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though those above you would have preferred otherwise.”
    Paolo looked at Francesco, eyebrows raised. Francesco waved the look away. “Yes, yes, Francesco knows. Francesco knows many things. Of course I have never given a man cause to treat me otherwise,” he said stuffily with a sardonic grin, “but nevertheless they have tried. You however Canever, are not one of them.”
    He slapped Paolo on the back. “When you are ready to speak of your troubles, I will be here. Until then, I would like to offer you employment.”
    “Now why would you do that?” asked Paolo.
    “For all of the reasons I have just stated,” replied Francesco. “Were you not listening Canever? I need a man who can listen.” He held up his hand, citing reasons on stubby fingers. “You are good with others. You are fair but not to be taken advantage of. And I have seen the way you deal with the thirsty men of the Arsenale. You are not to be trifled with. And,” he paused, “I need a little help with the Jews.”
    Ah, the Jews. Paolo was not a man of business, he would be the first to admit, and didn’t believe himself to have a head for figures. In truth it was one, while perhaps not the largest, reason he did not want to take over the glassworks. The act of creation, whether it be glass or ships, was what fired his imagination. The tending to the details—orders and shipments and payments and records—were meant to be left to other men, men who took an interest in such things. He was of course aware that Venice as an entity existed for business and business alone. And he was also aware that the Jews played an important role in the mercantilism of the State. But beyond that, he was an innocent in the ways of commerce. He often found it quite ironic that he was a Venetian.
    “I am hardly the man you need Francesco,” Paolo began. “I am no merchant and my bookkeeping skills could very well lead you to ruin.”
    “Oh I am sure Canever, I am sure.” Francesco let out another hearty laugh. “No, what I require of you is your head for human nature, not numbers. I will deal with the figures. What sort of a fool would I be to let an employee of the State, recently relieved of your duties though you may be, near my books? No, I need help with the Jews.”
    “I know very little of their ways Francesco. Might not an actual merchant who has dealt with them before be better suited to your needs?”
    “I am offended, how you go on so. If I did not know better, I would say that the prospect of working with Francesco seems distasteful to you. Is this the case Canever? If so, I will leave you to contemplate your future.” Francesco, surprisingly nimble for such a large man, moved toward the door before giving Paolo a sidelong glance. “I believe you now have ample time to do so.”
    Paolo winced. He was right. However ill-suited to the task he may be, he had no money and was in desperate need of employment. As to why Francesco chose him, he decided it was beyond his power to ferret out the reason. Such a man was a riddle, and to attempt to divine any pattern of logical thought would likely be an exercise in futility. Besides, the merchant’s indefatigable joviality and bluster could provide a welcome distraction from his troubles.
    “I accept your offer Francesco, though I may live to regret it.”
    Francesco smiled, holding out his hands expansively. “My search is over then. I congratulate you Canever on your clarity of mind. No, no, you will not regret it. Of that I am certain.”
    ***
    PAOLO SAT MOTIONLESS at the edge of his bed, staring. At the wall. At the floor. At the door only recently assaulted. Yes, he had been tempted to let the matter go, but once Francesco had left with his bombast in tow, leaving the small apartment feeling unnaturally silent, he was suddenly inclined, in the newfound stillness, to do just the opposite. It was odd, he thought, the timing. After being inexplicably removed from his position at the Arsenale, not a