Free The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice by Laura Rahme Page B

to confess.  Yet , I pondered , a man who truly confesses is almost always relieved of his guilt . 
    I crossed to the noisy Piazza.  I paid no heed to the reveling crowds. Strange figures writhed before me in all the splendor of their youth, spraying color and gaiety behind their ridiculous masks. Leather straps, feathers, lace, towering turbans encrusted with gems–they were mere illusions after the reality I had seen. Did none of these festive fools even comprehend that beneath their feet, nay, beneath the Carnivale merriment, there lay the state prisons, places of agony and terror; the Republic’s Wells.
    I froze.
    A notion struck me.
    I had delved too closely into Giacomo’s murder. What if Rolandino were guilty of something else? No. What if all these men had precipitated their deaths through the reckless consummation of their guilt.
    I remembered Guido’s intoxicated plunge into the canal. Why anyone would venture close to the waters when his senses were no longer his own could only be accounted for in moments of great foolishness.  Drinking to death...yes! As foolish as it was soul-destroying! Eating to death... Now there, there was a pastime that would be incomprehensible to most had it not been for Ubertino’s desperation to escape guilt.
    I might be near the truth.
    These were, then, the absurd notes I scribbled in the middle of the Piazzetta:
    Ubertino and Guido died of guilt.
    But guilt from what?
    I had written without thinking. I had listened to a voice deep within. I was sure of myself and altogether ignorant of the reason that had compelled me.
    It was midday when I finally cast aside my notes and walked out of the Piazza.  Behind me, I felt the cold specter of the two granite columns– Saint Theodorus and the lion of San Marco, towering over me.  Rolandino was destined to die and there was nothing I could do.
    But more chilling was the memory of what I had seen. The terror on Rolandino’s face.
    He had spoken of Him . He believed that God would punish him...
    He has confessed and yet he remains haunted.
    Haunted by what?
    Haunted by…
    And now, as I sit in my room, writing these notes, I realize that there is another confession I need to extract from Rolandino Vitturi.
    There is no running away from the festering prisons. And the scourge of the inquisitor is to find himself again and again, at their threshold.
    Reluctantly, I promised myself that I would return there as soon as I could.

Carampane
     
    After midday, exhausted from lack of sleep and little time to eat, I had no choice but to meet the marquis’ servant. Together we ventured into the jasmine-scented Rampani district, where the lecherous Balsamo Morosini had met his grisly death. After leading me to a narrow calle , the servant left.
    For a moment, I hesitated.  I was persuaded that these pleasure houses would be hostile to an avogadore .  Yet my appearance did not cause a stir.  The women had seen it all. 
    The Madam seemed to hark from the Battle of Chiogga.  She was sniffling from cold.  Under her heavy shawl, she wore a coarse woolen dress marred by the latest artichoke weave and several gold rings on her plump fingers. She was all sleeves, bosom and layers. A sheer muslin veil hung upon her headdress, like the relic of her long lost chastity.  She greeted my every question with a nonchalant air, tossing her heavy head about so violently that I feared her horned headdress might fall off.
    “How many girls did he want? Five? Six? What do I care, Signore? The man has ducats. He is clean. I look at his clothes, I like what I see.  Strong, gazelle of a man. He tells me, ‘Maria! You bring me the wine and the girls. Make them come to me. Tonight, I am king. Not the shy ones tonight,’ he says. ‘I want puttane , real puttane !’ So I gave him what he wanted and he paid me. The Morosini was a generous man when he was up, let me tell you.”
    “In this room?”
    “No.” She gestured to the end of a corridor. “That