The Lost Diary of Venice Page 14

  “Maddalena, my dove! Meet Giovanni Lomazzo.” Leaning as close as his belly would allow, Aurelio continued in a mock whisper, “He’s a genius painter; you really ought to sit for him.”

  “Oh, don’t believe a word this man says.” Gio took her extended hand in his. Her skin was cool and damp. She wore a row of gold-banded rings—pearl, emerald, ruby—and when he bent to kiss her knuckles, a pleased smile stretched across her face.

  Then a murmur passed through the crowd, and without seeing her, he knew she’d arrived. In the gaps between bodies she glimmered into view, wearing her signature ivory and gold. The men in the room turned to her like plants toward sunlight—jealously, Gio shot forward, weaving through the throng to offer his elbow.

  “Come, let me introduce you.” With a half nod, Chiara draped a hand over his forearm. The whole room seemed to stare as he ushered her back to where Maddalena and Aurelio stood chatting. “Chiara, may I present to you Mistress Maddalena Casulana. She’s recently published a book of madrigals.” Gio couldn’t help but beam as he watched her digest the words.

  “You…you’ve published?” For a moment, Chiara lost all decorum. Blankly she stared at Maddalena—who seemed uncertain what to make of the girl before her, who looked so very much like a courtesan.

  “Chiara is a talented composer in her own right.” Gio rushed to salvage the introduction. “I must confess, it was my hope you might encourage her to continue her pursuits.” He felt Chiara squeeze his arm.

  “I see.” Maddalena smiled knowingly, nodding and narrowing her eyes, newly assessing the girl. “You know, Isabella de’ Medici was my champion. I never would have succeeded without her. We women must help one another.” Her voice was polished as a pebble in a riverbed. “And, of course, there are men, like Domenico, like Giovanni here, who support us. A rare few who understand how much we have to offer and are not threatened by our gifts.”

  She lifted her eyes to scan the room. “There are still more who’d prefer we stay as subjects, of course. But an ocean can turn its tide.” Maddalena straightened her shoulders, staring down sharply into Chiara’s face. Even with her chopines on, Chiara stood a full head shorter. “We simply must have faith and continue our work. Now come, tell me of your music.” She took Chiara’s elbow and led them for a slow turn around the room.

  Gio watched them walk away, tracking the melody of Chiara’s voice until it was lost in the dense hum of conversation. Then—before he could register what was happening—Aurelio had dragged him into a back corner where Domenico stood waiting. Slinging an arm over each man’s shoulder, the alchemist leaned in dramatically.

  “Gentlemen, it is official. Venice will sail to fight the Ottomans.”

  The news came as little surprise. Domenico pursed his lips and plucked at the end of his beard. “Has a league been formed? Surely Venice cannot sail alone.”

  Aurelio leveled his gaze at Gio. “Gio, the dinner party you recently attended was in fact an excuse for Venier to impress upon the doge the importance of defending Cyprus.” The dry, familiar voice he’d heard—suddenly, Gio remembered where he knew it from. Aurelio lowered his voice further. “Nicosia has fallen, and Famagusta cannot hold much longer. Christian forces have been organized, though the worry now is that we’ll be too late.”

  “I confess, I overheard some of their talk.” Gio confided. “They spoke of the new ships Bressan has designed. But the doge said he required the support of Rome—”

  “And we have it.” The alchemist cut in. “The Pope has given his approval now that the Spanish have agreed to fund the mission. Venier is eager to leave at once; he’s a hairsbreadth away from being named admiral—there’s just one pesky dissenter in the Senate. Claims some statesman, a relation, of course, has more experience.” The Senate determined matters of Venetian policy, including military operations; as in all political bodies in Venice, only noblemen were allowed to participate. Aurelio pulled them in closer. “And, it would seem that Don Juan of Austria’s just been appointed—”

  A flurry of movement in the center of the room interrupted their discussion. Servants carrying low-backed chairs had arranged makeshift theater seating, and now Maddalena and three plain-faced women were taking their places center stage. With a start, Domenico scampered to stand before them, waving his arms at the crowd like a misplaced conductor. As guests began to take their seats, he cleared his throat and raised a glass, waiting for the room to settle. Gio and Aurelio stayed in their corner, tucked away stage left of the singers.

  “My friends, I am honored to introduce Mistress Maddalena Casulana, who visits us all the way from Milan. This evening she will be performing from her recent book of madrigals, Il primo libro di madrigali. These are the first compositions ever to be published by a woman.” Domenico held one finger in the air as if to impress upon his audience the singularity of the achievement.

  “Tonight, we witness history. Please enjoy as Mistress Casulana performs ‘Morir non può il mio cuore.’ ” Bowing deeply, Domenico backed offstage with a sweep of his arm, returning to stand by Gio and Aurelio. The audience applauded raucously, plied with liquor and ready to be entertained.

  Maddalena and her singers stood in silence, exchanging glances. Then in perfect unison, they launched into the madrigal—a tightly composed piece built on a rigid traditional structure. Playing on a contrast of pitch and language, Maddalena’s voice undulated sensuously as the lyrics recounted a forbidden love affair.

  “Morir non può il mio cuore…Ma trar no si può fuore del petto. Vostr’ove gran tempo giace…” The women’s voices rang like chimes, alternating tones weaving together. From his vantage behind the singers, Gio could easily observe Chiara, seated in the first row. Hands clasped together in her lap, she leaned forward, mesmerized. He wondered if she recognized that for all the polish and professionalism of Maddalena’s composition, it lacked the emotional charge of her own work. Likely not—her face was turned up like an acolyte. For once, he wanted to look away.

  Trying not to squint too noticeably, Gio scanned the room. Overall, the crowd appeared engrossed, though Gio caught a few older men clearly working to keep their eyes open. One or two women shot glances in Chiara’s direction, not bothering to conceal their jealousy. Toward the back, far figures became unfocused impressions of personality and color.

  Corvino.

  Gio was never prepared to see the Crow, even when he should be. And each time it was the same: heart quickening and a sudden sense of being thrown off-balance—like walking into a room where every painting was tilted an inch to the right. Leaning against the doorframe, the Crow was nearly completely obscured by a wall of floating faces and hillocks of hair. Yet even behind the swaying crowd, he formed an unmistakable dark blot, his constant gold cross floating on his chest like an insignia. Gio squinted harder, realizing Corvino’s stare was locked on the back of Chiara’s head.

  “The Crow will get a taste of his own medicine soon.” Aurelio’s voice in his ear. The alchemist leaned to whisper, his belly a comforting heft against Gio’s arm. “Venier left him with the girl while he met with the doge, and he’ll leave him again when they go to war.” Aurelio said the words like a warning.

  “Corvino wants to sail with the fleet?” The Crow had turned his head; Gio stared at the fuzzed line of his profile, the contrast of his pale skin against his dark hair.

  “Corvino wants war more than anything else.” The alchemist shifted, breath hitting Gio’s neck in warm bursts as he spoke. “I believe his dream is to sail alongside Venier and make a name for himself. Soon he’ll see how far outside the circle he really stands.”

  The madrigal ended just then, and they parted to clap along with the crowd. When Gio glanced back, Corvino was gone, an empty space remaining where he’d stood, as if no one else wished to occupy it.

  * * *

  Hours after the performance, Gio set out walking toward home, alone
. Chiara had been sequestered in a corner with Maddalena and several noblemen for the better part of an hour. Rather than stay, staring like a fool, he’d thanked Domenico and slipped out—obscured by a group of guests departing in a flurry of waves and bows and rounds of farewells. Now, following the bends and curves of the canals, he pulled his robes close against the chill air. Overhead, stars whirled peacefully in the inky void, their doubles twinkling in the water below. Even the moon seemed content to drowse in her own effulgence. It was hard to imagine that not so very far away men were filling one another’s bellies with lead shot and blades. Gio buried his hands in the folds of his cloak, watching the tips of his boots pace the stones.

  A gondola slid up beside him.

  “Gio.”

  It was Chiara’s voice, unmistakable, though her face was hidden beneath the fringe of the gondola’s canopy. Gio halted. Glancing up and down the avenue, he saw only empty cobblestone and shadow. From a bridge up ahead came the displaced echo of a woman’s laugh. Quickly, he maneuvered into the boat, exchanging a look with the gondolier, a wide-faced lad who nodded with the kind of solemn understanding that can only pass between men.

  “We shouldn’t be seen together so often, Chiara.” His weight rocked the gondola as he navigated to the back bench. The hood of her robe tumbled down, tugging a few blond strands loose from the mound of braids she’d pinned at her crown. As he settled in beside her, she laid her head on his shoulder. He breathed in the sweet musk of her perfume: flower water and cloves.

  “It doesn’t matter. Venier will be off to Cyprus soon.”

  “Yes, leaving the Crow behind to watch your every step.”

  “Don’t say that.” She groaned, bringing a hand up to cover her face. He changed the subject, keeping his voice low.

  “I’m glad you came. I was afraid you wouldn’t.”

  She sat up to look at him. “Gio, she told me her work was going to be performed for the Duke of Bavaria this winter. A woman—a woman from Siena, no different than any other—performing her compositions for nobles and dukes!” Moonlight filtered in through the fringe of the curtains, illuminating her clavicle while her face remained in shadow; he thought of Titian’s Danaë. Her eyes shone at him through the gloom, then she bent to rummage for something in her cloak.

  “She gave me a copy of her book; let me read to you the inscription.” Her hand emerged holding the thin volume of madrigals, bound in red leather. She cleared her throat.

  “Here it is: ‘I want to show the world, as much as I can in this profession of music, the vain error of men that they alone possess the gifts of intellect and artistry, and that such gifts are never given to women.’ ” She snapped the book shut—the slap of paper cutting through the thick calm of the night. “The vain error of men.” She repeated the line from memory, thumping on his chest with her fist. He grasped his breastbone where she’d hit him, laughing at her excitement.

  “Are you mocking me?” Her eyes narrowed.

  “No, no, no. In fact, Chiara, it’s my turn to be serious.” He brought a hand to her shoulder, felt the fibers of her robe crush a little. “Maddalena is very brave, and of course it’s wonderful that she’s been published. But…” He hunted after the right words. “The truth is that her compositions are just like all the others. There’s nothing unique about her music; nothing challenging. Perhaps that’s why she was able to be published, in fact. Because her work is so safe.”

  A look of confusion crossed Chiara’s face, and he resisted the urge to shake her. “What I’m trying to say is that your work is brilliant. That song you shared with me was beautiful, but it was also unusual. Different. And so, it’s even more important that it’s heard.” She’d gone silent, her head downturned, staring at the book in her lap. He reached to clasp her hand in his. “I only ask that you don’t idolize Maddalena. Please. Just think of her as…as an older sister, clearing your path, making the world ready to hear your voice too.”

  She said nothing, her eyes still fixed on the book. With his thumb, he rubbed the ridgeline of her knuckles, listening to the sleepy noises the water made against the boat as they rocked. Finally, she spoke.

  “The picture you sent was beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She smiled. “You saw me.”

  “I hope I did.” He reached to tuck a pale wisp of hair behind her ear. “I hope I do.”

  She looked up at him. “It was never charity, Gio.” For the second time she leaned to put her mouth to his. He felt the slip of wet skin, a warm, lingering taste of liquor on her tongue; he didn’t try to push her away.

  In the shadows, trailing far behind them, Corvino cursed the gondola’s cabin. He was certain—well, nearly certain—that he’d followed Chiara’s vessel as it emerged from the cluster outside Domenico’s salon. And now, here was that artist, stepping into the boat.

  He’d have to keep a closer watch on them both.

  * * *

  Shouts erupted from the market square in Famagusta. One of Captain Bragadin’s soldiers was loudly proclaiming to all who’d listen that he’d killed Mustafa’s son—Mustafa, commander of the Ottoman forces that were even now laying siege to the citadel. He’d seen that face before, he swore it on his mother’s grave. At a feast in Damascus during peace times. He swore it on his mother’s grave. Now he’d killed the boy and taken his saber for bounty.

  Bragadin heard the shouts as he paced the length of the defense wall—in an instant, he was rushing down the stone stairs, the crowd parting before him. As he approached the center of the square—forearm raised against the blazing midday sun—the soldier who’d been shouting pivoted toward him. Balanced on his upturned palms, as if in supplication, lay a saber. Bragadin’s mind reeled backward in time: a slingshot in reverse. What was it the beggar woman had said to him so many years ago? Snatching at his arm in the crowded bazaar, peering up at him with that wizened face, that silver stare? “You’ll be killed by the whip, but you’ll die by the saber.” He reached for the hilt of the weapon, saw a streak of dark along the blade’s edge.

  The blood of Mustafa’s heir.

  13

  ROSE STOOD IN JOAN’S KITCHEN, amid the white-and-blue tile countertops. Floral wallpaper spread cockscomb and peonies up to the ceiling. The window behind the sink was open, faint birdsong drifting in from the backyard. At a round Formica table, Henry sat staring at a bowl of half-eaten spaghetti—in his efforts to wrangle the strands of pasta, he’d ended up covering much of his face and some of his hair with sauce. Chewing the tip of her thumb, Rose watched him maneuver the fork again.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Rose, stop biting your thumb. Here, can you help?” Joan handed her a wet rag, gesturing with a jerk of her head toward Henry. She turned back to the counter, where she was slicing rhubarb. It was in season surprisingly early, stacked up at the local grocers in neat pink and green stripes. On the spot, the two had determined to make a pie. While they’d fashioned the crust, which now sat cooling in the fridge, Rose had rambled on about the book, Lomazzo, William. Their visit to the university gallery. Joan had let her speak without interruption, listening patiently as she unraveled her tangled thoughts.

  “I wonder what Giovanni would say if he could see William’s paintings.” Rose swiped the rag now between Henry’s fingers while he watched, placid as a calf. The marinara in his bangs clashed sharply with his red hair.

  “Rosie.” Joan moved to put a hand on her hip, realized it was wet with rhubarb juice, and shifted to lean her weight against the counter instead. She was wearing a faded gingham apron with ruffles along the edges that had been her mother’s. “Are you sure you’re not spending too much time with this guy? I mean, he’s married. With kids.” Instinctively, she glanced at Henry. A quick snatch of melody burst in from the finches darting outside.

  “Joan, he’s just a client.”

  “Do you normally go t
o galleries with your clients?” Joan raised her eyebrows, skeptical.

  “Come on, it’s not like that.” Rose thought of the way she’d caught him looking at her as they wandered the exhibition, and her conviction faltered. She bent to focus on wiping the sauce from Henry’s hair.

  Joan reached for a dish towel, began drying her hands. “Now, I’m not saying what it’s like or not, all I’m saying is there are plenty of fish in the sea. Available fish.” She tossed the towel on the counter, then picked up a slice of rhubarb from the cutting board, swirled it around in the dish of sugar she’d set out. “I still don’t understand why you don’t just try the apps.” She popped the rhubarb in her mouth, began crunching loudly.

  “Ugh, not this again.” Rose went to the sink to rinse the rag out. She had tried the apps. At least, she’d gotten as far as attempting a photo of herself, a humiliating exercise of wandering around the house with her phone raised in front of her, searching for the most flattering lighting. What was the best angle for her chin; should she leave her hair up or style it? How? She’d taken twenty photos, then scanned through them, each one worse than the last, her face pulling awkwardly. She’d turned to the computer, searching online for “profile photo tips for women,” then compared herself to the artful examples that’d lined up on the screen.

  She’d decided against the apps.

  “I’d just rather meet someone the normal way, that’s all.” Rose took both ends of the rag in her hands and twisted, watching the red wring out into the streaming water.

  “Sweetie, apps are the new normal.” Joan spoke in between more bites of rhubarb. “But if you’re set on just ‘bumping into someone,’ then you actually have to get out there. Make yourself bump-into-able.” She licked the leftover sugar granules off her fingers loudly, the sound like punctuation. “I think the problem is that you’ve just been isolated for too long. Working so hard to get the business up, looking after your dad for what, almost two years? Taking care of him like that? You know I always told you that you’d be better off—”