The bells sounded again, jostling the weighty quiet of the room.
“I hear you, I hear you.” With a sigh, Gio untied his glasses, which were fastened to his face with two loops of black ribbon. They pinched his nose, but their thick lenses worked well as magnifiers—certainly better than the bowl of water Seneca would have used. Even though his central vision was still adequate, nothing a squint here or there couldn’t fix, he wore the glasses daily. His hope had been they might hold at bay the blackness that hemmed in his field of vision and steadily gnawed away at it. Increasingly, that hope was fading. It’d been just over a year since he’d first noticed the signs, and already a permanent vignette had arrived to frame the world in a disheartening, advancing darkness. Using the lenses felt a bit like trying to clean up spilled wine while the whole house was flooding, but it was all he knew to do.
Gio shook his head, as if that motion could dislodge his thoughts from the rutted path they tended down. Tucking the frames into the pouch that hung at his waist, he rubbed his eyes, then hitched his satchel of supplies up on one shoulder. As he stepped out into the street, the last bell toll sounded.
Under bridges, canal waters reflected hot sun glare and snatches of blue sky, bright streaks of color from painted tenement walls. The smell of stew and a muffled clamor of domesticity wandered through the alleyways, while overhead, lines of laundry swayed in mild breezes. From rooftop nooks, birds murmured and cooed. A cobblestone struck Gio’s foot, and he stumbled; righting himself, he caught sight of his own reflection in a pool of dirty street water. Deep-set hazel eyes, straight nose, well-molded mouth. Beard trimmed close to the jaw, cropped chestnut hair that curled at the tips. An unremarkable face, but one that had grown more dignified with the arrival of a few wrinkles, a dusting of gray at his temples.
He pressed onward. From open doorways and windows, dark-eyed children watched him pass.
Before long, he arrived at a great house set back some distance from the avenue. Columns and arches sent shadows curving in the sharp light; from a corner of the garden came the cool sounds of a fountain. Gio approached the front door and peered at the elaborate knocker: a bronze snake eating its own tail. Grasping its head, he pounded. Within moments, a solemn-faced girl in a white apron swung the door open. She stared at him, expressionless, with large brown eyes set slightly too far apart. He fumbled in his pouch for the scrap of parchment.
“Sebastiano Venier is expecting me.” He thrust the scrap in her direction.
The servant took the paper, unfolded it, and began to read the summons—signed with her master’s distinctive scrawl. The note mentioned in two separate places that Gio should come to Venier’s city palazzo and not his family estate in the country. Reading between the lines, Gio guessed he’d be tasked with painting a portrait of Venier’s latest courtesan; as he aged, the man seemed to take increasing pride in the beauty of his young escorts. With rumors circulating that Venier—currently a statesman—would soon be nominated “next doge of Venice,” nubile companions weren’t difficult to come by.
The servant nodded when she’d finished, the center part in her hair drawing a perfect pale arc over the crown of her head. She turned, gesturing for him to follow. She led them left, down a corridor, and up a narrow spiral staircase: the servants’ route, more direct than the wide marble stairs in the center of the courtyard. He took care to remember the way. At the top, the stairway let out into a great hall, brilliant sun streaming in through tall windows at the far end. As they crossed the polished terrazzo floors, their reflections shivered up, glassy and distorted. Rows of columns flanked several pairs of doors on either wall, and between them hung drab paintings in gilded frames: women holding lapdogs, or anemic men in naval uniforms. Lesser-known members of the Venier clan, no doubt. Gio squinted at the portraits as he passed. Even with his middling vision, he could tell they were unexceptional: the palettes dull, the proportions uneven—
Abruptly, the servant girl halted. Gio pulled up short just behind her, narrowly avoiding a collision. Pressing her shoulder against the nearest door, she pushed it open.
Inside, the walls of the grand room were hung in rose silk, tinting the light. Heavy drapes had been drawn halfway shut, and on a far hearth, embers from a recent fire smoldered. Gio stepped into the glow. For a moment he lost all focus as his eyes adjusted from the glare of the hall. Gradually, three women came into view, floating before him on plush divans. Their skin was powdered to a satin finish, imperfectly concealed by folds of silk and velvet that dripped and pooled onto the floor. Jewels at their throats and fingers shimmered. Their lips and cheeks were stained the same fever shade, and their hair—yellow, chestnut, red—was piled high, growing upward like strange glossy botanicals. At his entrance, they turned to him in unison. From the ceiling, sharp-eyed Gospel figures peered down in judgment, trapped in the landscape of an elaborate allegorical frieze. The women’s powdered breasts rose and fell under the apostles’ watchful eyes. The choking scent of perfume mingled with the tang of wine; Gio suddenly felt dizzy. The women’s faces tilted toward him as the ceiling shifted closer.
At his right, two men sat on walnut chairs. One’s beard and hair were a close-cropped silver, the other’s a black so dark it shone indigo. The dark one turned to watch as Gio pressed a palm to the wall. Then the older man stood and with wide, intoxicated steps, veered toward him. Gio blinked against the blur. Suddenly, the weight of Sebastiano Venier’s hand clamped down on his shoulder; Venier’s pale eyes swung in front of him, cold and brisk as seawater. Gio breathed in the strong odor of wine and tobacco and, beneath that, salt.
“Giovanni! You look faint! Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a pretty girl before!” Venier’s voice boomed as if he were still speaking out over a sea. His narrow face, usually so stern—steely gaze, thin-lipped scowl—was now soft with good humor, cheeks ruddy from wine. The women tittered: round, glad tones that drifted up and broke open across the apostles’ faces.
“Sebastiano, don’t be cruel.” The yellow-haired woman at the center of the room spoke, bending to pour more wine into an empty glass at her feet. Her voice was soft, with a scratch inside it like a fingertip curling: come closer.
“Here, have a drink.” She held out the full goblet.
As he neared to take it, Gio saw at once why Venier had chosen her. She was dazzling in a way only something that won’t last can be. In a few years’ time, he knew her face would be hardened, her posture settled into the architecture of a body accustomed to use. But gazing at her now, Gio felt the same way he did watching sunrise over the lagoon: a near-painful awe at the excessive grace of nature, its beauty offered up without fanfare or expectation, as if it were ordinary.
The girl’s skin was nearly translucent and flush with young blood, a shade richer than the ivory silk of her dress or the ropes of pearls at her neck. Long lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. When she raised her eyes, he noticed their remarkable hue: hovering between blue and purple, violaceous and hypnotic. A sapphire pendant dangling at her clavicle reflected their color; the drape of the stone inviting the gaze to travel downward, to the firm curves of her breasts, as yet unmarred by age or childbirth. Her tinted hair had been oiled and braided in a delicate pattern at her crown, laced through with gold thread, so that all of her seemed to glisten in the afternoon haze. It was for women such as this that men wrote sonnets, wept, or went to war. With a quick squint, Gio understood he was merely the first of many who would be summoned to paint her portrait. As he reached to take the glass from her, she tipped her face and smiled.