The Lost Diary of Venice Page 2

  Under bridges, canal waters reflected hot sun glare and snatches of blue sky, bright streaks of color from painted tenement walls. The smell of stew and a muffled clamor of domesticity wandered through the alleyways, while overhead, lines of laundry swayed in mild breezes. From rooftop nooks, birds murmured and cooed. A cobblestone struck Gio’s foot, and he stumbled; righting himself, he caught sight of his own reflection in a pool of dirty street water. Deep-set hazel eyes, straight nose, well-molded mouth. Beard trimmed close to the jaw, cropped chestnut hair that curled at the tips. An unremarkable face, but one that had grown more dignified with the arrival of a few wrinkles, a dusting of gray at his temples.

  He pressed onward. From open doorways and windows, dark-eyed children watched him pass.

  Before long, he arrived at a great house set back some distance from the avenue. Columns and arches sent shadows curving in the sharp light; from a corner of the garden came the cool sounds of a fountain. Gio approached the front door and peered at the elaborate knocker: a bronze snake eating its own tail. Grasping its head, he pounded. Within moments, a solemn-faced girl in a white apron swung the door open. She stared at him, expressionless, with large brown eyes set slightly too far apart. He fumbled in his pouch for the scrap of parchment.

  “Sebastiano Venier is expecting me.” He thrust the scrap in her direction.

  The servant took the paper, unfolded it, and began to read the summons—signed with her master’s distinctive scrawl. The note mentioned in two separate places that Gio should come to Venier’s city palazzo and not his family estate in the country. Reading between the lines, Gio guessed he’d be tasked with painting a portrait of Venier’s latest courtesan; as he aged, the man seemed to take increasing pride in the beauty of his young escorts. With rumors circulating that Venier—currently a statesman—would soon be nominated “next doge of Venice,” nubile companions weren’t difficult to come by.

  The servant nodded when she’d finished, the center part in her hair drawing a perfect pale arc over the crown of her head. She turned, gesturing for him to follow. She led them left, down a corridor, and up a narrow spiral staircase: the servants’ route, more direct than the wide marble stairs in the center of the courtyard. He took care to remember the way. At the top, the stairway let out into a great hall, brilliant sun streaming in through tall windows at the far end. As they crossed the polished terrazzo floors, their reflections shivered up, glassy and distorted. Rows of columns flanked several pairs of doors on either wall, and between them hung drab paintings in gilded frames: women holding lapdogs, or anemic men in naval uniforms. Lesser-known members of the Venier clan, no doubt. Gio squinted at the portraits as he passed. Even with his middling vision, he could tell they were unexceptional: the palettes dull, the proportions uneven—

  Abruptly, the servant girl halted. Gio pulled up short just behind her, narrowly avoiding a collision. Pressing her shoulder against the nearest door, she pushed it open.

  Inside, the walls of the grand room were hung in rose silk, tinting the light. Heavy drapes had been drawn halfway shut, and on a far hearth, embers from a recent fire smoldered. Gio stepped into the glow. For a moment he lost all focus as his eyes adjusted from the glare of the hall. Gradually, three women came into view, floating before him on plush divans. Their skin was powdered to a satin finish, imperfectly concealed by folds of silk and velvet that dripped and pooled onto the floor. Jewels at their throats and fingers shimmered. Their lips and cheeks were stained the same fever shade, and their hair—yellow, chestnut, red—was piled high, growing upward like strange glossy botanicals. At his entrance, they turned to him in unison. From the ceiling, sharp-eyed Gospel figures peered down in judgment, trapped in the landscape of an elaborate allegorical frieze. The women’s powdered breasts rose and fell under the apostles’ watchful eyes. The choking scent of perfume mingled with the tang of wine; Gio suddenly felt dizzy. The women’s faces tilted toward him as the ceiling shifted closer.

  At his right, two men sat on walnut chairs. One’s beard and hair were a close-cropped silver, the other’s a black so dark it shone indigo. The dark one turned to watch as Gio pressed a palm to the wall. Then the older man stood and with wide, intoxicated steps, veered toward him. Gio blinked against the blur. Suddenly, the weight of Sebastiano Venier’s hand clamped down on his shoulder; Venier’s pale eyes swung in front of him, cold and brisk as seawater. Gio breathed in the strong odor of wine and tobacco and, beneath that, salt.

  “Giovanni! You look faint! Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pretty girl before!” Venier’s voice boomed as if he were still speaking out over a sea. His narrow face, usually so stern—steely gaze, thin-lipped scowl—was now soft with good humor, cheeks ruddy from wine. The women tittered: round, glad tones that drifted up and broke open across the apostles’ faces.

  “Sebastiano, don’t be cruel.” The yellow-haired woman at the center of the room spoke, bending to pour more wine into an empty glass at her feet. Her voice was soft, with a scratch inside it like a fingertip curling: come closer.

  “Here, have a drink.” She held out the full goblet.

  As he neared to take it, Gio saw at once why Venier had chosen her. She was dazzling in a way only something that won’t last can be. In a few years’ time, he knew her face would be hardened, her posture settled into the architecture of a body accustomed to use. But gazing at her now, Gio felt the same way he did watching sunrise over the lagoon: a near-painful awe at the excessive grace of nature, its beauty offered up without fanfare or expectation, as if it were ordinary.

  The girl’s skin was nearly translucent and flush with young blood, a shade richer than the ivory silk of her dress or the ropes of pearls at her neck. Long lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. When she raised her eyes, he noticed their remarkable hue: hovering between blue and purple, violaceous and hypnotic. A sapphire pendant dangling at her clavicle reflected their color; the drape of the stone inviting the gaze to travel downward, to the firm curves of her breasts, as yet unmarred by age or childbirth. Her tinted hair had been oiled and braided in a delicate pattern at her crown, laced through with gold thread, so that all of her seemed to glisten in the afternoon haze. It was for women such as this that men wrote sonnets, wept, or went to war. With a quick squint, Gio understood he was merely the first of many who would be summoned to paint her portrait. As he reached to take the glass from her, she tipped her face and smiled.

  All went hush.

  In that single lavender beam, she shone a terrible, lovely vulnerability up at him—and without words or logic he understood: it was he and only ever he who could keep her safe.

  Then she blinked, and the warm bright light was gone.

  “Her name’s Chiara.” Venier whispered loudly at Gio’s side. Turning, Gio saw the man—a former soldier, whose hands had famously killed other soldiers on the rain-soaked decks of ships—reduced to an idolater. The girl shifted her gaze to Venier, small dimples suggesting themselves near the corners of her mouth. Someone had trained her well. Without warning, Gio felt the stare of the dark-haired man on his back.

  It was like a shadow, passing.

  “I want a portrait to put the others to shame, Giovanni.” Venier moved closer, dank breath cloying with wine. “I want you to make Tintoretto’s eyes bleed. You know he promised me a picture and reneged to paint for that miserable confraternity.” The confraternity Scuola Grande di San Rocco, on whose walls Tintoretto was painting the life of Christ.

  Venier grasped Gio’s forearm, squeezing it tightly. “I want him to see Chiara’s portrait and hate himself.” He edged in, thin lips nearly touching Gio’s ear. “She’s sat for none of them yet, you see—you’re the first. Virgin territory.” The old man leaned back. “Artistically speaking, of course.” He let out a dry laugh that fractured into a fit of coughs.

  At the sound, the other man in the room stood.

  “You know Corvino.” Veni
er gave a wave of his hand, before turning to hack into his elbow.

  Gio did know Corvino, who was handsome in a way that other men noticed: black hair trimmed to skim his shoulders, a prominent brow that cast his dark eyes even deeper in shadow. Muscles moved beneath his robes like horse flank stirs and flexes under hide. He’d arrived in Venice the same way Gio’s blindness had appeared: not noticed at all until suddenly he was everywhere. Seated at every important dinner, kneeling in the front pews, walking out from Mass with this senator or that councilman, head bowed. Listening. He dressed in fabric as fine as that of any nobleman, with a heavy gold cross dangling conspicuously. More than once, Gio had overheard him allude obliquely to Spanish connections, to a fortune made in brokering exports with colonists en route to the New World. Yet from the first, Gio had believed Corvino’s history about as much as he trusted the street vendors hawking their wares along the Rialto Bridge.

  Still, he had to give the man credit for how quickly he’d established himself among Venice’s elite. Likely, it had much to do with his looks. It wasn’t just that Corvino gave the impression of being a statue brought to life; there was a grace to his gestures, a lilt to his phrases that Gio guessed must have taken years of study. He appeared and behaved the way a nobleman should—but so rarely did—appear and behave: elegant, cultivated, reminiscent of a demigod. For this, he was rewarded with a regular chair at the best dining tables in the city. Yet looking the part is far different than being cast in the role. For all his charm and fancy robes, Corvino still lacked a proper lineage—and without a title, he’d never be allowed any position of real power. Gio sometimes wondered if the senators and councilmen who opened their homes to Corvino ever noticed the hungry way he eyed their fleets of servants, their sumptuous, gilded halls. Likely not—or if they did, they took a perverse pleasure in it. For many of them, envy had become the only measurement of importance. Gio, however, found it unnerving to sit by as Corvino watched others live out a version of life he so clearly felt he was owed.

  It came as no surprise, then, when Corvino attached himself to Venier: the statesman had a reputation for being mercurial, as erratic with generosity as with punishment. It was well known he’d arranged an advantageous marriage for the daughter of one of his favorite merchants, pairing her with a noble family that’d suffered recent losses. They’d gained her dowry, she’d gained a title and coat of arms. Yet by the same token, Venier had banished from Venice permanently a former adviser whose counsel had displeased him. No doubt Corvino was hoping to one day be on the receiving end of a warmer mood. Meanwhile, the statesman had likely taken shrewd measure of Corvino and estimated him willing to do nearly anything to earn influence. With a campaign for the role of doge looming on the horizon, Venier would surely put his acolyte to good use. Until then, he let the man chase at his heels like an underfed lapdog.

  For his part, Gio simply did his best to avoid Corvino. In his experience, jealousy had a bad habit of fermenting into rage.

  “Well, let’s get on with it, then.” Venier’s voice came again, still at a shocking volume. With his coughing fit over, the statesman returned to his chair. Behind him, Corvino remained standing—seeming, as always, to be attending to a deeper and more important dialogue occurring in his own mind. As the room watched, Gio began unpacking his supplies. From his satchel, he withdrew a portable drawing board and a roll of parchment. Next, he undid the pouch that held his boxes of chalks and charcoals. Today he’d propose a composition; once Venier approved, the real work could be done back in the studio.

  Stepping into the role of artist like a seasoned actor assuming the stage, Gio once again approached the girl. He brought two fingers to her chin. At his slightest pressure, she swung her head: first left, then right. Squinting, he assessed her bone structure and profile, quickly memorizing her features while close enough to see them in detail. Her face was perhaps the most symmetrical he’d encountered—though he knew enough of womanly arts to spot that she’d intervened with nature on the matters of her brow shape and hair color. As she watched him appraise her, a pang of doubt flared in her eyes. With his back to the others, Gio gave her a grin, a secret reassurance. You’re safe with me, don’t worry. He thought he caught her lips start to curl, then she flushed and wrenched her chin away. As he walked back to his station, Gio made a silent promise to no one in particular that he’d capture the cleverness he’d seen in her, before she trained it completely into hiding.

  “We must prepare you for immortality, my dear!” Venier reached out a hand. The first signs of a mangling arthritis could be spotted in the subtle bend of his fingers. The girl leapt up like a marionette at his summons. She was shorter than Gio would’ve guessed, but as she danced toward Venier even the embers seemed to flare, watching. Following along to a tune only she could hear, the girl glided across the floor, swinging her silks out—first in one hand, then the other. She was teasing them. She dipped and swayed and leapt, bending like a swan to raise the hem of her dress, revealing the length of her leg, her shapely, slipper-clad foot. Then she dropped the fabric and spun, arms arching into the air. Curls fell loose at her neck and temples, the hem of her dress swirling and billowing around her like white-gold petals. Gio squinted. The jewel at her chest fractured light, her slender arms fluttered. The room began to melt away at the edges until it was only her, center stage, delicate and pale.

  Then she collapsed in a fit of giggles and ran the few short steps to stand in front of Venier. He leaned forward eagerly, plucking at the laces of her gown. The other women gathered close, laughing and clapping with calculated amusement. As Venier’s hands stumbled, the brunette and redhead both reached to help, pulling loose Chiara’s stays, tugging down her camicia.

  Gio knew a woman’s body—knew it well, in all its iterations. The rough pink spots some could get at the elbows or below the knees. How flesh tended to fold around the bones, how it would fold around itself if there were more fat on the muscle. We artists aren’t so different than butchers, we’ve seen it all, he’d say to his models, especially the new ones, to reassure them. No need to be nervous. But now here he was, watching Venier undress the girl, his veins pulsing as if she were the first.

  Her silks had ended in a pile of ripples at her feet, so that her body rose from them like a stamen, her long necklaces of pearls and gold chain sliding into the hollow between her breasts. Lean muscles expressed themselves under curves of flesh; Gio caught a pink flush of areola as she turned, then a shock of downy dark. He willed himself to focus on her bone structure, to measure her proportions. Lazily, she extended both arms toward the ceiling again, arching her back, smiling up at the apostles with both eyes closed. Venus as coquette, drunk on wine and youth. In his mind’s eye, Gio saw portraits and sculptures—her form echoing for eternity in paint, in marble, in bronze.

  Venier broke the spell with a crude grasp.

  Spinning her around, he slapped her buttocks and pushed her toward the center of the room, the evidence of his palm still rosy on her skin. The girls squealed agreeably. Corvino glared out the window. Sashaying toward a divan, Chiara settled into place in one fluid movement—aiming her body away from Gio to reveal the long curve of her spine, the suggestive depressions at the base of her back. Then she turned, glancing coyly over her shoulder.

  “Chiara, the breasts!” Venier demanded.

  “No.” Gio’s voice burst out, surprising even himself. He held one hand up to keep her still. “This is better—it’ll allow for some imagination. The girl knows what she’s doing.”

  Chiara failed at hiding her smile. Venier pursed his lips a moment, considering the pose, then conceded. “You’re the artist.” As though unable to stay after being contradicted, he stood. The servant girl emerged from the corner to push the heavy doors open, while Corvino darted to pluck Venier’s cape from the chair back. He shook it out with a flourish, then held it open for the statesman.

  “I’ll look forward
to seeing how it comes along.” Venier shot a meaningful look at Gio, then busied himself arranging his robes. “Chiara, Corvino will escort you to your appointments.”

  “I can escort her.” Again, Gio surprised himself. Corvino narrowed his eyes. Still in position, Chiara tilted her head. Gio stumbled on, “I’m certain Corvino has more important duties to attend to. And my humors would benefit from leaving the studio more often.” A plausible excuse, but only just.

  Venier hesitated. Gio held his breath. Then, it was decided. “Very well. See that you do.” With a small flick of his robe, Venier strode out the door, Corvino trailing three paces behind. Gio listened to the staccato of their boots retreat into echoes as the two men descended the main stairs and continued out into the courtyard.

  He remained alone with the women.

  * * *

  Hundreds of miles away, sun glared brilliant on the Bosporus strait. From the decks of their boats, the janissaries could still hear the bells of the Hagia Sophia beckoning the city to prayer. The whole of Istanbul lay behind them, as if it were floating on the waterway: domes catching the sun, minarets stretching to pierce the sky. Masts of trading ships crowded the harbor, their holds heavy with spices, silks, and slaves. On the other side of the fleet, the horizon stretched out flat and endless.

  Then the wind caught their sails, and a mighty gust propelled them west, toward war.

  3

  ROSE SAT AT THE TABLE in the brightly lit dining room. Joan had put out her seasonal centerpiece: three mason jars, lace doilies tied around their circumferences with raffia, stalks of cheery yellow daffodils crowded inside. That meant it was spring. In the corner, a red-headed five-year-old was happily removing his clothing—holding out at arm’s length first his sweater, then his undershirt, before letting them drop to the floor. One foot was clad in a neon blue sock, the other needed washing. From the living room came the strains of Bizet’s Carmen.