Over the San Pietro canal, the heavens hang low and heavy like a great blanket of grey. Winter’s chill has disappeared, replaced by an atmosphere both still and stifling. The ominous swath of sky seems to press down from above, as if the heavens themselves have announced the end of Carnevale and the ushering in of the Lenten season. It is the type of calm that spreads out languorously just before the rending of the clouds, the silence before the storm.
In the eerie stillness, all of us—the boatman, the painter, the journeyman, and myself—remain silent, too, as the gondola slices the still waters toward Church of San Vidal, where Trevisan wants us to see the work of his father. His father, he has told us, painted this same subject of the Lamentation years ago. We must make a pilgrimage to the church, Trevisan has said, in hopes that it might spark inspiration. I watch the striped façades clip by as if for the first time, reflected upside down in the mirror-like canal as slick as glass, wavering and shimmering in the wake.
Inside the passenger compartment the painter and his journeyman speak in whispered tones. Through the curtain I see Trevisan’s leather sketchbooks propped on the seat beside him. I have positioned myself outside the passenger compartment, choosing to perch on the wooden seat near the aft deck. Above my head, the new lantern, gilded with my own hands, swings gently with each push of the oar. Trevisan was thrilled with the result, he told me. It made the gondola seem complete, thanks to my contribution of this finishing touch.
The boatman presses his feet into footrests so that he can better counteract his weight against the oar. Here, on the wooden chair outside the passenger compartment, I feel that I can breathe. Over the past week my undergarments have begun to tighten across my midsection. I have stretched some of the stitching, while at the same time I have bound the swaths of linen more tightly around my middle. I feel that if I move behind the curtains of the passenger compartment, pressed with the stifling air, my nervous energy will overflow.
There is no putting it off any longer.
From deep inside the pocket of my felted wrap I pull out a small woven drawstring bag, one that carried the last of the coins my father gave me, and I have now emptied to make room for the sheaves of gold leaf I have packaged neatly in a cloth. I feel the rough weave of the bag in my palm, nearly weightless in contrast to the value inside.
I set my gaze on the boatman’s stubbled face, but it takes a few moments for him to realize that I am trying to catch his eye. When he finally looks down from the horizon to my direction, I wave my fingers slightly and cut my eyes to the bag in my fingers. He nods, a silent acknowledgment. The painter and his journeyman, who I can see from the corner of my eye, remain placid inside the passenger compartment, ignorant of the impending transaction.
I reach up and place the bag in the open tracework of the gilded lantern. It remains there for only a second. With one swift motion, the boatman snatches it from the lantern. With one foot, he slides back a board on the aft deck to reveal a small under-deck compartment. He drops the package in, then closes the compartment.
It is done.
I turn my back to the boatman and cross my arms over my chest. I return my attention to the reflections of the façades in the water. In this wordless exchange I feel as dirty as the canal waters. I wish to leave the boat and return home to wash myself.
As we turn into the wide basin of the lagoon, a soft breeze emerges from the stillness and stirs my hair. Through the haze at the horizon, the outline of the old plague island comes into view. I recognize the hazy, cragged outline of the walls on the small island they call the Lazzaretto Vecchio. The pesthouse stands on what appears from this distance to be nothing but a shifting piece of land in a vast basin of water. Narrow funnels of smoke swirl upward from the tall chimneys, dissipating and collecting with the expanse of grey sky.
In the distance, a handful of merchant ships and galleys are moored in the lagoon. It is as the carpenter has said. Our Most Excellent Prince, Doge Leonardo Loredan, has already declared a quarantena. The poor souls on those boats must remain in the lagoon, within sight of our city’s rooftops, for forty days before they are allowed to disembark. If anyone on one of the ships breaks out in black boils or evinces fever, they are transported to the lazzaretti and may never set foot in the city they can see from the decks of their ship.
I thank God that I have a place on our waterlogged land and not on a crowded merchant galley. I watch the line of sails, still against the murky sky, and I cannot imagine what it must be like to be confined to a galley for forty days, in sight of land but not able to feel it under my feet.
I feel my heart begin to pound as malaise rises up within my core. Beyond the silhouette of the islands on the horizon, I cannot turn my gaze away from the quarantine lineup of grey sails and ship hulls, a great and horrifying armada of death.
“She is a quiet girl. Guarded, you might say.”
The painter’s voice. I stop in my tracks, my hand on the door to the studio. I press my ear to the wood and the voice continues.
“It is difficult to know whether she is content to be here with us. However, she has been diligent in practicing everything I have shown her. She shows promise.”
“I assure you, Master Trevisan, that Maria possesses intelligence and a high level of skill with the gold. Her father, as you know, is one of our guild’s most esteemed gilders.” I suck in my breath. I recognize the second man’s voice, too. It is our gastaldo, the head of our guild, a lifelong friend of my father’s. “I am certain that her skill with the pigments will only be a natural outcome of her training.”
The painter’s voice again. “She is young and I believe you are right in attesting that she will be an asset wherever she settles after my contract with her father is finished.”
“She has met Pascal Grissoni.” The gastaldo’s voice again.
“Yes,” Trevisan says. “We invited him for dinner. They did not spend much time together. She was feeling ill that night.” I feel my heart begin to race.
“Good. Grissoni is one of our guild’s most promising members. He learned well under our Master Titian and has established his own workshop.”
“Perdona?” I open the door with a tentative push. The two men turn toward the door.
“There she is! Maria.” The gastaldo’s eyes light up. Aureo dalla Stava is an old man, perhaps in his fifth decade, with a swath of grey hair that frames his fleshy face. At a younger age he was no doubt strong, and he remains sturdy and broad across the shoulders. He is a kind soul who has been reelected several times because he has proven himself to do what is fair for the members of our guild. All of the painters and gilders respect him. He is diplomatic and knows all of us who work in the related trades of gilding and pigments.
“Gastaldo,” I say. “I thought I heard a familiar voice.”
He grasps my hands. “I have come on your father’s behalf.”
“You have seen him?” My heart surges.
“No,” he says. “The streets between the Misericordia Canal and Madonna dell’Orto remain blocked, I am sorry to report. But I have spoken with the neighborhood representatives. I asked specifically about your father and your cousin.”
“And Cristiano?” I ask. The gastaldo looks momentarily confused. “Our battiloro? Did they see him?”
The gastaldo scratches his head. “I did not think to ask. But if we have not heard otherwise, Maria, then there is nothing to fear. I am in regular contact with the officials assigned to our quarter by the Sanità. Of course it is difficult for them to transact business under the circumstances, but the important thing is that they are well. Some of the convents, bakers, and market vendors are donating food.”
“But… how are they getting food into the quarter? There are barriers.”
The gastaldo nods. “Once a day the guardia allows a small barge into the rio della Sensa. They are paying a Saracen boatman from the ferry station near Rialto to deliver the supplies. They will not go hungry, I assure you.”
If the gastaldo can hear my heart leaping in my chest, he shows no sign of it. Instead, he sets his sincere blue eyes on me and grasps my hand again. “I pray your father, your cousin—and your battiloro—will keep in health until you may see them again. In the interim, I am gratified to see that you are in good hands here with Master Trevisan. It sounds as though you have a promising future ahead.”