The Wolves of Venice Page 7

  Book Two

  And so the gods weave their tricks and follies around us.

  I’m thinking back and my hand is aching from writing. In the past it would have troubled me when I ground the paint for Tintoretto, or beat the oil – beat the oil! Titian would have none of that ‘Only a fool beats oil, it breaks the soul inside.’ I used to muse about that. Did the revered Supremo mean that stirring too quickly destroyed the soul of the oil, or the soul of the man who was doing the beating?

  Titian would have been around fifty then, Pietro Aretino his closest confidante. Rumours circulated around Venice that the writer must have some hold on the artist, for, after all, Titian had no need for the likes of Aretino. But strangely they were friends, perhaps the painter liked the greasy dirt that flavoured Aretino’s conversation.

  Perhaps his wit and wickedness inspired his painting, certainly Titian had no fear of him and even employed him to act as his agent overseas. But then again, Titian had been born in Pieve di Cadore, a true Venetian, and so a master manipulator, perceptive enough to realise that even the most dangerous of men need one ally.

  Ira was not a dangerous man, nor was I. Our friendship was new, unforced, as unexpected and simple as two lambs born to the same ewe. If I am honest – and I must be so, later it will become more difficult – but if I am honest now I will say that I was fascinated by the whole allure of his being a Jew.

  Venice was a magnificent aberration, blindingly beautiful, obscenely wealthy, full off the juiciest, carnal whores and the most villainous opportunists. As a Republic, entire of ourselves, we welcomed ambitious, scurrilous adventurers; we accepted merchants and traders of all nationalities and skin tone, bringing their skills and full pockets to sell or buy. No one cared with whom they traded. Just that trade was done. The day began with trade and the day ended with trade.

  Yes, we were a city without prejudice - and yet the Republic feared the Jews. Admired their business acumen, their medical skill, their legal aptitude, but feared them none the less. So when my father – who had, of course, recovered – heard of my burgeoning friendship with Ira Tabat, Jew from the ghetto, I was summoned.

  His study looked out over the Lagoon, a statue of a bronze warrior with a spear holding court in the square bay of the window. I used to fear it as a child, wonder if - one day – at my father’s command - he would throw the spear at me.

  “A matter has been brought to my attention which angers me.” There had been no greeting, no tiny intimation of affection, his loathing was unwavering and constant. “I do not approve of your association with this Jew —”

  “Ira,” I said evenly. “His name is Ira Tabat.”

  My father swatted away the words. “ – I expect little of you, but surely even you are aware of the importance of your position. You are my heir,” he paused, the word was salt on his tongue. “… and as such, should choose your associates wisely.”

  “But you know him, father. Ira is the doctor who restored you to health. He is very well respected in Venice –

  “— as a dottore I do not doubt his ability, but as a friend of the heir of one of the richest families in Venice, he is not suitable.” He shook his head, his face was pinched with irritation, his eyes averted. My presence, as ever, was galling to him. “You are not a boy any longer, and a man must be more circumspect.”

  Behind the statue the clouds shifted, the sun obscured, a black shadow pooling over the marble floor. I glanced down, watching the shadow slide like a counter over the cold surface. The previous night I had dreamed of my mother for the first time in many years, had heard her choking in my room and seen her shadow swinging from the poster of my bed.

  You cannot know someone you never knew.

  Yet I knew her.

  She visited me

  When she wanted to see her child.

  At night, without even one candle burning.

  I would know her then.

  “… Well, have you been to the ghetto?”

  Snapped out of my memory, I gazed at my father in surprise. Who had told him I had even been there? Who had spied on me?

  “Yes,” I admitted finally. “I have been to visit Ira’s family.”

  “Vergognoso!” he slammed his hands on the desk. “Disgraceful!”

  His anger tempered mine, my voice composed. “How did you know I’d been to the ghetto, father? Have you set spies on me?”

  “I do not wish to be made familiar with how you spend your time —”

  “And yet you have me spied upon.”

  He ignored my interruption.” — God knows, your life is not virtuous.”

  “How would you know that if you were not spying on me?”

  “I do not have to answer to you! If I had a choice, I would limit speaking, thinking, or even seeing you. But you are my son and I prefer your visiting women – however dubious in character – to this ill judged company.”

  “So you would prefer my fucking a woman to eating with a Jew?”

  “You have eaten with them!” he countered, raging.

  “Yes, and they have welcomed me.”

  “I should think they would, the son of Jacopo Gianetti —”

  “Should that impress them, father? Do you think the ghetto dwellers know the niceties of Venetian bloodlines?”

  His mouth closed so tightly the lips became purple. I realised then how lonely my mother would have been - and how wretched the life of her short lived successor.

  “If you continue this friendship I will be forced to keep you here until you come to your senses.”

  I laughed. Yes, laughed.

  “You would imprison me, father? There would be little difference to my life. The Gianetti restraints would rival that of the Inquisition. I have been watched over and reported upon since birth - and the death of my mother”

  He flinched, the reminder as savage as a razor cut.

  “Your mother will not be mentioned it this house!” he said, his tone dangerous. “I have warned you not speak of her —”

  But I had the razor in my hand and I used it.

  “Why can I not talk of my own mother?”

  “Because you killed her.”

  “No,” I said mercilessly, “she killed herself.”

  As I said it the sun glided out from behind the bronze warrior and loomed into the room. It threw an aura around my father’s seated figure. Outlined his narrow head and counted out the fingers of his left hand. And under its heartless light I saw the fleck of spittle at the corner of his mouth and the vein thrumming at the left side of his neck.

  If he could have died in that moment to punish me he would have done.

  But he didn’t.

  And I wish he had.

  For my father didn’t know it then, but he would live to see me punish him far more.

  Chapter Ten

  Castilano shop

  St Marks Square, Venice

  The brocade was heavier than she had expected, lusciously embroidered with gold and silver thread, the trimming sable and at the back a lacing of ribbons intertwined with seed pearls. Absurdly opulent and difficult to wear, but then no Venetian matron would be renting such a gown; it was made for a courtesan to wear only temporarily.

  She flipped up the skirt and examined the silk petticoats. In the past she had been fooled by a garment that appeared to be in pristine condition, only to find a blood stain, or a urine mark, underneath. Marina scowled, although not a judgemental woman, she despised slatternly people and had, on a few occasions, banned male customers from renting clothes. One instance still irked her, a pair of breeches returned with vomit in one of the pockets.

  Shaking her head, Marina turned to her latest acquisition. She had bought a kimono from a Japanese merchant, a trader new to Venice, and had placed it in her window on display. Her rivals, she thought with satisfaction, would be outflanked and envious. And to guarantee that the salt was rubbed deep into the wound, she would ensure that the person who rented the garment was someone of importance. Fo
r in Venice, the garment was secondary to its wearer. The most exquisite gown or doublet would mean little on a porcine merchant, or a doughy faced Contessa.

  Marina had always known this, just as she had always instinctively obtained the finest garments in the latest fashions. When she first came to Venice she had suffered from her rivals jealousy. Clothes were rented secretly by dealers’ cohorts and returned soiled. Or she was outbid, gowns and trimmings meant for the Castilano shop being stolen, or redesigned. But Marina was a businesswoman and realised that the finest advert for her shop and the quickest way to her fortune was to choice her customers. She was the only one in Venice who would refuse to loan a garment to a person who would fail to do it justice. Every one of her clothes would find its ideal wearer, the stature and the personality dovetailing to make an entrance for the gossips to gawp at, whilst also bringing further clients to her shop.

  As Marina had hoped the kimono had drawn immediate interest - but from the most unlikely source, Adamo Baptista. Confounded that the sombre Florentine would wish to rent the exotic garment, Marina had offered her professional advice.

  “It is remarkable, Signor Baptista, but too small for a man of your impressive stature.”

  He regarded her without answering, then made a small movement with his head. Immediately a youth had entered from the street and stood beside him.

  “Signor Baptista?”

  “I would like you to try this garment on.” He had explained, then nodded to Marina. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

  In contrast to Baptista’s raven like attire, he was dressed in an azure blue doublet and hose, the sleeves ruched, the collar boasting an intricate, beaded ruff. And above the ruff an ivory, mask like visage gazed at her; its only animation a pair of densely black, oblique eyes.

  “This is Signor Nikolas Volt,” Baptista introduced the youth, “he has come from Germany to be my secretary.” As Marina wondered at the young man’s heritage, Baptista – in his usual manner of pre-empting a person’s next thought – continued. “Signor Volt’s mother was Japanese, and his father German. You see why this garment would be suitable for him?”

  It was perfectly suitable, and it suited him perfectly, Volt’s ivory hair and skin a startling contrast to the crimson of the kimono, his black eyes complimenting the ebony designs stitched onto the silk. He had slid into the garment like a child into a warm bath, and it had responded to his elegance. Baptista had then informed Marina that the kimono would be worn the following evening, when he and Nikolas Volt would be attending a concert at the Doge’s Palace.

  Marina smiled in anticipation of the coming triumph, dragging herself out of her daydream and bending down to gather up several pairs of shoes bound for the storage room below. The area was used to house the articles that were to be refashioned – or privately sold on – and also served as a makeshift bedroom for the maid. Indeed it had been where Gabriella Russo had slept.

  Marina glanced over. The girl’s straw palette was still by the wall, the cheap wooden cross hanging above it... Of course she and her sister and searched, but all Gabriella’s belongings had disappeared with her and it seemed that despite Barent der Witt’s anxiety to discover where she was, Gabriella had not been found...

  That was the way with some young girls, Marina thought, there was little appeal in being a servant and small likelihood of catching the eye of a suitor in a shop run by two unmarried women. Moving past the bed, Marina headed for the shelving at the far end of the narrow room. There were already over five dozen pairs of shoes piled up, and she was adding the new ones to a high shelf when something caught her attention. Surprised, she pushed the nearest shoes aside to see more clearly, then paused.

  They had been hidden well. Unseen in the days since Gabriella had disappeared.

  Warily Marina drew out the shoes. Shoes she knew. Shoes familiar to her. Women’s shoes, unadorned work shoes. The shoes she had seen Gabriella wear.

  The tops were unmarked, but the soles were stiff with blood. No longer fresh, but the colour of dead meat.

  Chapter Eleven

  Adamo Baptista gestured for the man to come closer to the table, putting out his hands for the pack of cards. Taking them out of their silk wrapping, he then studied them at length, admiring the gilded round edges, the hand ornamented face cards and the extravagantly painted Pucchinello jokers.

  With an expert’s skill, he began to shuffle.

  “S'il vous plaît, monsieur!” the merchant cried. “soyez prudent!”

  Baptista paused and looked at the rotund little Frenchman.

  “Lauret...” His expression was bland, but his eyes were hostile. “... are you telling me how to handle cards? A gambler used to most of the gaming houses in Europe.”

  “No, monsieur!” the short man blundered, his neck flushing. “I would not dare to give my opinion —”

  “But you just have.” Baptista replied, slowly shuffling again. “Who is your best customer?”

  “You are, monsieur.”

  “And when you sold me a pack of cards that you swore were from Russia, did I pay well for them?” he paused, waited for the little Frenchman to answer.

  “Oui…”

  “Even when later you confessed they were faked in England?”

  “But I did not know they were forged! I only discovered that later when the merchant was flogged and confessed. He was a villain, he fooled many, you must believe that I had no part of his villainy.” He was sweating, a foot smaller than Baptista, his striped silk tunic marked under the arms. “You cannot trust some of the traders —”

  “So it would seem.”

  “ –on my life, I would never cheat you.”

  “You hold your existence cheap.”

  “If I was trying to trick you, monsieur, would I risk coming to you again?” Lauret wailed. “I wanted to bring you something unique. This is pack is magnificent!”

  “But the last one proved fake. So how can I be sure you are telling me the truth now?”

  Lauret was scared, and confused. “Because I am! Because I know, I know they are genuine. There is only one pack of their kind in Venice and it was painted by a pupil of Bellini. The gilding around the corners is perfectly uniform and the faces of the major cards are layered with lapis lazuli and onyx.”

  Baptista shrugged “Which would make them cumbersome to shuffle or deal.”

  “No, the layers are sliced finer than a bee’s wing. No would know they were even there unless they examined the cards under a microscope...”

  “A gambler would know. A cheat would know.” Baptista replied, shuffling rhythmically. “An expert at gilet would feel the subtle difference, a cheat would sense the ‘bee’s wing’” he paused, fingering the cards. “ ... to him it would feel like a paving stone.”

  “Monsieur, please, no more shuffling.” Lauret reached out for the cards but Baptista stepped back, still shuffling, the gilt edges blurring into a gold Catherine wheel as the Frenchman continued helplessly. “...They are very delicate and worth a duke’s ransom.”

  “And worthless if damaged?”

  Lauret nodded, unable to trust his voice. Then Baptista, in one quick movement, flung the entire deck into the little man’s face.

  Crying out, the Frenchman fell to his knees, scrabbling for the cards, his podgy hands grabbing at them as they scattered on the tiled floor.

  “Don’t ever…” Baptista said, lifting his foot and pushing the little man over. “…try to fool me again.” His boot rested on the Frenchman’s arse. “Or I will ruin your trade and have you imprisoned —”

  “But I have done nothing! I’m not lying, I am innocent.”

  “Then you are the only man in Venice who is.”

  Lauret was close to tears, gathering the cards tenderly in his hands, mortally afraid of the Florentine and of his reputation. People spoke of Adamo Baptista’s cruelty, but without citing events; they murmured about his spying for Aretino and how he kept the fat pornographer fed with scandal. But what scandal, no o
ne knew. Venice buzzed with hearsay, Baptista a man feared by reputation. A thief, a murderer - who knew for sure?

  And the mystery made him all the more dangerous.

  With effort, Lauret struggled back to his feet. “How can I make this right, monsieur? Tell me, and I will do it.”

  “I heard that you sell goods to the Castilano shop.”

  He nodded. “Yes, yes! They have bought trimmings from me, and tassels from Seville —”

  “There was a girl who worked there. A maid. Her name was Gabriella Russo. She’s missing —”

  “This has nothing to do with me, monsieur! I know nothing! —”

  Baptista drew in a slow breath. “You must stop lying to me, Lauret, it becomes tedious. You say you know nothing, and yet you knew this girl, didn’t you?” Baptista paused, watching the Frenchman squirm. “I heard that you took a liking to her. I heard you met with her after work, walked with her.”

  “It was innocent! There was nothing wrong in it... She reminded me of my daughter.”

  “And of course for a man so far from home a reminder of a loved one is priceless.” Baptista’s tone seemed almost sympathetic. “The authorities are not interested in a missing maid, but if she was known to be fucking a French trader, a proven thief, you could find yourself in jail, suspected of being involved with her disappearance —”

  “But —”

  “—and some might feel that justice had been served if I handed you over. The galleys would soon trim some of the grease fat of your fucking haunches.”

  “I beg you, monsieur!” Lauret pleaded, close to tears. “The girl meant nothing to me. We were friends, that was all.”

  “But you talked together?”

  He nodded. “As father and daughter.”

  Baptista glanced away impatiently. “Get out of my sight. You are no help to me —”

  “But maybe I can help!” Lauret pleaded, plucking at the Florentine’s sleeve. “Tell me what you want. I will do anything you say.”

  Baptista turned back to him. “Of course you will, Lauret, we both know that.”