A woman in her late sixties was seated at a table by a narrow arched window overlooking a weary courtyard. Her hair was grey and tied back from her face, her profile stern, and lined as tree bark. Without speaking, Baptista watched as she counted out money, gathering the coins in neat piles and laying them in a row in front of her. He waited patiently, looking about him. The room was furnished with a table, four chairs and a menorah, the seven branch Jewish candlestick, the chamber divided by a curtain. Behind which Baptista could not see.
“Why are you standing there?...”
He glanced at the woman, who had turned and was looking at him. “... Do you wish to speak to me?”
Nodding, he moved across to her. Now he could see her more clearly she had a resolute expression, her eyes stone grey. “What can I do for you, Signor Baptista?”
“You know me?”
“I know of you.”
“As I know of you, Signora Fasculo.” Baptista replied, taking a seat opposite her at the table. He glanced at the rows of coins, his head tilted to one side. “Usury is forbidden in Venice.”
“And yet I hear of Christians offering credit with interest, which is apparently legal. The Venetian banks obscure it by claiming that a service is being provided with the loan.” She held Baptista’s stare. “We —”
“You.”
She nodded. “I am useful because I am prepared to lend to the very poor, something the banks would not allow.”
He nodded, then frowned. “But, Signora Fasculo, how is it that you have funds to lend?”
“They are not my funds.”
“Ah,” he said, his tone mocking. “So you loan in order to grant loans?”
The great pale eyes flickered. “May I ask what business this is of yours, Signor Baptista?”
“May I ask how you know me?”
“You are talked about.”
“For what reason?”
“Does there have to be a reason?”
He smiled, leaned back. “C’e sempre un motivo per tutto a Venezi.”
She frowned. “Forgive me, my Italian is not good.”
“‘There is always a reason for everything in Venice.’” He translated for her, looking around the room. “Of course you do not have to speak Italian with Jews, do you?”
“No. We speak Hebrew amongst ourselves.”
He nodded. “My employer —”
“You have an employer?”
`“Indeed. If a man holds secrets it is useful to have an ally who shares them…Where did your money come from, Signora Fasculo?”
“From other Jews in the ghetto. People who appointed me to look after their funds. When we came here we were going to set up our own bank, but that was forbidden, so instead there was a vote and I was elected.”
“And you receive a wage, a fee, for this service?”
“A small one, yes.” She replied, her hands clasped together to prevent them shaking. “The people trust me.”
“Why would they do that?”
“What?”
“Trust you. Why would they do that?” Baptista repeated, his tone light. “Or were you better at handling money than your husband was?” He could see the shock register in her face and continued. “Signor Guido Fasculo was stupid with financial matters – he must have been, or he would never have left so many debts when he died.”
She swallowed, but held his gaze. “What are you talking about?”
“Money, Signora Fasculo… and your debts.”
“It’s all lies!”
“No, it’s not. It’s the truth. And I find it fascinating that the widow of a man who fled angry creditors in Florence should be put in charge of the ghetto coffers in Venice... “ he smiled without warmth. “You and your family left Florence and came to Venice to leave your past behind. Just as you left unfortunate creditors...”
Silent, Guida Fasculo watched him.
“...Naturally the people you cheated are angry. And, I imagine, they would be very grateful for someone to tell them the whereabouts of you – and your sons. So they can recover what is rightly theirs —”
She looked at him pleadingly: “I am working as hard as I can to gather together funds to pay off the debts. I intend to repay every lira —”
“But how long will that take, Signora Fasculo?”
“I don’t know...”
“Well, I can tell you – a long time.” He sighed, pretending regret. “We have two alternatives here. One,” he tapped the index finger of his left hand. “I can – and should – tell the authorities about the criminals living in our city. Of which you are one. Or two” he tapped his index finger again. “I could suggest a way out of your troubles.” He leaned towards her again. “Would you like to know a way out?”
“My sons —”
“Cannot protect you. Instead they will be disgraced with you. Venice likes order, the Doge does not tolerate crime - which is why the prisons are busy. Of course you may only be flogged publicly and your head shaved —”
The colour had gone from Gilda Fasculo’s face, her voice curt. “What do you want?”
“To help you.”
“To ruin me!”
“It is all a matter of perception.” Baptista replied phlegmatically. “Not all the Jewish in your ghetto are poor. I can see that. Some of the women are superbly dressed and the professional men have big bellies and jingling pockets. There are famous doctors and lawyers here who are paid handsomely for their skills. And I think you should use the trust that they have placed in you —”
“I only deal with the very poorest.”
“Signora, do not fucking lie to me,” he said quietly, “I am not a fool, neither is my employer. We know exactly to whom you lend money. And we know who your creditors are in Florence. We know all about you – and I’m offering you a chance to escape justice.”
Her voice wavered. “You call this an escape?”
“You can sit in here like an old crone for years and pick off your debts until your body is ancient and you piss when you walk. But it will take too long —”
“I cannot cheat my own people.” She replied, distraught.
“Your husband did in Florence.”
“He was a bad businessman, not a criminal!”
“And yet here you are, left to carry the burden.” Baptista retorted. “Perhaps you will reconsider the offer. In return for my silence, you will pay a fee that you can skim off the ghetto rich.”
“They are not rich!”
“Are you very stupid, Signora Fasculo?” he asked, his tone contemptuous. “We have already surmised that there are many poor here - and as many rich.”
“But none is as rich as Venetians!”
“Money is money, wherever it comes from,” Baptista replied, standing up. “My employer is offering you a fair deal – I would take it, Signora Fasculo, the galleys are not a place for old women.”
*
And here I am, entering the tale again. Not in chronological order, but as the story flows best. It was essential that I positioned most of the principal characters in place first; Pietro Aretino, Adamo Baptista, Barent der Witt and Ira and Rosella Tabat. Oh, and of course, Tintoretto. I have now set the skittles on the board and, in time, they will all begin to fall.