The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  Rose closed the door, her whole face tingling as if she’d been slapped. She flipped the sign again and went to the front desk. The Tupperware container sat waiting for her, small beads of condensation pockmarking the plastic. When she opened the lid, the pressure inside released with a soft sigh. She picked the quiche up and took a bite. It was well herbed and flavorful, with still-warm cherry tomatoes dotting the top. They broke open sweetly under pressure. When she was done, she wet the tip of her index finger, dragged it around the edges of the container. Held the taste in her mouth for as long as she could.

  14

  THE OFFICIAL ANNOUNCEMENT OF WAR coincided with Carnival season and sent an electric charge coursing through the festivities. Puppeteers scrambled to create Ottoman effigies, and street performers hastily revised their villains into evil Turks. By nightfall, the avenues howled and shook.

  The celebrations were set to culminate in the Piazza San Marco. Several days before, Aurelio had taken Gio to visit his favorite mask maker: an old man by the name of Jacopo. His shop was tucked behind a bend in a narrow alleyway, completely hidden from view of the street. A sign swung overhead, but the letters had long since faded into unintelligible patches of peeling blue paint; as they entered, the door hinges creaked.

  Inside, Gio didn’t know where to look. Everywhere were masks: displayed on a wide table in the middle of the room, stacked atop one another on shelves that extended, floor to ceiling, across the walls—masks of every shape, size, and color, with vacant eyes all waiting to be filled. They seemed to be staring at him expectantly; no matter where he turned, Gio felt watched by gaping, empty sockets. As soon as he stepped inside, he had the urge to flee.

  Movement in a far corner halted him. It was Jacopo, glancing up to nod at the visitors from his work desk. He was older than Gio had anticipated: his back made a nearly perfect bow, and his impish face was held upright by a neck that seemed all tendon—yet his eyes were clear and sharp as a sparrow’s. With a gnarled hand, he beckoned them in.

  After introductions were made, Gio retreated to wander the store while Aurelio and Jacopo settled into the easy conversation that comes between friends who’ve watched each other age. Inspecting the masks more closely, Gio couldn’t help but admire Jacopo’s craftsmanship. The faces were all well formed, reflecting various attitudes and emotions. Gio found himself most intrigued by the grotesque ones: those with hooked noses and contorted folds of flesh, frozen expressions of horror and rage.

  As he scanned the center table, he caught sight of an unusual texture. A row of feathers, coated in thick black paint, like a bird caught in tar. Leaning forward, he tugged at the tip of one. As he pulled, the mask balanced on top slid to one side—revealing a crow’s head underneath. Made from leather, wood, and wing, the mask had an aggressive brow and an intricate pattern tooled along the sides. A cruel beak extended outward, meant to hide the wearer’s mouth. Slitted eyes glared up ominously, as if eager to take hold of Gio’s own.

  “Ah yes, that.” Jacopo had been watching. “A special request from Corvino. He was quite specific with his instructions. Horrifying, isn’t it?” Crossing his arms, he gave the mask a sidelong glance. “I almost prefer not to acknowledge I made the thing.”

  “Well, it makes my skin crawl,” Gio conceded. “Which means you did a masterful job.” Carefully, he balanced a plain white mask over the head, which only partially hid it, black feathers stubbornly creeping out at the edges.

  Jacopo shrugged, then turned to Aurelio. “He mentioned it would be his last celebration before the fleet left. Do you know which ship he plans to sail with?”

  “I think the better question is if he’ll be allowed to sail at all. It’s my belief Corvino is counting on promises yet to be made.” Aurelio raised his eyebrows meaningfully at Jacopo, who gave a low whistle. Before Jacopo could ask any more questions, Aurelio swept to Gio’s side, his hand a warm weight on Gio’s shoulder. “Come, friend, help me pick one.”

  Eventually, they decided on a flamboyant purple affair for the alchemist, with a puff of dyed feathers unfurling from each side. For himself, Gio chose a simple mask, painted blue.

  * * *

  The next day found Gio, Chiara, and Cecilia in a gondola, heading to their first sitting at his studio in the castello. As they glided through the canals, Chiara let one hand graze the surface of the water, ripples arrowing out from her fingertips. Overhead, the shadows of bridges swept across them in the blunt midmorning light. Whenever she spotted someone she knew on the avenues—which was often—Chiara would bend over the bow, waving and loudly announcing that she was to have her portrait done, making mock coquettish poses for their amusement. In the back of the boat, Gio and Cecilia were obliged to lean against her sudden movements: without counterbalance, they’d all be sent tumbling into the canal. Behind them, Gio could hear the gondolier swearing under his breath, wrestling with his oar. When they arrived at the studio, Gio scrambled out first, turning to help Chiara step ashore in her high chopines.

  Inside the workshop, Chiara swept into the center of the room and took a slow spin, surveying the space. On a large easel, Gio had prepared the canvas—coated in gesso, dried and ready—while on the hearth, embers from a morning fire sparked and faded with the regularity of breath.

  “And who are these women?” Chiara had spotted the few nude sketches he’d done, among all the landscape paintings that lay stacked against the wall. She strode to stand in front of them, hands on her hips.

  “Just models.” Gio kept his voice light. “None as beautiful as you, don’t worry.”

  “All your lovers, of course.” Her tone was playful, but as she turned back to the center of the room, he saw her lift her chin.

  “No, of course not!”

  “You don’t keep an assistant?” She continued on as though she hadn’t heard. She’d tied her hair up in wide braids that day, woven through with white silk ribbon. The finer strands at her temples had come loose, and they floated around her face when she moved her head.

  “I work better alone. Besides, assistants are known for telling secrets.” At this, she looked at him sharply—she was still thinking of the models. He squinted his eyes in an exaggerated gesture only she could see, and her expression warmed. She spun on one heel, sauntering to the stool placed in front of the easel; as she sat, she flicked her skirts so that they whirled out in perfect pleats. Folding her hands in her lap like two pale dove wings, she turned to face Cecilia.

  “Well, fortunately for you, Cecilia is very good at keeping secrets. Aren’t you, Cecilia?” Cecilia nodded obediently from her post in the corner, where she’d stationed herself to be out of the way. Gio observed once again the clean white part that divided the girl’s brown hair and her serious, plain features. She made a solemn counterpart to Chiara’s dazzling beauty—like Clymene, the ox-eyed handmaiden to Helen of Troy.

  “Giovanni is worried you’ll tell Venier that his sight is weak and he prefers to wear spectacles when he works. But you won’t tell, will you, Cecilia?”

  Gio started, felt heat rush to his face. Cecilia’s eyes went wide; she shook her head.

  “See? She’s very loyal. And now your secret’s shared, so there’s no sense in pretending and squinting the entire time you’re trying to paint. Isn’t that better?” Chiara smiled and recrossed her legs, clearly pleased with herself.

  “I suppose.” Gio had to admit she was right. It’d be much easier to just use his lenses—and besides, it wouldn’t be long before his sight was claimed altogether. Little to lose at this point. He shot a glance at Cecilia, who was looking at him with a combination of fascination and pity, and cleared his throat. “Well, now that you know all my secrets, shall we begin? You can change just there.” He pointed to the embroidered screen in the corner.

  While Cecilia set about removing Chiara’s gown—not without some audible effort—Gio tied his lenses on. Rummaging in a cabinet
for a swatch of silk, he selected a fine measure of azure blue, which he laid by the stool. After some time, Chiara emerged from behind the screen like a nude Venus come to life. Two paces after came Cecilia, red in the face, arms heaped with fabric that she began draping over a chaise. Neither made any comment on his spectacles. Chiara had kept her jewelry on—sapphire pendant, long strands of pearls, delicate gold chains—but she’d unbraided her hair. It tumbled down the length of her back, still faintly crimped, and as she walked toward the hearth Gio watched it waft behind her in a haze of translucent blond, following the roll of her hips. He turned and caught Cecilia watching too.

  “Just as before?” Standing in front of the embers, Chiara held her palms out behind her back to warm them. Cecilia retreated to her spot in the corner.

  “If that’s comfortable enough for you, yes. I think it’s a strong composition.” He gestured to the stool with the bolt of silk draped on the floor beside it.

  She sat with her body angled away from him, her face peering back over one shoulder, in the same pose they’d settled on in Venier’s salon. Gio had retrieved the original sketch he’d made; glancing at his notes, he approached her to make a series of small adjustments: “the knee a bit toward me,” “the right shoulder back…more…yes, there, that’s good.” She fixed him with her gaze as he guided her, his fingertips grazing her skin. He bent for the swatch of silk that lay on the floor and caught her crushed-flower scent. With the fabric in one hand, he leaned to drape it, reaching both arms around her. The soft exhalation of her breath skimmed his forearm—

  He stopped abruptly, sitting back on his heels. Careful, Gio.

  “Cecilia, would you mind assisting me?” The girl darted forward eagerly, as if she’d been waiting to be asked. Working together, they tucked the silk in place around the base of Chiara’s torso, styling it to fall in a careful pattern of ripples and shadows. Gio rose to his feet and stepped back, assessing the composition. “Perfect.”

  He’d prepared his palette earlier that morning, mixing and testing colors until he’d arrived at each precise combination. Dipping his brush in a pale yellow ocher, he began forming the outline of her body. As always, she held herself impressively still. Cecilia likewise kept so quiet in the corner behind him that Gio had to remind himself she was there at all. Gradually, the first layer of the composition revealed itself in form and negative space. The stiff bristles of the brush moving over the canvas made a comforting rhythm, like waves lapping onshore. When Chiara spoke, it startled them all.

  “Venier will be appointed admiral soon and leave with the fleet to Cyprus.”

  Gio thought of the old man at the dinner party, what he’d said of Venier: A sound tactician. “That doesn’t surprise me. But I heard there was some dispute in the Senate over his election?”

  “Oh! Just some nobleman who thinks his own cousin is more experienced and is trying to sway opinion. Venier isn’t concerned.” Chiara swept a hand through the air, as if she were flicking away a pesky insect. “It’ll be resolved. Venier told me a victory over the Ottomans would let him die a happy man.” The muscles in her jaw pulsed.

  “Why does that seem to trouble you?”

  She thought for a moment, staring into space. Then she met Gio’s gaze. “Is there anything that would let you die a truly happy man? One goal you want to achieve?” Before you go completely blind. He finished the sentence for her in his mind.

  “Yes, there is; I’d like to write down my perspectives on art. There are surveys of architecture, medicine, politics. There’s even been a treatise on human anatomy, based on Leonardo’s sketches. But…what I want to write is different.”

  “How would it be different?”

  He stepped back, brush in hand, assessing his progress as he spoke. “I want to write a treatise on art: as a philosophy and a discipline. Because it is a discipline, with rules and techniques and theories. But unless you’ve trained with a master or been educated, all of that is hidden—and so paintings remain mysterious, in a way. There’s a distance that’s kept between the art and the viewer.” He swirled his brush once on the palette, picking up a hint of burnt umber.

  “I want to explain the fundamentals so people can recognize what goes into a strong composition and start to make judgments of their own. Art should be for everyone, not just the wealthy or the trained.” He peeked around the canvas at her. “In a selfish way, I also want to know I’m leaving something of myself behind—how I view the world.”

  He could tell she wanted to ask another question but was holding back. “What is it?”

  “Why did your wife die?”

  He hadn’t anticipated that. His face must have broadcast distress: Chiara dropped her pose and turned to him, bundling the silk up in her lap. Her chest and neck had gone splotched with red.

  “I’m sorry, I just—”

  He held up a hand to halt her. “She died giving birth to my son. He died as well. Why do you ask?” He could hear the words, but they seemed detached from his body, as if he were listening to the voice of a stranger. She was looking at him with the expression people give someone just after they’ve stood up from a hard fall. Are you sure you’re not hurt?

  “Oh…The way you spoke about your treatise, as if you wanted it to be your legacy—”

  “Because I don’t have children. I see.” The tightness in his chest began to unwind. He stared at the easel as he spoke so that he didn’t have to see her watching him. “I suppose you could look at it that way. But I think I’d want to write it even if my son had lived. I’d still want to share my thoughts and everything I’ve learned. I’d still want to have an influence, to…to feel like I’ve added my voice to the conversation.”

  “I understand.” Chiara paused. “I’m sorry.”

  “I just wasn’t expecting the question…All of that happened years ago.” He set his brush and palette on the stool and picked up a linen rag.

  “Have you started writing yet?”

  “No, but I will.” He caught her arching her brow. “I will—that’s a promise to you. And now it’s your turn.” He wiped a streak of paint from his hands with the cloth. “What is it for you? What would let you rest in peace?”

  “I’m not sure. I know it’s music, but…I think it’s also something more than that.” She frowned, then looked up. Her smile was unexpected, a stray shaft of light. “I do feel I have more options now.” He couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I want to travel!” From the corner, Cecilia said the words with such force, and looked so completely shocked by herself afterward, that they both burst into laughter. Blushing furiously, the girl threw her arms tight about herself.

  “Well, my dears, I say let’s raise a glass to all our hopes and dreams!” With that, Gio went to the cupboard to retrieve a wine jug and hunt for mugs.

  * * *

  The air stayed warm well after sundown the evening of the final festivities, and revelers choked the streets. Sounds of celebration ricocheted off the walls of Gio’s chamber as he dressed, fastening a black velvet cape at his neck and securing the mask he’d bought from Jacopo over his face. Earlier in the week, Aurelio had invited him to join his party in the Piazza San Marco, but Gio had declined—the combination of a crowd, darkness, and his eyesight only promised disaster. Instead, he’d scouted his own location: the second floor of the partially completed San Geminiano church. Though far from finished, the structure was stable enough, and its position guaranteed an unadulterated view of the square. Now, all he needed was to get there.

  He stepped into the street. At once, the thick snake of bodies winding their way toward the center square swept him up in its current. Pangs of warning fluttered in his chest. The light was already dimming and torches had been lit, sending shadows skittering across his field of view. On all sides, masked faces surged forward. Hidden behind his own blue disguise, Gio scanned the crowd anxiously. From ever
y angle, low-cut gowns exposed breasts of all sorts—bare nipples, goose-pricked flesh—while closer inspection of the more modestly attired women proved them to be men masquerading. A beggar he recognized from the taverns passed by, dressed in a nobleman’s costume. Someone’s version of a jest. Laughter and chatter from the crowd tangled with the melodies of street performers, until he felt hemmed in on all sides by a buzzing wall of sound.

  Gio kept close to the rails as the rabble crossed over bridges, peering down at the splendid, fantastical boats sailing past in the canals—strung with garlands and banners, the vessels left a disarray of flowers and ribbons floating in their wake. At their helms, common servants posed, heads encircled with crowns. The night throbbed with a primal pulse. Gio slid his mask up onto his forehead to wipe the sweat from his eyes, squinting to keep focus amid the confusion of flesh and costume, torches and crashing drums.

  He let the momentum of others carry him forward. As the throng spilled out into the piazza, he traced his way along the edges of buildings until he could slip off into the narrow passageway by the church. Days earlier, he’d scouted a gap in the wall here, hidden behind a wooden plank. The plank was lighter than he thought it’d be—he shifted it to one side easily, then stepped into the church, pulling the board back again to disguise his entry.

  Immediately, the sounds of the crowd were muted by degrees. Through the round, glass-less second-story window, torchlight poured in from the street—garish yellow against the starlit sky, so clear and cold and far away. A fresco covered the back wall of the great chamber. The face of Mary Magdalene peered out at him from the gloom, with heavy-lidded eyes and a gilded halo. A piece by Vivarini; Gio would recognize his work anywhere. Breathing in, he caught the scent of wood shavings and fresh plaster. He crossed the floor and began to climb the skeletal stairs that hugged the front wall, leading to a narrow platform beneath the window.