The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  Rose’s pocket started vibrating. It was a text from Joan, waiting for them in the parking lot. “That’s his mom…we should go. It was really nice to see you again, Lucas. I need to get back up to the archives soon.” From the corner of her eye, Rose could see Theresa watching them as she pretended to reorganize cartons of cherries.

  “Oh, about that—I’m actually heading to England for a few weeks.” He undid and redid the ties of his apron nervously. “I’m working on an exhibit of medieval manuscripts in collaboration with Oxford. So, I’ll be heading over there to get it all sorted out, do some sightseeing.”

  “But, that’s perfect for you!” Rose batted at Henry, who was pulling on her purse.

  Lucas couldn’t keep his face from breaking open with excitement. “I know, I can’t believe it’s actually happening! Hey, one question.” He tugged on his ear. “I have this thing, it’s silly really, but I like sending postcards when I travel. Can I send you one?”

  “Of course!” She started rummaging through her purse for something to write on. Henry was gazing up at her with basset hound eyes. “Okay, Henry, what is it?”

  “Can we get some cherries?”

  By the time Rose had retrieved paper and pen and jotted down her address, Lucas had already handed Henry a brown bag full of fruit, on the house, shrugging off her protestations. When she turned to wave goodbye, Earl and Theresa raised their hands also, the three of them standing together in the warm light, framed by their harvest.

  * * *

  Rose gave most of the fruit to Joan, but saved a basket of cherries for herself. The next night, well after the sky had gone star speckled, she retreated to the couch—a striped affair that was more than a decade overdue for an update. Stuffing a pair of pillows into one corner, Rose managed to create a relatively comfortable nest for herself. She was working her way through her father’s library; next on the list was Seneca’s Letters from a Stoic. On the table beside her, a bowl of cherries cozied up to a steaming cup of chamomile. Just as she’d gotten settled, her phone chimed with a notification: an email from the translators.

  The pages of undertext that she’d sent were complete.

  “Well, that was fast.” Out of habit, Rose glanced at her father’s empty chair. He would have reminded her that summer was likely the agency’s slow season. Her laptop sat on the dining room table, next to the morning paper; in three strides, she was clicking to download the document. The first line blinked up on the screen:

  For these past many years, I’ve relied upon Sebastiano Venier’s patronage.

  Was it a diary—could it be? Hastily, Rose clicked Print. Nearly tripping on her way down the hall, she stood over the printer, which she’d hidden in the laundry room, resisting an urge to tug at the sheets as they slid out. She couldn’t wait for the job to finish—instead, she took the first few pages and slid her back down the washer until she was sitting cross-legged on the tiled floor. She’d put the dryer on to run earlier; now it made a comforting, rhythmic rustle next to her as she read.

  Today I was summoned for a portrait of Venier’s favorite courtesan. Without a doubt, I feel my life has been changed irrevocably.

  Over the next pages, Giovanni’s world came into view, like reaching the summit of a mountain to finally see the landscape spreading out below. Characters were introduced: Aurelio, whom Rose took to be a friend, and Venier—here Rose recalled the portraits from the archive of the admiral, white-bearded and stern. A man named Corvino, whom Giovanni described as “cruelly handsome.” Though he never gave the name of his new muse, Rose couldn’t help but assume it was the woman from the portrait.

  What she’d wanted so terribly she now had: a way in. An open door, offering passage to Giovanni’s life—into the world of the man who was and was not William. The last page came quickly, leaving too many unanswered questions. Why had Giovanni scraped away his own diary? Why did Rose have such an uneasy feeling about Corvino? After she read the final line, she lay her head against the washer to think it all through.

  Already, she knew she’d wake up early the next day, shut the door of the operating room, and work without rest until the full diary could be translated. Until it was finished, completely. Even though finished would mean an end of reasons for William to visit. She imagined the shape of his absence—an empty doorway, no more looking up to find him standing there, broad shoulders blocking the light. No more of that new smell he’d brought with him last time, linseed oil cut with turpentine. Still, Rose knew that she’d finish the work madly, compulsively. She wouldn’t be able to help herself.

  William. William would want to read this.

  She rose to her feet, muscles stiff from sitting, and left the warm, dryer-sheet-scented room to stand in front of the computer again. Clicking it awake, she created a new message with the transcript attached.

  W—

  The translated pages are here. It’s what I think we’d both secretly hoped it would be.

  R

  She knew, without a doubt, he’d show up at the shop the next day. She forced herself up the stairs in the dark and stretched out on the bed, still dressed. She fell asleep that way, one palm over her chest, her metronome heart.

  20

  “YOU KEPT A JOURNAL?” CHIARA’S expression was dumb with shock.

  “I didn’t write your name in it. I just…drew pictures. And never of your face! I can easily say they’re of someone else, a different woman.”

  Chiara shook her head. She’d gone the same shade as her pearls. “But if Corvino argues that he’s seen us together—”

  “It could be used to convince Venier, I know. I don’t think he has seen us, but he could say what he wants and use the journal to make his case. I’m sure he knows exactly how to take advantage of Venier’s jealousy. But he won’t do anything before Venier returns, not without his consent. That means we have some time to think of a plan.”

  For a moment they stood in silence. They were in the rose-colored sitting room again, Gio’s supplies slumped in a heap near the door. He’d come on the pretense of escorting Chiara to another sitting, but after taking one look at him, she’d dismissed Cecilia. “Fetch us some wine please, and some of those small cakes from yesterday afternoon if you can find them, take your time.” Once they were alone, Gio had told her what happened, trying hard to keep his voice steady. Now she strode to the hearth, observing the remains of that morning’s fire, holding one palm out as if the room had gone cold, the other pressed to the bodice of her silk gamurra.

  “I don’t care if he knows. Let’s just go somewhere new, Gio—together.”

  “Chiara, I’ll be blind within the year—”

  “I don’t care, Gio.” She turned to him, face still pale, two strokes of pink marking her cheeks as if she’d been struck.

  “Chiara, you must understand. I won’t be able to paint without my sight. That means no more income from portraits. And if Venier denounces me to my patrons, denounces us…”

  “I don’t care, Gio!” Her voice cracked. “I hate him—”

  The door burst open then, halting their conversation. Instinctively, Gio stepped two paces backward. It was Cecilia, carrying a tray loaded with wine, glasses, and assorted cakes, trailed by Veronica and Margherita. They’d just heard the news of Anzola and were eager to discuss it—Margherita at once launching into a breathless and dramatically embellished recounting of events as the girls found seats and Cecilia distributed drinks and small plates.

  “I heard they’d even begun building a stake when that alchemist stepped in!” As usual, Margherita spoke with her mouth full.

  “Oh, Margherita, please—I don’t think it went to those extremes.” Chiara brought a hand up to finger the necklaces at her chest.

  “It could have. The Cattaveri are growing bolder.” Gio shot a warning glance at Chiara. She turned away. He took a sip of wine; it was lukewarm, round and t
annic in his mouth.

  “But what if she really is a Jew?” Veronica lounged on a chaise, grooming her hair with a little ivory comb. “She should be punished for what she’s done—masquerading as a Christian, living outside the Ghetto. If she’s dissembled, she must be taught a lesson.”

  “Veronica!” Chiara’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “Chiara, everyone knows the Jews are dangerous; they have spies all over Venice. The sultan’s adviser, that Nassi, he’s a Jew—he must have informants in the Ghetto. Likely they’re feeding him information as we speak, the rats.” Veronica held up a fistful of hair, inspecting the ends. “And if they go about pretending to be Christians, dressing as us, trading in our markets…how will we ever feel safe? Portugal expelled them, Spain expelled them. I don’t see why we don’t do the same.”

  Chiara opened her mouth at this, though no sound came out.

  “An excellent suggestion.”

  Corvino’s voice was close and dry, and it sucked the air from Gio’s lungs. The room turned to watch as the Crow sidled in from the shadows of the hall, through the door left gaping. With one hand he smoothed his hair, then spotted the wine and empty goblets on the sideboard and strode to pour himself a glass. All Gio could do was stare. He pictured the Crow rifling through the pages of his journal, examining his sketches. It was a deeper humiliation than being caught without clothes on; another man viewing not his body but his mind, his daily thoughts and concerns. Judging his privacies without his permission. Gio imagined leaping up, bolting across the room, knocking Corvino to the ground and pounding his head into the stones until he felt bones crack. But no, the Crow still had powerful connections, and worse—he had the journal. Chiara must be protected at any cost. Gio remained in his chair, watching.

  “Well. I’m glad someone agrees with me.” Veronica gazed down her nose at the Crow, assessing him anew.

  Corvino spun his glass once, watching the liquid swirl. He raised the goblet to sniff at the wine, then made a delicate grimace. “At the very least, they ought to be made to convert.” He took a long sip, surveying the room.

  “Perhaps they don’t convert because—in addition to not believing—they’re forced to forfeit all their worldly goods upon baptism,” Chiara countered from her seat in the middle of the room. She was angry; Gio could tell, by the hard set of her mouth.

  “Ill-gotten goods extorted from desperate Christians!” Corvino glared at her, and Gio felt his throat tighten.

  “Oh, they can’t all be ill gotten. And I wonder if you would find it so easy to convert yourself. Imagine being forced to give up all you owned, all your fine robes and jewels, then banned from practicing your usual trades…” Here she looked pointedly at Corvino’s fur-trimmed cape, his gleaming gold cross. They all knew what Corvino traded in—did she want to provoke him? Gio stared at her, trying desperately to warn her not to speak so boldly, but she didn’t glance in his direction.

  The Crow’s eyes narrowed. “You have a woman’s weakness of mind.” Leisurely he strolled across the floor to glance out the window. Then, suddenly, he whirled about so that he was standing directly behind Chiara; in one sure move, he looped a finger under the longest strand of pearls that hung at her neck and began pulling upward, slowly. “You forget that the Jews do not deserve their riches: only the righteous are worthy of reward.” Gio stared, horrified, as the pearls slid up, up, up, skidding over her bodice, past her other chains, until they were pressed taut against her throat. Chiara didn’t move a muscle, all the color seeping from her face. Corvino’s gaze drifted to the ceiling; for a moment he seemed to be addressing the apostles painted overhead. “The Jews know of the existence of the true Lord, and yet they turn their back on Him. The word of the Lord is clear on the matter: Whoever does not abide in me is cast out like a branch.” With a flick of his wrist, Corvino let loose some slack. He shook the pearls free from her other necklaces, then spun the strand up over Chiara’s head.

  “Such branches are thrown into the fire and burned.” The Crow took four paces, then tossed the pearls into the hearth. They fell in a glimmering coil over the embers, sparks shooting up. The room sat in stunned silence—all except Corvino, who retreated to the sideboard to refill his glass. Gio watched as Chiara stared at her defiled necklace, spots of red flaring across her chest and neck like ink stains. Once more, he tried and failed to catch her eye.

  Then, unable to restrain herself, Cecilia darted from her post in the corner. Kneeling before the hearth, she took up the poker and fished the necklace out; the strand clattered onto the floor. Fortunately, the embers hadn’t been strong enough to scorch the pearls, though they were too hot to touch. The Crow curled his mouth at the sight of the servant girl, crouched over her mistress’s jewels, then took another sip of wine. As Cecilia stood and hastily retreated, head bowed, Veronica cleared her throat in the corner.

  “I’ve heard it said many times: Any who try to turn you away from the Lord should be put to death.” Gio couldn’t tell if she actually agreed with the Crow or was simply trying to break the tension with more conversation, but he thanked her for the distraction.

  “Exactly.” Corvino raised one hand to his temple, began rubbing a circle with his fingertips.

  “Oh, please—you only go to church to find new companions!” Chiara came back to life, turning to glare at Veronica, any remaining polish chipped from her voice.

  “That doesn’t mean I’m not an honest, baptized citizen!”

  “How on earth can you—can any of us—stand as judge? Isn’t every courtesan just as sinful in God’s eyes?” The splotches on her chest and neck had become small continents, flushing over pale skin.

  “Chiara, it’s not the same! We aren’t common prostitutes…and besides, what would happen without us? Men would be reduced to sodomy. We are saving them from an even worse fate—even the Pope knows it.” Veronica leaned forward on the chaise, her expression pinched and disdainful.

  “I just…” Chiara stuttered after the right words. “Well, I know it’s said to repay no evil for evil. Shouldn’t it be up to God to do His own avenging?” The afternoon light caught a sheen of sweat at her temples.

  “Chiara, if the Jews do not repent, they are a threat to all of Christendom. Who’s to say how many honest Catholics they’ve already convinced to abandon the faith?” Corvino raised one finger in the air, reciting: “If anyone entices you to worship other gods, you shall surely kill them; your own hand shall be the first against them.” Clutching his cup of wine, the Crow looked like a terrible imitation of a priest—black robed and brooding, with bloodshot eyes.

  “Well, I heard a ‘sinful’ Jewish doctor is living in Selim’s court and providing us with valuable information about the sultan’s plans.” Chiara straightened her shoulders defiantly. She darted another glance at her pearls, cooling in a pitiful heap on the floor. Careful, careful…, Gio shouted at the girl with his mind. Corvino frowned, crossing his arms delicately so as not to spill his wine.

  “Solomon Ashkenazi.” As he said it, his eyes probed Chiara’s face. She blinked, and he had his answer—it was the same name she’d heard. He scoffed and shook his head.

  “Venier tells you too much. Who’s to say you’re not a spy?” Before she could protest, he kept on, his voice stealing louder. “And he shouldn’t put so much faith in messages from the East. Our victory will be thanks to Bressan’s new galleys, nothing more.”

  Chiara raised her chin. “You seem to have all the answers; it’s a wonder Venier didn’t bring you along.”

  She’d gone too far. Corvino blanched beneath his already pale skin, lips pressed tight in an angry trap. In the background, the rustle of Veronica’s dress, a nervous cough. Tucked away on a chaise in the corner, Margherita clutched at her cake plate, looking ready to cry. Frantically, Gio scoured his mind for a safe way to intercede.

  Nicco did the job for him, bursting into the room w
ith a yap and a whine, charging straight toward Margherita. As she knelt to clutch the wriggling pup, Corvino let his glass drop. It cracked in large shards, the glittering sound causing even Nicco to freeze. Without a word, Corvino swung his cape and left, the door slamming shut behind him.

  His spilled wine pooled on the floor, garnet red.

  * * *

  “Why did Veronica say that?” Chiara asked, stroking her hair up over the back of her head, so that it tumbled across his pillow. Through a gap in the shutters, the light was stretching shadows, signaling evening. Gio rolled over onto his side and nestled his face in the crook of her neck where the skin was softest.

  The Crow’s departure had left everyone shaken; shortly after, Gio had made an excuse to return home. Not two hours had passed when he heard a knock at his back door, which opened onto the canal. It was Chiara, standing on the stone stoop that jutted out into the water, dressed as a gondolier—complete with plumed velvet cap pulled low over her eyes. As he opened the door she leapt inside, brushing past his shoulder to land on the floor with barely a sound from her leather-soled slippers.

  Poking his head out, Gio saw a narrow gondola bobbing in the current, tied to one of the iron rings that dotted the building’s wall. In the canal, other boats glided past. From open windows all along the waterway, neighbor women were leaning out to string up laundry or dump kitchen pans, calling and waving to one another. Overhead, sparrows whirled from perch to perch among the rooftops. A gondola with a bulky cabin floated by, blocking Gio’s view. He turned to shut the door, locking it with a thrust of the bolt.

  “Chiara, what are you thinking coming here with so many eyes watching?”

  “I’m thinking Cecilia’s brother is a gondolier and will agree to say he paid you a visit—he’s already lent me a costume, after all.” Chiara held her cape out with one hand and tipped her cap at Gio. “Besides, you said yourself that Corvino won’t do anything until Venier returns. If we’ve already been found out, how much can it matter?”