The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  “I would agree with that. And now we know what he’s capable of.” Gio grasped the back of his neck, thinking.

  “Yes, but still—we cannot live our lives afraid of those who confuse brutality with power. If we do, we only prove them right.” She rubbed her face with both hands. “So, I refuse to be scared of him. I refuse. He doesn’t deserve my fear.”

  “Well…can you at least refuse quietly, for my sake?” Gio shot her a sideways grin. “Any other news from Venier?”

  “Apparently Don Juan came to personally oversee the delivery of extra rowers. He said our fleet is desperately short on manpower, and they’re set to leave—”

  A loud knock on the chamber door. Chiara bolted upright, eyes wide. Without a word, she gestured frantically to the space beneath the bed. Feeling more like an adolescent inamorato than a respectable artist, Gio knelt and lay flat on his stomach, shimmying in under the bed frame on elbows and knees. From his vantage, Chiara’s bare feet dropped into view, a bright pink blister on one heel. She padded over to the door and swung it open. Two more pairs of feet entered the room, clad in servants’ shoes and, to judge by their sidestepping shuffle, holding something heavy between them.

  “Your bath, my lady.” An unfamiliar voice, dry and brusque—certainly not Cecilia.

  “Thank you. That will be all.”

  “You won’t be needing assistance, my lady?”

  “Not today.” A pause as the servant digested this evidently unusual dismissal. Then movement again, the scraping clang of the bolt. Chiara’s hand reached down past the bed frame, her fingertips waggling at him. Gio squirmed back out and stood, batting the dust from his robes.

  “She could hardly believe me bathing myself.”

  “We’ll need to be careful when I leave. I should have just knocked, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Poor things will be occupied with cleaning, I’m sure.” As if exhausted by the mere thought of so much work, Chiara yawned. The vinegar scent of old wine drifted off her. She strolled to the basin, stepping in delicately as the steam unwound around her. He watched as she bent to fish out a submerged linen. “I spent this morning wondering why that poor man died. Then I realized I should probably be worrying about whether or not we’ll win the war.” With both hands she wrung the rag out.

  “We can’t afford not to.” As he spoke, Gio moved to stand behind her, reaching to take hold of the linen. She let him, her eyes drifting shut. He dunked it in the warm water again, then squeezed it over the crown of her head, dispensing a rush of liquid that wet her hair and slid down her back, licking the long ropes of muscle guarding her spine. She turned to speak over her shoulder at him, eyes still shut.

  “What would happen if we weren’t able to beat the Ottomans back?” Her lashes were as long as a child’s.

  “I’d take you away, for one. I won’t see you become the property of some Ottoman mongrel.” He plunged the cloth in the water again. Grasping her wrist between his forefinger and thumb, he raised her arm, tracing the linen along the underside of her biceps and the hollow of her armpit, down the curve of her side.

  “Oh, they can’t all be mongrels. They just believe in their Holy War as much as the Pope believes in his.” She stretched her free arm out in front of her, spreading her fingers wide to look at the light seeping through the webs of flesh between them. “And besides, Domenico told me that Selim’s mother, Roxelana, was a courtesan once. Süleyman loved her so much he married her—he broke all the rules for her. I’d like to think her son might have a special fondness for women in my profession.”

  Gio said nothing but bent to soak the linen again, staying crouched low to wash her thighs. The soft down on her legs was dark, like the hair under her arms; briefly, he considered what she’d looked like before she’d tinted her hair so light. She dropped her hands, one landing on his head to absentmindedly pull at his curls. “Roxelana was a smart woman. She rose from a slave girl to the empress of the East.”

  He glanced up at her. With her face scrubbed clean, her skin had the smooth, cream-top look of the very young. Then she shifted, and the light attached itself to the tender rounds of her breasts, her hips. He reached up to clasp her waist. “Chiara, under Ottoman rule, you would never compose or enjoy any of the freedoms you have now. If we lose the war, I’ll make sure you’re taken somewhere safe.”

  “Freedoms?” Her tone made a sudden, hard pivot. She pushed his hand away and turned to glare down at him, water sloshing over the lip of the basin. “Please, enlighten me on the freedoms I may currently enjoy? I’m a courtesan, Gio.” She flung her hands out to either side, then slapped them on her thighs, as if the wet sound somehow punctuated her point. “I have only the Four Orders to look forward to—and you know them just as well as I do. Tell me the Four Orders, Gio.”

  Gio sat back on his heels. He felt her watching him and started using the cloth to mop up the water she’d spilled. He weighed whether or not all the wine she’d had the evening before was entirely worn off.

  “Say them, Gio. Tell me the Four Orders. I want to hear you say them.” She sharpened her glare, still staring down at him. A stubborn insistence had knuckled into her voice, the threat of something lacking all order trembling just beneath. Dutifully, he began.

  “Innkeeper, procuress, washerwoman—”

  “Beggar. See, you do know them. All I can look forward to with my many freedoms.” She tried to smile but fell short, ending in an odd grimace.

  “You…you could be married—”

  “Purity is the only real advantage in the marriage market, and I’m afraid that’s no longer one of my offerings.” A hollow laugh from the back of her throat. “But yes, I suppose I could be married off for breeding. Perhaps Venier will be kind and pass me on to someone grand?” She laughed again, harder this time, letting the weight of her head drop back, exposing the curve of her throat. “Or I could become a nun—can’t you picture me in the robes?” Her laugh began to wobble and unspool, and with a start Gio realized she was crying, naked in the tub. Before he could halt his own actions, he found himself standing in the water beside her, the hem of his robes floating, liquid seeping into his leather boots. He pressed her head to his chest. Wet hair clung to her skull, her spine shuddering under the flat of his hand as she sobbed into his shoulder. Inexplicably, he was reminded of an afternoon from childhood, when he’d wandered into the countryside and come upon a bird who’d tumbled from the nest too soon. Carefully, he’d held its quivering body in his hands, helplessly looking up at the bundle of twigs that perched too far for even his reach.

  “Chiara—we’ll find a solution.” He was grasping her face now, using his thumbs to wipe beneath her eyes. She stared at him blankly, unblinking, lashes clumped together in spikes, irises dulled gray. “You will never be a nun or a beggar. And you’ll only marry if that’s what you desire. And—if we’ve really no other options—then…then we’ll dress you as a boy, and I’ll convince Aurelio to take you on as an assistant!” He got a crooked grin at this. “You can help him turn lead into gold. Or, at the very least, you’ll learn to make a strong drink.” Her smile broadened, and she swatted his hands away to wipe at her own face. Then she straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.

  “You’re standing in my bathing tub, Gio.”

  “I suppose I am.”

  “Then I suppose we ought to get you dry.”

  Time was his last remaining luxury, and he spent it on her extravagantly then. Inch by inch, he committed to memory all the parts he hadn’t been able to see properly in the gloom of the church, until she blushed delightedly at the attention. Afterward, they lay in a tangle of limbs on the bed, the weight of her head against his chest. He combed his fingers through her damp hair, watching the pale strands sift in the light.

  “Will you tell me now, Chiara?”

  “Will I tell you…?” She tilted her face u
p toward his.

  “I know there weren’t any bad business dealings in Rome. How did you become a courtesan?”

  She groaned and pressed his hand away, lacing her fingers through his. “I thought you men all preferred mystery and intrigue…”

  “I’m not all men.” He grinned down at her.

  “No, you’re not, are you.” She sighed and rolled onto her back, raising both legs in the air to flex her feet. A narrow vein showed itself blue at one ankle. “There isn’t much to tell. My aunt was a courtesan also; she did well in Rome until recently. Pius V is particularly harsh toward the profession, as I’m sure you know.” Gio nodded—over the past few decades, Rome had grown increasingly difficult for courtesans and prostitutes. “She came to Venice and invited me to live with her. I didn’t have a dowry, so it seemed the best decision.” She let the weight of her feet drop back down into the sheets, then rolled up onto an elbow. Her eyes caught a sparkle. “She’s brilliant, my aunt; she orchestrated everything. She arranged for me to entertain a few foreign dignitaries and tell them my story, knowing they’d boast to the right noblemen. You know how it works: if you repeat a lie enough times it turns to truth. Once my history was in circulation, she had me attend Domenico’s salons, where I could make the best connections. Like pouring milk for kittens.” She tugged his beard playfully.

  “And what of your parents?”

  Her hand arrested its motion, and she gave a nearly imperceptible shake of her head; he nodded in understanding. She turned to study the bluing sky through a gap in the drapes. “Can you answer a question for me now?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s it like?” She didn’t look at him.

  He knew what she was asking. “It’s like…” He groped for a way to tell her, to explain it. “It’s like a fire or a flood. Completely out of my control, and I can’t fight it no matter how much I want to.” He gazed up at the billows and folds in the canopy that drooped over them. “You feel deceived by your own body, because it takes time to understand what’s happening. Your mind tries to compensate for the lack of vision. Then one day you realize you’ve lost all the edges. They’re just gone. Black. After that, you realize the blackness is slowly…moving toward center. And what you can still see in the middle is blurring. Aurelio gave me lenses, but that’s the smallest part of it. It’s the blackness that’s the trouble.” He bit the inside of his cheek to halt the panic in his chest from spreading upward.

  “I’m so sorry, Gio. I know you don’t want to hear that, I just—”

  “I know. You want to say something, but there aren’t any words. Not for this.” He fell silent a moment. She brought her fingertips to his temple and began to stroke his hair; her touch was repetitive, calming, like the rhythm of waves or breath. He tasted blood in his mouth and realized he’d bit his cheek too hard. “I thought that after I lost my family, I wouldn’t feel pain again—that nothing could compare. But this, losing my art…” He closed his eyes. “I don’t know who will be left after it’s gone.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He tongued the cut in his mouth, thinking. “I put all my energy, every thought, into my paintings. It’s as if part of me was always standing by, studying the light, planning the next portrait. My wife hated it—she said she only ever got half a husband. I couldn’t explain it to her, what it’s like to create art. How it doesn’t feel like a choice; how it feels like some other force is moving through me when I paint. Now that it’s going away, I don’t know what I’ll be left with, who I’ll be. And suddenly I can’t help but question if I’ve ever really lived—now that it’s too late to change it. What did I miss, always standing by?” The corners of his mouth tugged down.

  “I feel the same way when I’m composing.” Chiara caught his curls in her grasp and shook his head gently. “You followed your passion, Gio; don’t second-guess that now.” He reached up to clutch her hand, pressing it into the pillow, and turned to look at her. Pale hair bent in waves over her shoulders, shading her face; the space between them seemed to dissolve.

  “Chiara, do you know that before I met you, I’d asked Aurelio to give me a medicine? A potion to help…to help end it. When Venier summoned me, I took it as a sign: it would be my last portrait. And then it was you, and here I am, and I’m not standing by anymore, not even a little. And all I want is to feel it—this—as much as I can.” His composure faltered, wet creeping in at the corners of his eyes. She freed her hand and grabbed his shoulder then, tugging stubbornly until he moved to lay over her, his weight pressing them both into the mattress, his face buried in the crook of her neck.

  “You are the only man who’s ever believed in me,” she whispered into his ear. He bent to kiss her neck through her hair, and she smiled—a sweet, sad smile he couldn’t see.

  * * *

  The vicious blast of a mine signaled the end. Lodged in a moat beneath the main tower of Famagusta’s defense wall, it made a muffled roar, shattering stone from mortar. As Ottoman soldiers advanced over the rubble toward the city, Captain Bragadin ordered a counterexplosion, using the last of his powder. Dense rock lurched skyward—only to return to earth, burying scrambling soldiers with a crushing finality. Undeterred, more Ottomans swarmed through the gaping hole in the wall, stepping on their own dead and dying—ribs and limbs cracking underfoot, blood staining the stones. All around, a panoply of gore that survivors would never be able to explain with words.

  “Again!” Bragadin shouted. Dust obscured his vision, his voice splintered from use. The pattern repeated itself: crush and swarm, crush and swarm, until of the thousands, only a few hundred Ottomans remained. Yet a few hundred was too still many: Bragadin’s men were out of powder, and the city was without food.

  Cyprus was on her knees.

  17

  DREAMS HAD STARTED TO COME. As soon as William closed his eyes they’d flood in, like water seeping under the crack of the door. Rich swathes, swatches of oak hue. Shapes full of movement and mystery. Eyes peering at him through boughs—now green, now gray. The press of shoulder blades against skin, feather, and bone. Powdery eggshell shattered at his feet.

  Giovanni’s story of the bird and the tree was coming to life in his dreams—and then, later, on canvas. The new paintings emerged quickly, as though they’d already agreed upon their compositions and were just waiting for his brush. A wild energy pulsed through him, all the stuck parts dissolving in a flow of fresh current. He woke up feeling weightless. He’d read about a heroin high once, probably in the Times. Over coffee and toast, he’d skimmed a description of the sensations: sensual, nerves sparkling, a warm rush of contentment. This didn’t seem so different. Quieter maybe, more constant. Like hearing strains of classical music from a neighbor’s open window: an unshakable sweetness dancing beneath the everyday noise.

  The new pieces were unlike anything he’d made before. Night after night, he’d slip out the back door and into his sunless kingdom. He’d paint until he grew dazed, until his hands became useless at mixing color. Then he’d creep inside on careful footsteps, satisfied in a way he hadn’t felt in years—years that now unraveled behind him, surreal and sepia toned. It was the same rush he’d experienced after moving to New York, when he was just discovering the style he’d become recognized for, when he knew without a doubt that he was onto something, that it was working. He began staying in the studio later and later, just him and the moon, newfound companions. He tried to paint in the afternoons but couldn’t. The daylight was too cheerful, too garish for the work that needed doing. His creativity was a nocturnal one, emerging in the silence, compelling him to action while the rest of the world fell away.

  When he finally did sleep, the dark images would come again, readying him for another round. Moody dreamscapes: a glittering desert, marked by the black and deadened husks of trees. Boughs ending in hands, fingertips reaching toward an impassive sky. He was alone there, a wanderer. Cobal
t blazed overhead; his bare feet slid, were buried in sand, hot grit between his toes and sun searing the back of his neck. He was looking for something, searching. Tumbling down dunes, falling onto his knees, then scrambling up the next rise only to be met with a vast and undulating topography, alike in all directions—a heat halo shimmering over a perfect pattern of receding pyramids, dead trees stark columns rising from the sand.

  And then, after endless nights spent rambling the same landscape, he saw it: a glimmer at the top of a far peak. A glint of blue, a barely there flush of green. He ran, arms flailing, sliding down the dunes. Faster and faster, like someone had sped up the tape. Everything black, now bright—and after that it was always the same. He’d find himself suddenly kneeling at the base of her trunk, eggshell shards littered all about, iridescent on the inside like abalone. Her chameleon eyes peering down at him through branch and limb, hot wind whipping hair across her face. A sapphire pendant dangling at her neck fractured the light, blinding him. Then she’d reach out. Night after night, Rose would reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, and he’d know it was her.

  It was always her.

  He had the same dream, exactly the same, for weeks. Then one night, just as he reached her it all changed, a record skipping tracks. The sand beneath him shifted, hardened, became the old oak pews of his father’s church, a building he’d last set foot in twenty years ago. Wide shafts of sunlight waded through the dense air. Beads of sweat coiled the hair at the napes of the women’s necks, dappled the starched shirt backs of the men. The preacher himself was drenched in his own secretions, voice bent with southern cadence and the weight of brimstone.