Secrets of Casanova

by Michaels, Greg

  Quentin raised a finger. “Yes, you need my assets. But I require your back and brains. In order to help each another, God has seen to it that our destinies intertwine.”

  An ember burst from the fire, offering brief light to the black night.

  “Very well, borrow the mare!” Quentin barked. “Join me in my treks into the capital each day. Go your own way while in town. Write your pamphlet each and every night. But know that I, in spite the warnings of the king’s men, intend to minister to those in need as well as continue our scroll search as best I can.” The Jesuit leapt to his feet and marched away.

  ***

  At early morning, walking side by side with Petrine, Quentin chattered. Jacques, on horseback and lost in his distemper, paid no attention.

  “I’ve noticed the number of refugees has decreased,” Quentin said. “Many of these displaced souls have probably been detained for lack of proper papers; some, sad to say, have succumbed to wild animals or starvation; some turned back because of the weather.” Quentin looked up at Jacques. “This route down into Lisbon has not been hospitable for some.”

  “Whoa.” Jacques jerked the reins. The mare halted, frosty air gusting from her nostrils.

  Ahead on the precipice, a naked corpse caged in the hoops of a metal gibbet, a man’s body broken on the wheel, and a pack of wretched onlookers blocked the path.

  Quentin whispered to Jacques. “A warning that uncivil activity will be punished by the king’s authorities.”

  Jacques gave the horse a heel, leading Quentin and Petrine with a solemn plod until they reached a standstill alongside this omen of doom.

  From within the abject crowd, a child’s voice rang out. “Mother, do you think a man, even if he be sinful, can go to heaven?”

  There was not a murmur until a woman sternly answered. “The Church says when Christ returns at the Last Judgment, the chosen ones will ascend to heaven with Him.”

  “Yet another belief tells us that Christ does not lead us to heaven. We may make our own way,” Quentin said, words spilling from his mouth. “Man can learn. Man can change. We make our own way.”

  “Without a priest?” piped a voice.

  “Without even a Pope,” Quentin said.

  “You speak heresy,” rumbled a voice.

  “Heresy. Evil,” barked someone else. “That which the heretic Voltaire spouts.”

  Before Jacques’ eyes grew round and glassy, he cried out to the onlookers from atop the mare. “Many, many eons ago I met the illustrious Voltaire. I can state to you he is long, lean, and without buttocks. He needs flesh. Or he needs heat.”

  Several rumblings buzzed through the crowd while Jacques tugged his coat collar about his neck, regally dismounted, and tied his reins to the gibbet. “This poor fellow,” Jacques pointed to the naked corpse in the gibbet, “needs more than heat. He needs heat and light. Light. Illumination.”

  Jacques, spying a young woman at the front of the mob, flapped his hand. “Mademoiselle Stench, do you stare at me? Or at the gibbeted fellow whose head has been shaved and tarred?” he asked, all the while jiggling the red ribbon on his coat. “Allow me to introduce myself. Pope Benedict himself presented to me this Order of the Golden Spur.” Several in the crowd strained for a view. “‘Tis my reward. For trying to outwit His Holiness. ‘Tis.”

  Jacques left the gibbet, meandered toward the girl, words sliding from the side of his mouth. “The world’s not sane, I know.” He pushed out his chest and plucked at the red ribbon. “Touch, if you like, mademoiselle.” Towering over her, he purred. “Touch me. Any of you. All of you. While I yet exist.”

  The woman extended her hand timidly, placing it on Jacques’ medal. Moments passed before Jacques removed her hand, batted his eyes like a budding ingénue, then sauntered seductively toward Quentin Gray. “This man has a map. A map to find the Son of God. He does. And he’s hinted,” Jacques smiled wickedly, “he’s told me if I abide with him, I, too, shall find the Son of God.” Rolling his eyes, Jacques threw his head backward toward the corpses confined in the gibbet and wheel. “I say I’ve as much chance of finding the divine as the pair behind me.”

  “Man’s a lunatic,” snarled a woman’s gruff voice.

  “Heresiarch,” another cried.

  The grumbling grew louder while Jacques casually retrieved the reins of the mare, mounted, and squared himself in the saddle. He scarcely noticed Quentin hustle Petrine around the crowd and down the road.

  “Do not ask yourself too many questions,” Jacques cried to the wretches. “You may find answers that make you unhappy.” Jacques’ voice faltered. “Answers that may do you damage. Destroy you.” He dug his heels into the mare’s flanks. “Farewell. Peace be with you. Peace be with me,” he shouted into the frigid air as he galloped onward toward Lisbon.

  Riding into the capital later, Jacques found desolation. Buildings, churches, shops, homes—crushed and burnt civilization, mangled ruin.

  From beneath an enormous, jagged stone a half-dozen human arms could be seen, resembling, for all the world, an ungainly gargantuan spider. Further along, a friendless colt, stained fetlock deep in burgundy-black blood, neighed. Scene after curious scene presented itself until Jacques, sick at heart, galloped away from Lisbon—the stench of ubiquitous death in his nostrils.

  ***

  The wind wheezed through the uneven stones of Conde de Tarouca’s palace wall, producing an odd, aggravating clamor while Jacques, at the far corner of the dwelling, took a seat astride one of his traveling trunks—for the present, his table. Off to his side, Petrine sat, still and quiet.

  In the nearing darkness, Jacques couldn’t see what he furiously scribbled on the paper, but he loudly voiced the words he wrote. “Half-expecting the Scylla to ensnare me while I tailed through the catastrophic mess past the library of Lisbon—incredibly, still intact, and able, without apology, to accommodate Human Truth—a dreadful odor assailed me, giving notice that pathetics must lie close at—”

  A crunch of boots on rocky soil announced Quentin’s approach. Jacques glanced at him, then bent further over his work.

  “A good evening to you both,” Quentin said, squatting across from Petrine to hand him his cup.

  Petrine drank greedily, soon emptying the vessel. Retrieving the cup, Quentin sat on the ground while Jacques, giving no salutation, grunted threateningly.

  After a while, Quentin began lightly mouthing words. Soon he could be heard just above the bursts of racing wind. “Ab uno disce omnes. From one, learn to know all.”

  Jacques rolled up his sheaf of papers and gripped them as if choking the life from an enemy. Out of spite, he cited the third verse. “Est modus in rebus. There is a proper measure in things.”

  “That’s your translation of the Latin? Is that how you interpret it?” Quentin asked, setting his cup aside. “No. Est modus in rebus, I say, is ‘The golden mean should always be observed.’”

  Jacques shot a fierce look.

  Quentin pressed his palms together. “Could it be that in some manner both translations are valid? Equally valid?”

  Jacques turned his backside to Quentin and Petrine.

  Brief flashes of lightning silvered the sky. The mare, tethered not far away, pawed the ground.

  Petrine snorted. “One of these days soon,” he crowed, “I shall be a titan and travel in a well-appointed coach and six. With robust horses, a coachman, two footmen in liveries, a postilion, a jolly gentleman on horseback, and a young page with a feather in his cap.”

  “Well, there’s a lofty ambition if ever I heard one,” said Quentin. Astonishment slowly claimed his face. He turned toward the valet. “A full thought, Petrine! The first and complete thought you’ve uttered since … and what a protracted thought it is, man! Well, I’m glad your firmer nature has—is—returned. Well, well, well.”

  “Tomorrow, Petrine, you’ll forage for us,” Jacques snarled without pause. “Understand me?”

  Petrine nodded his head. “Yes. Yes, sir. And when
we find the treasure trove, then the coach and six?” he asked.

  Quentin laughed. “Once you have your coach, be so kind as to ride me down into Lisbon each day. That would be the lap of luxury.” His eyes toughened when he turned to Jacques. “Est modus in rebus. The golden mean should always be observed. Think on it. Please.”

  ***

  Jacques awoke fitfully the next morning—a cruel, hard wind etching all that remained of the palace walls. At a distance he saw Quentin holding the reins of the mare.

  “Shall we make our start down to Lisbon?” asked Quentin.

  Petrine, demeanor grave, stood nearer, unbundled to the cold, enveloped in a bank of fog, switching at his leg with a slender twig. He appeared more apparition than man.

  “Ronyon, bring me my snuff,” Jacques yelled. “And my gold snuffbox.”

  Petrine stiffened. “Master, I have no snuff. And certainly not your snuffbox.”

  “Certainly not,” Jacques cried back, a tinge of skepticism in his voice. He flicked his hand in an imperial wave as if to say never mind and pulled his blanket tighter to his shoulders.

  Quentin joined Petrine, handed him the reins, then approached Jacques, telling him that the valet would use the horse to forage, and that he himself would walk today—to keep from reaggravating his thighs.

  “Are you in a right way—in a right mind, Jacques, to accompany me?” asked Quentin. He was ignored.

  Petrine climbed into the primitive, worn-out saddle. The mare clopped forward. Horse and rider crossed through the bank of fog and were soon out of sight.

  “Well, we’re a bit late,” Quentin said.

  Jacques pivoted from his makeshift bedding. “Is there a soul?” he blurted.

  Quentin tucked his chin to his chest, then gazed at Jacques. “In a group of budding theologians, I would expect this question, but in the light of your peculiar humors …”

  Jacques clicked his teeth together rapidly.

  “Is there a soul?” Quentin repeated calmly.

  “Sola scriptura,” Jacques said. “Sola scriptura. The scriptures are the sole authority, true enough? The scriptures should have the answer.” Jacques squawked like a bird.

  “Yes, the scriptures are most important,” countered Quentin, “but even as a Christian, I believe the proverb that warns us to beware the man who has read only one book to discover his truth.”

  The wind erupted, forcing Quentin to pull his ragged coat closer to his body. “Shall we begin our journey? We shall talk of this on our way to Lisbon.”

  For several moments, Jacques stood back, staring only at Quentin’s face.

  ***

  Jacques slammed the top of his trunk shut, making Petrine jump. “What are you doing here at the close of day with my papers in your hand? What business have you with them? What else of mine do you have? What else?”

  Petrine stood straight as a sword blade. He handed the sheaf of papers back.

  “You seem less than repentant.”

  “Please don’t shout, master. I can explain.” Throwing a look across the dusky sky, Petrine pulled his fists to his sides and resumed. “I wanted to find out if your pamphlet is nearly at the ready so that we might leave for Paris soon.”

  “I scarcely believe that—”

  “As is the custom, you’d want your arrival announced in the gazettes, wouldn’t you? And I would be in charge of—”

  “Perhaps, ronyon, I don’t want my name known to all of Paris. Especially with Cavaliere Grimani and his ilk. Perhaps I’ve changed my mind about the pamphlet. Perhaps you’ve overstepped your—”

  “Hello there,” came Quentin’s voice, carried on the blustery breeze. “So many clouds. Barely a sun to tell us it’s sunset.” He crossed toward Jacques and Petrine. “What passes?”

  Jacques flung open the trunk, threw his papers inside, slammed the lid, and stalked a few paces away.

  Quentin ignored the behavior and stepped to Petrine, placing his arm over the valet’s shoulder. “A miracle—that your faculties returned. A true miracle,” Quentin said loudly—and in Jacques’ direction. “One for which we might express thanks to God.”

  “Tomorrow,” Petrine said bluntly. He flinched at a sudden flash of lightning, slipped out from Quentin’s arm, and wandered toward the mare, glancing from the corners of his eyes at his master.

  ***

  It was the next morning when Jacques awoke with a start. He was tense. Day after day, hungry thoughts had clawed his mind. He thirsted for something—but he knew not what. At night he toiled with desperate dreams that engendered a yearning unlike any he’d ever known.

  He stared out across the rocky soil while the invisible wind lofted debris high into a dull, gray sky. Bleary, he gazed through a peephole in the palace walls and saw, at a fair distance, refugees tramping by, their heads bent toward the pathway before them, as if hitched with a yoke. Dreary monotony of endless manhood.

  He rose and relieved himself, a dozen thoughts in his head competing for attention. At this hour of the morning, the sweet fragrance of perfume used to please his nostrils. Now, piss and stale dung.

  While he scrubbed fiercely at his rough beard, his mouth filled with words. “I must go back,” he said. “I must return.”

  In short order, he gathered food, water, and what items he deemed necessary for the journey, then woke Petrine. “I want you with me. Rouse yourself now.”

  A short distance away, Quentin was waking. “What cryptic needs have you this morning?” he called out. No answer came back.

  Jacques faced the cold wind, mumbling to his valet. “I’ve made up my mind to travel to the seat of my present miseries: the citadel.”

  By noon, Jacques and Petrine stood at the foot of the citadel ruins. The tower was gone. The spiraling stairs upward—those few that remained—were caked in mud and refuse. The rest of the steep incline looked as if a phalanx of infantry had trampled it to grit.

  Jacques said nothing, his mouth grim, fixed.

  Petrine spoke. “The parapet wall, some of it, is still there, but …” he shivered “this place does not please me.”

  “Stay here at the base.”

  “Should you need me, shout from above.”

  Jacques did not acknowledge his servant but, with eyes pitched upward, began his ascent in a crawl.

  After reaching his destination at the top of the hill, he peered about, his breathing ragged and heavy. For a time he lay on his belly, lingering, looking. Fouling the rock yard were numerous fish skeletons, battered bits of human refuse, and pulverized dead trees. Hoary clay and coffee-colored mud melded together in rivulets. Jacques seemed a spectator to the upheaval of the underworld.

  He clambered, finally, across the uneven stones until, arriving at the edge of the pit, his initiative gave way.

  When at last he brought himself to peek into the hole, Jacques saw nothing more than mud and rubble.

  On his elbows, he wrenched in each direction. No Dominique. His body curled up. Then, as if he were being crushed by a heavy atmosphere, he flattened to his back, unable to move, to breathe, to cry out. He felt fragile, frail.

  A beaded raindrop struck his cheek. Then another. His hands fumbled against the surface of coarse stones, his fingers earning no relief until a thing of a different texture piqued his senses. He clasped the object tightly, fingers gliding over its slippery, rain-soaked surface before bringing it to his eyes.

  “A nautilus, a chambered nautilus.” Faintly he spoke. “My good brother painted and painted and painted the lustrous cross section of your inner shell, so elegant, symmetrical,” he confided to the object. “Should I again find symmetry in this world, I’ll think upon you, nautilus. And upon Francesco.”

  More, even dearer words, flowed from his lips. “A creature of the sea, a thing of beauty—Mademoiselle Nautilus. Abandoned here on an earthen hill? So far from home. Belonging to nothing, to no one. From what distant ocean did the furious wave carry you? The wave that stole our Dominique.” Jacques, blinking away
the rainwater from his eyes, gulped for air. “You have your shell to protect you. What have I?”

  He swabbed his skin and hair with the once-living nautilus, feeling its rain-cold chill. It was as if Fragoletta’s fingers stroked his face. Cool comfort.

  He settled into his solace until a greater cascade of rain cut it short.

  His search persisted through the devastated ruins until, driven by the storm, he descended the tangled stairs, nautilus in hand.

  The rain pelted with formidable power by the time Jacques reached his valet at the foot of the stronghold.

  “Were your pamphlet studies worthwhile?” Petrine asked.

  “I’d no business with the pamphlet. I sought to reclaim …” Jacques ran the nautilus shell across his chin. “It feels as if the Fates commanded me here. As if Dominique wished me here, purely for this simple gift.” In his palms he framed the nautilus before placing it into his shirt. With nothing more to say, he turned and scuttled down the steep road. Petrine hauled his pack to his shoulder, wondering.

  ***

  The breeze blowing through Lisbon’s hills was cold the following afternoon, but once the sun begged the clouds for a breach and those clouds allowed the fiery sphere to give out its glories, Quentin and Jacques slowed their pace. The Jesuit had questions about the adventurer’s outing the previous day; about his continued, solitary trips to Lisbon; about the scroll. Jacques remained silent.

  As the pair rounded a wood, an inky crow drawing down the wind careened past, practically unseating Quentin from his saddle and extracting a harried glance from Jacques.

  Jacques lagged next to the mare, pointing past a crooked tree just ahead. “Bring me my snuff. My snuff, Petrine. And snuffbox,” he shouted.

  “You left your valet at my place early this morning to forage again. To whom, my friend, do you now talk?” Quentin asked, shaking his head. He tightened the reins.

  “We have snuff to trade,” rang a voice from behind.