by Susan Swan
I came for Finette, as the spies here have taken note of our friendship. Do not try to find me. When I can, I will notify you of my whereabouts. Thank you for all your kindnesses.
Your servant, Jacob
Postscript
I have enclosed Aimée’s first letter—the first I ever received. I know you will treasure it, as I do, and return it to me when you can.
I looked around the room and saw that he had taken the dog’s toys. I became dispirited, thinking I might not see Jacob Casanova again. Venice is in the hands of the French, putting an end to Father’s trade mission, and the wedding is fast approaching. Soon we will be on our way home to America. I sank down on the chaise to read Aimée’s letter, hoping her words would comfort me, and when they did not do so, I tried to amuse myself by copying a translation of her letter onto these pages so I will not forget the sentiments she expressed to Monsieur Casanova:
Darling Giacomo:
Do you know, my soul, how much I wanted you, from the moment you stepped out of the small wood near the Château d’If and helped me rescue my pet from the swan—that vicious, deceptive bird which pretends to be so serene. I am no longer a girl—as you know—and it amuses me now when men see seduction as an act they inflict on us, the weaker sex. From you, I learned that a true attraction moves naturally and at once in both directions. When I felt this mutual recognition between us the world blurred into a kind of ether and I saw nothing except you. Why does this recognition occur between two people in the first place? If I understood the reason, I would be the wisest woman in the world. I know myself a little—I am fiercely proud and a good Catholic, while you, Giacomo, are forced to disguise your abhorrence for Europe’s snobbery to make your way in life. Your capacity to appreciate is a gift for me and all of us who know you.
I suppose someone more skeptical than I would not have returned with you to the Château, where you were writing Icosameion—your delightful phantasy of the world beneath the earth. Remember? You spied me from the windows of your bedroom on the grounds below, chasing Charlotte. As I write, I see you—a tall, chestnut-haired man, vigorous, rushing towards the swan waving your hands and making such a commotion that the bird stopped pecking at my dog and hissed at you instead.
In a moment, you had Charlotte in your arms—barking furiously because she did not know you—but the great bird no longer had its prey. It plunged back into the lake and swam off to join its fellows and the two of us laughed because it was clear that Charlotte longed to go after them, pawing your chest so eager was she to renew the chase.
I did return to the Château and I knew when I went up to your room and watched you dip biscuits into your rather vinegary wine—I am sorry, Giacomo, it was vinegary—that I would let you make love to me. As you ate the wine-soaked biscuit, I found myself wondering how your fingers would taste in my mouth. And when you played the old lute you found in the closet, and Charlotte began to snore on your canopy bed, how natural it was for me to lie down beside her, the wine warm in my veins. That day, it seemed as if all the time in the world lay before us.
You undressed me, your eyes grateful. I imagined the swans floating below us, and when you made your connection, I too was a swan floating on a nameless lake. Strange, fragmented visions appeared before me—of myself submerged in water as white feathers drifted above my head. I lost sight of you completely and thought only of myself. Afterwards, you told me that what I felt is how all lovers feel as the moment of jouissance approaches, that we use each other well in order to please ourselves. You begged me to stay and said you would find a pastor to marry us. Is it not odd the way life surprises us? Perhaps if I were not an orphan, I would have had the courage to tell Da to go home without me.
Your loving Aimée
Postscript
Do not fear that your age will lessen my desire for you. My love will make you young, Giacomo, and stop the ticking of the clocks. Love is the force that stares down the face of time itself.
My hands were trembling when I finished copying Aimée’s letter. I know nothing of the physical truth of men’s bodies, and I found myself wishing I had been the young woman at Château d’If. This thought made me restless and I stepped out onto my balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. Venice was coming to life; the streets echoed with the voices of shopkeepers and gamblers returning from a night in a local casino. In the lane below my balcony, three German men in capes and high boots were singing a high-spirited round. Their exuberant male noise made my spirits sink still further. What can Venice—which has not a single museum or gallery of art—offer a traveller like myself?
First Inquiry of the Day: Will I find a love such as Aimée speaks of in her letter? No sooner do I ask this of myself than a dreadful answer comes: Not in this lifetime, Asked For Adams, not in this unkind universe is there a man who will see your value.
Lesson Learned: It is better for a woman like me not to think about love. Are we not all monsters spawned by other well-meaning monsters?
What a bleak outlook her ancestor had on love, Luce thought as she lay on the hospital cot. Of course, at twenty-five, Asked For would have been considered a spinster and lucky to have found Francis. Luce was twenty-eight and, despite her mother’s anxieties, her single state did not inspire that kind of reaction—the very opposite, truth be told. But she had a secret she hadn’t admitted to anyone. She longed to fall passionately in love, in shameless retro fashion, one glorious windy spring evening when the tides were high and the moon golden above her lover’s head. Except that her longing was suffused with a sensation of futility. Her earlier sampling of love affairs had been disappointing. Luce knew that Kitty meant well, but she sometimes thought her experiences had been influenced by her mother’s proactive views on sex, left over from the 1960s. When she was sixteen, Kitty insisted she go on the birth control pill. Then one night Kitty had invited over a neighbourhood boy Luce liked and dimmed the lights, calling over her shoulder, “Enjoy yourselves. I won’t be back for three hours.” Luce had felt dizzy from fear and nothing much had happened—not then or since.
In the days when they had talked together about such things, her mother warned her not to expect sex to be like the glorified Hollywood depictions. But she stopped trusting her mother’s insights on love after Kitty fell for Lee Pronski.
Meanwhile, there were too many nagging questions about love. She longed to be swept away but how could she fall in love without losing all sense of herself? She didn’t want to suffer the fate of lovers in Greek myths or romantic novels. It was cheesy and grim to die in a cave like Katherine, the adulterous wife in The English Patient and it smacked of self-indulgence. And how do you tell a frog from a prince, or recognize a frog is a prince? He wasn’t going to show up in satin tights and slippers that turn up at the toes, now was he? There was no simple answer. And, just as she was convinced that she needed to keep on searching, she was equally sure she would never find anyone who would make it worth her while to surrender to the transporting love she craved.
She supposed her yearning was the sort of thing Lee used to deconstruct in her women’s studies courses. She could imagine what the Polish Pumpkin might say: the signifier is looking for a non-existent object to signify. She smiled wistfully. Is that what she was up to? The perfect lover with the perfect nose, and a row of perfect toes? Well, love was the ultimate floating signifier as far as she could tell. The word referred to something no scholar could define or concretize. Anyway, her feelings about love were convoluted, and their complexity left her bewildered. Too bad she couldn’t follow the example of Asked For Adams and seek refuge in axioms that glorified paradox, like, say, telling oneself that without doubt hope wouldn’t live. If one found paradoxes comforting, that is. Personally, she found them sickening.
May 20, 1797
I have suffered a grave misfortune.
Earlier this evening, Father and I stood together on the balcony outside the salon belonging to Madame Gritti. We were waiting for the guests to arrive in her smal
l apartment (called a casino), which overlooks the Piazza San Marco. Father admires Madame Gritti. He wags his head sheepishly when I tease him that the independent ways of Venetian women should help him forgive me mine. In their casini, upper-class wives entertain their cicisbeos—the escorts who act like second husbands. I notice that Father is pleased if Madame Gritti icily ignores her cicisbeo and he winces whenever this fellow appears a few steps behind her, bowing to her one minute and the next running to fetch a hot chocolate drink.
She, at least, found Father interesting enough to offer him her apartment and he has invited some of the élite of Venice to see the sketches from Monsieur Pozzo. Despite my warning, Father had insisted on going ahead with his purchase, saying I had acquired my knowledge of art from Peabody’s guidebook. His lack of suspicion is out of character, and I fear the effect this city is having on him. He was no longer in good humour by the time we found ourselves on the balcony watching the angry mob in the square. They were smashing the doors of anyone sympathetic to the French because they believe the Doge and his council betrayed them by surrendering their city. At one end of the square, we heard boys yelling, “Viva San Marco!” And by the Molo, brigades of French soldiers rushed into the melee, shouting, “Viva la libertá!”
“They are not bringing freedom to Venice, Father. This is tyranny. Do we need to have the French consul to our party?”
“He declined, child. And I worry the others will not come. Let us check to see if Monsieur Pozzo has brought the sketches.”
Together we walked back into the casino. It was nearly midnight and, to Father’s relief, our Venetian guests began to arrive. They were a mix of rich merchants and poor members of the aristocracy, though many of these barn-abotti have already fled Venice. I could hear the chatter of the women, dressed in long black silk coats and the mannish hats that spout a single white feather. The men wore frock coats and perukes and appeared untroubled by the sounds of the violence in the square. As we greeted them, the chalky smell of hair powder floated in the air around us, mingled with the vinegary scent of the cologne that is the fashion here.
Bestowing his gap-toothed grin upon our guests, Francis emerged from the thicket of perfumed bodies and whispered that he and our guests had come through the back entrance to avoid the mob of angry citizens. For once, I felt glad to see him. I took his arm and we went in to our late dinner of champagne and risotto served with platters of local artichokes. After the meal, while Madame Gritti translated his awkward French into Italian, my parent spoke about his mission. He told our guests that Uncle John, together with Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin, had sent a letter to the Venetian ambassador in 1789, expressing interest in trade with Venice.
“And I am here to extend our invitation. We in America will trade our cattle and wheat for your Venetian glass and lace.”
“You’re setting up shop in the midst of a civil war!” someone called out in French.
“Is there a better time?” Madame Gritti replied. “What is more conducive to money-making than a war?”
Our guests clapped and laughed. I stared shyly at their powdered Venetian faces, alight with excitement. A few of our guests wore silver masks and I admit I found their faces strange and alarming. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown louder, and Father had to shout to be heard.
“Welcome guests, today we from America will show you Rome’s finest art and you will see how greatly our republic admires yours.”
Once again, our guests clapped, but they had begun whispering to each other, their eyes wandering, and I realized they were only feigning interest in Father. I told him that we should get on to the exhibit and he responded with, “My friends, let us proceed now to the Paper Museum.”
The guests stood aside as Madame Gritti put the key in the lock of a door leading to an adjoining room. The door swung open and they pressed in ahead of us. We heard laughter and angry exclamations. The walls of the little chamber were bare. Except, alas, for the single sketch Monsieur Pozzo had shown us that day in the Café Florian. The sketch lay on a small table, held down by stones. There was no sign of Monsieur Pozzo. Madame Gritti removed the stones and inspected the drawing with her lorgnette.
“Monsieur Adams, this is a forgery.” She beckoned Father over and pointed to the corner of the drawing. The tiny watermark read 1795. Father staggered backwards, and Francis had to catch him by the arm so he would not fall. Madame Gritti dismissed our guests and they filed out, neither thanking Father nor looking at us. It was a humiliating occasion.
Madame Gritti left quickly with her cicisbeo, leaving only Father, Francis and myself. My betrothed at least had the good grace not to pester Father with questions. We hurried down to the square where some Venetian men were setting little fires. Fearful, we rushed by them, but they did not harm us. Outside our pensione, a large group had gathered in the campo around a tall beggar in a Harlequin mask standing with another beggar in a sleeveless coat. A covered basket sat nearby, guarded by a small, rough-haired dog. The tall beggar growled some words in Italian and the dog bounced over to the basket and raised one of the sides with its teeth. It hopped inside and out again, holding in its mouth a small piece of folded paper. It placed this at the feet of the old man. He called out in Italian, and some of the audience shrieked and waved their slips of paper at him. Others walked away, their heads down.
I knew Venice is fond of gambling. No one can miss the colourful windows in lottery offices which display the winning numbers on placards decorated with fantastic figures in blue and red and gold. At night, these windows are well lit with lamps and candles so the Venetians can check their ticket with the winning numbers predicted by the city’s successful gamblers.
Still, I had never seen two wretched beggars and a half-starved dog holding a lottery in the midst of a civil war. What kept these unfortunates from taking the money for themselves, I wondered.
Suddenly, the little dog stopped its jack-in-the-box performance and turned a pair of familiar golden eyes on me, wagging its tail. The tall beggar man looked at me warningly. Then he whistled and the little dog trotted to his side, its head down. And I realized I knew the beggar man.
Francis and I have put Father to bed. I have retired to my room and have brought out my new quill.
First Inquiry of the Day: Why did Jacob Casanova dress up as a beggar? To avoid Count Waldstein? And why did Father, a suspicious judge of character, believe a man like Monsieur Pozzo, a person he would not have invited to our home in America?
Lesson Learned: When in a strange country, trust no one, not even your own travelling companions who may be altered by their experiences in new lands.
Newest Thought I Am Entertaining: I am wiser than my own parent, and this is a melancholy prospect.
Postscript
A few hours ago, I heard Father shout my name from his bedchamber. I hurried to his side and found him, his bedclothes a-tumble, his cotton nightcap still on, vomiting into his chamber pot. When I rushed over, he raised his eyes up to me like a frightened child and pointed at his heart.
“Father, please don’t talk!” I began to wipe his face with a cloth I dipped in the washing bowl. His forehead felt feverish and he was struggling to catch his breath.
“I must talk, child,” he whispered as he tried to sit up. “Before the pain makes it impossible to speak.”
“Father, be still!” I pushed him gently back on to the bed and for a moment I thought he might strike me, although he was as feeble as I have ever seen him.
“You must marry Francis if anything happens to me. Promise me that,” Father said as I pulled the coverlet across his chest.
“Nothing will happen to you, Father.”
“Do you trust me, child?”
I nodded.
“Then say you will marry Francis if I do not live to see it.”
I took a quick breath. “Father, I trust you,” I said. “But I do not trust myself.”
“Is that your answer, little one? If so, it does me no goo
d.”
“I do not wish you unhappiness, Father,” I said.
“Then say it—say it, Asked For!”
“No.” I was shocked by the firmness of my answer.
A shattered hopeless roar rose out of Father’s throat and he threw himself out of the bed linen. The noise struck me like a hammer blow. He raised both fists, I thought to strike me, but instead he hit his fists with singular force against the front of his chest, and fell backwards on the bed. I knew, before bending to check his pulse, that he was dead.
When dawn came, I was still lying across his chest. From the street came the cries of vendors selling their fresh melons and strawberries to the late night gamblers. Father, there is nothing you can do for me now, I thought sadly. I am alone in the world. As the sun grew brighter, I washed myself and set out to find Francis.
On such a day there are no new thoughts or lessons learned. There is only life, as absolute and as unbiddable as death.
Luce realized that her appointment with Signor Goldoni at the Sansovinian was in half an hour. Where was Lee? Why hadn’t she returned? She put the journal back in its box and checked out of the hospital. Reading about the death of Asked For’s father had distressed her and she longed to be reassured by the companionable bulk of regatta crowds. Ignoring the sign that said USCITA, she found herself in a shady arcade where patients with drawn faces sat talking to one another. Luce remembered seeing the cemetery of San Michele on the way to the hospital, so conveniently close to its customers, and grew frightened she wouldn’t be able to find the exit. She asked a family for directions, and the mother and father began to argue in Italian over the best way out. To her relief, the son walked with her to the front door and pointed her towards the square of Santi Giovanni e Paolo. Two minutes later, she was lost in a new square that looked exactly like the one by the hospital. She hadn’t realized how confusing Venice could be, despite the ubiquitous plaques with little yellow arrows pointing in the direction of Piazza San Marco. At a café, she pleaded with a waiter who drew her a map but in minutes she found herself lost again. She felt dehydrated from the heat of the still May afternoon, and in the next campo she made herself stop and take off her jacket.