Read Online Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli - Free Book Online

it. Besides, I wore it gardening at Giulia’s home. It’s so stained, Maria would be glad to avoid ever wearing it.” Paolina beams. “See? I thought of everything.”
    I know the dress Paolina means. Last fall she wore it almost every day. Cara had to practically wrestle it away from her to wash now and then, muttering little angry words in her native Friulano dialect. Paolina has so many funny ways.
    But stains or no stains, the boy is getting the better end of this bargain, I bet. He is assuredly less well-off than we are. So Paolina’s outgrown dress, despite the stains, will be far finer than this boy’s sister’s other clothes.
    I take off the hose and sit on the floor cross-legged so I can rub at the birthmark on the bottom of my right foot. This is how I wish for luck. “Where is this boy?” I ask.
    “He’s supposed to deliver fish within the hour.”
    “A fisherman?” Laura’s voice rises in a squeal. “You talked with a fisherman?”
    “A fisherboy. He’s nice,” says Paolina.
    “A fisherboy,” says Andriana in a murmur. “I’ve never even been allowed to talk to the spinners when they take away the bobbins of yarn, but here you talked to a mere fisherboy. His father probably isn’t even a citizen. Did anyone see you with him?”
    “Cook, of course. I went down to the ground floor with Cook and helped him select the eels yesterday,” Paolina says. “And when he was out of earshot, shouting orders to Giò Giò about where to lug away a barrel, I asked the fisherboy. And he said yes. Just like that.”
    “Aren’t you something,” Andriana is saying slowly. “You may have as much mischief in you as Donata does.” She looks slantwise at me.
    I stare at Paolina. A fisherboy? I’ll be wearing fisherboy’s clothes.
    “Fishers wear terrible clothes,” says Laura. “Trousers and big, loose shirts. Donata would never want such clothes.”
    “Yes, I do,” I say, suddenly realizing the possibilities. Fishermen don’t live in our section of town, in Cannaregio. The fishing industry is in Dorsoduro, the only section of Venice that is larger than Cannaregio—much larger. If I’m going to blend in wearing those clothes, if I’m going to be an anonymous fisherboy wandering the alleys, I’ll have to go to Dorsoduro. Alley after alley, all the way to Dorsoduro. “The fisherboy’s clothes will be perfect.”
    “You can’t be serious,” says Andriana. “Fishers aren’t refined. You can’t go out dressed as a fisher. Someone awful could come up to you. Don’t do this, Donata. Forget the whole thing.”
    “I’m going out,” I say. “No matter what.” Out.
    My heart flutters, then slowly begins to pound, louder and louder. I feel like I’m passing through the giant, thick doors of a cathedral.

C HAPTER S EVEN
    THE EXCHANGE
    T here he is.” Paolina points.
    The other three of us press together on the balcony and look out on the Canal Grande. There’s much to see in both directions. Too much. “How can you pick his boat out from the others?” I ask, counting three fishing boats in the direction Paolina points.
    “I can’t, really.” Paolina takes the brown paper parcel that holds her old dress and runs to the door. “I have faith. Come on, Donata. We have to get down there.”
    I snatch my satchel, which holds the boy shoes, the clothes for exchange, plus the
bareta
that Vincenzo used to wear over his messy hair. I stuff it under my nightdress, which I put back on after Paolina’s announcement about this fisherboy. The hidden satchel sticks out fat in front. My eyes meet Paolina’s and we’ve got the same thought. She puts her parcel under her skirt, too. We smile and parade our fake pregnant bellies for a moment.
    Paolina peeks out into the long corridor. “All clear.”
    Cara passes by just at that moment, with a bucket and a scrub brush. She doesn’t count. None of the servants count. At least not so far as Laura and Paolina and I are concerned. We girls are old enough