Venice, 1831 ~ 7.
My first glimpse of Morosini’s library revealed a variety of classics; Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, Dante’s Commedia, Bocaccio’s Il Decameron, Petrarch’s Canzoniere and Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso. I realized that these texts shared tradition: Latin. Fiorentino colto... It consisted of a thread from a once-unified people to one that was fragmented, yet still connected culturally, spiritually, and historically. If he really had read all those books, Morosini was a man of culture.
“Is the Illustrissimo a reader or a collector?” I wondered to Alvise.
“Both,” he replied. I huffed softly. “What do you think of the collection so far?”
“These are beautiful editions.”
“But...?”
I grinned.
“But... what?”
“There’s obviously something you want to add.”
“Between you and me, I don’t know that he needs me.” I shrugged.
Alvise fell silent and I resumed browsing.
One book in particular caught my attention. Growing bolder, I pulled it off the shelf.
“What do you have there?”
I couldn’t help my expression of disbelief.
“Ugo Foscolo?” I flashed the cover at him. “Is this?...” I leafed through the tome in awe. “This is the...?” my voice trailed off as I searched for a specific date: March 17.
It was there: the letter cut out and censored from the editions found throughout the city.
“Piango la patria mia, che mi fu tolta, e il modo ancor m’offende,” I read slowly. I mourn my homeland, which was taken from me, and the way in which it was done still wounds me. My heart beat faster, recognizing an echo of the sentiment uttered sotto vocce by those watching our fallen city with fire in their eyes.
Alvise moved swiftly to where I stood, still absorbed in the dangerous book’s discovery.
“Signor Vianello,” he began, raising my chin to meet his eyes. “I may know a secret of yours, but now you know one of mine. Take it as a sign of trust. Work for me. Help protect our Serenissima,” he asked.
“Work for you? What do you mean? I thought I’d be working for Signor Morosini. And as far as my...secret... I am pretty sure you and I have the same one, no?” I raised an eyebrow as he stood so very close to me.
“Have you not figured out my ruse? I am Morosini.”
“Your name is ‘Alvise,’” I stated cautiously, although my heart started to race.
“Yes. Raffaele Alvise Marcantonio Morosini."
“Is this a joke?” I asked, a chill beginning to travel up my spine.
“It is not.”
“You lied?"
“Not quite; I did not disclose the entire truth. That’s different.”
Morosini was one of the most powerful men in Venice and I... I was acutely aware that I had spoken to... and even drunkenly propositioned him as if he were simply a commoner...
Like myself.
I felt deep embarrassment over everything— from our argument at Al Bricola, to my shabby accommodations... and my brazen flirtation with him... It all made me want to leave immediately.
“Signor Vianello,” he interrupted my thoughts, “I did what I did because I need to be certain about certain impressions before I could invite you into...my world. Forgive the subterfuge; believe me when I say that it was in your best interest as much as it was in mine.”
“I think perhaps I should leave.”
The situation was strange and uncomfortable. I did not appreciate Morosini's games. I could not grasp what he wanted, who he was, and how I fit into his plans. He seemed suddenly incredibly dangerous and any association with him was perhaps a bad idea.
He intercepted me.
“Work for me, and I’ll make it worth your while. There is a war, Vianello, and your gifts are needed," he pleaded.
“I don’t intend on becoming bait for the Austrians and take the blame for your banned books... or where you choose to spend your free time,” I stated as tactfully as I could. “I see you are someone who bends the truth.”
“And so do you!” he accused. “Every day. Don’t you see?”
I shook my head.
“I am no revolutionary martyr. I am just a lowly civil servant regardless of who is in power.”
“But that is just what is interesting. I am not trying to save our city from the Austrians. I leave that to...others, who must conquer their freedom with their own blood. I... am not allowed to intervene,” he stated enigmatically. “But if I cannot protect the city itself, I can protect its soul.”
“I don’t follow,” I offered apologetically.
“Work for me,” he persisted.
“I am sure there are others who would —”
“It must be you, Signore. I have chosen you.”
“Why? Why me?” I felt nervous at his scrutiny, at his insistence.
“Because... I have enjoyed my time with you. You have all the necessary qualifications...and something more. Something... that cannot be forced.”
I held my breath.
“I feel at ease with you. I liked how you spoke to me when we met. Fearless and defiant. It has been a very long time since anyone has approached me sincerely and looked me in the eyes,” he stated. “You have no idea how much theater I endure from people who always want something from me. You make me feel...present. Here. Because I often forget. Sometimes I get lost, but you... You have a grounding effect on me. I think we could accomplish much good together. I believe I can trust you. And I hope that over time, you will trust me, too."
“I still don’t know how I could help you.”
“Just know you can,” he said in a gentler tone. “And will.”
“Come back on Saturday, after work. See what kind of help you can give me...and then decide whether or not you should work for me," he proposed.
“All right,” I agreed warily. “One night.”
He smiled and blinked slowly. I liked looking at him. I wondered if he could tell.
“Thank you, Signor Vianello.”
“Just call me Giovanni.”
His smile broadened.
“And you may call me Raffaele.”
Prologue/Character Sheet/Beginning/Previous/Next
Historical Notes
The book Giovanni is excited about is The Last Letters of Jacopo Ortis (Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis), an epistolary novel by Ugo Foscolo (6 February, 1778 – 10 September, 1827), a writer, poet, and patriotic revolutionary who wrote about independence. This novel is a romantic novel, but it is also a very political novel that stirred a lot of controversy. It had several editions- one of them heavily censored. When Foscolo stepped away from fighting (he joined Napoleon's forces at first because he believed Napoleon would free Venice from the oligarchs in power and create a free republic. He was sadly mistaken), he worked on the definitive edition, which was not appreciated by the authorities or the Church. The March 17th entry is one that was censored and people found with editions containing that passage, would have been eyed suspiciously by both the government and the Church.
