The Rossetti Letter (v5) (3 page)

18 April 1617

T
HE BELLS OF
San Salvador were ringing as the gondola left the narrow confines of the Rio San Giovanni Crisostomo and sailed into the Grand Canal. Alessandra leaned out from the
felze,
the black baldachin that covered the boat’s midsection, and looked up at the lowering sky. April, and yet it still felt like winter. Last night’s scattered clouds had converged into an unbroken canopy of gray, and she half-expected to feel raindrops on her face. Instead, only the chill spring air greeted her, carrying with it the briny scent of the sea and the pungent odors of the bustling fish market on the opposite bank.

Her gondolier steered the craft to the middle of the great waterway, dodging a fruit-laden barge that sent a shower of frigid water over the bow.
I had the dream again last night,
Alessandra realized with a shiver. The same dream she’d had too many times in the past year, the one that caused her to wake up gasping and crying, that caused her to snap at her good, loyal Bianca for no reason, that left an emptiness inside her that she feared would never pass. She’d forgotten it as soon as she awoke, but now it came back to her in an instant: her father and Jacopo sinking down into the deep, cold ocean, descending into the murky darkness until only their pale, still faces were visible, their wide eyes blank, mouths open in mute surprise.

Keep safe from stormy weather, O Lord, all your faithful mariners…
Each year on Ascension Day, the Doge repeated this invocation during the Sposalizio del Mar, Venice’s ceremonial Marriage to the Sea. As far back as she could remember, Alessandra had, along with all of Venice, watched proudly as the
Bucintoro
was rowed across the lagoon and into the Adriatic. The red and gold ship of state was as ornate as a Mandarin dragon, and the Doge rode on its crest in his golden chair surrounded by the six scarlet-robed members of his private counsel, the Signory, and a hundred liveried oarsmen. When he threw the gold ring into the sea, and spoke the words dear to every Venetian’s heart “…keep safe all your faithful mariners, safe from sudden shipwreck and from evil, unsuspected tricks of cunning enemies,” she had recited them along with him.

What a child she’d been, to believe that gold rings and prayers to the sea would keep her family alive. Alessandra felt bitter tears rising, as they did too often, and she brushed them away with the back of her hand. There was no time for that this morning; her father’s banker had summoned her. At last, her father’s legacy, such as it was, would be in her hands. The shipwreck that claimed Salvatore and Jacopo Rossetti had left her nearly destitute; Alessandra’s father had staked everything he owned on his last voyage. During the past year, the executor of her father’s estate, Lorenzo Liberti, had invested what remained. Now that Lorenzo was dead, it would be up to her to manage it. No doubt the banker had some advice for her.

She disembarked at the Rialto steps. Mornings were the market’s busiest time, and the lanes all around the Erberia and the adjacent church known as San Giacometto were crowded. She slowly made her way through the throngs of shoppers carrying baskets of asparagus from Sant’ Erasmus, artichokes from Sicily, or wriggling burlap sacks filled with live crabs or eels. The last time she’d been here, she’d been fifteen, and on her father’s arm. It wasn’t entirely proper for a well-bred young woman to be in the market unescorted, but then, she thought wryly, she’d given up being entirely proper a year ago when she’d become Lorenzo’s mistress.

She unfolded the banker’s letter. The top was imprinted:

Banco Cattona

at the Rialto

on the Filled-in Canal of Thoughts

Below that was a note in a precise hand:

Signorina Rossetti:

She stopped a young man pushing a tumbrel stacked with bread and asked for directions to the bank.

“Straight ahead, then left after the goldsmiths,” he said, pointing the way along the Ruga degli Speziali. He took a second look at her before he walked on, and Alessandra saw his interest, his uncertainty, his confusion. He doesn’t know what to make of me, she thought. An unmarried girl would wear a veil, but I do not, nor do I wear the neck pearls of a married woman. As for the third possibility, I am too modestly dressed. I am neither maid, nor matron, nor
meretrice.

She followed his advice and soon was beyond the bustle of the markets, in a quiet cobblestone lane lined with shops. The Banco Cattona was considerably less impressive than she had imagined it. A squeaky door opened into a tiny anteroom in which sat a young clerk with ink-stained fingers and a pained, cachectic appearance. Alessandra presented her letter and the clerk led her to the banker’s office, a windowless chamber lined with leather-bound ledgers, each with a gold-engraved name on the spine.

Bartolomeo Cattona sat behind a desk that took up much of the room, squinting through half glasses at a wide sheet of paper upon which he scratched a row of figures. He looked up distractedly as they entered, and the feathery end of his quill came into contact with one of the tapers on his candelabrum and caught fire. He extinguished the burning feather with a gruff exhalation, and a plume of white, acrid smoke rose in the air.

“Sit down, sit down,” he said, waving away the smoke and pointing at the only chair in the office aside from his own. “So you’re Rossetti’s daughter? All grown up, I see.”

“Yes,” Alessandra replied, although it seemed odd to say it.

“Terrible what happened to your father, just terrible,” he said. “I warned him never to set sail without insurance, truly I did, but he knew better, of course.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed the bridge of his broad nose, grimacing as he put them on again, and regarded her with a thin-lipped smile. “But again, these days there are many like him, the high costs of shipping being what they are, many who are willing to risk it all just like your father did, in the hopes of undercutting the Turks, and the Portuguese, and the English. In better times,” he went on, tucking a silver curl back under his silk cap, “no one would have set foot off the Molo without a long list of underwriters; why, I recall voyages that were complete disasters and still managed to turn a handsome profit! If only he’d taken my advice, your misfortunes would not be so great, my dear.”

Alessandra suspected that Signor Cattona wouldn’t have dared insult her father like that if he were still alive; he probably wouldn’t have made such a pompous statement even to Lorenzo. She tried to conceal her displeasure at the banker’s patronizing manner. “My father and brother died on that voyage,” she said. “No amount of money could make up for their loss.”

The banker must have heard the suppressed anger in her voice, for his cheeks brightened with color. “Of course,” he said, coughing uneasily. “Forgive me.”

“Signor Cattona, perhaps you could tell me your reason for this letter.”

“Ah, yes. But first, please, allow me to offer my condolences on the passing of Signor Liberti.” He spoke with a formality that should have been reserved for Lorenzo’s widow, not herself, Alessandra thought. Was he aware of the nature of their relationship? “From the flux, was it not?” he asked, regarding her warily.

“Yes.”

He leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone. “Was he stricken here in Venice?”

“He was in Florence when he became ill.”

“Ah.” The banker sat back, visibly relieved. “One can never be too careful. You’re too young, of course, but no one who survived it can forget the plague of 1575.” Cattona shivered, and with a seeming effort brought his thoughts back to the present. “Were you aware that as executor of your father’s estate, Signor Liberti made a number of withdrawals from your account?”

“Yes, of course. He made investments on my behalf.”

“I see. Did he deposit the returns at another bank?”

“No, the profits were to go here.”

“Signorina Rossetti, I am sorry to say that never happened. Signor Liberti made many withdrawals, but no deposits. I’m afraid there is very little money left in your account.”

Her stomach sank. “How little?”

Cattona turned in his chair. Alessandra saw that it was cleverly fitted with wheels on the bottom so that he might easily navigate the shelves full of ledgers lining the room. He rolled along the back wall until he came to a ledger marked with her name, took it from the shelf, and pressed it open on his desk. He turned a few pages, running his index finger along the columns of figures, then stopped and looked back at Alessandra.

“Twenty-eight ducats, fourteen
soldi,
three
piccoli,
” he stated solemnly.

“But that’s impossible.” Twenty-eight ducats was barely enough to feed herself, Nico, and Bianca for two months.

He turned the open ledger toward her. “My figures are correct.”

Alessandra looked down the row of entries, withdrawal after withdrawal, each signed by Lorenzo. “I can’t believe this.”

“I assure you that my accounting practices adhere to the highest standards,” said Cattona, offended. “Every three months, Banco Giro itself audits my books—”

“I didn’t mean to imply any misconduct,” Alessandra said. “I just don’t understand how Signor Liberti could have done this.” She looked at the dwindling figures in her account with confusion and dismay. Had Lorenzo deceived her, or had this been accidental, brought about by his sudden illness and death? She would probably never know.

“Signorina Rossetti, have you any other means?”

“No.”

“Have you given any thought to what you will do now?”

“I’ve had no time to think.”

“I know that your father left you a fine house in Castello, near the lagoon. Perhaps you might consider selling the house to raise the money you’ll need to enter San Sebastiano.”

Alessandra stared at him, openmouthed. She was appalled by his assumption that her only option was to take holy orders at San Sebastiano, the Venetian convent founded by the poet and courtesan Veronica Franco as a refuge for “fallen” women. Obviously Cattona knew about her relationship with Lorenzo, or had guessed, but his presumption was rude beyond belief. The only thing worse than being a mistress, Alessandra realized, was being a former mistress; no doubt the banker’s disrespectful treatment was what she could expect from now on.

“I could help find a buyer, if you like,” the banker continued. “In fact, I might be interested in purchasing it myself…”

So that’s it, Alessandra thought. Not only am I unworthy of respect, but he has no inhibitions about taking advantage of my misfortune. “Did you think you could frighten me into selling my home to you?” she asked. “No doubt you expect to purchase it for much less than its true worth.”

“I assure you, I can offer a fair price.”

“I dread to think of how peacefully you would sleep in my house, while I was walled up in a nunnery.” Alessandra stood up. “I’d like my money, please.”

“Pardon?”

“My money. I’d like to withdraw my money.”

The banker was silent for a moment. He looked down at his ledger, perhaps trying to think of a new, more successful approach. But when he looked back at Alessandra, he must have seen that he was defeated. “Very well, then,” he said brusquely. “How much?”

“All of it.” She untied her purse from her waist and set it on the desk.

“Our deposits are not kept here,” he replied with an aggravated wave at her purse, “but in the strong rooms of the Palazzo Camerlenghi, the state Treasurer’s Office. It’s the tall white building right next to the Rialto Bridge. Take this chit to the main counter”—he took a small paper from the desk drawer and wrote on it as he spoke—“and they’ll compensate you.” He held out the receipt with a dismissive glance. “Good luck to you, Signorina Rossetti,” he said, but Alessandra knew very well that he did not mean it.

The clerk at the Palazzo Camerlenghi finished counting out fourteen
soldi,
then unlocked the largest of the three small chests on the table facing him. He glanced down at the chit from Banco Cattona, then up at Alessandra.

“Twenty-eight ducats, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Alessandra said. Her voice sounded hollow.
Twenty-eight ducats. How will we survive with only twenty-eight ducats?
She drew in a ragged breath and brushed her fingers across her tearstained face. This had to be the worst day of her life, except for the day nearly a year ago when she’d learned of her father’s and brother’s deaths. Lorenzo was the one who’d told her. Once he’d related the terrible news, he’d dropped to his knees and confessed his great admiration—no, he could no longer deny it, he said—his ardent love for her. He had begged her to allow him to help and protect her. He’d promised to take care of her, and she had believed him. Had she been deceived?

No, Alessandra decided, that could not be true. Lorenzo had loved her, she was sure of that; many times she had regretted that she could not return his passionate feelings. What had happened with her money must have been a mistake or simply bad luck. She only wished that knowing this made her present circumstances easier.