brought the sketches.”
Together we walked back into the
casino.
It was nearly midnight and, to Father’s relief, our Venetian guests began to arrive. They were a mix of rich merchants and poor members of the aristocracy, though many of these
barn-abotti
have already fled Venice. I could hear the chatter of the women, dressed in long black silk coats and the mannish hats that spout a single white feather. The men wore frock coats and perukes and appeared untroubled by the sounds of the violence in the square. As we greeted them, the chalky smell of hair powder floated in the air around us, mingled with the vinegary scent of the cologne that is the fashion here.
Bestowing his gap-toothed grin upon our guests, Francis emerged from the thicket of perfumed bodies and whispered that he and our guests had come through the back entrance to avoid the mob of angry citizens. For once, I felt glad to see him. I took his arm and we went in to our late dinner of champagne and risotto served with platters of local artichokes. After the meal, while Madame Gritti translated his awkward French into Italian, my parent spoke about his mission. He told our guests that Uncle John, together with Thomas Jefferson and BenjaminFranklin, had sent a letter to the Venetian ambassador in 1789, expressing interest in trade with Venice.
“And I am here to extend our invitation. We in America will trade our cattle and wheat for your Venetian glass and lace.”
“You’re setting up shop in the midst of a civil war!” someone called out in French.
“Is there a better time?” Madame Gritti replied. “What is more conducive to money-making than a war?”
Our guests clapped and laughed. I stared shyly at their powdered Venetian faces, alight with excitement. A few of our guests wore silver masks and I admit I found their faces strange and alarming. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown louder, and Father had to shout to be heard.
“Welcome guests, today we from America will show you Rome’s finest art and you will see how greatly our republic admires yours.”
Once again, our guests clapped, but they had begun whispering to each other, their eyes wandering, and I realized they were only feigning interest in Father. I told him that we should get on to the exhibit and he responded with, “My friends, let us proceed now to the Paper Museum.”
The guests stood aside as Madame Gritti put the key in the lock of a door leading to an adjoining room. The door swung open and they pressed in ahead of us. We heard laughter and angry exclamations. The walls of the little chamber were bare. Except, alas, for the single sketch Monsieur Pozzo had shown us that day in the Café Florian. The sketch lay on a small table, held down by stones. There was no sign of Monsieur Pozzo. Madame Gritti removed the stones and inspected the drawing with her lorgnette.
“Monsieur Adams, this is a forgery.” She beckoned Father over and pointed to the corner of the drawing. The tiny watermark read 1795. Father staggered backwards, and Francis had to catch him by the arm so he would not fall. Madame Gritti dismissed our guests and they filed out, neither thanking Father nor looking at us. It was a humiliating occasion.
Madame Gritti left quickly with her
cicisbeo
, leaving only Father, Francis and myself. My betrothed at least had the good grace not to pester Father with questions. We hurried down to the square where some Venetian men were setting little fires. Fearful, we rushed by them, but they did not harm us. Outside our
pensione
, a large group had gathered in the
campo
around a tall beggar in a Harlequin mask standing with another beggar in a sleeveless coat. A covered basket sat nearby, guarded by a small, rough-haired dog. The tall beggar growled some words in Italian and the dog bounced over to the basket and raised one of the sides with its teeth. It hopped inside and out again, holding in its mouth a small piece of folded paper. It placed this at the feet
Together we walked back into the
casino.
It was nearly midnight and, to Father’s relief, our Venetian guests began to arrive. They were a mix of rich merchants and poor members of the aristocracy, though many of these
barn-abotti
have already fled Venice. I could hear the chatter of the women, dressed in long black silk coats and the mannish hats that spout a single white feather. The men wore frock coats and perukes and appeared untroubled by the sounds of the violence in the square. As we greeted them, the chalky smell of hair powder floated in the air around us, mingled with the vinegary scent of the cologne that is the fashion here.
Bestowing his gap-toothed grin upon our guests, Francis emerged from the thicket of perfumed bodies and whispered that he and our guests had come through the back entrance to avoid the mob of angry citizens. For once, I felt glad to see him. I took his arm and we went in to our late dinner of champagne and risotto served with platters of local artichokes. After the meal, while Madame Gritti translated his awkward French into Italian, my parent spoke about his mission. He told our guests that Uncle John, together with Thomas Jefferson and BenjaminFranklin, had sent a letter to the Venetian ambassador in 1789, expressing interest in trade with Venice.
“And I am here to extend our invitation. We in America will trade our cattle and wheat for your Venetian glass and lace.”
“You’re setting up shop in the midst of a civil war!” someone called out in French.
“Is there a better time?” Madame Gritti replied. “What is more conducive to money-making than a war?”
Our guests clapped and laughed. I stared shyly at their powdered Venetian faces, alight with excitement. A few of our guests wore silver masks and I admit I found their faces strange and alarming. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown louder, and Father had to shout to be heard.
“Welcome guests, today we from America will show you Rome’s finest art and you will see how greatly our republic admires yours.”
Once again, our guests clapped, but they had begun whispering to each other, their eyes wandering, and I realized they were only feigning interest in Father. I told him that we should get on to the exhibit and he responded with, “My friends, let us proceed now to the Paper Museum.”
The guests stood aside as Madame Gritti put the key in the lock of a door leading to an adjoining room. The door swung open and they pressed in ahead of us. We heard laughter and angry exclamations. The walls of the little chamber were bare. Except, alas, for the single sketch Monsieur Pozzo had shown us that day in the Café Florian. The sketch lay on a small table, held down by stones. There was no sign of Monsieur Pozzo. Madame Gritti removed the stones and inspected the drawing with her lorgnette.
“Monsieur Adams, this is a forgery.” She beckoned Father over and pointed to the corner of the drawing. The tiny watermark read 1795. Father staggered backwards, and Francis had to catch him by the arm so he would not fall. Madame Gritti dismissed our guests and they filed out, neither thanking Father nor looking at us. It was a humiliating occasion.
Madame Gritti left quickly with her
cicisbeo
, leaving only Father, Francis and myself. My betrothed at least had the good grace not to pester Father with questions. We hurried down to the square where some Venetian men were setting little fires. Fearful, we rushed by them, but they did not harm us. Outside our
pensione
, a large group had gathered in the
campo
around a tall beggar in a Harlequin mask standing with another beggar in a sleeveless coat. A covered basket sat nearby, guarded by a small, rough-haired dog. The tall beggar growled some words in Italian and the dog bounced over to the basket and raised one of the sides with its teeth. It hopped inside and out again, holding in its mouth a small piece of folded paper. It placed this at the feet
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