Book of Encounters
I suppose in the end it was not an unpleasant evening.
As I lay wrapped in silk like a spider’s supper last night, waiting for Vasquez to arrive, I passed the time wondering what my new patron would be like. And, now that I’ve lain with him, I know that he’s greedy. Maestre Miguel Vasquez is a greedy man—greedy for me, greedy for food, greedy for life. His appetites for both his fine suppers and my body would appear to be irrepressible. At times last night I felt that he might almost devour me…my lips are tingling this morning—they’re quite bruised from his attentions—and my poor breasts are almost numb.
He says little, the Maestre. But there’s a fervent eagerness about him, an unsettling intensity that seemed not far from desperation at times yesterday. Has he always been like this, I wonder, or is it just that he has been waiting a long time for an encounter such as we had last night?
Perhaps he will relax a little more next time.
I hope so. Appetites like his often lead to trouble.
Two
It’s Wednesday evening. Filippo di Laviano is running his tongue over his lips. “You know you deserve a particularly severe beating, you insolent little slut,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at me.
“Why?”
Frowning, Filippo pauses to consider. “Oh…because…because wicked, unprincipled strumpets like you need to be kept in their place…and…men such as myself,” he says proudly, one hand on his chest, “have a responsibility to uphold the morality of the city of Napoli.”
I smother a laugh. It’s really rather charming. This quiet and unassuming man was introduced to me a year ago, and it didn’t take me long to discover that his subdued air of self-deprecation stemmed almost entirely from the fact that for years he had been quite crushed by the suffocating loneliness of a marriage to a frigid woman.
That first time we fucked, he actually wept with guilt-drenched relief and then poured out a tangled explanation of his many frustrations with his wife. So he tells me, on the occasions that he does manage to persuade her to lie with him (and yes, it is persuasion—I absolutely believe that he has no stomach for true coercion), she each time submits obediently, he says, but with a prick-deflating expression of martyred resignation on her face as though she were praying for the achievement of sanctity through suffering.
Poor Filippo endured this for years before being introduced to me. He has never felt able simply to go drabbing, as so many in his situation might well have done. Although he now loves to address me as though I was the most disgusting of lewd harlots, he in fact recoils with fastidious horror at the thought of actually associating with genuine street whores. And who can blame him? The mindless vulgarity and diseased bodies of those poor bitches are far too much of an obstacle, even for one in so much need of relief.
So that I could try to assess what sort of man he was, I asked him quite early on how he felt toward his wife each time she showed such antipathy to being bedded. I thought I knew what he might say. He was sitting in the big chair under the window and took some moments to answer my question; he just stared at the floor, muffled in shame. I watched him, saying nothing. Filippo is a big-boned, heavy man—he must be nearly fifty years old—and though his hair is still thick, it is quite grey. But at that moment, despite the bulk and the silver hair, he looked more like a little boy, caught out in a serious misdemeanor.
When he did speak, it was in hardly more than a stammering whisper. “I know it sounds terrible to say this, but…God…sometimes I almost feel…that I could beat her for what she does to me. But I would never hurt her…never…I couldn’t…she doesn’t mean to…it is I who—” He broke off, and I could see he was drowning in guilt. He had confirmed my suspicions.
So I offered him a possible solution.
He stared at me. I’ll never forget his wide-eyed expression of total astonishment as I raised an eyebrow, smiled at him, and said, “You may do what you please in here, Signore.”
So, Filippo now comes to see me almost every Wednesday evening; he pays me what he always says is an exorbitant fee, so he can spend a few entertaining hours each week being the “guardian of the morals of the city of Napoli”—or whatever else has happened to take his fancy. Without guilt or redress, quite shamelessly, and always with the greatest enthusiasm, Filippo returns here again and again so he can continue to take out his long-running marital frustrations upon my ever-available backside.
Today, as always, his face is eager, and his gaze is fixed upon mine as he unfastens his doublet with trembling fingers.
“If, as you say, I deserve a beating…Signor Guardian…well, what do you intend to do about it?” I ask, hands on hips.
Filippo raises an eyebrow and wags an admonitory finger at me. “Oh, you deserve a lot more than a beating, my girl. It’s disgraceful—this city is quite overrun now: absolutely teeming with grubby little trollops, all with a vastly over-inflated opinion of themselves and”—he sucks in a breath and says pompously—“it all needs dealing with! Take off your shift!”
I pull my chemise over my head, and Filippo reaches for my wrists. “Hold on to that,” he says, taking my hands and placing them on to one of the bedposts. I swallow a yawn. I’m unexpectedly tired today—I’ve been a great deal busier than usual for the past couple of weeks—and as Filippo runs his big hand over my buttocks, I am suddenly unsure whether I really feel like indulging him for the next few hours. He must see something of my fatigue in my expression, for he pauses for a moment, straightens, and then adds in quite a different voice, “If you are certain you don’t object, cara…”
Oh, dear—this won’t do. It won’t do at all. Filippo has paid in full for his pleasures this evening, and he must have what he wants. His wife may be able to refuse his advances, but I don’t have that luxury. Every courtesan’s expensive reputation is easily blighted, and in this business, word spreads as fast as a whore’s legs; I cannot ever appear anything less than enthusiastic. I summon a smile, which I then lick with the tip of my tongue. Filippo’s eyes move to my mouth. “I never object, caro,” I say. “You know that. Not to anything.”
Filippo’s expression clears, and a pinprick gleam of lasciviousness brightens his eye once more. “Well, in that case…” he says happily. His fingers move to the fastening of his belt, and my buttocks clench involuntarily.
I know what to expect of this evening.
***
Filippo lies on his back with his eyes closed, and an expression of blissful repletion stretches the corners of his mouth. My hips are stiff: I feel like I do after a long day’s ride, and my arse is flaming as I walk uncomfortably across the room to the table upon which stands a big, deep-blue decanter of red wine, which shines dark purple where the light from a candle glows behind the glass. I fill two goblets and pad back to the bed, really tired now and relieved that the evening is all but over.
“Drink, Lippo?”
“Turn around,” he says. I do so.
Seeing my bottom, his expression changes. “Oh, dear—I seem to have been rather overzealous. Are you sure you’re…” He hesitates, and I smile at his familiar anxiety. It’s the same almost every week.
Filippo’s needs, though always energetic, are uncomplicated. But I admit I am often tired by the end of his hours with me—though he has nothing of, say, Michele’s unpredictable wild energy, Filippo is as demanding a companion in his way. I am often all but dislocated, too. In fact, on numerous occasions, flattened like a spatchcocked chicken beneath Filippo di Laviano’s oblivious weight, I have wondered if I would ever be able to straighten my legs again. But given all this, it is still less exhausting to be passively on the receiving end of Filippo’s “punishments” than it is to fight with Michele the way I always seem to. It’s not nearly as exciting—but it is less tiring.
“Yes, I’m quite sure I’m…” I mimic his worried expressio
n and his unfinished question, and he laughs.
“Well, then yes, I would like something, yes—thank you, Francesca.”
I hand him one of the two glasses and place the other on the table next to the bed. Climbing back a little gingerly under the covers, I take a long draft and swill it around my mouth for a moment, enjoying the dry, sucking feeling against the back of my teeth.
“I should think you needed that, you trollop. You ought to be exhausted.”
“Your performance was most impressive, Signore,” I agree.
He smiles proudly and speaks again, hutching himself up and back against the pillow. “Francesca, can I ask of you a considerable favor…an enjoyable one?”
“More enjoyable than the one I have just done you?”
“That wasn’t a favor. You were well paid for it.”
I incline my head in acceptance of this. “Tell me, Filippo, what is it?”
“Well, I have been invited to a play—a meal and a play—next month, by a friend who teaches at the university. At the Long Chamber in that beautiful building in the law faculty, just off the Spaccanapoli—near the Piazza San Domenico Maggiore.”
I say nothing, but wait to hear more.
“Maria does not wish to come with me…” A fleeting wince as of pain crosses his face. “I’ve told you before, that apart from familiar short excursions, she does not care to leave the house very often, and she is usually anxious in company—but, oh, Francesca, I really don’t want to go alone to such an occasion. If I go alone yet again, they will all begin to talk. I wondered if you might think of coming with me.”
“But…can you really wish to be seen in public with a courtesan, Filippo?” I am astonished. He has never asked such a thing before. Unlike some of my previous patrons who have enjoyed flaunting me around town like some sort of prize exhibit, Filippo has always been at pains to keep his relationship with me entirely covert—we have never met outside the confines of this house.
He surprises me again. “I won’t be with a courtesan,” he says with a boyish grin. “I had thought that you might disguise yourself.”
“What—false whiskers and breeches?”
Filippo throws his head back and laughs. “Ha! A delightful prospect—but unrealistic. No, I have it in mind to pass you off as a respectable widow. A cousin, I think, newly emerged from mourning…”
I swill down another bursting mouthful of wine. “Will there be other women there?”
“Oh, yes—quite certainly!”
“Do I not run the risk of being recognized?”
Filippo frowns. “No, I don’t think so. Such dedicated academics as Luca and his fellow tutors rarely bother themselves with salacious gossip. No, Francesca, with your hair simply dressed and in, perhaps, some modestly cut frock, I think we could create a believable alias.”
“What will your wife say?”
“I shan’t tell her. She is unlikely to ask, and I shan’t volunteer the information.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Lippo…”
“Might these tempt you?” Filippo hands me his goblet and then climbs out of the bed. He crosses the room to the untidy pile of his clothes he discarded some time ago with such haste and crouches on his heels before it with his back to me. I watch him rummage through pockets, searching for something. His heavy body is pale in the candlelight as he bends forward: prick and balls hang like dark giblets beneath the creamy globes of his buttocks.
“Ha! There we are. Close your eyes.”
He hurries back to the bed and scrambles under the covers.
“Keep your eyes shut, and hold out your hands.”
I put the wine glasses down and do as he asks. Something small and soft lands in one palm, and I open my eyes. A little leather bag lies in my hand. I finger it and feel beads of some sort within.
“Go on. Tell me what you think.”
I loosen the strings and tip out a rope of pale-pink pearls and two matching earrings. They are beautiful, and I am astonished.
“Pearls. Filippo, are these not…?”
“Yes! Your disguise. Forbidden to courtesans, are they not, pearls? They will be perfect. So…will you come? I’ll pay for it all.”
The laugh that escapes me is short and disbelieving. Almost a snort. But the idea is entertaining, and I smile at Filippo and agree. “Very well, I’ll do it. Shall I have a new name?”
Filippo leans across and kisses my cheek, saying, “I had thought that Signora Marrone has a pleasingly anonymous ring to it. Francesca Marrone.”
“Very chaste.”
“And so you must be. Well, until we come back here after the play, that is.”
“What do you want me to wear, then, Lippo?” I ask.
“Dark blue, I think. High-necked and modest. No slashes, no ribbons—just the pearls. Dress your hair like a mourning Madonna.”
“I’ll call Modesto—he can take the order around to the seamstress.” The underhand covertness of Filippo’s plan has begun to appeal to me. I climb out of bed and cross to my table. Rummaging through a drawer, I pull out a sheet of paper, a quill, and some ink and scratch a few lines, sketching a rough design for a suitable dress. Feeling another twinge in my hips, I sit back down—carefully—and show the paper to Filippo.
“Oh, yes, Francesca! Exactly what I had in mind. You will be quite lovely.”
“Not too lovely, presumably. You won’t want this friend of yours and all his academics asking awkward questions about your propriety.”
“Luca is such a trusting, unsuspicious soul—it will never cross his mind that you are not what you purport to be.”
“Oh, don’t say that—you make me feel deceitful.”
“And so you are, you trollop. If it is honesty you want, then perhaps you should not worry about new dresses and simply go as you are now.”
“Oh, no, Filippo, don’t start again! Modesto!” I slide out of reach of Filippo’s hand, which is once more in search of my bottom.
Modesto opens the door.
Modesto is my secret weapon. His unimpressive size belies his strength—and determination—and more than one of my past patrons has underestimated Modesto’s ruthlessness—to his cost. His and my histories intertwine over nearly three years, since the day I heard him sing for the Duke of Salerno. Now, the Duke was one patron I was very glad to see the back of—with his endless drinking and the seemingly constant stream of visiting friends and relations. He never seemed to be able to grasp the fact that I have never been at all fond of entertaining more than one at a time.
Modesto was still singing for a living, then. It’s a terrible shame that, since his illness, he only has the vocal stamina to sing occasionally, but Modesto’s voice is still hauntingly beautiful—enough to bring tears to the most cynical of dry eyes. Its beauty is deceptive, though: its womanish pitch has fooled many into believing him a weakling, but, to my surprise at first, his condition has not, as I initially believed it would have, sapped him of a man’s strength, even if he has been so cruelly denied a man’s ability to rut.
“Signora?”
“Modesto, caro, can you run this round to Bianca for me? Oh…I suppose it’s too late now?”
He nods.
“In the morning then.”
His eyes rest for the briefest of moments upon my breasts and then he reaches for the paper I hold out, nods a token bow, and backs from the room.
“Why do you not cover yourself up when he comes in,” says Filippo. There is a bite to his voice, which I ignore. He has asked me this too many times. I say, as I always do, “Oh, he’s seen all I have to offer far too many times. You know perfectly well that I can’t see the point in dressing and undressing just for him.”
“And do you…entertain him, too?”
I climb back onto the bed and sit on my heels, one kne
e on either side of Filippo’s legs. I smooth his hair back from his forehead. “As I’ve told you before, it doesn’t suit you to be jealous, Lippo. When you’re here, you know that I’m all yours. And you understand Modesto’s circumstances—you must see that that’s one of the reasons I want him here to work for me.”
He huffs a reluctant acquiescence.
***
“Do you wish me to walk you home, Signora?” Modesto asks after Filippo has left. His fingers grip the edge of the door as he peers into my chamber. I am sitting at my table, with my head leaning heavily on one hand. My backside is hot and stinging; the rest of me is beginning to feel cold, but my wrap is hanging on a hook on the far side of the room, and I haven’t the energy to walk across and fetch it.
“No,” I say. “I have had far too much wine, it is much too late, and Ilaria and the girls are not expecting me back until tomorrow night. I’ll stay here. Michele will be here before noon. Oh, dear…” I groan at the thought. “I must sleep, but I’m hungry. Is there anything to eat?”
“A few slices of yesterday’s pigeon breast, a couple of orange-poached sardines, and those peaches.” He points to a large wooden bowl half-full of fruit, then adds, “And a great deal of bread.”
“How horrible. Is that all?”
Modesto glares at me. “I am afraid so, Signora.”
I take a peach from the bowl and bite into it. The juice runs down my chin, and I tip my head back, wiping my face with the heel of my other hand and sucking at the dripping scoop of peach flesh. The wet pulp catches against the end of my nose. “What have you been doing all evening?”
“There’s little food in the house because that great fat lump of a cook hasn’t been here for a couple of days—as you know—and, unsurprisingly, I have been doing what you pay me to do, Signora. After what happened the other week with the Conte di Vecchio and that little stronzo, da Argenta, I’m surprised you even ask. I’ve been sitting outside your chamber with my knife in my hand, listening to you shrieking and gasping, ready to come in if the screams start to sound too alarming,” he says drily.
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