The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  “Corvino could come here to find us and bring witnesses. That’s how much it can matter!” Gio glanced at the front door to be sure the bolt was firmly in place.

  Chiara followed his gaze, then tossed her cap on the table. As she walked toward him, she shrugged her cape off her shoulders. “They’d still have to get through that door—and by then I can be in the boat and gone! Please, Gio, I don’t want to feel alone, not right now.” She let the cape drop to the floor. Beneath it, she wore a loose tunic clearly meant for someone larger. She draped her arms across his shoulders, and he felt the hot press of her mouth on his neck. Once again, he considered how little time he had left to see her; when she led him toward the unmade bed, he offered no resistance.

  Later, as they lay with legs interlocked and her head a warm weight on his chest, he pondered her question. “You mean, why did Veronica say that about the Jews?” He shifted to sit up, eyeing the mound of clothes on the floor, then leaning to extract his trousers. “Well…war makes people afraid. Everyone’s searching for someone to blame for the situation we’re in. Selim’s adviser is a Jew, so it’s easy to say the Jews must be conspiring with him. Here—we should get ourselves arranged…” He retrieved the gondolier’s hose from the pile.

  Chiara took the leggings, sliding off the bed to stand in front of him. Her skin caught gold in the last of the sun that filtered through the cracks in the shutters, tinted hair swaying loose over her breasts. He wished he could paint her as she was in that moment—barefaced and faultless. Then she frowned and shook out the hose as if they’d done something to offend her.

  “Well, it’s easy because Jews have already been made into the enemy. After all, they’re the ones who killed Christ, as the priests are so quick to remind us.” She was standing on one leg now, wobbling as she tugged the hose upward.

  “It wasn’t always that way, you know.” Gio pulled his own trousers on in one easy motion.

  “What wasn’t?”

  “The Jews weren’t always blamed for killing Christ—at least, not the way they are now. Did you know that images of the crucifixion used to show Jesus alive on the cross? They were supposed to remind us of his power over death. And they showed Roman soldiers as his executioners, not Jews.”

  “Why did it change?” Chiara paused, staring at him. She was still naked from the waist up. Gio snatched her tunic from the floor and tossed it at her; she caught it distractedly.

  “I don’t really know. Just…over time, everyone started to focus more on the pain and suffering of his death. His bloody crown of thorns, all that.” Gio fumbled with his own doublet. “Maybe it was to stir up emotion, to unite Christians. Nothing helps that more than having a common enemy…”

  “And we don’t have too many Roman soldiers walking around anymore, but plenty of Jews.” Her head emerged from the shirt.

  “Exactly.”

  “I guess it isn’t so different from how the Ottomans are hated…and I know it’s not just Christians, it’s all of them—each trying to rule over the other.” She let out a groan, then twisted her hair up with both hands, bending to find the carved ivory hairpins that had fallen on the floor.

  “You want us all to be one happy family, is that it? Angels and bearded prophets singing down from the clouds together?” He grinned at her.

  “Yes, I do. And who knows, some of the angels might like the prophets’ beards!” She dropped her pins and leapt at him then, pushing them both back onto the bed. He clutched at her, just under the arm. With a squeal and a squirm, she nuzzled her cheek onto his chest. She fit so perfectly there, just below his shoulder. He’d taken to imagining that somewhere in the great beyond, they’d been molded together in the pose, then cut apart, like Plato said. No matter how they began, they always ended up that way: cheek to chest, him stroking her hair back absentmindedly. He bent to kiss her temple.

  “Well, it’s a lovely thought. And, you know, Jesus had a similar idea—what did He say? ‘Love one another as I have loved you.’ Unfortunately, this ‘Holy War’ has very little to do with religion, I’m afraid. It’s really just a matter of trade routes and power. You know that. And I don’t think the victor—on either side—will be very loving to the loser.”

  “Do you think we’ll win the war?” Her voice was small.

  “I do. Anything can happen at sea, but Corvino was right—Bressan’s new boats give us an advantage.”

  “And, I know you hate him, but Venier is a brilliant commander.” She nestled in closer.

  “I don’t hate him, I just don’t want to talk about him.” He grasped at her waist, stroking the valley made between her ribs and her hip.

  “Well, say we do win the war. What happens then?”

  “I don’t think much will change. The Jews will stay in the Ghetto, paying their taxes, lending money. The Ottomans, however, will be much less of a threat.” He squinted out the shutters to see if he could sharpen the edges of the clouds sailing past overhead. He couldn’t. On his chest, a sudden dampness—cupping Chiara’s cheek in his palm, he turned her face up toward him. Her eyes were glossy.

  “Chiara—”

  A loud bang on the door. They both sat upright, a single thought joining their minds. Corvino! Gio raised a finger to his lips.

  “Giovanni, you beast! Open this door at once!” Aurelio’s voice tore through the quiet. Chiara let out a cry of relief that was half laugh, half groan and shook her head, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  “One moment, Aurelio! And a bit of warning next time!” They scrambled to finish dressing, Chiara kneeling to find her pins again, then tucking her hair up into her cap as Gio helped fasten her cape over her shoulders.

  The back door opened out into the flat light of early evening. Holding the gondola steady, he helped her step back in and untie the anchoring, water sloshing and slapping the hull. Balanced in the stern, she was taller than he was. As he looked up at her, she pressed two fingers to her mouth, then extended them to his. Behind her, the sky had gone gray. While Aurelio continued to rattle the front door, she dipped her oar; Gio watched as she glided away, feathered cap nodding, the current swinging around the narrow boat to carry it off. His mind flickered, went dim. The image of her receding from him, rippling arrows of water in her wake…it was as if he’d seen it before, would see it again—like a single frame from a recurring dream. When she rounded the corner at the far end of the canal, he thought he glimpsed her looking back.

  “Giovanni!” Aurelio’s voice came like a horn blast, enough to vex the neighbors.

  Gio rushed back inside, threw the bolt, and opened the front door. On the stoop, the alchemist stood with a large wicker basket under one arm. Behind him loitered two young men.

  “My dear Giovanni, don’t you know spontaneity lies at the heart of the true artist?” By the twinkle in his eyes and his tight ruddy cheeks, Gio could tell Aurelio was in his cups. “And here we are, to aid in your cause with a spontaneous feast!” The alchemist laughed at his own poor joke, slapped Gio’s shoulder, and stepped across the threshold. As the two men trailed in after, Gio realized he recognized them—a musician and poet respectively, both whispered to be prodigal talents. By their gait, it was clear that they shared Aurelio’s condition.

  “Well, there’s little I can do to stop you now.”

  “Oh, did we interrupt?” Aurelio grinned and wriggled his eyebrows at the tangled bedsheets and the open back door, which hadn’t latched properly and now swung out over the canal. As Gio went to shut it, the alchemist heaved his basket onto the table.

  “May I present to you Torquato and Ippolito? Torquato, Ippolito, Giovanni Lomazzo.” Aurelio offered introductions with a flourish of one hand, then unceremoniously began to unload breads, sweetmeats and cheeses, several pouches of wine, and a large flask of liquor.

  “We’ve just convinced old Alvise’s wife down at the tavern to sell us her la
rder,” Ippolito explained, stumbling slightly over his own words. Before Gio could reply, the young man saw a lute resting against the wall. He picked it up and, with surprising precision, began to pluck a pleasant tune. As Gio helped Aurelio unpack, he leaned to mutter in the alchemist’s ear.

  “Corvino has taken my journal.”

  Aurelio’s eyes darted to the dark stain on the floor next to the bed. “How bad is it?”

  “Nothing written, just sketches—and I never showed her face. Still—” Gio felt his cheeks burning. How could he have been so foolish? Reprimands had been echoing in his mind since he’d discovered the book missing, a circling pattern of self-shaming.

  “It could become his word against yours. I see. Hmm…” The alchemist buried his chin in his beard, thinking as he set pots filled with salted butter and jams on the table. He dug one hand back into the basket. “Well. What’s done is done. I suggest you don’t take any rash action. In the meantime, let me see what I can do to retrieve it.” His fist emerged, grasping a crock filled with some type of meat preserved in its own fat. “Have a seat, Gio, put it from your mind.” The alchemist dragged a chair out as if Gio were the guest. An empty mug sat conveniently on the table; Aurelio filled it nearly to the brim with wine.

  “I suppose you’re right, as ever.” Carefully, Gio raised the cup.

  The hours passed easily in drink and food and conversation. By nightfall, the group sat with their chairs pushed back, bellies full. The air was still warm, heralding summer. They’d propped the shutters open—above the rooftops, stars glittered and winked, the soft lapping of the canal a steady murmur in the background. Their conversation meandered from art and music to war, until a somber mood descended. In a lull of quiet, Ippolito leaned for the lute again. This time he sang along, an old ballata they all knew by heart: “O Rosa Bella.” The tune looped around on itself with a comforting repetition, like a lullaby from childhood. As if on cue, Lucio scrambled up onto the windowsill, knocking the shutters wider. Ippolito abruptly stopped playing while the four men watched the boy tumble into the room.

  “Wanting to join, I see?” Gio laughed and helped the child up and into a seat of his own, tearing a portion of bread for him. Introductions were made, and Ippolito began the song again. Under the music, Gio could hear the boy lisping along with the chorus.

  O rosa bella

  O dolce anima mia…

  When it was done, the group applauded. Ippolito gave a playful bow as Aurelio stood to pour another round of sweet liquor for the table.

  “And how is the painting coming along?” The alchemist glanced at his friend curiously.

  “It’s coming. I can still do it.” Gio understood what Aurelio was asking. “And I’m sure that at the very least, Corvino will see to it that I finish, for Venier.”

  “Corvino?” Lucio perked at the name. “I know who that is! Once, when Marco and I were playing by the well, he yelled at us for being in his way. He said that at night he turns into a big hungry crow, and if we didn’t behave, he would come eat us up. Is it true, Gio?” He looked up at Gio with wide eyes, the closeness of night making monsters seem real. “Can he really turn into a crow?”

  Before Gio could respond, Aurelio interjected: “No, Lucio, it’s not true. Only very, very special people can turn themselves into crows—and Corvino’s not one of them.” The alchemist leaned to ruffle Lucio’s hair.

  “Do you want to hear a happier story about a bird? A story for only the sweetest of dreams?” The poet had barely spoken all night, but now he bent forward into the candlelight. He had a wan face, an adolescent-looking mustache wisping outward beneath a long and slender nose. His eyes were owled, with heavy lids that made him appear either perpetually in thought or half-asleep.

  Lucio nodded.

  “Once, a long time ago in a distant land,” the poet began, his voice lilting slow and wistful. “Where the brushes and shrubs trembled in morning breezes, a beautiful and gracious lady lived. But this was no ordinary lady…”

  The poet continued, weaving the tale of the tree and the bird, the egg and the soil. The spell of the story lured the group into its grasp, the way an ocean tide pulls bits of shell and glass from shore. Gio’s mind wandered naturally to Chiara. He pictured her, a wide blooming tree, himself a bird with perfect sight. He would draw the story for her as a gift. An imagined world they could share, a secret place just for the two of them. For always.

  On the table, the candles flickered, casting a circle of light against the darkness.

  * * *

  Captain Bragadin’s ears were gone, but he could still hear. Sound lurched into his skull devoid of place, ambient and disorienting. He reentered his city of Famagusta, this time as a prisoner, with beard and mustache shorn. Shackled now, he stumbled forward. Loose ropes from his restraints thrashed out behind him like snakes, stirring up dust. In front of him, the heads of his commanders sailed, pierced on tall spears held aloft; their blood streaked down the poles, drying rust colored in the heat. Passing through the empty avenues, Bragadin felt the invisible eyes of his people upon him—all those he had failed. They hid now, behind barricaded doors and in cellars, knowing what was to come. The downward swing of a fist.

  The Ottomans led Bragadin to the harbor. Using ship rope, they lashed him to the main yard of a galley, then raised him up. Looking out over the city, he could only watch as fleeing citizens were chased down and slaughtered with less reverence than was given beasts. He hadn’t imagined there could be a worse sound than the orchestra of men in battle, but now he heard it—the screams of his own people rising from every corner of the citadel. He saw throats and bowels freely opened, women held down to be raped. From his vantage, he could see it all.

  “Can you see Christ?” The soldiers mocked him from below.

  Afterward, he was tied to a column in the main square. There, they flayed him alive—carefully and unhurriedly, as if it were an art, peeling his skin back like thin parchment to expose the raw and bloodied flesh. Extra attention was paid to his face, to preserve the dignified shape of his features while, underneath, he was deformed into a spectacle of pain. With savage, unknowable sounds, he begged for death.

  He remained alive until they reached the base of his spine.

  When it was done, Mustafa ordered his hollow skin to be pickled and stuffed with straw. They dressed him back in the royal crimson robes, which draped weirdly now over his knobby figure, and sat his husk on an ox to be paraded through the town. With straw poking out from his empty eyes, Captain Bragadin stared, unseeing, as his city passed him by.

  * * *

  While what was left of Captain Bragadin marched through the streets of the citadel, the full force of the Ottoman navy sailed, miles and miles west of Cyprus. The coastline had long since vanished behind them; now the boats wound through the islands scattered across the Mediterranean, their course charted for Italy. When they met the Christian league, both fleets would be poised to fight for the fate of Cyprus—and for Europe herself. Although Mustafa and his men had taken Nicosia and Famagusta, Cyprus’s two strongholds, their victory was a fragile one. If the Christians defeated the Turkish forces, they could easily regain control of the territory. If, however, the Ottomans dismantled their opponent, the empire was ready to open its maw—conquering more islands, advancing even to Venice herself. The possibility was not inconceivable.

  Perched in every crow’s nest, soldiers scanned the horizon for the first sight of sails.

  Ali Pasha, admiral of the Ottoman fleet, paced from bow to stern. He considered what an Ottoman victory could make possible: the light of Islam spreading across Europe like a sunrise from the East. And he could have a hand in it all if he fought well. Selim had even entrusted him with the Banner of the Caliphs—a massive flag embroidered with text from the Qur’an and the name of Allah in golden letters. It flew from his mast now, snapping and whipping in the wind, prompting him and his
men to excellence. Ali shook his head. He could never understand the shortsightedness of the Christians. How could they despise the Jews for not recognizing Jesus, even as they themselves refused to perceive that the prophet Muhammad (peace be upon Him) was sent to continue His very work? How could they not recognize that this was the advocate Jesus Himself had foretold?

  Ali leaned over the railing, breathing in the tang of salt air. Before the fleet had departed from Istanbul, he’d received word that Mustafa’s son had been killed during a raid on Cyprus. Now Ali pulled at his beard, watching the soft ripples of the boat’s wake echo out into the endless fabric of the water. Silently, he whispered a prayer that Mustafa wouldn’t let his anger overrule him.

  The breeze took his prayer and sent it flying out across the empty sea.

  Without meaning to, Ali pictured his own youngest son sleeping at home, the rolls on his arms and legs soft as dough. He heard the sound of his wife singing to him in the morning, as the early sun slanted in, already warm. Ali thought of his own singing, reciting the adhan, the warbling call to prayer he’d never tire of, never not feel was a calling back to his very self…

  No. He could not think of home now. Now was the time to be Kapudan Pasha, a grand admiral. He gazed at the ocean below, which undulated like some great beast breathing. The surface shifted and rippled, fracturing his reflection—for a split second, Ali saw his own bearded face severed from his shoulders. He started, standing upright. It was only a reflection, nothing more. He repeated the words to himself.

  It was only a reflection.

  21

  “DID YOU READ IT?” HIS voice was bright and anxious as he entered the shop. “Can you get coffee somewhere? Talk about it?” He was wearing a short-sleeve button-up shirt; Rose tried not to stare at his bare arms. She glanced down at her watch. It was after four o’clock, late enough to close.