5 - Her Deadly Mischief Read online

  “When did the women strike this bargain?”

  He thought a moment. “Just when the wealthy folk were returning from their summer estates. Late August or early September, I suppose.”

  “Roughly two months then.”

  The dwarf nodded.

  After a pensive silence on all sides, Messer Grande observed, “A wager involves a stake. What was the loser to forfeit?”

  “Diamonds,” Pamarino replied solemnly. “The winner would lay claim to anything and everything she fancied from the other’s jewel box.”

  Torani spoke up again: “Surely the lucky woman would also be acknowledged as the reigning queen of all the courtesans in Venice.”

  The dwarf shrugged. “Glory is all very well, but it can’t be sold to put meat on the table. It was diamonds that drove this wager.”

  “If I might be excused for interrupting…” I was surprised to hear Benito’s wavering treble speak up. My manservant took a step forward, cocked his head like a puzzled canary, and didn’t continue until Messer Grande nodded his permission.

  “Hasn’t Alessio Pino made an open virtue of restraint because of his lengthy betrothal to Maria Albergati?” Benito asked. “They say that Cesare Pino and Signor Albergati wrangled over the match for months. Everyone is speculating why Signor Albergati finally agreed for his noble line to be mixed with that of a common glassmaker. Now that young Maria has come out of the convent and a wedding date is set, her father visibly writhes at the mere mention of the engagement. It is to gain some measure of his respect that Alessio Pino behaves as a model of decorum in all his dealings and appearances in society.”

  Benito’s lengthy comment drew a grinning nod from Messer Grande, a hollow laugh from Pamarino, and a questioning look from me.

  Ignoring the others, Benito sent me a knowing smile.

  In truth, I would never disparage his grasp of the facts: my manservant must be the deepest well of gossip in Venice. I was merely astonished that he bothered to beg leave before he spoke.

  People often ask why I tolerate Benito. For one thing, he is a castrato like myself, trained in a Naples conservatory just as I was. Though the stage didn’t suit him, he understands me and the needs of my voice in a way that whole men cannot. And then, I must admit that his irreverence often pleases me. Where good manners and fear of giving offense often render me mute, Benito plunges ahead. Besides, no one, not even Liya, prepares my morning chocolate or calms my stage jitters quite like Benito.

  Messer Grande turned to Maestro Torani. “Signor Albergati keeps a box at this theater, does he not?”

  “Yes. His grandfather was one of the original subscribers.”

  “I didn’t see him here tonight as I looked around the auditorium.”

  “You wouldn’t have, Excellency, his box is directly above yours. I recall that it was full, like most of the others. Family, I suppose. I noticed several young people, including one awkward young miss that could be Maria.”

  Messer Grande rubbed his chin. “I wonder if Zulietta realized that Alessio’s intended bride might well be watching the culmination of her mischievous wager.”

  Pamarino set his glass down so hard I feared the stem would break. With a wiggle of his legs, which didn’t quite reach the floor, he jumped to his feet and planted himself in front of Messer Grande. Since the chief constable was still seated, the dwarf addressed him face-to-face. “My mistress was well aware of the situation. It made her victory all the sweeter. Not only had she beaten La Samsona, but also Alessio’s high and mighty ideals. It took her several months, but little by little she broke him down. She made him burn with passion for her and only her. He forgot the promises to his father, the melding of the two families. How completely that panting dolt threw his reputation aside and became her slave.”

  “And once Zulietta had collected her victory spoils, what then?” Messer Grande asked with cool composure. “How did she expect her lover to react when he learned he’d been the butt of a wager?”

  The dwarf’s proud smile fell flat. “That’s it, don’t you see. Someone must have told him about the wager—perhaps that accounts for his secret meeting. Alessio would have been enraged to learn the truth. I can see him now, returning to the theater, furious, determined on revenge. When he saw me leave the box, he got me out of the way and went back to kill my mistress.”

  Messer Grande nodded slowly. He rose, snapped his fingers, and whispered a string of orders to a waiting constable. To us he announced in the tones of a Great Council orator, “Everything you heard here is to be kept quiet until I have a man in custody. Understood?”

  Solemn nods made the rounds. Unless Alessio Pino had boarded a boat for the mainland, the young glass prince would be in custody by tomorrow morning.

  ***

  Benito and I followed Torani from the theater at a little after two. The maestro’s usual gondolier was waiting on the steps at the water gate, shoulders wrapped in a blanket and tricorne tipped over his face. My boatman had not been so loyal. Though Benito swore he had told Luigi I would soon be coming, my man and his gondola had departed in search of a wench or a warm bed, or both. I would deal with him later.

  “You two come with me,” Torani offered. “I’ll see you home.”

  I shook my head. The old man was leaning on his stick and his bald head bobbed over the collars of his greatcoat like a cork floating on gentle waves. He looked so tired, a puff of wind could topple him into the canal. “Thank you, Maestro, but you live the opposite way. The night is cool, but fine. We don’t mind walking.”

  “Goodnight, then.”

  After watching Torani’s gondola slide down the misty canal, Benito and I turned in the direction of the Cannaregio. While a boat could take you anywhere in Venice, so could a maze of calli and bridges. We proceeded single file through one of the narrow passages that radiated from the theater. With my foot hobbling me but little, we navigated crooked alleys that almost seemed to double back on themselves and dipped through covered sortoportegi where velvety darkness was broken only by vigil candles twinkling in wall shrines. I hoped we might meet a Friulian with a lantern who could light us on our way, but all the lamp carriers for hire were doubtless waiting under the arcades of the Piazza where they could have their pick of patrons.

  Benito and I had one bad moment when we topped the peak of a narrow bridge to meet a pair of drunken sailors, Greek by the sound of their accents. As we turned sideways to squeeze past, I smelled tobacco, old sweat, and unnamable spices clinging to their heavy jackets and ragged beards. One was tall with a collection of gold rings pulling his earlobes low; the other had a flat nose and a white scar that crossed one cheek from ear to nose. They asked the way to a tavern I had never heard of. It was innocent enough, but I sensed the prospect of violence. The taller one was hiding something that bulged under his jacket, and he held his shoulder in a tense ball as if he meant to brandish a dagger or bludgeon.

  He wasn’t the only one with a weapon. Smiling and describing nearby taverns as if I were mightily pleased to direct good fellows to food and drink, I carefully removed my right hand from the warm fur of my muff and curled it around the hilt of the dagger in my waistcoat. Many years ago, my sailor brother, Alessandro, had furnished me with the weapon and instruction in its use. When the inevitable demand came, I was ready.

  With a wordless growl, the tall one raised a short, stout rod above his head. The other pushed his ugly face into mine. “Your purse and your watch,” he ordered on a puff of foul breath. “Make it quick. We’ve a powerful thirst.”

  The bridge railing pressed at my back. Using its support, I whipped out my dagger, canted back, and sliced my blade across the ruffian’s unscarred cheek. He clapped his hand to his face with a squeal of pain. Scarlet oozed between his fingers.

  At the same time, Benito uttered an impossibly high, unearthly shriek that froze the ta
ll sailor’s bludgeon in mid-swing. Benito followed his yell with a springing jump that drew his legs up into a diamond and caused the sailor’s eyes to pop as if Hell had coughed up one of Satan’s imps. My manservant didn’t waste his opportunity. He slapped the rod from the fellow’s hand. It spun through the air and hit the water with a splash.

  Pulling hard on Benito’s sleeve, I pushed away from the railing and started down the arch of the bridge at a run. We leapt the last few steps and dove into an alley that was little more than a slit between high walls. The would-be robbers bellowed and gave chase, but I knew Venice better than they did. With my manservant on my heels, I turned right, left, and then right again. I kept to the dark places, ignoring wider passages that beckoned with lit lamps and unbarred doorways. By the time we reached the irregular expanse of the Campo Santi Apostoli, we had lost our pursuers.

  Benito fell in beside me, cheeks pink and chest heaving. I was breathing hard, as well, and my heart was hammering against my ribs. Limping a bit, I found my handkerchief and wiped damp sweat from my face and the back of my neck. For a few minutes, we trudged along in silence, our ragged breaths sounding harsh in the cool air.

  Finally Benito said, “That was a smart move, Master. Those Greeks thought we were easy prey.”

  “I could say the same of you. You must have brought that scream up from your toes.”

  He chuckled, nodding. “And you gave that little one a scar to match the one he already has.”

  That I had, but I wasn’t proud of it. Alessandro was the Amato brother who relished a good fight; I would rather outwit my opponent than draw blood.

  “Let’s speak of something else,” I said as we started up the Fondamenta della Misericordia that flanked one of the Cannaregio’s major waterways.

  My neighborhood was quiet and tranquil. The distant carnival revels centered on the Piazza San Marco at the opposite end of the island. Here, ashen light from a plump three-quarter moon fell on modest houses whose inhabitants had been in bed for hours. Most of them, anyway. From a high window, the strains of a woman singing a lullaby made a duet with a child’s keening whine. As we walked on, a lonely, almost magical gloom enveloped us, and I felt reassured despite the violence that had invaded my life twice that night.

  Benito cleared his throat. “What do you want to talk about, Master?”

  “Before the Greeks stopped us, I was stewing over something I noticed back at the theater.”

  “Something of consequence?”

  “I don’t know. Right now, it’s merely curious.”

  “What is?”

  “I’ve been asking myself…if Zulietta Giardino had a jewel box overflowing with diamonds, why was her most obvious adornment a simple blue ribbon tied round her throat?”

  “She wore no jewels?”

  “I’m quite sure she wore no rings, bracelets, or pins. Her hair had come down, so I couldn’t see if there were bobs in her ears or not.”

  “Perhaps Zulietta left her fingers and arms bare so she could bedeck herself with La Samsona’s rings and bracelets.”

  “I can’t imagine that she would march over to La Samsona’s box and demand her jewels on the spot.”

  “I suppose that would depend on how greedy she was.”

  I sent Benito an oblique glance. Even in the low moonlight, I saw his eyes gleaming. My manservant was as intrigued by tonight’s strange tragedy as I was.

  “What can you tell me about Zulietta Giardino?”

  “Hmm…” Benito drew out this thoughtful hum as our steps resounded in a comfortable cadence. Finally he said, “Have you never noticed the woman? She has a maid as black as any Ethiopian. You often see them on the Piazza. The maid holds a sunshade over her mistress while that little troll struts in front with his chest puffed out, looking for all the world like a mechanical soldier doll.”

  “I thought I might have seen Zulietta before. She seemed so very familiar, but I can’t actually recall where. I know I’ve never seen Pamarino. I would remember him.”

  It wasn’t so odd that the unlikely trio had escaped my notice. In any other city, they would draw all eyes, but not in Venice. With the decline of her maritime fortunes, entertainment had become my city’s lifeblood. Pleasure was the law of the land and masquerade an article of faith. During the six months that separated one Carnevale from the next, there was a never-ending succession of special occasions. In May came the festival of the Sensa, when the Doge recreated Venice’s marriage to the sea with a magnificent regatta, and in July throngs of merrymakers crossed to the Giudecca to celebrate the festival of the Redentore. There was never a day when Venice didn’t honor some saint or anniversary or welcome some prince or ambassador. Amidst the constant celebration and crush of foreigners who came to take part, why should I have noticed one comely courtesan and her small retinue?

  “Allora,” Benito began. “I can tell you three things that Pamarino didn’t mention.”

  “Yes?”

  “Until several years ago, Zulietta was kept by Signor Malpiero. That old reprobate settled a dowry on her in his will, expecting that she would employ it to attract a not overly fastidious husband. Instead, at his death, she used his money to purchase luxurious lodgings and set herself up as a courtesan in grand style. Her apartments are in the San Marco district, near the church of San Fantin.” He paused to wave a hand back the way we’d come.

  “All right, that’s one. Go on.”

  “Zulietta managed her business affairs herself and kept them as organized as the most exacting clerk of the Procuratie. She had arrangements with several men of consequence. Signor Monday and Wednesday covered her expenses at the mercer and dressmaker’s as well as supplying her gondolier, Signor Tuesday and Thursday each had his own set of responsibilities, and so on.”

  “Now you’re beginning to astonish me. How do you happen to know the details of Zulietta’s housekeeping? That’s going some, even for you.”

  He shrugged modestly. “The hairdresser that attended her is a special friend of mine…was a friend, I should say.”

  Benito delivered this bit of news with a cocked eyebrow that spoke volumes. It was his nature to have a fleeting liaison with any broad-shouldered man who found his delicate charms to his liking. I would as soon try to change him as I would the courses of the stars in the sky.

  My manservant continued with a sigh, “A few weeks before we parted, my friend told me that Zulietta had paid him off. She could no longer afford him or the towers of ringlets and feathers and other bits that went into his modish coiffures.”

  “What happened to Signor Monday and Tuesday and so on?”

  “Apparently, the lady was concentrating all her efforts on Alessio Pino.”

  “I see. And what is the third thing?”

  Benito paused in his tracks and focused his gaze farther down the canal, on a lopsided cluster of buildings that rose several stories above the rest. His soprano took on a deeper note. “Like Signora Liya, Zulietta Giardino came from the ghetto.”

  “What? She was a Jew?”

  “A Jew no longer, but born one.”

  My gaze followed Benito’s toward the dark, lofty structures that comprised the ghetto of Venice. Because the Jews were not allowed to build outwards, they expanded their allotted space by building up, higgledy-piggledy, until there wasn’t a straight roofline in the place. Ringed by canals, its perimeter walls gated and barred, the ghetto housed several thousand Hebrews in unwholesome, not to say squalid, conditions. Somewhere behind those walls lived my wife’s estranged relatives.

  “Do you know Zulietta’s family name?” I asked.

  Benito scowled in thought. “No. Might it be important?”

  A sinking feeling at the pit of my stomach told me it might be, but I put it aside. We had reached the small campo that held my house.

  On nights when
Liya did not accompany me to the theater, she would often wait up, eager to hear my impressions of the evening’s performance. I would recount my highs and lows as I prepared for bed, and she would listen from our four-poster, muslin nightdress swathed in a bright Indian shawl that Alessandro had given her on the occasion of our handfasting. Tonight, in my weariness, I was hoping that Liya had already fallen asleep. Instead of launching into a gruesome account of Zulietta’s murder, I wanted to explain on the morrow when the sun would be streaming through the bedroom windows. When rolls and warm chocolate would be within easy reach on the table before the fireplace. Perhaps then I could begin to forget the terrible feeling of helplessness as I’d watched Zulietta struggle, then tumble to her death.

  My hopes were dashed when Liya opened the door in a state of high excitement. My wife’s face was pale, her lips drained of their natural red. She clutched her paislied shawl over hunched shoulders and held a candlestick aloft. In its feeble rays, her long hair, let down for the night, rippled like liquid jet. Her eyes were wide with panic or fright.

  “Liya, my love! Is Titolino worse?”

  “No. The boy is well. He’s sleeping.” She shoved the candle at Benito and threw herself into my arms. “I was afraid something had happened to you.”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” I answered, my throat thick with emotion as Liya pressed her body against mine. Her warmth and vitality made the memory of Zulietta’s corpse all the more stark. “Why would you think otherwise?”

  “My cards.” She pulled away, shoulders relaxing and cheeks softening, but my wife was still not her confident, resolute self. “I’ve been laying the cards ever since I got Titolino settled in. Every spread showed someone falling from a great height. I convinced myself that one of those platforms that carry you into the cotton wool clouds gave way. If not you, who was hurt? Vittoria? Emilio?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a peculiar expression sliding over Benito’s face, a grimace halfway between suspicion and disgust. I had become accustomed to Liya’s uncanny abilities, but her cards and her scrying pot still filled my superstitious manservant with alarm. As Liya continued to press me for answers, Benito pulled my cloak off with more force than was strictly necessary and took charge of my other outdoor things.