The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  As she entered the reading room, Lucas smiled broadly. “Ready and waiting,” He gestured to a cart behind the service desk, already stacked high with books.

  “Thank you so much.” Rose glanced around. The room was more crowded than usual with students rushing to footnote final papers, but a seat by the window was still open. She pointed and Lucas nodded; together they made their way to the table.

  “I hope these will be useful.” He began his usual choreography, arranging paperweights, setting out the foam bookstands.

  “Oh, I’m sure they’ll be great. So…all these books just ‘came across’ your desk?” She couldn’t help but smirk up at him. He raised both hands, guilty.

  “Okay, okay, I maybe did some digging. After you left, I realized I didn’t really know much about that time period either, not beyond the broad strokes. So, I poked around a little. Out of curiosity.” He selected an oversize book, laid it out in front of her.

  “It’s incredibly fascinating. The artist you’re studying was Venetian, right? Fifteen seventies?” She nodded, watching as he turned the pages until he reached an elaborate woodcut display of ships in battle. “So, Venice had just gone to war with the Ottoman empire. Which was really significant. If the Ottomans had won, they could have taken all of Italy—the same way they’d taken Constantinople! It would’ve changed the whole face of European history. Anyway, that particular war ended in the Battle of Lepanto.” He frowned, looking down at the picture. “The Venetians had just invented a new kind of boat…here—see here.” He pointed at one ship in particular, cannon muzzles poking out of it portside. “Essentially, they took old merchant boats and transformed them into warships, with way more firepower than a normal galley. The Ottomans never anticipated that.”

  “I recognize this ship from a sketch in the book!” Rose couldn’t keep the excitement from her voice.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. I’d imagine everyone in Venice was pretty focused on the war—and I think the boats were a big deal in terms of new technology. But you’ll never guess who was in that battle!” Lucas straightened up and raised one finger, eyes sparkling as he paused for dramatic effect. “Don Juan of Austria!” A student at a far table glowered at them; Lucas gave a curt nod in response, then leaned down to continue in a whisper. “Can you imagine? Don Juan fighting against the son of Süleyman the Magnificent on the Mediterranean?” She noticed his eyes were actually hazel: kaleidoscopic brown and green with pinpricks of pupil at their centers.

  “Is all of that in this book?”

  He turned the pages back to the beginning of the chapter. “It all starts here.” He tapped a fingertip on the first phrase of a paragraph. She bent forward to read.

  Upon the death of Süleyman I, his son, Selim II, assumed the throne. Such a dramatic change in power left Venice concerned for the safety of Cyprus. This concern turned to fear after an unexpected visit by Joseph Nassi to the harbor of Famagusta, on the eastern shore of the island…

  For the rest of the morning, Rose was lost in the rich history of the Battle of Lepanto. The Ottomans and Venetians had maintained a truce for a surprising number of years, based on mutual trading interests. But in 1571, under the rule of Selim II, the Turks had decided to make a gamble for the Venetian-claimed island of Cyprus. First, they’d targeted the town of Nicosia, before continuing on to Famagusta. In response, Venice had pleaded for help from the Pope, who was eventually able to cobble together a Holy League, after much cajoling. Port towns along the Mediterranean began bustling with activity as the Christians banded together against a common threat.

  With a jolt, Rose recognized a familiar name in the chapter—one she’d often seen repeated in the undertext of Giovanni’s book: Sebastiano Venier, admiral of the Venetian fleet. She sat up with surprise, darting her eyes to Lucas, who’d gone back to his station at the service desk. He noticed her startle and looked over, cocking his head; she beckoned him with an excited flap of a hand.

  “Look! This name is in the book too!” She stabbed a finger at the paragraph. He bent to read along.

  “Do you think the author was documenting current events?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I’ve seen the name in the undertext: it’s a palimpsest.” She didn’t need to explain the word to him; he nodded, knowingly. “The top layer is definitely about art, but maybe he wrote something completely different first? I think it was in fashion to write histories, political commentary, things like that…I have to wait for the translations to find out for sure.”

  “Translations?” Another tilt of Lucas’s head.

  “Yes, I’m actually repairing the treatise. I’m a book restorer, I guess I didn’t mention that.” Rose smiled, only slightly guiltily. “I use a translation agency for any foreign-language manuscripts.”

  “Oh, you’re the restorer!” Lucas grabbed the back of a nearby chair and spun it around to sit beside her. “I’ve heard about you,” he whispered. “The staff said you’re amazing.” A year ago she’d assisted with the restoration of several documents from early-modern Japan, part of a bestowal. Rose could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. She shrugged.

  “I can’t believe you let me lecture you on how to handle books last time.” He rolled his head back to look at the ceiling, in exaggerated exasperation.

  “No, no, no, you did a great job!” she insisted, to which he threw a hand up in mock protest. “I should have said something, I know. I was just so focused on figuring out more.” She surveyed the books spread open across the wide tabletop. “But I think I’m done reading for the day. This room is making me sleepy.” Outside, the sun had intensified, turning the glass-walled reading room into a greenhouse. Like wilting orchids, most of the students had already abandoned their efforts.

  “Well, great timing. Looks like my shift change just got here.” Lucas nodded toward the front desk, where the bloused and powdered woman had taken up her station and was already sorting through paperwork. “Let me get my things and I’ll walk with you?”

  “Sure.”

  A shimmering heat welcomed them outside. It was one of those summer days that had lost its place and turned up in spring, foreshadowing the coming season and confusing all the plants. Immediately, Rose tugged the scarf from her neck, as if it were strangling her.

  “This is ice cream weather.” Lucas squinted up at the blazing blue.

  “Let’s do it!” Rose’s voice was partially muffled as she unwound the last loop of silk.

  “Get ice cream?” Lucas hitched up the straps of his backpack, as if she’d suggested a ten-mile hike.

  “Yeah, there’s a good spot just through campus.” She couldn’t say exactly what had come over her other than the bright expansiveness of a warm spring day: sunlight filtering green through the leaves and the contagious enthusiasm of the birds. It was a day that begged to be basked in—going straight home felt like an unconscionable act.

  “All right, I’m game. Is that yours?” He was pointing to her bike now, chained up on the rack next to only one other one: an army green cruiser, which he began unlocking. Rose nodded, then keyed open her own lock, threw it into the wicker basket along with her chains. She swung up onto the seat and wheeled a lazy loop in the street in front of him, smiling.

  “Onward, Captain!” He gave a laugh and kicked off, following as she led them down a narrow, stone walkway and into the streets, past tree-lined courtyards and the historic freshman dormitories that wouldn’t have seemed out of place at Hogwarts. Rose let the lightness inside fill her to the brim. She lifted her feet off the pedals, hovering them in the air as they cruised down the white line. Lucas darted forward to bike beside her every so often, teeth bared in an openmouthed grin, shadows of branches and bursts of sun flashing across their faces.

  They arrived at the ice cream shop windswept and warm. There wasn’t a line at the register, and only a few students slouched at the tables
.

  “What’s your favorite flavor?” Rose asked as they stood side by side at the counter, reading the menu posted on the wall behind the cashier—an undergrad girl with hoop earrings and acne scars, a pair of distracting false eyelashes glued to her lids.

  “Will you judge me if I say sweet cream? It’s, like, even more boring than vanilla…” Lucas cringed and pushed his glasses up.

  “Ha! No judgment. Mine’s mint. What even qualifies as an exciting ice cream flavor anyway?”

  He tugged on his ear, considering the question seriously. “Oh, maybe something really artisan, like caramel balsamic swirl, or—”

  “So, one sweet cream, one mint? Cone or cup?” Line or no line, the cashier didn’t have time for their debate. They both got two scoops, in waffle cones, Lucas deriding the inferior quality of sugar cones in the process, with Rose’s full support.

  Back out on the sidewalk, they entered into a competition with the sun for who could reduce their scoops faster. Without discussing a destination, they began ambling side by side down the street, past shops and restaurants.

  “Now honestly, when is the last time you’ve tried sweet cream?” Lucas turned to walk backward in front of her for a few steps.

  “I—I don’t know that I’ve ever had it.” Rose contemplated her ice cream history.

  “Try! I haven’t even taken a bite from that side.” He offered his cone toward her. She accepted, grasping the paper napkin wrapped around the base, taking as delicate a sample as could be managed.

  “It tastes like…well, like sweet cream! That’s really nice, actually.”

  “I know! Thank you.” He said it as if she’d just settled some long-standing dispute. “It’s the most comforting flavor there is.”

  She laughed, and they kept strolling. Conversation came easily: each of them had a background in archival studies, though she’d focused on restoration while he’d taken the librarian route. She discovered he was a closet medievalist, while he got her to admit a secret passion for miniature books from the Victorian era. They both bemoaned the shifting status of print in the digital age, Lucas offering up anecdotes from his time assisting students. “I swear, I’ve never felt older than when explaining how card catalogs used to work.” Rose squinted at him furtively, trying to guess his age. By the beginnings of crow’s-feet near his eyes, she felt safe saying midthirties. A few years older than she was, maybe.

  Before she knew it, they’d made a wide, meandering circle and wound up back at their bikes, loitering awkwardly next to the rack. To her surprise, Rose realized she wasn’t quite ready for the conversation to end. She hadn’t felt nervous once or had to remind herself to just be herself.

  “I guess…let me know if you ‘come across’ any more books?” She made air quotes with her fingers, grinning.

  He laughed. “Absolutely, I will.” Still smiling, he pushed his bike out onto the sidewalk. “So…see you around?”

  “Sure.”

  He took off down the street, then turned to try to wave goodbye at her, front wheel wobbling. She laughed and waved back. She was halfway home before she began thinking of the treatise again.

  William’s fingertips brushing her ear.

  16

  MORNING RAISED HERSELF IN CLEAN blue notes. With sunlight dappling the canal and birdsong in the air, the day broke fresh and bright and pure over a city still swathed in the haze of its own debauchery. Gio roused himself to sit at the table and write in his journal. The vellum he used had been a gift from Domenico, who’d pressed it into his hands late one night. It was of particular quality; the scratch of his quill on its pumiced skin was one of the few things that made waking up bearable. In the comfort of his morning routine, the memory of Bacchus seemed no more than a fragmentary nightmare. But as he wrote, the outline of events sharpened themselves—the way the man had fallen to all fours in the square. It’d been no dream.

  Gio recorded the details of what had happened, as he did so many other mornings, fueled by the fear that when his eyes finally failed, they might take all his memories with them. It was irrational, he knew that, but still he was compelled. His pen hovered over the page. Should he write what he’d done with Chiara, what she’d done with him? It was what he wanted to remember most, in vivid, singular detail. But what if someone were to read it? Gio considered what Venier might do if he found out—then considered the mood the city was in. What might change once the fleet departed, with most of Venice’s young men in her hulls?

  What might Corvino do if he were left behind?

  Drawings, then. Sketches were safe. Sketches were more accurate than words. He could capture the moments he wanted to hold on to, tightly: the arch of her back, her jawline. The tender curves of her inner thighs. How her hair had spilled out onto the floor after she’d tugged it loose. He made small drawings with her face tilted away, always, or in shadow. The press of her hip bone against her skin as she lay on her side. This was what he wanted to record, knowing he’d be forced to give it all away. Let me keep this one moment, just this one.

  When his eyes tired, he dressed and stepped outside. The avenues were empty, save for scavenging fowl and rats scurrying along the walls, nosing about in the remnants of the night before. Beneath the chill, a thread of warmth knit itself through the air in a suggestion of spring. Without thinking, Gio found himself walking toward the great house.

  Chiara had left the church first the night before. He’d waited alone in the empty building for a full half hour after she’d gone, lying on his back, hands folded under his head. Tracking her movements in his mind. He’d pictured her returning home, changing out of her costume, Cecilia helping her into her four-poster bed with its clean linens. The brocade curtains drawn over her sleeping face, as peaceful as the moon.

  He held the images close, knowing full well she’d rejoined Venier’s party—entering with some amusing tale of getting lost in the crowd, laughing and smiling and tossing her cape. Performing. Kissing Venier before he could see how smeared her makeup had become. In his mind, the two Chiaras had traveled in tandem, tracing divergent paths. He’d comforted himself by imagining that the ghost Chiara, the returning-home-safe-and-alone Chiara, was the one they both wished for.

  Arriving at the house now, he paused to lean against a linden tree across the street. He looked up at the windows for signs of life. Nothing. A lone thrush winged across the pale sky. The broad leaves overhead rustled, then went still. It was too early. Perhaps he’d continue on to the harbor.

  Suddenly, the door of the palazzo was flung open. Gio ducked behind the tree, pulling his robes in tight. The backs of two men came into view, walking away from him down the avenue. It was Venier, head drooping, with Corvino behind. Straight-backed, the Crow reached to clasp one hand on the statesman’s shoulder, but Venier shook him off. Corvino dropped a pace, chastened; in single file, they disappeared around the corner. Gio counted to fifty, then dashed across the avenue.

  Inside, the house smelled stale. The scent of alcohol mingled with that new devil, tobacco, to create a particularly rank odor. The muted figure of a servant shuffled across the courtyard, arms clasping a bundle of soiled linens. In the shadows of a far corner, a peacock pecked at grain spilled over the stones, flashes of cerulean as its head bobbed. Before anyone could notice him, Gio hastened up the spiral staircase to the grand hall, nearly skating across the freshly polished terrazzo.

  Chiara’s door swung open at his touch. She was sprawled on her belly in the bed, sheets tangled at her ankles. Her hair was loose, tumbling in uncombed swirls across the pillows. The red and gold brocade curtains had gotten twisted around their posts, and her costume from the night before lay in a forgotten heap on the floor next to a pair of overturned goblets. Squinting at him, she groaned in greeting. Gio bolted the door behind him, then strode to throw open the shutters. Unforgiving shafts of light streamed into the room, prompting more groans and a
pale arm to be thrown over a paler face.

  “Why are you so cruel?”

  “I see your night continued on past me.” Gio tried and failed to keep the jealousy from his voice.

  “Venier was obliged to celebrate Don Juan’s arrival in Venice, and I was obliged to join them.” She eyed him from under the crook of her elbow. A tendon flexed in her leg as she rolled onto her hip to face him; Gio marked the contrast between the dark mound at the base of her stomach and the tinted gold hair that snaked over her shoulders, her chest, the pillow. His throat tightened.

  “Venier could barely stand, he’d had so much wine. Asleep like a babe as soon as he lay down.” She smiled at him, all dimples, the remnants of her inked-on mustache smeared across one cheek.

  “Was Corvino with them?”

  “No. I think he came this morning, but I didn’t see him—I don’t know that I could have managed it. I told Venier what happened…” At Gio’s face, she rushed to clarify. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell him I was with you.”

  “What was his response?”

  “He asked me to describe the man; I did as best I could. He thinks it was his challenger from the Senate—the one who wanted his cousin appointed admiral. He was quite angry with Corvino. He said he would’ve been named admiral regardless, and to have his opponents killed is likely to do more harm than good to his reputation.” She stretched her legs, kicking herself free from the sheets. Gio watched her ribs expose themselves for a moment under her skin.

  “Well…” He scratched his beard. “There isn’t any way to prove the man was killed…”

  “No, but he was still troubled by it—I think he’s off now to see what can be done about declaring it the result of some condition. He was really quite angry,” she repeated, before completing her turn and falling onto her back, continuing to speak primarily into her elbow. “He said Corvino’s too ambitious for his own good—he said he’s overreaching his station.”