Tintoretto shook his head. “If you can’t stop the autopsy, promise me this. When they’re done with her, see that she gets a proper funeral.”
“That will cost —”
“I’ll pay for it!” Tintoretto said shortly. “And if Adamo Baptista comes back —”
“Look, I don’t want any trouble with that man.” The medic retorted nervously. “No one does. I’m not getting involved.”
Tintoretto tapped his arm. “Be calm, medico, I’m not asking anything of you. There is no danger. But should Adamo Baptista comes back, don’t tell him I was here. You understand?...”
Norillo nodded.
“...don’t tell him was ever here.”
Chapter Three
Signora Castilano was watching a pair of men talking on the street outside. Even though she had come from Spain and been graciously assimilated into Venice’s business life, she looked on all other foreigners as a lower class, fodder to her peculiarly luxurious mill. She could estimate from the opulence of the turbans and the silken flutter of the breeches that the merchants were Turkish and affluent; probably dealers in silks, tapestries and the gold threaded trimmings for which Venetian women had an insatiable appetite.
The courtesans would pay generously for such exclusive fripperies, decking themselves out like show horses as they glided across St Marks. Much business was undertaken in the time it took to cross the famous Square. A whore could ensnare a protector, a man could undertake a business deal, and an opportunistic woman could net herself many a glossy fish.
Hearing the door open, Marina Castilano turned to see a man enter. He was in his fifties, dressed in sombre, dusty black clothes and wearing a large brimmed hat in the Dutch style. His face, buckled with lines, had retained its Northern pallour, a great dark birthmark on his left cheek. From his neck hung a small glass vial full of liquid and round his left wrist was a bracelet of dark hair, intertwined with gold.
“Signor der Witt,” Marina greeted him, smiling at one of her infrequent, but lucrative, clients. “How can I help you today?” she glanced at his dishevelled clothes. “You have been travelling?”
Der Witt took of his hat and turned the brim round in his hands. “You have many clients, Signora, I thought you might be the person best placed to help me.”
“It’s true, I rent clothes and embellishments to many in Venice.”
She smiled, her fortune had been made over the years in the business of pretence. Venice was a city of pride; pride in beauty; pride in money and the appearance of money. A man needed to seem wealthy enough to own an extensive wardrobe, and to know of – and wear - all the royal fashions come from the courts of Spain, France and Germany. Very few could afford to endlessly replace their clothes to avoid the indignity of wearing a garment twice and so the trade of garment hiring flourished.
For the more adventurous young men of the nobility Marina was a willing and discreet supplier. Able to furbish them with more individual styles; transparent tunics and breeches for the homosexual partners of wealthy men: ribbons and gilded bells to tie around their genitals; and the open crotch silk pantaloons favoured by the courtesans. Venetians clerics favoured love making with a whore who pretended to be a boy, and a chemise that flattened the woman’s breasts and yet left her genitals exposed was considered a delicious pretence.
All of Marina’s elegant and expensive stock was delivered by the merchants coming from Europe and the Far East, laden with goods for the prosperous and greedy Republic. China was a particularly inventive country for the sexually deviant. Marina had been doing business with a merchant from Hong Kong and another from Istanbul for many years, buying wares that she sold - not in the respectable shop with its refined and elegant outlook to the square – but in the atelier up the narrow back stairs.
Yet there was something Marina did not sell - sexual stimulants or devices, those she left to the old drabs hired by the courtesans. Although lucrative, such trading was always open to blackmail and the threat of the Inquisition. But the old whores, madams or apothecaries were not adverse to performing an abortion or pretending to cast a spell. In Venice it was part of life; an unwanted child, an unwanted lover, an unwanted rival – all and everyone was for sale, or for disposal. For a price.
Over the years Marina Castilano had become a skilled funambulist. Rivalry in Venice was frenetic; a whisper in the wrong ears could result in a shop closing and a business disappearing overnight. So she had learned discretion, working with her younger sister, Lucia. Speaking Italian in public, but Spanish in private. Keeping secrets, something natural to her. The dark guile of her home country running through her blood.
So now she was looking at the Dutch apothecary and wondering exactly what he wanted.
“Signor der Witt, please tell me how can I help you.”
“Pietro Aretino is one of your customers.”
She smiled, putting out her hands, palm upwards. “I cannot say. I never discuss —”
“I know he comes here, everyone knows.” der Witt continued. “That is not the issue. I merely wondered if his...if his colleague Adamo Baptista came also.”
Marina could sense a movement in the alcove behind and knew that her sister, Lucia, was listening. The thought comforted her, it was always imperative to have witnesses – especially with a man like Barent der Witt. And especially when he was asking after Adamo Baptista.
“I can deny or confirm, signor —”
“Signora,” der Witt said, moving closer to her. “This is a matter of some importance. I assure you I understand your reluctance to break a confidence. I would not ask it of you if there was another way —”
“You are right, I am reluctant to break a confidence and so I must, sadly, ask that this conversation goes no further.”
Der Witt fingered the glass vial around his neck; his thumb closing over its stopper like a lock.
“Surely there is no harm in asking if Signor Baptista is one of your clients? I could find out as much by asking one of your neighbours.”
“I imagine you would already have done so,” Marina replied calmly “and had no luck. Or you would not be asking me directly.”
He sighed, his heavily lined face contemptuous. “Is everyone afraid of Adamo Baptista?”
The question hung in the air like a meat hook holding a dead carcass, Der Witt the first to speak again.
“I find it strange, signora, that you do not ask me why I have come to you, and what this matter of importance might be. And why I might be asking about Signor Baptista.”
“It is not my concern.”
He ignored the reply and continued.
“I will tell you anyway. You had a maid, signora, a woman called Gabriella Russo. She came to me afraid, very afraid. She said that she needed help and begged me to help her.”
“I know nothing of this.” Marina replied, watching out of the corner of her eye as her sister came into view. Lucia stood beside her sister, her stout form confronting the Dutchman.
“As my sister said, Signor der Witt, we know nothing. Gabriella did work for us and then she left abruptly, sin explicación...”
“Without explanation.” Marina translated the Spanish into Italian as Lucia continued.
“...and we have not heard from Gabriella since. I think my sister would agree with me that we did not know of her being in any trouble.”