The Lost Diary of Venice Page 10

  “You’ll have to forgive Anzola.” Aurelio filled the doorway now with his comforting girth and round-cheeked smile. “She’s not one for pleasantries. She is, however, gifted at much else.” He swung his arm wide, beckoning Gio enter, then shut the door swiftly behind them. Inside, an array of flowers and herbs occupied a center table, grouped together in bunches.

  “These are rare gifts. Powerful medicine when used together. Anzola is one of the few who knows the right combination and where to find them.” Aurelio plucked a verdant sprig and put it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Gio had heard Anzola’s name before, though he’d never actually met the woman. It was rumored she knew the language of plants—that when she walked through a forest, she could whisper to all that sprouted green from the soil, and she’d hear whispers back: the secrets coiled in every root and leaf. She was known to disappear from town for weeks at a time; when she returned, she’d wend her way through the neighborhoods at night, offering salves and potions. Somehow, she always knew which doors to knock on.

  Now Gio watched as Aurelio held a dusty purple flower head up to a candle, contemplating its filaments like a scryer looking into his magic mirror. “Incredible, isn’t it—that a poultice of these blossoms can ease a grown man’s pain.” The flame’s glow threw the upper half of the alchemist’s face into shadow. He continued on, transfixed by the light seeping through the petals, translucent as stained glass. “And to think: the Inquisition wants to burn women like that, simply because they can do more with nature’s remedies than most physicians can with their leeches and learning…” His mouth twisted, words trailing off. Gio didn’t know what to say, so said nothing at all. The game the Inquisition played was one in which they’d fashioned all the rules; it reminded him of the cruel sport cats made of shrews and spiders. Instinctively, he shivered. The movement caught Aurelio’s eye; at once he tossed the flower down and clapped his palms together loudly, shattering the somber mood.

  “But come, something tells me you have other matters to discuss. Here, have a cup, and you won’t mind if I continue my work, will you? I do feel I’m nearly there…” Without waiting for a reply, Aurelio snatched up a jug and handed it to Gio, then bustled back over to the table near the fire. Several vials were arranged there, each with a different fluid inside. Gio surveyed a row of mugs hanging from a back shelf and found one that looked reasonably clean. Pouring himself a drink, then settling onto a stool, he began to recount the story of Chiara’s kiss.

  “Yes, yes, go on” or “Ah, I see” was all Aurelio could muster by way of response as he maneuvered among the liquids, combining and recombining their contents. Behind him the fire crackled, the rims of the glass beakers catching the light. Gio rambled, speaking mostly for his own benefit as he waded through what had happened. As he ran out of words, Aurelio poured the last drops into a single, great vial. Then he clasped a hand to his mouth, a look of childish suspense coming over his face.

  Rapidly, the colors in the vial began to transform. First, a heavenly blue (“Unification!” the alchemist cried), then a mossy shade of earth. Aurelio bent until his face was only inches from the glass. A paleness entered the liquid, like smoke, the dark matter rising toward the surface.

  “The soul…separating from the body,” Aurelio whispered.

  Suddenly, the mixture began to volatilize. Churning up and down in frenetic motion and speckling white, the glass filled with what looked like infinitesimal snowflakes falling upward. As they watched, the liquid tired itself into ash.

  “Wait…wait…wait,” Aurelio chanted. A faint reddish tint struggled to emerge through the dust. It flickered like an ember, faded, came again, then died. After several moments of inactivity, the alchemist leaned forward to peer into the container. Without warning, a loud pop burst out and a dense puff of purple smoke shot up into the air, churning over the rim of the vial with volcanic ferocity.

  “Cazzo!” Aurelio swore as they both rushed to open the door. Gio couldn’t help but laugh: the thick smoke had stuck in streamers to Aurelio’s beard, transforming the alchemist into a mythological figure—some wayward god come down from violet clouds. Aurelio shook a fist overhead in fury, only adding to the comedic effect. Still laughing, Gio helped throw open the shutters as smoke continued to pour from the vial. Outside, the shouts of riled neighbor women began to form a chorus.

  “Well.” Aurelio leaned against the doorframe, gasping for fresh air, but continuing the conversation as though nothing at all had happened. “Of course, you must bring her to Domenico’s salon tomorrow.”

  Gio stared at his friend, now busy finger-combing smoke from his beard. All around them, knee-deep violet mists seeped out into the street. “Why?”

  “Maddalena Casulana will be there.” As usual, Aurelio offered the name without explanation.

  “And…”

  “And she’s just published a book of madrigals.”

  “A woman? Published?”

  “Don’t act so shocked, Gio. You said yourself that girl of yours is a genius composer.” Aurelio threaded his fingers together, resting his hands on his wide belly. He was grinning at Gio like an instructor who’d just provided the answer to a baffling riddle.

  “I know, but—”

  “But nothing. A woman composer’s been published, at long last. Bring the girl, introduce her. Offer her a connection. Consider it a sign that Maddalena is here, now. Remember—” The alchemist raised his eyebrows and narrowed his pale eyes, directing at Gio the same enigmatic stare he used on his patrons “When the student is ready, the master will appear. Now go, make sure she comes.” Clasping Gio’s shoulders, Aurelio propelled him out the door on a plume of purple smoke.

  * * *

  Alone in the passageway, Bragadin reread the parchment sent from Mustafa. The offer of surrender was a formality, and both men knew it. When Bragadin had accepted the appointment as “captain of Cyprus,” he’d known that conflict with the Turks was unavoidable—though now, in this moment, he had to admit he’d harbored a naïve hope that the fragile peace could hold. But the island was too valuable: Selim’s territories encircled the entire eastern coast of the Mediterranean, save for the glaring exception of Cyprus. Once the island was captured, the sultan could advance west, perhaps even to Venice herself. Bragadin couldn’t estimate how Cyprus’s stronghold of Nicosia might fare under an Ottoman attack, but Famagusta was secure enough. Since arriving in the port town two years ago, he’d employed the best Venetian architects to improve the citadel’s fortifications—adding vaulted chambers to every bastion so that gunpowder wouldn’t fog his men out as they shot, and niches for barrels and cannonballs. His soldiers might be outnumbered, but they could put up a fight. Bragadin knew it, and knew Mustafa did too. Still, their success relied upon reinforcements from the West; he’d already sent word to the Pope.

  The only question was if help would come in time.

  Neatly and unhurriedly, Bragadin rerolled the parchment. He thought of the box, sitting in his chamber, reeking. Surely something dead lay inside. What could it be—what would Mustafa think could possibly elicit a surrender? Briefly, he considered returning the package unopened. But no; as commander, he knew it was his duty to look inside and gain as much information as he could.

  Burying his face in the fabric of his robes, Bragadin ventured back into the chamber. Immediately, his eyes began to sting from the stench; rushing to the windows, he threw the shutters wide and prayed for a brisk wind. Leaning his head out into the day, Bragadin took a gulp of air the way a drowning man might surface, gasping. Then he turned back to the box. Fumbling, he managed to loosen the twine wrapped around its width. Clamping a hand tight over nose and mouth, Bragadin lifted the lid. Inside, two vacant, bloodstained eyes stared out at him from a severed head. Even though it was death gray and decapitated, he still recognized the face.

  It’d once belonged to the governor of Nicosia.

  9
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br />   DAWN CAME IN FITS AND starts, her mind trailing the fading spark of a dream. Rose woke up, opened her eyes. Her limbs felt filled with wet sand. Outside the window, the sky was a relentless gray. She lay motionless in bed until the heater clicked on, churning raspy warm air into the room. She thought of Giovanni waking up so many years ago. How would a morning have cracked open for him? She had the sudden urge to know—and besides, it was Tuesday, the one day a week her shop was closed. With some effort, she sat up, swinging her feet to the floor.

  By the time she’d gotten dressed and drunk her coffee, the morning had already pitched into brightness. Spring announced her arrival with an entourage of blue skies and blossoms, and in every yard, birds optimistically announced their plans for the day. Rose steered her bike toward the university library, the air cool and fresh as a line-dried sheet. She pedaled faster, speeding under the reaching limbs of elm trees and ash, sugar maple and oak.

  Crossing the threshold into the main library was like walking into church, an effect that was by design: the building had been constructed to resemble a cathedral, with a massive nave that culminated at the circulation desk. Sandstone walls arched overhead, lit by mounted lamps that cast the hall in hues of gold and bronze. Carved knobs ornamented the ceiling, and corbels jutted from every wall; under wrought-iron windows, sculptures reenacted key moments from the university’s past. The weight of history pressed down conspicuously on visitors, reminding them that they trod hallowed ground. Still, Rose couldn’t help a small triumphant grin each time she—a woman—passed by all those sculpted male faces, frozen forever in stone. Sorry, boys, we’re here to stay.

  At the very back of the nave was a mural from the twenties, depicting a blond goddess holding a sphere of learning and an open book, standing under the tree of knowledge. Rose always liked to give her a little nod before heading to the stacks. The university had provided her with a faculty badge for helping out occasionally with restoration projects; she swiped it and made her way toward the elevators. She’d memorized the library’s organizing principles well enough by now to know which floor she needed.

  Exiting, she followed a small sign with an arrow that simply said STACKS. Down a brick-lined hallway, through another door, and there she was: in a low-ceilinged room with row upon row of metal bookshelves extending as far as the eye could see. LED bulbs cast a harsh, unflattering glare, and the air was chalky with dust. Striding briskly down the aisles, she reached a narrow staircase that led up to the next level. The stacks were notoriously labyrinthine; more than once, she’d had to help a panicked freshman find the way back to circulation. As she climbed the stairs, she liked to spy out at the students searching through the book spines, crouching to read, sometimes—rarely—kissing. Occasionally she caught glimpses of her own younger self in the shy ones, tucked away in corners, hoping they wouldn’t be interrupted.

  The section on European art consumed most of the floor. She wandered until she found the rows on the Renaissance, then pulled a few easy choices: historical surveys, collections of essays on society and culture, overviews of Italian artists. Finding an empty reading table nestled between shelves, she began poring through the books, starting with the essays. Gradually, Giovanni’s world ventured into view: a strange intersection of imagination and repression, flourishing creativity and religious extremity. She was surprised to realize the Inquisition was present in Venice just as the Renaissance was ceding to Mannerism. She tried to picture dark-robed inquisitors walking the avenues alongside Titian and Veronese. As she flipped through the pages, woodcut images of witches at the stake didn’t stun her, but she had to avert her eyes from an illustration depicting a mountain of rare books being burned in a pyre.

  She moved on to the art books. Who might Giovanni have met? He would have just missed da Vinci, but may have encountered Michelangelo, and could have competed directly with Tintoretto—or even Titian himself. She tugged her bun loose and rewound it tighter, considering where Giovanni’s paintings might have disappeared to. Were they languishing in some attic, waiting to be discovered? Or did they hang on the walls of a discerning art collector’s home, on the coast of the Adriatic, fueling speculative cocktail party debates? She hoped for the latter.

  Several books had been mentioned repeatedly in the footnotes. She located one of the computers scattered throughout the floor and entered the titles into the library search engine. Several popped up “Available,” with copies lodged in Rare Books and Manuscripts—a separate building, just down the street. She submitted a request for each; by the time she reached the archives, they’d be waiting for her in the reading room.

  Back out on the sidewalk, the sun was abrupt and glaring. Shielding her eyes, Rose hurried down the block and into the next library, feeling like a bookish vampire. She always loved the archives best. Populated by trained staff and serious researchers, it was less crowded, more subdued. The architecture too was dramatically different: unapologetically modern, an oversize rectangle of a building with a façade of granite and marble. The marble was intricately veined and translucent enough to let light seep in on sunny days, gilding the entryway. In the center of the building, a grand tower of rare books rose skyward, encased in glass. If the first library felt like a church, this one seemed like a vast art installation.

  Rose made her way past circulation to the back of the building, where she hung up her jean jacket, then stashed her bag in one of the many lockers provided for patrons. Only pencils were allowed in the reading room. She descended the stairs to the lower floor, which was done in plush wall-to-wall beige carpet, and always gave her a brief sensation of stepping onto sand. She aimed for the service desk.

  “Are you Rose?”

  She didn’t recognize the lanky man stationed behind the desk—he must have been a recent hire. As he finished reviewing her request on his computer screen, she looked him over furtively. The tag pinned to his navy sweater announced his name was Lucas. He had an enthusiastic smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and wore heavy black-rimmed glasses. Judging by the edge of lens extending past the frames, he was seriously nearsighted. His hair, unruly and brown, turned deep copper where the light hit it.

  “I’ve got your books coming if you want to take a seat.” He flashed her a smile. His teeth were surprisingly white, straight and even in the way that only comes from braces. Rose nodded at him, then turned toward the reading room—a great glass-walled space that looked onto a courtyard. Abstract sculptures perched in the gravel outside. Their strange shapes were always jarring, and each time she was there made her feel as if she’d stumbled into some De Chirico painting—a brooding, surreal landscape, untethered to time.

  A few students already sat at the tables, scrutinizing their finds; Rose found a spot near the window. Lucas reappeared from a back room, pushing a black metal cart. Awkwardly, he maneuvered it to a halt by her chair, then began setting up her reading station. With precise movements, he arranged several triangles of foam for the books to rest on. Next, he laid out a pair of long, fabric-covered paperweights. He smelled like citrus soap, and his gestures reminded her of a career waiter in a suit and tie establishment—each action performed with a reverence for ritual. Politely he cleared his throat, then launched into an overview of the correct handling methods for rare books.

  “Now, you’ll want to avoid putting any unnecessary pressure on the spine…”

  He proceeded to give instructions, the opening ceremony for all visitors. Rose listened patiently. She found he did a proficient job, though he could have stressed the extra attention gold leaf decoration required. Maybe someday she would tell him so, as a compliment. Tucking away the possibility, she began to examine her finds. The books she’d selected were ornately illustrated, offering a more complete glimpse of Renaissance Venice than the essays could provide. A city of bridges, at once sumptuous and squalid, intersected by canals and narrow cobblestone streets where artists, prostitutes, pri
ests, and merchants circulated with rare liberty. An hour slipped past without notice.

  “Is this for a project?”

  Startled, Rose looked up to find Lucas standing near the edge of her table. His face was strained under competing expressions of curiosity and embarrassment. With a nervous tug to his ear, he continued.

  “It’s just—I haven’t seen you here, and by the end of the year I usually recognize most of the grad students. I just was thinking, maybe you were writing an article or something? Or maybe you are a student and just haven’t been in yet…?” He petered out, faltering magnificently over his words.

  “It’s okay. You’re right: I’m not a student, and yes, I am working on a project.” She blinked up at him. He raised his eyebrows hopefully and shuffled his weight from one foot to the other.

  Rose sighed. “Well, since you’re curious, I’m studying a treatise written by an artist—a Venetian artist—in the 1570s. I just…I wanted to know more about what his world would have been like.” She gestured at the books spread open across the table. “Right now, when I think of Renaissance Venice, I just picture stereotypes. You know, masks and canals. I wanted to get a more accurate understanding, if that makes sense.”

  “Hmm, it does.” Lucas frowned, bringing a forefinger to his mouth so seriously she had to stifle a grin. “Let me see what I can find.”

  Abruptly, he turned and retreated to his computer, where he began typing busily. Rose waited a minute, then bent back to her book. She’d been reading an account of a woman about to be burned alive for witchcraft. Just as she reached the moment the town was gathering for the sacrificial flames, she heard Lucas’s voice again.