Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Maria did not know what to think.

  She looked back once at the facade of the woman’s house, and then, determined to make the purchase that the woman had suggested, before her resolve failed her, she quickened her pace, heading toward the long row of shops in the Via Toledo, The Book of the City of Ladies held tightly in her hand.

  Eighteen

  I am standing with my back to my big mirror and I twist around to look at my reflection over my shoulder. “What do you think?”

  Modesto runs an appraising eye over my new blue dress, with its high neckline, discreet lacing, and simple, unslashed sleeves. My hair is parted in the middle and drawn back tightly into a simple knot at the nape of my neck. I have Filippo’s string of pink pearls around my throat and more pearls hang from my ears. A single plain ring adorns my right hand. My face is pale. I have left it untouched: I have neither put color onto my lips, nor pinched it into my cheeks, and on this bleached canvas my eyes are quite different from usual—bigger, sadder, more wary, it seems to me. It is as well that the dress fully covers my ankles: one of them is still heavily strapped and continues to hurt like the very devil.

  “Mmm,” he says. “I would say…chaste, virtuous, and entirely unlike a whore.”

  “Good.”

  “And…quite delicious, Signora.” He is trying not to laugh.

  “That is not so good. I’m in disguise, Modesto. If anyone recognizes me for what I am, or worse—who I am—Filippo will be in complete disgrace, his friend will never speak to him again, and we will probably both be kicked out onto the Spaccanapoli like a couple of scoundrels.”

  Another laugh. “Like the couple of scoundrels you both actually are, then?”

  “That’s enough, sfacciato! Remember who pays your wages.”

  Modesto shrugs. “Well, you remember who procures the means to provide you with the money to pay my wages, then.”

  “Not always.”

  “Can you tell me the last patron you actually—”

  “Oh, stop it!” I can never win these stupid arguments: Modesto can always find one more point to balance on top of the teetering pile, and it always seems to end by falling on to me.

  Modesto says, “Don’t expect me to excite myself over an evening during which you are not planning on earning a single scudo. If the truth be told, I wish you weren’t going. Are you intending that the Signore should pay for his entertainment, when he brings you home?”

  I redden. He has guessed correctly and his scornful expression makes me feel foolish.

  “I shall only say it once, Signora. Let word get out that you ever—ever—fuck gratis, and your standing in this city is in shreds. You lose your status as a courtesan and, in the eyes of potential new patrons, you become no more than a loose-moraled trollop who can be had by anyone. You know I’m right, I’m sure.”

  I try to justify my decision. “But Filippo is taking me to this banquet. It seems only reasonable to offer him some sort of recompense…”

  “Recompense?” Modesto says pityingly. “Recompense? Is that how you see yourself?” He shakes his head and his eyes flick heavenward. “What has happened to this sense of rivalry between you and the others? Does your reputation no longer matter to you? Do you imagine that Malacoda or Emilia Rosa would offer themselves—their expensive selves, in charitable recompense”—he says the word as if it tastes bad—“to anyone who performed some slight service for them?”

  I say nothing.

  I feel foolish now for ever agreeing to attend this ridiculous affair with Filippo, and I suddenly dislike my deceitful disguise. The unfamiliar image I see in the mirror cannot be me—it is some virtuous creature who resembles me but whose wholesome life I can scarcely imagine. Perhaps I have become that sweet-natured woman from another world—the world of the virtuous—who came to my aid when I fell the other day. Unlike her, though, with her naïve and compassionate curiosity, this unknown person in the glass is scowling at me, as though her contemplation of my harlot’s existence is distasteful to her—something disgusting she would prefer to pretend does not exist.

  But it does exist, and (amongst much else) I am still Filippo’s whore. I have promised Filippo I shall go with him to his party and, despite Modesto’s scorn, I shall not disappoint my needy patron. I wish Modesto would go away. I want a few moments to practice my disguise before it is time to leave.

  “Can you leave me alone for a while?” I say, frowning critically at myself.

  Modesto nods. I can see him behind me, reflected in the mirror. He says, “You may think I lack respect, Signora, but I don’t. It is just that I shouldn’t want anything to damage what you—and I—have worked so hard to achieve.”

  I shrug.

  “Don’t lie with him gratis. It’ll be damaging in the future.” He is almost pleading. Irritatingly, I think he is probably right.

  “Very well. But you tell him, Modesto. I can’t. He’ll be here in an hour—perhaps a little more.” It is Modesto who shrugs this time; he leaves the room.

  I turn to the stranger in the glass and wonder what it can be like to be truly as wholesome as I now appear to be. “Chaste, virtuous, and entirely unlike a whore,” Modesto says. I try to imagine myself as that sweet woman from San Giacomo. What would it be like to be in her position—beholden only to the desires and wishes of one man, cherished and cared for, walking securely along a virtuous path, rather than dancing up to the very edges of the pit, as I do every day? I think it would probably be very much easier than the life I lead. But her astonishing admission of her…her miserable imprisonment within her fear of her own body astounded me. Astounded me perhaps as much as her realization of the true extent of my licentiousness shocked her.

  ***

  “Oh, perfect, Francesca. How absolutely perfect. I would never have believed you could look so…so…” Filippo struggles to find the word, then smiles and says, “demure.” He is obviously pleased to have found the perfect description. “That is the word. Demure.”

  I cannot help smiling. This is not a word I have ever heard used about myself.

  “They will all love you.”

  “All? Who will be—?

  Interrupting me, Filippo begins to describe the small group of his friends, but before he has got further than explaining that his friend Luca is a widower, Modesto appears in the doorway.

  “Signora, can I ask you to go downstairs a moment? Lorenzo wants your approval of tomorrow’s choice of dishes.” Modesto widens his eyes at me and flicks his gaze to the door. He wants to speak to Filippo.

  I limp down to the kitchen, where Lorenzo is gazing lovingly into a large copper pan, smiling to himself, and tunelessly crooning a line from one of Modesto’s favorite songs. Although my kitchen is spacious, Lorenzo’s enormous body seems to fill the room with its soft bulk. Despite his size, though, my cook walks lightly on small feet and his hands are delicate. Neat-fingered, they do not suit him: they appear to belong to someone else entirely, and protrude as though from thick, fleshy sleeves at the end of Lorenzo’s massive arms. A savory steam is rising from the pan; Lorenzo lifts a large wooden spoon and tastes his soup, eyes closed, a frown of ecstasy puckering the skin between his brows.

  He turns to see me in the doorway and says, “Ah, merda, that’s good, padrona—would you like some?”

  I smile and nod. Lorenzo scrapes the back of the refilled spoon on the lip of the pan and holds it out to me, other hand cupped below to catch any drips. Holding my skirts back and out of the way, I lean forward.

  A blast of rich flavour, subtle and savory. God, that is truly wonderful.

  “Oh, Lorenzo—one of your best. You are an artist. What’s in it?”

  With an expression of rapt delight, Lorenzo begins to reel off the long list of ingredients. Romagnola beef, olive oil, tiny red onions, Signora—they cannot be more than that big o
r the flavour is spoiled—melanzana, borlotti beans, parsley—I quickly lose the thread, but Lorenzo continues his luxurious litany as though caressing me with it. It occurs to me then that he and I both, in our different ways, are equally adept at indulging the senses. It might be that I use eyes and tongue, legs, fingers, breasts, and buttocks to seduce those I choose to indulge, while Lorenzo uses only his legions of herbs, spices, and fragrant oils, but we are both true virtuosi and I know we take equal pride in observing the pleasing effects of our skills.

  For a moment, and not for the first time, I imagine the roles reversed, and smile to myself at the picture of a startled Vasquez struggling with unexpected and suffocating mountains of soft flesh while I work alone down in the kitchen, singing to myself as I concoct some fragrant pot of something delectable.

  I say, “We won’t be home until much later, Lorenzo. I understand there’s going to be some sort of meal at this concert tonight, but will we be able to have some of the soup if we are still hungry when we arrive back here afterward?”

  “I should be grossly offended if you did not, Signora.” Lorenzo folds his arms (with difficulty) across his wide chest and feigns hurt feelings, but he cannot sustain the pretense for long: his face soon folds into a broad smile and the swell of his cheeks reduces his eyes to knife cuts in the dough of his face.

  “Listen,” I say, “if I end up having stuffed myself like a sucking pig and can’t manage another mouthful when I return, I promise I shall be sure to have some soup tomorrow, caro.”

  He laughs.

  Modesto’s face appears in the kitchen doorway and Lorenzo’s laughter dies away. They exchange their usual glances of mutual dislike. Modesto clears his throat. “Signor di Laviano now understands the situation, Signora,” he says drily.

  I kiss Lorenzo on the cheek (it feels like kissing a warm, damp mushroom) and cross to Modesto. “Oh, caro, what on earth did you tell him?”

  “The truth. I organize your money and your diary, and I won’t let you fuck gratis.”

  Lorenzo shakes his head but turns back to his soup and says nothing.

  “What did Filippo say?”

  “Not much. He wasn’t pleased, but, then nobody is forcing him to stay after the party if he doesn’t wish to part with his gold, are they?”

  “You are hard on him, Modesto.”

  “You’re too soft and someone needs to redress the balance.”

  We leave the kitchen and Modesto helps me up the stairs. I turn toward my chamber and he carries on up to his own rooms. He stops on the stairs and calls back, “The carriage will be here before long—I’ll call you when it arrives.”

  ***

  Filippo stretches out an arm to help me down from the little carriage. The great basilica casts a deep violet shadow across the Piazza San Domenico Maggiore, and the sun has already dropped below the roofline. A number of people, obviously dressed for a night’s entertainment, are already making their way into a long, low building to the right of the church, whose many windows glow yellow in the dusk, and I feel a shiver of anticipation at the sight. Within moments I shall be presenting my newly acquired persona to Filippo’s friends: I hope I shall not let him down.

  “Let me see you…” Filippo says; he puts a hand on each of my shoulders and crouches to bring his face on a level with my own. Without my chopines, I am fully a head shorter than Filippo. He strokes my hair flat, fiddles the pearl earrings until he is satisfied and then stands back to admire the effect.

  “You look entirely delightful, Francesca,” he says. A hungry grin twists his mouth. “I think I shall have to ask you to dress like this on other occasions—the thought of corrupting an innocent such as you appear to be tonight, is really most appealing…”

  He reaches forward, but I draw back and hold my hands up in front of me. “Stop it, Filippo! I am your cousin, now, remember, and you can have absolutely no interest in corrupting close members of your family in front of your friends. Do you want me to be able to convince them?”

  “Of course!”

  “Well, keep your hands to yourself then, and take that greedy grin off your face, or you’ll give the game away in an instant.”

  “Oh.” He deflates visibly. “Was it that obvious?”

  I raise an eyebrow and say nothing.

  His face falls, and I laugh and peck a cousinly kiss onto his cheek. “Well, cugino, are you going to take my arm and lead me in to meet your friends? Or am I going to have to limp in there unaided?”

  “Andiamo, cugina!” he says with an extravagant bow. He holds out his forearm and I put my hand on his sleeve. Together, we make our halting way inside.

  The great hall is lit by what appears to be at least a thousand candles, and the effect is exquisite. With no hangings at the windows, the candles reflect in the black glass and it seems to me as though each pane is studded with diamonds. The room is already bustling—guests in their bright evening best and servants in livery—and a dozen musicians are in place at one end of the room, tuning their instruments and assembling their music. Behind them an enormous square gilt-painted archway frames an elaborate set stage. Light shines somehow from behind the arch, making it glow, and the scene is lit from below as well, across the front of the span of the arch, by twenty or thirty candles in fretted silver covers. A tree—large as life and seemingly in full leaf—stands to one side of the stage, and the floor beneath it is scattered with rocks and boulders. I gaze at the scene and wonder how it can be that it seems to stretch so much farther back from the great golden arch than can feasibly be possible. As I stand and stare, the mosaic of voices and the fractured harmonies wrap around me, loud and insistent, and I am quite enchanted by the entire spectacle—I allow it to wash over me; my worries about the propriety of my deception begin to fade.

  But, as it turns out, my new sense of ease lasts little more than a moment.

  “Luca!” Filippo calls across the room, and I wonder which of the group will answer. A man turns to see who has addressed him. He is tall and dark. As he turns, a lock of heavy hair falls across his forehead; he flicks it out of his eyes with a sideways shake of his head and my insides turn over as, for a second, I think I am looking at Gianni. This man’s features and that gesture both seem familiar—but I am mistaken: he is much older than Gianni. His face splits in a broad smile when he sees Filippo, and, without taking his eyes from us, he pats his companion on the shoulder and begins to cross the hall, weaving his way through the knots of other guests.

  “Filippo, you’re here at last! I was beginning to wonder if you had decided not to come,” he says, grasping Filippo’s hand.

  And then he sees me.

  “Signora,” he says, inclining his head in a little bow. He takes my hand as he straightens, lifts it to his lips and kisses my fingers.

  “Luca, this is my cousin—Francesca. Signora Francesca Marrone.”

  I can hardly breathe.

  Around me the room freezes into silent immobility, like a gaudy tableau in a festival pageant. This man is staring at me with eyes like Gianni’s and as he stares, images from that night with Gianni flicker across my mind and down through my body, though it is this man Luca’s face I am seeing, not Gianni’s.

  “Your shift has no laces…” he says.

  “How would you…imagine…taking it off, then?”

  “Perhaps you would do that for me—I should not want to presume…”

  I see Luca’s mouth—Gianni’s mouth—and feel again that warm pressure of lips on my scar. The tender compassion I was shown for the first time that night looks out at me again from within Luca’s steady gaze.

  A sensation of helplessness I have never known before pushes its way through me, dissolving me, threatening to overwhelm me: for no reason that I can understand, I want this man. This stranger. I want him more than I think I have ever wanted anything—I don’
t understand what is happening to me.

  I see desire in his eyes and unwillingly think of Vasquez.

  The Spaniard’s desire for me has never been more than a selfish, animal wish for hedonistic gratification. His dribbling greed has entertained me, though. Reinforced my sense of my own powers. Look at me! Look at what I can do! Look at the sorceress, able to bewitch at will. See the temptress, playing her catch with such consummate skill, enjoying the game as both bait and fisherman.

  But now I am neither. This man Luca’s gaze has disarmed me entirely. Left me helpless. And I don’t think I am alone. In his eyes I see desire, yes, but also a vulnerable bewilderment—even fear. Perhaps a similar tumult is whirling through his mind.

  “Where are we sitting, then, Luca?”

  Filippo’s voice. Unaware that anything untoward might be happening right under his nose, he shatters the glittering web of silence that encloses the two of us with his cheerful question, and the noise and color of the party surge back into life. “Are Piero and Serafina here yet?”

  Luca turns his head toward Filippo at least a second before he can pull his gaze from my face.

  “What? Sorry, Filippo…what did you say?”

  “Piero and Serafina—are they here yet?”

  “Er…oh, yes. They arrived some moments ago. Come—let’s go and find them. They will be so pleased to see you. Signora?” He turns back to me and it is only then that I realize that he is still holding my fingers. He glances down at our hands, seemingly as surprised as I am that they are still clasped together, and lets go.

  I begin to walk and Luca frowns in consternation to see my limp. He bends toward me and speaks quietly.

  “Please, take my arm, Signora. What have you done to your foot?”

  I can feel the muscles in his arm tense as I lean my weight upon him. I look up at him and say, “Nothing, Signore. Carelessness and uneven cobbles. I tripped the other day and wrenched my ankle. No more.”

  My heartbeat is so frantic in my throat that my voice sounds distorted.