Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Luca crossed to the folding chairs and seated himself in the nearest.

  “I…I trust you slept well, after your late night, last night,” he said.

  Francesca reddened again. She said, not meeting his eye, “Well enough, thank you, Signore.”

  Luca was not sure what to say. He looked at the shadows under her eyes and found that he did not believe her; he wondered what it could have been that had so disturbed Francesca’s night.

  There was a short pause.

  “What beautiful girls,” Luca said then. “They are so similar!”

  Francesca smiled fondly and said, “I can tell them apart, of course, but I don’t think many others can—I have to admit that they quite shamelessly use their likeness to their own advantage fairly frequently.”

  Luca laughed. “And so would I in their position.” He paused, then added, “They are very much like their mother.” As the words left his mouth, though, he heard his voice from a moment before, praising the girls’ beauty, and he hoped Francesca did not think he was being inappropriately forward.

  They were interrupted then by voices from below, and the sound of the front door being closed. Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs and then someone knocked on the door to the sala.

  Francesca said, “Yes?”

  The door pushed open. A stocky man of about Luca’s own age, with dark hair and large, slightly protuberant black eyes, leaned into the room, one hand on the handle, the other on the jamb.

  “Oh, Signora, I’m sorry—I didn’t realize you had company.” A strong Roman accent. The black eyes rested on Luca for a moment, then turned back at Francesca.

  “Don’t worry, caro—is there a problem?”

  Luca’s heart jumped at the affectionate title she gave the new arrival.

  The man shrugged. “No, not at all. I’ll come back later.” He disappeared, closing the door behind him.

  “I’m sorry,” Francesca said to Luca.

  Her color rose again. Her lips were slightly parted, and as Luca watched, the tip of her tongue appeared briefly, leaving a gleam of wetness behind it. He looked up at her eyes, but she in her turn had let her gaze fall to his mouth. And then their eyes met. Seconds passed and a taut-wire tension stretched out between them. Neither of them spoke, and Luca’s guts writhed as he fought his growing need to kiss her. Francesca caught her lower lip between her teeth as she had done in the hall at San Domenico, and Luca looked back at her mouth.

  It was too much.

  He began to stand, determining to tell her how he felt, when the door to the sala burst open again and the two little girls ran in. Luca quickly sat back down. The girls had purple-stained fingers and faces, and both were smiling widely as they approached their mother.

  “We’ve eaten our pomegranate,” one of them said.

  “Already?” Francesca said, smiling.

  Both girls nodded. “It was lovely.” They spoke in unison. Even their voices seemed identical to Luca.

  “Good. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Francesca said. She sounded husky. “Have you collected up all the bits of peel?” More vigorous nods. “You can thank the Signore for bringing you such a special present.”

  Both children turned at once to Luca and bobbed hasty curtsies. He smiled at them.

  “But just look at the pair of you!” Francesca said then. “Go and ask Ilaria to help you wash your faces and hands.” She reached forward with both arms and ran a thumb down each girl’s cheek. The two children eyed each other’s blotched mouths and dirty hands, giggled, then turned and left the room.

  Luca stood up. His chair scraped loudly on the floorboards. The moment to declare his feelings seemed to have been snatched from him, and he felt suddenly awkward. “I should go, perhaps,” he said.

  “Oh. Do you have to?”

  He thought he saw a flash of entreaty in her eyes and was instantly rocked by a vivid image of himself, all caution abandoned, taking her into his arms. He sucked in a breath and closed his eyes for a second, then swallowed. What if he were wrong? What if his desire for her was clouding his judgement? Perhaps, if he made any such move toward her she would—rather than respond as he had just imagined—be appalled at his temerity and demand instead that he leave her house. He cleared his throat.

  “I think I ought to go—I have a number of pressing errands to run today.” Luca heard these lies as though listening to someone quite separate from himself. And then he surprised himself by saying, without having planned the invitation at all, “But perhaps you would care to come and dine at my house one evening soon?” With a moment’s unease, he thought of Luigi’s increasing inability to cook anything remotely edible. He would probably have to prepare the meal himself.

  “Oh. I should like that very much,” Francesca said. She sounded genuinely pleased.

  Luca’s face felt suddenly warm. “Would tomorrow be a day you could manage?” he said. “I shall be teaching this afternoon but—”

  “Teaching?”

  “Yes. I teach law, at the university. Did Filippo not tell you?”

  Francesca shook her head. “He told me almost nothing.”

  “Probably far too excited about the evening’s entertainment.”

  Francesca reddened again.

  “Anyway,” Luca said, “perhaps if tomorrow were possible for you. My sons will be there…” He trailed off.

  Francesca frowned for a moment, then smiled and nodded. “I have promised to visit Signora Parisetto earlier in the day, if you remember, but I shall be home long before the evening. Thank you—I should very much like to come and eat with you and your boys,” she said.

  “Good. Come at about the hour of the Angelus, then. Will you need to bring the little girls with you?”

  “Oh, no—it would be far too late for them and they will probably be tired after playing with Signora Parisetto’s children. They can stay here with Ilaria.”

  “As I say, my boys will both be back from their various activities by Saturday and they’ll eat with us. They’ll be so pleased to meet you.”

  He explained his address to her and described the simplest way of finding it.

  “I will look forward to it very much.” Francesca smiled at him again.

  She showed him to the front door and they bade each other farewell.

  Just as he turned to step down into the street, Luca saw the stocky man with the black eyes walk up into the hallway from somewhere at the back of the house. Francesca flicked a glance back at the man, nodded, and then turned back to smile and wave to Luca as he left.

  Luca’s head buzzed with a confusion of conflicting thoughts as he walked slowly home.

  Twenty-four

  The Parisetto’s house is small and new and, as I was told at San Domenico, it is only a short distance from the sea. Its pale stone front gleams in the sunshine as the twins and I stand on the step, and the bright, salt-smelling air around us is full of the vulgar laughter of gulls and the slap of water against stone.

  “Can I knock?” Bella asks.

  “Go on then.”

  She reaches up and bangs the wood with her knuckles, looking back at me for reassurance as the noise she has made sounds out into the quiet. Straight away, a flurry of activity sounds inside. Feet hurry toward us. A crash is followed by a wailing sob, and a fumbled scrabble at the fastening on the front door. Then the door opens, and Serafina Parisetto, rather pink in the face, smiles at the three of us, a howling baby astride her hip. He is little more than a year old, but even so, being so small, she has to lean away from his weight to balance. The older boy stands behind her, clutching her skirts and peering around at us, wide-eyed.

  Away toward the back of the house, visible through a vista of two or three doorways, several other women and an immensely tall, roughly dressed young man are busily occupied, taking no
notice of our arrival. The clatter of their activities and the hum of their conversations punctuates the exchanges between me and Serafina. The tall boy, a large flat tray tucked under one arm, edges past us without a word and leaves the house. Beata’s and Bella’s heads swivel to watch him as he goes, clearly impressed by his height.

  “Oh, Francesca, how lovely to see you. I’m so sorry—” Serafina gazes affectionately at the screaming infant. “Poor Benedetto fell over on the way to the door.” She kisses the top of the baby’s damp head. “Please, come in. Oh, you must be…” She pauses, smiling at the girls.

  I say, laying a hand on each head as I speak, “Beata and Isabella.”

  Serafina says to them over the howls. “I expect you must get very cross with people telling you how alike you are.”

  They both look up at her and nod seriously.

  Serafina stands back and we step into the house.

  “Come upstairs,” she says. “Piero’s mother, and her”—she rolls her eyes—“her retinue will be in and out of the sala and the kitchen, so perhaps we can sit out on the belvedere and hope that we won’t be too badly disturbed.” We follow her and the little boys upstairs. We go in to the sala, which is large and brightly lit by the sun. Half a dozen elderly ladies are busy with embroidery frames and—by the sound of it—with a great deal of gossip. They look up at us, mouths a little open, needles held up in bony fingers, pausing in their chatter as we pass through. Serafina speaks to them briefly, and their heads bob a brief acknowledgment of the presence of newcomers to the house, but otherwise they make no attempt at conversation. I wonder briefly at the reaction to my presence that would ensue were they to guess my real identity. At this thought, a nasty twinge of guilt stabs at me accusingly—Serafina’s friendship is open and welcoming and yet I am deceiving her. She would be appalled at the truth.

  I glance around the room as we pass through. It’s very pretty. It looks out over the light-flecked harbor, and its walls—and indeed the old women—are all dappled with beautiful, shifting water patterns. An open door in the farthest wall leads out onto the belvedere; Serafina shepherds us all across and out onto this sun-filled balcony and pulls the door closed behind her.

  The belvedere is beautiful: wide and long, roofed over but airy—and fragrant with orange blossom from trees which are fairly bursting from several large terracotta pots. Three or four carved animals lie on the floor. Seeing them, the baby on Serafina’s hip curls backward away from his mother, bending precariously, stiff arms stretched in entreaty, though he says nothing. Serafina sets him down on the floor and he staggers across to them, rolling from foot to foot like an aged seaman. He plumps down onto his bottom, gathers a wooden horse into his arms and begins to suck its muzzle, the last of his sobs still shaking his fat little shoulders.

  Smiling, I glance at the twins. They are staring at the baby, fascinated.

  “I’m so glad you were all able to come,” Serafina says. “Girls, I have some games you might like to play.” She steps back into the sala, and comes back a moment later with a wooden box, inside which proves to be a velvet bag, closed with a drawstring. “Do you know how to play Zara?”

  Both girls shake their heads.

  Serafina lays on the floor a square chequered board like a chess board. “Open the bag and tip the pieces out,” she says, and Bella obeys. A scattering of wooden stars, circles, and squares of all colors plinks down onto the tiles. Benedetto, the baby, immediately puts down his horse and crawls over to see what he is missing; he reaches out with splayed, shrimp-like fingers, grabs a star, and puts it straight into his mouth.

  “Spit out,” Serafina says firmly, and Benedetto opens his mouth, letting the star drop back down onto the floor. The older child sits near the twins. He scoops up a handful of the colored pieces, one eye on his little brother, whose face immediately crumples as he sees this; he sucks in a long breath ready for a new sob.

  “Girls,” I say quickly. “Why don’t you lay the pieces out in patterns? The little boys might like that.”

  Beata and Bella start ordering the shapes along the edges of the tiles. Noticing these two new small strangers properly for the first time, the boys’ attention is caught and they watch the twins with rapt fascination, their heads swiveling from one to the other, obviously startled by their intriguing similarity. Serafina comes to sit down in the chair next to mine.

  “They are so pretty, your two girls,” she says.

  I smile. “And your two are quite charming.”

  Serafina raises a skeptical eyebrow and does not reply. I laugh.

  “Now, quickly—while we have a moment’s peace—would you care for something to drink and eat? Piero brought up a couple of bottles of wine from the cellar this morning for us, and I made some bread earlier on. We need to eat that while it’s warm, as any bread I make seems to be quite inedible within a matter of hours!”

  She busies herself as she speaks, pouring out two glasses of a tawny-colored wine and passing one of them across to me. The bread proves to be light, salty, and quite delicious.

  “Oh, goodness, that’s better,” Serafina says, taking a mouthful from her glass, tipping her head back and closing her eyes. A brief moment of sweet-scented respite from the endless chaos of her boys. A second or two later she opens her eyes again and smiles at me. “Now,” she says, reaching across and laying a small hand on my arm. “Now that you’re here, I have something to confess.” She lowers her voice and glances across to the closed door to the sala.

  “I have to admit that I spent quite a bit of last night wondering about what your secret can possibly be.”

  My heart jolts up into my throat. With difficulty, I swallow the piece of bread I am chewing, which suddenly seems to have doubled in size and dried to the consistency of old carpet.

  “Secret?” How can she know?

  Serafina raises her eyebrows at me and nods; there is a gleam in her eye and she suddenly reminds me of Bianca, about to reveal some tasty titbit of gossip. It is not a reassuring image.

  “Yes. Your secret. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it—you see, my little Benedetto was perfectly horrible last night—weren’t you, carissimo?” She smiles fondly at her smaller son. “And of course I ended up spending simply hours trying to settle him to sleep, and, while I sat there beside his crib, I found myself thinking about you.”

  Her smile is frank and open, and her eyes are dancing—but my pulse-beat is now painfully fast.

  “Because,” Serafina adds, in a lowered voice—little more than a whisper, “I think you had quite an effect on my lovely friend, Luca, the other night.”

  It is as though boiling water is rising up inside my face. My eyes begin smarting. “L…Luca?” I say.

  “Luca,” she agrees, smiling more broadly. “Bless him, he seemed to be having terrible trouble dragging his eyes from your face all evening. Do you know, I don’t think he took in a single word of that play or thought for more than a second about his food! Do you normally have that effect on people?”

  Oh, God. What do I say to that?

  “Erm,” I stammer, feeling horribly sick. “Erm…I really don’t know…”

  But even as I speak, Serafina’s eyes widen and her smile fades.

  She puts her fingers up over her mouth. “Oh, cielo!” she says. “Oh, dear, I must be the most tactless person in the whole of Italy! In all the excitement, I quite forgot—oh, Dio! How simply dreadful of me! You must think me so unkind.”

  I am now completely bemused. “What do you mean?” I say.

  “To ask you something like that…when you are so recently out of mourning. How could I? What must you think of me?”

  Mourning? Oh, dear God—I had almost forgotten my “widowhood” myself—thank God she reminded me! I say, “Please, don’t trouble yourself. It’s—”

  She interrupts me. “It’
s unforgivable, that’s what it is. Oh, if Piero knew what I’d just said. I said something just as stupid to Luca a few days ago, too—I am so thoughtless.”

  All four children, hearing the distress in her voice, stop what they are doing and look across at her.

  “Please,” I say again. “Stop it—don’t think of it. I should be flattered, rather than insulted, after all, by what you’ve just asked me, shouldn’t I?”

  Serafina gives me a rather wan smile. “You’re really not offended?”

  “No. Not at all. Honestly.”

  The children return to their activities with the wooden Zara pieces.

  Serafina says, “Thank goodness. Because I did think it remarkable. Luca is such a lovely man. Such a good friend, and I do worry about him—he has been on his own for so very long, and then last night he seemed quite different to how he has been, and I couldn’t help noticing, and I was so pleased, Francesca! So pleased. I thought to myself—Oh, this is just what Luca needs, and…”

  She trails off, clearly embarrassed at her outpouring. I feel fairly certain that she is longing to ask me if I have any reciprocating feelings for Luca—perhaps to validate her desire to broker a suitable match for her friend—but she says nothing; instead she reaches for her glass.

  Wanting to reassure her, but afraid of giving away too much, I say carefully (and untruthfully), “I cannot say that I noticed what you’ve described, the other night.” I pause, and then add, “But…if…if Luca were indeed to be interested in me, I…I think it would be fair to say…that I don’t think I should be too displeased. He…” I hesitate. Feeling somehow that I am allowing out something very tender and naked and vulnerable, I say, “He’s invited me to his house for supper this evening. To meet his sons.”

  Serafina draws in a delighted breath and reaches for my hand again. “Oh, Francesca—I am so pleased. Oh, that is wonderful! You are so perfect for each other.”