The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  “You had? Did she leave you for spending all your time with courtesans?” Veronica raised a hand to examine her nails.

  “No, we were quite happy. She died several years ago.”

  The women’s faces melted into the kind of expression reserved for the tragedies of strangers.

  “It was a long time ago; there’s no need to be sad for me,” Gio reassured them with an equally well-rehearsed smile.

  “Haven’t you found anyone since?” Margherita sucked another grape into her mouth.

  “I haven’t.”

  “Why not?” The girl spoke while chewing.

  He paused to consider. How long had it been since he’d thought of her? An image flitted to life in the back of his mind, as though it’d been waiting for the slightest gesture of invitation: her silhouette against the window. Morning sun. The profile of her face, turning to look at him. The curve of her cheek as she smiled—in memories, she was always smiling. He could see the margins of her so sharply. His vision had still been perfect.

  “I…I don’t know. She had my heart. She took it with her, I suppose.” He stared up at the ceiling; the apostles were a blur.

  “As well she should have. And Giovanni doesn’t need us meddling in his affairs, does he? Surely we can speak of lighter things.” Chiara stared pointedly at Margherita, an edge cutting through her tone like vinegar in honey.

  The brunette flushed, exchanging looks with Veronica. Gio thought he saw the redhead nod. Soon, the girls were filling the air with charming, empty words. He let them chatter on as the tightness in his chest resolved. Their sunny voices chased one another around the room as they recounted the more amusing habits of their lovers and tallied up the trinkets they’d recently received—the sounds drifted into the background as he began to focus on his work. Chiara seemed to have the stamina of an athlete, remaining still even as the light billowed and the girls grew restless, wandering in and out of the great rose-colored room. With the outline of her body finished, he began to layer in the shadows. He leaned closer to the page.

  “I need to rest.” Her voice broke the protracted silence. With a start, he looked up. Judging by the angle of the sun stretching across the floor, they must have been alone for some time.

  “Of course.”

  She stood, twisting her back. Politely, he kept himself occupied adjusting the final lines of the sketch. Then she strode to refill her glass of wine, and he tracked the way the light attached itself to her body as she moved.

  “Why do you think they call him ‘the Crow’?” She filled the cup to the brim.

  “You mean Corvino?”

  She nodded. Gio paused, reminding himself that anything he said might find its way back to Venier or to Corvino himself.

  “Well, he is certainly dark-headed—”

  “I heard he collects the heads of crows.” She interrupted him, spinning to lean one hip against the sideboard. He kept his eyes trained on her face. With a quick squint, he took note of her brows, drawn together; the downward arc of her mouth. Again, he was struck by the perfect symmetry of her features.

  “I’ve heard the same.”

  “Is it true?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “It isn’t normal.” Her voice had hardened, shedding the round, dulcet tones she’d cultivated for clients. “And the servants tell me it’s known he’ll pay for information about their masters.”

  “What sort of information?”

  “Anything, really. Bastard children, private meetings, their comings and goings. Whose chambers they’re visiting and when.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Stay away from him as much as possible. That’s my wisdom for you.” Immediately, Gio regretted his words. If this had been a test, he’d failed miserably. Silence intruded on the space between them until she spoke again, quietly this time.

  “Thank you. It’s nice to talk to someone from outside this house.”

  “I am but your humble servant.” Gio bowed in jest, was pleased to see her smile when he straightened.

  “Does everyone blabber to you when you visit? Do you know more secrets than Corvino by now?” Her tone was playful, but her stare was calculating as she took another sip of wine, surveying him over the edge of her cup.

  “I don’t mind listening, and I don’t repeat what I hear, if that’s what you’re asking.” She made a small grunt at this that he couldn’t interpret. He took another look at the sketch. “Well, I think we’ve made enough progress for today.”

  Returning the chalks and charcoals to their boxes, he began to pack his station in earnest. The light had matured into a comfortable peach hue, and his stomach was rumbling impatiently. As he worked, he felt her eyes on him. Finally, he raised his head. She was studying him with a detached air—the same look he must use when assessing his models. Suddenly, he felt exposed and defensive.

  “You’re not ugly.” She stated it like any other fact. The sky is blue. He laughed at her bluntness.

  “No, truly,” she pressed on. “In fact, you’re quite handsome, at the right angle. A bit of gray creeping in…but other than that, you’d do nicely. Why haven’t you got a girl—may I ask that? Between us?” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts as comfortably as if she were clothed, the small pearls in her ears sheening as she cocked her head to one side.

  “You may.” He focused on lining the chalks up neatly in their box, carefully fitting the lid down over them. Memories threatened again at the margins, eager and bright. “The truth is that I’ve tried. But my wife was…different. She read everything, she challenged me. She was smart and curious, and—”

  “And that’s hard to find again,” she finished for him.

  He nodded.

  “She could read? She had a tutor?”

  “No tutor; she wasn’t wealthy. Her father enjoyed reading and he taught her. That’s all.”

  “I can read.” Chiara lifted her chin.

  He smiled at her pride. “And so can your servant girl, I noticed.”

  “Cecilia? I’m teaching her myself.”

  “Really. And who taught you, may I ask?”

  The tendons in her neck tightened, flicking the skin. Her gaze drifted down to her wine. “I—I come from a higher station than the one I now find myself in, let me assure you.” Her voice faltered and she gave a half smile, just enough for one dimple to surface momentarily. “You can understand…a series of poor business calculations on the part of my father in Rome, and, well…” She raised a delicate hand in the air, communicating with a single twist of her wrist the arcing history of a fortune ruined. “I’d prefer not to speak of it, if you don’t mind.” The eyes she lifted to stare out the window were glossy, capturing the waning light in velvet pools.

  “And that story worked on Venier, I take it?” Gio only partially tried to bury his smirk.

  The girl blinked at him, hard.

  “Oh, Chiara, come now.” He continued before she could interject. “I’m an artist—I make my living from men like Venier just as much as you do. Do you think in all my years of painting I’ve never had a courtesan tell me the best tricks? Conjuring a respectable family line to improve clientele is not a new idea, my dear. However, I must say, few are as successful at it as you seem to be.” He leaned to grab his cup, raising it in her direction for a mock cheer before draining the last of the wine.

  “My aunt taught me how to read. Domenico taught me what to read.” She answered his original question abruptly, cutting off any further discussion of her past. Gio took the cue.

  “Ah, so you’ve been to his salons, then.” There was only one Domenico she could be referring to. A former senator, the man was most known for hosting gatherings that connected the brightest lights in Venice, from courtesans to foreign dignitaries. You create art, I create conversations! he liked to exclaim to Gio whenever he saw h
im.

  “Domenico liked my looks. He’s been…very kind to me.”

  “I’m sure he has.”

  “I owe everything to him.” She said it sharply, as though he’d contradicted her. “He gave me all the right books; he even encouraged my study of music. Though now I’m the one who’s overlearned and bored in conversations.” She brushed a wisp of blond back from her face and took another sip of wine.

  “Well, there are worse problems to have than an abundance of education.” Gio began to unfasten the sketch from his drawing board. “Perhaps the next time I visit, we can have a lively debate. I promise I’ll try not to bore you—or ask too many questions.” He shot a look at her while he fussed with the parchment, trying to gauge whether she was still upset that he’d ruined her charade.

  “Perhaps.” She set her glass down on the cupboard and in three strides was at his side, putting one hand over his own to halt him. Her skin was warm and dry. Taking the board away, she inspected the sketch.

  He held his breath, waiting.

  “It’s true. You have a gift.” She handed the board back. At such close range, her violet eyes were arresting. She leveled her stare at him, any last pretense of the coquette abandoned. “I’m so sorry it’s leaving you.”

  Heat tore across his skin.

  She raised herself up onto her toes then, draping one arm over his shoulder, placing the other palm flat to his chest. As she leaned to whisper, her mouth nearly touched his ear—a strange, feminine echo of Venier’s earlier gesture. His heart quickened. Could she feel it under her hand? “It can be our secret. Just don’t squint so much when Corvino’s nearby.” He closed his eyes when she pressed her lips to the hollow just below his jaw. Then she turned and walked barefoot out the half-open door.

  He found himself alone in the room, her dress a bundle of brassed gold on the floor beside him.

  * * *

  In the dove tones of early dusk, the sound of Gio’s heels striking cobblestone rang out through the empty avenues. He was headed for the alchemist’s house; Aurelio could always lift his spirits. Soon he reached the address: a nondescript door midway down an alley, with red paint peeling off the wood and no knocker. Knowing it’d be unbolted, he pushed the door open and slipped inside, pausing at the threshold to let his eyes adjust to the dim.

  Aurelio’s studio was a disorienting mix of the mystic and mundane. Drying plants hung from the rafters in clumps of fading, fragrant green, and shelves ran the length of every wall—crammed with clay jugs, books in foreign languages, boxes, and tools that Gio knew no use for. Large worktables occupied the room’s central space. These were covered entirely by rock shards, minerals, mortar and pestle, charts of stars, and scraps of parchment lined with Aurelio’s indecipherable scribbling. To keep out the prying eyes of neighbors, the alchemist had the habit of leaving his shutters closed at all hours of the day. For light, he set out candles and kept a low fire burning on the hearth. The haphazard glow cast weird shadows that sparred with any sun creeping through the cracks in the shutters.

  Gio knew he’d find Aurelio in his usual position: standing before a large pot suspended over the fire, absentmindedly stirring with one hand while reading from a book held open in the other. The glow from the flames made his plump face seem even rounder than it was, illuminating the white curls that ringed his bald crown, so that he looked like an aging cherub. Over the years, Gio had learned that what cooked in the burnished pots was just as likely to be alcoholic in nature as some alchemical experiment. Though he wasn’t a betting man, Gio would wager that Aurelio was operating a full distillery in his back chamber. He couldn’t be completely certain, however, as the alchemist had never confirmed his suspicions, and Gio knew better than to ask: between the two men hung an unspoken agreement that privacy was an essential condition of friendship.

  To the public, Aurelio presented himself as a merrymaker—an affable mystic always ready for an easy laugh and a second helping of what tasted good. For his patrons, he’d accentuate his esoteric pursuits: stroking his long white beard, he’d remind them that the rubedo, the miracle that turns all metal to gold, would be well worth the wait. But in practice, he was as shrewd and pragmatic as any businessman. Through his door flowed all manner of trade: tinctures, ointments, potions, and salves. And, of course, his liquors, without which no salon was considered a success. In addition to commerce, Aurelio’s talents extended to a prescient knowledge of political plotlines—though how he came by his information Gio didn’t want to know. More than once, he’d caught his friend staring into the fire after a long night at the taverns. The expression he found on the alchemist’s face then was less jolly trickster than weary magi: the sage behind the jester’s mask.

  That evening, Gio avoided the usual niceties and immediately turned to the shelves, rummaging through and pulling stoppers, sniffing for the telltale sting of alcohol.

  “Not that one,” Aurelio instructed sharply, watching as Gio lifted a large jug. “Try the next.”

  As he set the jug back in its place, Gio gazed into the syrupy liquid. Through the glass, he could see the dark matter was flecked with gold, like so many cat eyes winking in the night. Saying nothing, he picked up the sanctioned vessel and took a long hard pull. The warm burn of liquor slid into his gut.

  “An affair of the heart, I presume?” Aurelio asked with a hint of amusement.

  “You might say that. Venier’s new spoil, in every sense of the word.” Gio coughed into his elbow.

  “And he wants you to paint her as Diana, I suppose?”

  By way of response, Gio took another long pull.

  “Well, if rumors are to be believed, soon enough Venier won’t be around to trouble you.” Aurelio turned back to the fire. Gio waited for more, but the alchemist seemed content to stir what filled the pot.

  “Out with it, Aurelio!”

  “What’s that?” The alchemist glanced over his shoulder with feigned confusion but couldn’t keep his mouth from spreading into a grin. Like a child, he delighted in adding a measure of drama to all his conversations.

  “Why am I not to see Venier?”

  “Ah, yes, well…” Turning from the fire, Aurelio rubbed his hands together excitedly. “It would appear Venier may soon become quite preoccupied with a certain Selim the Second.”

  The candles seemed to dim at the name. Selim II, the sultan of the Ottoman Empire. It was no secret the sultan was plotting, as his father had before him, to gain control of Venice—and, in doing so, to take command of both Eastern and Western trade routes.

  Leaning across the worktable with a sudden somber countenance, Aurelio lowered his voice. “You understand that Selim sees Cyprus as a stepping-stone to winning Venice?”

  “Yes, of course I do.” Cyprus was a source of bitter irritation for the Ottomans: though the island was located just off the coast of their empire, it remained under Venetian rule. As such, it’d long been a haven for Western pirates, who enjoyed nothing more than to intercept trade ships returning home from the sultan’s territories in Egypt. If Selim wished to consolidate his power, capturing Cyprus was a critical first move. As a consequence, the islanders feared an invasion the way certain valley-dwelling villagers might fear a flood: knowing it was a matter of not if but when, and at what cost.

  “Do you recall when the Ottoman fleet docked near Nicosia?” Aurelio raised his brows; their wispy arches caught the light and turned translucent.

  “Yes, yes, of course I do,” Gio repeated. All of Venice had heard of the incident months ago, when Ottoman ships had descended upon the small Cyprus town—unannounced and in great number. Imagining the worst, the Cypriots had readied for a siege. Yet only a single man had disembarked: Joseph Nassi, adviser to the sultan. After formally greeting the governor, Nassi had taken a careful tour of Nicosia’s fortresses. Then, offering no explanation, he’d simply reboarded his ship and sailed away, the Ottoma
n vessels trailing behind.

  Nassi’s face had not been a welcome one. Years earlier, the man had lived in Venice, until officials charged him with dissembling: posing as a Christian while secretly practicing the Jewish faith. True or not, the charge was clearly a ruse for the Venetians to seize control of Nassi’s sizable family fortune. Sensing his plight, Nassi had fled to Istanbul. Since that time, he had harbored a well-known resentment against the Republic. After his visit to Cyprus, whispers of an invasion began circulating in earnest. If the island were won, the path would be clear for the sultan to make a play for Venice at last—and for Nassi to see the city that had betrayed him brought to her knees.

  Aurelio carried on, the fire sparking behind him. “A reliable source tells me that, very recently, Selim promised to make Nassi the king of Cyprus if the island is taken.” The alchemist’s face broke open in mirth. “And the fool is so greedy he’s already gone and designed himself a coat of arms!” Aurelio let loose a roar of laughter at the absurdity of it, his head rolling back, round belly heaving. Gio couldn’t find the humor. Nassi’s influence over the sultan was widely known, and organizing an anti-Ottoman league would be no easy task, given the fractured state of Christendom.

  Abruptly, Aurelio stopped laughing, his eyes turning sharp. “Venier wants to secure a victory for Venice—he’s aiming to be appointed admiral should we go to war. A win over the Ottomans will land him in the doge’s seat, without a doubt.” Aurelio wagged a finger in Gio’s face. “My prediction? Selim’s ambassador will be arrested soon. Mark my words.”

  “His ambassador?”

  Aurelio shook his head at Gio’s blank expression. “Selim’s ambassador to the king of France. He’s here in Venice at the moment. Really, Gio, with all the time you spend traipsing about the homes of the rich and powerful, it’s a wonder you’re not better informed.” To this, Gio shrugged and took another drink.