Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  “Horace—born before Jesus—speaks, Herr Adventurer. Speaks to us in this very room.” Brose sucked up a breath, held it, then bleated. “‘We are but dust and shadow,’ says the Roman. ‘Dust and shadow.’”

  Brose pulled the book to his bosom, rolled to his back, and closed his eyes. His mask gave the appearance of an innocent, slumbering child until he spoke again: “You don’t belong, Jacques Casanova.”

  - 18 -

  FRANCESCO CASANOVA WAS BURIED TWO DAYS LATER in unconsecrated ground. The interment of suicides in consecrated ground, which included all the cemeteries in France, was forbidden by the Catholic Church. And it was only by sheer luck that Francesco’s corpse avoided being drawn naked through the street, pelted with mud and stones, and hanged, as civil law required.

  What now of Dominique? Eviscerating grief raised a stone wall around her; this she told Jacques, and for the time-being, he understood.

  Despite the great sadness in her heart, there was still an urging, a deep desire to live. But there was aimlessness, too. Clarity was gone. Pressing and immediate obligations and duties seemed trite.

  Even so, her common sense, albeit considerably shaken, whispered it was, in fact, her duty that would see her through all this—her common sense would be the means by which she might wrest her soul from the ether of uncertainty, of anguish, of confusion, guilt, and grief.

  Walking the streets of Paris at daylight, she found herself repeating words that must have originated in a hymn or a sermon or maybe from her father’s mouth. Perhaps they were the priest’s words when her father was laid into the ground. “Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as if he were a shadow.” Great sorrows washed through her.

  Dominique prayed, but more, she wanted to stand on a mountaintop and scream to humanity that all is false, sham; then, in a calmer voice, she might speak with grace. Take notice, she wanted to say. Our lives are ending. Grasp close those whom you love. Clothe their souls with significance. Tell them true stories. Give them stories with meaning and matter.

  Roaming Paris, Dominique heard nothing of substance communicated, only the trivial, inane chatter that people blathered day in, day out. It was as if all mankind were unaware their lives were finite, for if they possessed that knowledge, how could they possibly wallow in the fatuous, in the mindless, in the emptiness?

  Less than a week after Francesco’s death, Dominique entered her room, kneeled at her chair and, saying a “Hail Mary,” closed her eyes until the last vestiges of the day’s sun played through the window. “Good Lord and Savior,” she prayed, “I come in humility, to ask again for Your forgiveness. Let me be grateful for Francesco. Bless him, I pray. He was gentle. Kind. Untarnished by the world. He was my friend. You allowed us a time together. I pray, let all this not be … I ask that you forgive Francesco.”

  Dominique’s head fell forward. She wept rueful tears.

  ***

  Amid the morass of bewildering events and feelings, certain commonplace actions were still required, one of which was unusually difficult for Jacques. He informed Petrine that, funds being what they were, there would be no more wages or even room or board.

  He doesn’t know about the gold Grimani paid me at L’affaire de Voltaire. And he could not possibly know I lost it, probably while swaying in the arms of D’Ampie. “I can assuredly be a future reference for you,” Jacques tried to cheer the valet. “And when I have your back pay, be sure that you’ll receive it.”

  Petrine, a proud Spaniard, seemed puzzled, but offered his trust in his master’s good intentions, then thanked him for being forthright. “Have you a notion for the future, sir?”

  Jacques began nodding, then looked Petrine in the eye and shook his head no.

  Without a further word, the valet pulled together his few effects, tramped down the stairs, and melted into the teeming crowd, knowing he would never collect wages from his master.

  Late that night, Jacques gathered together his brother’s possessions, now his inheritance. With grim and ghastly effort, he sat on his bed and examined each item. There were less than a dozen articles of clothing, including Francesco’s flannel stockings, a sleeping gown, a pair of shoes, gloves, and trousers. “I once purchased seventy-five shirts of the finest linen, Francesco. And as many Masulipatam handkerchiefs. And you have but two of each.”

  Francesco’s other assets were a pair of sunshades, his smallsword and oilcloth sheath, tools and paints, canvases, and numerous paintings and sketches. Jacques would pack everything.

  “Brother,” he suddenly cried, “you’ve hurt me to the quick! I must not think of you again.”

  Night passed into day. That morning, Dominique found succulent vegetables at the market and accepted a loaf of bread from a neighbor while Jacques worked in the kitchen baking sole. Together they silently prepared for the day’s main meal, knowing it was one of the last at the residence.

  Jacques took it upon himself to see the tablecloth was clean and well-appointed with Dominique’s prettiest utensils and hollowware. Between the two settings—his and Dominique’s—Jacques laid a small flower. He knew then, more than ever before, this tenderness toward this woman to be a singular, exceptional privilege.

  Soon midday sunbeams streamed through the small window of the room and goldened the bloom.

  “I’ve a white wine that compliments the fish,” Jacques said to Dominique while she readied herself for the meal. “And for dessert, I have a sack full of nonpareils.”

  “Shall we sit?” At table, Dominique blessed the food.

  “Your presentation is excellent,” Jacques said, indicating the colorful food set before him. “Excellent.”

  “Thank you. I’ve done my best.” Dominique unwrinkled her lips into a slight smile. “I must say, everything smells wonderful, Jacques. And even though Francesco convinced me that you’re not much of a cook, yet he’d surely welcome this.”

  “He would.” Jacques raised his wine glass to Dominique.

  By her third bite, Dominique was sobbing.

  She’ll seek my eyes if she wants sympathies. I must remind myself that this daily outpouring may continue—

  “These”—she held up her fork, knife, and spoon—“were a present from Francesco in our first year. I’d forgotten until now.”

  “I understand.”

  “He’s gone. He’ll never sit at the table again.”

  “He’s gone, Dominique. We must accept it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why accept it? Or why is he gone?”

  Dominique snorted.

  Jacques felt the hot blaze of his cheeks.

  “Why?” she said. “Why?” She began a hoarse laugh, which ticked into a sharp upsurge. “Francesco was miserable. His dreams were crushed. Did you know that on the night of L’affaire de Voltaire— potentially his greatest success—Francesco slashed his battle painting? And held a dagger to his throat?”

  “I’d no inkling.”

  Dominique continued, tears rushing down her face. “Francesco lied to you. Small lies. Big lies.” She bent forward over her plate. “I lied, too. I once told you your brother had firsthand knowledge of his models, his pretty models. None of it was true. Francesco never had any of the girls. Nor me. Francesco and I never consummated our marriage. We never once made love in seven years. He tried. But—never.”

  Jacques’ hand slid from his chin to the table. In that instant he realized why his brother had so keenly sought the erotic miniatures.

  Dominique’s tears streamed faster. “For a long while, I believed he found me repellent, that I was the cause of his failure. Until one odd afternoon, he revealed he’d made several attempts with a favorite model. To no avail, he said. He couldn’t make love to anyone—as vigorous as he might appear. It humiliated him. Made him bitter and unkind. Slowly changed the quality of his paintings. Why did Francesco kill himself? In the misery of his impotence and in the desecration of
his artistic dreams, he felt powerless. And if he knew about you and me, well, he turned that displeasure inward, and the black, helpless hole captured him. He was not the same man I married. I knew, I sensed it, but I did not foresee his death.”

  “Dominique—”

  “Francesco understood, yes, knew I wanted children. And I deluded myself that when his paintings sold at the fête, he’d have money, standing, and maybe greater confidence. Maybe then be able to have children.” The woman cupped her forehead with both hands and let loose a shrill lament. “I’ve hurt him so terribly, planning the fête. I drove him to … I killed him.” Hard pain suffused her face.

  Jacques—his whole frame trembling—rose, crossed to the grieving woman, and kneeled beside her. He waited some time before speaking. “This is, no doubt, the time to be frank,” he said. “Even in our boyhood, Francesco never … partook of the girls. One night in particular, several of us gave over to sharing a willing young lady’s favors. Francesco begged off, claiming he was ill. During those times, I might have suspected he wasn’t able to perform, but I never, ever considered that his unnatural state would last. Into marriage.” He placed his hand upon Dominique’s. “I assume he didn’t tell you about his condition before you married?”

  Dominique nodded.

  “He should be faulted for this. And moreover, you must not now feel responsible for his end.”

  A long, long silence passed.

  Giving her the flower on the table, Jacques led Dominique to the bed in the adjoining room where, saying nothing, he sat beside her and kissed her cheeks, then her mouth. He desired her. He said this. But she replied that, for her part, this was not the time.

  “Lovemaking might put you at ease, make you feel better,” persisted Jacques. “Why discourage our pleasures?”

  Dominique’s reply was firm. “I feel ample satisfaction in your delicate affection, Jacques.”

  We begin with affection. But let us not end there. Let us taste ecstasy.

  Gazing at Dominique, Jacques lay down beside her, temporarily aligned to her wishes.

  To feel, to touch a woman where her waist sloped to her hip would never lose its fascination for Jacques. When his fingers sensed that indefinable fullness, tiny raptures stirred within him, a tingling dizziness held him enthralled—all but arresting his desire. This refined enchantment of nature he’d puzzled on but never unlocked—an elusive message of womanhood he couldn’t decode, a fact that only enchanted him further.

  With hands—he often looked forward to holding a woman’s hands, appendages he explored and kissed in endless admiration.

  Beyond these particular treasures, Jacques adored all parts of women and the discoveries that exploration afforded. He cherished a woman’s closed eyelids, which might at any time open with the surprise of passion to reveal her most ardent secrets.

  Too, the warm, moist breath and unique flavor of a woman’s mouth—these offered refined fulfillment. And woe be to the lover who did not find kissing an exquisite delicacy to be enjoyed on its own merits.

  He relished the revelation of a woman’s nipples: pink or light or dark brown, large or small, and above all, their sensitivity to plucking, pinching, sucking, and caressing.

  The ferocious odor of his lover’s most private possession was his sweetest harvest. The scent of the feminine treasure reassured him. Reassured him that this life was real, was of substance.

  He was at ease with the most unfrequented portions and passions of women, and rarely did he disdain an action or behavior that might bring his partner more pleasures.

  To an onlooker, Jacques Casanova might be considered a connoisseur of the carnal; in his own estimation, the act of love merely granted him a neophyte’s naïveté—which led him to discover and rediscover all that his female counterpart had to offer. His gift was a fascination with the female.

  And yet, to gratify his own senses was his intention.

  For him there was no moral dilemma, no vexing inelegance, no taint of religious sin in the act of gratification between a man and a woman. Man and woman were only natural creatures sharing in a mutual earthly paradise. Innocent and inventive as a child, Jacques rejoiced in this paradise.

  But here he was. His ardor was pressing. Insistent.

  He nevertheless spent the better part of the afternoon only in the tender worship Dominique so warranted.

  When the light dwindled and the afternoon air lost its warmth, the pair lay side by side holding hands, enveloped in blissful reverie. The streets of Paris, the cares of life, the future—all seemed distant. When the twilight deepened in the small room but before a candle was needed to see, heartfelt words escaped Dominique’s lips. “You don’t yet know how to surrender your soul, Jacques mia, but you give me your body in the most pleasurable manner.”

  As was Dominique’s wish, Jacques again went to his own bed. He stared at the ceiling, troubled. He was concerned with Dominique’s welfare, yet there existed in him subtle reservations he couldn’t explain. In past times, he’d been able to extricate himself from a woman by shuffling her to a “worthier gentleman,” as he soothingly made clear. That maneuver had worked more than once. But now?

  Before Jacques’ breathing grew heavy, before sleep came, he thought hard upon the delicate lies and secrets Dominique had shared that evening.

  ***

  The following morning Jacques was disturbed by a loud clatter in the courtyard. Looking out the window, he spotted the imposing coach and horses—trimmed with argent and crimson—from which stepped Michele Grimani, Cavaliere della stola d’oro. The man, sporting a smartly painted walking cane, approached, his expression sullen. The pommel of his sheathed sword glinted in the sun.

  “Jean-foutre,” cursed Jacques.

  Jacques tore from his bed, threw on clothes, pushed his dagger into the back of his breeches, and moments later stood at the open doorway of Francesco’s apartment.

  Jacques spoke first. “If you’ve come to comfort Dominique, she—”

  “I do not endeavor to greet Madame this morning, although—” Grimani sounded gruff.

  “Were she here, I’d make certain you’d not see her.”

  “Bitter?” Grimani chided as he reached the door. “Well, let me furnish you additional bitter meat on which to chew. And I strongly suggest I provide it indoors,” he pointed with his stick, “unless you wish the passersby and neighbors to know your present lot.”

  Jacques hesitated, then grudgingly moved aside.

  Cane in fist, Grimani barged past Jacques and planted himself, legs wide apart, in the long entrance hall.

  Jacques felt his chest swelling. I shall beat the arrogance from this man.

  “As you know, perfect success for L’affaire de Voltaire was paramount,” Grimani said, offering Jacques a sour frown. “But success faltered. My family’s victory was denied. Your brother’s reprehensible and all too public suicide devastated my grand plan.”

  “Not your plan. Dominique’s grand plan.” Jacques moved toward the man, but Grimani’s menacing cane forced him to reconsider.

  “Dominique’s plan, then. In any case, important members of the nobility were seriously injured by your brother’s stupidity that night. Fortunately the king’s coach was one of the first to depart our home. Monsieur de Voltaire’s was not. He, like a hundred other lords and ladies, bogged down in the storm-soaked quagmire. This—in addition to the ballroom panic—seems to have horribly humiliated Monsieur. He’s left for Switzerland—without even your religious manuscript, it seems. France, you should be ashamed to know, will not clasp to her bosom her greatest son.”

  Grimani strode down the hallway toward the door, passing close to Jacques. Instantly, Jacques ripped the walking stick from the man’s hand and shattered it across his knee.

  Grimani backed away. “I’ll add this petty feat of yours to my list of grievances,” he barked as he clutched the hilt of his sword.

  Jacques quickly reached for the dagger in the back of his breeches.

&
nbsp; “Your poniard challenges my rapier?” hissed Grimani. “A sorry choice.”

  Grimani leisurely removed his hand from his sword’s hilt, then began spitting words at Jacques. “Everlasting exile from one’s home is hardly bearable, and I think you now recognize there’ll be no letter to smooth your return to Venice. Further, I intend to reclaim the gold I paid you.” Grimani’s tone deepened, then swelled into a cry. “You’ve violated my home. You’ve sullied my family name. You’ve debased Venice. Debased me!”

  Jacques matched his adversary’s high passion. “I’ll not bear your blunt load—”

  “You’ve no more leverage, Casanova. No one cares what you do.”

  “I care what—”

  “You’re an adventurer,” Grimani snarled. “Find an adventure. Quit Paris. Take the widow with you. Or I shall make certain your gambling debts make prison your next rat hole.”

  With that, Grimani streaked past Jacques, grinding slivers of walking stick under his shoes. Thrusting open the door to the hot morning sun, he twisted his head back around. “Oh, yes, the rumors are rife: King Louis is certain to issue a lettre of cachet should you mean to stay in Paris.”

  Grimani trotted out the door, slammed it closed, and was gone.

  A rare sick ache tormented Jacques’ gut. Banishment! By the king. He felt hot bile rising up his gorge. Who has conspired against me? Grimani? Francesco? Dominique? Grim Nature herself?

  - 19 -

  HIS STRENGTH RETURNED, Jacques lumbered up the stairs to his room, only to find that a half hour later he was again at the front door—this time facing a servant of Vicomte de Fragonard. Is the Vicomte’s favor still obtainable, Jacques wondered? There was no mention of any such thing. Instead, the servant’s request was that Jacques finish Francesco’s business arrangements with the Vicomte. At this news, Jacques let go a sigh of disappointment.

  It was nearly noon when Dominique reappeared from her early stroll. Jacques explained softly that, though he was legally entitled to his brother’s estate, he wished to assign Francesco’s belongings to her. These possessions, he suggested, might possibly be stored at the Vicomte’s, a request, in fact, he’d made to the servant.