Read Online The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice by Laura Rahme - Free Book Online Page B

whiteness of his clenched fist and saw how he still gripped a flint in his dirty fingers. There were a dozen etchings behind him. He had sat so near them, that at first, I had not taken notice they were present. I recollected myself.
    “Will you confess to me, Rolandino? Will you confess of what you know?”
    “Anything you wish, avogadore . Anything! I am so glad to see you.”
    “Is it true that you killed Giacomo?”
    “Signore, I had to! I could not but kill him.”
    “What of Giovanna?”
    “Zanetta,” he emitted in his Venetian accent. And then he forced a cackle.  Before my eyes, Rolandino suddenly turned grim.
    “I don’t think you want to hear what I have to say, Signor Avogadore.”
    “Men have died on that night, Rolandino. And something is amiss. If you tell us, we may yet spare your life. Do not waste time, Rolandino.” 
    “You lie. I am a doomed man, avogadore . You can do nothing for me.  Still, I will tell you all I know. Though you may not like what I have to say, it is the truth.”
    And as he began to speak, I took notes in my journal. I scribed as much I could in the darkness of the shivering cell. I tried to never interrupt, though it was difficult. The once fierce merchant had descended into a semi-mad state. He choked on his words, took pains in voicing each sentence, and there were even times when he would stare into empty space and move ever closer to the crosses etched on the wall.
    Did he believe his prison might be haunted by spirits, perhaps? I cannot say. But as I neared my torch to the wall, I saw that I had not mistook the markings. They were crosses. Rolandino feared for his soul.
    But now I will relate Rolandino’s testimony. As though it had been written by him.
     
    ***
     
    The deposition of Rolandino Vitturi
     
    The first thing I remember from the night of the banquet was my anger. Guido was in a rotten mood and had, much to the horror of our host and to more gentile Venetians, chosen drink over social pleasantry.
    Ubertino did not leave the dinner table. He was sunk deep in a velvet divan, his pudgy fingers upon his fat lips. He ogled the banquet table as though he’d never set foot in Catarina’s kitchen this very afternoon. The marquis is fortunate to own a roasting pit in his courtyard, and so Ubertino lost himself before the enormous dishes of roasted pork, lamb and fatty mutton, laden among roasted pumpkin, turnips and cabbage. I watched him salivate as a servant brought forth a platter of pork and quail, impaled upon skewers.
    As for me, oyster soup was all I could stomach on the night.  Yet now that I famish in my cell, I remember there was a wholesome mound of lard beside a dish of spiced ravioli. It was sprinkled with an odorous grated cheese. The smells caught my attention. Even now, I can still smell it.  There was also a dish of rice and raisins, served with ginger-scented chicken and dates - some as large as my thumb. I regret not tasting it. Knowing the expense our host had gone to in serving rice, I was wary of Ubertino.  The ill-mannered glutton would surely insult the marquis. 
    But Ubertino was contenting himself elsewhere. He had found a heaped porcelain bowl, the quality I guessed to be from Catay. It contained none other than a rich rice-thickened soup where seafood swam in abundance. Towering over this enormous bowl, as though they were still trying to crawl out, were large pink crayfish and other hideous creatures from the lagoon, fresh from the fishermen markets. Antonio, I swear it, I had never once seen Ubertino’s eyes shine as they did.  And glow, they did.
    I noted, too, that Lorenzo, after a cold glance toward his father, had left us early. I cringed at the thought. I knew Giacomo would not be happy. But I chose not to mention it. There was already enough animosity between the two of them.
    I also felt that Giacomo behaved strangely from the time we entered the dining hall.  At first, he fired reproaches toward Giovanna. They were