Read Online The Venetian by Mark Tricarico - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Tricarico
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glancing up occasionally at his unlikely dining companions. Chaya too seemed wary of the arrangement. Only Bercu seemed obliviously content.
“I must confess,” Paolo said, breaking the silence and looking at Bercu, “I am once more at a loss as to why I find myself in your generous company.”
Bercu put down his fork, slowly dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. “You are just as suspicious as lovely Chaya. I do much business with Francesco. As you are his agent, it is likely that I will in turn do much business with you. I have found it advantageous to know the character of the men with whom I do business prior to engaging in such important matters.”
“I sincerely hope my friend,” Bercu continued after a pause, “that my explanation has satisfied your curiosity. It is the only one I have to offer.”
“But surely you do not spend so much time with each and every agent with whom you have dealings. You would never have time for business.”
Bercu laughed. “Like a dog with a bone you are. But yes, you are correct. I admit, your family’s renown, your odd association with Francesco and yes, I am somewhat embarrassed to say, the murder of your brother, all engaged my curiosity.”
Paolo believed him, saw that he was indeed embarrassed. He suspected it was not something that occurred often. “I appreciate your candor. And no matter the reason, I also appreciate your hospitality.” He continued, eager for a change of topic. “So, what kind of business do you have with Francesco? I confess he has told me very little of your dealings.”
Chaya exhaled loudly. It was clear what she thought of Francesco.
“I rather think that he should be the one to tell you that. You are his man after all, and I would not like to presume.” Paolo bristled again at the reference.
“Perhaps then,” he countered, “you could enlighten me as to what you do. Generally speaking, of course.”
“Well,” he began, “at the moment, our most important function, and mine in particular, is to provide capital for the Republic’s commerce in the Mediterranean.”
“And fund the ceaseless and costly wars to keep their precious trade routes open,” Chaya added contemptuously.
“And that,” Bercu agreed amiably.
“At least for today,” continued Chaya. “Tomorrow who knows? We may very well be thrown out, set upon by dogs, or accused of hideous atrocities by then. Whichever way the breeze may be blowing.” Chaya wiggled her fingers, pantomiming wind.
“Chaya, please. No politics at the table. Especially at this table.”
“On the contrary Father, at what better table to discuss politics than this one? We are entertaining a genuine oppressor.”
Paolo was amazed at the difference between the woman who had demurely called his name outside her home and the one before him now. The transformative power of conviction he supposed. Had he ever had such resolve? Only when breaking from his father, but that had been different. As a family of artisans, they had lived a relatively privileged life. Nothing like that of a noble family of course, but comfortable enough. When he had railed against the hypocrisy of Venice in its dealings with the glassblowers, it was not out of any higher calling, but rather a lower one—simply to shame his father. Despite the insult from Chaya, he found her passion alluring.
“Chaya!”
“No, please, sir.” Paolo held up a hand. “Forgive me, but I am unaware of your plight.”
“Ignaro.”
“Chaya.” This time Bercu’s voice rumbled with a menace he made no effort to conceal.
Paolo smiled. This girl was beautiful and had a strength of spirit to be admired. He may not agree with her politics, but was embarrassed to find himself wishing that he had such passion.
“Please Chaya. I am sorry I am not more familiar with your circumstances. I would very much appreciate it if you would enlighten me.”
She clearly did not trust his words. She glanced at her father, but he
“I must confess,” Paolo said, breaking the silence and looking at Bercu, “I am once more at a loss as to why I find myself in your generous company.”
Bercu put down his fork, slowly dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. “You are just as suspicious as lovely Chaya. I do much business with Francesco. As you are his agent, it is likely that I will in turn do much business with you. I have found it advantageous to know the character of the men with whom I do business prior to engaging in such important matters.”
“I sincerely hope my friend,” Bercu continued after a pause, “that my explanation has satisfied your curiosity. It is the only one I have to offer.”
“But surely you do not spend so much time with each and every agent with whom you have dealings. You would never have time for business.”
Bercu laughed. “Like a dog with a bone you are. But yes, you are correct. I admit, your family’s renown, your odd association with Francesco and yes, I am somewhat embarrassed to say, the murder of your brother, all engaged my curiosity.”
Paolo believed him, saw that he was indeed embarrassed. He suspected it was not something that occurred often. “I appreciate your candor. And no matter the reason, I also appreciate your hospitality.” He continued, eager for a change of topic. “So, what kind of business do you have with Francesco? I confess he has told me very little of your dealings.”
Chaya exhaled loudly. It was clear what she thought of Francesco.
“I rather think that he should be the one to tell you that. You are his man after all, and I would not like to presume.” Paolo bristled again at the reference.
“Perhaps then,” he countered, “you could enlighten me as to what you do. Generally speaking, of course.”
“Well,” he began, “at the moment, our most important function, and mine in particular, is to provide capital for the Republic’s commerce in the Mediterranean.”
“And fund the ceaseless and costly wars to keep their precious trade routes open,” Chaya added contemptuously.
“And that,” Bercu agreed amiably.
“At least for today,” continued Chaya. “Tomorrow who knows? We may very well be thrown out, set upon by dogs, or accused of hideous atrocities by then. Whichever way the breeze may be blowing.” Chaya wiggled her fingers, pantomiming wind.
“Chaya, please. No politics at the table. Especially at this table.”
“On the contrary Father, at what better table to discuss politics than this one? We are entertaining a genuine oppressor.”
Paolo was amazed at the difference between the woman who had demurely called his name outside her home and the one before him now. The transformative power of conviction he supposed. Had he ever had such resolve? Only when breaking from his father, but that had been different. As a family of artisans, they had lived a relatively privileged life. Nothing like that of a noble family of course, but comfortable enough. When he had railed against the hypocrisy of Venice in its dealings with the glassblowers, it was not out of any higher calling, but rather a lower one—simply to shame his father. Despite the insult from Chaya, he found her passion alluring.
“Chaya!”
“No, please, sir.” Paolo held up a hand. “Forgive me, but I am unaware of your plight.”
“Ignaro.”
“Chaya.” This time Bercu’s voice rumbled with a menace he made no effort to conceal.
Paolo smiled. This girl was beautiful and had a strength of spirit to be admired. He may not agree with her politics, but was embarrassed to find himself wishing that he had such passion.
“Please Chaya. I am sorry I am not more familiar with your circumstances. I would very much appreciate it if you would enlighten me.”
She clearly did not trust his words. She glanced at her father, but he
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