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ram on a war galley had come calling on the Maestro to show him some books. Needless to say, I have not forgotten a moment of that day, and I well remember how the two men argued over the value of some manuscripts while I stood in a corner, supposedly grinding rock salt in a mortar, but mostly listening openmouthed as they so casually batted incredible prices at each other over crumbling wads of paper.
    They had behaved far more like rivals than friends, so the Maestro was rearranging his memories to suit his present needs. The thousand ducats must have been irrelevant, because he did not mention it. Instead he said, “What is your logic on the missing Girolamo?”
    â€œThat he is still hunting for the unknown lover. They know who he is and they wasted half the morning trying to find him. I expect Giro is over in Cannaregio watching the gondolas leaving for Mestre. Aunt Fortunata is no doubt pacing the Molo, keeping her beady eye on ferries to Chioggia.”
    The Maestro nodded. “Not bad thinking, Alfeo.” From him that was ardent praise. “Give me an hour. But no more! I know the minute my back is turned you will be plunging into lechery with that harlot of yours.”
    â€œIn a whole hour I should be able to plunge several times,” I said, making him pout at my continuing salacity. What he was really doing was giving me permission and orders to find out what more Violetta knew about the Sanudo family. He would deny that, of course, although he knows that she will never betray my confidence.
    â€œShe’s been away, may not be back yet,” I said wistfully. Sunday’s negotiations at the theater had borne fruit in the form of a new patron, a wealthy commoner named Agostino Buranello, who had whisked her off to Padua on Wednesday so he could flaunt her at a wedding. I had been trying not to think about how she must be suffering.
    Nostradamus rose and hobbled over to the slate-topped table that holds the big globe of rock crystal. I saw him settled on the stool, lit the lamp, closed the shutters, and left him staring into the crystal. I locked the atelier door behind me. The salone was filled with mouth-watering odors, but a thousand ducats carries a lot of weight. I headed for my room.
    Mama Angeli rolled out of the kitchen to accost me. Mama is too good to be true and works hard to remain so. She is also larger than life, always seeming as if about to give birth to twins or triplets, which she does at frequent intervals, and she is a magnificent cook, a rarity in the Republic. The Maestro tolerates the cost of feeding her enormous family because he thereby retains the services of her husband Giorgio, our gondolier, plus a whole army of odd-jobbers. Six or seven young Angeli were leaking out of the kitchen behind her, curious to know who the fancy guy had been and what their employer was up to this time.
    â€œYou haven’t eaten dinner yet!” she said in tones normally reserved for pronouncing death sentences.
    My stomach responded in the same key. “I know,” I added. “I am fasting for the good of my soul.”
    â€œ You? You could starve to death a hundred times on your sins.”
    â€œI need to make room for a few more. The matter is urgent, Mama.” I did not move away, because I sensed she had some problem to discuss.
    She pouted. “Vettor was here. He is going to marry that girl!”
    â€œGiacomina? A wonderful choice! She’s a Virgo, which means purity and service.”
    Mama added more grooves to her pout. “Her dowry is only twenty-seven ducats!”
    â€œBut the children she will give him!”
    That was better, yet Mama’s eyes still gleamed suspiciously. “Children?”
    â€œMany, many children. But he must marry her soon, while Venus is in the house of Leo. I’ll work out the best possible day for the wedding so she will bear sons. If they wait until the moon reaches conjunction with the Pleiades, then it