The Gondola Maker (17 page)

A grin crosses Valentin’s face, and once again, he falls annoyingly silent.

Chapter
25

Morning sunbeams streak down the canal, imparting radiance to even the most dingy façades, and I feel I can smell the arrival of spring. I approach Trevisan’s house after fetching eggs from the market for Signora Amalia when I see the Zanchi gondola moored at Trevisan’s dock.

I recognize the luxurious boat from a distance. I smooth my hair and shake my head at the abysmal state of my only pair of shoes, as well as my hands, covered as they are in sawdust and varnish. Beppe, Giuliana’s boatman, greets me with a salute and a nod, then leaps out of his boat to help me moor Trevisan’s gondola. He glances at the sack of eggs in my hand and smiles. “Fine day for a little side work.”

“I try to help in whatever way I can,” I reply, trying to sound casual and confident. Automatically, my gaze travels to the window of the artist’s studio, but just as the last time that Giuliana came to call, the green curtain is drawn closed over the diamond-shaped leaded glass of the studio window. I appear to busy myself in Trevisan’s docked gondola, wanting to stay outside the boathouse so that I may have another chance to encounter the girl. I try my best to keep up the idle chat with Beppe, who is more than happy to oblige.

Finally I hear the door of the studio open. Valentin escorts Giuliana and her maid down the stairs. My stomach leaps at the sight of her, and I attempt to look occupied with the boat. The smoky smell of the hearth fire inside the studio emanates into the cool air.

Today her hair looks different, I note, pulled back in the front with long cascades in the back. Her cloak falls open to reveal a blue gown and a large gemstone hanging from a chain around her neck. In her hands, she clasps her tiny brown dog and a small purse made of the same velvet as her dress. Her grim-faced maid follows, pulling her own cloak tightly to her throat to ward off the chill.  Suddenly, Giuliana seems to take a few purposeful steps in my direction. Taken aback, I look up from my work to search her face. She looks steadily at me with large green eyes, walking toward me. Holding my gaze, she pulls her right ear and addresses her maid: “Carolina, I seem to be missing an earring. Would you be so kind as to go inside and fetch it for me?” Her maid returns to the studio.

Next, she hands her dog to Beppe, who caresses its head. While Beppe settles the dog gently in the boat, Giuliana fishes something out of her purse, then, slowly, she turns her back to me. She entwines her hands behind her back. Almost imperceptibly, she flutters her fingers.

I notice now that Giuliana pinches something between the second and third fingers of her right hand. It is a piece of parchment, a small yellowish scrap folded neatly into quarters. Without drawing attention to herself, Giuliana takes a few steps back to the edge of the dock, and without a sound, drops it into Trevisan’s gondola. I watch the folded piece of parchment flutter like a leaf, then land in the floor of the gondola.  Now Giuliana turns her head, cuts her eyes toward the bottom of the boat, then glances at me briefly to see if I am watching. My throat tightens.

At that moment, her maid returns, dangling a gilded, lace-like filigree earring in her hand. Beppe extends his hand to Giuliana, and the women board the boat. The boatman salutes me, and I watch the elaborate gondola disappear.

As soon as the lady’s boat rounds the corner, I clamber into Trevisan’s gondola and snatch up the folded piece of paper. I sit on the aft deck and unfold it, my heart pounding. A short message is scrawled in a long, elegant script:

Would you be willing to do a side job for me? If so, meet me on the street that runs alongside the vineyard at San Francesco when darkness falls tonight — GZ

Chapter
26

I double-check the security of the boathouse’s lock as the sun sinks and lavender shadows extend across the alley that borders Trevisan’s house. I jog all the way to the boardinghouse. In my room, I wash my face in a bowl of water and shave my cheeks with my straight razor. With a small pair of scissors I purchased at the market, I carefully trim my cropped beard and clip two stray hairs sticking out of my nose. Holding a broken piece of mirror that the last tenant left in the room, I examine my reflection. I run the comb through my hair and vigorously rub my teeth with a cloth.

Above all, I want to ensure that I don’t look like an ass again, but my clothing choices are limited. I slide the flesh-colored silk shirt over my back, then pull on a pair of breeches and black stockings. I take the fancy waistcoat that Signora Baldi’s daughter lent me and push my arms into it. I shine my scuffed shoes with a rag I’ve taken from the boat slip. I have even borrowed a small container of black gondola varnish, which I coat on the uppers of my shoes. Not bad, I think, as a sheen begins to appear across the toes.

In the square outside the boardinghouse, I rinse my mouth with water from a fountain, gargle it deeply in the back of my throat, then spit on the cobblestones. I smooth my hair again with wet hands, then replace my cap. I make my way toward the northern lagoon long before the
marangona
is likely to clang, hailing the arrival of dusk. Tonight there will be no moon. As darkness falls, the sky and the canal waters seem to meld together to form an ominous void. The only light comes from quivering candles in the glass lamps hung from an occasional corner shrine. I step carefully down the narrow paths toward the Church of San Francesco della Vigna.

I make my way alongside a long brick wall that marks the enclosure to the monastery where Franciscan brothers cultivate rows of manicured grape vines. I reach the alley where Giuliana has instructed me to wait. It is important to seem relaxed, I tell myself. I take a few deep breaths, shake out my hands, then roll my shoulders and try to look nonchalant, but I can’t keep my feet from pacing back and forth on the cobblestones. My eyes scan the street. It is deserted, lit only with the dim flame of a lantern at the corner. The rest of the street is cast into complete darkness. I wait. The minutes elapse.

Just about the time the black fingers of despair begin to touch my heart, I detect footsteps in the distance. They grow louder, clomping on the stones. Finally, in the darkness, my eyes make out the silhouette of a hooded figure with a full-length cloak. The person is carrying a small hand-lantern that flickers as the figure moves forward. I hope with all my might that it is she. I move from the shadows into the middle of the street.

“Boatman? Is that you?” she calls out in a loud whisper.

“Yes, Signorina.”

She quickens her footsteps. She holds up her lantern, and I make out the trace of her lips and chin under her cloak. With her other hand, she pushes back its hood. In the candlelight, I see her hair fall across her shoulders, and I make myself believe that I can smell its musky scent. She presses a package—something wrapped in dark fabric—under the crook of her elbow.

“Thank you for meeting me here,” she whispers. “I’m sorry about the location, but there is an important task that I cannot be seen completing myself. I am prepared to pay you handsomely in exchange for complete secrecy. No one can know about it. I had a feeling that you might be the right man for the job. Can I trust you?” She searches my face.

“My lady, I give you my word.”

“Good” she says, but continues to scan my face for confirmation. “I need for you to go to the Ca’ Leoncino on the Grand Canal on Thursday evening at nightfall. There will be another private party. You need to make yourself invisible, disguised, just as you were when I last saw you there. You must appear as a member of the same class, as much a part of the crowd as anyone else in attendance. No one should think otherwise. Understood?”

I nod.

“You will need to locate a man—Jacobino Catarin. You will not miss him, for he will be the only Jew in attendance.”

My mind is racing. “Of course. Signorina Zanchi, with all due respect, I do not think I can take Trevisan’s boat. My master... if he finds it missing...”

“Not to worry,” she replies, raising her palm. “You will need to go by foot and enter from the land-side. I’ve already taken care of your costume.” She hands me the package from under her arm. From its softness, I can tell that it is a bundle of clothing, tied together with a narrow cord. Under the cord, she has secured a parchment envelope thickly stuffed with some kind of document.

“Your job is to ensure that this envelope passes into to hands of Catarin the Jew. You must make absolutely sure that you do not attract notice.”

I nod again.

“You must give him time to read it and respond to you. When we meet again you will report to me every single detail. Understand?”

“Yes, but I am curious about one thing, Signorina. Why all the secrecy for a young woman like yourself?”

Nearby, footsteps echo on the cobblestones. Giuliana flips the hood of her cloak back up on her head. “Not now,” she whispers. Beneath her hood, only her lips are visible. “We cannot meet here again. This is not a good location,” the lips say.

I perceive a shadow, fleeting but a certain presence, around the corner. Someone is there, invisible in the darkness. The sound of the footsteps slows.

Giuliana turns her head toward the direction of the sound, then whispers quickly to me, “On Saturday evening, meet me inside the Church of San Giovanni Battista in Brágora. My family has a private chapel on the south flank of the church. Meet me there when the
marangona
clangs. And I will give you further instructions.” She lifts her hood slightly and I watch her eyes search my face. “Understood?”

I bow toward her. “Of course.”

“Then it’s all settled.” With a purposeful exhale, she extinguishes the flame in her lantern and hurries off down the alley. I watch her cloak flap and then vanish into the shadows.

THIS TIME, MY COSTUME fits. Without a doubt, this is the finest ensemble I have ever worn. The breeches and vest are made of a fine burgundy satin, and the cream-colored silk sleeves billow from where they are stitched to the shoulder with ribbon. I like the hat best of all, for it is ornamented with a small spray of reddish-brown bird feathers. She has even included a mask in the package, an unadorned black face-plate with the eyes cut out, which surely will help conceal my identity.

I pry open the parchment envelope that Giuliana put in my hands. Although I learned to read some Latin and Venetian as a child, I am unskilled and unpracticed. I run my finger slowly down the piece of the parchment and struggle to make out the words:

Twelve pewter platters and with matching goblets

Four silver saltcellars, very finely wrought

An unusual set of silver, two-pronged forks (possibly from Turkey?)

A worn-out but serviceable bedside table made of elm and poplar

A large, finely made majolica platter from Umbria

25 miscellaneous pieces of kitchen crockery

A fine mirror from Murano with a small crack at the bottom

An exceptional marble-top table decorated with intarsia and decorative scrolls

A painting of the Madonna and the Christ Child, of artistic interest, to be valued separately from its frame (see next entry)

A very fine frame crafted of mahogany with gilded decoration

A pair of antique door knockers in the form of griffons

A box full of old keys, a few of them well-wrought

A very fine ball gown of dark blue taffeta with gold sleeves

20 assorted ball gowns, no longer in fashion but serviceable

A set of gold goblets with the family coat of arms

A gold crucifix attached to a rosary with enameled and glass beads

A set of two dozen kitchen towels

Two andirons, crafted of brass, in the form of snarling lions

Four X-shaped folding chairs of walnut, of Spanish origin

The list continues, the cramped ink covering the four folios front and back. Alongside each entry, someone—Giuliana, probably—has notated an approximate corresponding value. The total must amount to an astounding number. I compare the handwriting to the note Giuliana had dropped into Trevisan’s gondola. Although the text of the inventory has been purposefully condensed to maximize space on the expensive parchment sheet, the looping, elegant script is a match.

Guilt washes over me for reviewing this litany of luxuries. Surely it is intended to be private, but how can I help myself?

In the broken mirror that sits on my dressing table, I catch sight of my ridiculous appearance: a fine nobleman perched on the edge of a grubby boardinghouse bed, desperately peering into the private life of a woman of whom he knows nothing.