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Everything I pay is through letters of credit.  I cannot continue like this!”
    “I know, Rolandino. I know. Patience. You will have your money.”
    They continued for hours and when they emerged from the room, I noted that Rolandino was in a sour mood.
    As I passed into the kitchen, my father saw me and lowered his voice, but I heard him whisper something to Rolandino about visiting all debtors in Santa Croce to put both their affairs in order.  He patted Rolandino’s hand before embracing him. That seemed to settle Rolandino a little.
    I come to the end of my deposition now.
    You will ask me to think back and to remember what happened before the banquet at the marquis’ house. Did Rolandino appear disposed to committing murder, perhaps?  Was he at odds with my father? No. No, I can offer you nothing there.
    I have thought long about this. Maybe I have missed a meaning that you might understand, Signor da Parma. So I will tell you everything.
    I will tell you about that day.  The day Rolandino murdered my father.
    I will start from the instant my mother presented the morning’s banquet in the main living room downstairs, to the moment when my father, his four friends, Giovanna and myself, headed out for the marquis’ home.
    What I remember, of that morning, is seeing our friends’ gondolas outside our house.  Early. All of them. 
    I can see into Rio del Pestrin from the top of my bedroom and as I looked down, the first person I saw arriving was Balsamo in his black and gold gondola, the drapes of his felze in brocaded velvet, emblazoned with the coat of arms of the Morosini–the entire gondola fitted and trimmed so as to best make an appearance as only Balsamo knew. I was furious at my father for refusing to invite Daniela. I longed to join her, but I knew I could not absent myself from the marquis’ salon until later that evening. And so I had little patience for Balsamo’s antics and his airs.
    Soon afterwards, as I dressed, there was a loud noise beneath my window. I leaned across, in time to see Rolandino’s rowdy Nicolotto gondolier take to our water door. Shouting to some other Castellano gondolier who had refused him passage, he was qualifying this one’s mother with all the nouns he could pronounce. There was much blasphemy downstairs as Rolandino tried to shut him up for good.  Rolandino was still fuming when he entered our casa . I heard the bull terriers bark at him and he responded in kind.
    The Canal brothers came soon after. Only Ubertino seemed happy. Ubertino was always excited at the thought of a meal. He pressed my mother with his nonsense, kissing her hand and marveling at her toilette. No sooner had he parted from his mantle, that he ambled in the kitchen, hassling the servants. Ubertino had an appetite for everything. I knew well that he’s had his hands up one of our maids’ skirts. And I knew he was fondling more than fresh bread from the ovens, when I heard him squealing about. I’ve often wanted to report him, just to be a nuisance. Eight days in prison for his crime against our household would have taught him some manners. Of course, I knew the only thing he’d really miss was his food. Glutton that he was.
    He emerged from the kitchens and strode toward my mother, sniffing her with inflated nostrils.
    “Signora, what a lovely hint of damask rose. Si, si , I noticed it. Is it new? So lovely on you, Signora,” he said with a wink as he kissed her hand once more. She seemed to welcome his attention but I wanted to retch.  As though Ubertino knew of anything else but to load his plate.
    Guido did not say anything.  He had a gruesome wound on his knuckles and did not look to have slept at all. My father greeted Rolandino and the two left to talk affairs in the adjacent room where we stock the merchandise. 
    At this, Balsamo flicked his hair and pointed out with his customary lazy nonchalance that there was a courier downstairs from the compagnia dei corrieri .  I said, no,