Color Song (A Passion Blue Novel) Page 11

  Just past the Ca’ d’Oro—so startlingly ornate, with its blue- and gold-painted stonework and its rooftop crenellations clad in gilding, that Giulia had to blink to be sure she wasn’t imagining it—Bernardo leaned forward with an instruction for the boatman. They steered left, into a narrow canal—a rio, Giulia corrected herself, seeing the word in her mind in Ferraldi’s handwriting: the Venetian term for smaller waterways. Houses closed in like cliffs, not palaces now, but modest dwellings with fronts of unadorned brick or stucco—yet in their way no less extraordinary, with their feet in the water and their doors opening directly off the rio. The air smelled of brine and sewage, an odor that intensified as they glided beneath a bridge. She coughed. Bernardo chuckled.

  “If you think that’s bad, wait until the summer. It’s so strong sometimes it will scorch your throat.”

  The boatman steered around a turn into a rio so constricted that when a gondola glided by, both boats scraped against the walls. Giulia trailed her fingers along the brick, damp and a little slimy. She’d begun to feel as if she’d passed into a dream.

  They turned again, entering a wider canal lined with more substantial houses, with a broad, paved walkway running along one side.

  “There.”

  Bernardo pointed to a house just ahead, its yellow-stuccoed front pierced by graceful pointed windows. The boatman steered toward the landing and tied the boat to one of the painted mooring posts that jutted from the water.

  Sofia’s boat had already docked. She stood at the door, Maria beside her. As Giulia left the boat—stepping carefully, for the landing was slippery with waterweed—the door opened and a gray-haired man in a belted tunic bowed low. He gave Sofia the lantern he carried, then came forward to assist Bernardo, who was starting to unload the baggage.

  “May I help?” Giulia asked her customary question, to which Bernardo gave his customary response.

  “No need. Go with my mother.”

  Sofia and Maria had disappeared inside. Giulia hurried after them, down a dark passageway that ended on a paved courtyard with a wellhead at its center. A flight of steps rose to the second floor, the piano nobile; Giulia followed Sofia and Maria up into a wide hallway that appeared to run the length of the house from front to back. The pointed windows she’d seen from outside opened at one end, admitting the light of the fading day.

  A middle-aged woman was waiting, holding a candle. She curtsied when she saw Sofia.

  “I’ve ordered a room prepared for you, Girolamo.” Sofia turned to Giulia. “Chiara will show you where it is and bring you something to eat. She’ll clean your clothes as well—just leave them outside the door. Sleep well. I will see you in the morning.”

  With Maria, she moved down the hall. Chiara led Giulia in the other direction, showing her into a small chamber that contained only a copper bathtub and a pair of chests pushed against one wall. But if it was poor in furnishings, it was rich in other ways, with a floor of patterned marble and walls covered in embossed leather. Windows were set on either side of the fireplace, glazed with glass disks set into a lattice of lead.

  Giulia crouched in front of the fire, holding her hands to the warmth. After a little while Chiara returned, first with a tray of food and then with water for the tub: two buckets of hot, two of cold. Giulia turned the key in the door lock, then pulled off her boy’s clothes and sank into the tub, feeling the warmth soaking all the way down to her bones. Never before in her life had she experienced the luxury of a heated bath. She wondered if she shouldn’t find it strange, to be lying in hot water in this little room . . . actually to be in Venice, the city she had run away to find. But the sense of dream was stronger than ever. Or perhaps she’d simply exhausted her capacity for amazement.

  She leaned her head against the tub’s high back and closed her eyes. Images of mist-wreathed palazzi filled her mind. Faintly, she could still feel the heaving of the boat.

  She woke abruptly. The water had gone cold. Outside, gray day had yielded to black night. The only light came from the fire and the candles flickering on ledges by the door.

  Giulia climbed out of the bath and dried herself on the towels Chiara had left, then pulled her ragged mantle around herself and dropped her clothing in the hall outside, as Sofia had instructed. She ate the cheese and sausage Chiara had brought. At last, utterly weary, she blew out the candles and climbed into bed—not the kind of bed she was used to, freestanding on the floor, but a cabinet built into the wall, with a mattress on a platform and a curtain to pull across. The mattress was stuffed with feathers, the coverlet and pillow filled with down. It was like being wrapped in clouds, and she sank quickly into sleep.

  CHAPTER 12

  REVELATIONS

  Giulia woke to a rattling at the latch. For a moment she could not remember where she was.

  “Who’s there?” she called, forgetting to lower her voice.

  “Your breakfast” came the answer, muffled through the door.

  Leaving the cloud-like comfort of the bed, Giulia wrapped herself in her mantle again and turned the lock. It was Chiara, carrying a steaming bowl in one hand and the clothes Giulia had left in the hall last night in the other.

  “The mistress will receive you in the sala when you’ve finished,” Chiara said.

  The bowl held grain porridge, sweetened with honey and dried fruit. The shirt was beautifully clean, and the other garments had been brushed and sponged. Giulia redressed, then got into bed again to eat, for the fire had burned out and the room was cold.

  I’m in Venice, she thought, astonished. I am really here.

  But it was too soon to feel triumphant. The most crucial part of her plan still lay ahead. She felt a thrill of apprehension and wondered if she could delay—surely Sofia would let her stay a day or two, at least until her ribs were fully healed. But then she thought of Bernardo and his warning at the journey’s start. Two days of rest, in any case—or three, or four—would not make facing Ferraldi any easier.

  She had everything she needed: Ferraldi’s address, memorized from his letters. Five sheets of work to show—the tiny sketches she had done on the journey, her studies of Sofia, and a finished portrait: the second one, with the smile. The story she planned to tell, conceived at Santa Marta and rehearsed along the journey.

  No. There’s no good reason to delay.

  For the second time she threw back the covers. She finger-combed her hair, thrust her feet into her heavy wooden clogs, and slipped out into the hall.

  The clouds had pulled away overnight. Sun flooded through the windows facing the canal, printing their latticed images on the shining marble floor. In the light, Giulia could better appreciate the opulence of the furnishings: the tapestries with their floral motifs, the carved and gilded chairs along the walls, the great glass chandelier bristling with candles.

  She headed toward the front of the house, the direction in which Sofia had gone last night. All the doors she passed were closed except the last. It opened onto a comfortable sitting room, where Sofia sat in a cushioned chair in the sun, her head thrown back to reveal the long arch of her throat. A yellow cat dozed in her lap; two others sprawled by her feet. A crackling fire warmed the air.

  Sofia looked around, smiling, as Giulia entered.

  “Girolamo. Welcome.” She leaned back her head again and closed her eyes. “It’s wonderful to be home. I pine for Venice when I’m away from it, like a plant uprooted from its native soil.”

  On the wall opposite the door, a portrait hung—Sofia herself, in a high-waisted dress of brilliant red-gold brocade, her tawny hair wound with pearls, a white Easter lily in one hand. In the exquisite detail, the glowing colors, Giulia recognized the work of a master. It drew her like a flame. Before she knew it she was across the room, bending close to see if she could identify the paints the artist had used. Orange realgar, for certain, mixed with . . . what? If the portrait had been wet, she might have been able to guess. But it was long dry. The colors no longer sang.

  “You l
ike my Bellini, I see.”

  Giulia turned. “I didn’t mean to presume, clarissima. It’s just that it’s so beautiful.”

  “The lily and the pearls were his idea. He enjoyed the irony—symbols of purity, on a courtesan.” Sofia smiled, caressing the cat’s ears. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did.” Giulia came forward, halting in a patch of sun. “Clarissima, I thank you for your hospitality, and for everything you’ve done for me these past days. I’m more grateful than I can say. But I need to be on my way.”

  “You’re welcome to remain, Girolamo, for as long as you wish.”

  “My master is expecting me. I shouldn’t delay.”

  “Very well.” Sofia lifted the cat off her lap and got to her feet. “I have something to give you before you go.”

  “You’ve already been too generous, clarissima.”

  “Nonsense. Come with me.”

  She led the way through an adjoining door. The chamber beyond had a coffered ceiling and walls painted to imitate fabric hangings. A great bed occupied the center of the room, with a scarlet canopy and heaps of snowy linens, its gold-embroidered coverlet tossed casually aside. Giulia’s cheeks grew warm at the thought of what happened there, in that bed.

  “These were Bernardo’s.” Sofia bent to pick up a pile of clothing that sat atop the long chest at the bed’s foot. “Two shirts, a cap, and a good wool cloak to replace that torn rag of yours. They’ll be large on you, but they are all nearly as good as new. My beast is particular about his clothing.” She gave Giulia the garments, then knelt to open the chest. “And I believe you will need these soon, if you do not already.”

  She rose. In her hands she held several folded cloths of thick, absorbent wool. Giulia stared at them, an icy flood of understanding spreading through her. Her eyes rose to Sofia’s—those amber eyes that saw so much, including, apparently, what Giulia had most wanted to keep hidden.

  “Do not fear,” Sofia said gently. “I’ve told no one. Nor will I, you have my word.”

  “When did you . . . how did you guess?”

  “A day or two after you found us. It’s nothing you did or said, only a sense I had, which grew surer as time went on. The night you gave me the portrait was when I became certain. I saw the nature of your gift, and understood why you would be driven to conceal yourself in order to follow it.”

  “But if you could see it—”

  “No, no.” Sofia shook her head. “You make a convincing boy. People see what they expect to see, in any case, and most will not think to question the story told by your clothes and hair. It’s simply that I am better versed than most in wearing masks. It’s easier for me to recognize them when they are worn by others.”

  “I’ve wondered . . .” Giulia hesitated. “Why you’ve been so kind to me.”

  “I would have helped you reach Venice regardless of your sex. As Bernardo likes to point out, I have a weakness for abandoned creatures.” She gestured to the yellow cat, which had followed them into the room. “Having been one myself, long ago. But if you were what you pretend to be, I would not have invited you into my house. What is your true age?”

  “Eighteen.”

  “And your name?”

  Again Giulia hesitated, reluctant to reveal more than Sofia had already guessed.

  “No matter. I won’t press you.” Sofia stepped forward and laid the cloths atop the clothing Giulia held. “Early in my life I learned that though it is God who makes men and women, it is men alone who make the world. I’ve done the best I can with the gifts God gave me—better, I will say, than most in my profession. I’ve even won a kind of freedom for myself. Yet it is only as much freedom as a woman may possess, to live in comfort without complete dependence on the whims of men. And the price was very great. You too will pay a price. But if you succeed, the freedom you gain will be a man’s. I admire you, Girolamo”—lightly, she stressed the false name—“for what you are attempting.”

  Giulia, overwhelmed, could not reply.

  “I have this for you too.” Sofia held out a leather purse, heavy with coins.

  “Clarissima—that is too generous—”

  “I have it to spare, as you can see. Take it. I will not permit you to refuse.”

  Softly Giulia closed her fingers around the purse. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Thank me by becoming what you were born to be. And Girolamo—if ever you require help, come to me. Ask for the house of La Fiamma, on Rio dei Miracoli in Cannaregio. Will you promise?”

  “I promise, clarissima.”

  It was a lie. Giulia already knew she would never come back. Her secret was perilous enough when she was the only one who knew it. Safer to let Sofia forget her.

  “Good.” Sofia took Giulia by the shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ll send for Bernardo now, to escort you.”

  Giulia felt a pulse of alarm. “I don’t want to put him to the trouble.”

  Sofia laughed. “Venice is a labyrinth, capable of defeating even those born and bred to it. If you go out on your own, God alone knows where you’ll find yourself. I have already told him he must accompany you. You may wait for him in the courtyard. Good-bye, Girolamo. I will keep you in my prayers.”

  —

  Calle del Fruttariol, off Salizzada San Lio, in the parish of San Lio in the sestiere of Castello. That was Ferraldi’s address. Giulia spoke it to Bernardo, who gave it to Sofia’s steward, who was waiting on the landing by the gondola.

  The steward steered the gondola back toward the Grand Canal. Bernardo sat in the shade of a felze, the canopy that arched over the craft’s midsection, while Giulia sat facing him in the bow, wrapped in her mantle against the cold rising off the water—her old mantle, for she had no desire to wear Bernardo’s castoffs in front of him. In her arms she clutched the bundle she’d made of the things Sofia had given her, except for Sofia’s purse, which she’d stowed inside her doublet with her drawings.

  At the Grand Canal, where the sun dazzled the water and the palazzi mirrored themselves in ever-fragmenting reflections, the steward turned the gondola toward the Rialto, Venice’s great commercial district—a noisy, teeming region of warehouses and markets and quays where masted ships lay at anchor. The water traffic here was the heaviest Giulia had seen; the steward navigated deftly around gondolas ferrying passengers, barges crammed with bales and barrels, boats piled with fresh-caught fish wafting the odor of the sea.

  Bernardo, who had been so talkative yesterday, sat silent. When Giulia made the mistake of glancing at him, she found him watching her, a brooding expression on his face. Hastily she looked away. Sofia had guessed her secret—might he have done so too? He’d never given any sign, but then neither had Sofia. She wished again that Sofia had let her go alone.

  The canal curved hard to the right, delivering them into the shadow of the Rialto Bridge. Giulia glimpsed its great wooden pilings as the gondola sped past, and then they were steering toward the canal’s left bank, where the mouth of a rio admitted them back into the city. At last, where a bridge carried a street over the rio and a set of steps descended to the water, the steward drew the gondola to a halt.

  “Campo San Lio lies just down there.” He pointed. “Salizzada San Lio leads off it.”

  Giulia felt her stomach turn over. A few moments, no more, and she’d be at Gianfranco Ferraldi’s door.

  Bernardo ducked out from beneath the felze. Giulia realized he meant to leave the boat.

  “No!” she exclaimed. He paused, his eyebrows raised. “I mean, you needn’t trouble yourself. I can find my way from here.”

  “My mother asked me to see you all the way.”

  He stepped onto the slippery landing and began to mount the steps to the street. Since she had no choice, Giulia followed.

  Campo San Lio was a sunlit square, with an ancient church on one side and a stone wellhead at its center. Children played on the paving. From a baker’s shop came a delicious fragrance of baking bread, seasoned with th
e ever-present tang of the canals.

  “Wait!” Giulia called to Bernardo, who was already halfway across the campo. Then when he did not pause: “Bernardo!”

  Had she ever spoken his name before? He turned.

  “Please,” she said, catching up to him. “Tell your mother you brought me all the way. But let me go on alone.”

  He regarded her a moment, then shrugged. “Very well. If you’re certain.”

  “Thank you for escorting me.”

  He nodded.

  “Good-bye, then,” she said.

  He made no move to go. Some kind of struggle seemed to be happening behind his face.

  “Was it worth it?” he asked abruptly.

  She looked at him, unsure. “Was what worth it?”

  “Running away. Leaving everything and everyone behind.”

  She thought of the afternoon in the cart, when she’d read to him from his book and he’d asked questions that came too close to the truth. This time there seemed to be no point in lying.

  “I don’t know yet,” she said. “I hope so.”

  “I didn’t believe you were what you said you were. Oh, I saw that you could draw, but still I thought you only meant to take advantage of my mother’s kindness. But you never asked her for anything, did you? Not even to stay with us.” His obsidian gaze probed her face. “She would have allowed it, you know. You could have had much more from her if you’d wanted.”

  Giulia thought of the coins hidden in her doublet. “All I ever wanted was to get to Venice.”

  “What is it you’re running from?”

  “A . . . master . . . who would not teach me.”