I glanced at Aldo, who was itching to get at me again. “Because he threatened me.”
“What?”
“He said if I didn’t bring Adriana dalla Viola, he would expose me.”
Luca turned to Aldo. “You knew he was a boy?”
“No, he’s lying. He came here to drink wine. I caught him.”
“That’s not true.”
“Why would Aldo want you to bring Adriana?” Luca asked.
“So he could assault her.”
“That’s a fantastic accusation.”
“And he would have turned her over to a man who was hiding here.”
“What man?” Luca said.
“He had a gray beard, an ugly face.”
“He’s a liar!” Aldo cried.
“I tricked Aldo,” I went on, “to protect her, so he started beating me.”
“Why would I believe anything you say?” Luca said with disgust. “You lied to me the first time we spoke, did you not?”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“And you’ve done nothing but lie since you entered the Ospedale. Your very presence here is based on a lie. And you’re lying now.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Luca said, hauling me up by the collar of my dress.
He dragged me to the door and threw it open, and to our astonishment, Signora Marta was crouched outside, obviously peering through the keyhole and listening.
So she could hear! I thought.
“Marta, what are you doing?” Luca said.
Without a word, she slapped me across the cheek, so hard that it stung for the next hour, which was so chaotic and frightening that I barely noticed.
She put her face inches from mine and shouted, “You’re a disgrace!” Then she whacked my head, and would have continued hitting me had Luca not stopped her.
“Let’s just get him out of here,” he said.
As we climbed the stairs, she in front, and he close behind, Marta looked over her shoulder at me with disdain. “I knew the moment I laid eyes on you that you were no good. You came here to spy on the girls, eh? You’re a dirty little fellow. I’d like to call the constables, so they could throw you in jail with the other criminals.”
“I’m a musician,” I said, pulling the two halves of my dress together to cover my exposed parts. “I respected the girls’ modesty.”
“How dare you speak to me of respect.”
In the lobby, Carmine was at his post now. Silently he watched us pass. He looked wide awake, and nervous.
When we reached the landing outside the dormitory, Luca left me alone with Signora Marta for a moment.
“Signora, I must speak with you,” I said. “You don’t know what’s going on here.”
This only infuriated her more. “I don’t know? Even now, you’re ready to invent more lies. Say another word and I will call the constables. Just do as I tell you: go to your bed in the dormitory, get some other clothes, and come back here at once. And don’t make a sound. Speak to no one. You have one minute. Disobey me and you go into the street naked.”
I did as she ordered, first placing my clarinet and my few possessions and two soldi that I’d saved into my bag. I removed my torn dress and put on the one I wore to my audition, and then my cloak over that.
As I made my way back to the door in the darkness, one of the girls intercepted me. My heart skipped, for I hoped it was Adriana. But it was Prudenza.
“What’s happened?” she whispered.
“I don’t have time to tell you. You’ll find out soon enough. I’m leaving the Ospedale.”
“What?”
“Listen, Prudenza. You’re all in danger here, especially Adriana. Warn her for me. Tell her I went to the wine cellar, pretending to be her, and exposed Aldo for what he is.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He abuses girls, and blackmails them—and maybe arranges for them to be kidnapped. I fear that’s what happened to Julietta. Signora Marta won’t listen to me. Promise me you’ll tell her what I just told you, even if she becomes angry with you.”
Prudenza was frightened.
“Promise me,” I repeated.
“I promise. But why are you leaving, Nicolà?”
I kissed her cheek and put my lips to her ear. “Because I’m a boy,” I whispered. “Tell Adriana that, too,” I added, without waiting for a reply.
In the corridor, Marta’s anger seemed to have intensified greatly in the short time I was away. She looked me up and down, and I was sure she was going to slap me again. “How could you do this?” she sputtered. “You violated a trust.”
“I—”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses.” She yanked off my cloak. “Where do you think you’re going with this? It doesn’t belong to you.”
“But it’s freezing outside.”
“That’s your problem. You’ll have to deceive someone else to get what you want.”
Luca rejoined us, and they led me down the main staircase. I was heartbroken. Being expelled like this—my worst fear—I regretted even more that I had not revealed myself to Adriana before taking the chance I did. Now she’ll find out I’m a boy, I thought, and never forgive me for deceiving her along with everyone else. It had been necessary for me to lie to Luca and Marta, but until that moment the true consequences of lying to my newfound friends hadn’t fully hit me. They, too, would view me as an impostor.
We reached the lobby, and Carmine was not at his post. Luca called his name in vain, then went to look for him. Marta unlocked the front door and pushed me out into the night.
“Don’t ever come back,” she said. “We’ve never had such a scandal.”
Suddenly I got up my courage. “You have a worse scandal than this on your hands,” I said, and for an instant, before she slammed the door after me, I saw the surprise in her eyes.
My days as Nicolà Vitale were over. For better or worse, I was Nicolò Zen again.
8
I was shivering in the icy wind. My dress was so thin that I felt naked. I needed clothes—pants, a coat, whatever I could lay my hands on. From a cloudless sky the moon beamed down on the Grand Canal. The Riva degli Schiavoni was unusually empty, a few revellers on the footbridge, two priests boarding a traghetto, and a night watchman outside the money changers’ arcade who eyed me suspiciously.
Clutching my bag, I turned up the alley beside the Ospedale. The high wall there was streaked with salt, from the sea winds. I passed through an iron gate with noisy hinges. Just beyond it, there was a blue door in the wall, which opened a few inches as I walked by.
“Psst,” someone said. “Come here.”
The kitchen’s courtyard had two doors: one onto the garden, and this one. It opened wider as I approached, and Bartolomeo Cattaglia stepped out, holding a lantern. He raised it, lighting up my face, peering with his one eye.
“Nicolà? I thought it was you. My god, where are your clothes?”
I shook my head.
“Your teeth are chattering. Come in.”
I felt ashamed in front of him, a man whom my father would have respected. I respected him, too, and if I went in, I would have to tell him what a liar I was.
“Come,” he said, putting his arm around me, and his wooden leg clicked on the stone tiles.
He had a fire going that warmed the entire kitchen. The evening cooking smells—onions, garlic sausages, broiled eel—still hung in the air. On the table a candle was burning beside an open ledger and a goblet of wine. Bartolomeo took a blanket from a bench and draped it around me.
“Sit down, please,” he said. “Are you hungry?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you like some tea?”
I nodded, and he put a kettle on the fire.
“How did you know I was in the alley?” I said.
“I was doing my bookkeeping when I heard a commotion in the lobby. It was Luca and Marta arguing. Then Carmine joined in. I couldn’t make out what they were
saying, but it’s unusual to hear people in the Ospedale shouting at this hour—or any hour. Moments later, I heard the gate open. And there you were.” He eyed me closely. “But why were you there, Nicolà?”
I tried to revert to my natural voice, which was not easy at first. “First, sir, you had better call me Nicolò.”
“Oh?”
I nodded glumly.
“I see,” he said with a small smile. “You know, I suspected as much.”
“You did?”
“Remember when I threw you the apricot?”
“Yes, I knew I made a mistake, catching it like that.”
“It wasn’t that you caught it with one hand. Don’t deceive yourself: many of the girls here, dexterous as they are, could do the same. Or even that you dived. It was that you dived so recklessly, risking injury to your hands—and your good looks. Any girl who relied on her hands, and valued her looks, would have been more careful.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“In fact, that merely confirmed my earlier suspicions,” he went on. “You have neither the mouth nor the hips of a girl.”
“Hips?”
“Yes. You don’t swing yours at all. Every girl has a little swing to her hips. But you walk on the balls of your feet with your hips locked—like a boy. Anyway, all of this is beside the point.” He sat down across from me and leaned his arms on the table. “I want to know what brought you to the Ospedale, what led you to attempt such a deception, and, especially, what just happened to you.”
I told him my story, beginning in Mazzorbo and concluding with my expulsion from the Ospedale, emphasizing what had happened after Julietta’s disappearance. I neither embellished nor suppressed any facts. Bartolomeo had seen plenty in his time, so I can’t say he was surprised by any of it—I doubt much would surprise him—until I came to the events of that night.
He heard me out, shaking his head every so often, and after a brief silence said, “I understand your masquerade. You had lost your home and family, you were hungry and homeless. I tip my hat to you for knowing how to survive. As for the wine cellar, I’m disgusted with what you’ve told me, especially the presence of that stranger. I’ve known for some time that Aldo is no good. But I didn’t realize he was thoroughly rotten. At any rate, he could not have managed the activities you describe without assistance.”
“You mean some of the girls?” I said, thinking of Marina and Genevieve.
“Perhaps. But he would require more substantial support than that.”
“Luca?”
“Or Marta. I would wager it is one of them. If Carmine is involved, it is as their tool, no more. This is a nasty business. I need to poke around a little and then bring the matter to Master Vivaldi. He will listen to me.”
“I’m sure that’s true, sir, but no one is going to believe anything I say.”
“I believe you,” Bartolomeo said. “And the Master will, too. He and I have a good relationship. I once saved his life, you know.”
“You did?”
“Five years ago. It was the sort of situation I had encountered around the waterfronts of a dozen ports, from Palermo to Xanía. Two toughs set upon the Master on the Calle Fondana. I happened to be passing. I thrashed one with my stick and sent the other packing. The Master gives me a case of wine every Christmas, and sometimes he comes here and we sit down for a drink. He trusts me.” He chuckled. “It’s a pity: if you were a girl, I would plead with him to reinstate you.”
“A part of me is disappointed. The Master promoted me to Prima Clarinetto today. But I’ll never have the chance to perform. A bigger part of me is glad I’m myself again. It will be good to put on a shirt and trousers. And not to be on guard all the time, covering my tracks. As I made friends, I hated having to deceive them, too.”
“Friends like Adriana.”
“Yes. I got tired of being a girl. Especially with her.”
He smiled. “I understand. Still, to be named Primo—excuse me, Prima—Clarinetto. And to have the Master adapt his music for you. What a compliment. You must be damn good. And there must surely be another way for you to perform, outside the Ospedale.”
“On the street?”
“No, no, professionally. If Vivaldi thinks you’re that good, it means something.”
I shrugged. “I hope so.”
“Your time here had to come to an end eventually. I’m sorry it happened like this. But I’m glad to make your acquaintance anew, Nicolò Zen.”
He extended his hand and we shook.
“You’re still shivering,” he said. “You need three things the way I see it: above all, some proper clothes; a place to sleep; and some money.” He shook his head. “It’s disgraceful that they kicked you out without a coat or a single zecchino.”
“I have two soldi I saved,” I said, reaching into my bag.
He took a small box down from a shelf, opened it, and handed me some coins. “Now you have twenty,” he said. “That’s the easiest thing to take care of. Now, my quarters are too small—I’m used to it from living on ships—but you can sleep here, on the bench, and in the morning go to my sister’s. She’s a good woman, and she has a proper house in Santa Croce. She’s a widow, and her two sons, my nephews, are in the Navy, deployed off Sicily. I know she will put you up until you figure out what you’ll do next.”
“Thank you, but I’d rather leave the Ospedale tonight. I don’t want to make trouble for you.”
“Ha. You think I’m afraid of Luca and Marta?”
“No. I would just feel better being away from here. It’s asking a lot, but could I go to your sister’s now?”
“It’s not asking so much. I’ll take you. And tomorrow you can go out and buy some clothes.” He grunted. “Since you managed to get fitted for a dress, I’m sure you can find a coat and trousers. That leaves one item, which is clothes for you to wear until tomorrow. I’ll be right back. Pour yourself some more tea.”
After what I had been through, his kindness made me want to cry. But he was a war hero, a no-nonsense man who was treating me like a man—not someone I wanted to break down in front of. I simply wanted to thank him properly, and to add him to the list of people—that is, Signora Capelli, who rescued me on Mazzorbo, and Signora Gramani, the dressmaker—who had helped me when I was most vulnerable and whom I hoped someday to repay for their generosity. That day felt very far off; my prospects seemed even bleaker than the night I arrived in Venice.
Bartolomeo returned with a pair of canvas pants, a fisherman’s sweater, and a short woolen coat.
“They belong to the gardener’s son. You can borrow them for a day.”
“Won’t he miss them?”
“No. His father works for me, and he didn’t object.”
It took us twenty minutes on the empty streets to reach his sister’s house. I was impressed by how quickly Bartolomeo could walk on one good leg. His sister was as he had described her: a stout woman with curly red hair and blue eyes who remained cheerful even after being awakened at two in the morning. He spoke to her alone for a few minutes and then rejoined me at the door while she made up a bed for me in her sons’ room.
“How can I thank you?” I said as Bartolomeo shook my hand.
“You just did. I only wish I could do more for you.”
1
“You have never heard of Massimo the Magnificent?” the woman said. “Are you not a Venetian?”
A swarthy, gray-haired woman with cold eyes and a clackety voice, she was the landlady of the late Signor Agnetti, the glovemaker who had given my father the clarinet that, to date, had brought me both good and bad luck. Agnetti had been one of six tenants who rented an apartment in the brown building the woman owned on the Calle del Forno, a sleepy side street in the Giudecca. We were standing outside her door beneath a low sky. A storm was approaching from the east. The first flakes of snow were falling.
“I am from Mazzorbo,” I said.
“That explains it. I thought only geese and woodcocks lived t
here. And mosquitoes,” she added with a smirk.
I didn’t like this woman, but I held my tongue.
“Massimo is the greatest magician in Venice, maybe all of Europe,” she went on. “I saw him myself at the Teatro dei Miracoli. Agnetti, may he rest in peace, was Massimo’s cousin. They could not have been less alike. Massimo performs for kings and queens; Agnetti was a shopkeeper. He had no wife, no children, and no friends I ever saw.”
“When did he die?” I said.
“Last November. He was three months behind in his rent. His shop had been shuttered. He was skin and bones, coughing through the night. Keeping his neighbors awake. The day he died, I had gone to the constable to obtain an eviction notice.” She shrugged. “Instead, they took away his body and confiscated what possessions he had left. He and Massimo did not get along. How could they have?” she added contemptuously.
I realized with some excitement that this Massimo was the cousin my father had told me about, who had given Agnetti my clarinet. It made sense that such an extraordinary instrument could be traced back to a magician.
“May I ask you where Massimo lives, signora?”
“Not many people know. But I do. My cousin’s husband is an undertaker in San Polo. His place of business is across the street from a cobbler who is said to be Massimo’s gatekeeper. Only the cobbler can provide outsiders with access to the magician’s house.”
“On what street can I find this cobbler?”
She curled her lip, which seemed to be her way of smiling. “That you’ll have to find out for yourself. I’ve given you enough information.”
I saw there was no point in pressing her further.
“Who are you, anyway,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “and why are you so interested in Agnetti?”
“My father knew him. I wanted to meet him.”
“I can’t imagine why,” she said, and with that turned her back on me and entered her house.
I couldn’t have imagined, either, before Signora Botello, Bartolomeo’s sister, put the idea in my head. With her sons gone, I believe she was happy to have a boy under her roof. Giving me a note for the owner, she sent me to the shop where she used to purchase her sons’ clothes, and I was soon outfitted with a topcoat, trousers, three shirts, boots, and a felt hat. At my request, she cropped my hair short; my days of wearing it long enough to suit either sex were over. When she was half done, I asked her to cut off another couple of inches, so that it barely flared out from the sides of my hat. On my second night at her house, Signora Botello cooked me a fine meal of fried mullets and rice, and afterward asked me about my ill-fated tenure at the Ospedale. She did not condemn me for posing as a girl; in fact, she told me I should be proud I nearly got away with my ruse.