hair glistening as though wet. She had sharp green eyes and a delicate chin. Her nose was that of her father’s, so that some may have thought it prevented her from being truly beautiful. She wore a simple linen shift that fell to her ankles. As shapeless as the garment was, it could not hide the sinuous body beneath moving with an effortless grace.
“Yes my darling?”
“It is Yosef. He needs to speak with you.” She glanced curiously at Paolo before turning back to her father. She leaned forward, lowering her voice as though conveying the deepest of secrets. “He says it is quite urgent.”
Bercu chuckled. Paolo was coming to find that this was a man of good humor, quite unlike the shrewd and deceptive sort Francesco had described. “With Yosef it is always urgent,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. Paolo had the impression that the moneylender could be quite indulgent with those he cared for.
He rose from the table, as did Paolo. “I will see him.” He looked at Paolo. “Now I must take my leave Signore Aversari, but before I go, may I present my daughter Chaya.” Paolo smiled and bowed. Bercu’s daughter responded with a suspicious nod. “Her name means life and she is mine.”
“Father…”
“Yes, yes,” he waved at her, “I know. You are my only child however and therefore must indulge me.” They turned to go before Bercu turned back. “You know the way back signore?”
“Yes, thank you,” although he didn’t.
“Until we meet again then,” said Bercu with a smile, and they strode off.
Paolo watched them leave, once more bemused by his new circumstances. The woman seemed more the type Francesco had described than her father. Chaya. It was a lovely name. And unfortunately, she was also the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“It was a pleasure signorina,” he called after them. If she heard him, she gave no indication.
Nine
T he church was quiet this time of morning. Tomaso sat motionless in the front pew, nothing moving save his hands wringing one another with greater and greater vigor. He glanced down, forced them apart like unruly siblings. The sunlight streamed in through high windows on either side of the building, angling down toward his inert form, meeting at the shoulders, heating the place at the base of his neck— Tomaso, the anointed one . It was a cruel jest.
Now, as when Donatella had died, this place gave him little solace. Yet he came, wishing, perhaps even praying, that he could receive just a small portion of the peace that others so clearly found here amidst the flickering flames and kindly saints. They gazed down, saddened stone eyes upon parishioners seeking some vague forgiveness, doomed from the start by their original sin, with little need to know the particulars of their crimes. They had faith, and that was enough.
He had been slipping away, could feel it, as surely as he could feel the cooling glass cradled in his hands each day. He had gone to the Arsenale full of pain and fear and anger, sought out Paolo to…what? To see him again? To avenge Ciro? Which or neither he did not know. Now he was just full of nothing. The emptiness had mass, weight. It filled his insides, stretching him out, suffocating whatever it was that gave a man life. Now all he wanted was to rest, to rest beside his beautiful Donatella. She was the blessed one amongst them, they had all known it, had always known it. Once she was gone, it was only a matter of time. Glass is strong, but once there is a crack, the rupture cannot be stopped. The split may be slowed, forestalled, but the glass will always break. He smiled grimly— always the glass .
He had come here to Santa Maria e San Donato to see if there was any wonder left in him, anything to banish the emptiness. He had come to see the griffons. The church had a beautiful Byzantine mosaic floor. Venice had grown as a subject of the Greek-speaking emperors in Constantinople and drew its art and ceremonials from the Byzantine
“Yes my darling?”
“It is Yosef. He needs to speak with you.” She glanced curiously at Paolo before turning back to her father. She leaned forward, lowering her voice as though conveying the deepest of secrets. “He says it is quite urgent.”
Bercu chuckled. Paolo was coming to find that this was a man of good humor, quite unlike the shrewd and deceptive sort Francesco had described. “With Yosef it is always urgent,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. Paolo had the impression that the moneylender could be quite indulgent with those he cared for.
He rose from the table, as did Paolo. “I will see him.” He looked at Paolo. “Now I must take my leave Signore Aversari, but before I go, may I present my daughter Chaya.” Paolo smiled and bowed. Bercu’s daughter responded with a suspicious nod. “Her name means life and she is mine.”
“Father…”
“Yes, yes,” he waved at her, “I know. You are my only child however and therefore must indulge me.” They turned to go before Bercu turned back. “You know the way back signore?”
“Yes, thank you,” although he didn’t.
“Until we meet again then,” said Bercu with a smile, and they strode off.
Paolo watched them leave, once more bemused by his new circumstances. The woman seemed more the type Francesco had described than her father. Chaya. It was a lovely name. And unfortunately, she was also the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“It was a pleasure signorina,” he called after them. If she heard him, she gave no indication.
Nine
T he church was quiet this time of morning. Tomaso sat motionless in the front pew, nothing moving save his hands wringing one another with greater and greater vigor. He glanced down, forced them apart like unruly siblings. The sunlight streamed in through high windows on either side of the building, angling down toward his inert form, meeting at the shoulders, heating the place at the base of his neck— Tomaso, the anointed one . It was a cruel jest.
Now, as when Donatella had died, this place gave him little solace. Yet he came, wishing, perhaps even praying, that he could receive just a small portion of the peace that others so clearly found here amidst the flickering flames and kindly saints. They gazed down, saddened stone eyes upon parishioners seeking some vague forgiveness, doomed from the start by their original sin, with little need to know the particulars of their crimes. They had faith, and that was enough.
He had been slipping away, could feel it, as surely as he could feel the cooling glass cradled in his hands each day. He had gone to the Arsenale full of pain and fear and anger, sought out Paolo to…what? To see him again? To avenge Ciro? Which or neither he did not know. Now he was just full of nothing. The emptiness had mass, weight. It filled his insides, stretching him out, suffocating whatever it was that gave a man life. Now all he wanted was to rest, to rest beside his beautiful Donatella. She was the blessed one amongst them, they had all known it, had always known it. Once she was gone, it was only a matter of time. Glass is strong, but once there is a crack, the rupture cannot be stopped. The split may be slowed, forestalled, but the glass will always break. He smiled grimly— always the glass .
He had come here to Santa Maria e San Donato to see if there was any wonder left in him, anything to banish the emptiness. He had come to see the griffons. The church had a beautiful Byzantine mosaic floor. Venice had grown as a subject of the Greek-speaking emperors in Constantinople and drew its art and ceremonials from the Byzantine
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