The Contessa's Vendetta (8 page)

Now that I had finished dressing, I unlocked the door of the stifling little chamber and called out for the old
rag-picker.

She came shuffling along with her head bent
. As she approached, she raised her eyes and threw up her hands in astonishment. “
Santissima Madonna
! You are a fine woman. What a pity you are so old. You must have been quite an elegant beauty when you were young.”

Half in jest and half to humour her, I curtseyed before her.
“There is plenty of elegance in me still, you see.”

She stared
, laid her yellow fingers on my bared arm with a kind of ghoul-like interest and wonder, and helped me rise up with soppy admiration. “Beautiful,” she mumbled. “Like a butterfly. Your beauty could win anyone’s heart. Ah! I used to be beautiful like that once. I was clever at flirting, clever with the men. One word from me and I could cut a man down as if he were butter. You could do that too if you liked. It all lies in the wit. A brave mind unafraid to strike with a single word; a conviction unafraid to kill with one stroke.”

She gazed at me
through bleary, watery eyes as though anxious to know more of my character and temperament.

I turned from her and called her attention to my own discarded garments.
“You may have these, though they are not of much value. For another three
scudi
please find me some stockings and shoes.”

She clasped her hands and inundated me with gratitude for the additional sum. Declaring by all the saints that she and the entire
contents of her shop were at the service of so generous a lady, she at once produced the articles I asked for. I put them on, and then stood up ready to make my way home.

B
ecause my appearance had changed so much, I decided not to go to Villa Mancini by daylight for fear that I would startle my husband and daughter. My unforeseen arrival might give everyone too great a shock. I would wait till the sun had set, and then go up to the house by a back way I knew of, and try to speak with one of the servants. I might even encounter my friend Beatrice and she would break the joyful news of my return from death to Dario and Chiara and prepare them for my altered looks.

While these thoughts flitted through my mind, the old
rag-picker regarded me with her head tilted to one side. “Are you going far?”

“
Si
,” I answered. “Very far.”

She detained me
by placing her hand on my sleeve. A glint of madness shone from her eyes. “Tell me, I will keep the secret. Are you going to a man?”

I looked down
at her, half in disdain, half in amusement. “
Si
, I am going to a man.”

S
he broke into repugnant laughter that contorted her face. 

I looked at her with disgust. Shaking her hand off my arm, I made my way to the door of the shop.

She shuffled after me, wiping away her merry tears. “Going to a man!” she croaked “Ha! You are not the first, nor will you be the last that has done so! Going to a man! That is good! Go to him, go! You are strong. You are wise. And when you find him in the arms of another woman, kill him!
Si
,
Si
, you will be able to do it easily. Go and kill him.” She stood in her doorway, impertinent and smirking, her stunted figure and evil face reminding me of a dwarf-devil.

I bade her good day in an apathetic tone, but she did not respond as I walked away.
I made the mistake of looking back and saw her in the fullness of her madness, still standing on the threshold of her miserable dwelling, her depraved mouth working itself into all manner of grimaces. With her warped fingers, she gestured as if she had caught something and throttled it.

I went on down the street
, her last words ringing in my ears, ‘
Go and kill him!’

Although it was late morning,
the day already seemed insufferably long. I strolled leisurely through the streets of Vicenza, but thankfully, did not encounter anyone I knew. Fearful of the plague, the affluent citizens of my social circle had either fled or locked themselves away inside their own homes just like I had.

T
he plague’s ravages soon became apparent. On almost every street, a funeral procession passed me by. In one doorway, a group of
beccamorti
were shoving a deceased woman into a coffin far too small for her body. It revolted me to see how they folded up her arms and legs and crammed her into the crude casket. I swore that the sound I heard was her bones cracking at the roughness. Stunned, I watched the disorganized proceedings for a minute or so before I approached them. “Are you certain she is dead?”

At first, my question rendered the
men speechless. Then the burliest one burst out into a laugh that shook his corpulent belly. “
Corpo di Cristo
, if I believed this one was still alive, I’d be the first to twist her neck and put her out of her misery, the nasty hag. The plague never fails. She is most certainly dead.” To prove his point, he grasped a handful of her hair and bashed her head repeatedly against the coffin.

Appalled,
I walked away upset at the loss of human compassion that I had witnessed.

When I reached a main street,
I noticed a group of people who glanced around anxiously and spoke in low voices. One of their whispers reached me. “The Doge of Venice! The Doge!” All heads were turned in the same direction. I paused to look too.

Down the street, a group of men walked
towards us at a leisurely pace. Among them, I recognized the Doge of Venice, Francesco Erizzo, who had been elected in April after his predecessor died from the plague. His election had been nearly unanimous. The vote had been forty to one in his favor. There were those, however, who believed his election fraudulent. Regardless of what anyone said, I knew him to be a good, honest man.

“
That white-haired beauty would make a fascinating subject for a painting,” I heard him say in a rich, deep voice to one of his attendants, as he pointed directly at me.

His words almost caused me to spring forward and throw myself at his feet to tell him my tale. But I h
esitated to betray myself. How cruel that he, a dear aquaintance, did not recognize me and was about to pass me by when we had conversed on many occasions. I visited Venice several times a year and had attended many a ball within the splendor of the Palazzo Ducale where we had encountered each other and entered into exquisite conversations. But that Carlotta Mancini existed no more. A white-haired woman with an unfamiliar face had usurped her place. Not even my friend, the doge, recognized me.

I
refrained from approaching the doge. Instead, I followed him at a respectful distance, as did many others. He wandered through the most plague-ridden streets as unconcerned as if he strolled through a garden of roses after a pleasant dinner.

He
walked without worry into the most dilapidated of homes to observe the dead and dying. He spoke heartening words to grieving mourners who gazed at him wide-eyed through their grateful tears. The doge dropped silver coins into the hands of the anguished.

A mother
knelt at his feet, raised her infant to him, and implored his blessing, which he gave.

One
golden-haired girl flung herself at his feet and kissed them. Then she leaped up in triumph. The doge smiled, rested his hand on her head as a tolerant father would, and said nothing as he walked on.

A small cluster of men and women huddled
outside a hovel listening to the shouts and cries that came from within. As I approached, I could see two burly
beccamorti
arguing and swearing at three women who wept. At the center of all this agitation, a coffin stood on end awaiting its occupant. One of the doge’s attendants announced his presence. The people outside the door stepped back to allow him room to approach. The strident hues and cries from within ceased as the
beccamorti
bared their heads and the women stifled their sobs.

“
What is wrong here, my friends?” Erizzo asked in a placid and concerned tone.

Everyone fell silent. T
he
beccamorti
looked glum and mortified. Then, a woman with a round, but strained face, her eyes crimson with grief, elbowed her way through the gathering and stepped into the doorway to face the Doge.

“
May God and the Holy Virgin bless you.” Her voice quavered with emotion as she pointed to the
beccamorti
. “All would be well if those shameless pigs would leave us alone for an hour. One short hour! The girl is dead, and Giovanni, poor lad, refuses to let her go. She died from the plague and he has wrapped his two arms round her tight. We have begged and done all that we can, but he refuses to let them take her away. I fear if we force him, he will lose his mind,
poverino
. One hour, that is all we need; enough time for the priest to arrive who will help us persuade Giovanni.”

The doge
raised his hand and entered the miserable dwelling. His attendants followed and I, too, could not resist placing myself near the doorway to see what would happen.

The scene
I glimpsed was so heartbreaking that I could hardly bear to look upon it. Erizzo uncovered his head and stood silent beside a pallet bed where the body of a young girl lay, her beauty not yet marred by death. Except for her stiffened limbs and ashen pallor, she looked asleep. A man lay stock-still across her body, his arms wrapped round her, his face upon her cold breast that would never again respond to his warm embrace. A solitary ray of golden sunlight shone into the dark room, shedding light on the spectacle - the prostrate couple on the bed, the upright stature of the benevolent doge, and the solemn and concerned faces of the people who surrounded them.

“
See! He has been that way since she died last night,” the woman whispered. “He has clinched his hands so tight around her, we cannot even shift a finger.”

The
doge advanced and touched the shoulder of the grieving admirer. “
Figlio mio
! My son!” He spoke with exquisite tenderness.

There
came no answer. The women, moved by the doge’s endearing words sobbed and the men wiped away tears of their own.

“
Figlio mio
! I am your doge. Do you not wish to greet me?”

The
young man raised his head from the breast of his beloved and gave the doge a blank stare. His shattered face, matted hair, and feral, hollow eyes gave him the appearance of someone trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape.

“
Your hand, my son!” said the doge with military-like authority.

Gradually, half-heartedly, a
s if a powerful force compelled him, he loosened his right arm from the dead woman he had clasped for so long, and yielded his hand to the doge.

Erizzo grasped it
within his own and held it tight. He looked the grieving lad full in the face. “When it comes to love, there is no death,” he said.

The young man
’s eyes met his for a long moment, and then his rigid expression softened. He yanked his hand back and erupted into a dirge of tears.

Erizzo shielded him with his arm
and raised him from the bed. The doge lead him away sobbing and handed him into the arms of his worried mother. The torrent of tears had likely saved the youth from madness.

Applause
greeted the doge as he passed through the small crowd of people who had witnessed what had happened. He acknowledged them with a sincere bow, left the house, and signalled to the
beccamorti
they could now complete their heart-rending duty. The people praised the doge with cheers and ardent blessings as he continued on his way.

I
watched his retreating figure till I could see him no more. I felt that I had become more resilient in the presence of such a hero. In my life, I have encountered few men as true and virtuous like Francesco Erizzo of the Venetian Republic. Even now my heart warms when I think of him.