Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  “Little? What could you do?”

  He pauses. “I think I could plead for banishment. I could go to Don Pedro and cite the virtue of the boy’s father and plead for banishment. Would that be enough to persuade you to…destroy this evidence you have against me?”

  Banishment? How would Luca feel if Carlo were to be exiled—sent away from Napoli? Perhaps, though, it could be the answer to everything—I am not sure I could ever stand comfortably in the same room as the man who stole my children, however much Luca loves him. A few seconds pass as I allow myself to picture Luca’s reactions—firstly to his son’s exile and then to the unthinkable alternative. And then I say, “Yes. It would be enough.”

  Vasquez puffs out a soft sigh of evident relief.

  Cristo says, “You say you’ll plead on our behalf. But you might fail, Maestre. If you do, how will we know you tried? We won’t be there to hear what you say. What proof will we have that you’ve kept your side of this bargain?”

  Vasquez looks blank. He says nothing. Then an idea strikes me. Filippo. “Take Signor di Laviano in with you when you plead, Miguel,” I say. “I know him. I would trust him to tell me what you say.”

  “Di Laviano?” Bewilderment, confusion, realization, and another twitch of jealousy cross Vasquez’s face as visibly as the shadow of a cloud racing over a field. He mutters, “Have he…and you…?”

  I shrug. “From time to time.”

  He stares at me for several seconds, then nods curtly. “Very well. I will arrange to see Don Pedro this afternoon, and as you request, I will take di Laviano into the room with me when I go. I will do what I can. I promise you.”

  “And I promise you that I will show this book to no one else while I wait to hear the outcome of your efforts.”

  I don’t think there is any more to be said or done.

  Another awkward silence descends. I take the bag from Cristo and put the book back into it. Vasquez crosses to the door, and Cristo and I follow him. We walk together back toward the front entrance of the building, saying nothing, striding fast, our footsteps ringing out in marching-time with each other. As we reach the top of a broad flight of stairs, I see the parchment-faced old man again; but this time he is accompanied by an anxious-looking boy—skinny, unwashed, his hair scraped back into a ratty pigtail.

  Fifty-seven

  The wind had picked up and the sky was now a hard, cloud-laden silver. The Neapolitan coastline had dwindled to no more than a thin smudge along a small section of the horizon, appearing and disappearing between swells and, even as Carlo della Rovere watched from the sterncastle of the sciabecco, gripping the rail with white-knuckled fingers, it vanished altogether. He could see nothing but sea.

  Behind him, the great rust-colored sails bellied out, creaking with the weight of the wind and the ship listed as the heeled around to starboard. Dragging his gaze from the horizon back to the ship, and clutching at a rope to steady himself, Carlo turned and began to pick his way somewhat gingerly toward the few steps that led down onto the main deck. Several of the dozens of crewmen paused momentarily in their activities to stare at him; stumbling over the projecting wheel of a cannon, Carlo groped for the door to the companionway. He could see contempt in the men’s expressions, and felt acutely conscious of the softness of his physical inadequacy, faced with these sinewy, wind-browned men with their gleaming skin and carved-mahogany muscles. He closed the door to the companionway behind him, and stood for a moment leaning against it with his eyes shut, his stomach swooping as the ship dropped away beneath his feet.

  A dozen steps descended into the depths of the ship: down these Carlo went hesitantly, his insides heaving. The deck above lowered over him—a heavy, close-sparred ceiling running the length of the ship, strung with hooks and ropes, buckets, marlin-spikes, and the sagging cylinders of tight-rolled hammocks, all indistinct in the almost darkness. The smells of tarred hemp and salt caught in his nostrils as he turned to a small door behind him and knocked.

  “It’s open.”

  Carlo turned the handle and went in. Salvatore was standing behind his table, leaning on his arms, his face underlit with stuttering lanternlight; he was studying a large chart. He looked up as Carlo came in, raised and drained a small glass, and nodded. “Now that the wind’s stronger, we’ll be in Tunis before too long,” he said. “You can disembark there, Sinjur, if you wish to—there’s a fine living to be made in a place like Tunis, for a man like yourself, if you’ve a mind.”

  Carlo said nothing.

  “Or,” went on, “if you would prefer, you can stay with us on the , Sinjur, and try your hand at becoming a seaman.” Carlo did not like the smile gave him. He thought back to the previous day.

  ***

  After nearly a week of waiting, three men had slammed open the door to his cell. They had blocked the doorway, silhouetted against torchlight from the corridor beyond. Carlo’s limbs liquefied at the sight of them, and his empty stomach began churning again.

  “Get up!”

  He could not do it.

  One of the men strode into the cell, kicking through the filthy straw. He grabbed Carlo’s upper arm and dragged him upright. Carlo’s legs would not hold him and the man ended up supporting him under both arms. “Come on,” he had said. “We have to go.”

  Carlo could not walk, so they dragged him between them, slipping and stumbling, along corridors and up staircases until they reached a doorway to the outside world. He kept his eyes tightly closed, his head turned as much to one side as he could, whimpering and cringing at the thought of the mountain of wood and the howling crowd that were surely awaiting him.

  But there was nothing but silence in the street and when he finally opened his eyes, no pyre could be seen. The place was deserted. Then one of the men pushed a musty woollen coat into his hands, saying, “Go on, vaffanculo! You’re an undeserving little bastard but, for God knows what reason, they’ve commuted it. Alfàn says you can go. You have two hours to get out of Napoli. Don’t linger—you can be sure they’ll be after you if you are here a minute beyond nightfall.”

  Carlo had just stood there, staring at them, unable to move.

  “Go on! Get out! Fuck off out of here, you little shit! You’re someone else’s problem now.”

  And, retching and crying, Carlo had broken into a stumbling run.

  ***

  “It won’t be long until you are used to the way of going, Sinjur,” said, and looking up with a start, Carlo realized his nausea must have been visible. “Many of my crew are sick for several days each voyage.”

  Carlo tried to smile.

  “Not being much of a seaman yet, though, I thought you might appreciate your privacy,” continued. “So I have emptied a little corner for you, Sinjur, up at the bow end of the ship, and I’ve had a hammock strung for your use. It’s as private a space as you will find on a ship such as this…we live snug onboard, as a rule.”

  Carlo nodded his thanks.

  “But I will warn you, Sinjur,” said, “that the men know why you are aboard. They know your history. And your preferences.” He paused and licked his lips. Fingering the stringy plaits beneath his chin, he said, “You might be the object of…how shall I say…some curiosity amongst some of the crew. I overheard Ballucci muttering about you just now. I don’t think they are out to cause mischief, but I would just say…that it might be wise to watch your back. That’s all.”

  As Carlo stared at the little Maltese privateer, the ship rode up and over a big sea; he felt his insides swirl unpleasantly and, before he could stop himself, he vomited over the floor of cabin.

  ***

  Toward evening, Gianni pulled on his doublet and took another long, considering look around the room. Some fifteen feet square, its walls were a faded dove grey; the paint was bubbling and flaking away from one corner near the ceiling. An elderly and sun-bleache
d tapestry covered most of the north-facing wall, depicting the confused culmination of a successful hunt. On one side of the room, a low bed was piled with blankets and pillows, while opposite it were a small table, two chairs, and a crumbling credenza, its surfaces liberally peppered with woodworm holes. A threadbare carpet lay rucked over the wooden floorboards. The whole place was old and shabby, there were no hangings at the windows, and a chill air of disuse hung around him, but Gianni’s face split in a wide smile as he surveyed his new home. He had, entirely unaided, found somewhere to stay. In Roma.

  Closing and locking his door, Gianni ran down the two flights of stairs to the street below—a narrow lane which led directly onto the long Piazza Navona. Though the sun had already sunk below the roofscape, the market stalls in the piazza were still busy, lit now by tall, flaming torches, and the place was thronging with people.

  Pushing a hand into a pocket in his breeches, he clinked the coins he found there. He needed food and ale, and had a mind to try to buy a few things to brighten up his new nest—candles, perhaps a small lantern if he could find one, and maybe something to read. He would be starting his search for work in the morning, but until then, he had no commitments and he relished the unfamiliar sense of freedom. He wandered down the alleyways between stalls, conversing cheerfully with the stallholders and trying to look knowledgeable as he weighed items of food in one hand, shaking his head as if disapproving of the cost or the quality and haggling the prices down as though he had done such things all his life.

  After an hour, he had successfully bought several slices of lamb, a small loaf, a portion of cheese, six apricots, and a large bottle of ale. He had also found half a dozen candles, a new tinderbox and a small, pierced-lead lantern. Somewhat laden down with his purchases, he determined to return to his room in order to set up his supper and, to this end, turned back toward the far end of the piazza, walking now behind the backs of the outlying stalls.

  He was nearing the turning to his street when something caught his eye. Some way away, two men, deep in earnest conversation, were walking toward the Pasquino at the south-west end of the piazza. One of the men was elderly, slightly stooped, with thick greying hair and a beaky nose, while the other…Gianni stopped and stared. The other man was stocky, slightly barrel-chested, with protuberant black eyes. He was gesticulating energetically as they walked and whatever he was saying was clearly delighting his companion: the elderly man stopped dead and laughed aloud, shaking his head and bringing his hands together in fleeting applause. The stocky man grinned, then they both continued walking and talking. Gianni changed course, determining to catch them up, aiming to meet them before they left the great square. He tried to cut across the marketplace, holding his purchases up above his head. Worming his way through the melee of market-goers, he tried to keep the two men in sight, but there were too many people and he was too slow and, even as he reached the far side of the piazza, he knew he had lost them. Puffing out his disappointment, he backtracked through the market and returned to his room.

  He hadn’t looked as though he was passing through, Gianni thought. He hadn’t had the air of a traveler; he had seemed relaxed and at home. No baggage. No hat. Doublet unlaced. Perhaps, Gianni thought, if he were to look again later—or tomorrow—he might see him again. He hoped so—he had liked Modesto very much. Smiling at the prospect, he laid two slices of the lamb on a plate, tore off a corner of his loaf, and placed it and two of the apricots next to the meat. Seating himself at his table, he began to eat.

  Fifty-eight

  “Luca’s getting married again?”

  “Apparently so,” Filippo said.

  Maria smiled. “Oh, I’m so pleased,” she said. “How lovely. He’s such a dear man—I’ve often hoped he would meet someone. What is she like? What’s her name? Have you met her?”

  A small, cold hand reached deep into Filippo’s guts and gave a sharp tug. “Only briefly,” he said. “She’s very beautiful—other than that, I’ve really no idea.”

  “How did they meet?”

  Now, this was dangerous territory. Filippo toyed briefly with the idea of admitting to the “cousinship” connection, aware that Maria might well discover it for herself at a later date, but then decided he did not have the courage to risk such a strategy. He would, he thought, give Maria no more than minimal information; everything that might be potentially catastrophic, he would withhold. Dipping into his bucket of perilous facts, he picked out what he considered might be the least hazardous. “She came to that play I went to, a couple of months ago, at San Domenico,” he said.

  Maria frowned and said, “Oh, did she? Oh, what a shame—perhaps I should have made more of an effort and tried to go to the play, then I would have met her.”

  But she wouldn’t have been there, if you’d gone, Filippo thought. And I should still have been…busy…with her…on Wednesday evenings.

  An uncomfortable thought.

  He turned his head, looked sideways at his wife, and the thought retreated. Of course, had Maria come to that play at San Domenico that day, then yes, Francesca would still probably have been working, and he might well still have been one of her regular patrons, but equally, he and Maria would, quite certainly, not have been sitting like this now, in their conjugal bed together, warm and rumpled and just a little tired, and that would have been a great loss to them both.

  Maria was sitting up against her pillows, her hair a mass of dark tendrils, her cheeks flushed. She was very pretty. Filippo thought back over the previous hour or so. He had to admit that Maria had none of Francesca’s wild and wanton abandon—she never had, and he was fairly sure that she never would—and something within him ached at his loss of that experience of shameless liberation. But, looking at Maria now, he realized that there was something entirely—albeit quite differently—intoxicating about lying with a woman you knew for certain loved you very dearly. The tenderness in Maria’s touch just now, hesitant and self-conscious though it still might be, Filippo had found really very comforting and pleasing.

  He reached across to her and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear with one finger.

  Maria closed her eyes and smiled again.

  ***

  That moment in the street, the other day, when he had held her in his arms—for the first time in he could not remember how long—and he had felt the shamefully unfamiliar bony, boyish slimness of her, it had seemed to him in that moment that something indefinable about her had changed. He did not understand why this was, or what the change was, exactly, but whatever it was had made him feel oddly hopeful. Aware of a shifting sensation in his breeches, he had stood back from her, and said without thinking, “May I come to your chamber tonight, Maria?”

  Only when the question had blurted out and was hanging in the air between them like an ink blot did Filippo begin to doubt his moment of hope, and wondered why he had spoken. How stupid! This would only be yet one more moment of thumping disappointment—one more of many, stretching away along an empty road into a barren future, unrelieved now by Francesca’s ministrations. He had been angry with himself for asking; wished he hadn’t done it. Allowing himself to be ruled by his cock yet again, he had spoiled this unexpectedly tender moment of intimacy that, until his idiotic request, he realized he had been enjoying. Holding his breath, teeth clenched, he had waited for Maria’s usual stiff, awkward excuses, hoping he would be able to disguise his reactions when she refused him, as she so surely would. Having thus stirred up his own expectations, he would now, he supposed, have to relieve his frustrations alone, on the thin and lumpy mattress in the smallest bedchamber, as he had done so many times in the years before he had met Francesca.

  But Maria had smiled, shyly, and said, “If you would like to.”

  He had stared at her, mouth open.

  She had hesitated for a moment, and then said something else that had astonished him even more than her acceptan
ce of his suggestion: she had blushed, run her tongue over her lip, and said, very softly, her eyes fixed firmly on the ground between them, “I’ll try to entertain you a little better than perhaps I have done for a long time.”

  Entertain?

  He felt quite winded with shock.

  He had hardly dared hope that Maria’s unexpected announcement might presage a genuine and lasting change in her willingness to accommodate his needs…but as they walked back to the house together that evening, she had nonetheless allowed him to take her hand in his. She had even squeezed his fingers. And on arrival back at their house, they had proceeded straight up to the bedchamber, creeping on tiptoe and whispering like naughty children.

  And once upstairs, Maria had indeed been very much more “entertaining” than he had ever known her to be. She had closed the shutters and blown out all the candles in the chamber, her gaze fixed upon his; then, in the velvety darkness of their room, having carefully (and all but blindly) removed his wife’s clothing, he had felt, rather than seen, a new determination in her, both to please and to be pleased by him.

  It had been a revelation.

  ***

  He could hardly bear the thought that this new, albeit still fragile and precarious, intimacy between the two of them might so soon be shattered by revelations about his past liaisons with Luca’s newly betrothed. He felt his pulse beating in his throat as he heard Maria say, “Perhaps we can arrange for Luca and—what did you say her name was?”

  “I didn’t say. I believe her name is Francesca. Francesca Marrone.”

  “Francesca—I do like that name. I used to have a great-aunt Francesca. She died years ago—you never met her. But perhaps we can arrange for them both to come to our house to eat with us, sometime soon, don’t you agree? I should love to meet her.”

  Filippo did not trust himself to speak.