Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

smile. “The famous courtesan Veronica Franco got an education, after all. She wrote poems.”
    Laura’s face opens in horror.
    “Don’t tease,” says Piero to Francesco. “All right, little sister, why would you want to do that, anyway? Going to afternoon tutorials would mean missing your music lessons.” He looks at Laura. She doesn’t flinch.
    “In any case,” says Francesco, “that’s a decision only Father can make. And he’s already left for a special meeting of the Senate. You can ask tonight. If you dare.”
    Piero and Francesco leave.
    I turn to Laura. “I didn’t know you cared about studies.”
    “I don’t.”
    “I thought you truly loved the violin,” I say.
    “I do.”
    “Why did you ask that, then?”
    Laura tilts her head. “Isn’t it a request you would have liked to make?”
    “Yes.”
    “That’s why, then.” Laura smiles sadly. “Paolina was right the other day. We have to make the most of what we love. I love you, Donata.”
    We hold each other tight.

C HAPTER E LEVEN
    THE BROOCH
    T he first morning light breaks over the roofs across the Canal Grande. I watch it gradually filter through our room, lighting up the painted white and green walls, bringing to life the plaster flowers and ribbons and tassels that decorate our ceilings.
    I’ve been waiting for that light for what seems like hours.
    I roll to my side and kiss Laura on the cheek. She murmurs in her sleep. Then I take Bortolo’s
bareta
out from under my pillow and stuff my hair up inside it. It all fits, every strand.
    The Catholic boys my age wear their hair cut to the chin. With this hat on, my hair looks as if it’s very short all over. But that’s all right. Some boys do cut their hair that short, especially if it’s curly. Some boys and men have beards, others are clean shaven. Some wear wood-bottomed sandals, others wear boots that come up to midcalf. There’s a lot of variation. I shouldn’t feel sick when I look in the mirror. Everything’s going to be all right. I won’t stand out as strange.
    Besides, in the fisherboy’s trousers I look poor, and there’s no regulating the dress and appearance of the poor.
    But looking poor is precisely the problem. The revolting beggar boy who spat in my face yesterday told me to stay out of his territory. I can’t do that, though. I have to pass through his territory to get to the Ghetto. And I have to get to the Ghetto; I owe Noè for the
zoccoli
and the yarmulke.
    If only there were a way to get to the Ghetto
campo
without going through the streets and alleys between here and there.
    A gondola. Our private
gondoliere
would never take me, naturally. He’d look at me as though I were crazy, just like Father looked at Laura last night at the evening meal when she asked if she and I could listen in on the boys’ tutorial. I just sat there like a dummy, so disappointed at his reaction that I was unable to argue in our defense. And the evening meal was
seppie
—those horrible, tough cuttlefish. That made me sadder still.
    But in my disguise, a public
gondoliere
would not look at me askance. I can’t go on a gondola in the Rio di San Marcuola. That’s too close to home. If a neighbor happened to get into the gondola with me, I’d have nowhere to hide and I could be recognized. But I can go over to the next canal—I think it’s called the Rio di Noale. I can take a public gondola up to whatever canal runs along the far side of the Ghetto, and never have to risk seeing that beggar boy at all. It’s a good plan.
    I pull the
bareta
off my head and open the balcony doors. Across the water and down a way, a new
palazzo
is being built. Its arches and columns are different from the other buildings of Venice that I know. I don’t like it.
    But the Canal Grande itself is a marvelous sight. Fishing boats and fruit and vegetable boats dot the water. A barge goes by, filled with barrel hoops. It’s from Padua or Treviso, where the wood is plentiful. It’s going to San