The Midwife of Venice (18 page)

When Hector said nothing more and the silence grew worryingly long, Isaac said, “What of my fate? Have you fixed on the price of my freedom? What value do the Knights place on the head of this homesick merchant?”

“I should warn you that there has been a difficulty.” Hector waved his hands, slim with long tapered fingers,
as though to fan himself, although the day was not warm. “Allow me to begin by saying that the Society is most sympathetic to your suffering.”

Isaac nodded.

“However, this past winter,” Hector continued, “a shipload of seventy-five Jews, men, women, and children, were captured while sailing to Salonika. The Society ransomed and returned each and every one to their families.”

Isaac’s knee had taken on a life of its own and would not stop bobbing up and down. He clasped his hands around it to steady it. “I am happy to hear it.” But he was not happy. He was wondering why Hector’s eyes refused to meet his. “The Society is carrying out its duties, as it should. But what of my own release?”

“Before we get to that …” Hector withdrew from under his arm a blue velvet sack embroidered with Hebrew letters and handed it to Isaac. “I have brought you a prayer shawl, a yarmulke, and phylacteries. Use them well. They were difficult to obtain.”

“Thank you, Hector. You are kind. But what I really want is to leave this island. Do I have a chance?” He had bathed in the sea yesterday to rid his body of lice so at least he would not get his new
tallis
lousy.

“I will put it as plainly as I know how. The treasury of the Society is empty. There is not a
scudo
for your release. The Salonika incident was without precedent.”

Isaac wished Hector would look at him so he could read his face. “Yes, I understand—more delays. But when will negotiations begin? What is the convention? I presume
buying the life of a Jew is no different from buying a bolt of silk or a sack of pepper. You ask the Knights their price. You pretend to be outraged. They reduce their price a little, then dicker, dicker, dicker, back and forth and”—Isaac snapped his fingers—“soon an amount is agreed upon that makes both parties wretched.”

“I do not think you comprehend my meaning. There can be no negotiating if there is no money.” Hector looked at him now. “Quite simply, the milk cow is dry.”

Isaac tried to still his mind. “But a cow can be freshened. The Society is experiencing a temporary shortage of funds. I understand. But every merchant pays a tariff into the Society’s coffers every time a ship leaves the port of Venice with Jews aboard. In time, the ducats will accrue.”

Hector leaned over and placed a hand on Isaac’s shoulder. “Yes, that is how the Society is funded, but it will be several years before it has the money to pay your ransom.” Hector picked up a willow twig from the ground, evidently reluctant to say more.

“Of course I knew my release would not happen overnight, but I did not expect this.” Isaac rose to his feet. “Hector, look at me. I am sitting on the bones of my arse. For the moment, I have managed to persuade my owner not to send me to my death as a galley slave. The Society is my only hope of getting off this godforsaken island. I have managed to keep myself alive through my tongue, my wits, and my pen, but I have no reserves of flesh and grow weaker every day.” Isaac cast his eyes around the bleak square in which they sat, horse- and mule-driven
carts kicking up dust, leaving steaming piles of excrement behind. “Although its coffers may be empty, maybe the Society can find other sources. I am not without friends. Perhaps a private benefactor could be persuaded to help.” Isaac waited for Hector’s reply.

Sympathy softened Hector’s face. “I have inquired, but I am told it is not possible.” He toyed with a stick, scratching it in the ground. Hector knew more than he was revealing, Isaac thought.

“
Mio bueno amico
, getting information from you is like my wife’s work, dragging unwilling babies from their mothers’ wombs.” He wished Hector would cease tormenting the ground with his willow stick. It made a nasty sound. “Who are you dealing with at the Society? Mordacai Modena, my fellow Ashkenazi?” Modena was a peasant fit for nothing but raising carp in tubs of stagnant water. Isaac tried to stop talking so Hector could speak, but he found that while desperation may have broken his spirit, it had also loosened his tongue. “Is he putting up obstacles?”

“It is not Modena.” Hector glanced at his horse, munching grass a few feet away, as though he would like to be on his way. “It is a cruel fact. There is no more money and will not be for years. I am sorry for you.” Hector rose and brushed his hat before placing it on his head. “I will bring you food from time to time. I will come again to visit you. It is the best I can offer.” He straightened his breeches and adjusted the front of his shirt. “I will be off. Will you help me onto my horse?”

They walked over to the mare. Flies had gathered around
her eyes. Isaac bent, laced his hands together, and offered them to Hector, who placed a foot in Isaac’s hand. With an upward thrust, Isaac gave Hector a boost up onto the horse’s back. Hector settled himself in the saddle. He slid his narrow feet into the stirrups and gathered up his reins.

“Goodbye, Isaac.”

“Thank you for your visit,” Isaac muttered, as Hector rode away.

When the man and his mare were out of sight, Isaac gave himself over to rage, cursing the God who had abandoned him. His last hope was gone. He might as well throw himself into the sea. Better a fast death than a slow starvation. If he failed to deliver Gertrudis’s heart to Joseph, he would be on the next galley to leave port. Even if he succeeded in wooing the woman for that oaf, what was gained? He would have his freedom but no passage off the island.

He paced the square, picking up rocks at random and hurling them at a tree. When one ricocheted and hit him in the leg, Isaac decided to strap on the phylacteries. Facing toward Jerusalem, he bowed back and forth, davening in prayer. It was all he had left. What was the point of railing at God?

T
HERE WAS NO NEED
for Hannah’s heart to be pounding so. Jacopo and Niccolò would not harm the child. In this palazzo, each room bigger than any
loghetto
in the ghetto, staffed by dozens of servants, Matteo was safe. The only peril this cosseted noble child faced was from being overindulged.

But where in this vast palace could he be? She went to the window to see if the di Padovani gondola was still in sight. It was no longer there. She would search for him on the ground floor. Perhaps Giovanna had taken him. Or perhaps a cook or a housemaid was giving Matteo suck to give Giovanna respite. Hannah would find the child, assure
herself that all was well, and then quickly take her leave to avoid running into the two brothers.

A terrible thought occurred to her. Had Lucia’s mind become so unhinged that she had harmed the child? Hannah thought of the incident of the silversmith’s wife who smothered her baby. She dismissed the thought from her mind. Lucia was ill and weak, but not mad.

Hannah had paused, about to descend the stairs, when she heard footsteps and the low murmur of male voices. Two figures appeared at the far end of the hallway. She thought of racing down the stairs herself, but realized she could not reach the bottom before they spotted her.

There was a niche midway along the corridor, just before the staircase, where a pair of heavy damask curtains hung. Slipping into the semicircular alcove, she pulled the drapery closed, waiting for the men to pass. In the alcove was a statue of the Virgin and Child. The Virgin’s knee pressed into Hannah’s hip as she tried to make herself smaller. She wriggled behind the statue, closer to the wall, but no matter how she squirmed, her hip protruded into the hallway, outlined by the damask curtain. There was no helping it. Into the folded hands of the Virgin, she thrust her bag with the birthing spoons and ducats. Taking a deep breath, she clasped the statue around the waist, curved her body to squeeze behind it, and pressed her face into the Madonna’s marble lap. The marble was as cold as canal water in winter; she shivered and fought the impulse to pull away, but she could not without exposing herself to view.

Through a slight parting of the curtains, she watched Jacopo and Niccolò sneak along the corridor. Niccolò was holding a bundle in his arms. He stumbled, cursed quietly, and nearly dropped what he was carrying. Before they reached her recess, she nudged the drapes into place with her knee. As they passed, she could smell Jacopo’s eau de cologne and Niccolò’s sweat. Her heart beat so loudly she was afraid they would hear. She listened as they descended the staircase.

When she could no longer hear their footsteps, she grabbed her bag from the Virgin’s hands, pushed her way out from behind the statue, and began to make her way down the stairs, clutching the stone balustrade to steady herself. As she hurried, Hannah listened for the sound of a baby’s wail, but all she heard was her own harsh breathing and the sound of their retreating footsteps.

When she reached the ground floor, which comprised the warehouse for the family business, she lost sight of the two men. She peered into the darkness, unsure which way to go. Then she heard a squeal. She recognized the noise—the terrified shriek of a baby.

The cry came from the other end of the warehouse, where the boats unloaded cargo for storage. A pine torch in a holder on the wall hissed and sputtered. Silhouetted against the rectangular opening to the loading dock was a familiar dark, cloaked figure. She squatted behind a barrel for fear he would spot her. But he turned toward the doorway to the canal and adjusted his purchase on the bundle in his arms. Several barrels lined the side of the wall. She
crouched behind one and then another and then another, working her way closer. There was no sign of Jacopo.

Though dusk had fallen and the light was receding, there was just enough illumination to make out the prominent nose and curly hair of Niccolò. He was making ready to get into a gondola. The bundle in his arms began to cry, and Niccolò placed his open hand over the child’s nose and mouth and held it there, then stepped into the gondola. As the boat listed under his weight, he placed Matteo in the cabin. Then he took up the oar and pushed the boat away from the loading dock.

Hannah looked around, hoping to see a manservant, but there was no one, not even a night porter. And there was no time to race upstairs to summon help. Who was left to help her anyway, with the Conte and Contessa gone? The boat glided over the dark water toward the middle of the Grand Canal. Niccolò was leaving with the child!

She felt a stab of fear. It was dangerous for a Jew to be abroad after sunset. It was even more hazardous for a woman alone. But she had to act. Running out of the palazzo, she turned toward the canal, hoping to intercept the gondola. But by the time she reached the
calle
, the boat was disappearing into the distance, Niccolò at the stern.

Hitching up her skirts, she darted after the gondola, shoving aside the few passers-by still on the streets. The tide was high; the street sloshed with water. Her sandals grew soggy and heavy. Stopping for a moment, she wrenched them off, thrust them into her bag, and resumed her chase. A barge pulled out in front of Niccolò’s gondola, forcing
him to put up his oar for a moment, allowing her to shorten the distance that separated them. She ran on, the sweat trickling off her body, sidestepping a handcart carrying fruit. Now the gondola was in motion again, moving effortlessly along the Grand Canal fifty paces ahead of her. After the bend in the canal, it turned north into the Rio San Marcuola. If the gondola continued in this direction, she did not have a hope of catching it. Niccolò would reach the open waters of the lagoon and the islands of Murano, Burano, and Torcello.

The Fondamenta was slippery with refuse and water, and she had to slow her pace or risk skidding to her knees. She tried to guess his destination. Could he be heading to the Arsenale, the enormous ship-building yard? Or the Castello docks, the poor area populated by ship workers? But no, both of those places lay in the opposite direction. Then, just as she was about to give up hope in her foot chase, the gondola slowed in front of the Church of San Marcuola. It veered and Niccolò ducked his head as his boat passed under a bridge. She was near enough now to have heard the baby’s cry echoing across the water, but she heard nothing.

Niccolò turned west at the Rio di San Girolamo, and then at the Calle Ormesini, where he docked the gondola and tossed a line around a mooring pole. Hannah ducked behind a pillar as he disembarked.

Night fog was settling over Venice, making it impossible for Hannah to see if Matteo was concealed under Niccolò’s cloak or if he had left the baby in the gondola. Niccolò
strode along the
calle
. Hannah let him get several paces ahead of her before she set off.

By now Matteo should have whimpered from hunger or a soiled diaper, but no sound issued from beneath Niccolò’s cloak. She drew closer. Just as she convinced herself that the baby was abandoned on the boat or dead, Niccolò stumbled on a mooring cleat, cursed, and fell to one knee. The jostling must have startled Matteo, for a tiny foot slipped out from under his blanket and she heard a cry.