The Rossetti Letter (v5) (22 page)

21 January 1618

S
URELY IT MUST
be called for what it was: madness. What Antonio had seen of Venice during Carnival, in the two days since he’d returned, convinced him that everyone in the city was possessed by folly. Masks disguised true identities, from the lowest servant to the highest noble, and Venice was alive with music and a thousand gambols: balls and comedies, gondola races, jousts and combats, goose catching and bull baiting. The three-month celebration drew people from all parts of the world, and the variety of costume, custom, and complexion was greater than he’d ever seen, even during his years in Sicily. The entire city had been transformed into an open-air bazaar: at every corner, mountebanks peddled their medicines in a dozen different tongues; sellers of beads and lace and glassware could be found in all the squares; foodstuffs of every sort were offered from booths or by vendors wandering the streets.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Alessandra asked as they stood near the base of the Campanile on the Piazza San Marco.

Amazing was a tame word for it, Antonio thought. The Piazza looked as if it had been taken over by a throng of fools. The square was full of masked merrymakers, puppeteers, rope dancers, musicians, jugglers, gamblers, almanac makers and fortune-tellers, whose tables were set with globes and conjuring books. He watched as a soothsayer held up a long, tin pipe to whisper his augury into the ear of a curious monk.

“No need to answer, I can see that you’re astonished,” she went on.

“As astonished as you were when I arrived at your house this morning?”

“Maybe not as astonished as all that,” Alessandra admitted.

Her gentle laughter provoked a strange sensation in Antonio’s chest. He hadn’t planned on seeing her again, but as soon as his errand was done, he’d found himself at her door. As he looked at Alessandra, he realized how often he’d thought of her, how he’d compared every woman he’d seen to her and found them all wanting. Even so, his memory hadn’t done justice to her loveliness.

“Just how did you come to be in Venice again, by the way?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“You will not tell me?”

“Does it matter?” To tell her that he was once more a messenger for Ossuna, relaying letters between the duke and the marquis, seemed a confession that was beneath his dignity. And truly, it was better if she did not know of the communication between the two. Her suspicions had been aroused the last time.

“I see. No more questions, then,” Alessandra said. “Let us continue with our tour. So far, you’ve seen the Rialto and the Merceria; now we stand at the very heart of Venice. Our renowned Basilica famously houses the remains of our patron, St. Mark, cleverly smuggled from Muslim lands in a basket of pork. It’s also home to other relics sure to delight the faithful, including a small ampula of our Blessed Savior’s blood, a goodly sized piece of the true cross, a part of St. Luke’s arm, one of St. Stephen’s ribs, and a finger once belonging to Mary Magdalene.”

“Almost enough to build another saint, it would seem.”

“The marble columns at the entrance to the Piazzetta were brought from Constantinople almost four hundred and fifty years ago and were erected by an engineer named Nicolò Baratieri. For his service to the city, Baratieri was granted rights to set up gaming tables, which as you can see are still there. And just above that is where criminals are executed—a gibbet is strung between the columns.”

“You’re clearly a learned guide, but there’s no need to go on about that.”

“The gibbet is for the common criminal,” Alessandra continued, blithely ignoring him, “but high on the Campanile is a cage reserved for the punishment of wicked priests, where some have been confined and made to live on bread and water for weeks at a time. When I was a child, there was one such up there—I believe he became quite an attraction for visitors. There was even a popular song about him, ‘The Lament of Father Augustine.’ My brother and I used to sing it quite a lot, to the consternation of my father. It was a terrible, cruel song about how he was wasting away, but we thought it very funny. Soon after that, ‘The Lament of Father Augustine’s Woman’ became even more popular. I recall it was most concerned with a particular pleasure she missed while her lover was strung up in that cage—quite scandalous. My father absolutely forbade us to sing that one.”

“The true scandal is how Venice treats its priests,” Antonio teased her. “When I leave here, I’m going directly to Rome to advise the pope to excommunicate the entire Republic once again.”

“Another interdict? The Great Council will simply ignore it, as they did before, and order the priests to continue celebrating Mass in spite of the ban. There is a well-known story about a priest who was not sure, during the interdict, whether his loyalty lay with Venice or with Rome, and so announced that he would not perform the sacraments until he received inspiration from the Holy Ghost. He was immediately informed that the Holy Ghost had already inspired the Council of Ten to hang anyone who disobeyed them.”

“More proof, I should say, of your irreverent city. Not that more proof is necessary.” A group of revelers pushed past them, laughing and screeching. “This is like being in a house of lunatics.”

“Would you like to go elsewhere?”

“Yes.”

Alessandra’s gaze alighted on a row of food stalls. “Shall we dine on the lagoon?”

On the unprotected shore the air was brisk, but the solitude and tranquility of the small island was a welcome change. Antonio and Alessandra sat on a sun-warmed spit of sand not far from where the water gently lapped at the island’s edge. The gondolier Antonio had hired that morning stayed in his craft, looking out at the nearby island of Giudecca. Gondoliers must spend a great deal of time in their boats, Antonio thought, wondering how they occupied themselves when they weren’t rowing. No sooner had the thought occurred to him than the gondolier provided an answer: he plumped a few cushions and lay back for a well-deserved nap.

“This seems a charmed place,” Antonio said as Alessandra unwrapped the packages of food, revealing a roasted capon, sardines with lemon and herbs, a loaf of bread, a plum tart. A strand of hair blew across her bare face—they’d both removed their masks as soon as they were out on the lagoon—and he stifled an urge to brush it away.

“When I was a child, I used to come here with my brother and my cousins,” she said.

“Not anymore?”

“My cousins moved to Padua some years ago.”

Antonio remembered the sad fate of her father and brother. “Do you have any other family here?”

“No.” She untied the narrow leather case she wore at her waist and took out a set of cutlery. “I hope you don’t object to sharing,” she said, handing him a knife.

“Not at all. Your mother is gone also?” Antonio asked. “Or perhaps you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No, I don’t mind. It was a long time ago, or so it seems. She died when I was eight, in childbed. I witnessed it. I guess they thought because I was a girl I should know what birth was like, but it was terrifying. The child was breach, and my mother was frail—both she and the baby died. When you were here last, you asked me why I had no children. I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I take precautions because I am afraid of being with child.”

“Understandable, given your experience,” Antonio said. “Dare I ask, while you are so unguarded, if you are partial to the life you lead?”

“There are worse fates than becoming a courtesan. I never cared much about being married, like other girls. I think that in some ways I am deficient—I have never loved, in the romantic sense. So perhaps the life I have chosen is best.” She tore a piece off the loaf of bread and offered it to him. “And you? Do you have a family?”

“Three older sisters, all well married. But I have not seen them these nine years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yes,” Antonio agreed, though he did not explain.

“Have you a wife or mistress?”

Why was she asking? He gave Alessandra a sidelong glance, but her expression was as disinterested as ever. “Like you, I cannot love,” he admitted. “For I know it only as the prelude to disaster.”

“But how can that be?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I like long stories.”

Antonio paused. In the past nine years, he’d not told anyone this tale. He had a sudden, vivid memory of his father, his mother, of the ancient oak tree that stood on a rise just outside his childhood home. Alessandra made him think of things he had not thought about in a long time, things he didn’t necessarily want to think about, but he pushed aside his misgivings and began.

“When I was sixteen, I bested my father at swordplay,” Antonio said. “He realized then that he had no more to teach me, and so arranged for my tutelage with Don Gaspar Ortiz y Vega de la Vasquez. He lived on the other side of Utrillo, the main town in my family’s fiefdom. I had to ride two miles to the town, then another four miles past, then through a grove of walnut trees to get to his house.

“Don Gaspar was a successful sword master. He had helped train the king’s guard, and he had written a treatise on sword fighting that was very popular in Spain. He had been away for many years, then come back to Navarre with his daughter. His small estate was approached by a gravel path that came out of the walnut grove and widened into a clearing where the house stood. It was a fine house of rose-colored stone, with a large arch at the center that led to an inner courtyard, and four large windows and balconies spaced along the second floor.

“The first day, when I rode out of the walnut grove into the clearing, I looked up to see a figure standing at one of the center windows. It was a girl, very solemn, staring down at me. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. I sat there on my horse, forgetting everything else, not moving, just staring at her for what seemed a long time. She was so beautiful, and yet if I describe her, you might say there was nothing so special about her: she had black hair, and rosy lips, and dark eyes that were uncommonly still and deep. What made her truly beautiful were her ears. Her hair was pulled back, so I could see them clearly, small and perfectly formed, like delicate shells. She was like a rare creature one seldom sees, reminding me of a doe I’d once come across in the forest. She had that same gentle, serious expression, as if I’d surprised her, but also as if she’d been expecting me. And she was equally skittish, for she suddenly stepped back from the window and disappeared from my sight.

“And just as well, as Don Gaspar had appeared in the courtyard and was striding toward me. He was older than I’d expected, with gray hair and a small, neat gray beard, but very trim and fit. He had an elegant manner, precise in its courtesy, and he was always attendant to the correct forms of address. He greeted me and showed me into the studio, which we entered from the courtyard. I could hardly hear a word he said, could hardly speak, because of the vision I’d seen.

“But as we began the lessons, I came to my senses. How hard I fought, thinking that she might be somewhere nearby, watching. How I suffered every time I made the slightest mistake, fearful that she had witnessed my ineptitude! It was glorious and terrible. Every time I rallied against my master, I felt a triumph unlike any other I’d ever known; and when I failed, I experienced such despair, as though I would never be happy again. Of course I did not know, on that first day, that Don Gaspar was going easy on me as he developed a sense of my skill and level of training, or that my new master had an inexhaustible supply of moves and feints, more than I could ever hope to learn. Thank the heavens for my ignorance; if I’d known how easily he could best me, I might never have come back. Or perhaps I should curse my ignorance, for if I had never gone back…” Antonio paused as his eyes clouded over, then shook his head and continued.

“This went on for months. Each day as I arrived, I would see her standing at the window, and all through my lessons I would be aware of her presence somewhere in the house, but never see her; she never came back to the window as I was leaving. I learned her name, Ephegenia, and I would find myself saying it over and over, savoring it in my mouth like a taste I could not get enough of. Sunday, when I had no lessons, was torture; I spent the whole day practicing in secret, waiting only for Monday to arrive. I grew jealous of any others who took lessons with Don Gaspar, jealous that they might see her and love her as I did. I began to despair. Some days I thought I was in love with a vision, not a woman, for although I spent almost every afternoon with Don Gaspar, he never once mentioned his daughter to me.

“After I had been his student for many months, he invited me and my family to his house for a Sunday supper. To celebrate and acknowledge my superior skill, he said. I was surprised because Don Gaspar could still best me; but he insisted that I was his finest pupil, and that my family should be proud of me. You can imagine how excited I was. Surely, on an occasion such as that, I would meet Ephegenia, we would be formally introduced.

“The great day arrived, and with my family I joined Don Gaspar in his home. But when Ephegenia was presented to me, she offered nothing more than the brief, polite comments she’d given to my parents and my sisters. For the rest of the afternoon, she did not speak to me or even look at me. By the time we left, I was devastated. I realized that I had only imagined the feelings she had for me. I thought I’d seen something in her eyes, as she looked down at me from her window, only to discover that it had been a boy’s folly. I wasn’t certain that I would ever recover from my own foolishness.