The Ghost of Hannah Mendes (47 page)

“You don’t think I’d let you wander off with this nut-case alone, do you?” Suzanne muttered.

Francesca ran her hand over her sister’s lovely hair. “Don’t call her that. We’ll need costumes.”

“What kind?”

“I think it’s a Renaissance festival, or something.”

Suzanne cocked her head. “What about this for a compromise? Let’s get the most expensive costumes there are and charge those to Gran!”

Francesca opened her door, answering Suzanne’s knock.

She sucked in her breath and whistled. The wig, the Lucrezia Borgia gown of beaded deep green velvet, the low, low neckline…. “Sumptuous, my dear. Simply sumptuous,” Francesca said.

“And you! Turn around.”

Francesca did a dutifully slow turn. She was dressed in a deep crimson gown with a high ruff collar and an elaborate headdress, loaded down with gold chains. Her pale skin and dark hair made her look almost otherworldly.

“Isabella herself!” Suzanne exclaimed.

“Don’t say that! Even in jest.”

“Why?”

“I went through Spain. I’ve learned a few things now. You have no idea how much suffering she caused.”

“It’s history!”

“It’s family.”

They stared at each other.

The phone rang. “Okay, we’ll be right down. Well, she’s here. Ready?”

Suzanne slipped her arm through Francesca’s and winked. “To take on the town.”

37

They saw her as soon as the elevator doors opened. She sat in the center of the lobby, wearing a magnificent paisley gown of russet, black, and cream brocade. A thick net of gold braid covered her shoulders on either side of her long white neck, and a matching gold hairnet restrained hair (a wig?) that was thick, curly reddish brown. She wore enormous drop-pearl earrings and two strands of the largest pearls either sister had ever seen. A beautiful painted mask hid her face.

“Elizabeta?” Francesca asked.

“Francesca!” she rose, holding out both arms, which shook a little (age? emotion?). “And this must be your sister, Suzanne.”

Francesca was dumbstruck. “How did you know?”

“You told me, didn’t you? How else?”

“I don’t remember.” Francesca squeezed Suzanne’s hand. It was ice-cold. “What?” She looked at her, surprised.

Suzanne stood transfixed, a look of wonder akin to horror passing over her features. “Who are you?” she asked with a tense calm that was almost belligerent.

“I’m dressed as Leonora of Toledo from the famous portrait by Bronzino.”

“I didn’t mean the costume! You were in my dream! I saw you!”

“Suzanne!” Francesca squeezed her elbow, mortified. “Please, forgive my sister. She’s had a long day.”

“In your dream, were we properly introduced?” the woman asked.

They stood motionless, facing each other, until finally the woman slipped one arm through Francesca’s and the other through Suzanne’s, leading them through the lobby with queenly grace. “Come, daughters. The gondolier is waiting! There is so much I want to show you and so little time!”

Her arm was almost weightless, but with a firm grip that guided them purposefully toward the bobbing boat. They climbed down shakily, one after the other, reaching up to help Elizabeta make her way down.

“I can still manage.” She smiled, ignoring their offered hands. With a light and youthful grace that made them both stare at her in wonder, she hopped down beside them.

They didn’t stare long, distracted by the bustle of activity all around them. They leaned forward to catch a better look. Boats, lined up as if at the beginning of a regatta, were charmingly decorated, their silken banners fluttering like glowing exclamation points over the dark water. Everyone seemed to be in costume.

“Isn’t Carnival in February?” Suzanne asked.

“Of course. This is a special day. An anniversary of sorts…” the woman began, but her voice was drowned in the sounds of singing that began to rise up from the gondolas and
vaporetti
like a burst of steam, filling the clear night air.

They floated, feeling the full enchantment of the glittering fairy-tale palaces which, in the magic of starlight, had shed their aging decrepitude, reverting to the glory of their youth.

“What a relief it was to finally arrive!” the woman suddenly said, breaking the dreamy silence. “The escape from Antwerp took months. And every step, one had to look over one’s shoulder, to listen for the hooves of the Emperor’s guards bearing down, racing to catch up…”

“Excuse me?” Francesca said politely, wondering if she was missing something.

“Ah. Gracia, Brianda, Reyna, and Little Gracia. They arrived in Venice on this day, four hundred and fifty-two years ago.”

“How do you know the exact day?” Francesca exclaimed.

The woman’s masked face turned to her inscrutably in the darkness. “Certain things one never forgets. It was vital not to raise suspicions until safe conduct could be guaranteed out of Charles’s clutches,” the woman continued, ignoring the interruption. “So there was this plan. First to cross over into France, as if to take the healing waters at Aix-la-Chapelle, and then, from there, to trek slowly across Italy. If you run, your enemies only chase after you. So it was important to walk with dignity. Besides, with all the servants, the household goods, everything that could be carried in coaches trailing behind, one couldn’t exactly gallop!”

“They took everything with them?” Suzanne interjected.

“But of course! To leave it behind in Antwerp was to make a gift of it to Church and Emperor. Neither deserved any gifts. Thieves never do.”

“You’ve done so much research! Please, go on.”

“Joseph came, too, but later. I can imagine he wasn’t happy about being left behind in Antwerp to settle affairs. He was in love, you see. Already, in Queen Mary’s court, he had started looking at his young cousin Reyna differently. Who could blame him? She was so beautiful, surrounded by admirers. He was mad with jealousy. But the mother saw nothing. Mothers never do.” She sighed.

“It’s genetic,” Suzanne murmured.

“She was too busy scouring the world for a son-in-law from a noble Spanish-Jewish lineage, someone faithful to his heritage, intelligent, handsome, wise. When all along…” The woman snorted with strange laughter.

“What happened when they got to Venice?” Francesca pressed.

“I do not have to tell you. You can see!” She waved her arms expansively. “Venice was built on profit, not Divine Rights. The
pallazi
. The works of artists like Titian, Veronese, and Tintoretto. The rare woods of Africa, the spices of the East, the wares of Arabia, China, and the New World…everything was for sale to those whom the gods had favored with profits. They were welcomed like royalty.”

“But didn’t Gracia write about being thrown into a dungeon in Venice?” Suzanne said doubtfully.

“Yes! And almost losing her child,” Francesca added.

“As I said, Venice is a city that worships the Prince of Mammon. Ducats and crowns, gold, and precious stones—all those things that create masks and costumes. But underneath all the glitter, death was there, waiting patiently for the fools who believed in the show, who thought it was real.”

Her voice, sonorous and full of meaning, stirred them both with strange emotion.

It was the voice of the woman in El Transito, Francesca realized, stiffening with shock. It was the voice of the woman in my dream, Suzanne remembered, shaken. They felt the sudden cold chill of night run through their bodies as they stared at the masked figure who sat facing them in the darkness.

It was all like some dream, they thought, shaken from their solid sense of reality, made receptive to all that was to come, the way dreamers accept the visions and voices of the night.

The wet, gray stones glistened like liquid silver in the moonlight as the gondola slid up to the docking quay of the large
palazzo
. The gondolier’s swarthy, firm hand grasped theirs, helping them to shore. From above, the faint sound of a string quartet playing Mozart’s
Eine kleine Nachtmusik
drifted down to them. They turned their eyes in the direction of the music, fascinated by the glow of lights and the shadows of moving bodies behind the drawn drapes.

An endless stream of boats pulled up, revelers disembarking one by one, dressed in elaborate costumes of brocaded silks, satins, velvets, and silk damasks, with plunging necklines and hair piled high, or braided with pearls or feathers.

Suzanne and Francesca looked at each other in wonder. Even for New Yorkers who had seen it all, it was an astonishing spectacle.

“You think it’s beautiful, don’t you? Beautiful enough to drive one mad! And you are right. This is what happened to Brianda in the end. The beaded silk, the ostrich plumes, the gorgeous palaces!”

“I almost went raving mad in a doll store,” Francesca admitted. “I don’t think you can ever have enough money to spend in Venice.”

The woman slowly turned her masked face in her direction. “And do you understand how someone, because they want to buy things, can betray all that is sacred, their own family, their very own child?”

“Is that what she did?”

“She wouldn’t listen to reason. She was ready to settle down in Venice, to install herself in a grand
palazzo
, to marry some fawning Old Christian aristocrat, down on his luck, who filled her silly ears with flattery. To live a life of ease and luxury. In order to do that, she needed money. Lots of money.” Her voice turned low and ominous. “She was willing to do anything to get it.”

The laughing crowds of costumed revelers pressed them forward.

“Wait! I know this place! Look! There’s the winged lion, and the guardian angels of Charity, Prudence, Temperance and Fortitude,” Suzanne said excitedly, pointing to the carved pillars. “This is the Porta della Carta. The main gate to the Doge’s palace! I can’t believe they’re letting us in at this hour!” Suzanne exclaimed.

“Come, daughters.”

They walked inside the portal toward the enormous statues of bearded Neptune and belligerent Mars that guarded either side of the wide staircase leading to the inner chambers and the loggia.

“What did Brianda want?” Francesca asked.

“She wanted Little Gracia’s inheritance turned over to her to dispose of as she pleased. Gracia, of course, refused. She had been given a sacred trust. She could not agree to let her niece be beggared by her foolish mother. She owed that to Diogo.”

“What did Brianda do?”

“She was advised by her new friends to take her sister to court, to show that Gracia wasn’t a fit guardian.”

“On what grounds?” Francesca scoffed.

“On the grounds of Judaizing. She denounced Gracia to the Inquisition.”

“My G-d!” Francesca groped the banister.

Suzanne leaned against the wall, hugging herself tightly. “She did that? To her own sister?”

The woman nodded, climbing up slowly. She paused on the landing, touching stone faces set into the wall. They had bushy brows, cruel, cunning eyes, and open mouths.

“Into these slits were dropped the secret letters of accusation, letters that went straight to the Inquisitors. The Inquistors took action. Here they stood, by these stairs, watching Gracia, Brianda, and the two children walk up, accompanied by armed guards. With each step the sisters took, the accusing mouths opened wider to devour them.”

Suzanne felt uncomfortably hot, then suddenly chilled. “All of them were arrested?”

“Not at first. They walked up the stairs separately, Gracia the accused, Brianda the accuser.”

“And then?” Suzanne asked with a feeling of dread.

The masked face turned slowly in her direction. “Do you really want to know?”

“Why wouldn’t I…we…?” Suzanne stammered, feeling somehow accused.

“Because knowledge transforms. It obligates.” The dark eyes behind the mask glittered.

“Yes, we want to know.” Francesca stepped forward, holding Suzanne’s arm. “We want you to tell us.”

“Come, then, and I will show you!”

She walked slowly down the hall, her footsteps ringing ominously on the cold marble floors. “Here it began.” She opened the wide doors and stepped inside the great chamber: The Hall of the Three Chiefs of the Council of Ten.

Suzanne and Francesca stepped in after her. They shuddered as their eyes met the painting on the wall, studying the helpless, naked flesh of the vulnerable young woman threatened by the upswept dagger.

“There they sat in their black and crimson robes. The most feared men in Venice, controlling a network of spies that respected no office, no power. Can’t you hear it, see it? Brianda’s loud, braying whine of accusation, her pointing finger. And Gracia, her head bowed helplessly, betrayed by the very thing she loved most—her family.”

They looked around the empty room, hearing faint whispers and seeing shadows, feeling betrayed by their eyes and ears. This could not be happening, could it?

“Look, can’t you see the Inquisitors looking at the two sisters, their eyes almost amused and filled with cunning?” the woman continued. “Here, the largest fortune in Europe had fallen into their laps. And if Brianda was telling the truth, then Gracia Mendes planned to take it out of the country to Turkey, where she would revert to her Judaizing ways openly. Why find her innocent, when there was such profit to be gained by finding her guilty?

“See the Judges bending toward one another, and then toward the Chief Inquisitor? They will converse for a moment before announcing their judgment: to jail both sisters, and to tear both girls from their mothers’ arms.”

“Oh, no! Not the children!” Francesca cried.

“They jailed Brianda as well? But she wasn’t even on trial!”

“Of course. What profit would there have been in confiscating the fortune of one sister simply to hand it over to the other? Much better, they thought, to rid themselves of both and pocket the fortune of the Mendes banking house themselves.”

“What a fool Brianda was!” Francesca exclaimed.

“The greedy always are. A shroud, after all, has no pockets. Come!”

She opened a side door. The passageway was rough and narrow, the walls damp and unfinished on either side of the winding staircase leading down into the dark chambers beneath the palace apartments.