Daughters of the Doge (56 page)

I nodded. ‘I have travelled that road. There is still a great deal of trade passing.’

Ayham looked at me closely. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. ‘You did not see it in the old days. There is no comparison. Now Venice is on the brink of war with the Turks, as their sources of supply dry up. At the same time, the Ottomans find that their own supplies are being drawn away south by Portuguese ships, and they are searching for alternative sources of wealth.

‘Look at Suleiman the Magnificent. In the last forty years he has taken Hungary, Rhodes, Tunis, Tabriz, parts of Persia and the great cities of Baghdad and Tripoli in north Africa. Why? Because the old sources are drying up. It is an endless war of competition. And now all the business is flowing back through Lisbon, and being distributed by sea from there. My grandfather’s family fled to Lisbon when they were kicked out of Al Andalus. We lost everything except what we could carry. That’s why we are spice traders. A man can carry more wealth in spices than he can in gold.’

I could tell he had told this story many times, but still the bitterness came through in his words and expressions. Yet he seemed philosophical about it, and had a remarkably clear understanding of the wider view. I had known that Venice faced immediate difficulties, with the measles epidemic (which the travellers were describing as plague) and the famine (as much a result of two successive poor harvests on the mainland as of the decline of trade). Yet it seemed the longer-term prospect looked no more promising.

Ayham turned to his daughter. ‘Do not let an old man’s stories concern you, my sweet. I speak of the large canvas – the long-term trend. It is the business of traders to do so – we have so much time to fill, while travelling. But our business will survive and prosper well enough to feed me – and you – for as long as necessary.’

She smiled and patted her father’s hand. I wondered if she would take the opportunity to speak of her future –
our
future – but she did not, and her single glance at me told me not to do so, either. The conversation had become gloomy and I tried to liven it up.

‘It seems to me that your business is very similar to that of supplying artists’ pigments. Perhaps your traders could include such products when they are travelling? Lapis lazuli, for example, is worth more per ounce than even saffron.’

He looked at me, surprised. ‘Where does this product come from? I have not heard of it.’

Yasmeen took the opportunity to show her knowledge. ‘Come, father, the name itself is half Arabic.’ She turned to me to explain. “Lapis” is “stone” in Latin and “azul” is . . .’

Ayham continued, ‘Blue in Arabic. But where is this blue stone to be found?’

‘In Afghanistan,’ she said. ‘Along the Silk Road. Here we call it “ultramarine”, but in truth most of its journey to us is not across the sea but overland.’

It was a delight to watch them together. Yasmeen was deferential, yet quietly able to use her knowledge to inform her father, whose professional interest was now excited.

‘What is the market price here in Venice?’

Again, as the person responsible for buying the pigments for Tintoretto’s
bottega,
Yasmeen was able to tell him not only the price, but the names of the leading suppliers. Ayham turned to me, smiling.

‘You have a good business brain, young man. Thank you for the suggestion. I shall ask my sources what they can do. What’s one more donkey-load between friends?’

We talked on for two hours, drinking the tea and eating the sweetmeats, before Ayham excused himself, explaining that he had to meet a customer in the Rialto.

It was clear that I was not expected to remain alone in the house with Yasmeen, and I too stood to leave. We shook hands formally and I left, feeling that my first meeting with the man I hoped would become my father-in-law had gone very well. At least we had found common ground for discussion, had not disagreed over anything, and I had been able to make a useful business suggestion. It was all very promising.

C
HAPTER
67

July the 8th 1556 – Fondamenta dei Mori

I was in the studio early the following morning, looking forward to discussing the previous day’s events with Yasmeen. Her normal time of arrival came and went. I continued with my drawing, but was beginning to worry. Finally, about halfway through the morning, one of the younger apprentices called to me. ‘Yasmeen asks if you can come to her office.’

He looked concerned, as if I would blame him for being the carrier of bad news. ‘She looks upset.’

I ran through the courtyard and into her office. She was sitting, staring at the wall, crying uncontrollably. ‘Yasmeen. What is it? What is wrong?’

Still in her chair, she turned, buried her face in my stomach and hugged my waist, gripping tightly. ‘It is my father.’

I wiped the tears from her face and sat opposite her. ‘What is wrong? Is he ill?’

She shook her head. ‘He came down early this morning, saying he had not been able to sleep all night for worry. He asked all about you and I told him. Your meeting with him seemed to go so well yesterday that I thought it was safe. I said I loved you and even told him of the trip to Murano.’

She fell to he knees, burying her face in my lap, sobbing. I stroked her hair until she began to calm, then she lifted her face.

‘He has forbidden me to speak to you outside the studio.’

‘But why? What did I do wrong?’

‘You did nothing wrong. You never do. But I am all he has. He thinks you want to take me away from him. He is not convinced that your intentions are honourable.’

I knelt down opposite her, almost nose to nose, and said, with all the sincerity I could express, ‘Yasmeen, you have my word that I would not act dishonourably towards you in any respect. I love you.’

She sniffed. ‘I know that, but I am forbidden, and I cannot disobey my father.’

‘But if I tell him the truth? That I want to marry you. Properly. Honourably. That I have the wealth behind me to support you as he would expect.’

She sniffed again. ‘That would make it worse. That’s what he is afraid of, that you will take me away. It’s not me he is worrying about, it’s himself

I was getting confused. My dream was turning into a nightmare; a prison cell with many doors, each of which disappeared just as you reached for it. ‘Perhaps if I spoke to him again? We had a good conversation yesterday.’

She shook her head. ‘He told me he doesn’t want to speak to you. He is afraid you will talk him into agreeing.’

‘But there must be a way.’

Again she shook her head. ‘He is adamant.’

I began to get frustrated with the stupidity of the situation. ‘But that’s ridiculous!‘

She crumpled. ‘Please, Richard. Don’t shout at me. I have tried to reason with him, but I can’t get anywhere.’

She sat sobbing for some minutes while I sat opposite her, feeling impotent. Finally, she lifted her face, red and tear-stained.

‘Please, Richard. Leave me alone. I cannot take any more at the moment.’

I left her there, my insides empty. It was the first time she had asked me to leave her, and it hurt as much as the news about her father. If he was being selfish and stupid, that was one thing, but if she did not want me with her, then I was not sure what I could do.

I left the
bottega
and walked. I walked all day, until my feet hurt, but still no solution came to me. There was only one person I knew who could find a way through a maze like this.

C
HAPTER
68

July the 9th 1556 – Piazza San Marco

‘I sometimes wonder how men presume to reign over us, when their eyes don’t see, their ears don’t hear and their minds refuse to take in that which is put right in front of them.’

I had expected Veronica to be concerned at my plight and to need time to think, but her reaction was unexpectedly harsh.

We sat in the sun, at a small trattoria beside the piazza. ‘
Caro.
Listen. You do not need to tell me any more. I sat with Yasmeen all afternoon yesterday. Jacopo asked me to. She was quite incapable of doing her work and the whole
bottega
was disrupted by seeing her upset.’

I began to relax. Veronica always seemed to understand the situation and invariably proved to be a source of answers. Sometimes I believed that even if Armageddon were upon us, Veronica would find a way to wriggle out of it, and negotiate an escape route for her friends in the process. It was a soothing thought.

‘You must not blame her father. She is all he has and he would die for her tomorrow if he thought it was in her interests.’

I was surprised at her certainty. ‘Have you met him?’

She raised an eyebrow at my naïvety. ‘Met him? Ayham? Of course I have met him. I have played mother to his daughter since she first came to Jacopo as a skinny little fourteen-year-old, asking for any odd job that would make her some money.’

I was amazed. ‘I did not realize you knew Yasmeen that well.’

She laughed, a loud belly-laugh, which caused heads to turn her way. ‘There was life in Venice before you arrived here you know . . .’

I raised my hands in surrender, laughing. ‘All right! You don’t need to spell it out any further. I am rebuked. I am ignorant, stupid, unaware, self-centred and simple beyond belief. I accept all that. Now please, tell me what to do.’

She shook her head. ‘No,
cam.
You are nothing like as bad as you were when you arrived here. But yes, you still have one or two things to learn. It will come. You learn quickly.’