The Venetian by Mark Tricarico Read Free Book Online

full day had passed before the equally incomprehensible job offer from Francesco.
    No, something was not right. Someone was lying. He no longer had a job at the Arsenale—now he had a new one. And as far as he was concerned, it had nothing at all to do with the Jews.

Eight
    P aolo’s first duty for Francesco was to seek out a Jew named Achaz Bercu in the northernmost sestieri of Venice, Cannaregio. He was apparently a shrewd negotiator, and worse still, completely impervious to Francesco’s unique brand of charm.
    “What shall I do once I find him?” Paolo had asked. He was standing in Francesco’s large office. Francesco’s place of business was near the Campo San Bartolomeo, near the great spice warehouses, and no less impressive. Magnificent tapestries covered one wall, opposite which stood windows of such exquisite craftsmanship, Paolo wondered whether Tomaso himself had made them.
    “You look surprised Canever,” Francesco smiled. “I am a merchant. I must be at the heart of things,” he said, patting the area of his chest below which resided his heart, “not all the way down by the little toe.” Francesco illustrated his point by apparently wiggling his toes, although the effect was lost inside his shoe.
    It was true. Paolo had not expected such lavish surroundings. He hadn’t thought about it much, but now realized that he had in fact looked upon Francesco as a bit of a fool. And Francesco obviously knew it. Perhaps it was a perception the merchant wished to cultivate, his fellow businessmen never realizing they were under the influence of a shrewd negotiator until it was too late. He promised himself he would not be fooled so easily again.
    “You seem to think I can be of service in the area of negotiation,” he said, returning to the matter at hand, “however that matters little if I lack expertise in the affair for which I am negotiating.”
    “Just find him Canever,” Francesco replied. “I need to speak with him. The Jews are slippery as eels at the fish market when there is unpleasant business to discuss.”
    ***
    WADING THROUGH THE Campo dei Mori the next day, Paolo reflected on the bizarre events that had brought him on this strange errand amidst the bustle of the aged neighborhood. The savage murder of his brother, the unlikely reunion with his father, the sudden appearance of the Council of Ten, the loss of his occupation, such as it was, and the almost immediate employment by a man he normally only tolerated, but to whom he was now inexorably bound for his survival. It was a tempest with no discernible pattern. He had to think. And Francesco; he didn’t dislike the wine merchant. Actually, he had no feeling about him one way or the other, which may be the worst punishment of all for a man like Francesco. But how he expected to carry on amidst this discord he did not know. He had to find out what had happened.
    To the north of the campo, the serene waters of the Canale delle Navi danced with morning light. Separating this most northern sestieri from the mainland, the canal was home to wharves perpetually in motion, their wood warped by the elements, twisting and squirming as though alive as they received cargo at all hours.
    How was he going to find Bercu in all of this? Paolo had asked Francesco for an address, but the merchant waved away the request. “The Jew knows I am looking for him, so he is sure to be elsewhere.” Francesco wasn’t giving Paolo much to go on, his face betraying his thoughts. “Perhaps I have misjudged you Canever,” Francesco said. “An intelligent man would not need his hand to be held.” Meaning the statement as a jest, Francesco could see that Paolo did not take it as such. He quickly brightened. “Money is all the Jews think about Canever. They cannot help themselves. They conduct business everywhere—the market, the corner, the synagogue, although they are not supposed to.” Francesco swept the air of the vast room with a fleshy arm, implying every