soothe me with the rhythms of my past. God is watching, and I wonder if He recognizes me now, no longer the little brown-clad novice I was. The air is like having a sweet, cool bath of oils, incense and holiness. If I close my eyes I could be back in the convent again. A statue of Jesus stretches over the crucifix, the agony of a world of sinners on his poor bleeding face. Little candles dance in the side chapel, where a statue of Our Lady stoops in divine humility. The great domed ceiling collects and swells the whisper of the worshippers.
Beatrice used to tell me that in St. Mark’s Cathedral every visitor has the same expression on his face. Dreamy but watchful, prayerful but alert—I see it on the faces of those here today. Knots of old women kneel in worship close to the altar, running rosary beads through their fingers. A friar bustles around the altar, busy and official. A woman in a yellow cape comes in after Paulina and me, glancing towards us with liquid brown eyes that remind me of those of a young deer. As she kneels facing the altar one of the old women shifts away, scowling.
“There’s something that I want you to see,” Paulina whispers.
I follow her to the southeastern end of the cathedral, from where covered passages run to the Doge’s palazzo. An ivory screen carved with scenes of Christ’s miracles hasbeen folded back to reveal two slightly elevated sarcophagi, one of purple-brown porphyry, the other polished black marble. They lie side by side, equal in length.
“Who were they?” I ask. My words are hushed, but they seem to violate the lingering tragedy suspended over the two tombs.
“You remember the couple whom the Doge sent away from the ball—the man and wife in black?”
Carina’s parents .
“Julius de Ferrara and his wife,” I say.
“That’s right. Well, this is the cause.” She gestured towards the sarcophagi. “These boys were the doomed sons of powerful foes. I’ve never understood why they buried them next to each other like this—so the families could spit hatred across the tombs, I suppose. The de Ferraras lost their only son. At least the Doge and his wife still have their second boy, Nicolo.”
She smiles to herself and her eyes flick towards me, but I am thinking of Carina. I now understand the thread of toughness coiled beneath her golden exterior—she is mourning her poor brother.
Paulina continues. “The Doge and his wife, the Duchess Besina—their son who lies here was called Roberto.” She nods towards the porphyry tomb. “He was only eleven. The de Ferraras declared a vendetta after the Doge executed their son, Carlo, for treason. They found out that Carlo was innocent, so they took the life of the Doge’s boy in recompense. He was stabbed right through the heart. They say the knife came out the other side of him.”
“How could anyone do such a thing to a boy?”
Paulina shakes her head. “It’s easy enough to hire a manat the docks to kill, they say. A few pieces of silver—it doesn’t buy absolution, but it saves getting blood on your own hands.”
Is it so easy? I wonder. I think of the man who terrified Faustina that night. Did someone pay him to kill my sister?
I shake my head. “What wasted lives.”
“In a way their parents’ lives have been wasted too, considering how they’ve been at each other’s throats ever since,” she replies. “Carina is sick of it all. She doesn’t want anything to do with it. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she married Raffaello—to escape her family.”
I can’t help imagining the young skeletons contained behind these deathly decorations. I move between them to where a bank of candles flicker. I take a long taper and light two more, one for each boy, and then a third for Beatrice. I go back to stand by Paulina, and she bows her head and crosses herself.
“Listen, Laura,” she says, casting a furtive glance around. “I’ve something to tell you.”
She draws me by the elbow away from
Beatrice used to tell me that in St. Mark’s Cathedral every visitor has the same expression on his face. Dreamy but watchful, prayerful but alert—I see it on the faces of those here today. Knots of old women kneel in worship close to the altar, running rosary beads through their fingers. A friar bustles around the altar, busy and official. A woman in a yellow cape comes in after Paulina and me, glancing towards us with liquid brown eyes that remind me of those of a young deer. As she kneels facing the altar one of the old women shifts away, scowling.
“There’s something that I want you to see,” Paulina whispers.
I follow her to the southeastern end of the cathedral, from where covered passages run to the Doge’s palazzo. An ivory screen carved with scenes of Christ’s miracles hasbeen folded back to reveal two slightly elevated sarcophagi, one of purple-brown porphyry, the other polished black marble. They lie side by side, equal in length.
“Who were they?” I ask. My words are hushed, but they seem to violate the lingering tragedy suspended over the two tombs.
“You remember the couple whom the Doge sent away from the ball—the man and wife in black?”
Carina’s parents .
“Julius de Ferrara and his wife,” I say.
“That’s right. Well, this is the cause.” She gestured towards the sarcophagi. “These boys were the doomed sons of powerful foes. I’ve never understood why they buried them next to each other like this—so the families could spit hatred across the tombs, I suppose. The de Ferraras lost their only son. At least the Doge and his wife still have their second boy, Nicolo.”
She smiles to herself and her eyes flick towards me, but I am thinking of Carina. I now understand the thread of toughness coiled beneath her golden exterior—she is mourning her poor brother.
Paulina continues. “The Doge and his wife, the Duchess Besina—their son who lies here was called Roberto.” She nods towards the porphyry tomb. “He was only eleven. The de Ferraras declared a vendetta after the Doge executed their son, Carlo, for treason. They found out that Carlo was innocent, so they took the life of the Doge’s boy in recompense. He was stabbed right through the heart. They say the knife came out the other side of him.”
“How could anyone do such a thing to a boy?”
Paulina shakes her head. “It’s easy enough to hire a manat the docks to kill, they say. A few pieces of silver—it doesn’t buy absolution, but it saves getting blood on your own hands.”
Is it so easy? I wonder. I think of the man who terrified Faustina that night. Did someone pay him to kill my sister?
I shake my head. “What wasted lives.”
“In a way their parents’ lives have been wasted too, considering how they’ve been at each other’s throats ever since,” she replies. “Carina is sick of it all. She doesn’t want anything to do with it. I sometimes wonder if that’s why she married Raffaello—to escape her family.”
I can’t help imagining the young skeletons contained behind these deathly decorations. I move between them to where a bank of candles flicker. I take a long taper and light two more, one for each boy, and then a third for Beatrice. I go back to stand by Paulina, and she bows her head and crosses herself.
“Listen, Laura,” she says, casting a furtive glance around. “I’ve something to tell you.”
She draws me by the elbow away from
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