Cross My Heart (7 page)

“Oh, don’t worry!” she says. “When I married I escaped the talk of vendettas and that nonsense.” She smooths the white silk of her gown. “And I cast off my mourning garb long ago.”

She tells me that last month she married Count Raffaello—she’s a contessa now. She points Raffaello out through the crowd. A fine figure, not tall but with shapely legs and a fierce shock of black hair over a soldier’s face—chiseled and broad. He raises a glass at us. Carina blows him a kiss.

I understand why my father wants me to learn from her. Carina’s what he aspires for
me
to become. Perhaps there was a measure of kindness in my father’s choice too; he must have known that sharing my grief for Beatrice would make it less burdensome. I imagine Carina and Raffaello calling on Vincenzo and me, sitting with us in our courtyard, laughing and sipping wine.

She hooks her alabaster arm through mine. “Let’s sit and talk,” she says. “How proud your father must be that you’re ready to take Beatrice’s place.”

I shake my head. “No one could possibly do that. But I want to honor her memory in whatever way I can.”

“She adored you, Laura. I’m sure you know how much.”

We join Paulina and Pietro, who are resting between dances with a crowd of other young men and girls. Their faces glow.

Carina points to Pietro. “Young man,” she says playfully, “take your pack away for a moment. Let the ladies catch their breaths.”

“My pack?” he says, eyes widening in mock innocence. “You malign us!”

“Hmm,” says Carina. She claps her hands. “Privacy, please, gentlemen.”

The young men scatter. Carina perches on a cushioned bench, pulling me down beside her. Paulina sits on my other side and the girls gather around us.

“So now,” Carina says, “lessons for a girl new to society. Let me think—where do I begin? Ah, first we must start with the essential accessory of the Venetian lady.”

She draws a fan from her dress like a weapon: it depicts swallows fluttering in the branches of a cypress tree. Her eyes sparkle.

“Wonderful for staying cool on heated evenings,” says Carina. “Perfect for secret conversations—especially those about love.”

She holds it in front of her face to reveal only her eyes, batting her lashes coquettishly. Paulina and the other girls giggle.

“The fan,” Carina continues. “A simple thing, inexpensive and easy to find, but worth a fortune. Make sure you have one for every outfit. But never black and gold. Remember that.”

“Why not black and gold?” I ask her, feeling there are at least a million things I have to learn.

“Because,” Paulina says, “black and gold are the colors of the Duchess’s fan. No matter what she wears, her fan is always black and gold.”

Carina nods. “The Doge and his wife make all the rules of Venice—as my poor parents will tell you at every opportunity.”

The musicians begin another song and the girls rush to join Pietro and his friends. They seize each other’s hands and whirl away in an elaborate dance. Carina, Paulina and I remain seated. They open their spectacular fans wide.

Behind the screen of bone and silk, I learn about the people who pass in front of us. One woman is well known for having affairs with men below her station. Carina says that everyone calls her palazzo “the boat house,” as she entertains so many gondoliers there while her husband is away. There is a man on the verge of financial ruin, desperately trying to call in favors tonight before his entire fortune sinks. His face wears a hunted look. It feels cruel to be speaking of people like this, but I find myself swept along on a tide of gossip and scandal.

I start as Carina and Paulina suddenly snap their fans shut. They stand up, their shoulders draw back. Their features freeze.

An old man walks towards us—older than my father, stooped and thin. I too stand, more slowly. The man grins. Wisps of hair hang like white threads around his ears. Brown age spots are sprinkled over his hands and his face, like blotches of wet rust. Apart from his narrow eyes, which blink and water, the rest of his body seems locked in some sort of paralysis. When he finally speaks, bubbles of spit gather at the corners of his mouth.

“Good evening, Laura,” he says. “It is I, Vincenzo.”

M
y stomach constricts and I think I might be sick. Father is watching the scene from across the ballroom, and I sense others are too. I grip the red folds of my dress to stop the trembling in my hands. But I have six years of duty to draw upon, and the lessons of the convent serve me well. I curl my lips into a smile and wear my face like a mask.

“Signor,” I say.

Vincenzo grins at me. His mouth is a dark hole. I can see his broken teeth crowded unevenly inside. He bows without taking his eyes away from my face, and then he holds out his arms. “My dear, won’t you join me in this dance?”

Carina and Paulina stare at me.

“Very well,” I reply. I can’t see that there’s anything else to be done.

We move around the room together. The hands of my last dance partner were gentle and kind, but Vincenzo’s feel like monstrous insects crawling around my waist. He’s
bumping his body up against mine: by accident, perhaps, but maybe not. Three times he steps on my feet and my pale satin slippers become stained by the soles of his black-buckled shoes.

His breath is bitter. I turn my face away.

“Ah,” he rasps, “you’re as shy as your sister was!”

Poor Beatrice. I couldn’t blame her for letting me believe she was happy and in love. I imagine what awful things she had kept to herself about this man—this man who holds my future in his disgusting old hands.

Vincenzo tightens his arm around my waist and clutches my hand as though he suspects I might try to escape. Over his bony shoulder I see the partygoers staring at us. Some clap and laugh. Others whisper behind their fans. My father nods approvingly as Vincenzo drags me past him, the crevices of his face seeming deeper and harder than ever.

Vincenzo inches his hand farther up my back, and I wince.

“Oh, you think I’m too ugly, too old. Is that it, young Laura?”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “I have a sore foot.”

“Did I stand on your toe, my poor girl? No matter—I shall kiss it better soon.” He stops smiling and sneers, “Tell me, have you any further complaints about the man who will save your father from penury and shame? The color of my robes, perhaps, or the speed of my dancing? Come on, little girl, you can tell me.”

I don’t say anything. All I can think is that I would gladly become a Bride of Christ right now, and spend the rest of my days polishing altar rails on my knees.

For a moment he stalls in the dance at the edge of the
room. “Good,” he continues. “My turn, then. First: there are to be no glances, sideways, or any-other-ways, for that matter, towards the stupid young boys who’d all like a taste of your soft young skin. Let them long for you.” With a bony finger, he draws an invisible line from my shoulder to the tip of my middle finger. I shudder. “Second, all you need to worry about is doing what you’re told. Obedience is the most attractive feature of the good wife. And I know,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and pinching it until it hurts, “that you’ll make a very good wife.”

I pull away from him. A sour retch rises in my throat. I have to get out. I need some air. As I push through the crowd, running towards the double doors, I hear him call after me. “Make sure you come back, my dear!”

I run through the marble hallway, past the melancholy statue and startled footmen. I see the masts of boats in the harbor through a door at the end of a long corridor and rush towards them. I step onto a long balcony, pressing my hot hands against the stone balustrades. Deep breaths. I lean over the inky water and let the breeze cool my flushed face.

“Somebody help me,” I whisper. It’s an empty prayer because no one can answer it—not Faustina or Bianca, Paulina or even Carina. I’m alone.

I shiver in the night air, but I’m not ready to go back to the ballroom yet. There’s a door at the far end of the balcony, set into the wall of the palace. I walk up to it, turn the heavy metal handle and step through.

Staring down at me, from the top of a wooden scaffold, is the handsomest man I have ever seen.

H
e wears a white paint-splattered shirt that billows at the sleeves. It hangs loose around his neck, revealing the olive skin of his chest. His hair and eyes are almost black, his cheekbones sharp in the lamplight. He looks like an angel.

“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, still flustered from the shock of Vincenzo. “I’ll leave.”

“No,” he says quickly, then bows his head. “I mean, my lady, there’s no need.”

On his arm is an oval palette spread with magical colors, and in his hand a long black paintbrush. The scaffold he stands on is next to a wall decorated with a half-finished fresco. It shows the three Magi visiting the Holy Family; the Christ Child’s halo is picked out in gold leaf, and in the background I recognize the domes and towers of Venice. The room is spacious and grand, but the furniture is covered with sheets and the other walls are stripped
to bare plaster. A fire burns fiercely in a marble grate. It lights the man’s face as he climbs down the scaffolding towards me.

“You’re an artist,” I say, and immediately feel foolish.

But he nods and smiles. “An artist-in-training. I started by painting portraits for the Doge and his family, and now he’s given me other commissions. Like this room.”

His voice is low and gentle. Vincenzo, my father and the ball all seem very far away.

“It must be wonderful to have a talent like that,” I say. “Have you studied for a long time?”

“Less than some,” he says. “I used to want to be a mathematician. Although art and logic are just different ways of doing the same things.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Oh, you know, uncovering beautiful patterns, making sense of the world, shining light on important moments.”

He stands at a wooden trestle table crowded with pots of paint, powdered pigment and brushes. Carefully, he adds a pinch of yellow pigment to blue and brown, making a smooth olive green. It’s so peaceful in here; I don’t want to go back just yet.

“Do you mind if I watch you work?” I ask.

“I’d like that,” he says.

He pulls one of the sheets away to reveal a wooden chair, its seat upholstered with leather and its feet molded into lion’s claws. I sink into it and he daubs the olive paint on to his palette.

“Too much dancing?” he asks.

“I’m not very good,” I answer.

He nods sympathetically and continues to apply his
paint to the palette. The silence swells, and I can’t help but tap my toes together like a little girl.

“Have you always lived in Venice?” I ask him.

“Well, I lived in the city as a child, but I’ve been away for some years. I’ve only recently returned.”

“Me too,” I tell him. “I’m learning my way around again. It’s all a mystery to me at the moment.”

He climbs up the scaffolding and sits on the platform at the top. Dipping his brush into the paint, he outlines the foliage at the edge of the fresco with delicate strokes.

“Venice is a city of secrets,” he says. “Everyone seems to have one.”

I think of my father’s dwindling estate, Beatrice’s pretense about Vincenzo, the Doge’s sickness.

He leans back to look at the finished leaf. “But what would I know of secrets? I’m just a painter.”

“You don’t have any?” I ask.

His gentle eyes settle on mine. He pauses for a moment, but then grins and points to the center of the fresco, where the Virgin Mary stands. The Christ Child is in her arms; her eyes are turned up to heaven. She wears an intensely blue robe—bluer than the midday sky or the brightest of sapphires. “I’m the only painter in Venice who knows how to make that color. It’s why the Doge likes my work.”

“How do you make it?” I ask.

He rests his chin in his hand, his dancing eyes narrowed as he pretends to consider my question.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I insist. “I swear.”

“Well, then …” He gestures to me to come closer. I stand on the bottom rung of the scaffolding and he whispers down to me. “First you must strain water through the
finest muslin, until it’s perfectly pure. Gently crush lapis lazuli, and mix it with walnut oil. Pour the water over them, and leave the mixture to mingle overnight.”