicoli
?”

“I do. But right now I prefer figs,” I say. “Don't you like
baicoli
?”

“I do. But right now I prefer a pear!” She laughs.

“Everyone here laughs a lot.”

“You don't.”

I laugh. “You have pear juice all over your dress.”

“And figs are staining your gloves.”

I laugh again. “I wish Bianca had come along. Do you know her?”

“Of course. But little girls weren't invited.”

“Aren't you little?”

“Yes.” She sits up tall. “But I'm Patrizia Ghisi. This is my palace.”

I lean back against the wall and let Patrizia talk, opening my eyes to this new world.

T
hree days later, Signora Contarini follows me up the stairs from the docking area and into the grand hall. Her two youngest daughters trail behind, with Agnola bringing up the rear. Bianca stands at the top of the stairs and hops from foot to foot in anticipation, calling out happily.

I press my lips together. I don't have gloves on! I clutch both sides of my skirt and curl my pink fingers into the cloth.

My morning at the Ghisi palace didn't go as well as Agnola had hoped, but she says it will be a gradual process. She says my language is improving rapidly, so I can speak more at the next outing, and everyone will come to accept me. But doubt fills me. I might never understand their ways. And now, here's Signora Contarini—with a determined look. Yesterday we got the message that she'd be leaving her two youngest with us today.

The girls run ahead into Bianca's room.

“I'll return in the late afternoon,” says Signora Contarini. Her eyes inspect me.

I tighten my fingers in my skirts.

“You better hurry after them, to make sure they don't get in trouble,” she says to me, jerking her chin toward Bianca's door.

Agnola grabs me at the waist from behind, where the signora cannot see. “That's my task, of course.” She bows her head formally to the signora. “Excuse me, please, Signora Laura. I look forward to spending more time with you soon.” She bows her head to me now, something she hasn't done since our first meeting. “Excuse me, my lady. I wish you an enjoyable conversation.” And she leaves.

What a fine performance. I take a breath and turn to the signora. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She lifts that pointed chin again. “I know you only as Dolce. What is your family name?”

“Speaking of the dead saddens me.”

“Come now, surely you have some living family.”

I lift my eyebrows and shake my head.

Her hand goes to her mouth.

“You must be in a hurry,” I say. “Shall I walk you downstairs?”

“I can afford a moment to talk. A conversation, like Agnola said.”

I hate it that she calls her Agnola, instead of Signorina Agnola, while Agnola must address her as Signora Laura. A married woman has status, while a spinster does not. I try to look apologetic. “But I cannot afford even a moment, I'm afraid.”

She blanches.

I didn't mean to be rude. “I beg your pardon. It's just that I mustn't disappoint the signore. He's counting on me.”

“For what?”

For what indeed? Marin is in his library this morning. But I have no idea what he does in there. He says it's dirty and dusty. “To work with the books. His library, you know.”

She pulls back her shoulders as if affronted. “Do you read?”

I laugh in spite of myself. What an enigma I must be to her. “I have to go help him.”

“I'll go with you. I'm happy to give him a little greeting.” She does a poor job of hiding her suspicion. Or maybe she's not trying. Maybe she's calling my bluff.

We walk to the library. What now? I give a quick, firm rap, then open the door. Marin stands at a table, a cloth in one hand, a large book open in front of him. A lock of hair dangles over his brow. My cheeks heat. He looks at me in surprise, then catches sight of Signora Contarini, flashes me a look I can't interpret, and comes around the table, smiling widely. “Good morning, Signora. You're looking lovely and well.” He bows, the cloth clasped in both hands now.

“Good morning, Signore.” Her smile seems genuine. But it falls as she gazes past him. “Look how many books you've gathered in the past couple of years.”

“I've been working hard,” says Marin with pride.

“You're dismantling the map room.”

“Hardly. I'm just making accommodations so my new home can serve me best.”

“Why don't you convert the sewing room into a library instead?”

“My sister loves sewing. That's her realm.”

Signora Contarini shakes her head. “I know this home well. Your shelves for these massive books are covering paintings of constellations and planets. Why, you don't even have a wooden celestial globe!”

“It's true.” Marin stands taller. “Fortunately, I can visit your home if I need to consult a map of the skies.”

The signora seems to realize she may have overstepped, for she gives a small smile. “I was hoping to steal your mysterious visitor for a few moments to get to know her a bit. A visitor shouldn't be all work and no play.”

Marin looks at me. I look meaningfully at the book on the table, then beg him with my eyes. He looks back at Signora Contarini. “If she dislikes her task so much, I will excuse her from her promise to aid me.” There's a touch of annoyance in his voice.

“I don't dislike it at all,” I practically yelp. I turn to the signora. “Another time, please? Let me see you to the stairs.”

The signora's eyes cloud. Her whole face falls. “That's quite all right. I know my way. These palaces are in my blood.” She walks out, leaving the door ajar. Her shoes click on the polished floor, then clop on the rougher stairs.

“Forgive me for interrupting you,” I say to Marin. “And thank you.”

“It was no problem.”

My hands go to my hair nervously. I quickly lower them. I don't want to be this way around him. I want him to see me as I am. That thought makes me pause. How greedy I am: here I have a chance to marry, perhaps, and I want more….I want to be loved truly. “You sounded annoyed.”

Marin gives a rueful little laugh. “I was. First, all that nonsense about me ruining this place. Then she called you a visitor. Twice. You are, of course. It was unreasonable for me to react like that.” He hands me a clean cloth. “Come stand beside me. Let's turn our little play into the truth. I'll work on the top of the page, you work on the bottom. Wipe carefully everywhere. The point is to remove moisture and anything that carries moisture—any bit of mold. The smallest amount can cause a page to crumble. And dirt—a speck of dust is an enemy.”

I take the cloth and press down.

His hand instantly catches mine and lifts it. “Gently. This is an old book. Fragile.”

My hand tingles at his touch. I avoid his eyes, but nod and start over, patting softly. We finish the page and Marin teaches me to blow across the surface to remove anything the cloth missed. It's important to make a tight circle of my lips so the air is cool and dry, rather than hot and wet. Then we turn the page, holding top and bottom corners and moving it evenly.

We work in silence. A second page. A third.

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods.

“I wasn't intending to interrupt you, but I panicked.”

“You're afraid of her?”

“She might hate me. Agnola's afraid of that, too.”

“She has no reason to dislike you, Dolce. No one does. You're unusual, that's all. They'll get used to you.”

“You're wrong. People had plans, and I upset them.”

“How?”

“Maybe her oldest daughter is meant for you.”

Marin puts down his cloth and stares at me. “You always surprise me. You've been here a month, so I should be used to your directness by now.”

“I'm blunt. Agnola is trying to teach me to—”

“No. Don't change. Not with me, at least. I'm grateful for your ways.” He takes a deep breath. “The Contarini daughter cannot be thinking of me. I cannot say what she looks like. Or even recall her name.”

“Agnola told me that girls here are betrothed to men they don't know. Family alliances.”

Marin smiles. “I know. This is my world. But no one is betrothed to me.”

“She might want to be, though. Any girl could wind up married to someone…decrepit and smelly, as Bianca would say. Or mean.”

Marin folds his arms across his chest. “Are you saying I'm not mean, decrepit, or smelly?” His eyes tease. I smile, and he says, “There's more to a person than what you see in the here and now.”

“I know. Agnola told me how you've suffered…losing your wife and son. It made me feel…that mere breathing hurt.”

Marin's whole self tightens. He steps closer.

“The signora wants to get rid of me because I'm in her way,” I say. “I can understand that. She doesn't hate me because of what she sees, but what she fears.”

Marin steps closer still. His breath stirs my hair. “Who has ever hated you because of what they saw?”

“Nearly everyone. My ugliness shocked them.”

“Ugliness?” He shakes his head. “Would you please explain?”

I knew it would come to this. “Will you swear not to send me back home?”

“Is there a reason I would?”

“No. I have no one there. No family at all.”

“Then I swear.”

“I lived on Torcello, in a community of dwarfs. My mother was a dwarf. I was forbidden to know about the world outside Torcello. They told me I was a monster. I had no friends but Mamma. Bianca was the first person I met after leaving the island.”

“My God! Dolce…” Marin is silent. Then, “What that must have been like—growing up like that—then meeting us. You must have felt…like the world didn't make sense. A thousand questions crowd my head.”

“Don't ask them. Please. Please don't treat me like…a curiosity.”

“I won't.” His chest heaves. “No one can look at you and not see your beauty. You don't even paint your face, yet you're the fairest.”

“I don't care about that. I mean, I'm glad you like to look upon me. Very glad. I'm glad my mother did, too. But…how we look doesn't matter.”

“Unless others have made it matter.” Marin's arm circles behind me and his hand presses on the table. I stand in that circle. No part of him touches me, but I smell his skin, I feel the warmth that emanates from him. “If you were my bride,” he says, so close my hair moves, “I can think of the perfect wedding gift. A mirror, of crystal. Then your own eyes can tell you how beautiful you are.”

A mirror. It's as though he senses the whole of me, as though he understands and recognizes me, though I haven't said a word to him about mirrors. Somehow he knows I could look in one now, I could look and not cry. “I never knew someone might love me as a husband. I never thought…” My voice comes out as a broken whisper. His neck pulses just a breath away from my lips. “All I want to do is make up for the sad things that have happened to you, all of them, your whole life, all the things I don't know and maybe won't ever know.”

“Good.” His voice is hoarse.

“But you have to understand, Marin. I have never even thought about a man before. Do you see? It makes sense that I should feel this way about you. It's different for you, though. You are surrounded by women who can love you, who can dream about being your wife.”

“I care for you. Does it matter why?”

I step back so that I can see his face fully. “Living here with you like this…I begin to see that it can't continue. We both know that.”

“I…lead a cautious life. I collect books, for God's sake, what could be more careful? The Senate accepts my library work as fulfilling my responsibility toward the Republic. I told myself my only goal is to make sure Bianca grows up well, so that she can make the decisions that are right for her.

“And now…you appear. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“You threaten the peace I have worked so hard to protect. You are strong, Dolce. I've listened to you repeating after Agnola. Sometimes you sound so much like her, if I close my eyes, I think you're my sister. You can live here and learn how this society works and the offers of marriage will flood in. You can marry whomever you want. I'll provide a dowry for you. Our old family palace was huge. It was meant to house my parents and bachelor brothers, of whom I have none, and passels of children, of which I have only Bianca. When I sold it, I wound up rich. I have more money than anyone needs.