Daughter of Venice (13 page)

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

GOOD-BYE

A
month goes by in a lovely routine. The only really bad parts of it are that Laura must do most of my work and I rarely get to see Mother or the little ones. In the past I spent my mornings with Mother, doing the work that women do in our house. And I spent my evenings with Laura and Paolina, playing with the little ones. I feel almost like they’re strangers to me now. I miss them. But, oh, what I’m doing instead is worth that temporary loss.

Every morning I go to work, like most middle-class and poor boys my age. I change in the storeroom and wear my
bareta
out into the world. Noè meets me in the Rio Terrà di Maddalena and we walk together, unmolested by beggar boys, to the book printer’s.

I skip Sunday, of course, because I must attend Mass with my family. And I skip Saturday, because that is Noè’s holy day, which he passes studying the psalms, even though the printing house still operates. So on Saturday I work like a madwoman, doing both my share of the chores and Laura’s. A small payback, to be sure, but anything is better than nothing.

The printing house, it turns out, is owned by Catholics; Jews have been prohibited from owning printing houses since 1548, though they can work in them. Noè told me that. And there’s another prohibition against Jews owning the Talmud or even Hebrew versions of the Bible. But this prohibition is not enforced: Catholic printing houses supply sacred Hebrew texts to many Ghetto families. In fact, one of Noè’s jobs—for he has many—is to take the daily sermons of the chief rabbi—the man Noè calls his
gaon
—and translate them into Hebrew and deliver them to either the di Gara printing house or the Zanetti printing house. It is Noè, again, who later distributes the printed sermons to those faithful who can pay. So Ghetto homes are full of texts in Hebrew, law or no law.

I don’t have a sense yet of what the real rules affecting Jews are. But I know that the interaction between Jews and Catholics is not purely commercial, despite what Francesco and Piero said. One of the magnificent staircases in the Palazzo Ducale leads to a
bocca di leone
where people can insert denunciations against blasphemy in the lion’s mouth.
Gli Esecutori contro la Bestemmia
—the Executors against Blasphemy—were founded in 1537 and they punish not only blasphemies of word, but gambling, drunkenness, and sexual relations between Jews and Catholics. Sexual relations? As Noè says, you don’t have a law against something that never happens.

And there are religious events that bring Jews and Catholics together. Noè told me that the new Ghetto choral master, that Leon Modena (whose name he never utters without saying swiftly “may God his Rock protect him and grant him long life”), preaches in the
campo
. He’s so eloquent that even Catholics come to hear him. And it goes both ways—Jews listen to the famous Catholic Fra Paolo Sarpi, who comes right into the Ghetto to speak with them. Many criticize Fra Sarpi; Pope Clement even denied Fra Sarpi a bishopric because of his friendships with Jews. But Sarpi hasn’t been daunted.

I love it when Noè tells me these things. I love every date, every law, every detail of any sort. We walk to work with Noè talking and me learning. It is wonderful, indeed, to be treated like a boy.

When we arrive at the printing house, I take out a plain white cloth and drape it over my head, with enough sticking out in front to act like a visor against the sun. Giuseppe, one of the copyists, questioned this the first time I did it. Noè quickly said it was because I was a girl. Rosaria, the only other girl copyist, piped up with, “A girl who gives herself the airs of nobility.” People snickered here and there, but no one has said anything about it since. And when we were alone, Noè commented that it was “a nice touch” to my disguise as a girl. I pull the sleeves of my shirt down over my hands when I’m working in the printer’s courtyard so that only the fingers I use for writing are uncovered. It’s lucky, after all, that the fisherboy’s shirt is so large on me. My writing fingers have turned a little darker with the sun exposure, but no one at home has noticed.

On every afternoon but Sunday I go to tutorial. Laura stopped coming after the first couple of days. She said she was too exhausted from doing double work all morning—or almost double. Sometimes she doesn’t finish the work that’s supposed to be her share. But she always does my share. She protects me. She winds wool onto the bobbins and she takes care of our younger siblings. She works so hard.

I felt guilty when Laura quit tutorial lessons, and I told her. Then she admitted that she hated the lessons anyway. She much prefers to spend the afternoon with Andriana or playing her violin.

Mother has no suspicions, largely because she’s hardly ever home, and, when she is, she’s distracted. But also because in the evenings, after I mangle songs on the violin, I run into the workroom and do whatever I can to catch up. A few times Mother has happened by the workroom and given me a surprised smile. I smile back, in genuine happiness, because winding the bobbins for an hour or two isn’t dull at all when I have the morning’s adventures to think about. But, oh, it is hard to hear the giggles from the little ones as Laura and Paolina play with them while I work.

But I’m happy Laura has this pleasure. And I’m happy when her eyes light up and she laughs as she tells me about her afternoons with Andriana at parties. For Andriana has been invited to small parties ever since Father announced that he would begin thinking about the family marriage plans. Many of these parties are at the homes of noble families, where the mother and the sisters want to look her over. Since Father will undoubtedly give a large dowry, Andriana is the object of immense curiosity. She says she feels as if she’s constantly on display. She plays the harp, always the same tune, because Andriana, like me, is not a natural musician. But she’s mastered one tune beautifully, and that’s all she needs. When they applaud and beg her to play another, she demurely says her own mother plays much better, which is true. Mother taught Andriana the harp, since she wanted her oldest daughter to follow in her footsteps. In any case, Andriana sounds like a paragon of modesty, which is much better than if she had actually played a second tune perfectly.

Laura tells me all this, reporting word for word what the women say. She can’t go on the morning outings, of course, but she begged Mother so fervently that Mother relented and allowed her to come along to afternoon parties.

Mother accompanies Andriana every time, as is required to protect her reputation. And when they are not on these outings, they are preparing for them. These facts are exceedingly lucky for me; there is almost no chance that my absence could go on for so long without detection if Mother were not thoroughly preoccupied. Each outing requires a dress for Andriana that no one at the hostess’s home is likely to have seen yet. So Mother takes Andriana to the dressmaker to be fitted. Then, when the basic dress is done, Mother and Aunt Angela and Cara and Andriana cluster together—leaving the care of the younger children to Laura—and they embroider the sleeves of the dress or sew on lacy decorations, as they sip the tasty Brognolo wine that Cara’s sister brought her from Friuli. When the hostess exclaims over Andriana’s dress, it is important that Andriana be able to say, “Thank you, but I really haven’t mastered this stitch so well yet,” as she points to a section she did—giving the impression she did all the decorations. Home skills are valued, even among the nobility.

Last night Andriana modeled her favorite dress yet for all of us girls. The bodice isn’t so low as on some of her dresses, where I fear she’ll spill out if she leans forward. But, oh, this bodice is stunning: green silk, lush with pink and green ribbon flowers all over the front. The ribbon flowers were Andriana’s idea. So when the next outing comes, she will truly deserve the praise she receives.

Laura will report it all to me.

I can’t imagine that it’s anything but torture for Laura to bear witness to these events, since she so much wishes she was being looked over, too. And the thought that Andriana is now believed to be a fine musician has to grate on her, as well, since Laura is the true musician of the family. But Laura has said nothing sour to me. Not a word.

Then there are other gatherings where the noble families are trying to show off their daughters to us, so that we’ll think about them as potential brides for Antonio. They’re smart to do this. Father, naturally, wants a young woman, so that Antonio can have sons and carry on the family line. And Father also wants a noble woman. Given that we are such a wealthy family, Father expects Antonio to marry a woman from a wealthy family as well. Because usually only one son from a noble family marries and because so many noble families have multiple daughters, there are plenty of young and wealthy women to choose from. That means that beauty and personality count. So young women do their best to show off their charms to Mother and Andriana and Laura.

Father is content to leave so much up to the women, for he’s overwhelmed with the politics of his business these days. Just as the family predicted, the petition of the wool combers led to more petitions by the other subguilds within the wool industry. The funny thing is, I often know about these other petitions before Father: In the past month I’ve learned to read Venetian—oh, joy of joys. It’s quite simple; each letter corresponds to a single sound, so once I learned all the letters, I could read anything. And I’m quick at it already, because Vincenzo has done me the favor of writing down stories that I practice reading every night. Since the handbills are all in Venetian, even though the actual petitions are in Latin, I can now read what I spend all morning copying. Sometimes I have to bite my tongue at the dinner table to keep from revealing details before Father has brought them up. Other times I simply talk, and no one seems to notice that I know more than I ought.

I haven’t gone to any of these women’s gatherings, and I never intend to. I am grateful that we are so rich and, therefore, so desirable that it isn’t necessary for us to act as host ourselves. I can ignore the matter of matrimony and devote myself to my lessons.

I love studying even the lessons that seem bizarre to me, like those on the book
Vita Nuova
—new life—by the famous Dante Alighieri, in which the author falls in love with a woman solely through reading her eyes. Messer Cuttlefish appears enraptured at this idea, so enraptured that I sometimes wonder if he has been in love. Yes, lessons are far preferable to the women’s gatherings.

Nevertheless, Laura tells me all about them in the evenings, when we’re alone in our bedchamber. I find myself listening almost against my will. These events have nothing to do with me. I will not marry. And what’s the point of taking part in helping to select Antonio’s wife? I will probably never live in the same household with Antonio’s wife, since Laura is certainly more appropriate for the tasks of maiden aunt than I am. After all, she adores children. And the more I go outside and see other people’s children in passing, the more I notice whining and crabbing. I like children when they’re funny or sweetly naughty, but not when they’re in bad humor—and they seem to be in bad humor often.

When I manage to put all of this confusion about our futures out of my mind, I’m happy indeed. I wish this month would never end.

This is what’s on my mind as Noè and I walk home today.

“Your indentured servitude is up, Donato,” says Noè.

I laugh more lightheartedly than I feel, and click the heels of my
zoccoli
together. “I’ve earned my first pair of shoes.”

“Actually, you’ve become a good copyist. Your early work was messy and slow. Now you’re fast and accurate.”

“Not so fast as Emilio,” I say, thinking with admiration of my speedy neighbor at the copyist tables.

“No. But your letters are more pleasing to the eye.”

“Who cares whether a handbill pleases the eye?” I say.

“Precisely what I was getting at. You’d make a good scribe, if you’d like to continue your masquerade for a while.”

The words stun me. There’s nothing I’d rather do. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

I’ve learned many things this month. But a scribe? A scribe needs to know so much. “I’m afraid I’m not up to it.”

“I’d start you out on simple tasks. We just got an order for a collection of Greek plays. That sounds perfect as your first job.”

I make a tsking noise.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like the Greek plays? I’d have bet you loved them. Especially the tragedies.”

“I don’t know them,” I say, feeling as if I’m speaking the truth to Noè for the first time ever. “I can’t read Greek.” My cheeks burn, but I have to keep speaking. “I don’t know Greek letters.”

Noè tilts his head in surprise. “You must be younger than I thought.”

I stand tall and square my shoulders. “I’m fourteen.”

“Then your tutor’s choice of studies is lacking,” says Noè.

“I’ve attended tutorials only for the past month. The same amount of time I’ve been working for you.”