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Republic? Signor Moro does not even paint. A true painter is an artist, one who creates masterpieces. Donatello! Now, that - that is an artist.  None of this dabbling at paint, splashing about on canvas while his daughter writes. What does she write? Poetry? Humph.”
    “Poetry, Father. She also teaches.”
    “What is it with Venetian women these days? Writing? What kind of a woman who has never raised children or suffered the pains of childbirth can write? I ask you. Lorenzo? Where are you going? Lorenzo, I am not finished speaking. You will remain seated!”
    As he shouted, even the terriers at his feet set off to bark at me.
    You know what we say, here– ‘ relatives, toothache ’. Yes, such was my father.
    And sometimes I did not bother to respond to him. And he would venture into yet more malice, stinging at my heart with all the venom this Republic encourages.
    “It is not just the pitiful dowry, fio mio . Do you forget her Jewish descent? Do you want your children to be little bloodsuckers?”
    I shall spare you the venom of his ways.
    Yes, Father. Unlike you, I can forget. I am in love, you see? In love. 
    But Giacomo Contarini had other designs.  And we, the children of Giacomo Contarini, we were only pawns in his game and he saw fit to move us as he wished.  It would have pleased my father to see our Zanetta married off to that lout, that imbecile Rolandino.  What a splendid little arrangement if his own daughter could be married off to a primary commerce partner.  The genius of Giacomo!  How befitting that the dowry would not leave the Contarini coffers. What does it matter if his daughter inherited a toad for a husband?
    They want me to grieve, but I rejoice, Signor da Parma.  In death, I know my sister is safe from this boor who would have never loved her for as long as he remained enslaved to my father.
    So I come, now, to the question of Rolandino. Because this letter has in it much rejoicing and you will frown at me and accuse me of such and such. You will deduce that I, Lorenzo Contarini, lover of Daniela Moro, is guilty of murder.  For who else has much to profit as I, since I am blessed with free will and shall do as I please now that my father is dead.  But I have nothing to hide.  I will tell you what I know, Signor da Parma. And you will make up your own mind.
    Rolandino is owed many ducats. My father played him for a fool, but I do not think Rolandino knows it. Deep down he may, or at least, he suspects. But what can he do?  For months, he was trapped. On the one hand, there was Zanetta, whom he very much wished to marry–much as an imbecile marries who will have him–and on the other hand, there was the sum of one thousand ducats he had lent to my father and expected in return with forty percent interest.
    Forty percent. Even the Jews my father called leeches do not lend for that price. But these are the Vitturi dealings. It is not for nothing that we, Veneziani, say money is our second blood .
    So what I know, is that five days ago, Rolandino was at his wit’s end.
    “It does not add up, Giacomo,” I heard him say, as they peered into my father’s account book.  I remember feeling amused.  Like my father, Rolandino keeps two account books– one for the tax assessors and investors, and the other with the real figures.  
    I heard my father’s voice soften and knew, already, that he was fibbing.
    “Rolandino, I know there were three ships. But only two of them returned. Shall I plunge into the Adriatic and retrieve the merchandise for you? Is it my fault if the mercenaries of the muda cannot do their work?”
    “Useless! They ought to have caught those Saracen pirates! Now I am ruined!”
    “Rolandino, Rolandino! Calm yourself.”
    There were muffled exchanges and then I heard Rolandino’s whiny voice through the door.
    “You told me it was a safe passage and that I’d nothing to fear. I invested all the ducats I had. I had faith in you, Giacomo! And look at me now.