Free Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

fisherboy’s brown feet. Why, he doesn’t even have shoes. Of course not. It’s so obvious, I almost laugh at what a fool I was. And he probably doesn’t have a
bareta,
either. If he fishes with no clothes on, he certainly wouldn’t put a hat on his head. I was an idiot to put mine in the satchel. He’s probably sold them both by now.
    Well, if he can walk back and forth from his boat to his home every single day with no shoes, then I can certainly go out just this one day with no shoes.
    “Move, boy.” A water-carrier pushes me aside with a rough swipe of the arm. The two deep buckets swing heavily from the beam balanced across his shoulders.
    I shrink back from the touch of his large hand. We have a courtyard with our own cistern. But many homes get their water from the public cisterns in the
campi
. The job of carrying water takes enormous strength, because it’s un-ending. This man will trudge all day long from that cistern to every home in our parish that doesn’t have a private cistern.
    I walk in the direction that would be to the right as we look out our balcony window onto the Canal Grande. That’s the general direction of Dorsoduro, where the fishermen live. I stay close to the walls, trying to ignore the bits of rubble that tickle my arches and stick between my toes. Every man I pass seems larger than normal, more powerful. I know this is just because the water-carrier gave me a scare. I know I can manage this adventure. There’s nothing really dangerous about it. Just bare feet, that’s all.
    A boy my size but a couple of years younger walks toward me. He’s barefoot and in trousers, too, though he has a
bareta
on. I press against the wall to allow him passage. But he catches my eye, and his own glints. He also hugs the wall closer. I swerve out to go around him, but he quickly swerves himself and our shoulders bash hard.
    “What you think you’re doing here?” His face is mean. Three rings of dirt circle the creases of his neck. His breath smells of rancid figs. It warms my cheeks.
    Warms my cheeks! No veil. I’m outside without a veil. That’s what it means to be a boy—but, oh, it makes me feel as if I were naked. I fight the urge to cover my face with my hands.
    “This spot’s mine.”
    His language is crude and hard to follow. I have to get away from his nastiness fast. I lower my head and try again to pass.
    He grabs me by the hair at the nape of my neck. “What’s this? What you doing with hair like this?”
    I twist away, but he pins me to the wall.
    “Whatever gimmick you’ve got, boy, go use it someplace else.” His face is so close to mine, I fear his lips will brush my cheek. “Don’t ever let me see you begging around here again.”
    So that’s it. “I’m not begging,” I say reasonably. “I’m a fisherboy.”
    “With this white skin?” He pinches my cheek. “If you beg as bad as you lie, you’ll not last long in this world. Take your fake fancy talk and go die someplace else.” He spits in my face and walks on.
    I’m breathing heavily as I wipe the boy’s saliva from my nose and brow. I want to go straight home. Now, this very instant. Straight into the arms of my clean, cooing sisters. But the beggar boy went in the direction of home. Oh, I spy him now, leaning against the wall by the opening of the alley that leads back to my
palazzo
. I have no choice; I hurry in the other direction, shaking with disgust.
    I don’t want to go to Dorsoduro now. The beggar boy was right—I’d stand out, with my fishbelly pale skin against all the deep tans of the fisherboys. People would look, and then someone would notice my hair tucked into the back of my shirt and who knows what would happen then. I wouldn’t even be able to talk my way out of trouble; they’d all accuse me of acting fancy.
    If only I could find a way to circle back through the alleys and home again. But I remember the confusing maze of alleys on the map in Cristina Brandolini’s home. I remember how