The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  His father, the preacher.

  Even now, William could hear his father’s words echoing: “The sin is in the mind.” His voice boomed out, ate into the sticky air, swelled to fill the upper chambers of the hall. The good book was a weight in William’s hands, its gilt-edged pages gleaming in the light. He looked to his left. She was there with him too, now dressed in white linen but still wearing the sapphire. Rose sitting on the pew next to him, sunlight on the nape of her neck. The sin is in the mind. The book an anchor in his hands.

  Rose on the bench beside him, hair tumbling down, tress and curl.

  His body moved of its own accord. He felt her stiffen with surprise, then grasp back at him. In the dark, half-asleep, it was Sarah’s fingernails between his shoulder blades, Rose’s clavicle arching back. William pressed his face into her shoulder, biting skin. Outside, the rustling of trees. In the night, in his mind, the body thrust into the bed was Rose’s—hair branching over the pillow, skin pale as eggshell. After, as they lay breathing into the hush, Sarah rested her head on his chest. Quietly, she began to cry.

  “I missed you so much, Will.”

  At the window screen, insects roiled to get out of the night.

  * * *

  The English translation of the top layer of Giovanni’s text appeared in her in-box sooner than she’d thought it would. Rose scanned the generic message the agency sent with each project, then clicked the link to download the file:

  A TREATISE ON ART

  By Giovanni Paolo Lomazzo

  She scrolled through the table of contents. Chapters traversed topics she’d already been able to identify: color, shadow, proportion, but also ventured into more esoteric themes—like how a man’s character is revealed by his physical body, or the emotional qualities of constellations. Carefully, Giovanni was defining a category for painting among the recognized arts, referencing a string of philosophers and mystics. It was clear he was staking his claim: writing around the perimeter of the discipline, weaving art theory together with practical advice.

  Best of all was the chance to hear his voice. After a formal introduction, typical of the time period, his prose ebbed into more conversational language. He was educated and passionate, so enthusiastic that sentences sometimes ran for half a page. It was easy to imagine talking to him, going to the tavern for a pint, debating the nature of art into the early hours. She could only guess what reading the translation would mean to William.

  She prepared the package, diligently following the same procedures she used for every client. One simple copy, printed and spiral bound with the binding machine she kept in back, one digital file on a thumb drive. No special touches. She hadn’t heard from him in weeks, not since he’d last been in the shop—not since he’d brushed her hair back with his hand. Not hearing from him, not seeing him, made her stomach clench, summoned a frantic static to play in the background. She’d even been avoiding Joan, who’d know right away that something was wrong. Rose couldn’t bear to tell her what had happened, could imagine the face she’d make: bit-lip disappointment and I-told-you-so eyes. He wasn’t just like any other client, after all.

  But now she had a reason to reach out. She’d keep it purely professional. Surveying the neat stack of papers with the drive balanced on top, she agreed with herself it was as it should be. At the computer, her fingers grazed the keys.

  William, the translation is wonderful.

  William, the translation is ready. I can’t wait to show it to you.

  William…

  Best to just copy and paste again. She’d done a translation job last fall…searching through her sent mail, she found it. Borrowing the letter in full, she substituted the names, changing a word here or there. At the end, she added a line: You’re welcome to pick the materials up from the shop, or I’m happy to mail them.

  After she sent it, she reread it, everything she wanted to say buried in the white space between the lines. The formality felt like a way of telling him he didn’t have to worry, that he could come back to the shop and everything would be the same. You touched my ear, but I will be a consummate professional. It’s all right to come back, just come back, please.

  She printed out another copy of the treatise, which fit into her bag if she rolled it at the edges. After giving Odin an absentminded scratch, she locked the door and started the bike ride home. It was dark outside already, and there was a chance he’d be there tomorrow.

  * * *

  William arrived promptly at the start of her lunch hour. Rose stood up behind the register when he opened the door, smoothing out her emerald green blouse. This time, she’d remembered to bring her lipstick and had spent the morning retreating into the bathroom every hour to reapply it.

  “Thanks for the email.” At the desk, he slid his bag off his shoulder and dropped it at his feet.

  “Of course.” Rose smiled and grabbed the translation, which she’d kept at the ready, holding it out with both hands like a sacramental gesture. Blinking rapidly, he took it, then set it down sideways on the desk between them.

  “Listen, before I dive into this, I just wanted to apologize.” He was talking too quickly. Her expression must have been one of confusion, because he licked his lips nervously and kept explaining: “It’s just that last time, I didn’t mean to, um…” He made a tucking gesture near his ear.

  “Oh! Don’t worry about that at all.” Rose knew her cheeks were burning, they couldn’t not be. He was taking the moment back, he hadn’t meant it. It hadn’t meant anything at all. She felt sweat, prickling and hot, gathering in the folds of her arms.

  “It was just an automatic response, I wasn’t thinking—”

  “I didn’t think anything of it, really,” she lied. They were both speaking too fast now.

  William dragged a hand downward over his mouth. “I just didn’t mean to overstep…”

  “Consider it forgotten.” She wiped her palms together in the air, a motion of finality, and forced a cheerful face; her stomach doubled in on itself. He looked at her warily, then warmed, leaning in over the book.

  “Thanks.” Sideways grin, dimple like a flash of sunlight. Then he was glancing down, opening the spiral binding. “So, you’ve already looked at this, right?” He turned to the table of contents. She tore her eyes from his face and focused back on the book.

  “Yes, it’s amazing.” She couldn’t help but start pointing out the titles. “It’s about art, but also so much more. Look—this chapter’s all about the nature of planets…and there’s a bit on the qualities of man I think you’ll like…”

  Both their faces were bent over the book now. The translators had formatted the document so that the original text ran on one side, with the English version on the other for easy comparison. He could feel her breath on his arm as she flipped through the pages. The image of her on the church pew next to him flickered to life, her hair falling down her neck.

  “Here, it’s right here—I think this is so interesting. He was trying to describe how character and mood affect appearance. Honesty, sadness, envy…it’s all there.” Rose tapped the page with two fingers. “Art theory mixed with a little psychology.” She fell silent as he scanned the passages.

  Strength. Strength has lofty, stout, and sturdy actions: so as to look big, always composing his body with a good carriage; not flagging and dilating his limbs as weak and weary bodies do…

  Their heads were nearly touching over the desk as she leaned in to read along with him. He turned the page.

  Adultery. An adulterous man may be patterned after the body of Mars, who by reason of his heat and dryness is by nature prone to rash actions…

  William straightened, took a step backward.

  “Oh, look—there’s also this whole other section, all about war and how to draw battleships.” Quickly, Rose flipped to a spot in the middle of the book. “Here—here’s a description of
a new kind of ship the Venetians designed to fight the Ottomans. They went to war the year this was written.”

  This captured his attention, and he ventured forward again. “It even discusses the mechanics of the side cannon.” She ran an index finger under the detail.

  He glanced up, curious. “How do you know all that?”

  “Well, I wanted to understand the time period better. Working with the book, I felt like I got to know him a bit and I wanted to learn more. About Giovanni, I mean.” Her tongue felt clumsy. “I did a little research into what was happening at that time in Venice…”

  “What did you find out?”

  “Oh, it’s fascinating.” The words began to tumble out easily then—she hadn’t realized how much she’d been wanting to share what she’d discovered with him. “A war between a Holy League and the Ottomans was starting—”

  “Christians fighting Muslims? Sounds familiar.”

  “I know, right? But here’s the thing: the leader of the Venetian fleet was a man named Sebastiano Venier. That name—Venier—I see it repeated over and over in the undertext.”

  “Do you think Giovanni knew him?” His eyes lit up at the possibility.

  “I don’t know…it’s impossible to say without a translation. The undertext could be anything; it could easily be a history of Venice, actually, which would explain why Venier’s name is in it so much. Those types of texts were pretty popular at the time. Giovanni could have experimented with that first, before the treatise. I’ve been trying to sort out some of the sentences but between the faded ink and my non-Italian, it’s kind of a lost cause.” She gave a small shrug.

  “At least we’ll find out soon enough, right? And I can’t wait to go through all of this.” As he spoke, he closed the spiral-bound translation on the desk between them, then bent to tuck it into his bag. “I’m glad it seems like this is interesting to you.” He straightened up, scraping a hand through his hair.

  Was he leaving—so soon? Rose rushed to keep the conversation alive. “Oh, it absolutely is. You can tell that he’s figuring out art’s place in the world, how to communicate it. At the end of the day, he’s an academic, really. But just hearing his voice, and then how amazing the sketches are…he’s gotten a little under my skin.” Without thinking, she tucked a loose curl back behind her ear; realizing the gesture she’d made, she glanced up at him anxiously.

  He wasn’t looking at her. Instead, he was gazing out the window at the sidewalk, where office workers were strolling to lunch without their coats on, woolly white clouds drifting aimlessly overhead. “I get that. Seeing his art is actually what inspired me to change direction with my painting. I’m working on a completely new series now.” He directed his words out to the day at large.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, that story of his, the egg and the tree—it sparked something, and now it’s like I can’t spend enough time in the studio.” He turned back to her, a new glint in his eyes.

  “You’re working with Giovanni’s sketches?” Rose tried to imagine the images, so clearly mannerist, translated through William’s own style.

  “It’s definitely different.” He gave a short laugh. “But it’s just what I needed—I haven’t been this excited to paint in I don’t know how long.”

  “That’s wonderful—I’d love to see them!” She realized how it sounded and quickly clarified: “I mean, if you have a show or something.”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” He gave a spontaneous wink. Outside, the clouds broke apart, and a sudden light flooded in to illuminate her face, turning her eyes as green as her blouse. He noticed the color on her mouth. He considered again how easily she’d fit against him, how her head was the exact height to rest on his chest. Then he remembered the weight of Sarah’s head on his chest in the night.

  Odin chose that moment to leap off his chair with a loud mew. Distracted, they both watched him pad over to a bookcase, rub his cheek on the wooden corner, then disappear behind it. As if that was his signal, William bent for his bag, hoisting the strap up over one shoulder. As he stood, a book stacked on her desk caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” The book had a bright red dust jacket with a painting by Titian on the cover: a nude model reclining on a chaise, clutching a fistful of flowers.

  She froze. She’d never been able to lie—even a white lie was a challenge—and now here he was, putting her on the spot. Rose fumbled in silence for a second, then gave up. “It’s…ah…it’s for you, actually. I remembered in the gallery, you said you needed some art books, and this one gets good reviews. It’s all about Venetian painters.” After his apology, after he’d taken back the moment that she’d spent every day trying to decode, she’d decided in an instant not to give the book to him. If she were a craftier person, she’d have thought to hide it with papers when he bent down.

  He raised his eyebrows, surprised. Quickly, she tried to make it seem more casual than it was instead of something she’d spent hours tracking down online. “It’s not a big deal, I was just doing a purchase order, and I get discounts anyway. Here, you can take it with you.” She picked up the heavy book and hoisted it toward him.

  Taking the spine in one hand, William flipped the book open. Inside, the pages gave an illustrated account of the Renaissance in Venice: how the relationship between Venetian and Dutch painters introduced to the Italians a new technique called glazing, using oil paints, while the debate over which mattered more—drawing or color—grew heated. Vibrant full-page reproductions documented the rivalry among Titian, Tintoretto, and Veronese, which had led to an explosion of work produced for churches and patrons.

  “This is fantastic…” William thumbed through the pages.

  “There are so many weird, fun facts in there too.” Rose eyed the paintings as they spun past. “They were even grinding up glass into their pigments so they’d reflect more light.”

  “I should really know so much more than I do; I was just never much of a student. I always chose painting over reading.” He shot a sheepish look up at her, then darted his eyes back to the book.

  “Well…” Rose didn’t know what to say to that: who could choose anything over reading? “You’re learning now. We both are.”

  “It’s definitely more fun to learn together, though, isn’t it?” He continued flipping through the pages slowly.

  “It is.” She spoke quietly, not wanting to disturb his train of thought.

  “I like these conversations we have. Talking about art, ideas…Maybe I can still stop by sometimes, even after the book is done.” He didn’t look up but kept his head bent, studiously examining a portrait of Veronese.

  “You’re always welcome here.” Her heart beat against her sternum, a caged animal. He nodded, as if they’d made an important agreement.

  A breeze rattled the door.

  He snapped the book shut abruptly; the sound clapped through the stillness. “I should go.” He said it louder than he’d meant to. When he looked up, her face was flushed and confused.

  “I’ll let you know when the undertext is done.” She raised her voice up at the end, as if it were a question.

  “Thank you. For everything.” He held the book up with one hand and waved it in the air, nearly stumbling over the doorstep on his way out.

  * * *

  Three minutes later and William was sitting in the drugstore parking lot again. It’d begun to rain, and the patter on the roof and windows encased him in sound. He pulled out the transcript from his bag slumped in the passenger’s seat, opened it to the first page, and began to read. Eventually, he got to the chapter on character and emotion. After Adultery came Fidelity:

  Fidelity is sincere, fair, and trusty, without the mixture of other motions, and is most commonly found in content and moderate men.

  Rivulets of rain shivered down the windshield. What kind of man was he? Could he call himself co
ntent? Moderate? A recent afternoon surfaced, when for no clear reason other than the house being empty, he’d thrown a wineglass against the kitchen wall.

  Why the hell had he apologized for touching Rose, then turned around and asked if he could keep coming back to her shop? What was he thinking? William bent and pressed his forehead against the cool steering wheel. He was losing control; the borders of his life were splintering out. What was he doing in this town, even? He sat up, caught sight of his own face in the side mirror. A memory materialized suddenly, from childhood. It’d been summer, oppressive southern heat, asphalt softening in the roads. His parents had taken him to a carnival show; he’d gotten lost in the house of mirrors. He’d kept trying different routes, panic rising, running harder and harder into his own reflection until he’d broken down and an attendant had to escort him out.

  Where was his attendant now?

  Propped up next to his bag on the seat beside him, the nude on the cover of the book gave him a sidelong stare. Should he have accepted the gift? Why didn’t Sarah ever give him books like that—did she not think he’d like them? Maybe she just understood him too well and knew that he’d only ever get a third of the way through before abandoning it. He wanted to be the sort of man who read art books, he did. Rose thought he was that sort of man; couldn’t he become that? Couldn’t he change?

  William peered around the parking lot to be sure it was empty, then let loose a howl in a voice he didn’t recognize, silent behind the glass. On the pavement outside his door, a large black crow pecked at a discarded Styrofoam container. The bird raised its head at William, staring curiously, as if he looked familiar.

  18

  THE CROW WAS A DEEPER black than the night sky. It stood at the window, shifting foot to foot, sometimes bending to sharpen its beak on the sill. Corvino sat up in bed. The crow surveyed him with liquid eyes.