2 - Painted Veil, page 30
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
Morelli swept a fleeting, yearning glance over his study, then reached for the wine. He gave me a curious half smile and drained the glass in one great gulp.
Silvio stomped his heavy boots in exasperation. “Your kindness does you no credit, Tito. It’s more than Morelli deserves. Do you think that bastard would have allowed Luca a last drink?”
Liya nodded her agreement, regarding me with a cold stare.
I shrugged. I was who I was.
Messer Grande wrinkled his nose and snorted. “What a night! Have we got all the pleasantries out of the way now? Good. Let’s get this over with.”
He crossed the room and grasped Morelli by the arm. But as Messer Grande pulled the nobleman toward the door, Morelli crumpled like a stalk of wheat cut down by a scythe. He hit the floor, hands frantically clutching his mid-section. The man was in agony—his eyes bulged from his head and yellow froth poured from his lips. Horrified, we all sprang to help, but there was nothing we could do.
His end came mercifully soon. In less than five minutes, Isabella Morelli had become a widow. She made only one comment: “I should have warned you about something like this. Leonardo always did manage to have the last word."
Chapter 30
It was a few days after I had unwittingly placed the quick-acting poison in Morelli’s hand. In retrospect, I wasn’t surprised that the nobleman had chosen suicide over the humiliation of prison and public execution, I was simply grateful that I had refused his invitation to join him. Gussie and I were strolling along the Riva degli Schiavoni. The afternoon was mild. Bright flowers spilled from window boxes, and fig trees lifted their heads over sun-drenched stone walls. It was a perfect, golden day in June, but the pavement wasn’t crowded. Most of Venice’s wealthy families, along with the servants who tended to their needs, had made the annual pilgrimage to their summer villas. The city’s foreign visitors had also departed for cooler climes. So I was surprised when a sleek, black gondola pulled alongside and a liveried boatman called my name and directed me to the steps of the next quay.
As the broad-shouldered young gondolier steadied his craft, a mass of shockingly red ringlets appeared at the window of the covered cabin. Isabella Morelli raised her face toward me.
“Tito, what a fortunate meeting. I was on my way to the Cannaregio to find you. Get in for a moment, both of you.”
I queried Gussie with a glance.
“You go on. I’ll wait here,” he whispered from the corner of his mouth.
Hesitating a bit, but curious, I boarded the gondola. Isabella reclined against a pile of cushions. She wore a short taffeta bodice of the liveliest blue. Her skirt of the same material billowed around her, and she had tied a jaunty red ribbon around her neck. She gave a throaty laugh. “I see your English friend is still afraid of me. He needn’t be—any flirtation with him would be a waste of time. Anyone with eyes can see that he worships your sister.”
I nodded. “That is so. Gussie and Annetta plan to be married as soon as my brother returns from his sea journey. We were just discussing what music I would sing at their wedding.”
Isabella didn’t comment. With an unreadable smile on her face, she simply stared at Gussie through the small window. I felt like I should say something about Morelli’s death but hardly knew how to begin. I discarded several inane platitudes before my discomfort prodded me to make a clumsy observation: “I see you’re not in mourning.”
A wide smile settled on her carefully painted face as she ran her hand over the blue taffeta. “Leonardo’s death is not a tragedy. For me, it’s a cause for celebration. Being his wife was like serving a sentence as a galley slave. But now I’m free—after all these years of enduring his grim, oppressive presence, I’m finally free to do as I please.”
“Still, you’re a widow. Even in these careless times, people will talk.”
“Let them. I already have a reputation and I wish to enhance it. The more they talk, the happier I will be. I want to be known as the most audacious, the most daring woman in Venice. Leonardo left me very little, but I do have the palazzo. Until those old walls fall in on my head, the Palazzo Morelli will be a gathering place for the witty and clever. People of fashionable ideas will flock to my salon to hear the latest satirical epigrams or debate the most scandalous theories. Perhaps I can even persuade Venice’s most charming castrato to serenade us on occasion.”
I bowed my head. “With pleasure, Signora. It is the least I could do. Is that why you were looking for me?”
“No,” she answered, rummaging beneath the cushions. “I have something for you.”
“For me? What is it?”
She smiled pertly. “Close your eyes and hold out your hands.”
I complied. A heavy object filled my palms. Lifting my lids, I beheld the statue of Venus that had sealed Morelli’s fate. The bronze had been buffed to a high luster and was nesting in a length of white silk.
“You’re giving this to me?”
“It’s yours to do with as you please. I enjoyed having Venus preside over my boudoir, but now that I know she bashed someone’s head in… well, I thought you might want it to remind you of your successful investigation. Marco, my new gondolier, polished her up for you. He has wonderfully strong hands.” She finished with a sigh and a satisfied smile.
“Have you replaced Fabrizio with Marco, then?”
She tossed her head. “I think Fabrizio turned tail and ran the minute your Jewess appeared above the reception hall. No one has laid eyes on him since.”
I took my leave of Isabella and watched Marco of the strong hands pilot her boat down the glistening canal into an uncertain future. Before the dashing widow’s appearance, Gussie and I had been strolling without a firm destination in mind. The statue provided me with a new purpose. We hailed a gondola and hurried to the ghetto. I wasn’t sure how long my resolve would last and wanted to accomplish my mission before doubt overcame me.
Leaving Gussie at the eastern bridge, I passed through the ghetto’s wooden gates. It took only a few minutes to locate Baruch’s house and to identify the Del’Vecchios’ new shop a few doors down. Pincas had strung an array of fine gowns and suits across the front window. He greeted me warmly and personally conducted me to Liya’s workroom.
My beloved sat at a table beside a sunny window, stitching a length of silver lace onto a velvet mask. She rose at my approach.
I gestured to her basket of gaudy trims. “I’m surprised to find you working on these—not much call for masks this time of year.”
“I’m trying to build up a stock. The fall Carnival will be here before you know it, and I don’t want my mother and sisters to run short.”
“You speak as if you won’t be here in the fall.”
She moved to the door, looked down the hall, then drew it shut. “You are right, but this is for your ears alone. My family doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll be leaving Venice shortly.”
My throat went dry and the blood began to drum in my ears. “Leave Venice? Why? With whom?”
“You men. You just can’t imagine that a woman could actually travel somewhere on her own.” She emitted a short, barking laugh. “I’m going away by myself, and I’m going because Mama and Papa are insisting that I marry this student that one of Nonna’s old friends dug up.”
“But why must you leave? Can’t you simply refuse him?”
Liya went back to her worktable and stood fingering the metallic laces and pleated ribbons. Finally, she patted the front of her apron and said, “I’m going to have Luca’s child, Tito. I managed to keep the baby a secret for a while, but Mama found out. If I stay, I’ll be forced to marry.”
I swallowed hard. “Is he so bad, this student?”
“He has a face like a shriveled melon, beautiful music bores him, and when he thinks no one is watching, he makes scary faces at Fortunata.” She crossed her arms decisively. “I won’t have him. I’m going. My plans are made.”
“Still, how can you make your living with a baby to tend to? You are a brave woman, Liya, but you are being foolhardy,” I protested.
Her eyes flashed, but any anger quickly receded. She came toward me and touched my arm. “I know that you are speaking out of concern, but don’t worry, I won’t be alone for long.” She considered a moment, then continued, “A long time ago, when I was just a little girl, I had a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop. The doctors here in the ghetto couldn’t do anything for me. Finally, in desperation, Mama took me across the lagoon to a wise-woman who lives on one of the secluded islands.”
“A witch,” I whispered.
“You may call her that if you wish,” she answered gravely. “She cured my nosebleed, and I never forgot her mysterious cottage or her healing ritual. After she had given me honeyed wine and biscuits made in the shape of the crescent moon, she put herself in a trance and invoked a power, a goddess that she called Aradia. Think of it, Tito, a powerful, womanly deity. Here in our synagogue, the women are not even allowed to sit with the men near the altar—we are relegated to a gallery at the back. One time, I asked the rabbi if I could learn to read the Torah—he had Papa punish me for even asking the question.”
She shook her head at the memory, then continued. “When I heard that Luca had died, I sought out the wise-woman. I was afraid. I wanted her to give me something that would get rid of the baby. She would have if I’d insisted, but she offered a solution I liked much better. She told me of a village of women like herself. They live over on the mainland, in an isolated forest deep in the mountains where they keep to the ways of the old religion. She arranged for them to take me in—me and my baby. That’s where I’m going, Tito, and I must leave soon.”
“So, you’ve finally found that place where it doesn’t matter who is Christian and who is Hebrew.”
She nodded. “The path of the goddess Aradia is far older than either.”
Her hand was still on my arm. I covered it with my own. “You have another choice that your wise-woman would never have suggested.”
Liya gazed at me questioningly, her lips barely parted. The sunlight picked out highlights on the lustrous black hair that was spilling over her shoulders. I longed to run my hand through it, but instead, I just squeezed her hand a little tighter. Gathering my courage, I said, “I love you, Liya. I can’t offer you marriage because my religion doesn’t grant that privilege to my kind, but I do offer you my whole heart for the rest of my earthly existence. You don’t have to run away to the mountains. You can make your home with me—we can live anywhere you choose. I promise that you and your child will want for nothing.”
“You would accept Luca’s child?” she asked wonderingly.
I nodded.
“Oh, Tito. I didn’t know… I must be a fool, but I didn’t realize.” She groaned softly and shook her head. “I don’t feel the same way. I owe you so much, and you are a dear, sweet man, but I can’t pretend and play you false. I can’t go away with you. I’ve made my plans and I intend to stick to them.”
Desolate and bewildered, I searched her face for a hint of some argument I could use to change her mind. I found no encouragement there. Liya didn’t love me. She was going away and there was nothing I could do about it. Very gently, Liya pulled her hand from mine and pointed to the bundle under my arm. “What is that, Tito?”
I unwrapped the statue of Venus and handed it to her without comment. She gasped, gathered the bronze to her chest, then regarded it with an expression of such tender longing that I felt like an utter fool. How could I have ever hoped to replace Luca in her heart?
I said tentatively, “Isabella gave it to me. I wasn’t sure you would want it since it shed Luca’s blood, but I remembered how you spoke of it when we were at the pawnshop window. So, if you’d like to have it, the Venus is yours.”
“Oh, Tito,” she breathed. “Thank you a thousand times over. I asked Silvio for a memento, but he had sent all of Luca’s paintings and other things to be sold. I thought I would be left with nothing of Luca except his child.”
She hugged the statue again, her eyes closed and a rapt smile on her lips, transported by memories of happier times. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to retreat.
I don’t remember leaving the Del’Vecchios’ shop or traversing the winding alleys. I came out of my stupor only as I came through the tall, wooden gates and Gussie’s concerned blue eyes floated right in front of my face.
“Tito,” he asked, “did you talk to Liya? What did she say?”
We were standing on the arc of the bridge. As so often happens at dusk, a breeze was whipping down the canal, gathering strength as the wind off the lagoon funneled through the passages between the buildings. From behind came the heavy thud of the crossbar shutting the ghetto gates. The finality of the sound reverberated through my bones. I turned to see the sentry guards stepping to their posts for the night. I wanted to rush the gates, throw myself at their oaken planks, claw them open with my bare hands—but I knew it would be a fruitless effort. Liya was going away, trusting the magic of the wise-woman over the traditions of her family or the love of a heartbroken eunuch.
Gussie laid a hand on my shoulder. “Tito, are you all right?”
I nodded slowly. I remembered that I, too, possessed a bit of magic. My hand sought the pocket over my heart. I withdrew the veil and stared at Liya’s profile in the dwindling light. Though we might both travel far, I swore by everything I held dear that Liya and I would meet again and that I would keep her image next to me until that sweet day.
“Tito?” Gussie was shaking me then. I must have looked like a man awakening from a deep sleep.
“Yes, Gussie. I’ll be fine.” I threw an affectionate arm around my friend. “Let’s go home. Annetta will be wondering what has become of us, and we still have to pick out some music for your wedding.”
Author’s Note
Secret societies were rife throughout eighteenth-century Europe and the American colonies. Almost exclusively male oriented, most of the organizations mixed fellowship with devotion to the betterment of society along Enlightenment lines. A few were more interested in the pursuit of esoteric wisdom and power. Many influential eighteenth-century figures were members of one group or another: Isaac Newton, George Washington, Benjamin Franklin, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and Giacomo Casanova, to name a few. Freemasonry was, and continues to be, the most prominent of the societies, but Dr. Palantinus’ unique blend of quasi-religious and occult beliefs owes more to the Ancient Mystical Order of the Rose Cross, also called Rosicrucians. More information on secret societies of the era can be found in David V. Barrett’s Secret Societies (Blandford, 1999).
Francesco Florio is a fictional character inspired by historical castrato Luigi Marchesi. Handsome, vain, and extraordinarily demanding, this virtuoso’s pretentious behavior undoubtedly contributed to the change in public taste that led to the demise of the castrati. Henry Pleasants, in The Great Singers (Simon and Schuster, 1966), notes that “He insisted on making his first entrance descending a hill and wearing a helmet crowned with plumes a yard high, his arrival heralded by a fanfare of trumpets.” Of course, our Tito would never stoop to such self-serving antics.
The first Jews to settle in Venice were from central Europe. After Queen Isabella’s expulsion of 1492, many Jews from Spain and Portugal also arrived. Hebrew moneylending activities were welcome when Venice needed loans to finance a war with neighboring Chioggia, but in 1516, intolerance triumphed. A decree of the Republic confined Venetian Jews to a small neighborhood which had been the site of some foundries, getti. Thus the first ghetto in Europe was created. The gates were not thrown open until Napoleon’s conquest of Venice in 1797. Today, most of the ancient buildings still stand and are the center of a thriving community with its own museum, library, and synagogues.
Special thanks to my husband, Lawrence, for believing in me and putting up with a writer’s angst; to all friends and family who offered unflagging support; to Kit Ehrman, for her insightful comments on the manuscript; to the staff at the libraries of the University of Louisville and the University of Tennessee at Knoxville; to my agent, Dan Hooker, for encouragement along the way; and to my editor at Poisoned Pen Press, Barbara Peters.
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Beverle Graves Myers, 2 - Painted Veil
