The Lost Diary of Venice Page 26

  “We’re trying to make it work.” That’s what he’d said to Rose; but how was he trying, really? By buying flimsy umbrellas and bringing Sarah drinks she hadn’t asked for? How was she, by cooking elaborate dinners he didn’t need? They’d run into marriage without any foresight, and now they’d run away from the mess they’d made. At least, they’d tried to run away. He thought of the awful quote hung in Lois’s bathroom: WHEREVER YOU GO, THERE YOU ARE!

  He thought of how warm Rose’s mouth had been. The animal instinct that had surfaced, howling, inside of him. The way she’d looked at him from the start like he was the only one who could turn the lights on. The same way Sarah had looked at him once, a long time ago. He remembered that now.

  At the last parent-teacher conference he’d gone to at Jane’s school, the instructor—a soft-faced, goateed man in his fifties who’d worn striped socks with his Birkenstocks—had explained how he used analogies when teaching. It helps the students understand relationships.

  Tongue is to taste as nose is to smell.

  Rose is to William as Sarah used to be to William. As William wants Sarah to be again.

  He got the lesson, finally. It wasn’t just that he could understand what Sarah had gone through now—the choices she’d made and why. It was that he could remember what it was he wanted back. It’d taken Rose for him to get it; he’d had to feel it again as real as he’d ever felt it. William stared down at the photograph in his hands. What would “trying to make it work” actually mean at this point? He had an idea: no more tongue-biting omissions in the therapy chair. A few more arguments, maybe more than a few. The chance that he and Sarah might become greater strangers to each other before they could move toward center.

  He’d have to be the one to start this time.

  The house was quiet when he crept in through the back. He set the photo and the journal on the coffee table, then ventured down the hallway. Yellow light edged out from under the door to Sarah’s study. He rapped lightly on the wood with his knuckles, then turned the knob. She glanced up at him the same way she might have if he’d been a job candidate coming in for an interview: peering over glasses that perched at the tip of her nose, pen in hand, suspended in air.

  “Hey, you.” His voice fractured.

  She frowned, capping her pen. “Where were you tonight, Will?”

  “Sarah, I think we need to talk.” William stepped into the room with his wife and closed the door behind him.

  22

  SLEEP WOULDN’T COME, SO HE abandoned trying, slipping out into the vacant avenues, wrapped in his fur-lined cloak. Over the years he’d grown attached to this time: the murky hours between midnight and dawn, when he could wander the city freely. No one staring at him as he passed, no pretense of importance to assume. Corvino only wished the night would be darker—the light from the moon and star-flecked sky outlined each shape with a silver sheen, and after a few moments his eyes would always adjust. He craved a darkness he could disappear into, but he’d settle for this partial gloom.

  Before long, he found himself outside Venier’s palazzo, as if some memory stored in his muscles had walked him there unwittingly. It was a windless night; no rustle of leaves, no flickering lamplight. Even the gurgle of the fountain out front seemed hushed. Corvino leaned against the trunk of a linden tree. He wondered what mood the admiral would be in when he returned. Would he even care to see the artist’s notebook? It’d contained less—far less—than Corvino had hoped for: just pathetic sketches in the margins, none of them even showing a face. Over the past few days, he’d been weighing whether to present it at all. Corvino stared up at the pattern the leaves made against the night sky, shadow overlying shadow. Why was he being punished this way? Hadn’t he endured enough?

  The scrape of a door opening.

  In the quiet of night, the creak of hinges was unmistakable. Pressing close to the tree, Corvino pulled his cloak up to cover his face. It was a side door that had opened—he waited while the mystery person tiptoed across the lawn and unlatched the front gate. She also wore a black cloak, but no cap, and in the moonlight her tinted hair shimmered.

  Venier’s whore.

  She set a bulky woven basket down at her feet, then used both hands to quietly relatch the gate. Tucking the basket into the crook of one arm, she turned and darted off down the street. Corvino let her get some paces ahead before he emerged, following behind with careful steps he’d long ago trained to be silent.

  Where could she be going?

  She moved faster than he’d imagined she could—no longer clad in tall chopines, her slippered feet leapt over the cobblestones. He fought to keep pace without being seen, pressing into the shadows, catching her rounding corners just in time to trace her path. He scuttled over bridges after her, dodging the intermittent glow of streetlamps still smoldering from the night’s flames. As she wove through the empty avenues, he tracked the pale flash of her hair. Where was she going? He didn’t recognize the route: none of Venier’s acquaintances lived in this part of the city, and the artist’s home and studio were in the opposite direction. After a series of sharp turns, it became clear there was only one place she could be heading toward.

  The Ghetto.

  Ringed by a tall stone wall, the Ghetto had been constructed to keep its residents safely shut away from the rest of Venice during the night. Crouching low as he mounted the last bridge, Corvino peeked up just in time to watch the wide gate swing slowly shut. Darting forward with both hands outstretched, he caught the edge—barely, but he caught it. As if truly a shadow now, he remained pressed against the oversize door, holding it ajar. Waiting. Normally, he knew the gate should have been guarded; undoubtedly the girl had bribed someone to step away from his post. The city was verging on lawlessness already, and the war had only just begun. Once again, Corvino cursed himself: if he’d been more cautious, he could be sailing with the fleet at that very moment, miles away already. Instead he was here, alone, spying on an insignificant whore.

  Still, he did want to know what she could be up to. When it seemed enough time had safely passed, he pried the gate open just wide enough to slip through. Inside, looming wooden houses lined the narrow streets: having no more room in their Ghetto, the Jews had been forced to expand upward. Closed shutters in every window made the tall buildings look as if they too were asleep. A maze of alleys threaded away in every direction—achingly empty, haphazard lamps spilling a wavering light across the stones. Corvino leaned his back against the wooden gate, eyes shut, listening for footsteps.

  Silence.

  It was so still he could hear the babble of the canals that wove invisibly through the neighborhood. Where had she gone? Why was she here? He ran through a list of possible reasons in his mind. Did she have a Jewish lover? She could have met him in the marketplace; he was always warning Venier not to let her circulate among the shops so freely. He tried to picture her slipping away to visit some wealthy moneylender, or even a publisher—stealthy midnight liaisons made more exciting by the specter of heresy. But no, he couldn’t see it.

  What had been in the basket she’d carried? She’d been bringing something here; she must have had a purpose. Corvino’s mind spun back on itself, a fast spindle winding thread, reviewing every detail he could grasp. He thought of her face in the parlor that afternoon, how pale she’d gone when he spoke of the Jews—and the small spark in her eyes as she defended Ashkenazi. At the time, he’d been too pleased with himself for provoking her to question her reaction. Now he weighed the facts.

  Could the girl be a Jewess?

  The more Corvino considered the idea, the more it firmed into truth, the way a far-off object becomes solidly itself as you approach it. He recalled what the old chambermaid had told him of her habits: She tints her hair every chance she gets, lord knows how dark it’d be otherwise. And what was it Venier said of their meeting? Domenico found her for me—her father was so
me sort of merchant in Rome, though I can’t imagine where a diamond like that has been hiding.” Corvino didn’t need to imagine. With a sick knot in his stomach, he realized exactly where she’d been hiding.

  “Where are you hiding now?” He whispered the words out loud in the dark, as if she would emerge from the shadows to tell him.

  Jewess.

  He felt sure of it with a marrow-deep certainty. But, if it were true, that would mean she’d lured Venier into heresy. Heresy! If any of Venier’s enemies discovered it, the admiral could be brought before the Inquisition. He’d be prevented from becoming doge—and worse, he could be put on trial. Corvino imagined Venier: beard shorn, wrists shackled, cowering before the same men he’d always entertained so generously. Forced to explain how a mere girl had deceived him.

  Corvino’s heart began to pound, his mouth suddenly gone dry. What would Venier be willing to do to prevent such information from coming to light? What favors would he think to grant? Images began to flash before Corvino’s eyes: he could be given a nobleman’s daughter, a title, a position on the Great Council. In time, he could even become a senator. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue felt thick, course as sand; his heart struggled to slow its pace. So his Father had not been punishing him after all by holding him back from sailing with the fleet—it was only that He had better gifts in store for Corvino. How could he ever have doubted?

  Still, he would need evidence, he would need proof. He had to learn more. He had to flush her out. Whoever does not abide in me is cast out as a branch; such branches are thrown into the fire and burned. He whispered the words as if they were an incantation.

  Afterward, he wouldn’t be able to recall exactly how it’d started. He’d only remember a cresset lamp to his right, coil of rope still burning in its basket, glints of amber and gold winking at him like an invitation. Then, as if he’d simply willed it all into being, tongues of flame were licking up the sides of the wooden houses—florid, burnished orange. The boards were parched as tinder, and the greedy flames made easy work of them. As the sky began to brighten in the east, smoke from the blaze unfurled in earnest: black and choking, blocking out the stars.

  “The day of the Lord comes; the sun will be dark at its rising and the moon will not shed its light.” Corvino chanted the words out loud, over the screaming that came from every direction now: shouts and cries and wails that blended into an incoherent mass of sound. Faster than seemed possible, the smoke grew to apocalyptic scale, billowing out in great black gusts. All around, Jews flooded past—panic-stricken and soot streaked, yellow badges flashing like sparks of flame caught in their robes. Beneath the noise of the crowd, a relentless crackle and sputter.

  The fire easily outpaced Corvino as he maneuvered toward the heart of the Ghetto, scanning the crowd for that one familiar face. By now the ground was littered with belongings: abandoned trunks that had proven too heavy to carry, their locks broken, contents scattered. Shattered plates and vases, strewn clothes. Corvino elbowed forward as men and women scrambled around him, bags thrown over their shoulders, clutching armloads of goblets, mounds of silks, wailing children. They knocked his shoulders, fleeing in the opposite direction.

  “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit, and with fire.” Corvino was shouting now, head pitching back with abandon. Paintings sailed past, some with ripped canvas waving from their gilded frames like tattered sails. Overhead, flames blazed from burnt-out shutters along the upper stories. Cutting through the cacophony of the crowd came an irregular, splintering roar as roof beams crashed down, floors collapsing. Corvino’s eyes began to sting. Up ahead, he saw the narrow bridge that linked the two neighborhoods of the Ghetto. He moved toward it. The fire had yet to jump the thin ribbon of canal, though smoke blew thickly forward like a ghastly herald. “Repent and be baptized! He baptizes with Holy Spirit and with fire!” he howled wildly as he crossed the bridge. No one paused to listen. Then—could it be?

  A streak of palest gold halfway down an alley.

  She was smaller than he expected when he came up from behind, one arm swinging across her chest, the other encircling her waist. Feather light, easy to lift off the ground. She fought against him, elbows and kicking heels—useless motions, like a fish flailing on a hook. She screamed, but what was one girl’s scream in the midst of such a fire?

  The wind shifted. A doorway to his left swung open, beckoning them.

  “God provides,” he whispered into her neck. Her skin smelled of crushed flowers and cinder. When he dragged her inside, her heels scuffed frantic patterns in the dirt. He kicked the door closed, sending it shuddering into its frame. The house had been abandoned—chairs upended and a trunk sitting open in the middle of the room, linen tumbling over its edges like a ransacked hope chest. A coil of rope snaked out of the trunk, frayed from recent cutting. With one thrust of his leg, he swept her ankles from under her—a sharp, shooting pain as her shins hit the floor. Then his knee was between her shoulder blades, her face pressed to the ground. Both arms yanked behind her; the harsh burn of rope at her wrists. When she cried out, dirt got in her mouth, bitter and dank. Craning her neck, she saw that the glass had been shattered from the window above them. She could hear people running through the avenues—so close.

  She screamed again.

  No one came.

  He flipped her over roughly; the back of her head cracked against the floor, and she saw sparks flare, like the fireworks at Carnival. Her vision wobbled, doubling. Then his face was above hers. Time seemed to lag and stutter; she considered that this was the closest they’d ever been. Red veins webbed the whites of his eyes, and her own reflection stared back at her, caught in the black of his pupils.

  “I know what you are! Jewess!” He nearly choked on the word, spittle catching in the back of his jaw. His thighs were pressed over hers, heavy muscle pinning her down. He was so close now—his hair fell around her face like a lover’s would. His hands gripped her shoulders; something jagged was scraping her back. She watched a vein in his forehead pulse. The hot weight of his body was crushing her, bruising her legs, her ribs. If it were any other man, she’d know what would come next: her dress ripped, held down over her face, her hips battered into the dirt. But there was no gleam in Corvino’s eyes to cut the anger—instead they flashed hard, black and depthless as a bird’s. She felt the sting of bile creep up her throat.

  “You’ve brought him into heresy!” His breath filled her nose, sickly sweet. “God will watch you burn, Jew-whore!”

  A resolve deep inside her fractured. “I am the whore?” She was screaming now—it was too late, she couldn’t stop. “You killed for him. You sold your soul! You’re a greater whore than I’ll ever be!” She writhed under his grasp. “And you’re nothing to him, Corvino! You’re nothing! Nothing!”

  Suddenly a close, dry rustle, nearly inaudible over the shrieks and tumult of noise outside. It was a crow winging, claws outstretched, to perch on the sill of the broken window. Corvino looked up, and a darkness fell across his eyes, like a hood tugged over the face of a noosed man.

  He was in the clearing once again.

  White snow and a copse of trees; the copper taste of blood on his tongue.

  The sky domed above him, a gray arch ringed by treetops. It was silent now, perfectly still. Heavy snowfall muted even his breath, boughs bent under the weight of ice pack and frost. This time, though, Corvino was the one who was standing. In front of him knelt a boy, his face turned away. The boy’s hands were bound behind him with rope, palms pressed together in a downturned prayer. Beneath the hem of his tattered robe, bare feet edged out, pink and chapped. The boy shivered. Corvino looked up at the tree nearest them. The crow was perched there, watching.

  Corvino looked down at his own hands. They held a length of rope.

  He swung the cord. It whirred through the silence of the clearing and struck the boy’s back with a fleshy clap. The boy
shuddered, but did not call out. In the distance, the sound of a woman’s scream—a faint cry from deep within the wood. Slowly, Corvino stamped in a circle, snow crunching metallic under his feet. He scanned the trees for movement. The forest was frozen, perfectly silent and empty, as if time itself had iced to a halt. Then the crow shifted on its branch, and a dusting of snow sparkled down.

  Corvino fastened his grip.

  “Repent.” It was his father’s voice on the vapor of his own breath. “Repent.”

  Again, the whir, the rope cutting silence. Stroke by stroke, the wool was gnawed from the boy’s back. Again, the faraway screams—a ghost sound that trailed each whip of the cord, like smoke from a torch. Again. Again. Again. Corvino’s arm began to tire. The boy’s skin had split; the rope was soaked in blood. Blood spray on the white snow around him, a familiar, spattering pattern. Blood on the boy’s robe, hanging in shreds from his opened back, ragged and wet. The crow nodded. Again, Corvino adjusted the cord in his hands, repositioned his feet in the snow. In the pause, the boy turned.

  It was him.

  How young he’d been; he’d forgotten that. Wide eyes, lashes matted with tears. Blood caked in the corners of his mouth. Corvino froze, his own self staring back at him. What had he done? He gazed at his broken skin, oozing and raw. His scars began to throb.