2 - Painted Veil, page 16
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
Gussie shot me a quick look before he answered, “No.”
My sister leaned against the railing with arms crossed over her simple dress of russet red, hair wound around her head in the thick braids that Gussie would rather see flowing free. She plucked a blossom from a terra-cotta urn overflowing with pink geraniums. Picking nervously at the petals, she posed another question: “How ever did you manage to get away from Signora Morelli and her guests to explore the palazzo?”
“The other guests were all female. I think Signora Morelli wanted to display me to her friends like I was an exotic pet—a trained monkey or something of the sort. When I excused myself to find the water closet, they could hardly follow.”
“Oh, I see. Isabella Morelli thinks she owns you now.”
Gussie pretended not to hear the pique in Annetta’s tone and went on to describe what he’d found. “The sitting room where we were received was set up well enough. It was part of our hostess’ private suite. The furniture was of excellent quality, and the ceiling was frescoed with some lovely clouds that looked as if they’d been freshly painted. But when I looked behind the hangings that hid other rooms outside her suite, all I saw were bare floors, walls discolored by damp, and fallen moldings crumbling into powder.”
“Any furniture or paintings in those rooms?” I asked.
“No. I went through one chamber that opened onto a balcony overlooking the main reception hall on the first level. The hall below was in decent shape, but the chamber leading to the balcony was completely bare. Its walls showed light-colored patches where paintings and mirrors would have once hung, but now… nothing. Mind you, I didn’t have time to look everywhere—the palazzo is a sprawling old pile—but the whole place had a musty air of disuse about it.”
“Did any footmen pop up to direct you?”
“The only servant I saw was an ancient crone who brought in a tray of lemonade.”
I rubbed my chin, ignoring the cold fowl and fruit laid out before me. “So Morelli is deceiving Venice with a few showy rooms. He plays the affluent aristocrat, excessively proud of his long pedigree and always careful to echo the dictates of the supreme Tribunal, but he must be nearing the end of his family’s fortune.”
Gussie nodded. “Unless he has a chest of gold ducats hidden away, it looks like there’s not much left.”
From behind me, Annetta asked, “And what of Isabella? Was she wearing jewels? A fine gown?”
I sent Gussie a warning wink, but I needn’t have bothered. For all his naïve charm, Gussie knew a thing or two about the matters that take precedence in the female brain. He affected a disinterested look and said, “She may have worn a small necklace of pearls. I’m not sure. I didn’t notice her gown. I stayed as far away from my hostess as possible. I don’t care for her ways—her smiles have evil designs behind them.”
Though she was out of my sight, I knew Annetta had relaxed. I wasn’t surprised when she returned to the table and began to nibble at a slice of watermelon. “What was the interesting thing you found, Tito?” she asked with a bright smile.
I sighed, “I hardly like to say. I watched Aldo set off for a private meeting with Torani.”
Annetta drew her eyebrows up and spit a watermelon seed into her napkin. “Is that unusual? After all, they work together.”
“I can’t think why they would meet outside the theater. Torani rarely socializes with anyone from the company, certainly not Aldo, and any opera business could be addressed during the long hours we’ve all been putting in at rehearsals.”
“Perhaps it was a chance meeting.”
“No, I’m certain it was prearranged.”
“What happened?”
“I hadn’t been at the café long when the swiftest of the boys came to claim his zecchino. I had no problem following Aldo down the wide Fondamenta della Misericordia and over to the Strada Nova. He was not trying to hide his movements… seemed quite full of himself, in fact, calling greetings to acquaintances and swaggering like a man who’d just broken the bank at the Ridotto.”
“Did you mean to overtake him?” That was Gussie, waving a pesky fly away from the melon.
“I did, but I was hanging back to see where he was going. When we neared the Rialto, I thought I should make my move.” I paused, remembering how Aldo had consulted his watch, then increased his pace through the network of mazelike calli around the markets. That area is thick with shops and taverns that line some of the narrowest, crookedest streets in the city. Aldo lost me several times, but each time I managed to spot him again as he crossed a square before one of the innumerable churches that also pack the neighborhood.
“Where was he going, Tito?” Annetta asked.
“The quay between the bridge and the German warehouse. When he stepped onto the open pavement, I was just a few steps behind and ready to tap him on the shoulder, but he didn’t hesitate for even an instant. He’d found what he came for.”
Benito chose that moment to come onto the roof and offer us a plate of lemon biscuits and a pot of coffee. He gave a discontented shrug as Gussie and Annetta shook their heads. “Go on, Tito,” Annetta cried. “Was Torani waiting for him?”
“A solitary gondola was bobbing at the quay. Aldo made straight for it and I drew back behind a group of countrywomen arguing about the quickest way to the Piazza. The gondola’s passenger was masked, but he raised his mask for a moment when Aldo stumbled and had to be steadied into the boat.”
“You’re sure it was Torani?”
I nodded ruefully. “Oh yes, I have no doubt that it was Maestro Torani in the gondola. He clearly had business with Aldo that he wanted to discuss in private. But what they talked about—I have no clue.”
Annetta had wandered back to the parapet. “Did you try to follow the boat?”
“Of course, they headed south. I ran along the canal, hoping to pick up an empty gondola, but on such a beautiful day every boat was engaged. I finally lost them near the Palazzo Grimani.”
Gussie shook his head and took his cup to the railing to join Annetta. The sound of their low voices provided a background for my thoughts. Something had just occurred to me—perhaps I had reversed the true situation. Torani’s status led me to assume that the director had called for the meeting, but Aldo could just as well have arranged it for reasons of his own.
Annetta raised her voice. “Tito, leave your gloomy face over there and come look at this amazing sunset.”
We had not had such a celestial display for a long time. Above the slanting rooftops and church spires, a ragged bank of clouds glowed like a crescent of flame. With each passing second, its crimson glory deepened and intensified. Just as it seemed the shining arc would burst and run with molten gold, a cascade of bells rang out across the city and was answered by a murmur from the bell towers on the lagoon islands. The sobbing of the bells sounded a dirge for the flaming cloud. It abruptly grayed and shredded away to the west, leaving us wondering if the sunset we had just witnessed could possibly have been as beautiful as we remembered.
Benito had been hovering around the table, brushing up crumbs and stacking dishes onto a tray. After folding the tablecloth into a neat square, he threw something down on the bare tabletop. “Master, have you seen what is being distributed on the Piazza?”
I crossed the tiles and picked up a slim pamphlet entitled The Truth of the Villainous Crimes Recently Perpetrated on Our Most Serene and Christian Republic. It was the type of partisan booklet often printed by those with more money than reason. A quick leaf through the pages made this pamphlet’s intent perfectly clear. In flagrant language that made the article I had read in the gazette seem like a model of subtlety, the anonymous author accused the Jews of a plot to corrupt all the island’s wells and cisterns.
“Where did you get this?”
Benito’s eyes lacked their usual twinkle and his voice was solemn. “On the Mercerie. At a coffeehouse I often visit. Hundreds must have been printed. By the end of the afternoon, everyone in the vicinity of the Piazza seemed to have one in their hands.”
“What were people saying?”
My little manservant shrugged. “All manner of things. Most people laughed and tossed the pamphlet aside, but some discussed it with others and seemed concerned. A few cursed and looked angry enough to throttle the next Hebrew they saw.”
Gussie and Annetta had their heads together, examining the booklet more carefully than I had. My friend gave a low whistle. “Here, Tito, you had better take a look at this.” He handed me the pamphlet with his finger pointing to a long passage.
After exhausting his malicious invective concerning the water supply, the writer turned his attention to another recent crime. The murder of Luca Cavalieri was rehashed and presented as another strategy in the Jews’ scheme to terrorize the city and enslave the Republic to the nation of Abraham. As the writer strove to connect the ruined wells and the painter’s death, he asked: “Will those who crucified our Lord be allowed to murder good citizens one by one as we go about our daily business?” With a duplicitous show of discretion, the writer even alluded to one “I____o D__’V______o, a thieving infidel lately arrived from the free port of Livorno” as the murderous agent. No evidence was given to convince the reader of Isacco’s guilt, but then, there was not one true, undistorted fact in the entire vile publication.
I threw the pamphlet on the table. Disgust and anger gave my voice a sharp edge. “Benito, you should have given me this at once.”
My manservant assumed his most pained, affronted expression. “I didn’t think it would be proper to ruin your supper. After all, what can you do about it? The book is all over Venice by now.”
“Still…” I muttered, trying to find the right words to sooth Benito’s ruffled feathers and explain the sickening uneasiness that was stirring within me.
“Oh, no,” Annetta whispered behind me. She rushed to the railing. “Something has caught fire.”
Beyond the rooftops of the neighboring campi, wisps of gray smoke were barely visible against the darkening sky. “Perhaps someone is burning a pile of trash,” Gussie said hopefully. We all nodded, praying the Englishman was correct. But presently, the breeze wafted small pieces of ash to our terrace and the air over a cluster of taller buildings to the west took on a subtle yellow-orange glow. Annetta clutched my arm.
“Oh, Tito,” she said, telling me what I already knew, “it must be in the ghetto.”
Chapter 17
“I have to get to Liya.” That was all I had to say to start our rush to the ghetto. With Gussie’s bright blue shoulders parting the way and Annetta and Benito directly on my heels, we hurried along the crowded pavements. A few people were running the other way, driven by some animal instinct that warned them away from danger, but most were hurrying our direction, unable to resist the lure of an exciting blaze.
The fire was definitely within the ghetto walls. The smoke had thickened into a black column above the tightly packed buildings. Each time I passed a man carrying a torch, I thought of the heaps of cotton wool in the mattress maker’s courtyard behind Liya’s building and urged Gussie to quicken his steps. We had headed for the nearest bridge over the encircling waters, but soon saw that passage across it would be impossible. We were on the fringes of a growing riot.
Violent mobs are not common in Venice. When a crowd gathers, it is usually to frolic, not brawl. But the scurrilous pamphlet, building on the groundwork laid by the gazettes and who knows how many rumormongers, had raised citywide tension to an unprecedented height. That night, Venice’s mask of grandeur and gaiety fell away and all that remained was a hideous face filled with hate and fear.
The four of us were quickly hemmed in by angry rioters carrying sacks of rotten fruit or more substantial missiles—stones. Dodging fists and elbows, I turned and yelled to Benito, “Get Annetta out of here. Take her back home.”
My sister shook her head and cried above the din, “What about you and Augustus? We can’t leave you here in this mob.”
“We’ll take care of each other. You go with Benito.” Annetta had a determined set to her jaw so I went on, “You can’t be of any help here. Please, Annetta, do as I say for once.” To my great relief, she nodded, and with a last worried look, let Benito draw her away from the hectic, roiling crowd.
“Come on! This way!” Gussie dove into a narrow alley that led in the general direction of the north bridge. By the time we reached the pavement beside that span, my heart was pounding and my side was burning. Luckily, the crowd was thinner there, and its tone was more curious than angry. For the first time that night, I caught sight of an official presence. A small barge of Venetian archers floated on the canal, but the men appeared leaderless and at a loss as to what they should be doing or whom they should be arresting. The gates in the stout walls were still open. No one tried to stop us as Gussie and I crossed the bridge and followed the smoke to the fire.
At first, Liya’s campo seemed like a swirling mass of pure confusion. People were pounding past us, running aimlessly, tripping over furniture and merchandise that had been tossed from endangered homes and shops. Women wailed, children sobbed, and dogs barked. Gradually I saw that efforts to fight the blaze were underway. The fire must have started in the Del’Vecchio shop. The front windows had been broken out and tongues of flame were shooting through the openings. The tunnel-like passage that Mara had led me through only yesterday afternoon was belching smoke at an alarming rate.
Some men and boys in shirtsleeves were working at a pile of sandbags, emptying them around the foundation of the pink-plastered building on the other side of the tunnel from the Del’Vecchio establishment. Another group had formed a tight line that snaked out from the well in the center of the campo. They were passing buckets in a well-drilled formation and throwing water on the pink walls.
We found the Del’Vecchio women huddled in front of their burning house. Pincas and Isacco were nowhere to be seen. The grandmother was propped up on a pile of clothing and bedding, her head bent nearly to her knees, her eyes covered by one skeletal hand. Signora Del’Vecchio was shaking Mara by the shoulders. “Where is the baby? You and Liya were supposed to get her while Sara and I carried Nonna down the back stairs.”
“Mama, stop.” The girl’s teeth were rattling. “Liya has Fortunata, they were right behind us.”
Her mother’s sweaty, soot-streaked face showed livid in the fire’s glow. “But where are they? Where is Liya? Where is Fortunata?” She released Mara and began to shake her younger sister, shouting the same questions.
I turned my attention to the Del’Vecchio building. The shop had become a furnace of solid orange, and the growing heat forced us all to shuffle backward. Gussie and I carried the grandmother, her weight no heavier than a bundle of dry sticks. As we set her down, the fire found new strength, leaping along the outside walls toward the upper floors. A white face appeared in the dark rectangle of a third-story window. Liya. In that instant, my blood chilled and my ears reverberated with Signora Del’Vecchio’s wailing scream.
Liya leaned over the casement, but a stream of orange flame shooting out of the window of the second story drove her back. The heat must have been intense, but she didn’t panic, just peered around the window frame more carefully, twisting from side to side with a calculating look. Anguished moans and feverish curses rose from the crowd. I yelled up to her, not even sure what I was saying.
Liya didn’t seem to hear any of it. The fire had shut her into an isolated, nightmare world where only the next few moments’ survival mattered. Suddenly, a huge crack sounded, and a cloud of black smoke rolled up the front of the building, obscuring my view of the woman I then realized had taken full possession of my heart. Dimly, I felt Gussie squeezing my shoulder so hard I thought he might splinter my bones.
The light breeze soon sucked the smoke away in writhing wisps. I spotted the window, but Liya had vanished.
“Gussie, we’ve got to do something.” I whirled in a tight circle, desperate, searching, then ran toward the cordon of men passing buckets. Stumbling down the line, I begged them to turn from the pink building, to throw their water on the Del’Vecchio house, but they continued to douse their target with dogged precision. I shoved and pulled, grabbing at their buckets. “Can’t you see that someone is still in there. She’s trapped for God’s sake.”
A tall, bearded man in the garb of a rabbi grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. “Leave them alone, my son. The fire brigade is doing what needs to be done. The Del’Vecchio house is lost, but if this building catches, the fire will burn right around the campo.”
I swayed on my feet, not sure whether I had tears or sweat running down my cheeks. “What about that building?” I pointed to the taller edifice on the opposite side of Liya’s house.
The rabbi had to raise his voice to be heard over the terrible clash of roaring flames and shouting people. “Its roof is tile and its walls are brick. Triple-thick masonry between it and Pincas’ place. With God’s mercy, that house will withstand the blaze.” Sure enough, there was no sign of fire in the neighboring house.
Gussie ran up, gesticulating wildly. “Look, Tito. She’s still there.”
My gaze followed his pointing arm. Liya had found her way to the house’s top story. She stepped onto a balcony that embraced a tall, narrow window just under the eaves, then pulled a wiggling bundle through the window behind her. It was Fortunata. Both girls were coughing and grimed with soot, but Liya still had her presence of mind. She pushed the window casement closed and knelt on the balcony to tend to her sister.
On the pavement below, several men made a cradle of their arms and urged Liya to throw Fortunata down to them. Others fetched a canvas tarpaulin, stretched it into a taut square, and shouted for Liya to jump with Fortunata in her arms. Nearby, Signora Del’Vecchio covered her face with her hands. The woman was near collapse, held up only by her other two daughters pressing to her sides.
