The Lost Diary of Venice Page 27
Then the crow tilted its beak upward for a grating caw, chest bobbing with the effort. At the call, others began to appear: summoned from every direction, stiff wings beating the air. They swooped down from the treetops that ringed the clearing—as they did, the trees shimmered and flattened, hardened into the walls of the house. The crows converged in a blotted mass of black, streaming through the open window. In a volley of feather and claw and open beak, they whirled around Corvino, striking him from all sides with their bodies, plucking and tearing at his robes, his face, until he saw only streaking black and flashing eyes. Talons pierced his shoulders, slashing skin, screeching was thick in his ears.
The rope dropped from Corvino’s hands, and he ran.
It was a pair of old women who brought her back afterward, wrapped in a blanket like a swaddled child. They said they’d found her in the Ghetto, nearly unconscious, crawling from a doorway on chin and knees. One of them still carried the rope they’d cut from her wrists, as if to say, This, here, was how it was done.
* * *
Hundreds of miles away, Venier paced the deck of his boat. On all sides, the Holy League rocked, galleasses forming murky clusters on the water. Occasional motion on deck gave the only sign that the fleet was not a figment—some collection of ghost ships adrift among the islands. Sails cracked in the night breeze as the boats adjusted their course. Before even a suggestion of morning, Venier and Don Juan swung their ships into the agreed-upon formation, approaching the coastline of Greece from the west. The sea, flat and complacent, stretched out to meet mountains in the distance—slumbering shapes that thrust their curves against the still-dark sky.
On the eastern shores of Greece, Ali Pasha’s fleet floated like ducklings behind his flagship, the Sultana. Soon the sky was easing its way from iron to ash, and the great sails were raised, flexing taut in a chill breeze. It was too early even for fajr, the dawn prayer. Inky contours of men moved around the deck, crouching and dashing from bow to stern. Sound carried over the water: shouts and orders and snatches of song while the mountains looked on, hunched and silent. Then—
“Karga! Karga!” First one voice, then many. Overhead, the darting arrows of crows, swooping across the sky, their wings blotting out the stars. Their caws were sharp and relentless, as if they had something urgent to tell. To see a crow before battle was an ill omen, and now here flew a countless brood. Ali Pasha watched with a sinking heart as they winged in a circle around his mast, then disappeared into the sky: shadow absorbing shadow until their calls could no longer be heard.
The sun began to rise in earnest then, just as the Holy League emptied out into a gulf. Even Venier’s most hardened sailors turned their eyes heavenward, toward a sky awash in a concert of blush burning azure—a miracle of color echoed in the rippling mirror of the sea. Suddenly, calls from the lookouts overhead.
“Sails to the east! Sails to the east!” Venier’s men turned as a unified body to watch as Ottoman sails appeared on the horizon, one after another, flying from what seemed to be endless masts.
Hastily, Mass was heard aboard the league’s ships, while the Ottomans performed their own rituals—prayers to separate Gods floating up into the same impassive sky. From his position on the opposite side of the gulf, Ali Pasha gave a nod, and the drumming began: a wild booming that smothered the sound of his own heart. The beating roared out with a riotous rhythm as the whole of the Muslim fleet rocked forward into battle. Facing their opponents, Venier’s forces stood at attention from bow to stern: archers, gunners, and cannon loaders. At the front of the fleet sailed Don Juan in his flagship. Overhead, the image of a crucified Christ rippled in the breeze. With placid, bleeding eyes, it gazed across the waters at Ali Pasha’s mast, where the Banner of the Caliphs—embroidered endlessly with the name of Allah—danced and waved.
A westward wind began to blow.
Ali Pasha nodded again. Cannon blast rocked his boat backward, momentarily drowning out even the drums. A formal invitation to battle. Don Juan, standing at the helm of the Real, returned the signal. Cutting through the mild waves, the Ottomans formed a traditional arc. Like a sickle, they swept forward with the wind at their back.
The Holy League approached.
Leading the center division, Venier felt a surge of excitement course through him: the familiar quicksilver that only ever came before a battle. Were the Ottomans confused, he wondered, at the fleet’s arrangement? It was a careful choice he and Don Juan had made to place the transport ships on the front lines. How surprised the enemy would be when they realized the galleasses had cannons mounted to them! He squinted, measuring the Ottomans’ distance. Nearer, nearer…let the lines close in…
Now! He gave a sign for the gunners to release their load. Brilliant flash and a blast from the galleasses—the roar of cannon shot, iron balls charging indiscriminately through wood and flesh. The impact lifted one Ottoman vessel clean from the water. With horror, Ali Pasha watched it smash back down on the sea: a shattered, flaming skeleton.
The Ottoman ships swung close then, sprinting over shallow waters to fire their own cannons at point-blank range. A volley of arrows trailed the iron blasts. The dense din of shouts and screams, both sides now speaking a common language. Faster than seemed possible, gun smoke gathered thick as fog on the water—so thick that Don Juan didn’t see the Sultana approaching. Only the jolt of impact told him he’d been breached, his galley rocking side to side. Peering through the woolly haze, he caught sight of the standard: the name of Allah rippling gold and relentless. Then a swarm of bodies, tumbling on deck with sabers drawn and glinting. On all sides, soldiers began opening one another in a symphony of gore: hacking limbs, halving faces, staining the frothing waves red.
Across the bay, Venier tracked the event: The Sultana, clashing with the Real! The victor would decide the fate of the battle. Would it be the image of Christ or the name of Allah left mounted in the air for all to see? He must get to Don Juan! Venier whirled, bellowing at his men. Forward! Forward! A spray of seawater hit his open mouth.
The taste of blood and salt.
An arrow pierced his leg, its point finding home between tendon and muscle. He cried out and staggered, but did not abandon his post. An Ottoman boat was closing in on his galleass—now, when he most needed to get to Don Juan’s aid! With a crossbow, he shot at the approaching vessel. The arrow lodged in a janissary’s throat; Venier didn’t pause to watch the soldier try to pull it loose, blood gurgling between his fingers. Instead the admiral drew another arrow. Shot again.
23
ROSE WAS GLAD WHEN HER dreams turned to battle. After several nights of fitful sleep—visions of William’s face, the hot press of his mouth—she’d begun to dream of Venetian battleships. The boats from her library books come to life in epic proportions, sketches mingling with her own memories of ships until the galleasses fighting one another in the night shifted from wood and steel to ink and chalk smudge. Great wooden hulls churned the Adriatic, sails taut in the flexing winds of sleep. Men scampered on deck in her mind’s eye, oars pumping in time with her heartbeat. Floating insignia: large crosses swinging in close, burning white. The star and crescent spinning, a universe of its own tilting off its axis. She awoke with lingering sensations of rocking.
The dreams came as a result of overwork. Repairing the undertext was a delicate matter, requiring more patience, more time. Rose surrendered herself to the work, gave her obsessive tendencies full permission to run riot—the way an unhinged gardener might allow his creeper vines to spread, until trembling green leaf obscures even the windows of his home. And unhinged was how she felt: off-balance, precarious, uncertain of what she might or might not do. She was in outright battle with her own thoughts now, willing herself not to imagine him, feel the weight of his palms on her back. Not to check her email compulsively, not to stare out at the street with unfocused eyes.
Under normal circumstances, a client would ha
ve reached out after so many weeks—stopping by or sending a note with a casual but curious subject line. Just checking in! William’s silence only heightened the fact that what had happened between them wasn’t normal, they had crossed a boundary, there could be no salvaging or repair. While her conscious mind advised her forget, forget, forget, Rose’s subconscious wandered like a distraught child, chasing after feelings it’d grown attached to. Unstructured time became dangerous.
In an effort to regain a sense of control, she established a careful order to her days, shortening the bookshop hours so that she could spend more time in the back. The treatise helped distract her, but another motivation compelled her too, kept her moving like a puppet on strings: there could be no closure until it was done. Finished completely. As long as the pages remained spread out on the back table, every time she turned on the lights to the room, she was forced to relive what had happened—her naïve, hopeful questioning of him—and her stomach would clench, a vague swell of nausea surging upward. She couldn’t think of being touched by him, not after so long alone, and not want to do something desperate and wild: scream in the street or wander out into the cold water of the sound with all her clothes still on.
And so, work. Logical and methodical, Rose.
Finally, she gave up and closed the shop for a week. Summer had arrived in full—cloudless blue skies and shadows pressed flat under the weight of sun, humidity grounding the birds in tree limbs, where they ruffled their feathers for breezes the way dogs pant. Everyone was on vacation; Rose made the sign in the door look like she was taking one herself: CLOSED FOR THE WEEK. HAPPY SUMMER!
In the back, she reconstructed the undertext completely, cleaning and repairing even the most minute offenses. Her spine ached from bending over the pages. Her hands began to cramp unexpectedly during the day. She understood now that certain drawings were illustrations from Giovanni’s diary: sketches of clog shoes and a small dog, musical instruments and combs. Trappings of his time with his muse. Then there were the grand ships that sailed across the margins, islands he seemed to have sketched absentmindedly. Rose tracked him as he grew increasingly distracted by the war.
It was late when she finished the last sentence. She surveyed the stack: all repaired, scanned, and sent off for translation, the original pages waiting neatly to be re-bound. Complete. She approached the woman’s portrait, still balanced on the countertop. Rose knew it was her own imagination, but she seemed to see a glint in the woman’s eyes, a tilt of approval in her half smile. Reluctantly, Rose picked up the page and put it back in its old spot inside the book.
Suddenly, the room seemed unbearably empty.
* * *
The next morning, she collected the paper and the mail, tossing the stack of envelopes and magazines onto the kitchen island when she came back inside. Her eyes burned from staying up so late; she shuffled to the counter to pour a coffee. Clutching her mug in one hand, she riffled through the paper with the other. It was a slow news day: record heat for the second summer in a row. Someone’s dog had gotten loose and managed to jump into the country club pool.
William was having a show.
She nearly choked on her coffee, quickly setting the mug down to cough until her throat cleared. He was having a show soon to kick off the fall season—there was a full write-up in the Arts and Leisure section. Alongside the story they’d printed a photo, clearly taken when he’d lived in New York: he was wearing a leather jacket, standing in front of a blurred-out café and gazing not into the camera but off to one side, grinning as if someone just out of view had said something clever. Dimple on full display.
Rose flipped the paper over, slapping the story facedown on the counter. Carefully, she rolled the entire section up and carried it to the recycling bin as if it contained anthrax or the bodies of dead spiders. She shoved the pages down into the plastic bag, let the bin lid flap shut. Blood pulsed in her ears. He was having a show and he hadn’t invited her. Of course he hadn’t. Thoughts crowded her mind, jostling for attention; she felt dizzy. She should sit down. No, she should have some breakfast first, settle her stomach.
She did both. While finishing a bowl of microwaved oatmeal at the dining room table, she unlocked her phone and began scrolling through the App Store. She didn’t care to question it. Instead, she just focused on hunting down the familiar bright logo and hit Install.
The app opened, consuming her home screen. “Edit profile.” She was supposed to upload a photo now. Rose remembered the last time she’d tried this exercise and the images that had resulted, each one more uncomfortable than the last. Just do it, Rose, don’t overthink it. She glanced down; she was still wearing her robe—likely not the right message to send. Abandoning her empty bowl on the table, she bounded upstairs and dug out a clean white T-shirt from the bureau. She didn’t have the heart to try to solve her hair, but she did put on mascara and lipstick, blotting and reapplying the way the Internet had told her to do. Hoping the neighbors wouldn’t notice, Rose ventured into the backyard. If she positioned herself facing the light, with the green hedge behind…She snapped five photos, picked one, and set it as her profile. Just get it done.
Back in the kitchen, she continued filling out the prompts. “About Rose.” Oh no, a self-description was required. What should she say? Semi-hermit with obsessive tendencies. Incorrigible helluo librorum…She stared at the blank text field, all cleverness seeping from her fingertips. What would be accurate but also make her sound normal—fun, even? The type of person someone would want to spend time with, share dinner with? She tapped her thumb against the side of her phone case. Don’t overthink it, don’t overthink it. Her mantra was starting to seem more like a plea. Maybe she should begin with her day job—it was likely something a date would want to know:
“Bookshop owner, specializing in rare books and restoration.”
What next? Likes and dislikes, probably, to be sure they have the same tastes:
“Likes: reading, libraries, coffee, cats, classical music…”
No, maybe not—she could imagine other women posting about skydiving or their exciting European adventures. Books and cats might not fare well in comparison. What, then? Maybe just a quote, people like quotes. Whole books of quotes were published each year, after all. Rose fumbled around in her mind for something appropriate. Seneca sprang forward first to volunteer, a sentence she’d recently underlined as good advice:
“Begin at once to live, and count each separate day as a separate life.”
There, that would do. It was an encouraging statement and a good conversation starter. Short and sweet. She clicked Done and returned to the main page. Time to see her matches.
The first candidate appeared, and her heart sank—but not because of what he looked like, which was an older, puffy version of every football player she remembered from high school—because of how many photos he had. There he was on a beach, clutching a bright fuchsia cocktail decorated with a pineapple wedge. There he was standing on the deck of a boat holding up a shimmering silver fish, which was bleeding from the gills. Other photos showed him laughing with friends, and then, for some reason, in the interior of a car wearing sunglasses, sitting in the driver’s seat. Telling all who looked that he traveled, was adventurous, not a vegetarian, and had both social and driving skills! Rose realized the only photos she had on hand were of books, close-ups of Odin sleeping in particularly endearing poses—sometimes with the tip of his tongue gently poking out—or candids of Henry.
Still, she’d created a profile. A profile was progress, and progress was good. She could add more photos later, maybe Joan could help. The thrill of her own daring buzzed beneath her skin. She gazed at the new app on her home screen, nestled between podcasts and the weather, bright and promising. This called for another cup of coffee and perhaps one of the sweet almond biscotti she usually reserved for the weekends. As she waited for the kettle to heat, she sorted through the res
t of the mail she’d abandoned on the counter, resolutely steering her mind away from the thought of William, wearing a suit at his show. Standing in front of paintings inspired by a text she’d repaired, she’d made legible for him…
A postcard slid out, nearly skidding off the counter, as if purposefully trying to distract her. On the front was a collage of miniature books, arranged for scale around a half-farthing coin, which was stamped with the bust of a young Queen Victoria. Rose picked the postcard up, flipped it over:
Rose,
Greetings from Oxford! I hope this card finds you well. You’d love it here: the library is a treasure. I must confess that I did stumble upon an excellent miniatures store, so you may have a new little book to add to your collection soon.
Looking forward to another visit when I’m back. Bated breath!
Cheers,
Lucas
Rose could picture him there, biking through the green campus, along the river Thames. Visiting Oxford Castle or the botanical garden. Getting lost in that grand old library. She smiled at the thought, then glanced at the calendar hanging next to the fridge. School was set to start in just a handful of weeks.
He’d be back soon.
24
GIO WALKED HOME FROM THE fire. Along with nearly all of Venice, he’d stood on the opposite edge of the canal that ran outside the Ghetto, watching until the danger had been contained. The sun had set while they looked on, casting the sky in a resplendent glow, torching the haze clouds coral and gold. The prettiness of it had made a difficult contrast to the scene below. Beyond the open gates of the Ghetto, charred black buildings smoked and steamed. Crumpled bodies lay in the shadows of the guarding wall, waiting to be carted to a makeshift hospital that was hastily being assembled. The odor of wet coals and burnt hair—the uncomfortably familiar scent of roasted flesh—drifted across the crowd. Bystanders thronged the avenues shoulder to shoulder with survivors, barefoot and ash marked, their faces dazed. From all directions, the ambient sound of wailing. As soon as he heard it was safe, Gio had turned to go. When he arrived at home, the smell of smoke was there too.