The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  Finally, Aurelio succeeded, throwing off the top panel of heavy wood that had bound Anzola’s wrists and neck. Holding the woman by the crooks of her elbows, he helped her to straighten. Face slick, hair hanging in sweat-soaked ropes, she collapsed into his arms.

  * * *

  I need to trust those around me. Corvino paced the avenues briskly, like an arrow shot toward its target. I need to trust those around me. The phrase had stayed at the forefront of his mind, shouting out any other thoughts, Venier’s dismissive wave replaying in a loop even as he slept. And worse, before the fleet had departed, Corvino had overheard Venier discussing future plans for his whore; through the cracked door he’d caught mention of an allowance, private lodgings in the city. All for spreading her legs! Well—he would show Venier who was to be trusted. He’d seen the way she’d looked at that artist, dancing la volta with him at Venier’s feast. Under Venier’s own roof, they’d looked at each other that way! Then later, after Domenico’s salon, he could have sworn he saw the artist step into her gondola. Corvino was no fool. He’d noticed the ink smudges on the man’s fingers—he was writing something. Love letters? Groveling poetry? Whatever it was, Corvino would find it. Any shred of evidence and Corvino would coax it out like a splinter, collect it, display it like art upon Venier’s return. See what you think of your precious whore now.

  Without warning, his mind leapt to the crow’s visit in the night, its voiceless command to leave the city. Simply an apparition, nothing more. A waking dream, the raving result of worry and lack of sleep. No, he would not leave—Venice would yield to him yet. If only Venier had let him sail! He would have fought piously on board the fleet, he’d have defended the very soul of Christendom! But no matter. He’d simply need to find other ways to make his name known, to earn his rightful station. His Father would provide for him, he need only stay the course. We will reap at harvest time if we do not give up. Corvino quickened his pace, darting down the avenues that lay deserted while the whole town gawked at that hag.

  He’d show Venier who was to be trusted.

  * * *

  His journal was gone.

  Returning home from the square, Gio had been forced to follow the pace of the dispersing crowd, and now he found his door ajar. Heart dropping, he lunged inside to see at once that his rooms had been ransacked: chairs overturned, cabinets and chests torn open, clothes and papers strewn across the floor. His eyes darted to the tilt of his mattress; the inkpot he kept beside it had been knocked over, was now leaking black onto the floor. He rushed to pull the bedding up, clutching about blindly. The floor was flat and cool—empty.

  They’d found it. Corvino had found it.

  Who else could it be? If the Crow harbored any suspicions about his relationship with Chiara, the distraction in the square had provided an ideal opportunity to search Gio’s chamber. Why hadn’t he been more careful? Gio pictured all his sketches, how he’d filled every margin with Chiara: her feet, her elbows, her mouth. He leaned back onto his heels and let out a howl between clenched teeth.

  * * *

  A second man arrived at the gates of Famagusta—again neatly turbaned, though this time his hand was bandaged, his dark eyes like bloodshot marbles. The parchment he bore offered another promise: that no citizens would be harmed if Captain Bragadin surrendered. With resignation, the captain retreated to his chambers. As he bathed, his cuts and scrapes turned the water pink then crimson, muscles aching with each bend and twist. He oiled his beard until it shone, then called for his royal robes. With stiff joints, he mounted his favorite steed. If he must surrender, he would do so with dignity. In a single line, he and his commanders crossed the bridge that now spanned the moat outside Famagusta, as the citadel smoldered behind them.

  Less than two hours later the heads of his commanders were mounted on pikes, their empty eyes staring out, fixed in horror. Slow-draining blood dripped from their cleaved necks onto the floor of Mustafa’s tent, wet earth absorbing the viscous red. Bragadin’s gaze, however, was fastened not on their faces but on Mustafa’s open hands.

  In each palm rested one of Bragadin’s own severed ears.

  “My son, my son. You murdered my son,” Mustafa kept repeating in a language Bragadin would never be able to understand. Still, he could guess at the meaning. Once again, Bragadin saw his own soldier turning toward him in the market square, displaying a blood-streaked blade. Proclaiming to all who’d listen that he’d slain Mustafa’s heir.

  Once again, he heard the beggar woman’s voice: You’ll be killed by the whip, but you’ll die by the saber.

  19

  ROSE WAS MAKING PROGRESS ON the undertext. She’d matched the fade of the ink Giovanni had used nearly exactly and could now start filling in the obscured sentences. Since Giovanni had only partially scraped away the original text, large patches of words were left clearly visible in the margins, escaped fragments of thought. She tried to piece them back together, turning the repair into ritual. It was more than she needed to do, but it’d make translating the undertext easier for the agency. It was also a welcome distraction, forcing her mind to focus on something other than William. His last visit had left her disoriented—why had he apologized, then asked her permission to keep coming back to visit? She wanted to sit and pore through books on behavioral science, chart his various probabilities of meaning. As always, she wanted to talk it over with Joan, but she knew that the second she got to the part where he’d brushed her hair back, Joan would stop her, raising one hand in the air and shaking her head emphatically, the same gesture she used on Henry when he was about to do something that was strictly forbidden. Oh no, that’s quite enough.

  He’d apologized for it, though, that was the snag her thoughts kept catching on. He’d taken it back. Was she supposed to trust his words—which told her that he enjoyed her friendship, period—or was she supposed to trust his actions? The way he’d touched her, how she’d caught him looking at her in the gallery more than once. He’d winked at her during his last visit. What had that been about? Now she knew there were full articles online, dissecting over twenty different types of winks and the message each might be sending. She was almost starting to resent him for this: that she’d become a woman who looked up articles on websites meant for teenage girls, sitting alone at her dining room table, eating canned soup.

  She’d stopped making eye contact with the portraits on the mantel weeks ago.

  Yet even if his actions were more real than his words, where did that leave her? He was married…at least, he still wore a wedding ring. The mind, she was discovering, was a dangerous place: a dark wood with winding paths that beckoned her into uneasy territory. Not knowing what else to do, Rose turned to the work. Letting the treatise consume her felt like a safe choice, a familiar obsession. Better the devil you know. So, she allowed herself to stay up late, huddled over the pages. Patching fibers, tracing ink. Meticulously avoiding the fact that the treatise was her one link to William, the way an ice skater glides around rough patches on a lake.

  She began to move deeper into the undertext. As she did, she saw the same names repeated there: Venier, of course, but also Aurelio. Another word as well, cortigiana. Courtesan. Could the woman in the portrait be a courtesan? It seemed likely—a wealthy man’s companion as the artist’s muse. Rose considered the idea as she worked. After an hour, she went and retrieved the sketch of the woman from the stack, then balanced the portrait upright on the countertop, like a patron saint overseeing her repairs.

  Already, a large portion of the text was ready for translation. She couldn’t wait any longer. Shuffling through the pages, she found the spot where sketches of the woman began to appear in the margins. Taking a section of about thirty sheets, she scanned them, then imported the images into her software program. After a bit of fiddling, she was able to isolate the bottom layer of writing. Rendered in red, the text was even more legible than she’d hoped for.

 
With a ding! the program produced a file of Giovanni’s hidden script, ready to be sent to the agency.

  * * *

  The next morning, Rose woke up exhausted. Between the half-closed drapes, a small bluebird bobbed on a branch outside her window. It flitted its wings and ducked its head, delighting in the morning sunshine.

  No. She wouldn’t open the shop today. It was a Sunday, and the students were gone anyway—the whole town was asleep for summer. In the kitchen, she made a French press, then retrieved the paper from the stoop, tightly rolled in its dew-pocked plastic sleeve. Two cups of coffee later and midway through the Travel section, a knock sounded at the front door. For no logical reason, she wondered if it was William.

  It was Joan, looking as tired as Rose felt, her red hair pinned back haphazardly. Henry stood in front of her, grinning and clutching a plastic fire engine.

  “Oh good, you’re home. I absolutely need a trim and the salon can fit me in now. You can watch him for a little while, can’t you?” As she spoke, Joan touched the back of her head self-consciously with one hand, pushing Henry over the threshold with the other.

  “Sure, I was going to close the shop today anyway. I can take him to the farmers’ market.”

  “Oh, that’s perfect, thanks so much. I’ll just pick you up there?” Joan threw this last sentence over one shoulder as she retreated toward the family van, which had been left idling in the drive. She slammed the door, then backed out and disappeared around the corner at a questionable speed for a residential neighborhood. Henry remained on the doormat, unbrushed hair still fixed in a ruddy swirl from sleep, beaming up at her.

  Rose didn’t have a car—driving gave her anxiety, and everywhere she needed to go was within biking distance. When she was with Henry, they took the bus. It was always a tremendous adventure for him: swiping their passes, then pressing his small nose to the glass as they rumbled toward town. There’s the garden! I can see the river! Look at that truck!

  People assumed Henry was her son when they went out together. Rose enjoyed the misperception, the sympathetic smiles she received from other mothers, her temporary admission into their circle. The bus that day wasn’t particularly crowded: only locals, now that it was summer. An older woman who’d penciled in her eyebrows using an odd shade of navy, a thin man in a short-sleeve button-down and, inexplicably, a beret. A few students still in town for the summer, their requisite earphones in, white plastic knobbing out.

  After three stops a teenage couple got on, the girl in a black crop top and fraying denim shorts, the boy wearing baggy jeans and expensive-looking sneakers. His hair was dyed an impressive shade of platinum, nearly white. Rose watched them slump, giggling, into the seats that ran below the windows. They must have gone to an event the night before: they still had neon-colored wristbands on. The girl was tugging at hers, trying to get it to tear. She made an exaggerated performance of it, knocking into the boy’s shoulder, laughing. With a swoop he grabbed her wrist, then brought it to his mouth. Biting the band, he wrenched at it with his fingers, her arm hanging limp in front of his bared teeth. The gesture was sudden, animalistic. The girl abruptly stopped laughing and stared at him intently. The lengths of their thighs were touching, rocking with the motion of the bus.

  Then he succeeded, and the band snapped loose. He smiled triumphantly, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. She was smiling too, rubbing her wrist, but something had altered between them. A change of color in her expression.

  Rose thought of William’s hand again, grazing her ear…

  “Auntie Rose, is it time to pull the cord yet? Is it time?” Henry turned toward her then, putting his little palm on her thigh as if she were just another piece of furniture, an extension of the bus seat. A warm wave of comfort rushed in to displace what she’d been feeling. Rose glanced out the window.

  “Almost, Henry. We’re the next stop.”

  The market had more stalls than she’d remembered. Families and couples milled leisurely down the aisles, and near the entrance a small band of high schoolers played earnest covers of sixties folk songs. Several stands offered samples speared with toothpicks: melons and figs, cubes of bread for dipping into olive oils or slathering with jam, slices of tangy cheese. Midway through the maze of vendors, Rose had already acquired a bag of salad greens and a tub of honeycomb she probably didn’t need but was drawn to for its gooey fractal symmetry. She glanced down at Henry and saw that he’d managed to smear jelly across one side of his face, nearly to his ear.

  “Henry, how on earth…” Rose rummaged around the bottom of her purse for the packet of wipes she knew to keep.

  “Rose!”

  She recognized the voice, though at first she couldn’t place the lanky man behind the farm stand, with the afternoon sun casting his face in shadow. Then he moved, and she caught a tinge of auburn, a ruddy halo encircling his head.

  “Lucas?” She gave a quick swipe to Henry’s cheek, then ushered him toward the stand, remnants of berry still clinging to his chin. Ducking under the tent, she saw that the sun had multiplied Lucas’s freckles, lightened his hair to near copper.

  “Hey, it’s good to see you!” He was wearing a blue apron. The farm stand was one of the largest at the market, tables loaded with cherries and rhubarb, summer squash and greens.

  “Is this your farm?”

  “My family’s, actually.” He pointed toward the banner pinned to the tent fabric behind him. RIPE EARTH ORGANICS. “They were a little shorthanded this week, and the library is slow. Summer break and all…”

  “You have red hair, like me!” Henry was pointing a berry-stained finger at Lucas’s head.

  Lucas laughed. “Yep, and freckles too. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a few of these when you get older.” He tapped the bridge of his nose.

  “Really?” Henry widened his eyes, then squinted up suspiciously. “Where do they come from?”

  “Well, I have it on good authority that they’re fairy kisses. You get them while you’re sleeping.”

  Henry let out a soft “oh,” his mind immediately busy sorting out the logistics of fairy visits.

  “Your son?” Lucas asked, tilting his head. For a second, she was reminded of the little bird outside her window earlier that morning.

  “No, my nephew. Henry, this is Lucas. Lucas, Henry.”

  “My mom is her sister,” Henry stated matter-of-factly. “Aunt Rose doesn’t have any babies because she isn’t married.”

  “Henry!” Rose shushed the boy. Henry looked up at her with a confused expression, his jam-stained mouth dropping open.

  “It’s okay, Henry. There are lots of people who aren’t married yet.” Lucas waved his bare left hand up in the air. “It takes time to find the right person.”

  “Who’s this, Lucas?” An older woman had materialized at Lucas’s elbow. She had wire-frame glasses and a mane of gray hair twisted back in a tortoiseshell clip. Her formidable bosom was covered by an apron with EAT LOCAL printed across the front.

  “Rose, meet my mother, Theresa. Mom, this is Rose, she’s a book restorer. I helped her with a project.”

  “Ohhhh, Rose. Hellloooo.” The woman winked profusely at Lucas while wiping her hands on her apron, then offered one to Rose to shake. “Earl! Earl come over and meet Lucas’s friend from school!” She turned and flapped an arm at her husband, a heavyset man with a bristly salt-and-pepper beard that splayed across his chest.

  “Mom, it’s a university, please. We didn’t meet on a playground.” Lucas shot Rose a look of exasperation, and she noticed with some amusement that he’d gone pink. Earl wandered over, hitching up the back of his jeans although he wore a pair of suspenders. He reached out a callused hand toward Rose; his grip was surprisingly gentle. Standing side by side, he and Theresa reminded Rose ever so slightly of overgrown hobbits: she could imagine them having second breakfasts and afternoon tea, picking
berries in fields as idyllic as any in the Shire.

  “Nice to meet you, Rose. Can’t say I know much about what Lucas gets up to with all those books—” Earl’s voice was deep and sandpaper gruff.

  “He’s a bit of the black sheep of the family,” Theresa interrupted, cupping a hand to the side of her mouth in a mock whisper, as if Lucas couldn’t hear. Rose smiled politely, not sure how to play along.

  “I go to a playground!” Henry announced loudly, catching up to the conversation.

  “I bet you do!” Theresa put her hands on her hips, puckering her face at Henry before exclaiming “Oh! Oh my!” A group of women wearing matching purple workout T-shirts had descended upon the stand; Theresa and Earl bustled over to help them weigh their produce.

  Rose inched toward the end of the table. “Well, your parents are adorable.”

  “Pros and cons, pros and cons.” Lucas grinned at her. “But I really can’t complain. My biggest childhood trauma was probably the outfits my mom decided to dress me in.”

  “Please tell me there’s documentation.”

  “Oh God, I’m sure.” He cringed. “So, how’s your summer so far?”

  “Good, I’ve just been wrapped up in that project. I need to get outside more.” Rose was suddenly aware of how pale her skin was compared to Lucas’s healthy tan.

  “I get the exact same way when I’m working. Is it going well? Did you ever figure out the undertext?”

  “I sent a portion off to the translators, I’m expecting it back any moment.”

  “Oh, bated breath!” He rubbed his hands together excitedly.

  “What’s a bated breath?” Henry chimed in again from below. Rose and Lucas met eyes, both squinting, considering the best answer.

  Lucas responded first. “It’s when you’re so excited, you almost hold your breath.”