by Alex Connor
“I have been sent to you by Madame Dinette in Paris,” Tita had told her. “My mother was French and my father was Italian. When they died I was left alone and followed my mother’s profession.” Her Italian was exceptional, but underneath was a nuance of a French accent, her inflexion rising on certain words. It gave her voice a lilting quality that was compelling.
“You were sent to me by Madame Dinette?” Caterina asked with interest. Dinette was an aged hag, a woman of grotesque appearance and unfathomably wealthy. A madam on the grand scale: not discreet like Caterina, but bold and infamous. “And what did the lady tell you about me?”
“That you were one of the finest courtesans in Venice. Not young any more, but still famous and popular.”
“You insult me.”
Tita had opened her serious grey eyes. “I did not mean to.”
“You have inferred that I am old.”
“No, that you are not young anymore. But still beautiful.” Tita had answered. “I was told that you spoke six languages and composed music, that you had lovers in the nobility and were a friend of the Doge. Also that you had a speciality.”
“And all this is should share with you?” Caterina had replied, studying the girl carefully; the long limbs and narrow head, the curiously feline appearance. “You are unremarkable.”
“Et je suis remarquable quand j'ai besoin d'être.”
Caterina had smiled. “Indeed. I imagine that you are remarkable when you need to be.”
Yes, she had thought, to a man you could be very remarkable indeed. Especially if trained by the harpy Dinette who had studied the infamous tricks of Chinese love making and added some perverse quirks of her own. From India, or so the rumour went, and Turkey, and beyond. With clients in the clergy, the nobility and many in French politics, Dinette had proved herself above the law. Her girls were never imprisoned or even charged, their loyalty unquestioned - because Dinette understood how life functioned. That the highest payer secured the greatest devotion.
“May I ask why you left Madame Dinette?”
“I wished to return to my father’s homeland.”
“He was a Venetian?”
“No, he came from Rome.”
“But you did not choose to find a home there?”
“I was recommended to you, Signora, and you are in Venice.”
She smiled, her face softening, the feline features becoming flirtatious. “I will not disappoint you.”
“I have only two other girls.” Caterina replied, warming to the newcomer. “I do not run a brothel here, I offer extraordinary women with extraordinary gifts.” She had studied the girl again. “Your clothes are not good. I’m surprised that Madame Dinette did not present you more elegantly.”
“Madame requested that I leave behind the clothes she had provided for me.” Tita explained. “Madame is generous when you are working for her, but not when you chose to leave.”
Caterina raised her eyebrows. “You need new clothes —”
“I have little money.”
“That won’t be a problem for long. Soon you will have plenty,” Caterina had reassured her. “But in order to look like a Contessa you have to dress like one. Your clients know they will fuck you, but they do not wish to be reminded of your profession. If you cannot buy your clothes, you can rent from the Castilano sisters.”
“I understand.”
“There are men who asked for specialities, some require beatings or other humiliations.” Caterina said, pausing and re-reading the letter from Madame Dinette recommending Tita, before tossing it to one side. “She says that you are very adventurous.”
“I am also very strong and no man has ever hurt me, physically or mentally.” Tita replied. “Madame might have also remarked that I am seldom afraid. I do not think any man or woman is above me. Even in this profession, I have pride in myself.” She smiled with unexpected sweetness. “A young woman alone either is used, or learns to use others.”
“Tita, il mio bambino —”
“I am not a child.”
“ – do not try to use me. If you do, I promise you will live to regret it.” Caterina said firmly, gesturing to the letter. “Of course, I have only your word to say that it is from Madame Dinette. It could be fake.”
Tita smiled again. “And I could be a fake.”
“If you are, you will do well in Venice. It is all fakery here.”
Unlike the other girls, Tita had moved into Caterina’s house, the other courtesans having apartments of their own and the little redheaded maid, Paola, living at her parents’ home. Usually Caterina would have resented having to share her space, but she had been nervous and was relieved to have company of a redoubtable woman. She had also checked the reference from Madame Dinette and discovered that Tita was exactly what she claimed to be and was pleased to have her living in the house. But now Caterina thought, glancing over her shoulder at the tall African following them, now I will be truly safe.
In silence, Bakita walked behind. He was aware of the people staring at him, and fixed his eyes on the glowing crown of Caterina’s hair, following it as though following a torchlight. His instinct told him he could trust her, but the younger woman made him anxious. Tita Boldini had a ruthlessness he recognised, some inkling of a hard past. But there was something else that troubled him – an undercurrent of aggression. Another person might not have noticed it, but it was evident to Bakita, and it made him wary of her.
He did not realise then how accurate his instinct would prove to be.
Chapter Nineteen
Aretino was sucking his fingers, one by one, the cream sauce sticking to the beard hairs round his mouth, his bulging stomach covered by a white napkin the size of a tablecloth. Sighing, he pushed aside the bowl of mussel shells, dabbed at his lips, and glanced at his visitor.
The beard and moustache that Marco had decided to grow had proved luscious, his mouth framed like a split peach.
“It has been a while since we met, my dear Marco.”
“I sent a note —”
“Ah yes, I have been busy. So very occupied with matters that take my attention more than I would like.” He dipped his fingers into the bowl beside him and idly flicked a little water at Marco. It spotted the pale silk of his doublet. “Why so serious, my friend? You seem to have lost your wit. I hear that Il Furioso is very angry with you, so I thought it expedient that I did not occupy too much of your valuable time...”
“But I —”
“... I have been selfish, monopolising you.” He could see the hunger in Marco’s eyes, the desperation for approval, and jerked the strings. “But then perhaps we could come to some sort of an agreement?”
“Yes,” Marco said, clearing his throat. “Yes, I would like that.”
“I will make time for you from now on... Do you visit Caterina Zucca?”
“No, I only met her once when you introduced us.”
“She does not like me.”
Marco shrugged. “I would not know if that was true, or not.”
“She has been a famous courtesan for a number of years, but time is beginning to ravage her.” He wiped his face with a napkin. “Soon she will be unable to set her fees so high, even for her ‘unusual’ gifts. However, she now has a new girl in her stable...” Aretino turned his gaze from Marco onto the plate of fruit bedside him. For several seconds, he rummaged through the assortment, then beckoned for his servant to take it away. “… a French girl. Do you speak French?...”
Marco nodded.
“... Excellent. I feel I owe you for my rudeness. But I acted in good faith, Marco. Your master was very angry, accused me of leading you astray.” He shrugged his fleshy shoulders, lying sleekly. “What could I say? But now I can make up for it. An introduction to this new girl is very apt. Whether you fuck her or not is up to you.”
Marco hesitated, unsure of what to say, as Aretino continued. “You must attend to your painting lessons, like a good boy. Keep the artist happy, although I hear he has a wo
man who is keeping him content at present.”
“Tintoretto?” Marco asked, surprised.
“Why not? Apparently she is a decent girl and no doubt the little dyer will do the decent thing and marry her.” Aretino said, drawing in a long breath. “Decency is so very dull, don’t you think? A decent man is a bore, or so I find... how is your dear father?”
Marco nodded. “He is well.”
“‘He is well’… how would you know, poor lad? Jacopo has no time for you, does he? Cruelty is unforgivable. I have often wondered why he is so remote from his only son.” Aretino tapped the seat beside him. “Here, sit by me, we have to talk. You must tell me your secrets.”
Unsure, Marco hesitated, then took the seat offered. “I have no secrets.”
“Of course you do. Even when I was your age I had secrets. Well, to be honest, at your age I had many perverse secrets.” Aretino tapped his thigh. “You did not answer my question.”
“What was the question?”
“I asked why your father was so indifferent to you.”
The question was a barb, poison on the tip, and it stuck in Marco’s gut.
“My mother died giving birth to me.”
Aretino raised his eyebrows. “Friends should not lie to one another.”
“I’m not lying!”
He waggled his finger in front of Marco. “You and I both know the real tragedy, that your mother – God rest her immortal soul – killed herself.” He looked around as though anxious someone might over hear. “I understand that your father would not wish this to commonly known, but it is a long time ago and, as the Doge says, it is very doubtful that your father drove your mother to her death.”
“What!” Marco retorted. “The Doge said what?”
“That your father was not responsible for your mother committing suicide.”
“That wasn’t what you said.”
“It was exactly what I said, dear Marco.”
“You spoke of my father driving my mother to suicide —”
Aretino sighed expansively. “Marco, do not let your own suspicions cloud your judgement —”
“I never said my father was the cause of my mother’s unhappiness and suicide!”
“Of course you didn’t.” Aretino assured him, taking a glance at him out of the corner of his eye and smiling inwardly. It was so easy to manipulate the Gianetti men. Two generations of dupes. “Before I forget, there was something else I wanted to speak to you about, Marco. You have a Jewish friend, a doctor called Ira Tabat.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“I suppose your father does not approve of the association?”
“Ira is a good friend.”
“And a Jew.”
Marco stiffened in his seat, Aretino making a mental note of the response.
“Yes, he is Jewish. He is also a fine doctor and has treated my father.”
“Well, now here is a question for you. This friend of yours, this noble doctor, has a sister, I believe?”
Marco’s chest tightened. He didn’t understand why, just that he felt threatened.
“Yes, her name is Rosella.”
“And Tintoretto tells me she is very beautiful.”
Relaxing, Marco nodded. If Tintoretto was involved it was safe. “She is, yes.”
“Are you in love with her?” he asked, nudging Marco. “Come now, we talk of fucking whores, but love is a different matter. You can trust me, Marco, do you love this pretty Jewess?”
“No,” he said honestly, wondering if it was the right answer; if saying she was his amorata would have protected her more. He was feeling increasing hot, his thoughts unsteady as he reached for the glass of wine at his elbow.
“I ask for a friend, Marco. I have a dear friend who would like to meet this lovely girl. His intentions are perfectly honourable, you will be relieved to hear, it is just that he has noticed her and is” he laughed hoarsely, “most keen to have her acquaintance.”
Marco drained his glass, the wine taking effect and making him relax. Rosella was in no danger, he told himself, indeed, she might have caught the attention of a wealthy man. He pushed down the knowledge that few noble Venetians would marry a Jewess and asked: “You said he was honourable?”
Aretino nodded. “Indeed, and wealthy in his own right. A very singular person, very private and many talented. A man who travels a great deal. Handsome, or some say.”
“I should talk to Ira before I offer up an introduction,” Marco said evenly. “He is the head of the Tabat household.”
“Ah, but would the doctor agree?” Aretino asked, looking regretful. “I understand he is a very stern character, very honourable and very much in control of his family.”
“He cares for them —”
“But sometimes a brother can be too protective and scupper a sister’s chances.”
“He is a reasonable man.”
“And a reasonable man can be obstructive.” Aretino replied, his tone cooling. “Surely this would be better kept between ourselves?”
“I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.” Marco replied, “Ira trusts me.”
“So did I.” Aretino said, using the past tense, something Marco picked up on immediately. “But apparently you do not trust my judgement, and that saddens me. I have grown to think of you as a surrogate son. Forgive me, I know it is wrong, but I do have affection for you and understand the injury your father has done you.” He glanced away, looking out over the water. “Perhaps, in my small way, I wanted to give you the opportunities and pleasures that this great city offers. Opportunities which have been withheld from you through no fault of your own.” He could sense Marco wavering. “But I will not pursue the matter and perhaps my initial – reluctant - desire to curtail our friendship would be the honourable course of action.”
“No.” Marco said, more sharply than he meant. “Our friendship matters a great deal to me.”
“All my friendships matter. I wish nothing more than to see the people I love get what they deserve. Which is why I presumed to make an enquiry on behalf on my dear friend who wishes only to meet Signora Rosella Tabat. But if you do not trust me —”
“I will speak to Rosella myself.” Marco replied, his hand shaking as he laid down the wine glass. “What harm is there in an introduction?”
Aretino smiled benignly. “Indeed. What harm?”
“May I ask the name of your friend?”
“You know him, Marco. His name is Adamo, Adamo Baptista.”
Chapter Twenty
Summoned, the Dutchman made his way to Caterina Zucca’s house, taking the water entrance and skirting the main reception rooms, heading instead for the narrow steps which lead directly to Caterina’s bedroom. In the passageway outside stood the African, Bakita, who nodded and held open the door for the Dutchman to enter.
Obviously waiting for him, Caterina approached with a lamp in her hand, then locked the door behind them. Still silent, she checked that the shutters were bolted and finally beckoned for him to take a seat. He did so, noticing a stranger sitting in a chair by the wall.
“This is Tita Boldini,” Caterina explained. “She is now one of my girls.”
He was expecting her to leave immediately, but instead she waited until Caterina dismissed her, Tita staring at him as she passed, her gaze holding his as she left.
“Thank you so coming so promptly,” Caterina said, “I need your help...”
He watched her: a weighty, unsmiling man sitting at the edge of a chaise longue, his hat in his hands.
“... Did anyone follow you?”
Surprised, he shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why would they?”
She was walking up and down in front of him, her dress brushing the carpet, the silk pile bending one way, then another. Obviously anxious, she fiddled with a chain around her wrist and then turned to him, her voice low.
“A while ago we spoke of the girl Gabriella, the missing maid —”
“I remember.”
; “ – from the Castilano shop. You said you were looking for her and I told you about the conversation she and I had in the square.” She quoted Gabriella, word for word.
‘… The Wolves of Venice.
Four . You hear me?
Four . Don’t let them tell you less.’
“I remember.” The Dutchman said, listening as she continued.
“A month ago Marina Castilano came to see me. She had found Gabriella’s shoes. They were covered in blood and had been hidden in her shop.”
Der Witt reacted fiercely. “Why didn’t you tell me!”
“I thought it better not to.” Caterina replied, unnerved. “As you said, the authorities would never be interested in a missing maid and her body has never been recovered.” She hurried on. “I hoped that Gabriella had left Venice. I knew that it was unlikely, but as time passed and she wasn’t found, I wanted to believe it. Besides, I was frightened. Venice is full of shadows, illusions. The girl’s disappearance, the shoes, it was all strange. Almost unearthly.”
His eyes widened. “You suspect the occult?”
“No. I don’t even believe in it! I believe in man and what man is capable of. And that’s enough.”
The Dutchman shook his head. “If you wanted to keep it secret, why are you telling me now?”
“Because of the shoes. I told Marina Castilano to get rid of them.”
“Why?”
“Why keep them!” Caterina countered. “The woman had frightened me, talking about how she had come to realise that if Gabriella was dead she couldn’t have hidden them. And if she had merely been injured why would she have hidden them?” Caterina sat down, facing the Dutchman. “However much I’ve tried I can’t stop thinking about it. Who had been in the Castilano shop? Who had hidden those shoes? And why had they hidden them?”
Der Witt was smoothing the nap of his hat with one hand. “They must have known that they’d be found —”
“Exactly.”
“ – perhaps that’s why they did it.” He replied, his forehead ridged with lines. “Someone was trying to frighten Marina Castilano. Or…”
“Or what?”