The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice by Laura Rahme Read Free Book Online

that it was not from the compagnia . I said that it looked to be a gondolier carrying a set of cases. My father, in his usual irritable humor, shouted at me to go to the water door and ask him what he wanted. So I did that, even though I resented him for indulging Balsamo’s superior manners. I placed the cases in the lounge for us to open later.
    At this, Ubertino rubbed his hands together and said, ‘let’s eat’.
    I believe we all ate the same fare.  I can testify that my mother’s cooking cannot be blamed for the illness any of us may have suffered in the later hours.  But I will leave nothing out. Let’s see if I remember.
    It began with a garlic and bean soup.
    When everyone had finished, the servants brought along an assortment of little pies. There was, I think, baby eel pie, squid pie and even pork in lemon juice. Ubertino said that eel made him ill and he abstained from it. This was then followed by the main dish, my mother’s Sarde in Saor which I cannot praise enough. The sardines were large and fleshy and looked appetizing under their bed of onions. There was also plenty of raisins and pine nuts in the sauce, the way I like it.  Call me precious but I believe the sauce should neither be too sweet nor too sour otherwise the sardines do not taste the same way. But my mother’s varying mood seems to render her heavy-handed with the vinegar and I usually find her Sarde in Saor too sour.
    And that completes our early meal. All this was served with delicious breads from our ovens and a soft cheese delicacy from Candia. I forget the name. I can attest that the meal was fresh and none of us were ill afterwards.
    Again there was nothing exceptional about the morning or early afternoon. In the later hours, we spoke of this and that. The ailing Doge was a favorite. My father said that he could not wait to see Francesco Foscari’s face minted on Venezia’s coins. At this, Balsamo said he would miss Tommaso Mocenigo’s generous ways when this one was gone.
    “Generous? More like a foolish old admiral,” replied my father.
    “He is a good man,” retorted my mother. “He was the only one willing to pay up the thousand ducats and he did it for the good of the Republic, the good of Venezia!”
    “He ought to have given those ducats to the poor,” spoke Ubertino. I remember rolling my eyes to the ceiling. I am certain Ubertino would squash a mendicant under his boot if he could.
    “Our most honorable Doge behaved righteously!” continued my mother.
    “He seeks the glory. All of it is pride,” said my father.
    “Glory, indeed. When has Doge Mocenigo ever done anything for his own ambitions? He is a man of honor.”
    “Honor, you say? Women are so naïve. He remains a merchant, like all of us. Long before he was procurator, he traded in wine and fabrics with Damascus.”
    “And who was it, Giacomo, who led eight galleys into the Bosphorus to rescue the King of Hungary from the Saracens? It was Admiral Mocenigo! There is none as noble as he is and you ought not to speak of him in this manner.”
    “I’ll welcome the day I no longer have to see his old face on my gazzetta !” said my father. 
    And so it went on.  I wondered if he might be vexed at my mother’s adoration for the Doge.
    The famous one thousand ducats. For years there was a decree imposing a penalty of a thousand ducats on anyone who dared speak of rebuilding the Ziani Palace. But a few months ago, Tommaso Mocenigo spoke up before the patricians and the Council. He offered to pay the sum in full and said that we should and ought to rebuild the Ziani Palace; that surely it was a sign of God’s displeasure that the Ducal edifice had been devastated by fire and that better construction was demanded by God to befit the state and glory of the Venetian dominions.
    It was the talk of the city for weeks. The old Mocenigo, it was said, was rebuilding the palace for his successors! He had prophesied that his own death would come before he could