Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  His voice must have increased in volume as he spoke. Passing an open front door, he heard a snort of laughter. A grubby boy of about twelve was sitting on the door sill, fiddling in the dust with his fingers; he smirked and said, “Who’s your invisible friend then, Pazzo?”

  Modesto ignored him. Doing no more than casting the boy a fleeting glance, he continued, in a hissing whisper, “If you care about her at all, you bastard, you’ll want what she wants. Not what you want. And what she wants is him. The Signore. Him—and an end to how it’s been for so long. No more patrons. No more having to fuck for a big fat fee, night after night.” The volume began to rise again. “No more having to placate spoilt, arrogant little noblemen with more money than cock in their oversized, overstuffed codpieces.”

  He elbowed past two richly dressed, elderly men, who turned scandalized faces to stare after him as he strode on. Ignoring them too, he carried on his furious monologue, now gesticulating with both hands as he spoke. “And him! Gutless intellectual. First hint of trouble and he’s backed right off. Oh, yes—might have guessed! What’s his problem? Scared of the pox? Frightened of scandal? She’s better off without him—he can’t care two pins for her—not like—”

  The obvious end of the sentence, he left unsaid.

  Modesto strode on, hardly noticing where he was, until he was brought up short by a heavily laden cart, traveling fast down the street, which crossed the end of the lane in which he was walking. The carter, oblivious to everything around him, was urging his horse to ever greater speed; the cart clattered past Modesto, missing him by little more than a foot. His hair was lifted by the wind of its passing. A cabbage bounced over the tailgate onto the ground, rolling past where Modesto stood and banging into the wall behind him with a deadened thwack. Staring up the street after the cart, Modesto saw it veer abruptly round to the right some moments later and it lurched off up toward the Piazza Francese. Turning back, he caught sight of a tall figure standing outside a tavern some yards down the road, looking in at the open door, seemingly unwilling to enter.

  “So. Left her at home and come out to drown your sorrows, have you?” Modesto muttered. “Not quite got the nerve to go in?” He snorted out a derisive laugh, and decided that he might just wander down to the tavern and—hopefully unobserved—watch a little more closely just what the Signore was intending to do. He saw the Signore square his shoulders and enter the tavern, and he walked a little faster.

  ***

  The fireplace was belching out smoke, and a greasy haze hung over the crowded tables. Luca stood in the doorway and stared into the room, searching through the fog for his son. His eyes stung as he gazed around the room, unsure which would be worse: for Carlo to be here, or for him not to be.

  But there was no sign of him anywhere.

  A boy of about Gianni’s age—skinny, unkempt, with his hair scraped back into a dirty pigtail—raked him up and down with a dismissive glance and turned away, a filthy cloth hung over one shoulder.

  Luca edged farther into the room, wondering if there might be any other, smaller space not visible from the entrance where Carlo might be concealed. He sidled between two tables, frowning through the smoke, but saw nothing but a narrow staircase descending out of sight in one corner of the room. He checked, remembering Gianni’s description of his fight with Carlo in the darkness of the sottosuolo. This, he thought, must be the entrance-way the boys had used. What if Carlo was still down there, confused and frightened and unable to find his way back? Smothering a stabbing thought that if that was the case, then his amoral son deserved his fate, Luca determined to find a light and start searching.

  He turned toward the torches burning in brackets on the walls; he had just taken a step toward the nearest, when a bright flash caught his eye and he spun round, peering through the smoke haze to see what had distracted him.

  A long-legged, broken-nosed young man with close-cropped curls was leaning back in his chair, one booted foot up on the edge of the table. Luca realized who it was almost immediately. An empty glass stood in front of the man, next to a three-quarters-empty bottle of grappa, and he was holding up a small, silver-handled knife; the blade gleamed steel blue in the torchlight. He was testing its needle tip on the ball of his thumb; then as Luca watched, he ran the knife from point to hilt between his fingers, lazily flipping it over and over, repeating the action almost lovingly—as though he were caressing the blade. He was smiling.

  Luca’s pulse was loud in his ears.

  He pushed his way through the crowded room until he stood within feet of the man with the knife.

  “You fucking bastard…” he said softly. He saw a moment’s blankness in a gaze blurred by drink, then Michele gripped the dagger by its handle and scraped his chair back across the flags. Luca eyed the blade.

  “You have a problem, Signore?” Michele said.

  The buzz of conversation in the tavern died to silence. Several people stood, pushed back their chairs, and backed away, leaving an empty space like a little arena around Michele and Luca.

  “No,” Luca said, “I don’t have a problem. You do.”

  Michele laughed.

  ***

  Modesto pushed his way around the edge of the tavern room, his gaze fixed upon the two men who were now standing facing each other, some feet apart. Cicciano held his knife loosely in one hand, and the Signore had both fists clenched. Cicciano took a step backward and bumped into his chair. Without taking his eyes from the Signore’s face, he kicked out behind him and sent the chair sprawling.

  An expectant buzz ran through the watching drinkers.

  The Signore said softly, “I’ll see you put away, Cicciano.”

  Cicciano smirked. “Yes? What for?”

  “You know.”

  Cicciano paused, ran his tongue over his lower lip, then caught it between his teeth. He said, “The treacherous little whore owed me: I collected my debt—no more than that. It’s still allowable within the law to recoup your losses, I believe.” He smirked again, then started theatrically. “But, oh, dear,” he said, eyes widening in obviously artificial surprise. “Maybe this is news to you. Carlo’s told me all about your liaison with La Bella Felizzi, but perhaps”—he dropped his voice to a forced whisper—“you’re not yet aware of her profession? Your son knows, Signore. Knows intimately, as I understand it. Your younger son, that is. Carlo, of course, has…very different tastes.” He flicked his eyebrows up and down.

  Modesto saw the Signore redden. Saw his right hand brush against the back of a chair, and then grip its top bar, white-knuckled. Modesto edged in closer, worming his way through the bright-eyed crowd, who were, he saw, eagerly awaiting some sort of action. He pushed in next to a squat, broad-shouldered man in a leather apron.

  “Are there any depths to which you will not stoop?” Modesto heard the Signore say to Cicciano, his face twisted with dislike.

  Cicciano grinned. “Well, now you mention it, I think I might have plumbed them tonight—fucking that traitorous little strumpet. I’d advise you to steer clear of her yourself, Signore, you might—”

  But his words were cut short. Modesto saw the Signore swing the chair he was holding upward, scything it into Cicciano’s wrist.

  ***

  The knife flew out of Michele’s hand, and Luca dropped the chair back down onto the tavern-room floor. He heard the knife clatter across the table and onto the floor; heard the sharp intake of breath from the crowd; heard Michele’s gasped oath as he launched himself forward. Grabbing Michele’s doublet front with both fists, he fell with him to the floor, the watching drinkers scattering out of their way. Michele was winded, and, in the second it took him to blink and begin to push himself upright again, Luca snatched at Michele’s shirt collar, banged him back down onto the ground, and then hit him as hard as he could on the jaw.

  Michele grunted.

  T
he crowd gasped appreciatively.

  Hot blood pounded in Luca’s face.

  Forty-six

  The fire has been lit in this bedchamber. Luca’s old manservant came up with me just now from the sala and lit it. He seemed to find the task very difficult; he took a great deal of time and effort over it, and I was astonished that the twins didn’t wake, given the amount of noise he made, but, thank goodness, they’re still asleep. I suppose the shock of what happened to them today has worn them out. I can feel my heart swelling inside my chest as I think about how things might have turned out; it’s as though I was under sentence of death until an hour or so ago, and their return is my reprieve.

  Though if Luca rejects me, it will still be a life sentence.

  The crimson walls are shivering now in the leaping firelight, and on the big painted chest the pretty little casket glitters, as though it might hold unexpected treasures. On the floor near the end of the bed is a bag that I’m sure wasn’t there earlier. Made of old, scuffed leather. It’s not mine, but it’s familiar—I think it’s Modesto’s. Why has he left it here? He must have dropped it before he went earlier.

  I pick it up and look inside.

  Books. Vellum-bound, tied notebooks.

  My heart skips a beat. I look into the uppermost. Book of Encounters.

  Oh, Dio—why? Why in heaven’s name has he brought these here? What was he thinking of? These books are full of the sort of lewd accounts of my past life that would damn me irrevocably in anybody’s eyes. An Intimate Portrait of a Filthy Bitch would be a better title for them. So Michele would say, anyway. Luca simply cannot ever see them—it would be disastrous! When he left the house an hour or so ago and looked up at me from the stairs, it seemed that the very sight of me was physically painful for him. If he were to see this, I think it would be the end. The books have to go. I can’t just throw them away, though—God knows where they might turn up, and what mischief they might cause. They’ll have to burn.

  Luigi has left a basket of logs, and there’s a pair of bellows propped up by the edge of the grate. I’ll need to build the flames up—I simply cannot risk anything being left legible. The thought of Luca’s seeing even one page of any of these books makes me feel utterly sick. My explanations of Filippo’s complicated predilections and…oh, merda!…my account of Gianni’s visit, which is in here somewhere. No, no, no, this can’t happen. Why the hell did Modesto bring the books here? I could kill him!

  I kneel in front of the fire and poke the nose of the bellows into the wood at the base of the flames. They seem startled at the intrusion and jump up a little higher. I put on more wood, work the bellows again. The flames continue to leap. I repeat the process two or three times. It’s hot now—hot enough to make my eyes water. I sit back on my heels and watch for a moment. Chewing the skin on my thumb, I stare into what has become a miniature inferno: hellish little caverns and tunnels, which shift and rearrange themselves even as I watch. I half expect to see a bunch of tiny demons poking their faces out from behind white-hot lumps of wood, beckoning to me to come and join them. Perhaps it’s where I belong, after all.

  I pick up one of the books, determining to thrust it into the flames, but realize with a jolt that now the moment is here, I don’t want to lose them. Why, though? Why am I thinking this? I hate them: they represent everything that stands so implacably between me and Luca. They are the embodiment of the life I now loathe. The life I wish I could eradicate from my past. But it’s strange—now that I am on the point of destroying them, I feel as though I am holding in my hands some living thing: a creature that must be sacrificed to placate the wrath of the gods. Here, after all, held fast between these smooth, skin-smelling vellum covers, is my life—two and a half years of it—laid bare, stripped naked, staked out for scandal-hungry vultures to peck at. I don’t remember which accounts of which encounters are in which book, and find myself tugged by an almost irresistible urge just to sit back down on the floor and immerse myself once again in my own pages, to remind myself—just one last time—of the person I was, before it is all consigned to oblivion.

  But I know I have to get rid of them. And I must do it now.

  A pair of tongs lies at the side of the fireplace. I pick these up and, two-handed, take hold of the first—the oldest—book. Screwing my face up against the heat, I reach forward and put it down onto the flames. A branch shifts and settles under its weight: I hold the tongs out, ready to catch the book if it falls, but it stays balanced where it is. Within seconds, though, the cover begins to distort: it twists and writhes as though it feels the pain of its burning. If it could give voice, I think it would scream. The creamy vellum begins to blacken, and tendrils of thick, grey, acrid-smelling smoke, like ringlets of unwashed hair, creep out around the edges of the cover. The vellum starts to shrink into a glistening black lump, pulling away from the paper beneath. My own words stare up at me from the newly revealed page:

  And into the hidden crevices of how many men’s lives will I have to poke my fingers before I learn enough to justify the title of “cortigiana onesta”? Will it ever happen? How different shall I be then from the grubby little strumpet I am today? Can…

  Checking over my shoulder, I snatch up the poker and push the book farther down into the fire. With a muffled crackle, the wood crumbles and flames flare around their sacrificial victim. The page blackens, glows red around the edges, and then catches. My words disappear into flame. The page beneath follows suit, and then the fire takes the book and cradles it tenderly, wrapping it around and consuming it.

  I let out the breath I only now realize I have been holding in.

  The heat stings against the cut on my cheek as I reach out with the tongs toward the second book. I touch the cut with the tip of my finger; the edges feel dry and slightly stiff already, and at my touch, they flash with a thin, white-cold pain. I ignore this, and grip the second book with the tongs. I place it carefully on top of the burning corpse of its brother. It groans and heaves and arches its spine: the cover shrinks, the pages buckle and scorch; then flames lick along the ash-frilled edges and slick out across the flat of the paper.

  Two gone.

  One left.

  I reach out for the last and newest volume—one I began writing in not more than a couple of months ago. I know which one it is by the long dark blemish in the vellum on the front cover.

  The book is scarred, as well as the writer.

  I pick it up, but my fingers are slippery with soot from the tongs and it slides from my grasp and falls, splayed out and spine-up, onto the floorboards. I snatch for it, turn it upward, and examine the now-crumpled page on which it has landed.

  Surely I will never need this carefully hoarded store of ammunition again? What possible use could it ever be? I imagine its most likely purpose now would be to cripple any fragile bond of trust that might possibly grow back between Luca and me. I ought to fear it: of course it should follow the others onto the pyre. But—a new thought trickles cold across my scalp—maybe I’ve just made the wrong decision. Perhaps I shouldn’t have burned any of it. Then maybe I could have blackmailed the lot of them: Michele, Filippo, Vasquez, da Argenta, Salerno—all of them. One by one. Saved myself from penury that way. My heart gives another painful jolt. A few shriveled and glistening lumps are all that remain of the first two books. No point in thinking about them—nothing will bring them back, but, though I don’t understand it, I think I am going to listen to this little voice.

  But here in Luca’s house, to be in possession of a thing like this is like standing amongst fizzing fireworks holding a gunpowder keg. Where should I put it until I can take it back to Santa Lucia? I look around the room and see the twins. I’ll wrap it in something and then tuck it in with their clothes. Luca is bound to leave their belongings to me to pack up—if he sees the book, I hope he will presume it to be something of theirs.

  But where has Luca gone
? Will he ever come back? To this house? To me? He left looking so anguished, so distressed. I start to picture him: drowning his misery in ale at a tavern; wandering the lightless docks and contemplating oblivion in the black water between the great hulks of berthed ships; staring after some disease-ridden, dead-eyed little puttana and thinking of me at my worst.

  I want him back. Oh, God, I want him back—so much I feel close to retching at the thought of having to live without him.

  Forty-seven

  The circle of watching drinkers had become a single being, Modesto thought: a many-headed hydra, gasping and exclaiming with one voice. All twenty or so heads followed the movements of the combatants in uncanny unison, shifting forward together in greedy expectation as the two men got slowly to their feet for the fourth time. To see a pair of such well-dressed and obviously well-bred gentlemen brawling across a tavern floor like any one of them was truly an entertaining sight for the end of a Saturday evening.

  Many of the table candles had gone out, and the room was in semi-darkness, lit now only by a couple of torches in brackets on the walls.

  Modesto looked from Signor della Rovere to Cicciano. Both had discarded their doublets, and Cicciano’s shirt was torn. Rovere had a split and swollen lip, and a cut above one eyebrow: Cicciano’s nose was bleeding, one tooth was chipped, and a bruise was lifting puffily under his left eye. Both were breathing heavily. Much to Modesto’s surprise, they appeared to be well matched: as the fight had begun, he had presumed that Rovere—the “gutless intellectual”—would have neither the skill nor the inclination to fight a man like Cicciano, but he had to admit that he was impressed by the way in which the Signore certainly seemed to be holding his own, even if this might in part be due to the significant amount of grappa the younger man had already consumed before the altercation began. And, Modesto thought bitterly, due to the energy Cicciano had already expended on…other activities.