Casanova's Secret Wife
Page 6
But so fast! Suddenly, I was a dove in the talons of a hawk.
“I beg you!” I cried out, pulling myself away. “You kiss me as if you will hurt me!”
“Forgive me!” He dropped to his knees, looking anguished. “You are young—I know—and I forgot myself—”
I took pity on him and timidly offered my hand. He pressed his palm against mine. We intertwined our fingers.
Stealthily, with his other hand, he reached beneath my skirts to fondle my ribbon garters. He pressed his body against mine, whispering, “Please.” By God, I was in danger of losing all reason! Still, from somewhere deep in my mind, Zulietta’s warning words came back to me. “Are you so easily won?”
I pulled his hand away.
“Now, my love,” I teased him gently, “you know that my jewel is only for my husband.”
“As one day I shall be!” he said, lifting my skirts again and kissing the very jewel I had just said he could not have.
“But no—” I took a few steps back and sat down on the bed. All of a sudden, from some deep well I did not know I had, I started to cry.
“My angel!” He came and knelt before me again, taking my hands and trying to undo the violence of his initial approach. “I disgust myself that I have made you cry.”
“No—no,” I comforted him, cupping his beloved face in my hands. “It is nothing you have done. It’s—it’s my father. He has plans to marry me to a merchant—and all I want is for you to be my husband.”
There. I’d said it. The truth had come out. I hadn’t even quite known it myself until I said the words.
The room became silent, and Giacomo very still. Finally, he spoke.
“I’ve known about your father’s plans all along.” He sighed deeply. “Pier Antonio told me, soon after I met you. I knew I should stay away—there was no way to win. Tell you I love you, and be kicked aside by your father. Try to steal your love, and ruin you. You have wisely stopped us from going any further.”
He stood up and began smoothing his wrinkled shirt. The top button of his breeches had come undone. Had I done that?
“Giacomo—no!” I begged. Why follow all the stupid rules, when they were clearly making me miserable? “We should—we can make ourselves happy. There must be a way. What stops us?” Fear, my mind called out, my heart beating wildly.
He approached the bed and sat back down beside me. I turned to face him, my eyes searching his. He looked into mine as if he could never have enough of seeing me.
“My angel,” he said, taking my hand and bathing it in kisses. “Are you sure that I love you? Do you trust me never to fail you?”
“I am certain of it.” I pushed away any memory of the sting I’d felt when I saw that mother and daughter circling him by the garden gate. “You are my one true happiness.”
“Then let us marry here tonight,” he declared. “We don’t need any documents or witnesses except God to pledge our faith and unite our destinies. Later, we can do all of this publicly in a church ceremony—but here and now, we can make ourselves happy.”
I was turned upside down. I could hardly breathe. His words were everything that I secretly wanted. Only one part did not feel quite right. At least not yet.
“I have sometimes wondered,” I questioned him, “whether—given your opinions about religion—you are an atheist. Now you say that God is the only witness we need for our marriage vows. Am I to believe you?”
He nodded and laughed out loud, as if pleased to find himself cornered by me. “You are clever, Caterina—there’s no denying that. I have often been accused of being an atheist, but I’m far from it. I am simply a freethinker. I have no faith in the institutions of religion, but I have faith in God Himself.” His voice became as soothing as water over rock, and his glittering eyes locked with mine. “My angel, I believe we can have no more worthy witness to our marriage vows than our Creator, who knows our intentions are pure.”
I forced myself to look away and reflect on his words. What he said made some sense to me. I had never considered the Church apart from God. But now, as I gazed around me, the holiness of the very room we were in became visible. The early dark, when no candles had been lit. The soft shadows that fell over everything, including ourselves. I knew in that moment that we were safe together in God’s love.
I turned and pressed my upright palm against Giacomo’s, to signal I was ready. And I began in a low voice that gained strength as I spoke: “Giacomo Casanova . . . I promise God and you . . . that from this moment until death I will be your faithful wife, and that I will say the same to—to my father, to the priest who will bless us in the Church, and to the whole world.”
He smiled, his face deeply flushed. It struck me he looked happier than I’d ever seen him. And he repeated the same vow to me: “Caterina Capreta, I promise God and you that from this moment until death I will be your faithful husband, and that I will say the same to your father, to the priest who will bless us in the Church, and to the whole world.”
We gazed at each other . . . for how long? Long enough that I will never forget the feeling. Being so entirely desired, and desiring him to oblivion. And then we embraced—happy, laughing, and ecstatic at what we had done.
Did I become a real wife in this moment? In my heart, yes—I did.
“And now, to complete our marriage ceremony—” Giacomo said, pushing me down on the bed and eagerly untying the silk ribbons of my bodice. He loosened my chemise and covered my exposed bosom with kisses.
“Does a husband not undress, as well?” I asked, obeying the promptings of instinct and starting on the buttons of his breeches. He helped me undress him in less than a minute.
“My nightingale—it is sighing for you.” He guided my hand to show me the place where he deserved mercy, and moved his fingers between my legs. I surrendered to the most supreme degree of pleasure that ever seized my senses.
“Is it true you really belong to me?” I cried, clasping him to me, more completely happy than I had ever been in my life.
“Yes, my divine angel,” he assured me, “and what we are about to do will make our love immortal.”
He reached for something out of the night table drawer. With a trembling hand, he rolled on a thin skin sheath. I had never seen one before.
“What is it?” I asked, struggling up and alarmed.
“To protect you, my angel.” I had little idea what he meant, but lay back with complete trust in him.
We fit our bodies together. I felt sudden, disappointing pain. Tears filled my eyes.
“Hymen only hurts the first time,” he reassured me. He covered my face with kisses. More tender now, less urgent. I learned that night the tongue has powers far beyond speech!
We made love for hours. By early dawn, when I left him, standing in the pink-gray light outside my house in Venice, I had become another person.
CHAPTER 17
“Are you mad at me?” I asked Zulietta the next day.
I had told her everything, whispering the last part in her ear. My face was as hot as a furnace. I tried to appear serious, but kept smiling.
“No—I’m not mad at you.” But her rosy mouth tightened as she folded a stack of dresses.
We were in her bedroom packing her traveling chest. Her family had rented a villa in Asolo for the summer. I had been so lost in my own affairs that I had nearly forgotten the date of her departure. I kept that guilty secret to myself.
“In fact,” Zulietta continued with a forced smile, “I am happy for you.”
“Do you mean that?”
“I do.” She nodded, as if still busy convincing herself. “You and Signor Casanova . . .”
“Giacomo,” I said, smiling even more.
“Yes—Giacomo. You and Giacomo have taken vows before God to be husband and wife. You . . . are husband and wife.”
“You already said that.”
“Oh.” She stood stock-still, searching for more words. She sat down on the bed. I sensed a storm coming.
“Caterina—” she burst out. “How can I leave you in the grips of this man? What will you do while I am gone?” She began to cry. “I’ve let this happen—indulging you—”
“No!” I threw my arms around her. “I am so happy, Zulietta. Please be happy for me. I know what I am doing.”
“Oh, Caterina,” she said. “I only wish that were true. Promise me that one day you really will be married in front of a priest—and your father?”
“Of course! Very soon.”
“And promise me,” she said in a halting voice, “that until then, Giacomo will wear his . . . sheaths? You are too young to risk becoming pregnant.”
“I will.” I meant it sincerely. I wanted to be a wife, not a mother.
She nodded and stood up, smoothing her skirts. “I am sure he loves you,” she offered, quietly. She gave me an affectionate smile, but fear was written in it.
I was not sure if she believed her own words. But I knew she wanted me to believe them, to tell me I was loved.
It was a relief to have told Zulietta everything. Things only felt true and real in my life when I shared them with her. She was my anchor. But with her leaving me now—honestly, I was not at all sure where I was going to end up.
CHAPTER 18
Venice, 1774
“Bene, Caterina,” Leda whispered at the dining table where they had been talking well into the night, “you were a wife.”
Caterina noticed this was the first time the girl had used her name. The intimacy made her realize she had probably said too much. She lit a candle between them, to break the spell of the past.
“You know I am a wife,” she said, intentionally misreading what Leda had meant.
“But a real wife,” Leda persisted. “Like your Giacomo said. No church, no contract, no family. Only your lover, who loves you.”
Caterina noticed she spoke as if that love was somehow still alive. Maybe it was—for Leda.
“Let’s get back to your story,” Caterina said, wanting to change the subject. She had taken this girl into her confidence; in fairness, Leda should do the same. “You were at your father’s party and Filippo played the harpsichord. He was alone. Your heart went out to him . . .”
“Oh—” Leda was happily reminded. “Filippo and I started talking, talking at the party. All the time he was undressing me with his eyes. I could feel what he wanted. I knew it like a cat licks her kittens.” She gave Caterina a mischievous smile. “We slipped outside while no one was looking. At least I don’t think we were seen—who knows? I didn’t care, just as you didn’t care in your opera box. It was a winter night, but warm. We fell onto the ground in the garden. I gave myself to him all at once—by the shrubs, lit by the lanterns. When we got back to the party, I could still feel the heat of his body on me, my legs dripping.”
Caterina was fairly shocked by this behavior. Leda was all impulse and little reason. But who was she to judge?
“We were able to meet many times after, at his lodgings,” Leda chatted on. “I told my father I went out for music lessons—which was partly true, because Filippo would always play the harpsichord and sing for me.”
Queen Venus’s ardent torch does fire
The Lover’s bosom with desire
So fervid, that he dares the Rose
To kiss, in faith ’twill heal his woes.
Caterina’s mind played the memory of its own song. She had the feeling it might play all night for her now.
“I was pregnant in a month,” Leda announced, which startled Caterina back to reality. “I thought it took longer!”
“No,” Caterina said quietly, blowing out the candle to signal it was time for bed. “It can all happen . . . very fast.”
CHAPTER 19
April 23. Caterina had been waiting for this day. She went to fetch Leda from her bedroom, as it was getting late. She could hear women greeting passersby from open windows—S’ciao bella!—newspaper sellers calling out—Gazzetta Veneta! Osservatore! —and cries of “Oe! Gondola!” as boatmen navigated the crowded waterways. All Venice was coming alive, and she didn’t want to miss it.
“You’re still in bed?” Caterina asked, disappointed to find Leda awake, but wrapped in a cocoon of sheets and blankets. She threw open the shutters, and bright sunlight poured in.
“I think . . . I will skip church today,” Leda said, turning her head to hug her pillow. They had been attending morning Mass at San Gregorio just about every day. Caterina had grown to like the routine very much. Sitting in the hard chairs, with a new friend close by.
“Come,” she urged. “I’ve planned a small surprise.”
“I’m really not in the mood. I’m sorry.”
“I understand that you’re not.” Leda looked at her, puzzled. “Just come,” Caterina urged again, walking over to the chest of drawers and picking up Leda’s velvet and gold pendant choker. She dangled it gently over her fingers and brought it near the bed. Leda sat up, and Caterina attached the clasp around her neck.
Armed with her courage, Leda got up.
* * *
They arrived in Campo San Gregorio, where parishioners were starting to gather for the service. Leda was still not saying much, her arms folded around herself. Distractedly, she walked up to the black wood church doors. Only when she looked back did she stop and see Caterina had not followed.
“We’re not going in today,” Caterina called from near the wellhead at the center of the square. “Follow me.”
Now Leda became interested.
“Where are we going, then?” she asked, coming back.
Caterina smiled mysteriously and guided them down a narrow street, whose buildings seemed to grow tighter and tighter as they walked. At the end, they burst into Campo della Salute, at the tip of the island.
“Here?” Leda asked, still confused.
“One more stop,” said Caterina, lifting her arm to hail a gondola. The gondolier helped them both into the boat. After about two minutes rocking across the water, they arrived.
* * *
“Why are we hopping from church to church today?” asked Leda, staring at the white marble exterior of the second church they had visited in less than ten minutes. “Are we hiding from someone? God?” she teased, smiling for the first time all morning.
Caterina took her hand and led her up the steps. This church was built in the Roman style, with four thick columns mounted on bases and not one, but two superimposed pediments. It looked very different from most of the churches in Venice—especially Caterina’s beloved San Gregorio, a confection of warm bricks and pink and white marble. This one was ordered, almost severe.
The bronze doors were sealed shut and Caterina rang the bell. Leda looked at her, furrowing her brow and pretending to be about to run back down the steps.
A black-cowled monk opened the door. He was lean, about fifty years old, with a beaked nose and sharp eyes.
“Signora Marsigli,” he greeted Caterina, bowing slightly. “Ecco la signorina,” he said, turning to Leda. She looked surprised he knew who she was. The monk gestured them inside.
Caterina was awed at the sight of the church interior once again, its clear light flooding in from two stories of semicircular windows. Massive gray stone piers rose up, framing white walls uncluttered by any art. The space, she felt sure, was filled by God’s pure glory as much as any other place on earth.
“Leda”—Caterina turned to her to explain—“as you know, today is the Feast Day of Saint George—your mother’s saint day.” Leda nodded, bringing her fingers to her pendant. “I asked the good Frate for a favor—permission to bring you to this special place dedicated to her saint. I know how much you miss your mother. Perhaps you would like to pray to her here.”
Leda gave Caterina a sad but grateful smile. She wiped her fingers under her eyes.
“Grazie,” she managed to say.
The monk led them silently up a dark, snail-shaped staircase.
* * *
“Ecco,” he said, unlock
ing the door of a large upstairs room. It was as brightly lit as the church below. Along three walls were carved dark wood choir stalls—a chapel, also a meeting room, perhaps. Over the altar at the head of the room, lit by a few candles, was a painting of a knight charging a winged dragon. Clad in shining armor and sitting astride a galloping horse, he pierced the dragon with a long lance to its throat. Blood poured from its mouth and down its haunches. Leda gave a little gasp, immediately recognizing triumphant Saint George, and approached the painting.
“Bene.” The monk nodded and closed the door behind him.
Leda dropped to her knees on the marble platform before the altar, crossed herself, and buried her head deep in her hands. Caterina watched her for a few minutes, saw her shoulders moving up and down softly. But she resisted going closer. This was Leda’s day—time with her real mother, Georgiana.
“Caterina.” Leda finally looked up, her face wet with tears.
“Yes, sweetheart,” Caterina answered, not knowing where the endearment came from. It just slipped out.
“Will you come light a candle with me?”
“Of course.” Caterina approached. Together, both kneeling, they held a golden candle at its base and lit its wick in a burning flame.
“Coraggio,” said Leda, setting it back into its holder. Caterina noticed now how the painting took on an eerie glow in the increased candlelight. She could see several dismembered body parts—the dragon’s victims—littered in the desert landscape of the foreground.
“Shall we go back to San Gregorio?” she asked, helping Leda up before the girl could look any closer at the unnerving painting. “Perhaps we can still get to Mass on time.”
“No,” said Leda, surprisingly lighter in mood. She took Caterina’s arm as they exited the secret room. Down the snail-shaped staircase—Mille grazie!—to the monk at the doors, outside onto the glistening marble steps. The sun reflecting off the water greeted them warmly. “Such a beautiful day!” Leda exclaimed.