Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  Fifty-nine

  The two identical profiles are facing each other on the pillow, eyes closed, peacefully unaware of the world. Beata is sucking her thumb. I stand and watch my daughters sleeping for a moment or two, and then I feel a hand on each upper arm.

  Luca is smiling when I turn to look at him. He runs a thumb softly beside the line of almost-mended scarring around the side of my face. It hardly hurts now and, in candlelight at least, it scarcely shows. In fact, if I dress my hair carefully, I can hide it. The messy little wound under my chin has taken longer to heal, and is still painful, but fortunately that one is almost out of sight.

  “Come to bed,” Luca says, taking my hand.

  We go together to the floor below.

  Luca’s bedchamber—I still have trouble thinking of it as “ours’—is lit by a single candle. The windows are shuttered. The bed is hung with green curtains that seem to be moving gently in the bobbing flame, and the candlelight is dappling the polished floorboards with gleaming blotches. In the grate, the fire has died to embers, around which the last few lazy flames are licking almost noiselessly.

  This is only the second day that I have stood in front of Luca as his wife.

  It was a hasty marriage, perhaps, taking far less time than is usual in Napoli. We had to dispense with much of the ceremony, though formal intentions were declared and witnessed by Niccolò as notary, presents were given (to the girls, who were delighted, of course), and a feast, cooked with love by Lorenzo, was enjoyed by all. I had no one to decide upon my dowry for me, so I made my own arrangements. It was a easy decision: I shall simply bring to this marriage everything I own. Luca has agreed that this seems eminently reasonable.

  But if the earlier parts of the proceedings were somewhat rushed, we had a truly lovely Ring Day.

  The evening before, I had knelt before little Father Ippolito on the other side of the partition in the dingy and sour-smelling confessional box at San Giacomo degli Spagnoli, and finally shed the weight of all the years of guilt, pouring out to him every last fear and regret, and admitting for the first time to the true extent of my terror of damnation. I’m afraid I wept as I told him that it was all over—for ever; tears of relief and shame; of fatigue and an exhilarating release from dread.

  He paused for a long, long moment before offering me my absolution.

  On the day itself, Niccolò came again to the house in the Via Santa Lucia. He helped Luca to put the ring on the fourth finger of my right hand, just as he should, and Luca sweetly gave rings to Beata and Bella, too. They are far too big for them—Luca bought them for when they are grown up—so both girls are now wearing their treasures on ribbons around their necks.

  I had a present too. Luca gave me his grandmother’s bridal belt. You don’t see them very often anymore. It is truly beautiful—dark-blue velvet, decorated with dozens of delicate silver medallions—and I felt entirely honoured as he wound it three times around my waist, and kissed me as he fastened it.

  We walked together, with the girls, up to San Giacomo for the blessing. I was pleased that it was Father Ippolito who gave it; after everything, it seemed fitting. He appeared a little bemused, perhaps, but despite the bashful glances he kept casting in my direction, he managed to utter the prayers we needed, and Luca and I and the girls all walked back to Luca’s house as the thickening light of evening sent purple shadows crawling into every corner of every street along the way. Luca and I took our time, and the girls danced merrily along ahead of us.

  ***

  Luca stands now at the foot of his bed and holds my hands in his. Pulling his arms out sideways and backward, he brings me in toward him and kisses my mouth. For a moment we are connected only by the kiss, our arms outstretched, but, when Luca releases my fingers, we hold each other close. Then, taking his mouth from mine, he says, “Turn around.”

  I turn and face away from him.

  Kissing the nape of my neck, he loosens the lacing of my dress. To use Gianni’s term, he surprises me all over again, and that surprise shivers down through my throat and pushes deep into my belly. He pulls the lacings from their eyelets and, after a moment’s work, eases my dress from me in one; it falls to the floor around my feet, leaving me in my shift. Pressing up against my back, Luca reaches around me and, holding me in to his body with his hands on my breasts, he begins to kiss me again, just below my right ear.

  “Can I confess something?” he asks quietly with his mouth still against my neck. “Something rather shameful.”

  I nod, my skin prickling.

  He lips the lobe of my ear. “I am the most terrible hypocrite,” he says, and I feel the word whispering against my skin as much as hear it. I arch my back so that my breasts push out against his fingers; he draws me back in toward him.

  “Hypocrite? Why on earth…do you say that?” I ask, struggling to concentrate on what he is saying.

  “Because…” he says, pausing every now and then to plant another kiss on my neck, “because, after all those uncaring things I said…after all that terrible, self-righteous disapproval…” One hand has now pulled up my shift and is sliding up toward my buttocks. I cannot suppress a little gasp. “After all that…” he says. “I have to admit to finding it…quite unaccountably arousing…to be undressing a whore.”

  I turn around and look up into his face.

  He pauses. “It’s been the same each time. Does that make you angry? I think it probably should.”

  I pull my shift off over my head and, naked, press up against the scratchy wool of his doublet front. I shake my head. “No, Luca, it doesn’t. Not angry at all.” I take from him his doublet and shirt. Almost certain what his answer will be, I ask him, “In all those years you were on your own, Luca, did you ever…?”

  He shakes his head as he takes off the rest of his clothes and climbs with me through the green hangings.

  “Did you ever think about it?”

  He raises an eyebrow. “Often,” he says, with a wry smile.

  I run my fingers over his body, stroking every part of him except the one place I know he will most want me to touch. The omission is deliberate. It will be worth the wait. “When you thought about it, all those times,” I say, “what did you most want a whore to do?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Luca tells me, simply and honestly. I am moved by the intimacy and charmed by the revelation. Kneeling up, I say, “Well…would you like to do that now, then? Now that you have a whore of your own in your bed?”

  Luca stares at me and then smiles. His eyes dance and he nods.

  ***

  I open my eyes and then shut them again quickly: a thin blade of bright light, cutting through a narrow gap in the shutters, is lying across my face. I turn away from the window and reach out for Luca.

  He’s asleep, but at my touch, he smiles at me. “I want you always to be here,” he says. “Always be here with me. I don’t ever want to wake alone in this bed again.”

  “I don’t intend ever again to sleep anywhere but where you are.”

  Luca draws me in close. I curl up against him, my head on his shoulder, my legs bent up and draped over his knees. We lie like that for several long, drowsy moments. And then Luca says, “Can I ask you something?”

  Entirely unsuspecting, I reply, “Of course. Anything.”

  He pauses. “How did you come by that scar on your back?”

  I hold my breath. For a moment I am rocked by an image of Gianni’s worried frown, as he asked almost the same question all those weeks ago, and remember my giddy inability even to contemplate the memory. But here, now, in Luca’s arms, something extraordinary happens. I close my eyes and bring to mind what took place that day, and, although the pictures come promptly and are still vivid, it seems to me now as if that memory concerns someone else; it happened, yes, but not to me, and I find that I am recalling it dispassion
ately. I feel, strangely, a wash of detached compassion for the victim of that night’s catastrophe, as though she were not me, but a friend—someone I knew well, I think, someone I liked, but in the end, someone who has moved on, out of my life. “It was a long time ago,” I say. “In another existence. A man I hardly knew. A man with rage in his heart and drink in his belly and a knife in his hand.”

  Luca stares at me. Then, holding my shoulders, just as Gianni did that time, he turns me to lie on my front, and draws the covers away from me. I feel his fingers tracing along the line of puckered flesh for a few seconds, and then he too, like his son, bends and kisses my scar—once, twice, three times. His mouth is warm and dry and tender, and it seems to me now that these kisses complete in me the cataclysmic changes that his son’s kiss began.

  I turn back toward him.

  “I love you, Luca,” I say.

  He smiles. We look into each other’s eyes, saying nothing, just drinking each other in. Then, “Good,” Luca says. “I’m so very glad you do. Because that’s just as it should be.” He holds my face and kisses my mouth.

  “Can I ask you something now?” I say.

  “What, cara?”

  “Does having the girls here make things difficult for you?”

  He pulls back from me and props himself up on one elbow. “Difficult? Why on earth do you say that? They’re delightful—I love having them here! What do you mean, ‘difficult’?”

  I hesitate. “Because of Gianni and Carlo. Because they’re your boys, and they were here and now they’re not, but my children are. In their place.”

  Luca takes my hand. “Oh, cara, no. Don’t think it for a second. Gianni is a young man, not a boy anymore. I’d been thinking for some time that he was about ready to go off and explore the world. He’ll be back—I am quite sure of it. And as for Carlo…” His face darkens a little. “I think I lost Carlo a long time ago.”

  I squeeze his fingers. He grips my hand more tightly and says, “Don’t ever underestimate my gratitude to you for what you did for Carlo. You, of all people. He didn’t deserve it. You saved him from the sort of death no human being should ever even have to contemplate, despite what he had done to those girls of yours, and I’ll never forget it.”

  Neither of us speaks for several minutes. We lie next to each other, hands clasped, each lost in our own thoughts. Then Luca grabs me, rolls over with me until he is on his back and I am lying on top of him, and says, “But now, there must be no more looking back. Understood?”

  I nod.

  “We must look forward. And the first thing we’ll find when we do, is the visit of the Lavianos to this house this afternoon. Which, I have to admit, might not perhaps be the easiest of occasions.”

  Sixty

  The sun is already low, and the fire in the sala looks cheerful and welcoming. There is a knock at the door. Beata and Bella scrabble out of the room and down the stairs, bickering about who will open the door to the visitors. I lean out of the room to watch as they scuffle with each other on the threshold, but then Luca appears; he gently scoops them out of the way and opens the door.

  He is facing away from me, but I can hear the smile in his voice. “Filippo, Maria—I’m so glad you could come. Come on in! Come upstairs.”

  I watch the familiar bulky, silver-haired man being ushered into the house. His wife follows him, but as she turns around and smiles at Luca, my mouth drops open. Cazzo! It’s her! That sweet-natured creature who picked me off the cobbles outside San Giacomo and opened her heart to me so touchingly that day…that was Filippo’s wife. Oh, dear God—what on earth am I going to say to her? And what will she say to me? Oh heavens, this is a nightmare! I wish I could speak to Luca before we all confront each other, but it’s too late—they are on their way up the stairs.

  Luca is shepherding them both up from the hallway and the twins are hopping from foot to foot on the steps below the visitors. I slip back into the sala, and cross to the fireplace, swallowing down a sickening feeling of dread.

  “Cara, here are Filippo and Maria,” Luca says as they all come into the room. He shows them in, and then runs back downstairs for wine and glasses.

  “You are both very welcome,” I say a little hoarsely, a stiff smile fixed onto my face as though pinned there.

  Filippo is smiling broadly and blustering a reply, but, just as mine did a moment ago, Maria’s mouth has opened in shock. She stares at me, her eyes wide and her face pale, clearly dumbstruck.

  “Francesca!” Filippo says, his voice sounding unnaturally hearty. “You’re looking well.”

  “As are you, Filippo.”

  He colors, but smiles. Reaching out a hand to Maria, he pulls her in close to him and puts a heavy arm around her shoulders. “Francesca, this is my wife, Maria. Maria, this is Francesca. The new Signora della Rovere.”

  Maria and I each manage a limp little smile.

  I say, “Come and sit down here, by the fire. It feels decidedly chilly to me.”

  We all move across to where several chairs have been placed near the fireplace. Filippo helps Maria to sit, then seats himself next to her, taking her hand as he does so; my smile fades again as an awkward silence seems to fill the room. Even the twins sense it—they have curled up next to each other in one of the window recesses, and are now looking from me to the two visitors and back, cheek to cheek, wide-eyed and curious.

  Luca appears then with a large bottle of red wine and a basket of bread. He flicks a glance toward Filippo and Maria, then to me, and I can see a flash of understanding in his eyes—though he knows less than he thinks. Putting the bread and wine down on the table, he sits down in the chair next to mine, draws in a long breath, and says, “Filippo, Maria—you must be wondering about the happenings of the past few weeks.”

  Filippo starts blustering, trying to absolve himself of being thought intrusive. But Luca holds up a hand, and Filippo stutters to silence. Luca says, “Please, don’t apologize. I’m sure that, were I in your position, I should be deeply curious.” His voice is warm and calm and contains no accusation, and Filippo’s tense shoulders relax a little. Luca continues. “Of course you know what happened in the court, Filippo. We are so very grateful for your help, as you know.”

  “Well…I…er…”

  Luca opens his mouth to speak, and then he hesitates. Beckoning to the twins, he smiles as they scramble down and cross to stand in front of him. He takes one of each girl’s hands. “Can you run upstairs for a few moments, girls?” he says quietly. “I want to talk to Signor and Signora di Laviano about something private. Mamma will call you when you can come back downstairs again.”

  They both turn to me. I smile and nod, and, looking at each other with an expression that quite clearly shows their lack of appreciation at being thus removed from a potentially interesting situation, they nevertheless leave the room without comment. Their footsteps sound on the stairs, and then on the ceiling above our heads.

  “I don’t think that the details of some of the circumstances of these past days are really suitable for their ears,” Luca says to Filippo and Maria, who both nod. Luca says, “Now. You know that Carlo has been…sent away from Napoli.”

  Filippo’s color deepens again as he nods. He is looking quite hot and flustered now. Maria looks down at her lap and starts picking at the stuff of her skirt.

  Luca pauses and then adds, “But, Maria, I doubt Filippo will have told you the truth about Carlo’s case; he is far too discreet. But I’m sure you would prefer to know.” He draws in a breath and then says, “Carlo was accused of murder. A murder he had quite certainly not committed.”

  The silence that follows this is so complete that when Filippo shifts minutely in his chair, I can hear the soft sound of the cloth of his breeches rubbing against the wood.

  Luca continues. “I discovered that Carlo was facing the possibility of summa
ry execution.” He stops. “And of course, I feared the worst. You know, more than most, Filippo, of the intransigency of the Spanish in situations like this. But then…then…we had a stroke of luck.” He smiles at me. “Francesca was able to speak with one of the Spanish, someone she…someone she…er…knows quite well—Maestre Vasquez.”

  Filippo’s color deepens still further. He cannot meet my eye.

  “And she was able,” Luca says, his voice almost steady, “to persuade him to plead for Carlo on our behalf. We were very fortunate. Filippo—you were there—he must have pleaded effectively—for Carlo’s sentence although not overturned, was commuted…to…to one of exile.” There is another pause. Luca’s voice cracks now, and I reach across and take his hand as he says, “My son has left the city. He has left the country, in fact, and is currently traveling, with…well, with an acquaintance who captains a small ship. I think they are heading for Africa. I don’t…know when he’ll be in Napoli again.” Another long silence. Then Luca says, “Gianni’s away too.” His voice sounds a little stronger as he adds, “But he, on the other hand, should not be gone too long.” He manages a smile. “He’s in Roma, taking a break from his studies. He’s looking for temporary work, and I expect him to visit in a few months.”

  This of course is all true, but Luca’s many omissions feel like screaming lies to me.

  We all try hard to talk after that, but, as in those dreams where you try to run with leaden legs that grow heavier and less mobile at every step, each word we utter now seems to leave our mouths sluggishly and to be taking too much time to reach the ears of the listeners.

  After a moment or two, Luca says to me, “Shall we bring the girls down now?” and I know he is hoping that their lively and innocent ignorance will freshen the atmosphere in the room. I call up the stairs to them, and within seconds, they have clattered down and burst back into the sala, quite obviously hoping to pick up clues as to what they have missed while banished to their room. Luca holds out the basket of bread for them to hand to the guests.