The Midwife of Venice (11 page)

Hannah slipped the ducats into the pocket of her
cioppà
. Not even Isaac had ever earned such a sum. Her heart rejoiced. She would have her husband back. Whatever rift she and Isaac had experienced could be mended.

“What will you name your son?” she asked. She knew that Christians did not wait forty days before naming a child. They drew attention to helpless infants by christening them immediately so everyone, including the Angel of Death, knew their names.

“Bruno, after my favourite uncle. A sturdy, healthy man who at age sixty-four has recently taken a second wife.” The Conte must have noticed her look, for he said, “Your face is the looking-glass of your thoughts, Hannah. You do not care for the name?”

“It is a fine name. It is just that to name a child after a living person, is that wise? The Angel of Death could
become confused, seeking out your uncle, who is old, but taking the baby instead.”

He thought a moment. “I will name him Matteo, then, in honour of my late father.”

If ever Hannah bore a son, she and Isaac had decided to name him Samuel. It was the name of her paternal grandfather, who had been a dealer in second-hand goods, a violinist, and a respected scholar.

“When will you leave for Malta?”

She had not had time to consider the matter. She must pack her few clothes, bid farewell to friends and family, and find a ship to take her to Isaac. She had no notion of how to accomplish any of it, but replied, “As soon as I find passage.”

“Go to my friend Marco Lunari, who lives in Dorsoduro. His ship, the
Balbiana
, sails to Constantinople soon. It will be docking in Malta to take on fresh water and provisions. I will give you a letter of introduction.”

For a Christian to take such pains for a Jewess was beyond her experience. “You are a nobleman in every sense of the word,” she said. Last night, when he had come for her with his brother, she had thought him so consumed with his own difficulties that he had no concern for others. She had misjudged him.

“God will protect you, my dear.” He patted her shoulder and turned to Giovanna, gazed down at the baby once again, and ran a finger down the child’s cheek. “My brother Niccolò is downstairs waiting to see the child. I will fetch him so you can meet him before you go.”

The Conte left the room, and to Hannah’s relief, Jacopo rose and followed him.

When they were alone, Giovanna looked up from nursing Matteo. “I did not tell the Conte about that device of yours and how you tortured my poor mistress with it. The Inquisitor would be glad to learn of such an instrument.”

At Giovanna’s words, Hannah felt her joy ebbing. “My device saved the baby’s life. Surely you can see that? Would you have preferred me to cut open the Contessa?”

“You have marked this baby for the devil. It will be a simple matter to slip a note into the Lion’s Mouth in the Doge’s palace,” she sniffed. “It would give me great pleasure.”

The memory of a Sephardic woman named Ezster, a woman from the Ghetto Vecchio, came to Hannah. Ezster had been walking home from buying fish at the docks when she heard the screams of a little girl who had wandered away from her nursemaid and fallen into the Rio della Sensa. The child, unable to swim, had panicked and was choking on the filthy canal water, crying and flailing about. Ezster grabbed an oar from an empty gondola and fished the child out. She dried her and led the sobbing girl back to her house. The next day, the girl was dead of canal fever. The girl’s mother, convinced Ezster was a witch, denounced her to the Inquisition. Ezster was taken away by two men from the Office of the Inquisition and never seen again. How easily such a thing could happen to Hannah.

Giovanna said, “So what will you do with all that money the Conte gave you?”

“Is it the money that has made you hate me?”

“I hate you because I saw what you did—that contrivance you shoved into my mistress, like a shovel into the soil. Who knows why Jews do what they do? Maybe killing our Lord was not enough for you. Maybe you want to kill this baby as well.”

Hannah crossed the room and scooped Matteo out of Giovanna’s arms. She kissed him, inhaling his milky smell. Cupping her hand under his head, she drank in the sight of him, stamping it onto her memory. She would see him only once again, when she came to collect her mother’s amulet. The thought saddened her. She would not follow his progress through life—see him crawl, toddle, learn to fasten his buttons, and make his covenant with God at thirteen—as she did the babies of the ghetto. This child’s life would be a mystery to her, and he was dearer to her because of it.

“Grow into a fine man, little Matteo,” she whispered. To Giovanna, she said, “We have worked together to save your mistress and her child. We should rejoice together.” She tried to put her hand on Giovanna’s sleeve, but the woman pulled back, crossed herself, and kissed her thumb.

Hannah ignored this. She and her birthing spoons had done the impossible, and soon she would be on a ship bound for Isaac, who would exult with her. She handed Matteo to Giovanna. The baby began to wail.

Niccolò, bleary-eyed, smelling of sour wine, entered the room, nodding at Hannah. Jacopo, accompanying him, surprised Hannah by hovering close to Lucia’s bed and giving it a little bump. Lucia winced. Jacopo did not seem to notice.

Strange that they both had been up all night, awaiting their nephew’s birth. It was not something a father often did, much the less uncles. But here they were, standing at Giovanna’s side, yawning and red-eyed. The two of them were now dressed in black silk waistcoats, their elbows close to their sides, reminding Hannah of two vultures waiting for the life to drain out of a newborn lamb.

Niccolò rubbed his hands together, cupped them and blew on them, even though it was warm in the bedchamber, and gave the infant a tickle under the chin. “Such a handsome baby he is. You have made our family very happy. I thank you, Hannah. You have done well.”

She nodded and tried to look pleased, but she was unsettled by the expression on his face for reasons that she could not articulate.

“Goodbye,
cara,”
she said as she approached Lucia’s bedside. “I am taking my leave.” Lucia groped for her hand. Hannah brought it to her lips. “You are lucky to have such a healthy baby and such a fine husband. May your strength return to you soon so that you can enjoy both of them.”

A footman entered and picked up Hannah’s linen bag and escorted her down the wide stone staircase and toward the canal, where a gondola sat moored, lines holding it fast to the striped mooring pole. The manservant handed her bag to the gondolier, who bid her
buon giorno
.

Hannah stood on the dock for a moment, collecting her thoughts. Venice was awakening. Morning sun glinted on the water, infusing it with the luminescent colours of Murano glass. The canal was filled with boats jostling for
right-of-way. Barges spilling over with apples and pomegranates, round and succulent, lumbered toward the Rialto market. A fishmonger on the opposite side of the canal held up snapper and tilapia, their scales pearly white in the first light of dawn. The shops along the
strazi
teemed with early morning shoppers. Water sellers trudged back from the wellhead in the piazzetta, their buckets sloshing.

The gondolier, dressed in the livery of the di Padovani family, offered his forearm and handed her into the boat. From the grin on his face, she knew he had heard the news of the birth.

Once she was settled in the draped cabin, he passed her her bag, but when she took it in her hand it felt curiously light. Shaking it, she listened for the familiar jangle of silver spoons, but she heard nothing. She peered into it, fumbling around in its depth.

Finally, she dumped everything onto the seat next to her: iron knife, gauze, vial of almond oil, silk string to tie the birth cord, herbs, Anatolian cream, and a corked flask of cayenne pepper. She grabbed the candle from the sconce on the wall of the
felze
and held it aloft to see more clearly.

Her birthing spoons were gone.

T
HE CART BOUNCED
along the coast road from the Convent of St. Ursula into town. Often the wheels fell into ruts, and as Isaac struggled to heave it out, Assunta, sweat dripping down her face and wimple soaked, would shout instructions on the best way to budge the oak-wheeled cart. No one on the road offered assistance, although a couple of the drovers came by with teams of plodding horses, herding their bony cattle to market. They nodded to Assunta, but when they noticed the iron circle on Isaac’s ankle, they clucked to their teams and moved on.

Isaac’s back burned from hoisting the cart. His legs ached from the fresh blows he had received yesterday
from the guard. Before they filled with pus, he must bathe them in sea water. The air was so dusty, his saliva was brown when he spit.

With every jolt of the cart, it seemed an axle would break. Deep furrows in the road made it difficult to determine where the road ended and began. Several times Isaac turned onto a path that ended up leading nowhere.

The sheepskin, thrown into a corner of the cart, began to attract flies in the heat. Isaac was about to ask Assunta to hurl it into the bushes when he decided that it might be useful as padding for the yoke. He asked her to pass it to him, and folded it up and thrust it under the stiff leather of his harness. Now the flies collected around his face and buzzed in his ears, but at least he managed to pull the cart out of the rut.

At last, the fortification of St. Elmo appeared in the distance, a tower surrounded by massive walls. As Assunta and Isaac neared the sun-baked military encampment, the thoroughfare became more crowded with donkey carts, peddlers struggling along with their wares on their backs, and a Knight of St. John, wearing the habit of a monk but carrying a cutlass. The road wound along the sea.

They passed through the gates of the town and saw, wandering the streets, a number of other slaves who, like Isaac, wore leg irons. Most were Moors from North Africa or Turks from the Levant.

“Stop and take a rest, Isaac. I want to deliver you to Joseph alive.”

He shrugged off the harness and clambered back into
the cart, sat on the floor, and then, feeling faint, let his head drop between his knees. He had to put his plan of escape into effect before he lost all his strength. But for that he needed food.

Assunta handed him a flask of water and he drank deeply. The cool water trickled down his neck and dripped onto his torn shirt.

A few minutes later, heading toward the harbour, away from the rocking cart, he spied a wagon a few paces away piled high with rutabagas speckled with soil. He was about to steal one off the back and devour it raw. The driver’s attention was on beating his poor spavined horse.

Just then Assunta announced, “I think this is the best place to find Joseph. He always stops here about this time of day.” She pointed to the courtyard of the tavern, where men sat drinking and jostling one another on long, narrow benches. Isaac dragged the cart into the courtyard and hung the harness on the limb of a tree. While the sun beat down on them, Assunta scanned the road for Joseph.

Before long, Joseph and another man approached leading a horse dragging a travois heaped with canvas and oak casks. The Sister strode in their direction, pulling Isaac along behind her. Joseph, stocky, his gold tooth again catching the light of the sun, appeared mellower than the cocky bully Isaac had encountered at the auction yesterday.

He was talking to his companion. “Giorgio, I want her, but she does not know I am alive.”

The man leading the horse looked enough like Joseph to be his brother. He wore rough breeches and a stained
cotton shirt; his hair was matted and hardly a spot of him was not covered in dirt and candle grease.

Giorgio muttered to Joseph, “You are bewitched. Do you not know that one female is very like another? This one is turning you into a love-struck calf.”

Joseph clutched a basket of grapes and oranges under one arm. The smell of sun-warmed oranges drifted over to Isaac. The grapes were a deep purple with a blush of wild yeast. Joseph was a swine, a killer of slaves, a boor, a lout, and a
Judenfresser
, but Isaac had never wanted anything so much as he wanted that basket of fruit. He longed to sink his teeth into an orange, pull it apart section by section, and feel the juice run down his chin. He wanted to bite the grapes and separate the seeds from the skin with his lips and tongue and taste the sweetness.

Joseph looked at Isaac and then at Assunta. A slow grin spread over his face. “So the Jew is not so easily converted, Sister? What will you do with him now? Take him to the water’s edge and feed him to the frigate birds?”

“Sell him back to you. I need my fifteen
scudi.”

Joseph laughed. “No chance of that. Besides, my memory tells me it was ten.”

“Ten from me and five from that woman in the crowd.”

“You are too late. I took your advice and bought that Nubian you recommended. I have already resold him to the captain of the
Madre de Dios
, embarking today for Cyrus. I made a handsome profit.”