The Lost Diary of Venice Read online

  Gio choked on his wine, sending an acrid burn shooting down his throat.

  “Mmmm, yes.” The old man smiled, unoffended. “I imagine so.” His voice was raspy, friable as aged parchment. When his thin lips stretched into a grin, Gio noticed spittle glistening in the corners. “Let’s hope it’s not a last meal.”

  “A last meal?”

  “Venier’s last. If he’s appointed admiral, he’ll soon be off to fight the Ottomans.”

  “Do you think he will be?”

  The old man sucked his lips in, his useless eyes squinting. “The worse my sight becomes, the better I hear the whispers.” He tapped the side of his nose with a forefinger, knowingly. His nail was long, the tip yellow and brittle-looking. Age spots spattered the crepey skin of his hand. “There are a few dissenting voices, but Venier will overcome them.” He tipped his head in the statesman’s direction. “He’ll do well. I stood beside him in many a battle. Years ago, of course. But he’s a fighter, through and through.” Gio glanced up at their host, already red-faced and laughing. Beside him, Chiara poured more wine into his glass.

  Just then, a pair of doors opened midway down the hall. The room filled with the sizzling smell of meat as servants brought out first sweetbreads and liver, then partridge in sauce and spit-roasted rabbit and quail. Exclamations rippled through the crowd at an encore of whole calves’ heads and roasted geese. The chefs had masked the geese back into life, meticulously returning each feather to its original place on the cooked carcasses. Soon, every mouth was sheened with grease, the guests glossed in torchlight as they chattered. The conversation swelled to a heady roar, punctuated by shrill female laughter.

  “Do you believe we’ll win the war?” Gio resumed their conversation.

  “I’d put my faith in Venier, that’s for certain. He’s sharp, with an instinct for survival. I don’t see why he keeps that infernal Crow around, but otherwise he’s a logical mind. A sound tactician.” The old man took a bite and chewed contemplatively, staring out into a personal void.

  “You mean Corvino.” Gio lowered his voice as though they could be heard above the din and clatter.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Swallowing, the old man waved a dismissive hand, unconcerned by who might be listening. “He’s a shrewd one, I’ll give him that. Pecks his way into knowing just what you want to hide.” He leaned in close. With fascination, Gio observed the lack of pupil, the mucous film.

  “I’ve been watching him, you know.” The old man shot Gio another thin-lipped grin—then abruptly, his face went somber, loose flesh sagging on either side of a frown. “What Venier wants with him is Venier’s business. As I said, he’s a sound tactician.” Finished with both the conversation and his meal, the man pushed himself back from the table and set to work cleaning his teeth with the nail of his left littlest finger. Gio looked away.

  Soon, servants entered to clear the remains of the dinner. Gio spotted Cecilia, with her parted hair and solemn expression, rushing in and out of the room alongside the others. As the main course was removed, delicacies were brought out in quick succession: quince pastries and pear tarts, cheeses and roasted chestnuts, rings of sweet cakes with blood-red jams and spiced preserves. A burnt sugar smell drifted in as the doors swung open and closed. The voices in the room buzzed thickly.

  Finally, the eating drew to an end, and Venier stood, swaying. Chiara reached out to steady him; he grasped her hand tightly. Did she wince? Gio couldn’t be certain.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The statesman beamed out at the crowd with glazed eyes. “I invite you to join me in the next room for our evening’s entertainment.” He tugged Chiara to stand and, elbows interlocked, they turned and walked away—down the hall and through a set of doors at the far end. Her pale dress trailed along the polished floor, then slipped out of view like a wisp of smoke.

  Instantly, the guests stood and thronged forward, jostling to follow the pair. In the drunken crowd, Gio lost sight of the old man. Then he caught the curve of his shrunken frame, descending the stairs, gripping the arm of his page. Gio watched as the two retreated, step by step, out of the candlelight and into the night’s darkness.

  When he turned back, most of the crowd had already gone in. Striding down the hall, he navigated around lingering clusters of guests, past the dull portraits, then eased through the door of the far chamber. Inside, the audience had packed itself tightly into the corners of the room—center stage, a troupe of musicians waited, instruments in hand. Sidling along a back wall, Gio peered at the troupe through a sea of heads. The powdered hair of the women rose up around him like miniature geological formations.

  Abruptly, the musicians launched into a dancing tune. Just as quickly, a handful of women swirled into arrangement in the center of the floor. Gio pressed his back against the wall. It was peaceful there, watching. Figures swept in and out of his reduced field of vision: swatches of color and slightly blurred forms. Slowly, he moved his head first left then right, scanning the scene. Just as the music ebbed, a flare of gold streaked into view. It was Chiara, standing breathless and flushed in front of him.

  “Dance with me.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the floor. They joined the line of dancers that had already formed, men facing women. With a swell, the music began again, pipe and tabor. He stood still as she circled him with precise steps, the fabric of her skirt held out with one hand like a low white wing. Her cheeks were the same color as the pink embroidery on her stiff bodice. For once, Gio was glad he’d taken care to dress properly. Though his doublet and hose were a subdued burgundy, they were still of fine quality—fine enough for him to be seen dancing with her.

  When she returned to position, they bowed to each other.

  The men took their turn next. Leaping in short tight bounds, Gio landed along her right side, then her left. A brief surprise crossed her face, and he couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. Blindness be damned, at least he could still dance a galliard. Drawing his fingertips and thumb to his mouth, he gave the symbolic kiss before reaching out. She mirrored the gesture, her hand warm in his. He glided them around the room, her training evident in the way she responded to the slightest pressure from his palm. His heart quickened to match the pace of the drums, the high melody of the pipe rising above the murmur of the crowd.

  Though he couldn’t spot Venier, Gio knew he must be watching. He tried to keep their motions prescribed, a careful choreography. But as they twirled her eyes shone, her teeth flashed in a reckless smile, and the room dropped away around them. No more staring spectators—no more music, even. All he could see was her face, bordered in shadow, dazzling and mesmeric. All he could hear was her breath in his ear as he pulled her close for la volta.

  As if they’d done it a hundred times before, she slid her arms around his shoulders when he grasped the base of her bodice. In one sure move, he lifted her up against his hip; her body softened into his. She pressed her cheek to his neck as they whirled, the bones of her rib cage hard under his hand, and suddenly it was only the two of them, outside time, marionettes in the spotlight on an empty stage.

  And then it was done. Without any awareness of parting, he saw her standing across from him, taking the final bow, smiling. Dimpling her cheeks, at him. He stared, dazed, and she grinned wider, winked one eye in a quick, secret gesture. Then other hands were reaching out, grabbing for her, elbows in his sides as the cast of dancers rearranged themselves on the floor. Someone pushed him backward, harder than they’d probably meant to. He staggered. She laughed at all the attention, a hollow, artificial sound. The walls of the room suddenly felt close.

  Forcing his way through the crowd, Gio cut a path toward the entry and slipped outside. Bending, he gripped his knees, fighting to calm his breath. A tangle of music and voices spilled from the seams of the closed door, into the emptied hall, where servants were cleaning the
carnage from the tables: spilled glasses and stained linens. Bones and gristle and the uneaten hearts of stone fruits. No one noticed as he made his way to the open door leading to the servants’ stairs.

  As he descended, a gradual layering of voices grew audible. In the empty lower passageway, torch flames threw wavering shadows across the walls, interrupted halfway down by a brassy yellow beam shooting out from a door left ajar—severe as the bolt from a lighthouse lantern. Silently, he edged toward it.

  “And what does Bressan say?” Venier’s voice. Gio would know it anywhere.

  “The galleasses are ready. Field tests are needed, but Bressan is confident the side cannons will perform.”

  “Selim has arrested all our diplomats in the empire.” Gio didn’t recognize the others speaking.

  “Yes, but one of Selim’s ministers has a physician, a Jew: Solomon Ashkenazi. He’s a sworn enemy of Nassi.” Venier’s voice again. “He’s pledged to help us maintain communication—and he tells us what we already know: Nicosia will fall, and, soon after, Famagusta. Cyprus will not stand without her strongholds.”

  “We cannot wait any longer—”

  “We must have the support of Rome.” An old voice then, dry and familiar. Gio couldn’t quite place it.

  “Yours?” The words were spoken close, so soft he barely heard. He started.

  It was Cecilia, standing beside him with his cloak in her hands. He took it without thinking. Then, with more force than he’d imagined her capable of, she clasped his arm and ushered him down the hall to the front entrance. Too surprised to protest, he let himself be thrust outside, back into the garden.

  “Trust me, sir, you do not wish to be thought a spy,” she whispered sharply, her pale face peering out from the shadowy doorframe. Overhead, the trees rustled and shushed at them.

  “Thank you.” It was all he could manage before the door latched shut and he found himself in the avenues, walking home alone, the stars singeing tight white pinpricks in the sky.

  * * *

  Miles away from Nicosia, the port of Famagusta hovered near the sea. Together, the two cities served as Cyprus’s strongholds—though only Famagusta could boast newly restored fortifications, bastions and towers. Snaking in from the countryside, a dirt road wound its way toward the city gates; in the heat of the midday sun it lay vacant and parched. If anyone had been watching, they would have seen a black speck emerge in the distance, growing as it neared, eventually taking the form of a dark-headed boy on a horse. Dust kicked up behind the mare’s heels, and with each stride the head of the boy bobbed listlessly: both horse and rider were in desperate need of water. A wooden box was strapped to the front of the saddle, and the boy clung to it as he rode, reins gripped tight in one fist. Tucked away in his pouch was a stiff scroll of parchment with the name of MarcAntonio Bragadin scrawled across it.

  Bragadin: Captain of the Kingdom of Cyprus.

  The box changed hands four times before it landed in Bragadin’s chambers. Another quarter of an hour passed before the captain himself entered the room. He was a tall man, composed of lean lines: limbs roped with muscle, a drooping mustache that lost itself in the whorls of a chest-length beard. When he’d heard a package had arrived for him, he hadn’t wondered at its origins. His scouts had already informed him that Ottoman forces had landed, led by Mustafa Pasha.

  Yet no one had thought to warn him of the smell.

  As soon as he opened his chamber door, the odor thrust him back into the hallway—sulfurous and searing, as if flesh and waste had mingled, then fermented for weeks under the full weight of a summer sun. Bragadin gagged, retreating, stumbling to a narrow window along the passageway to regain his breath. He’d had just enough time to catch sight of a parchment in the room, next to the box; steeling himself, he clasped an elbow over his face and darted inside once again to grab at the scroll. Back in the passageway he gasped, nearly retching, clawing the smell from his beard, grateful no attendants were nearby to witness the display.

  Letting a breeze drift over his face, Bragadin turned his attention to the parchment. Slowly, he unwound the document. Written in imperfect Italian, the message contained what he knew it must.

  Terms of a surrender.

  Dropping his hands, Bragadin gazed out at the sky—a tranquil, cloudless cerulean. As the comforting babel of an unsuspecting marketplace wafted up from the square below, he contemplated the sturdy stone walls that ringed his citadel. He did not know how skilled a commander Mustafa might be, but he knew what mattered most: his men were grossly outnumbered.

  How long could they possibly hold?

  7

  THE LIGHT SAID IT WAS later than expected—she must have slept through her alarm. Lace curtains in the window stenciled a hot white pattern across the bedspread. All night long she’d dreamt of the woman from the sketch, those hypnotic eyes staring out at her no matter where she turned. The heater clicked on. She’d forgotten to shut it off before falling asleep, and now she was coated in a thin film of sweat. Throwing back the covers, Rose sat up and rubbed her eyes. What time had she gotten home?

  The email! Her computer was perched on the bedside table; her fingers were frantic and barely operable as she typed in the password. Wrong. She typed it again. The log-in bar shook its head. Wrong. Finally, her in-box appeared. What she’d hoped to see was there: his response, sent at two in the morning. Had he really been up that late?

  R—

  Thanks so much for sending this scan. The sketch is amazing! Would you mind if I swing by the shop, maybe in the afternoon? I’d love to see it in person.

  W.

  Rose pushed the keys impulsively.

  W—please do. R.

  Sent. Sent too quickly—she should have said something else: scheduled a time at the very least. Made an appointment. Written something that conveyed some semblance of professionalism. She stood naked, sticky from sweat and dazed, her words staring back at her from the screen, irretrievable.

  The only thing she could do now was get ready. After a quick shower, she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, wiped the fog away with a forearm, and examined its version of her. The heft of her breasts, the slant of her hips. Her collarbone. The mole on her left rib cage. The small birthmark on her neck, like a tea stain. She stroked the wet hair back from her face, watching light attach itself to her cheeks.

  Under the sink, she slid open a rarely used cabinet drawer. Inside were two shiny tubes, one long, one short: mascara and lipstick. She unscrewed the mascara and dipped the wand back and forth in the tarry pigment. Leaning forward, lids half-closed, she dragged the brush over her lashes. Their length was always a surprise. The lipstick had been a gift from Joan, from the Chanel counter at the mall. It had a powdery, velvet fragrance. What was it Joan had said? Rose, if only you’d try. So, here she was, trying. For someone as unavailable as they came: married, with children. And trying why, because he’d made eye contact? Because their hands had touched, and it’d melted the floor out from underneath her?

  Well, couldn’t she at least enjoy this feeling—a silver tingle of anticipation, trilling up the length of her skin like fingertips—even knowing nothing would come of it? There wasn’t any harm in that. How long had it been, anyway? Rose thought of her last boyfriend, Seth, a fellow grad student who’d worn cardigans with elbow patches and believed in the spirit of socialism, though when it came to dinner and drinks, he’d had decidedly bourgeois tastes. They’d drifted together through shared classes, the way it always seemed to happen. Now that she thought about it, all her relationships—all three of them—had been dictated by the steadying structure of school: study dates, weekend movies, road trips over the holidays. Subdued breakups during the long summers, once because Rose had realized she was so bored that she’d rather study alone, twice because of school transfers. None of them ever getting too serious, the specter of the “real world” always hoverin
g on the horizon, with its implications of tremendous change.

  Now she was officially in that real world, where daily opportunities to meet like-minded scholars weren’t conveniently provided, her life no longer organized into neat quarters and semesters. That must be why she felt so light-headed, in fact. It was just the thrill of knowing she was going to see someone, on purpose, and discuss topics she cared about. The promise of a meaningful conversation about history and restoration. That was all.

  Rose sighed with relief.

  “Just enjoy the feeling. It doesn’t hurt anyone. And it’s good for you to feel something again.” She did her best impression of Joan, talking back to the mirror. She leaned closer to her own face. Carefully, she pressed the color along the arc of her lips, then wet them with her tongue, crushed them together to blend the red.

  Looking at her reflection, she almost didn’t recognize herself.

  * * *

  Back at the shop, Rose left her coffee on the desk and retreated to the operating room. At the drafting table, she arranged the portrait of the woman so that it was perfectly centered. Before leaving, she chose a classical album and put it on repeat; she liked the idea of music playing from the speakers when they came in.

  Settling in out front, she went through the motions of work: shuffling papers on her desk, tucking wayward pens tidily into their jar. Odin leapt from his roost on a chair, circling three times in the middle of a sunbeam before flopping down on one side to begin a bath. Dust motes swirled aimlessly in the air above him. Rose scrolled through her already read emails. On the bike ride in, she’d vowed not to just sit and stare at the sidewalk. Yet for the first few hours, she couldn’t help but raise her head at even the smallest movement. Finally, after lunch—turkey on rye from the corner deli, bought hurriedly, with furtive peeks out the window just in case he showed up—she forced herself to focus on a single task: tracking down the version of Borghini’s Il Riposo Yuri had mentioned. She wanted to see the author’s notes and imagined William would too. Time slipped by as she burrowed down spiraling tunnels of Internet research. Eventually, she emerged with the names of four promising leads. As the only customers made their way out—a pair of older women with salon-set hair, who’d loudly debated options for their next book club meeting before deciding, definitively, on Lady Chatterley’s Lover—Rose began to formulate her first letter of inquiry to a collector. She was eight lines in when the door creaked open.