What Casanova Told Me

by Susan Swan

  She carefully placed the journal back in its archival box, along with the photocopies and the Arabic manuscript. Outside the window, rows of terra cotta roofs steamed in the morning sunlight. It was going to be a sunny day, after all. She could see Lee in the courtyard below helping herself to a breakfast roll.

  She closed the curtains and began to unpack the knapsack she’d bought at a local camping store. First: the pendulum kit her mother had given her several Christmases before. Then her cache of books. Along with The Stones of Venice and her Rough Guide to Venice, she had brought with her some essays on Casanova, a hardback text, Casanova: The Man Who Really Loved Women by Lydia Flem, and a well-thumbed paperback of the first volume of History of My Life by Jacob Casanova, describing his Venetian childhood. She’d had to leave the other volumes of his memoirs at home as well as a prized copy of his only novel, Icosameion, a surprisingly modern science fiction fantasy about a new human race that lived in the bowels of the earth. Next: the small cloth bag with her mother’s makeup, which still retained the scent of her mother’s perfume. She stacked her books on the windowsill and started in on her new clothes. Not her usual style, but she had wanted something livelier to buoy her spirits. She hung up the three semi-transparent chiffon blouses and three clingy dresses, and neatly repacked her low-cut spandex tops and the pretty white Malibu pants she’d bought for Greece. On Lee’s advice, she’d thrown in a woollen scarf and her favourite jacket with the patchwork of Chinese-coloured silks sewn into its shoulders because Venice was cold in the spring.

  Unexpectedly, her fingers closed over the little figure Lee had given her that morning, and she pushed it deeper into her knapsack.

  Luce didn’t know how long she’d been asleep. She threw on a pair of beaded jeans and her favourite jacket and then lifted her ancestor’s travel diary out of its box again. Should she take it with her? Reading the user copy provided by Charles Smith wouldn’t feel as personal. Its loose, photocopied pages did not bear the original ink, the impress of a writer’s hand. Even though she knew she shouldn’t, she couldn’t resist. She wrapped the diary up in acid-free tissue from the archival box and placed it inside a small knapsack. At the hotel desk, she picked up the directions Lee had left for her and walked out into the streets of Venice, carrying her ancestor’s journal.

  It was a little late in the day for her sunglasses but she was near-sighted and needed their prescription lenses to see at a distance. In the square beyond, she noticed a celebration. A figure in red robes and lace was swaying into the basilica, carrying a gold cross the length of a body. The scarlet figure was followed by a large throng of men and women and children singing a Latin hymn. She felt slightly awed, as if she was observing a mysterious anthropological rite. Her aunt Beatrice was the last member of the family to believe in a formal Christian doctrine. She had insisted on taking Luce to Anglican services when Luce was small and proudly shown her the family’s ancient copy of The Optimist’s Good Night. Held together with Scotch tape, her aunt’s well-handled little book of cheerful axioms listed over 230 selections, including Lord Byron’s recommendation that “to do a man’s best is the way to be blest.”

  There was her mother, of course—but her mother’s brand of religion was not what anyone would call Christian. And anyway she suspected that a wilful self-deception lurked inside all religious conviction—a deliberate setting aside of what is true in favour of what the believer needs to be true, like the suspension of disbelief during a film or a play. Still, it’s lonely work to be a postmodern skeptic.

  Turning her back on the basilica, she followed Lee’s directions and found herself at the restaurant Da Raffaele. She walked out to the terrace where tables had been set up along the canal, and saw the young photographer from the water taxi drinking a cappuccino. He was dressed in what looked to Luce like a magician’s outfit: an ill-fitting black jacket with flaring lapels and a slight shine to the shoulder seams. His bulky camera rested on the chair beside him. He stood up, grinning, and she shyly turned away, pretending not to see him. “Miss!” he shouted, and as she turned back, flattered by his persistence, a burst of lights flowered behind his head like miniature strokes of lightning—several simultaneous flashes that illuminated his handsome wolfish face. Then a gondola glided by, crowded with Japanese tourists in the act of lowering their cameras. At the bow stood an accordion player and a middle-aged singer dressed in white sneakers and a homely windbreaker. The singer began his version of “Arrivederci, Roma” and the tourists clapped like schoolchildren. At the rear of the craft, the gondolier poled on glumly, a red ribbon dangling from his straw hat.

  The young photographer wagged his head at her, as if sharing his contempt for mass tourism. Luce nodded gravely and stepped inside the Da Raffaele to find a table away from the sea air. She had at least an hour of reading time before Lee arrived for dinner. She felt slightly ashamed of herself for bringing the old journal to this public place—especially to a restaurant with the possibility of food and wine stains. However, her ancestor’s travel journal was in better condition than Casanova’s letters and she felt a little freer with something written by a family member. She would make amends by treating it with extra caution.

  Cradling its handsome spine, she supported the diary on her lap and opened it to the first entry. Asked For Adams’ consistently rounded letters were as economical as the bold italic script of Jacob Casanova was extravagant. Here were no mannered dashes or sweeping flourishes. This was the hand of a Puritan descendant, after all. Broad strokes would be too sensual. She smiled, marvelling at its owner, who had defied her Boston upbringing to travel with a man like Casanova.

  She had first read his memoirs for an undergraduate course in eighteenth-century literature. And she hadn’t forgotten her professor’s description of Casanova as a master of deception. In his lifetime, he’d been a spy, a man of letters, a preacher, a novelist, an alchemist, even the director of a state lottery. There were other professions that she couldn’t recall now. Casanova could be counted upon to invent any role for himself that the situation warranted, her professor had said.

  What role did he invent for Asked For Adams, she wondered.

  April 12, 1797

  God Bless our journey! And bring us the boon of good weather!

  Last night Father and I came into Venice at sunset in strange company. Father’s secretary, Mr. Francis Gooch, accompanied us. Our companions on the public boat, a group of young dandies from Trieste whom Father calls Macaronis, tinkled as they moved, their tight-fitting breeches and damask coats hung with glittering fob chains from which dangled watches, rings and eyeglasses, the source of the delightful little noises. On their heads, the dandies wore powdered wigs in the fashion of the old French court and these full-blown headpieces gave off a stench of pomade oil and starch as they paraded up and down in front of us, demanding that we look at them and not at the beautiful orangeries on the shores of the Brenta.

  These human music boxes laughed and whispered to one another each time they gazed at me. I knew it was my great height that had provoked their sniggering smiles but I did my best not to feel put upon.

  What I found far more unsettling than the silly Macaronis, what riveted me to such a degree that I could not take my eyes off her, was an enormous old woman in a towering, beribboned wig, garnished with every likeness imaginable from the natural world—strawberries and butterflies, small, stuffed birds—even little wire-framed portraits of what may have been sons or husbands woven into her hair. She sat on a bench a few feet away moaning softly and holding her jaw.

  The young man sitting next to her—a chubby, excitable-looking fellow whose ponytail was encased in a silk wig bag—was teasing the old woman, pulling ornaments out of her hair and holding them up for the passengers standing nearby to see. First, a small locket, next an artificial rosebud, and now a miniature portrait of a sweetly smiling fair-haired girl. The old woman seemed unaware, holding her head and groaning, when suddenly, with a happy cry, the young man plucke
d something from the curls close to the great dame’s ear. Turning to me, he mouthed a foreign word—German, I believe, so I could not understand the joke he was trying to share. Then he thrust the thing he wanted me to see under the old woman’s petticoat.

  “You beast! Leave Finette alone!” The old dame spoke French in a low, gravelly voice. She began to fuss about her crinoline, and a fuzzy grey snout poked through the lace of its hem. A small, excited fox terrier bounded towards me and pressed itself against my skirt. I patted the little dog and it gazed up at me lovingly. I picked it up and brought it to the old woman and she bent over the dog, smiling: “Ah, she likes you, ma pauvre!”

  As the old woman caressed her dog the sunlight caught the ornaments on her wig and I saw that it was crawling with beetles. Their veined wings glistened as if the bugs were part of the stupendous adornment she had contrived on her person. I had no time to feel shocked, for at that moment the barge rounded a marshy curve in the Brenta and for the first time Father and I saw the city of Venice, perched like a fairy-tale kingdom on the arc of the horizon. Holding up her little dog so it could see the legendary city, the old dame exhaled such a sigh of longing that I too felt my breathing cease. Then the Brenta curved back on itself, shutting out Venice and leaving us with the silvery glints of river water flowing to the sea.

  I excused myself and went off to take my guidebook out of my valise. Before we left Paris, Father had bought me the latest edition of The Grand Tourist’s Guide to the Picturesque Landscapes of Europe by Sir Thomas Peabody, and Exile: The Royal Education, a travel panegyric by an anonymous author who claimed that the exile of Charles II was an unexpected boon for England’s young monarch. I preferred Peabody. I turned to the section on the Brenta and was pleased to find the name for the pretty barges on the canal, done up like little houses. On the roofs of these burchielli, men and women sat or stood, drinking and chatting, the women carrying little fans and parasols. I overheard one of the Macaronis tell Father the passengers were Venetian nobles sailing to their summer houses to escape General Bonaparte. The French army has invaded Northern Italy and is encouraging peasants and nobles alike to rebel against the Republic of Venice, Father says. But he claims the French are our allies, so we have nothing to fear.

  When the public barge stopped for more passengers, Father and I disembarked to stretch our legs, leaving Francis on board. Moments later, near a small palace in the Palladio style, we met the old woman and her young companion. They were sitting on a bench with a group of pilgrims in capes and round hats. One of the pilgrims was mending his clothes. As we approached, the old woman and her friend rose, and I saw she stood almost a head higher than the young man. She looked sleepy now, almost happily so. She held out a large blunt-fingered hand, which I thought odd to see at the end of a lady’s wrist, and offered me a quadrant of fruit.

  I shook my head, not daring to look at her for fear of the horrible bugs.

  “I am Joseph Karl Emmanuel von Waldstein—Count Waldstein,” the young man said, bowing. “And this is my aunt, Countess Flora Waldstein. She is feeling much better because the boatman gave her something for her toothache.”

  “Theriaca.” The old dame smiled, uncapping the topper on a small glass vial and taking a lusty swig. “In Venice, we believe in friendly poisons.”

  They spoke in French and I answered them in that language as they seemed not to know a word of English, and Father speaks French with the slow, clam-chowder tones of a Quincy person.

  “Do not apologize, monsieur. It is French, not English that is the universal language,” I said, explaining that Father and I were travelling to Venice because my parent was on a trade mission.

  “According to my cousin, the President of the United States, my work will profit the Republic of Venice,” Father said. “Unless, good sirs, Napoleon gives us a war.” Father is a handsome man with a ruddy countenance, a legacy of his life farming apples. But I am afraid he talks loudly so that people will overlook his twisted mouth, the unhappy result of a physical seizure.

  “That Corsican bandit!” the old woman exclaimed in her strange, gravelly voice.

  “I’m pleased to say, madam, that your Corsican bandit is now fighting valiantly on your northern border and he will crush the medieval tyranny of Austria as easily as I might squash a bug!” Father bayed.

  The old woman’s lips quivered as if she wished to argue. Count Waldstein shook his head and the Countess stared down at her gold-buckled shoes. They must once have been handsome, but the red leather was now badly worn and the toes unfashionably square.

  “Like Venice, our cousin, the President,” I spoke the words reprovingly for Father’s benefit, “… also favours a neutral stance. That is why we are here.”

  Father glowered at me; he has become an admirer of the young Napoleon whose military success was the talk of Paris.

  “So you are here on a trade mission, Monsieur Adams?” Count Waldstein asked, flapping his wrist at the young Macaronis who were strolling our way and staring at our small group with amusement. One of the dandies bowed; the other lifted off his small chapeau with a walking stick and twirled it saucily. I believe the more people stared at us, and the more discomfited we all became, the more Count Waldstein enjoyed himself, because he was now laughing quietly.

  “Gentlemen, my daughter speaks up freely,” Father replied. “It is because I have allowed her a son’s liberties. But yes, I am here on business matters. My cousin, the President—ah, look now, Asked For. Here comes your young groom.”

  Francis came towards us along the river path, lumbering and gap-toothed and wearing his own hair. He refuses to powder it and clothes himself in the same dark amber breeches and wide-brimmed hat as my parent.

  “May I introduce my secretary, Mr. Francis Gooch of Massachusetts. My sturdy country heifer will soon be joined to this young bull in a bond which no man can put asunder.” Father bowed towards me to show there was no mistake.

  “A sturdy heifer, sir?” Countess Waldstein said. “Surely, that is no way to speak of a woman who is an adornment to her sex?”

  “Are you talking about Asked For?” Father asked.

  “Monsieur, will you look at your daughter’s eyes?” the old woman replied. “Are they not as green as the Adriatic glistening before us? I believe the loveliness of her eyes was bestowed upon her by Venus, while her lofty stature ensures no man will dare condescend to a being of such beauty.” The Countess took my hand and squeezed it, and I was grateful to her for her kindness.

  “Aunt Flora—let us say goodbye to these pleasant folk and return to the boat,” Count Waldstein said. “Will you sup with us in Venice, Monsieur Adams? I have an important personage I would like you to meet.”

  “I would be honoured, Count Waldstein,” Father replied.

  Count Waldstein returned his bow, and off they went, his aunt holding the small glass vial carefully. She had hardly gone a step when the little fox terrier darted out from under her skirts and ran yipping down the path. I began to laugh.

  Francis scratched his armpit. “Is that a man or a woman?” he said as we started back towards the boat.

  “A woman surely, by all accounts.” Father smiled. “I reckon Asked For has met a Brobdingnagian as big as herself.”

  The old woman was half right about my green eyes. They are plainly my best feature: neither my size (I am too tall by half) nor the shape of My Poor Friend (which is the name I give my physical being) are up to my eyes, although Aunt Abigail once told me I have “an intelligent plainness” as opposed to “a dull-eyed beauty.” Aunt Abigail said my intelligence is sure to win the heart of the man who will see me as I am. She told me this was my dead mother’s notion of love: the person who truly sees and cherishes you is the person who loves you best.

  As for myself, I have no opinion on love. My only experience is with gap-toothed Francis, who does not see me or anything else except the size of the livestock on the farms our coach passes and the fields of corn growing here, which he boasts came
from the New World’s Indians. The Gooch family has been very good to Father and me since Mother passed on, leaving only myself and two brothers who live in Vermont. It was Mother who wanted me named Asked For because she so dearly wanted a female child. After he married, Father asked God for forgiveness, believing his love for Mother overshadowed his reverence for the Lord. “God, teach me to leave behind the affliction which stands in the way of thy Divine love,” Father prayed. “I have grown proud and am secretly full of sensuality, delighting more in my dear wife than in loving You.” The day I was born Mother died—despite Father’s best efforts not to prefer her to his Creator.

  Towards sunset we entered the Adriatic Sea and gondoliers swarmed around our barge, calling out offers of rides and lodgings in Venice. The pilgrims pushed past us onto the cheapest boats, leaving us the costly gondolas with wood-covered cabins. Father went with Count Waldstein while Francis and I followed his aunt off the barge into a sturdy black craft manned by two gondoliers. I noticed the elderly lady studying me as they poled us towards the distant domes of Venice. I smiled politely, as if Francis were not pushing his heavy thigh against me, and tried to make lively conversation about the beauty of the soft rose light spilling across the lagoon.

  When we docked by San Marco, Father, who does not favour sea journeys, walked dizzily from his gondola. Politely ignoring Father’s distress, Count Waldstein indicated the Ducal Palace and asked, laughing, whether I had heard of the infamous rake and lover of women, Jacob Casanova de Seingalt, who was once imprisoned there. When I said no, the Count explained that this man Casanova, as he called him, had made a daring escape from its gaol in 1759, using a piece of granite to break through the lead roof. Casanova, the Count said, had managed to persuade another prisoner, a priest, to go with him. Twenty years later, Count Waldstein added, Casanova came back to Venice, only to be banished again. And now Casanova was obliged to make a living entertaining European society with the tale of his escape.