never…”
“Yes, yes,” Bercu waved impatiently. “That he wishes to speak with me. I am sorry that I anticipated your message and did not give you the opportunity to deliver it. When I speak with Francesco, I will tell him that you performed admirably.” A sly smile stole across his face. “However I suspect that you do not care what I tell him.” Bercu sat back, mildly amused, and gave Paolo an appraising look.
Paolo was unsure of how to respond—it was all very odd. The Jew was right of course, he cared little for what Francesco did or did not believe. But where was this conversation headed? Why was he sitting in a dusty café still speaking to a Jewish moneylender when the message he was sent to deliver had already been received and acknowledged? Surely this man had more important affairs to attend to than planting riddles in Paolo’s mind.
He was about to ask Bercu exactly that when there appeared a delightfully scented and steaming dish of food. Paolo didn’t remember the old man ordering anything, and he certainly hadn’t. He would not have known what to ask for.
“Thank you Cham,” Bercu said with a smile. He gestured toward the food. “Please.”
Paolo eyed the moneylender. “Do people always give you food without your asking for it?”
Bercu smiled. “I am known here. Cham is a friend.”
“Dolma?”
“Yes, and quite good.” Paolo realized he was hungry, the aroma something he couldn’t place but inviting all the same. The grape leaves stuffed with rice, onion, and minced lamb was a favorite dish of his.
“Please,” Bercu said again, gesturing to the plate. “You will enjoy the seasoning I think.”
It was delicious. “Ah,” said Bercu, “I can see that you like it.”
“I have made it myself. But not quite like this.”
“No,” Bercu said in mock surprise. “You are not a cook as well?”
“I dabble.”
“Very good. However, perhaps you dabble differently than we do. The rice, onion and meat mixture is seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley and,” he held up a finger, “cinnamon.”
“Yes, the cinnamon is new. It is delicious. I must say that when I saw the food arrive, I was expecting something…different.”
“Ha! Our reputation in the kitchen precedes us,” laughed Bercu, slapping his hand down on the small table. “Yes, as Sephardic Jews in the Mediterranean, our cuisine is greatly influenced by the ingredients and flavors of the Orient and North Africa. A fact I see that you as an Italian find pleasing.”
“The spice trade.”
“Precisely! It is what Venice exists for, is it not so?”
“I am beginning to realize that.” Paolo was becoming more comfortable, the moneylender an amiable sort. “So tell me, now that you have received the message I had come to deliver, why is it that I am still sitting here with you, enjoying dolma, and talking about nothing in particular on a typical day when you would otherwise be engaged in important matters of business?”
Bercu smiled. “I told you Signore Avesari. You intrigue me.”
“Is it I that intrigue you or the murder of my brother?” It came unbidden, an accusation.
Bercu’s face darkened. “I am truly sorry. I meant no offense. It is a horrible thing.”
His own emotions, Paolo was coming to realize, while not as wildly fluctuating as those of his father, were still somewhat unreliable. “No, it is I that am sorry. Yes, it is a horrible thing as you say. I am not myself lately as you might imagine.”
“Of course.” Bercu cocked his head, peered at Paolo across the table. “Tell me though signore, why do you associate with that buffoon? Your father is known throughout Italy as a master of his craft. Surely he wishes for you to follow him.”
“He does. I, however, do not wish it.”
“Ah.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice, sweet and honeyed, but firm underneath. “Father?”
Paolo turned to see a young woman of 19 or so approach quickly, a full mane of ink black
“Yes, yes,” Bercu waved impatiently. “That he wishes to speak with me. I am sorry that I anticipated your message and did not give you the opportunity to deliver it. When I speak with Francesco, I will tell him that you performed admirably.” A sly smile stole across his face. “However I suspect that you do not care what I tell him.” Bercu sat back, mildly amused, and gave Paolo an appraising look.
Paolo was unsure of how to respond—it was all very odd. The Jew was right of course, he cared little for what Francesco did or did not believe. But where was this conversation headed? Why was he sitting in a dusty café still speaking to a Jewish moneylender when the message he was sent to deliver had already been received and acknowledged? Surely this man had more important affairs to attend to than planting riddles in Paolo’s mind.
He was about to ask Bercu exactly that when there appeared a delightfully scented and steaming dish of food. Paolo didn’t remember the old man ordering anything, and he certainly hadn’t. He would not have known what to ask for.
“Thank you Cham,” Bercu said with a smile. He gestured toward the food. “Please.”
Paolo eyed the moneylender. “Do people always give you food without your asking for it?”
Bercu smiled. “I am known here. Cham is a friend.”
“Dolma?”
“Yes, and quite good.” Paolo realized he was hungry, the aroma something he couldn’t place but inviting all the same. The grape leaves stuffed with rice, onion, and minced lamb was a favorite dish of his.
“Please,” Bercu said again, gesturing to the plate. “You will enjoy the seasoning I think.”
It was delicious. “Ah,” said Bercu, “I can see that you like it.”
“I have made it myself. But not quite like this.”
“No,” Bercu said in mock surprise. “You are not a cook as well?”
“I dabble.”
“Very good. However, perhaps you dabble differently than we do. The rice, onion and meat mixture is seasoned with salt, pepper, parsley and,” he held up a finger, “cinnamon.”
“Yes, the cinnamon is new. It is delicious. I must say that when I saw the food arrive, I was expecting something…different.”
“Ha! Our reputation in the kitchen precedes us,” laughed Bercu, slapping his hand down on the small table. “Yes, as Sephardic Jews in the Mediterranean, our cuisine is greatly influenced by the ingredients and flavors of the Orient and North Africa. A fact I see that you as an Italian find pleasing.”
“The spice trade.”
“Precisely! It is what Venice exists for, is it not so?”
“I am beginning to realize that.” Paolo was becoming more comfortable, the moneylender an amiable sort. “So tell me, now that you have received the message I had come to deliver, why is it that I am still sitting here with you, enjoying dolma, and talking about nothing in particular on a typical day when you would otherwise be engaged in important matters of business?”
Bercu smiled. “I told you Signore Avesari. You intrigue me.”
“Is it I that intrigue you or the murder of my brother?” It came unbidden, an accusation.
Bercu’s face darkened. “I am truly sorry. I meant no offense. It is a horrible thing.”
His own emotions, Paolo was coming to realize, while not as wildly fluctuating as those of his father, were still somewhat unreliable. “No, it is I that am sorry. Yes, it is a horrible thing as you say. I am not myself lately as you might imagine.”
“Of course.” Bercu cocked his head, peered at Paolo across the table. “Tell me though signore, why do you associate with that buffoon? Your father is known throughout Italy as a master of his craft. Surely he wishes for you to follow him.”
“He does. I, however, do not wish it.”
“Ah.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a woman’s voice, sweet and honeyed, but firm underneath. “Father?”
Paolo turned to see a young woman of 19 or so approach quickly, a full mane of ink black
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