Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 8

  “Look!” Dolce exclaimed, pointing.

  Mirelle squinted to see. There, rising out of the haze of the water, was the faint outline of a city. She gasped as the yacht passed from the open sea into the Grand Canal. It was nearly twilight, but the waterway was crowded with smaller craft steered by red-capped men standing in their prows and melodiously calling to one another, long poles rippling through the water. Some of the narrow, curved-bottom gondolas had no awnings, while others concealed their passengers in small, curtain-draped cabins. Peering into one as they passed, Mirelle distinguished the shadowy outline of an embracing couple.

  “Perfect for a romantic assignation,” Dolce whispered.

  The great white domed cathedral of the Santa Maria della Salute materialized from the mist as if by magic. As they moved out of the open waters and into the city’s slender canals, Mirelle felt her excitement build. They drifted through watery streets banked by golden buildings, their stone and marble balconies crowded with bright flowers, green shutters opened wide. Even the laundry strung across the canal seemed to glimmer in the twilight.

  People walked briskly across arched bridges, arms linked companionably. Gentlemen in figured waistcoats and tricorne hats, ladies in soft, flowing muslin and damask, flowers woven through their ornate curls. A cluster of boys in navy blue school uniforms yelled down greetings and waved from their perch on an ironwork railing. Every twist and turn opened a new vista, a new mystery.

  They reached the dock and, after mooring the boat, disembarked. When her foot touched the ground, Mirelle was surprised to feel broken cobbles beneath her feet. All around her, narrow city blocks loomed, all twisting corridors and dirty, dilapidated building fronts. She and Dolce followed Signor Morpurgo onto a footbridge that curved over one of the canals, servants trailing behind with their luggage. Guards, their faces impassive, stood at a large stone archway. Mirelle’s heart fell. Was this really the same city? The Venice they’d seen from the boat had seemed to float on air, but this . . .

  The crumbling, crowded feel of the ghetto crept in on her. The sun slipped into the sea and Mirelle heard the familiar clang of a gate being slammed shut behind her.

  12

  AUGUST 30 ANCONA

  It was odd, Francesca thought as she brought another pitcher of water to her ailing husband, that her prayers to the Madonna could be answered in such a strange fashion.

  Months had passed since she’d first witnessed the miracle of La Madonna del Duomo. Since then, thousands of worshippers had seen the Lady’s eyes move, seen her smile or weep in despair. The townspeople had celebrated with candlelight processions full of cries of joy and adulation. Reports from Rome and other Italian cities claimed that the same prodigy had graced their congregations. Clearly, God was working through the much-loved portraits of Mary, the miracle of her mobile face keeping faith with her pilgrims.

  Francesca was required, time and again, to tell her story—first to the priests, then to the city fathers, then to the skeptics and freethinkers who tried to use logic and science to dissuade and discredit her. Barbara sat and watched, smirking, and Francesca couldn’t decide what the child felt. Was she jealous of the attention being paid to her mother? Or had she absorbed her father’s disdain for religion? Francesca reminded her early questioners that the child had witnessed the miracle first, but they swept that claim aside. Barbara simply hunched a shoulder whenever her mother testified, refusing to answer questions. In time, Francesca stopped dragging her to these sessions. Before long, she had almost forgotten the tug of the girl’s hand on her arm that had made her turn. Francesca felt singled out by the Madonna’s grace, almost as if she were herself a saint.

  She remained steadfast in the face of the cynicism of nonbelievers, recalling Mother Mary’s kind gaze blessing her. Even such well-known Jacobins as the lawyer Bertrando Bonaria could not refute the evidence of their own eyes. They came, sitting skeptically among the thousands of eager pilgrims, and left the cathedral pale-faced and openmouthed.

  Bonaria, however, had sown a seed of doubt in Francesca’s mind. Back in late July, he’d called her into his office and asked, “What exactly were you praying for when you first noticed the prodigy?”

  “For our city’s deliverance from the French general and my husband’s safe return from the seas,” Francesca replied, eyes fixed on the clasped hands in her lap.

  “Your husband is . . .”

  “A midshipman in the Venetian merchant marine.”

  “And you fear for his safety?”

  “I’m his wife. Should I not fear for him?”

  Bonaria scowled. “If he comes home wounded, I will take it as evidence that you and your fellow priests have concocted a fraud with your crying, smiling painting.”

  Father Candelabri spread his hands. “God forbid! Would you wish ill on the man just to prove your point?”

  Bonaria laughed, clasping his ample midsection to keep it from juddering. “When you put it that way, Padre, it sounds dire indeed.”

  “Mary will protect him!” Francesca blurted, crossing herself several times.

  But somehow, for reasons Francesca couldn’t fathom, the Lady had failed her husband. Emilio had arrived home three weeks ago in excruciating pain, his arm cut almost to the bone. The wound had grown infected, running with black and green pus. The ship’s medic had refused to treat him, grumbling that he couldn’t spare the time to tend to the wound—unless Emilio wanted to lose the arm. So Emilio’s captain had dispatched him on medical leave. Unpaid, of course.

  “Come back in three months if they haven’t taken the arm,” he’d told Emilio, who had endured an agonizing donkey cart ride from the wharf to the farm before collapsing in Francesca’s arms.

  But the danger of death or amputation was past, Francesca reassured herself as she doused a clean linen rag with hot water. And perhaps Mary was testing her faith. If so, she would not find her wanting. Setting her lips in a straight line, she pressed the steaming compress on the wound as the doctor had instructed. Emilio cursed as she leaned against the wound with all her weight, trying to expel any lingering pus.

  “You’ll kill me,” he muttered when she finally released him. The top of his lip was dotted with sweat.

  “You can’t abandon us so easily, caro mio.” Francesca patted his arm dry and tied on a new bandage.

  A week later, Emilio refused to stay in bed any longer. Francesca fashioned a sling and he made his way around the village. That evening, he brought his two favorite cousins home to drink grappa with him. They sat in the kitchen, elbows on the table, throwing back glass after glass.

  Francesca, suckling her infant in the children’s room, overheard their conversation with a rising sense of dread.

  “Tell Roberto how you hurt your arm,” said Desi, the town blacksmith.

  “We were shipping some glass from Venice to Malta,” Emilio said, his over-loud voice signaling that he had drunk too much. Francesca tried not to tense, knowing it would upset the baby, as she heard glasses clinking and more grappa being poured. “Some bastard Jew merchant was asking how many boxes we’d already loaded.”

  “How’d you know he was a Jew?” asked Roberto, the youngest of the cousins, an apprentice on the docks.

  “Could anyone mistake that whiff of the devil? You know the type. Thick, bristling beard, beady eyes, salivating over how much the cargo would add to his coffers.”

  “Clearly a Jew,” Desi agreed. “And?” “So I said to myself, I can fool this Jew shit and maybe make a little money on the side. I brought back a couple of boxes we’d already loaded without anyone noticing. And they got counted again.” Francesca heard Emilio take another slug of the grappa. “A good trick, no?”

  “So then?”

  Francesca pictured the scowl on her husband’s face. “The Jew’s helper saw me sneak out some other boxes. Rotten scoundrel gives a shout. I was about to hit him, to shut him up, when . . .”

  Francesca moved the baby to the other nipple, willing him not to
cry. She hadn’t heard this story—not told this way, anyway.

  “When what?”

  “The Jew called this ruffian he’d hired to protect his goods. Big, gruesome-looking bruiser. He shoves me into a crate, the damn thing breaks open, and the glass shatters. One of the pieces cuts my arm, deep. Thought I’d never stop bleeding.”

  “How did they let those Jews get away with that?” asked Desi.

  Another clatter of glass against glass. “Well, money talks, doesn’t it?” Emilio said, slurring his words. “Why do you think we allow Jews to live here, in Ancona? When it’s known they’re supporting the French, piling up arms for them—”

  “That’s what they’re saying down at the harbor,” Roberto interrupted. “Bloody traitors, the lot of them. Someone should teach them a lesson.”

  “Yes. Teach them a lesson—and soon,” Emilio said.

  Francesca shuddered. Not that she had any affection for the city’s Jews—how could she, when she didn’t know any beyond those she met in the marketplace?—but she hated the thought of Emilio wanting to hurt them. What would the blessed Madonna say? Surely her holy portrait would weep at the thought of violence.

  Moving slowly but deliberately, Francesca took the now-sleeping infant off her breast and lay the boy in his cradle. “Sleep well, sweet Mario,” she whispered. “Pleasant dreams.” She said a silent prayer over him, listening to her husband’s cruel laugh in the other room.

  Please, Blessed Virgin, do not let my babe grow up to brag and drink and hurt the women he loves.

  13

  SEPTEMBER 7 VENICE

  Daniel was lying on his bedroll, eyes shut, when his friend called, “Daniel!”

  He opened his eyes. “What?”

  Christophe grinned, waving a card, arms full of black silk. “Get up. We haven’t a lot of time.”

  Daniel swung himself into a sitting position. It was late, twilight giving way to darkness. The lights of Venice twinkled across the water from their campsite in Mestre. Christophe held up domino capes and hoods. Two garish masquerade masks dangled from his wrist by gilt ribbons.

  “We’re going to a masquerade ball,” Christophe said gaily, “hosted by the Doge of Venice’s nephew, Lodovico Leonardo.”

  “We’re going to a ball?” Daniel exclaimed. “Christophe, they’ll throw us in prison! We’re the enemy!”

  “No, they won’t.” Christophe waved the card in the air. “We have an official invitation!”

  Daniel shook his head. “And how did you wrangle that?” He started lacing up his boots.

  “From my captain, won in a game of Hazard. He’s an aristo, you know—barely made it out of the Terror with his head intact. But what does it matter? We have an invitation!”

  Daniel nodded. Like Napoleon’s wife, Christophe’s captain wore a slender red ribbon around his throat during formal occasions to show the world how narrowly he’d escaped from la guillotine. He didn’t speak of his blue blood often—Napoleon’s Republican troops were less than sympathetic—but he did sometimes visit the Italian nobility that the French troops were busily subduing. He clearly didn’t feel that attending their social events contradicted his military duty.

  “We need to leave now—I’ve arranged for a dinghy to carry us across to Venice,” Christophe said.

  “Won’t they know we’re not the captain?” Daniel asked as he got to his feet. “Invitation or not?”

  Christophe picked up the silk capes. “What do you think these are for?”

  Daniel draped a domino over his shoulders. There was no gainsaying Christophe when he was in this mood.

  Mirelle sat quietly as Signora Balarin’s maid, Theresa, fixed her hair high on her head, letting some ringlets fall delicately onto her shoulders. Theresa powdered her face and applied the lightest touch of rouge to her lips and cheeks. Mirelle protested, remembering Mama’s admonitions to remain modest, but Dolce waved away her objections.

  Her ball gown—a rosebud confection of soft embroidered pink draped over a narrow white lace skirt—lay on the bed. Mama had given her a small sum to buy a new fan and some feathers for her hair. As she’d departed, Papa had also slipped her a purse filled with soldi. As they’d traveled down the coastline, Signor Morpurgo had overheard Mirelle marveling at her parents’ generosity and suggested that he hold on to her funds for safekeeping.

  “You can charge anything you buy in the shops to me, child, and I’ll handle the bills when they come in. That way, you won’t have to worry.”

  Mirelle suspected he thought she’d lose track of how much she spent—and the treasures in Venice’s stores might have tempted her, if she hadn’t been more than capable of totaling up her bills. She purchased slippers, a new fan, and some pink ribbon to twine through her curls. Then she bought gifts to bring home—a lovely Murano glass pendant for Mama, some marbled paper for Papa, and a tooled leather case for Jacopo’s drawing pencils.

  After that, she just watched as Dolce indulged in a spending spree, buying Murano glass, exquisite pieces of Burano lace, and more gowns, slippers, fans, and jewelry than Mirelle thought her friend could wear in a year. When Dolce urged her to spend more, Mirelle shook her head. She wanted to keep a few coins to offer the servants as a thank-you at the end of the trip. It would be wonderful to spend so carelessly, she thought, but not everyone had Dolce’s means.

  Once word circulated that the wealthy Signorina Morpurgo had arrived in Venice, the Balarin home was besieged by young men. Mirelle enjoyed drinking coffee in Caffè Florian, the world’s oldest coffee shop, and eating the plates of the Carnevale favorite, chiacchiere—fried dough dusted with sugar—Dolce’s fawning swains brought them, and listening to music in the enormous plaza in front of the San Marco Basilica. They spent several afternoons floating down the Grand Canal in a gondola, a parasol tilted over their heads, Mirelle’s hand languidly skimming the surface of the water. They even took a gay trip to the island of Murano with a party of other young people to watch the glass blowers.

  Evenings, though, were spent in the ghetto. Signor Morpurgo would join them then, following a day filled with business negotiations. The Balarin household felt too small to contain all the suitors who came to woo the beautiful heiress. Yet while the rabbinical scholars, bankers, shopkeepers, and businessmen were clearly courting Dolce, Mirelle also received a goodly share of flattering attention.

  Dolce played fast and loose with her suitors—wearing flowers sent by one, smiling sweetly upon another, forgetting her promise to dance with a third. She flirted and preened and was almost insufferable in her recounting of her conquests. Mirelle wondered if any man would ever please her.

  Tonight was the masquerade ball at the Palazzo Ducale. Tomorrow they would pack and return home. While she was sorry to leave, Venice didn’t feel real. Mama might be disappointed that none of the worthy young men had proposed, but Mirelle felt oddly relieved.

  Theresa delicately slid the gown over her head. Glancing in the mirror, Mirelle saw her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks delicately flushed with pink. She threw her head up, laughing in excitement.

  She hated covering her lovely gown with a domino and mask, but there was no help for it. Dolce had bought herself a watered pale green silk cape to match her new gown of ivory and seafoam green, and she’d given her old dove-colored one to her friend. Mirelle’s mask was covered with tiny embroidered rosebuds, while Dolce’s was studded with sparkling jewels.

  “Ready?” asked Signor Morpurgo, coming into the room with his buff domino over his arm. He was dressed in clothing suitable for a royal court: a cutaway coat over a fantastically embroidered vest, knee-length breeches, and long, patterned socks. Lace decorated his wrists and neck, while his waistcoat sported a heavy gold chain hung with fobs, a quizzing glass, and an oversize watch. He held his gloves and a mask in one hand; in the other, he clasped a slender case of leather.

  Mirelle nodded. “Shall I fetch Dolce?”

  “In a moment, child. I have a token of the occasion for you.” He
opened the leather case, revealing a necklace of pearls. “It will complete your charming ensemble.”

  “Signor Morpurgo!” Mirelle, breathless, shook her head. “Mama would never allow me to accept such an expensive gift.”

  “She told me you’d say that.” Dolce’s father pulled a card from the box. “Read this.”

  It was written in Mama’s handwriting. “My dear child,” Mirelle read out loud, “I know your instinct will be to refuse this beautiful necklace. But I’ve agreed with Signor Morpurgo that you should set such scruples aside. Be a good girl and thank him prettily. Your loving mother.”

  Despite her misgivings, Mirelle allowed Signor Morpurgo to fasten the pearls around her neck. “Thank you,” she murmured, forcing a smile.

  After handing their invitation to a stiff footman standing at the waterfront entrance, Christophe and Daniel were swept inside. Already, throngs of masked, fashionably dressed people milled about the courtyard. Bowing and nodding as if he belonged, Christophe headed up a long marble staircase, stopping to salute the huge statues of Neptune and Mars as he ascended. Daniel followed close behind. Upstairs, they passed through several rooms, each one more ornately decorated than the one before, crowded with murals on walls and ceilings and hung with artwork that even Christophe, with his scant education, recognized as the work of great masters.

  Before they could enter the great Sala del Maggior Consiglio, an immense room brilliant with candlelight that illuminated its magnificent artwork, a servant offered them a glass from a silver tray. Daniel downed his drink in a single gulp.

  Christophe sipped more decorously and laughed. “You’ll be drunk before the night begins if you keep that up. Let’s find you some food and a lovely noblewoman to dance with.”

  Mirelle watched as Dolce’s father slipped a purse to the guard at the ghetto gate. Hefting it, he opened the gate just wide enough for the three of them and a footman carrying a torch to slip through.