Beyond the Ghetto Gates Page 9

  Mirelle felt the heaviness in her stomach lift as they left the cramped Jewish quarter. The Venetian ghetto was even more decrepit than her home in Ancona, with more people crowded into its narrow, tall apartments. Mirelle knew that medieval Venice was the birthplace of the first ghetto. She supposed it shouldn’t surprise her how terrible it felt to live behind its gates.

  They climbed into a gondola that would convey them to the Palazzo Ducale. For once, Mirelle was not wearing the yellow scarf required of Venetian Jewish women, though she’d tucked it in her reticule just in case, and Dolce had done the same. Signor Morpurgo hid his borrowed Venetian red Jew cap in his waistcoat pocket. In Ancona, the Jew bonnet was yellow, the same shade as Mirelle’s scarf.

  “I didn’t know you could pay a guard to let us out after dark,” she said, thinking of her brother’s desire to escape the gates after nightfall. “Do you do it often, Signor Morpurgo?”

  Dolce’s father shook his head. “Not unless I’m forced to, Piccola. It’s harder to do in Ancona, where I’m well known. If we’re caught tonight, I can always show our invitation to the ball—most Venetian officials would accept that as a reasonable excuse. They certainly wouldn’t want to flout the Doge’s express wishes!”

  “So we’ll be the only Jews there?” Mirelle’s heart fluttered at the thought.

  Dolce sniffed. “Of course. From what I hear, the Venetians only love us when we make them rich. Which is why Papa was invited to this party. You certainly have assisted the Doge and his nephew to greater wealth, haven’t you, Papa?”

  Signor Morpurgo looked at the gondolier and footman, both of whom kept their faces expressionless. “Not a suitable topic of conversation, daughter,” was all he said.

  The girls quieted and Mirelle looked about her, enjoying the sway of the gondola and the sound of water splashing against its sides. The candles in the windows on either side of the canal were reflected in the ripples, and the stars and full moon above in the cloudless sky lent a certain enchantment to the night. No wonder Jacopo wants to see this, Mirelle thought, wishing her brother could be with them.

  The splendor of the Doge’s Palace left Mirelle breathless. She clutched Dolce’s arm as they entered the Sala del Maggior Consiglio. Despite the room’s vast size, it was packed with masked guests, their chatter almost drowning out the efforts of the musicians.

  “I must find Lodovico Leonardo and have a word,” Signor Morpurgo said. “Will you be all right?”

  Dolce nodded. “Go, Papa.” She took Mirelle’s arm and the two of them walked slowly around the room. Mirelle was glad to be masked—it made it easier to be a stranger among all these glittering aristocrats. Several young men ogled them. One of them, in a silver domino and bird mask, detached himself from his friends and strode toward them.

  “Belle signore,” he said, bowing low. “We are consumed with admiration for your beauty and elegance. Might you grace us with your company?”

  “The honor is ours.” Dolce followed him toward the group. “Alas,” the bird mask said after exchanging bows, “we are not permitted to ask your names, belle signore. But it will be awkward not to be able to address you before the unmasking at midnight. How shall we call you?”

  Dolce, bringing her fan into play, rapped his gloved knuckles. “You are forward, sir. But you raise an excellent conundrum. This being our first masquerade, we are innocent of the formalities. Certainly, no one can introduce us when we are all incognito.”

  “True,” said the bird mask. “So you may call me Falco. I am, after all, a hawk searching for prey.”

  “How alarming,” Dolce said, looking amused. “But in that case, I will be Sirena—a mermaid—which a hawk would not hunt. And my friend here—Bocciolo di rosa, or Rosa for short. A rose,” she said, smiling, “just beginning to unfurl her petals.”

  “I’m Montagna,” said a man who towered above the others.

  Mountain, Mirelle thought. The name suits him.

  “Leone,” said the smallest of the group, puffing out his chest. He might not look like a lion, but he obviously thought he deserved the name.

  “Segreto,” whispered the last man, balancing on the back of a gilt chair. The man clearly had a secret, Mirelle thought, in addition to a pronounced slur. She wondered if he had been drinking too deep.

  Guests were dancing in the center of the room; Falco extended an arm to Dolce, who took it, and they moved gracefully to the floor. Leone and Montagna both bowed toward Mirelle, making her giggle, while Segreto waved a servant over and plucked a drink from his tray.

  An hour had passed, and Christophe and Daniel had danced with several lovely ladies. The beauty Christophe was leading to the floor now, a striking brunette whose clinging domino merely accented her curves, was fascinated to learn that he was a French soldier.

  “French officer, actually,” Christophe corrected, remembering who he was supposed to be. “A captain in the cavalry.”

  “And yet you are invited here, to the Doge’s Palace?” she said wonderingly, batting her long eyelashes at him. “How is it possible?”

  “If we were not instructed to keep our identities secret until the unmasking,” Christophe told her, twirling her elegantly, “I could explain. Let me just say that my family tree extends across Italy, as well as France.”

  The brunette nestled in his arms. “Well, I will look for you at the unmasking,” she told him. “For you intrigue me, Monsieur le capitaine.”

  Christophe bit back the correction that rose automatically to his lips—that he was no Monsieur, but rather Citizen le capitaine. Realizing that he and Daniel needed to take their leave before the midnight chimes announced the unmasking, he searched for his friend in the crush of bodies.

  Mirelle was flushed and hot from dancing, first with Leone, then Montagna, and finally Falco. She waved her fan in a futile attempt to cool herself. The room was stifling, crowded with revelers, the windows latched tight against poisons the Doge thought lay in wait in the night air. Dolce was dancing with Montagna; Leone had wandered off. Segreto, slumped in a chair, looked as though he might at any second slip to the floor. If he were tipsy before, Mirelle thought, he had now drunk himself into a near stupor.

  “You look hot and weary, little Rosa,” Falco said, bending close to be heard over the noisy crowd. “And thirsty too, I’m certain.”

  “Very,” she replied.

  “I’ll fetch some wine.”

  Mirelle glanced at his sprawling friend. “Wine—no, thank you. Perhaps some lemonade?”

  “I’ll bring some if I have to gather the lemons myself.” The gallant bowed and turned into the mass of merrymakers.

  Mirelle tipped her mask off her face to cool it. The movement roused Segreto, who hauled himself up and staggered before her, trying to bow and managing only to bump her. Mirelle’s heart jumped as her mask clattered to the floor.

  “You did that on purpose,” he accused, staring at her exposed face.

  “I didn’t!” Mirelle bent to catch her mask by its ribbons.

  “And you haven’t danced with me. Am I so disgusting? I see you turning away!”

  Mirelle stepped back, alarmed at his tone. Segreto grabbed her arm and pulled her close. “Give me a kiss,” he muttered, so near Mirelle could smell the alcohol on his breath. “You coquette, dropping your mask. You know you want to.”

  “Let go!” Mirelle demanded, keeping her voice low. She yanked her arm from his grasp, but he reached out with both hands and grabbed her shoulders.

  “One li’l kiss,” he slurred.

  “Unhand me,” Mirelle cried, no longer caring if anyone heard her. His hands traveled from her shoulders up her neck to her chin. She slapped them away, hard enough that the sound echoed through the room. Heads turned, dozens of startled eyes widening.

  “Troia,” he swore. “I can pay, you know.”

  “You’re calling me a whore?” Mirelle felt as though he’d punched her. Through a blur, she heard whispers, chuckles, saw fingers pointing. A flush
heated her cheeks. “How dare you!”

  She turned to flee; his hand grasped her elbow. With a gasp, she pulled away.

  “My dear girl, isn’t this our dance?” someone asked in French. A tall, broad-shouldered, black-dominoed stranger stood before Mirelle, extending a hand.

  “What?” Segreto whirled toward him. “Who the hell are you?”

  Mirelle stared at the stranger. A slow smile grew on his face. Was he laughing at her?

  He nodded encouragingly. “Come, the music won’t wait.”

  “Of course,” Mirelle replied, taking his hand.

  He ushered her swiftly away from Segreto, who stood cursing behind them. Still in a daze, Mirelle replaced her mask and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.

  “Sir, thank you.” Mirelle looked into the stranger’s face. She admired his strong jaw, though the amused twist of his mouth made her hesitate. Since he’d spoken in French, she did the same. “I appreciate your kindness, though it was unnecessary.”

  Through the mask, green eyes twinkled at her. “What would you have done?” he asked. “Run him through? I’d happily lend you my sword if you want to engage him in a duel.”

  “I don’t intend to fight him,” Mirelle said, biting back a chuckle.

  “Oh, too bad,” he joked. “I’m certain you would have bested him.”

  She wondered how a Frenchman could be present at this event. Perhaps, she thought, he was an aristocrat escaping the Revolution. Many had fled to London, others to cities throughout the Continent. Yes, she concluded, he must be a noble émigré. But then she grew confused again when, as he twirled her, she caught sight of an army uniform beneath the domino. If he was a French soldier, was he not an enemy of the Doge, his host?

  She decided it didn’t matter. Whoever he was, he had helped her when the rest of the ballroom merely gawked and laughed. As the dance ended, Mirelle found she was reluctant to leave him.

  “I’m happy to have served you,” the man murmured in her ear as he escorted her off the floor. “I’ll consider myself amply rewarded if you tell me a secret.”

  “A secret?”

  “Tell me something of yourself,” he murmured.

  “Sir!” Mirelle unfurled her fan and touched him lightly on the wrist. “Spare my blushes.”

  “But you forget, lovely lady—I won’t see your blushes beneath your mask.”

  “Even so, you are too forward.” Mirelle wished Dolce could see her flirting so expertly.

  “It’s a small enough boon to ask, is it not—one small secret?”

  Mirelle thought for a moment. What in the world could she tell him? She recalled that glimpse of his uniform under his domino and smiled. “All right.” She looked up at his mask, at his glinting green eyes. “My secret? I don’t belong here, any more than you.”

  “Daniel,” Christophe said, pulling his friend away from the refreshment table, “we need to head back to camp. Before it’s time to unmask.”

  Daniel popped a pastry into his mouth. “Agreed,” he replied. “Though I’m surprised you don’t want to dance more with the little beauty you so gallantly rescued.”

  Christophe laughed. “You saw that?”

  “The whole room saw it,” Daniel said. “The lady I was dancing with was impressed by your courtesy.” He rolled his eyes. “When she learned we were friends, she demanded an introduction. There she is, over there.” He nodded toward a lady in a blue cloak, who was fanning herself and smiling invitingly at them.

  “Really?” Christophe asked, intrigued. He glanced at a gold-chased clock on the mantlepiece. “Well, there’s still time.”

  Mirelle refused all other offers to dance. Flushed and unsettled, she decided to find somewhere to cool down.

  She stepped close to a doorway someone had propped open and breathed in the sea air, fanning herself. Just beyond was a balcony where couples flirted, some embracing openly, in the moonlight. For a moment, she imagined herself in that romantic setting with the French soldier, then shook her head, annoyed. She would never see him again.

  As she chided herself into composure, she watched two of the Doge’s guards approaching, hands resting in obvious menace on their sword hilts.

  One of the servants stepped up to them. “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Where is Lodovico Leonardo?” the shorter of the two asked. “There are some French soldiers—imposters—here tonight.”

  French soldiers? Were they speaking of her rescuer? Mirelle’s heart thudded.

  “We have orders to start the unmasking early, at eleven rather than midnight,” the taller guard said brusquely. “Once everyone removes their masks and cloaks, we’ll arrest the imposters.”

  The servant led them off.

  Alarmed, Mirelle searched the room for the black domino. She thought she saw him dancing with a blue-caped woman across the room, but by the time the music stopped, he had vanished.

  Perhaps he’s already left, she told herself. He wouldn’t be so foolish to stay until the unmasking, not if he were an imposter. An enemy.

  But despite telling herself that it was none of her concern, Mirelle kept an eye out for him until she caught sight of him again, talking to a dark-haired man wearing another black domino.

  Lodovico Leonardo, the Doge’s nephew, stood on a small dais at the front of the room. The guards flanked him, their swords half drawn from their scabbards. “Friends,” the party’s host called out genially, “your attention, please?”

  The merrymakers ignored him, chattering and laughing. Mirelle moved swiftly through the crowd as people began shushing one another. She elbowed aside the noble guests until she reached the two men. Panting slightly, she touched her dance partner’s arm.

  He turned, startled. “Yes, lovely lady?” he exclaimed, his surprise at her gesture causing his voice to carry above the hubbub.

  A few people turned to stare.

  Mirelle bit her lip. How could she tell him it was imperative that he leave—now—without attracting the attention of either the guards or nobles—whom, she realized, would turn on these men in an instant?

  “It’s hot,” she muttered, clutching his arm and digging her nails through the silk. “I feel faint.”

  “I’ll take you outside,” the soldier said gallantly.

  He started to lead her away, but Mirelle realized that he was leaving his friend behind. Thinking quickly, she dropped her fan and, as if overcome by the heat, tottered forward a few steps. “Oh, no!” she called out, leaning heavily on his arm. “Sir, perhaps your friend could . . .”

  “Daniel,” cried the soldier. “Would you fetch this lady’s fan, please?” The second man scooped it up, brought it forward, and handed it to her with a bow.

  Mirelle leaned in. “Both of you need to leave,” she hissed. “Now.”

  They looked at one another blankly. Mirelle’s rescuer shrugged, looking amused. “Is it a game?” he asked. “Another secret, perhaps?”

  “You must hurry!” Mirelle muttered.

  Just then they heard the Doge’s nephew proclaim, “Time for the unmasking, friends! Please, everyone, stay where you are.”

  “Christophe,” the friend asked anxiously, “It’s not midnight already, is it?”

  Mirelle pretended to gasp, closed her eyes, and sagged against Christophe.

  “Daniel, help,” he cried. “She’s fainted. Let’s carry her outside, into the fresh air.”

  They half hefted Mirelle through the crowds, down the wide staircase, and onto the dock. As soon as they were out of sight of the guards, Mirelle straightened.

  “Quick,” she said to them, “go now. They’ll arrest you if they discover you during the unmasking.”

  The two soldiers stared, openmouthed.

  “How—” the one named Daniel started to ask.

  “No time to explain,” Mirelle urged them. “Go.”

  Christophe took her fingers and kissed them. “Our most sincere thanks, lovely one,” he said, then climbed into a gond
ola.

  Mirelle watched as the gondolier pushed out of the dock and away, putting the fingers the soldier had kissed against her hot cheek. Would she ever meet him again? Had he even been real to begin with?

  Surely not, she told herself. He was just part of the dream that was Venice.

  14

  SEPTEMBER 11 ANCONA

  Emilio’s arm was healing, though he wondered if he would ever regain his strength. He couldn’t even pick up the crates of vegetables Francesca sold in the marketplace. When she’d gathered the crop into baskets and asked for help earlier, he’d lifted one only halfway to the donkey cart before, feeling a sharp twinge, he’d let it drop, scattering produce on the sunbaked dirt.

  Barbara had laughed at him, so he’d slammed into her with his good arm, knocking the brat on her back. Scrambling to her feet, eyes blazing, she’d screamed for her mother. Of course, Francesca came scurrying out to see what he’d done.

  Before she could try to solve everything with some wretched prayer, he’d turned on his heel. “I’m going to town,” he’d said before hurrying from the house, her accusing eyes scorching his back.

  He hadn’t told her the bad news yet. He’d received official notice two weeks earlier, delivered when the merchant marine had put into port. Emilio had struggled through the letter—he’d never learned to read fluently—then crushed the paper in his hand.

  Due to complaints about you from a Venetian merchant of influence—a Jew bastard, they meant—we hereby discharge you from service. As a potential thief, you are not entitled to any back pay. We will look upon any attempt to join another ship with extreme prejudice.

  In other words, Emilio thought now, stalking down the dusty road toward town, they had it in for him. All because of a harmless trick that bearded crook deserved!

  His arm throbbed. Would it always be useless—he forever forced to depend on his pious nag of a wife? He winced, thinking of Barbara’s childish pout after he’d struck her. He loved her—of course he did—but she shouldn’t have laughed. He wasn’t sorry he’d hit her, not one bit.