soldo of it.
He scoffed. “Certainly! You think they want a lawsuit? It would cause the very scandal they tried to prevent. Besides, if word gets around that daughters in Venice are so valuable, half of them will disappear in the next month.” So would he, if the Council of Ten decided he had extorted money from emotionally vulnerable parents, but I did not tell him so.
Although I feel I have risen a long way in the world, San Remo is not far from San Barnaba, and my encounter with Danese had reminded me of old friends I had not seen in too long. On impulse I walked over to attend Mass in the old church. I met numerous acquaintances, and in particular Father Equiano, who baptized me-many years ago by my count, just yesterday by his. He is elderly now, getting a little forgetful. Most of the parish work is done by younger men, but he is still well loved-and not least by those former youngsters, whether commoner or noble, in whom he recognized a spark. A priest has little time to call his own, but Father Equiano cheerfully sacrificed his leisure to introduce us to letters and start us on the long climb out of the pit of ignorance. For many he found promising apprenticeships, too.
I invited him back to Ca’ Barbolano for dinner, as he is one of the few people whose company the Maestro enjoys and Mama’s cooking is a great treat for him. While we walked I told him what I had been doing, without mentioning names. He smiled tactfully at the happy ending to the story. He did not state that it was he who had performed the marriage. There are many priests in Venice and I would have been astonished if Danese had even approached this one. They knew each other of old, and Equiano would not have been taken in by a slick smile and a mellifluous voice.
The thousand ducats had put the Maestro in a remarkably good mood. All through the meal he and Father Equiano discussed astrology, in which they are both expert, and in particular the strange heliocentric theories of Niclas Kopernik. I do not know if the earth turns, but those two soon had my head spinning. I left them still hard at it, and the Maestro did not mention the work notes I had to transcribe.
I went to visit Violetta. She was so pleased to hear how Grazia’s wishes had carried the day that her demonstrations of gratitude lost me whatever divine credit I might have earned at church.
My euphoria was short-lived.
At supper that evening the Maestro kept peppering me with questions about the Sanudos, so I could barely get a bite to eat. When I mentioned that I had recognized Nicolo Morosini in the portrait, he looked startled and demanded an explanation. I reminded him about my unforgettable first day as his apprentice.
He shook his head sadly. “It seems only yesterday that he died.”
It seemed like a very long time ago to me, but I didn’t say so, and he was distracted enough to start reminiscing about the publisher as a book collector, which gave me a chance to eat. From there he wandered to the subject of art. He rarely shows any interest in either painting or sculpture, but he can talk knowledgeably on both of them when he wants to, which is quite typical of the man. Geniuses can be very wearing.
Then he took it into his head to instruct me, as he does sometimes, and in this case he chose an excessively obscure tract by Albertus Magnus. I would struggle to translate it, sentence by sentence, and then we would discuss what it actually meant, he quoting centuries of commentaries and analyses by half the sages of Europe. As an evening’s entertainment it did not compare for excitement with watching the tide come in. It also gave me a raging headache, but I knew that I was receiving the finest education in the occult that the world could offer. Who knows when I may need to exorcize a kobold from a silver mine?
Nevertheless, I have seldom been happier to hear the downstairs door knocker. Three hours after sunset, when the curfew rings, the Barbolanos’ antiquated watchman, Luigi, shoots the night bolts on the watergate. About the same time I do the same for our front door, but that night I had not yet done so, and Giorgio would be up in the garret, helping Mama stack children in beds. I excused myself and went out to peer down the stairwell while Luigi spoke through the hatch. If the caller wanted sier Alvise or one of the Marcianas, Luigi would go and tell them, but most late visitors want the Maestro, in which case the old man looks hopefully upward and waves if I am there. He waved. I waved back.
Trouble came plodding up the four flights of stairs, carrying his bag in his left hand. My face must have shown him just how pleased I was to see him, because his smile was uncertain.
“I brought a first instalment on your master’s fee,” he said hastily. “ Sier Zuanbattista asked me to explain that he does not keep enough bullion around the house to pay it all at once.”
“Very reasonable,” I said, impressed to see any money so soon. “I can congratulate you on being welcomed into the family?”
Even his efforts to look modest turned out smug. “They’re making the best of a bad job. The old man’s being a little stingier than I had hoped on the dowry. That’s Giro’s doing, of course, but Grazia is working on them. I won’t be going back to watermelon and polenta! There will be an intimate wedding, just a few dozen guests. October seventh. That’s as soon as they can reasonably arrange it.”
Even that was indecently short notice, socially speaking, but after the previous night there might be good reason to move things speedily along.
“Congratulations.” Since his hand was in a sling I did not have to shake it. Danese had every excuse to be satisfied. Life stretched out before him as an unbroken paradise of silk sheets and gelado -San Barnaba boy makes good. From boy toy to wealth and influence; his future was assured.
“They’ll get me into the Great Council right away and organize a political career for me-I’ve no talent for commerce. Rhetoric and elocution lessons.”
“You certainly have the voice for it,” I said, stalling for time. “You’ve seen the Hall of the Great Council?”
“Giro said the same thing. I’ve been told about it.”
“About seventy paces long.” Many good men have failed in Venetian politics because they could not make themselves heard in such a vastness. My mind shied away from an image of a thousand or more nobles sitting there listening to Danese Dolfin pontificate.
“I’ll see you and the Maestro are invited to the wedding.”
“He won’t come, but I certainly will.” I would take Violetta and bask in the massed jealousy of all the other male guests.
Having given the Maestro enough time to disappear, I led the way into the atelier. The second door, the one through to the dining room, is not exactly secret, but it needs a sharp eye to see it. Danese counted out ten gold sequins and I fetched the scales. The coins were full weight, so I made out a receipt for twenty-seven ducats, four lire. I wrote it in my finest Cancellaresca Formata hand, just for a change, and sealed it with the Maestro’s signet.
“Very pretty!” he said. “You ever need a job as a scribe, just let me know.”
“Thank you.” I would rather jump off a bell tower. “Anything else?”
“Well…Yes, there is.” Danese turned on his most unctuous smile, cute as a shampooed puppy.
My heart sank like the doge’s wedding ring. As far as society knew, Danese and Grazia were not yet married, so propriety would not allow them to live under the same roof before the wedding. It was late on a Sunday evening, although that was his fault, not mine. I put on my stupid face and waited attentively, so he would have to ask. Ask he did. Shyness had never been one of his faults.
I shuddered to think what the Maestro would say, but the request was not unreasonable. I admitted we had a spare bedroom. It is a luxurious twenty-foot cube and, like everywhere else in the Ca’ Barbolano, is opulently endowed with art and treasures. I refrained from mentioning that I kept a detailed inventory of its contents. Nor did I tuck him in and hear his prayers.
I always wake at dawn, just moments before the marangona rings. By the time I had dressed and reached the kitchen in search of hot water, Mama Angeli was already baking bread and feeding six or seven offspring gathered around the big table. I warned her that we had a houseguest.
Any apprentice is expected to keep his master’s work area clean, and early morning is almost the only time the Maestro is not anchored in the atelier. Monday is my day to wash the floor, a job I rarely manage to finish before he appears; then I have to postpone the rest until after he goes to bed. That day I completed it, though, and had fetched a tray with my usual breakfast of cheese, hot rolls, and a steaming cup of kahve. I was hard at work deciphering the illegible work notes when he came hobbling in, but he disappeared into the red chair with a book, saying nothing. Obviously he had not yet learned about Danese.
I rarely speak before he does in the morning. It is not his best time. About an hour went by before he
