The Lost Diary of Venice Page 12

  Of course, Venier would invite him to sail with the fleet. It was only a matter of time; likely he was simply waiting to be appointed admiral. Once the decision was made public, he might even find a formal role for Corvino—nothing so grand as captain, but perhaps a commander of some sort. With the chance to prove his worth in battle, Corvino could secure a whole new position for himself. War hero, courageous defender of Venice, La Serenissima. Corvino the brave…

  A gust of wind blew the hair from his shoulders. He raised his chin proudly. In the avenue below, he caught a burst of yellow: a turban, worn by a Levantine Jew walking briskly, no doubt late for an appointment. The Jews were always conducting business of some sort. Corvino grimaced involuntarily. He could never understand why Venice harbored the vermin in such numbers, allowing them to lend money, or trade in clothing and furniture, to become prosperous. To circulate the streets, rubbing shoulders with good and pure Christians. Corvino knew there must be spies in the Ghetto feeding information to the Ottomans. He’d hired three men himself to listen and watch, sniffing out any hint of treachery. He could only imagine how Venier might reward him if he were to discover a traitor in their midst. Until then, he knew another way to make it impossible for the statesman to ignore his usefulness.

  A way to ensure that Venier would be named admiral.

  * * *

  At exactly the same moment on the other edge of town, Gio sat up in bed. He was wide awake though he’d drawn well into the night, his nerves crackling and sparking like a strand of hair in a candle flame. He hadn’t been able to get to sleep, scenes from the afternoon churning in a useless cycle in his mind—the kiss, his push, her face. Extricating himself from the tangle of bedclothes, he stood and, after dressing, opened the shutters. Cheerful light flooded the room.

  Peering at the house next door, he spotted Francesca, sitting with her back to him, busy mending some scrap of fabric. Finally, Lucio appeared. As was his habit, he clambered up onto the sill, tip of pink tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. In one hand he held a slice of thick-crusted bread, a scrape of butter across the top.

  “Lucio!”

  The boy shot to attention at the sound of his name. Gio beckoned him with a wave.

  “I’m going to Gio’s!” Lucio bellowed in the general direction of his mother. Francesca, now distracted by a cousin who’d managed to get a ribbon snarled in her hair, nodded without looking up. Lucio slid off the sill and vanished from sight. At his own door, Gio waited to greet the boy, who arrived flushed and breathless, still clutching his bread.

  “Lucio, I have something very important I must do—and you are the only one who can help. Will you assist me?” Gio lowered his voice in mock seriousness, trying not to smile as the child straightened to his full height and nodded, round-eyed at the promise of an adventure.

  “Then it’s settled. Off we go.” Gio shut the door behind him and led Lucio out into the waking streets. The sketch he’d finished the evening before was a stiff roll in his hand; inside, he’d hidden an invitation to Domenico’s salon.

  “Where are we going?” Lucio talked around a bite of bread, skipping every third step to keep pace.

  “We’re going to deliver a very important message.” They rounded a corner, Gio steering them over a bridge and toward the Grand Canal.

  “A message? For who?” Lucio wiped a smear of butter from his cheek, then licked it off his hand.

  “To a nice young lady. I’m afraid I’ve upset her, but I’m hoping she’ll listen to you.”

  “How did you upset her?”

  “I said something foolish.”

  “Ah.” The boy nodded, as if understanding completely. They continued on in silence as they traced the great waterway—Lucio distracted by the scenes flashing past through open shop doors: the apothecary’s shelves of labeled jars, the tailor’s lads already bent over needle and cloth. The butcher with his cuts of raw meat, pierced and glistening on hooks. The knife grinder pedaling his whetstone, the baker stacking rounds of nut brown loaves that warmed the air with the smell of wheat. Farm women lined the footpath, crouching behind woven baskets filled to overflowing with ripe fruits carted in from the countryside.

  Finally, they arrived at the house. The glass windows reflected the view, as if bits of sky and garden had found their way into the mortar.

  “Is she rich, Gio?” Lucio gaped up at the building.

  “That doesn’t matter. Just take this and knock on the door. When the servant girl answers, tell her it’s for Chiara. Can you remember that? ‘Kya-rrra.’ ” He thrust the rolled-up sketch into Lucio’s small hands. “Here—here’s her name if you forget. You can read it.” With his index finger, he underlined the calligraphy across the front.

  “Where are you going to be?” Lucio asked anxiously, wide eyes darting up at Gio.

  “I’ll be…” Gio realized he hadn’t thought that far. He squinted around, then pointed to a corner of the building partially obscured by cypress trees. “There—right there. No one will see me, but I’ll be close by. There’s nothing to worry about. Just remember, it’s for Chiara.” He pushed the boy up to the door and pounded the heavy snake’s head, then picked up his robes and scuttled around the house. Kneeling in the dirt, he found a view of the entrance through a gap in the boughs. The minty scent of tree resin flooded his nostrils.

  He’d only just hidden himself when the door opened and Cecilia’s profile emerged. She stared stonily down at the child in front of her. Lucio said something Gio couldn’t discern, gesturing to the name on the scroll. Without responding, Cecilia shut the door. Lucio stood waiting, shooting nervous glances toward the patch of trees. Just as the boy was turning to walk away, the door reopened and Chiara stepped out into the light. She was wearing a pale blue gamurra, her blond hair gathered loosely at the nape of her neck. At the sight of her, Gio ducked away, pressing his back against the cool stone of the house. When he leaned forward to look again, the boy was gone.

  He could only wait. A quarter of an hour passed, then a half, then a full. He counted the ringing of the bells throughout the city: San Basso, San Fantin, San Felice…the churches formed a refrain. With each gong, a new bubble of anxiety. He hadn’t thought this through enough—what if Venier arrived? What excuse could he possibly give the statesman for sending a child into his home, uninvited, with an uncommissioned sketch of Chiara and an invitation to a salon? Gio envisioned different versions of the same uncomfortable scene, until Lucio finally emerged. He had a triumphant grin on his face and was carrying a woven basket nearly the size of his body.

  “Giovanni!” The boy struggled to cross the garden with his load.

  “Shhh!” Gio held a finger to his mouth as he trotted out, just in time to see a drape yank shut in an upstairs window. Quickly, he opened the gate and shepherded the boy back out to the street.

  “She knows you’re here…I’m sorry.” A dusting of crumbs around the extremity of Lucio’s mouth caught the light with a powdery finish.

  “You told her I brought you?” Taking the basket from the boy, Gio peeked inside. A fine embroidered linen was tucked over lumps of all sizes. Tugging one corner free, he saw bread and cheeses, preserves and marzipan. Francesca was going to be pleased.

  “I didn’t want to lie to a lady, Gio.” Lucio wiped his face with both hands.

  “Don’t worry—she would have guessed even if you hadn’t told her. Did you show her the parchment? What did she say?”

  “She liked it—it was a wonderful picture, Gio. It looked just like her!” Lucio’s voice was animated: Chiara must have fed him sugar. “She’s very beautiful,” the boy added.

  “I know. Did she read the other piece of paper with the sketch?”

  “Yes, it fell out when she opened the picture. What did it say?”

  “Did she burn it afterward? Did you see her put it in the fire?”


  “Yes, yes, but what did it say, Gio?” The boy skipped a step to keep up.

  “Never mind that, what did you two talk about?”

  “Well, I told her how you make drawings for me, and how you’re teaching me to read. And then the servant girl…”

  “That was probably Cecilia.”

  “Yes, she brought out a little book, and I showed them how I could read, and then we played with Nicco, but then Nicco peed on the floor and had to go away, and that’s when I came out. Can I go back to visit again soon, Gio?” Lucio offered up his most imploring face.

  “Perhaps.” Already they were nearing home: crossing over the last footbridge, passing through the small square with its familiar cluster of aproned women at the well. Before they separated, Gio handed the basket back to the boy. As he shut his door, he could hear Francesca’s exclamations through the still-cracked shutters.

  She’d seen the invitation; that meant she might come to Domenico’s. As he readied to walk to his studio, Gio couldn’t help but feel the thrill of excitement, a thread of nervousness woven through it.

  * * *

  The city of Famagusta could not stand much longer—and once she fell, the whole of Cyprus would be claimed by the Ottoman Empire. The fate of the island balanced on a saber’s edge. Bragadin’s fortifications were impressive, there was no doubt of that: miles of reinforced walls, towers, and earthworks topped with cavaliers. All of it ringed by moat. An architectural feat, one that any captain could take pride in. Yet it didn’t alter the fact that this was the only remaining stronghold on Cyprus, and that Cyprus was surrounded by sea—there could be no influx of men across the border, there was no nearby king to beseech for aid. Their only salvation relied upon relief from the west, and Bragadin had sent word weeks ago. If Cyprus were won, the victory would only propel Selim onward, spurring him to conquer more territories. Surely the threat of a Muslim invasion would be enough to unite the bickering Christian nations?

  Surely it wouldn’t take so long to organize a league?

  Bragadin had rejected Mustafa’s offer of surrender based on the belief that support would come, but each morning he prayed for the sight of friendly sails, and each morning he was refused. And no matter how many well-planned attacks his soldiers executed—burrowing out like vermin under cover of night to slaughter unsuspecting Ottomans, collapsing their tunnels behind them—his troops were still outnumbered, their supplies dwindling. Meanwhile, the Ottomans had enough men to last for months, all of them ready and willing to die for Islam.

  Once more, Bragadin looked to the horizon, scanning for sails.

  11

  IT WAS A SLOW DAY. The university had begun its reading period: the week or so of intense study before final exams. The whole town turned subdued, as students retreated to their halls, emerging only for takeout food or to indulge in a brief constitutional. The stress was palpable, seeping out from campus like a gas leak.

  Rose sat at her desk, spinning a pen around her thumb. All her emails had been answered, all her orders were complete. She’d finished lunch, but it was too early for an afternoon snack…

  What did William’s paintings look like? In the lull of an empty shop, with the sky neither gray nor blue but an ambivalent in-between shade, she couldn’t convince herself not to look. As she typed in the URL, Joan’s voice chirruped in her head: Too curious for your own good, Rosie.

  An abstract composition filled the home page. A forest landscape. Loose brushstrokes, a departure from the detailed work of the masters she’d been looking at lately. Still, his skill was evident: plots of perfectly rendered leaves and berries created contrast with an otherwise impressionist style. A subtle and nuanced palette. Rose clicked GALLERY, and rows of thumbnails filed onto the page. She started at the beginning. It was interesting, scrolling through this way—following along with his changing interests and attentions. The subject matter was mostly naturalistic: roils of sky over windswept fields. A river thrusting and churning through a reaching stand of pines.

  His face.

  The self-portrait was sudden and unexpected after so much nature. In the painting he stood in front of an old green truck, a weathered-looking Ford F-100 with its door cracked open. It was a desert scene: dust and scrub and a splintering wooden fence behind him, the sky a placid, burning blue. His face and the front half of the truck were rendered so realistically they could have been a photograph, down to the crumpled corner of a pack of cigarettes on the driver’s seat, the sheen of cellophane. The rest of the scene swept into suggestion, broad strokes of pigment and gesture. She leaned in. The expression on his face wasn’t one she’d seen before: open and grinning, an edge of recklessness in the set of his features. A glint in his eye. She wanted to clamber in through the open truck door and sit herself down, feel the backs of her thighs stick to the hot leather seat. He’d slide in beside her, pedal the gas. Together, they’d watch dust clouds spin up in the rearview mirror…

  A loud knock on the door. Rose looked up and it was him—William—bending to peek through the glass. For a split second she wasn’t able to process the shift in context and felt like she was looking at another painting. Then her mind skidded into the present, and she quickly closed the search tab, as if he could see the screen. Heat seared across her face.

  “Hi! Hey!” He poked his head through the open door, then stepped inside. He looked different today, wearing a dark V-neck sweater with the crisp white collar of a buttoned shirt poking out, sleeves pushed up. She could picture him in New York dressed like that. A wave of regret washed over her for choosing such a plain outfit that morning: jeans and an oversize gray sweater that was gently pilling under the arms. On her feet, a pair of trusty, battered Converse. Why couldn’t style come naturally for her the way it did for some women, like being left-handed? She plucked at her sweater, trying to straighten the shoulders.

  “You’ll never guess what the exhibit is at the university!” William interrupted her train of thought, walking toward the desk with his phone held up, waving the screen at her.

  Rose already knew what it was but feigned ignorance, leaning in to read the title: “Muse: Inspiration in Renaissance Italy.” The university gallery was only a few blocks from her shop, and she often stopped in on her way home. Four months ago, when the show opened, she’d taken a quick sprint through the rooms. She should have thought to mention it to him…

  William tapped an index finger on the screen. “It’s all about Italian Renaissance paintings! Perfect timing, right? The only thing is that it ends today—”

  “Oh, that is perfect timing! Are you going to go?”

  He raised his eyebrows at her, then bent studiously over the phone, scrolling through the page. “Oh, yeah, well. I was going to go, definitely. I just wasn’t sure…Would you want to see it too?” Was she only imagining it, or was color rising to his cheeks, the sides of his throat? “I mean, it’s pretty close, right? But I guess it’s still business hours here, huh?” He scratched the back of his head and glanced around the deserted store.

  “Technically yes, but it’s reading period—one of my slowest weeks. I can absolutely go, that’d be fun.” Already she was shutting her computer down. Odin didn’t even bother to wake up from his nap on the chair when she flipped the sign and locked the door, stepped out with William into the mellow afternoon light.

  They walked side by side down the street, lined with old brick buildings and oak and hemlock trees, the occasional elm. Rose tried to peek in to see if Joel was working at the café, but the glare from the window only threw their own reflections back at her: wind gusting her curls loose, William’s hands buried in the front pockets of his jeans. Once again she cursed herself for dressing so plainly, as she double-stepped to match his stride. They passed the flower shop, an Oscar Wilde quote chalked in cursive on a sandwich board out front—A flower blossoms for its own joy—the pizza parlor, the theater building advertising its las
t performances of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night. Then the gallery came into view around the corner, an unassuming entrance tucked in among so much neo-Gothic architecture, all arches and pillars chiseled from limestone.

  Inside, they made their way to the elevator, its doors gliding shut behind them. The sudden shift of gravity as they slid upward. Their reflections shone back at them here too, warped in the slick metal. Alone together in a close gray box.

  Ding! Fourth floor, special exhibitions.

  They stepped out into bright white light. Down the nearest wall ran the curator’s introduction in large-font text, explaining that each hall explored a different aspect of the muse. Rose read through quickly; as she waited for William to finish, she peered around. They were the only ones there, save for an elderly attendant in a far room, wearing the gallery’s uniform of dark sweater and slacks, a bulky walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. Rose watched him look up and notice them, then straighten his posture, folding his hands over a portly belly. The man had downturned eyes and drooping jowls, and Rose couldn’t help but think of a sleepy Saint Bernard.

  Then William finished and they pivoted in unison, drifting toward the first hall. Rose had never seen the gallery so empty; even the scuffling of their shoes seemed impolite in the dense silence. Abruptly, William halted at the entrance to the room.

  “Are those studies for Primavera?” He cocked his head, the way he might look at someone he wasn’t sure he recognized.

  “Yes, I think so…” Rose trailed after him as he strode to stand in front of a pair of sketches. Each was several feet tall, done in charcoal on heavy paper. One showed a group of women dancing in a grove, diaphanous gowns fluttering, slender toes pale in the dark grass. Branches arched overhead, weighed down by pendulous oranges. The second study was of a woman with an embroidered robe draped over one shoulder, her face angled to stare out at the viewer with a serene, inscrutable expression. Above her a portly, blindfolded Cupid hovered. The sketches were hung side by side, so that Cupid’s bow seemed to be aimed at the women in the orange grove. Nearby, a large-scale print of the completed painting—housed in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence—was mounted for comparison.