The Lost Diary of Venice Page 6

  That’s when he’d seen it: the giveaway. The man held the door open, and as Sarah walked in, he’d pressed his hand to the small of her back, let it slide down over the curve of her pencil skirt. She’d turned her face up and smiled. A split-second exchange—too quick to catch without watching for it.

  William was watching. She’d smiled.

  Then the aftermath, so unremarkable it was painful—so like every other couple they’d known who’d suffered an affair. No, it didn’t mean anything, it wasn’t about the sex. No, she wasn’t in love. Yes, she wanted to try. Yes, for the kids, they should try. No, not just for the kids. For all of them, they should try. And just like that they wilted, deflated, became yet another pedestrian pairing. A couple in the most practical sense of the word. William couldn’t tell which hurt most: the act itself, or the way it made him feel so…ordinary. A man in a marriage that suddenly needed work.

  You’re a mother! You’re my wife! We weren’t even fighting! He’d yelled at her quietly so as not to wake the girls—hissing through clenched teeth, awkward and unsatisfying.

  I’m a woman, Will! She’d started sobbing, muffling the sound with the sleeve of her terry-cloth robe, which had loose threads at the cuffs, and which he hated.

  I felt neglected.

  He hadn’t wanted to admit that part of him was angry she’d been the one to do it first, instead of him.

  What was it Lois always liked to say? Let’s address the core wound. The core wound, Lois, was blindness. They were two planets orbiting, he and Sarah, and there were whole faces of each other they couldn’t see. He’d always understood that. He’d known it from the first gallery show he’d taken her to, when she’d gotten bored and begun imitating the expressions in the portraits, then bit his ear and suggested cocktails. He’d known she’d only ever be able to judge his art by how many paintings he sold, that there were vast territories inside him she’d never set foot in—the same way he’d never be able to appreciate what she did as an attorney, the grace with which she navigated intellectual property law. She’d tried to describe her job once, on one of their first dates; he’d made a bad joke about public domain and ordered another bottle of red. He hadn’t thought it mattered when there were so many other pieces that did fit together: likes and dislikes, a stupid sense of humor. And then, so unexpectedly soon, their girls. Nothing could knit two people together more than that, more than biology. Could it? He thought she’d understood the arrangement—that they both knew what they were signing up for, together. What they’d get and not get.

  That they were agreeing to say it was enough.

  How could Sarah decide to change the rules now, so far in? All this time, he’d thought their marriage was his one safety net, a thing to be relied upon: that no matter how far they drifted they’d always circle back, the way migratory birds find and refind their route.

  How have I neglected you? Aren’t I a good father, haven’t I always been there? She’d started crying again then, in those awkward armchairs Lois had, that looked good from far away but once you sat down you realized the seat was too hard and the arms oddly narrow. Anytime he’d tried to lean an elbow he’d ended up slipping off the upholstery, which meant he sat with his hands folded in his lap because crossing his arms would have made Lois ask why he was feeling defensive. Sarah had plucked a fistful of tissues from the box kept on the desk between them, listed a dozen offenses as she wiped at her eyes: he’d stopped asking about her day, he wasn’t interested in her cases, he didn’t even notice the last time she’d cut her hair.

  Have I ever noticed your haircuts? To which Sarah had thrown up her hands and shaken her head at Lois, as if to say, See what I mean?

  When it came down to it, though, he did understand Sarah, often better than she did herself. He’d spent years decoding every facial tic, each change in inflection. He might not notice haircuts, but he could tell she’d had a bad day just by the way she touched a hand to her throat. But if he was being honest—and if he couldn’t be honest with himself, drinking alone at night, then what was the point?—he had stopped asking about her day, about the life going on inside her. They’d both stopped asking. Shifted into autopilot, let habit and routine rule. The same perfunctory kiss in the morning, reading on opposite sides of the bed at night. A single, efficient position for sex. They hadn’t been fighting, but they hadn’t been connecting either, by any stretch of the imagination.

  What you focus on grows. That was another one of Lois’s favorite expressions. William had pursed his lips and nodded each time she used it, looking pensive to hide the fact that he found her aphorisms condescending and reductive. But what really annoyed him was that after months of overthinking, he’d discovered the saying was actually apt. Consumed by her own dissatisfaction, Sarah had only focused on his blind spots, his shortcomings. She’d decided not to tally all the ways he had her memorized, all the ways he’d shown up.

  She’d decided not to consider whether she ever asked about his art, his ideas, his day.

  He didn’t bring that up, of course. He could already hear how it’d be thrown back at him: I’m always interested, you never open up. In retrospect, he saw that she’d wanted to be found out—she’d wanted to force the issue. Her phone left unlocked on the table, excuses for running late that he should have seen through like wax paper held up to the light, had he thought to question her at all. Had he not completely trusted his own wife. It was only afterward that she regretted it, crying into her pillow loud enough for him to hear, as he slept on the living room couch.

  So, blindsided. So, therapy. Then a break from therapy, at William’s request, and a move north, at Sarah’s request—to the town she grew up in, even though none of her family lived there anymore. It’s a wonderful place to raise kids. It was also a wonderful solution to William’s only real demand: that she no longer be in proximity to that man. Mr. Boat Shoes. At the time, a fresh start seemed the only option, and it all fell into place so easily. A house for rent with separate rooms for the girls. A legal firm looking for a new hire. But now he was realizing how much he missed the roar of the city at night, the ability to turn anonymous just by getting out at a different subway stop. This new place was too pretty, too clean, too quiet. He could hear himself think here.

  William walked back to the kitchen. Two more fingers of whiskey, another rattle of ice. He took a sip from the glass; his reflection drank along with him. He wandered to the den. And what would Lois say about what he’d done at the bookshop? Taking his ring off like that. Even he didn’t understand it, and he’d replayed the scene dozens of times: peering through the window, seeing her sitting there with a halo of auburn hair, looking for all the world like that Waterhouse painting, The Lady of Shalott. Then without stopping himself he was tugging his ring off, pocketing it, opening the door. Feeling something he hadn’t felt since his early New York days, when he’d had nothing to lose, burn it all down. When even trash piles had seemed inspiring. He’d been so clear then. Present. Before he’d sold a single large canvas. Before Sarah.

  Well, it just goes to show you—

  “Oh, shut up, Lois.” Out of habit, William sat down at his desk and opened his email.

  6

  GIO SAT AT THE STURDY walnut table in the middle of his room. His drawing board stared back at him, expectant, with a blank sheet of parchment attached. He shut his eyes. An image of Chiara swam forward. He let it compose itself in his mind: form and shadow. The curved planes of her face. He opened his eyes and started to sketch, peering through his lenses. Coaxing the shapes out from the page with smooth, methodical strokes, he stopped every so often to step back and make a correction. After he’d arrived at an outline, he began to layer in shadows with rapid crosshatches. There was a science to this—to the darkness that arranged itself beneath her eyes, in the hollows of her cheeks, and above the cupid’s bow of her mouth. He even knew the word for it: sciographia. The science of shadows
.

  As he sketched, he couldn’t help but think of Venier, gray-haired and rasping. Breathing his wine-breath over her. He wondered how they’d met. Had Domenico arranged it all? And where had he been the exact moment of the brokerage—what insignificant occupation had fixed his attention while Chiara’s company was bargained away? Gio cursed himself for missing so many of Domenico’s salons, for the way he’d retreated from the world at large once he’d realized he was losing his sight.

  As if in response to his mood, angry shouts erupted in the street. Outside the shutters, two young men were grappling on the stones like Grecian wrestlers. Neighbors rushed to pry the boys apart, one already bleeding from a gash across his cheek. This was the third fight in as many days—and just the night before, on his walk home, Gio had inadvertently disturbed a pair of lovers coupling, frantic as dogs, in the shadows between buildings. A strange mood had descended over the city, in no small part due to Aurelio’s prediction.

  Just as the alchemist had warned, Selim’s ambassador to France had been arrested. He was being held on charges even the washerwomen recognized as flimsy excuses to detain a spy. Rumors had begun circulating that Nassi was conspiring with the Jews who, after being expelled from Spain and Portugal, had taken up residence in Venice’s Ghetto. The yellow badges all Jews were required to wear had begun attracting increased suspicion—already, Gio had watched a Semite he knew to be an accomplished physician sprint down the avenues, chased by a band of restless drunks. Seemingly overnight, the reality of war had set in. While younger men brawled and boasted, those old enough to remember Venice’s last skirmish with the Ottomans looked on grimly and muttered into their wine.

  Gio turned away from the shutters and sat back down at his sketch. As the ruckus outside faded, he focused on molding the features of Chiara’s face. Her high cheekbones, her clever eyes. Line by line, she began to take form. While drawing, he could let his gaze linger on her in a way he knew he’d never be able to in real life. He took care to capture the lift of her chin, the arch of her right eyebrow. How she held her mouth just short of a smile. As the light outside ripened and warmed, she came to life on the page.

  A loud knock interrupted him for a second time. With a start, Gio realized he’d worked through the morning: his stomach was tight and empty. Hastily, he tucked the sketch into a stack of papers on the table and hid his glasses in their pouch. Opening the door, he caught a young page on the stoop preparing to knock again, a clenched fist suspended in the air between them. Behind him crouched Lucio, the neighbor’s child, leaning in to eavesdrop. The boy had an abundance of brown curls and a round, expressive face; Gio often used him as a model when he needed to draw cherubs.

  “Is this the residence of Giovanni Lomazzo?” The page’s posture was stiff, and he kept his eyes trained on a spot just above Gio’s head. He wore Venier’s livery: navy doublet and hose, topped by a floppy cap embroidered with gold thread. Gio guessed him to be at the nascence of his career. Resisting the urge to grin, he gave a nod.

  “Your presence is requested by Sebastiano Venier on Sunday next.” The page whipped his left arm up, presenting a rolled parchment. A fat round of crimson wax, branded with Venier’s insignia, held the roll together. Lucio’s eyes widened. He stepped forward to tug on the man’s cloak. “I know who that is!” The boy was afflicted with a lisp.

  “Aren’t you fortunate.” The page straightened up, pulling the fabric from Lucio’s grasp. Undeterred, Lucio snatched at the hem again.

  “My mother says he’s going to be the next doge!”

  “God willing, your mother is correct. Now, good day!” The courier yanked his cloak back and, with a curt nod to Gio, spun on one heel and strode off down the avenue. Gio ventured out onto the stoop to watch his retreat, just in time to catch a neighbor’s low-hanging line of laundry nearly sweep the lad’s cap off. Stumbling and clutching at his head, the courier still managed to fling his robes out importantly before disappearing around the corner. Chuckling, Gio turned back inside, only to find that Lucio had already clambered up onto a chair.

  “Where’s your mother, Lucio?”

  “At the well.” The child kicked his feet under the table.

  “Ah, I see.” Lucio’s father had passed away some years earlier, forcing his mother, Francesca, to join her sister’s already overfilled household. Though she had the bones of a pretty face, twin lines now marked the space between Francesca’s brows, and her hair was shot with streaks of silver—as if some fiend had reached in and sucked her youth away with a single, mighty gasp.

  “Well, let’s practice your reading then.” After scanning the message, Gio set the parchment on the table in front of Lucio. The boy’s soft face trembled with concentration as he tried to parse the words.

  “Gio, I can’t read it. The writing’s too fancy.”

  Gio leaned over to look. “Ah yes, I suppose the scribe did overdo himself, didn’t he?” Ruffling Lucio’s curls, he sat down beside the boy. Tracing the letters with an index finger, he slowly read the note out loud. It was an invitation to a formal dinner.

  “Are you going to go?” Lucio whispered loudly in excitement.

  “I think so, yes,” Gio whispered loudly back. “I’ve never been one to say no to a free meal.”

  “What will happen when you go?” Lucio rested one cheek on a plump fist.

  “Well, usually there’s plenty of food and wine. Sometimes some of the people drink too much of the wine.”

  “My uncle does that,” Lucio confided.

  “Yes, I know.” Lucio’s uncle was fond of singing at full volume in the avenue on such occasions. “Often, there’s music and dancing. There may even be news from Rome.”

  “You must promise to tell me everything.”

  Gio smiled at the child’s earnestness. “Of course. Now, here, go find your mother.” He snatched a seeded roll from a basket on the table and set it down at the boy’s elbow. “If you come back later, perhaps we can practice more reading.”

  Grasping the roll with both hands, Lucio slid off the chair and ran from the room in typical headlong fashion, the door banging shut behind him. Gio surveyed the invitation again, trying to imagine what the evening might hold. Chatter and smells and a blur of faces. He tried and failed to imagine a reality in which Chiara might be interested in him too—the city’s most beautiful courtesan and an artist going blind. He smiled without bitterness.

  Tossing the parchment aside, he hunted through the stack of papers until he found her portrait again.

  * * *

  On the night of the dinner, a sliver of new moon cast only a dim glow. Gondoliers glided through the canals, the wet push of their oars lapping under the click of footsteps on cobblestone. Murmuring voices echoed in the streets as shadowy figures made their way across avenues and over bridges to the great house on the corner. This was an evening for courtesans. Gio watched as woman after woman carefully navigated the stone streets toward waiting gondoliers, their chopines—the high clogs that were so in fashion—forcing them to clutch at the arms of their attendants. In the backs of passing boats, pale faces flickered by.

  He entered the front hall unseen, slipping between bodies adorned in vivid silks, jewels, capes lined with fur. Following the crush of the crowd into the courtyard, he mounted the wide formal stairs to the portego. Before, the great hall had seemed gapingly empty. Now, tables extended the length of the passage, set with candles and the first course from the sideboard—fresh grapes and marzipan, dense spiced cakes, prosciutto cooked in wine with capers, sliced pork tongues and sweet mustards. His senses swam in the heavy odors wafting from the food, from the perfumed skin of every woman. The room was already clotted with guests, and more were entering in a steady surge. Servants dashed through the jostling crowd, balancing trays of wine.

  Gio slid into an empty chair a comfortable distance from the head of the table, where Venier sat, with Cor
vino to his right. At his left, Chiara looked luminous in the torchlight—and with a heavy hand clasped over hers on the table, Venier blatantly claimed her. Corvino, meanwhile, was already deep in conversation with a stern-looking fellow Gio recognized as Francesco Bressan: Venice’s master shipbuilder. Bressan was said to be turning old transport galleys into mighty instruments of war, with forecastles strong enough to mount batteries of guns, culverins, and cannons. The Crow leaned forward to listen to the man, his muscled forearms crossed on the table, sleek hair tucked behind his ears. From time to time he peered up, noting the new arrivals. Gio couldn’t be sure but thought he caught a nod in his direction. To be safe, he dipped his head in exchange.

  Gazing around, Gio took stock of the attendees himself. He spotted members of the Council of Ten and the Signoria, two Medicis, and a handful of others he knew he should be able to place but couldn’t quite. The weight of their dark-robed presence was offset by a profusion of women—all dressed in brilliant hues, breasts propped high, their rouged and powdered faces creasing as they laughed.

  “Well, this is quite an evening.”

  Gio directed his words to the old man who’d slid into the seat beside him. The man’s back was curved with age, and wisps of hair swayed at the top of his head, as though they’d been affixed as an afterthought. At the sound of Gio’s voice he turned, revealing a pair of eyes gone milky with blindness.