Read Online The Venetian by Mark Tricarico - Free Book Online Page A

rising temperatures from all directions he mused. He felt that he stood at the middle of something, something just on the periphery of his vision. He only hoped that once it came into focus, it wouldn’t be too late.
    “I seem to recall that you are something of a cook,” said Bercu, a wink in his voice. “So,” he began, rubbing his hands together, “I have taken the liberty to have ordered, only moments ago,” he held up a finger to emphasize the point, “Sarde in Saor. You know it well I imagine.”
    “Of course,” said Paolo with a smile, warming to the topic. It was one of his favorite dishes—marinated sardines. “A man could not claim to be a Venetian should he deny love for such a gift.”
    “Ha!” Bercu clapped loudly. “Well said my friend.”
    Chaya rolled her eyes. Paolo sensed that she had little patience for the ritual banter men found necessary before speaking of more serious matters.
    “Do you cook this yourself?” Bercu asked.
    “I do. It was one of the first dishes I learned after Risi e Bisi.” Rice and peas, the most common of Venetian soups, Bercu knew. It was said the Doge himself would always eat it on the feast day of Saint Mark.
    “Yes, and what better meal to represent the Republic.” Bercu smiled again. Sarde in Saor was a centuries-old dish favored by Venetian sailors. “Frying the fish and marinating it in olive oil and vinegar would make it last for weeks,” he lectured, “and the onions protected sailors against scurvy. Very important when your very livelihood depends on the benevolence of the sea, no?”
    Chaya snorted. Bercu lovingly patted her arm, pretending not to notice.
    “Why do you waste your time with such things?” she asked, no attempt to hide the irritation in her voice.
    Bercu had made a considerable effort to understand the Venetian culture and way of life, and had actually come to appreciate it in his own way. Otherwise, how could he hope to become a trusted partner in business and the community? Chaya never understood this. Chaya wanted justice, as if she knew what that meant. Bercu loved her more than life, but she was a child in so many ways. What she had never been able to grasp, what Bercu to his dismay had never been able to teach her (at least not yet), was that justice could be achieved in many ways. So he had finally given up trying to convince her. No, they were not Venetians. Yes, they were persecuted. But the persecution here in Venice paled in comparison to elsewhere in the world. Sometimes one had to choose the lesser of the evils at hand. Bercu saw the world through eyes that had seen far too much, in shades of grey where Chaya saw only black and white. Lesser? Greater? Evil was evil according to Chaya. She wanted to fight every battle rather than choose those that truly mattered. There would never be compromise with Chaya, the unfortunate result of overprotection Bercu acknowledged. Still, he would have done nothing differently. He told himself that she would understand in time, once she had had the benefit of his experience, but knew in his heart that he was wrong. Chaya would never acquiesce with her principles at stake, would always fight, no matter how much she would see or how long she would live. It was what he most loved about her.
    “Please forgive Chaya,” Bercu said amiably. “We are apparently born knowing everything, and only forget as we age.” Chaya rolled her eyes again, this obviously a well-trod path of discussion.
    “Life will teach you my daughter whether you wish it or not.” Despite the girl’s obvious distaste for his approach to things, Bercu’s manner never strayed from one of love and indulgence. “The only question is whether you will choose to learn.”
    Chaya blew a stray hair from her forehead in exasperation, and Paolo felt the attraction again—unwanted, inescapable.
    The food arrived. It was delicious, the peasant fisherman’s daily bread as art. They ate in silence, savoring the meal, Paolo