calamari.
The scream of gulls intermingled with the shouts of straining seamen. Between the steady marking of the hours from every church tower was the ring for the dead in one parish, a wedding in another.
Dominating all this mixture of human and animal, life and death, land and sea, was the hiss of waves and creak of hulls on the ear, as the reflection of water and sky colored everything that met the eye. It was the combination of so many ingredients, like the baker’s loaf, that blended into one, daily, nourishing unity. The smells, sights, and sounds, some obnoxious on their own, when part of the whole, seemed as wholesome as new-baked bread, browned on top to a crisp crust, dipped into one large bowl of January-cooled milk that was the Basin.
But that day was different from any other time I’d seen the same scene.
“‘O Titian, where are you? And why aren’t you here to capture this scene?’” Uncle Jacopo had quoted his favorite Aretino to me in one of his quick passes as he, about his business, was urging me to mine.
Our proximity to the spice ship made me think of more than the daily staff of life. A special holiday loaf, laced with cinnamon, currants, and the subtle sweetness of honey, made me linger with anticipation longer than I should have over the panorama of sights and sounds.
It was Saint Sebastian’s Day, the incoming of the tide. It was also a Sunday, but the sea and the year’s first voyage could not wait for Sabbaths.
All Saturday I had wondered if I wouldn’t have to return to shore and lend the old aunt a hand in dragging the girl bodily from the convent. But I had seen the two women arrive on the Piazzetta in good time that morning with servants and parasols, lap dogs and canaries—a walking market of possessions. It was not the convent, of course, that Madonna Baffo was loathe to leave. It was only now, in the public of the Piazzetta, that her machinations began in earnest.
What whining, pleading, and sobbing went on, I could only guess, being too far away for sound to carry. But in the bright pink gown she wore, it was impossible to miss her antics. Indeed, the girl drew a crowd to her as if she were an actress or a dancing bear. Some were sympathetic and cheered her on. Others thought her wicked and told her so with wagging fingers and gestures of appeal toward the higher authority of either the Doge or heaven itself.
Baffo’s daughter fainted. Baffo’s daughter threw fits. Baffo’s daughter ran away and had to be chased and dragged back by the members of the crew who were trying to coax her into the tender. She flirted with the crew. She showed them her ankle. She shifted her bodice lower. Her eyes toyed with them over her fan. She blew them kisses, paid them bribes of gold ducats, and even fell to her knees in tears before them. When all this failed, she “accidentally” let her puppies and canaries loose and would not set foot in the tender until they had all been recaptured.
It could not last forever, neither my distraction nor its cause, and finally my uncle ordered, “Call them out, Giorgio. They’ve wasted enough time kissing their tarts good-bye. We must sail before the next bell or wait for another tide.”
I flagged to our men on shore and then watched with full attention to see what would happen next.
For the canaries, it was hopeless. People would be seeing their flashes of yellow and hearing their songs over Venice’s canals for weeks. But every dog, the old aunt, and the servants were all in the tender now in various states of ill ease. I saw the spot of bright pink being handed down off the wharf and into the small launch.
“Very well—”
I barely had time to form the words under my breath when, suddenly, Sofia Baffo shot up like a belch of cannon fire. She ran straight for the center of the Piazzetta where the two great, red-granite pillars of Venice stood, dispensing their firm justice. The bright blur of pink leaped up onto the gallows, grabbed a
The scream of gulls intermingled with the shouts of straining seamen. Between the steady marking of the hours from every church tower was the ring for the dead in one parish, a wedding in another.
Dominating all this mixture of human and animal, life and death, land and sea, was the hiss of waves and creak of hulls on the ear, as the reflection of water and sky colored everything that met the eye. It was the combination of so many ingredients, like the baker’s loaf, that blended into one, daily, nourishing unity. The smells, sights, and sounds, some obnoxious on their own, when part of the whole, seemed as wholesome as new-baked bread, browned on top to a crisp crust, dipped into one large bowl of January-cooled milk that was the Basin.
But that day was different from any other time I’d seen the same scene.
“‘O Titian, where are you? And why aren’t you here to capture this scene?’” Uncle Jacopo had quoted his favorite Aretino to me in one of his quick passes as he, about his business, was urging me to mine.
Our proximity to the spice ship made me think of more than the daily staff of life. A special holiday loaf, laced with cinnamon, currants, and the subtle sweetness of honey, made me linger with anticipation longer than I should have over the panorama of sights and sounds.
It was Saint Sebastian’s Day, the incoming of the tide. It was also a Sunday, but the sea and the year’s first voyage could not wait for Sabbaths.
All Saturday I had wondered if I wouldn’t have to return to shore and lend the old aunt a hand in dragging the girl bodily from the convent. But I had seen the two women arrive on the Piazzetta in good time that morning with servants and parasols, lap dogs and canaries—a walking market of possessions. It was not the convent, of course, that Madonna Baffo was loathe to leave. It was only now, in the public of the Piazzetta, that her machinations began in earnest.
What whining, pleading, and sobbing went on, I could only guess, being too far away for sound to carry. But in the bright pink gown she wore, it was impossible to miss her antics. Indeed, the girl drew a crowd to her as if she were an actress or a dancing bear. Some were sympathetic and cheered her on. Others thought her wicked and told her so with wagging fingers and gestures of appeal toward the higher authority of either the Doge or heaven itself.
Baffo’s daughter fainted. Baffo’s daughter threw fits. Baffo’s daughter ran away and had to be chased and dragged back by the members of the crew who were trying to coax her into the tender. She flirted with the crew. She showed them her ankle. She shifted her bodice lower. Her eyes toyed with them over her fan. She blew them kisses, paid them bribes of gold ducats, and even fell to her knees in tears before them. When all this failed, she “accidentally” let her puppies and canaries loose and would not set foot in the tender until they had all been recaptured.
It could not last forever, neither my distraction nor its cause, and finally my uncle ordered, “Call them out, Giorgio. They’ve wasted enough time kissing their tarts good-bye. We must sail before the next bell or wait for another tide.”
I flagged to our men on shore and then watched with full attention to see what would happen next.
For the canaries, it was hopeless. People would be seeing their flashes of yellow and hearing their songs over Venice’s canals for weeks. But every dog, the old aunt, and the servants were all in the tender now in various states of ill ease. I saw the spot of bright pink being handed down off the wharf and into the small launch.
“Very well—”
I barely had time to form the words under my breath when, suddenly, Sofia Baffo shot up like a belch of cannon fire. She ran straight for the center of the Piazzetta where the two great, red-granite pillars of Venice stood, dispensing their firm justice. The bright blur of pink leaped up onto the gallows, grabbed a
Similar Books
