Jacques smiled faintly. “When living a life of adventure, it’s often easy to be misled by underhanded rivals. I’ll not be hung for trifles.”
By late evening, Jacques had booked three passages to Acre and arranged a guide and camels from there to Jerusalem. During that time, he also dispatched Petrine to deliver a note to Cardinal de Bernis—the note firmly declining the clergyman’s offer to stay in Rome.
“And it’s worth repeating,” Jacques said when he, Dominique, and Petrine were finally face-to-face in their lodgings that night. “We must be cautious on this journey. We’re on to dangerous and unusual endeavors. Let’s purchase unadorned clothes and sell these we wear. Dominique, you will be especially looked to. A plain dress and domino will arouse no pity nor dazzle fellow passengers or seamen. I, myself, will drab down and—”
“I’ll select and buy a muslin shirt for Petrine,” Dominique said.
Petrine’s eyes showed he was much astonished. “A gift? I’ve never been given a gift. Thank you greatly, madame.”
***
By noon the next day, Dominique stood at the stern of a lateen-rigged caravel, bracing herself for each short roll of the ship. “Rome is fading,” she said to Jacques, who stood at her side. “I’d gladly return.”
“If the hunt were not before us.”
The voyage proved a long—but not difficult—trip. The breezes—there being few true winds on the Mediterranean—were good for sailing, which allowed the caravel, alert to bad weather or pirates, to navigate within the sight of land. Brief stops in Sicily, Crete, and Cyprus charmed Dominique, for she’d never imagined such exotic locales.
During the clear nights, the brilliant stars seemed to light a waterway toward Venice, but Jacques surmised the many vexing obstacles. He promised himself again that when the quest brought great wealth, he would return to Venice and gain the respect he deserved.
The caravel sailed into Acre, where a stout sea wall encompassed a city of ancient marble. Before the overland journey to Jerusalem began, the adventurers were taught by their Ottoman guide Omar Ibn Khalif how to ride and handle a camel.
Almost as soon as they took their new mounts, the scorching winds began to spit sand so fiercely that Jacques feared his exposed face would scour to the bone.
***
For several days, the caravan followed the ancient byway that wound through the desert panorama. At the beginning of one evening, the sunset melted the bleak landscape of ominous Judean hills into soft shades of purple, pink, and orange. There, on an immense plateau, glittered the revered city of Jerusalem.
The caravan moved slowly toward the walls of the city, but the sun had not disappeared before a sighting of the Temple on the Mount gave Dominique a triumphant excitement.
“To think I walk the same ground that Jesus, my Redeemer, walked,” she cried. The adventurers and their guide pitched camp outside Jerusalem.
When the next morning arrived, Jacques sat atop his camel thinking, wondering if his purse would be adequate in Jerusalem. He laughed aloud. So I now should concern myself with thrift?
Khalif collected his pay, his animals, then bid farewell. By the time Petrine had arranged food and lodging, twilight had nearly swallowed the ancient city, but armed with Khalif’s hand-drawn map, Jacques was able navigate to an old and rugged dwelling on a narrow and sinuous street.
Jacques glanced at his companions—one at each elbow—then knocked on the thick wooden door before him. Far away, a yelping dog seemed to respond.
“I don’t want to be standing in this street in total darkness,” Jacques said. He knocked again.
“Who! Are! You!”
Petrine and Dominique recoiled in alarm. The timbre of the sound suggested a screeching woman.
Jacques’ neck hairs stood on end. He took a moment to regain his composure, then decided upon his best French to communicate. “My name is Jacques Casanova. You come highly recommended to me by Omar Ibn Khalif.”
In the center of the door of the clay-brick house, a peephole flipped open. A voice barked back in staccato bursts. “How is it you know Khalif?”
“He led us from Acre to Jerusalem.” Is this a woman? A woman guide?
Silence.
“Khalif promised we would find a porter, a guide worthy of our task.”
Not a sound.
“He gave only your address,” Jacques whispered.
“No name?”
“No name. You see, I trust Khalif. Just as you must.” Jacques stepped farther from the peephole, hoping that whoever was inside might have a better view. “I’m from Venice.”
“Fool, your clothes and sword already tell me you’re an outsider. Hah! Never are Jerusalem’s streets empty of strangers. Let me see the color of your coin,” croaked the voice from within.
Jacques opened his purse and sprinkled his palm, making the coins jingle as loudly as he could.
The voice again sounded. “You’re a fine figure of a man. Are you a Jew or a Christian?”
“Christian.”
“Prove it.”
“Yes, my …” Jacques stopped, then slowly lowered his hands while the startling realization dawned on him. He turned slowly to Dominique and Petrine.
In the last remnants of daylight, Dominique’s eyes gleamed from within the hood of her domino. A sprightly smile broke across her lips.
“Pardon me,” Jacques turned to the peephole, “I’m a professed libertine who has done a great deal of odd service, but in truth, I’ve never utilized my penis as a passport!”
The stillness from the other side of the door brought a rising heat to Jacques’ cheeks. How badly do we need this guide? He snuck a sidelong glance at Petrine, who, snickering, turned his back and faced the empty street.
Dominique crossed her arms, a smile still on her lips.
Jacques let out a loud sigh, stuffed the coins back into his purse, then reluctantly coaxed his member from his pants for the inspection of someone he could not see.
“A Christian indeed. A Christian of prominence,” cackled the voice. The door creaked open, and a rough-looking woman, eyes ablaze, took a step toward Jacques while he hurriedly buttoned up.
Jacques looked at the woman. Rather short, about Petrine’s height. Lively brown eyes. Fifty years old, give or take. Rotund body stuffed into breeches, blouse, and vest—but one that was no doubt voluptuous in its prime.
“Muslims are circumcised too,” said the woman. “Nevertheless …” She stroked her chin from which several silver hairs protruded. “I’m Esther the Israelite, a descendant of the patriarch Jacob. And I could care less if you’re a Jew, Muslim or Christian. I rarely see naked men.” Esther again began to cackle.
While Dominique and Petrine moved to Jacques’ side, a terrifying shriek came from inside. “Who. Are. You?”
Jacques nearly jumped out of his stockings. Past the open door, he spied a parrot.
“That is my child, Maimonides,” Esther said. “A rare intelligence who speaks in three languages.”
Petrine burst into laughter. “Your child has wings and a beak?”
Esther glared Petrine into silence.
“We mean no discourtesy, Esther the Israelite,” Jacques said.
“Maimonides the parrot is peevish this evening, but you’ll treat him with respect.”
Esther took several steps past Jacques and looked both ways down the winding street before asking him, “Are you a gentleman? Have you a visiting card?”
“I am a gentleman, madame, but I balk at the trite custom of announcing one’s rank in life on a small card,” he boldly lied. “My father convinced me that a man’s heart should be figured in his tongue.”
Esther opened her palms to the adventurers. “I trust that old heathen Khalif, but if you’ve come to harm me, know that I own nothing of value.”
“We’ve not come to do you harm, madame,” said Dominique, removing the hood of her traveling domino, which Jacques at once understood as a sign to introduce his companions. She then made clear to Esther
the adventurers’ wish to see the Stables of Solomon, to know the story of them, to possess all the information the woman could impart.
Esther stepped from the dark street back into the entranceway, then faced Jacques. “I’m the person for your task. Regardless of each pasha’s rules, I’ve been sneaking into that huge, if dull-looking, chamber for forty years. And so, too, my father and his father before him. The money you showed me will remain yours for tonight. I will consider your mission and decide how much it shall cost you. Return to me at the morrow’s sundown.”
At dusk the next evening, when they arrived at Esther’s door, their knock was met with another unnerving parrot screech.
Jacques promised to throttle the bird.
Esther unlatched the door, greeted her guests, and invited them inside.
Jacques looked about. Rough-hewn table and chair. Fire in the hearth. Mattress with straw poking from its insides. Scattered books. A large mushroom-like ceramic on top of a stand.
Jacques shuffled his feet across the dried flowers covering the dirt floor. These at least disguised the odor of the chamber pot. And Maimonides’ droppings.
At that instant, the gray parrot whistled. Jacques glanced at the bird. A peculiar fellow, with his roving eye and wiggling tail feather. Not unlike myself.
Esther asked Dominique to remove her cloak and motioned for the three to sit on the round rug that adorned a portion of the floor. The Israelite dipped behind a primitive curtain strung across an archway and returned with drinks, only to disappear again.
Poisoning. A favorite pastime in the Near East, thought Jacques while he discreetly sniffed his cup. But my nose detects nothing untoward.
Esther came back with several lit candles that she placed at the center of the rug, then sat between Petrine and Dominique, completing the human circle.
“What do the words on your tablet say?” asked Dominique, her eyes fastened on the burnished letters of a wooden slab on the near wall.
“That is from Isaiah, daughter,” Esther said. “It reads: ‘You shall see, and your heart shall rejoice.’ I find many meanings in that scripture. My grandfather and father were rabbis—teachers—and they introduced me to the wisdom of the scriptures.”
Jacques addressed his companions. “May we get to—?”
“How did you travel to Jerusalem?” interrupted Esther.
“Boat and camel.”
Esther let out a raspy laugh. “By boat, eh? That pagan contemporary of Jesus the Nazarene, Seneca, wrote he would travel twenty years on his way by land rather than pass by water to any place in a short time, so tedious and dreadful is the sea.”
“We didn’t find it so,” Dominique said.
“So, the Knights of Christ?” cried Esther suddenly, her eyes growing intense. “The preceptory of Jerusalem, Palatium Solomonis. According to the stories passed on to me, the Knights Templar in the twelfth century built their quarters on the foundations of the ancient temple of Solomon, as they believed the temple had stood on Mount Moriah.”
Jacques nodded. “I was told that one of the Templars’ primary tenets was the reconciliation of Jews, Christians, and Muslims, was it not?”
Esther shook an admonishing finger in the air. “An intelligent woman might ask if reconciliation was their aim, why the Christian Templars expended twenty thousand of their knights in the taking and defense of the Holy Land and why they perpetrated the abominable slaughter of thousands and thousands of Muslims and Jews.”
“But,” prompted Jacques, “we are all men, in our own natures frail—”
“And few are angels. Yes, I know the passage, Signor Casanova. Frail or not, men have a choice.” Esther clasped her palms together as if praying and spoke in a lighter voice. “Good, says the Kabala, is that which draws one closer to the sense of the center of creation or the divine. The Kabala allows for good. And evil. The choice between good and evil allows men free will.”
“Boethius, too, felt that human will is free,” Dominique said. “He believed that, though the end is planned by the Creator, the manner in which the end is attained depends upon the reactions of human beings to situations created by fortune.”
Jacques and Petrine turned their heads toward Dominique in surprise.
“As you say, Esther, with free will, men may do good or evil.”
Esther clapped onto Dominique’s nearest knee. “It is a fine thing to meet a learned woman, daughter. Shalom aleichem and salaam.”
Dominique smiled. “My father, and my husband, too, taught me a great many things.” She lowered her eyes to the rug. “Long ago.”
“I don’t mean to trample on the education you women provide,” Jacques said, “but as to men’s fortunes, may we talk of the Stables of Solomon? That is the task at hand.” Too late, he realized he’d sounded gruffer than he meant to.
“You are but a few of those whom I have led to the stables, Signor Casanova. I’m aware of what you seek.”
“And what would that be?”
“Everything in its time, Signor.” Esther tugged at the hairs on her chin, then placed her fingers against her lips, as if the words that were about to leave her mouth should not be revealed. “Old grandfather said legend had it that in the stables, the Templars found a treasure beyond compare. But neither my grandfather nor my father in their entire lifetimes could discover if the Templars took treasure with them or secreted it here in the Holy Land.”
Jacques’ stomach jumped with excitement.
Esther continued: “Be warned: the current pasha forbids anyone in the Stables of Solomon, so you will pay me ten silver coins for my risk, for my services. You will bring haversacks, shovels, water pouches, and candles. And you shall see the stables tomorrow night. But my prescript dictates that we first seek a blessing through a purification.”
“A purification?” blurted out Jacques.
“Many years ago,” Esther said looking at Jacques and the others, “my brother discovered a cache of oil on one of our journeys.”
Jacques scratched the pox scars on his face. “You sanctify your sojourns with anointing oil?”
“Yes. You have noteworthy business in Jerusalem, don’t you?” said Esther, reaching into the coarse garment she was wearing. “I burn this tonight for a successful guiding.”
Jacques raised his eyebrows, then nodded.
Esther pointed to the vial in her hand. “The recipe for the oils were closely guarded by the priestly house of Avtinas but I discovered that the Mishna specifies the principal ingredients as kannabus, myrrh, balsam, Chinese cinnamon.” Esther pointed over her head. “I am a tool of Him whose name shall not escape my lips. We are all His vessels. As His instrument, I guide men through Jerusalem, a site sacred to Jews, Christians, and Muslims,” she said. “A purification, then. Shall we not seek the holiness of men and women?”
Esther did not wait for an answer. Taking one of the lit candles, she rose from the rug while Maimonides the parrot trilled a note and articulated several words.
“Is that Hebrew?” asked Jacques.
“My parrot speaks Hebrew, Latin, and Greek. And he’s an extremely quick and able learner.”
“What? No Italian?”
“Not a word of that vulgar language,” Esther frowned. “And I plainly forbid anyone to use Italian in my household. Need I be clearer?” Esther gestured to herself and her guests. “The four of us will continue with our French.”
“As a Parisian, I agree with your sensible declaration,” smiled Dominique, who leaned toward the candles at the center of the rug, then glanced up at Jacques.
Jacques flapped his hand. “Positively no Italian.”
Tiptoeing toward the parrot, Esther took a piece of nearby fruit and placed it between her parted lips. She bent toward Maimonides, who flailed his wings several times before taking and swallowing it.
Crossing past Dominique to the small cook fire near her bed, Esther removed a burning ember and dropped it into the chute of the mushroom-like ceramic. Carefully holding the vial
, she poured its contents into a side hole of the ceramic. In a short while, smoke drifted from the ceramic stand.
This swirling smoke has an intriguing tang, yet I must be on my guard. Jacques took a peek at Dominique and Petrine situated on the matted rug, while Maimonides the parrot commenced a lilting whistle.
Petrine waved at the bird and began to talk, but Esther placed her finger against her lips.
While thin smoke wisps lengthened and curled around the faces in the room, Jacques watched, amidst the cook fire, small bursts of flame leaping among the embers, sometimes orange, sometimes yellow, then blue and white and red.
Petrine, whose attention was fixed on the parrot, crawled toward the bird. He was met at the foot of the table by Esther, who supported the valet’s arm, then helped him to his feet. She sat him in the straw-backed chair before kneeling close to Maimonides—the diminutive bird maintaining a low and leisurely croon to which Esther added a trilling harmony, further sweetening the song.
The red-tail has prepared a lullaby, thought Jacques, for my Venetian heart. His song echoes my homeland—the warm, sun-filled days, the luscious, sensual nights.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Jacques interlaced his fingers with Dominique’s while she lay down atop the strewn dried flowers. On my life, I’ve never encountered such a feeling. My muscles repose, yet my mind, enervated, is alert to the moment.
Through the aromatic smoke, he saw the outline of Petrine, head bending forward to the table, then head in hands—his back heaving mightily. Esther stood and placed her fingers upon the servant’s head, stroking his hair slowly, steadily.
I know this pantomime, thought Jacques, patting his own hair. What each moment is to be before it happens.
Maimonides leered briefly and continued his song. The bird pitched lower while Esther wrapped her arm about Petrine and led him toward the archway at the far wall, Petrine continuing his doleful sob. He and Esther disappeared behind the entry’s red drape while Maimonides weaved his small head in rhythm with his melody.
I’m in tune with the parrot’s whistle, like the pleasing of a lute. Jacques caressed the tender palm of Dominique, who stretched before him in sensual innocence. Her hand had never revealed itself so willingly. He felt the form and suppleness of each and every finger. He coursed the paths that lined her hand.
Secrets of Casanova Page 18