Casanova's Secret Wife
Page 12
“No—he never denies God,” Marina said gently. She took my finger and pointed it to follow the words of another line.
“God has created man to know the Truth, but he cannot know it by any human means,” she read. I noticed she kept hold of my hand. “He is arguing for the possibility of different opinions—even different religions—to free ourselves from fanatical beliefs. Who can ever know the Truth for sure, Caterina?” She turned her face toward mine. Her dewy lips mesmerized me, as though they were created by God to be kissed.
My head was swimming. I think she was enjoying my confusion. She held my gaze and gave me the hint of a smile. Before I knew what was happening, she stole two kisses on my mouth. Oh, but her lips were soft!
I pulled away from her. Giacomo! What had I done?
“I have to go,” I said, jumping up and beginning to stammer. “Concetta—Concetta will be back any minute with my letter from Venice.”
“Of course,” she said coolly. “You await a love letter.” She closed the book, as if it held no more interest for her, either.
I ran back to my room. My face was burning. I buried my head in my pillow. My God, forgive me! I vowed to forget what had just happened. I had been filled with longing for my husband, maybe, and the lonely love had somehow slipped out.
I lay tossing on my bed the rest of the day, too embarrassed to show myself. Still, my heart would not settle down. I felt filled with ecstatic excitement from head to toe, whether from the unexpected kisses, or the expected letter from my husband, I did not know.
I was hungry, and the room was beginning to fill with shadows when Concetta finally slipped in the door to see me. She wore a big grin on her face, and from her pocket pulled out a sealed letter. When I saw Giacomo’s handwriting on the envelope, I kissed that old sea sponge right on the cheek. The kisses made her happy, but not as much as the two extra coins I gave her.
Later, pacing back and forth in my room, I read his letter a thousand times.
My angel, beloved Caterina—
The arrival of your letter this morning brought me from point of suicide to a soul overfilled with joy! It came while I was shaving and considering slitting my throat with the razor.
I have been unwell, sleeping badly and waking up not wanting to leave the blissful happiness I find only in dreaming about you. I spend my waking hours gambling, and I always lose. Stumbling home at dawn, I pass our secret door and push on it like a madman, cruelly forcing myself to remember all over again that you are gone.
Caterina, when can I see you? I must see my wife again or I will drown in despair!
Your Giacomo, who kisses the page right here
I kissed the same spot. I wanted to taste and feel the warmth of his kiss, laid there just hours ago. It was as if he was with me in the room, making me smile and laugh and feel adored, as always. What had I been thinking, seduced for a few brief moments by the nun, Marina Morosini?
Oh, Giacomo! Forgive weak Caterina! I love only you, with all my heart.
CHAPTER 40
Concetta went to Venice each Wednesday. This way, Giacomo knew to expect a letter from me on that day, and he always sent me one back. The week was spent writing to him, pages and pages, every detail of my days. I even told him about Marina, and—worriedly—that she had kissed me. He took it lightly, writing to reassure me, Do not trouble yourself about a few kisses, my angel. Who could possibly resist your charms? I can only admire Sister Morosini for seeking to satisfy a nun’s obvious longings.
Still, I wanted some way to show him my constancy, and devotion. One day soon after, I had an idea.
Giacomo, my sweetheart, have a miniature likeness of yourself painted, and then have it set inside a ring. Only, ask the jeweler to hide the little portrait with a cover of some sort, so that no one suspects it is inside. This way, with my ring, I can admire you, tell you secret things, and cover you with kisses, wearing your longed-for face on the finger with the vein that feeds right to my heart.
Two weeks later, Concetta brought me a flat, wrapped package from Venice. I took it—surprisingly light—from her hands.
“This is what he gave you?” I asked, disappointed. “It looks like a book.”
“He gave me only this package,” Concetta said. “He said, ‘Tell her to pray to Saint Catherine and say a Pater Noster and an Ave Maria every day, just as I pray to my patron Saint Giacomo each day.’ ”
“He said this?” I sat down on the hard bed, feeling dizzy.
Concetta shrugged as if to say, I don’t understand him, either. It wasn’t a good sign when your lover told you to pray more. We both knew that.
Concetta left me and I held the wrapped package for a few minutes. I was in no mood for a book. Finally, I started to pull on the string and tear open the paper.
I saw an old leather cover with copper clasps. Mary and Christ Enthroned were stamped on the cover, rudely done. A Book of Hours. What could I possibly need less at a convent, Giacomo? I opened to the first page, expecting unwanted words.
But instead, there was the strangest sight: a square cut right through the center of all the pages. Inside the square sat a tiny octagonal box. And inside this box, I found a gold ring.
I turned it over and over, trying to figure out where the portrait hid. The ivory face of the ring was painted with a picture of my name saint, Santa Caterina. Her portrait was surrounded by a white enamel setting. I traced around it with my finger, feeling for some clue. I felt a small bump. I pushed it with my finger. Nothing.
I took the ring over to the window and inspected it more closely. Now I could see that on the bump was painted an almost invisible blue dot. I took a metal pin out of my hair and touched the dot with the pointed end. The face of the ring sprang open.
I squealed with happiness. Before me I saw Giacomo’s face, in profile. It was a very good likeness, and so finely painted, it must have been done by the artist with a single-hair brush.
In the back of the mutilated book, glued to the endpapers, I found a note. It read—
Giacomo is jealous of the portrait who gets to live on your finger each day. He is being talked to, he is being kissed, he is being touched by Caterina’s dimpled hands . . . she is stroking him . . . oh! . . . come here and save me from forcing nature like a schoolboy!
I slipped the book into a drawer of my desk. I still have it. It was the best prayer book I ever read.
CHAPTER 41
“The portrait of Santa Caterina looks just like you!” said Marina, reaching for my hand to look at my ring more closely. We sat together on a stone bench in the cloister. Everyone else was already asleep in their rooms for the afternoon: It was sickeningly hot, the first days of August. Marina’s face shone with sweat and her black habit looked like a miserable thing to be wearing. There was no breeze. The only refreshment came from a fountain at the center of the square, water spilling from the mouths of two dolphins into a shell-shaped bowl.
I gazed at my ring. Of course, I adored it for reasons Marina did not even know.
“I will give you fifty zecchini for it,” she said. I pulled my hand away. I was astounded at her offer.
“Why?” I blurted out. What did she want with my ring?
“Then I could wear your portrait on my finger, and see you all the time.” She held out her hand for me to admire, white and veinless.
“Oh—I couldn’t part with it,” I said, pressing the ring against my heart. “It was a gift.” My confession made me blush. She noticed immediately.
“A gift. From—your husband?”
“Yes,” I said, my head down. I had a strange feeling to protect myself. I should not have invited her to discover more about him or the ring.
“Then, of course you cannot sell it.” She moved a little farther away from me on the bench. “I never sell any of the gifts my lover gives me. My jewelry box overflows with trinkets!” She looked at me without blinking, measuring my reaction.
“You—have a lover?” I asked, startled. How did she manag
e a lover at the convent?
“Of course!” she said with a sudden sharpness. “He is French. An important man here in Venice, but—”
“But?”
“I can’t say more. He is a foreigner, and I am noble-born. There could be trouble if anyone ever finds out about us. The Council of Ten might suspect I am leaking secrets to him about the Republic.”
“As if out here we know anything!” I said, waving my arm at the whole dismal scene: the baking cloister with its crumbling columns; the lonely nuns, asleep in their rooms; the flat lagoon that kept us apart from all of society.
“True.” She laughed. “But still—I must be careful. I am enjoying myself too much to ruin things with loose talk.” She puffed herself up like a peacock. She was the most beautiful bird in this colorless place, and she knew it.
“But—how do you see him?” I ventured. “Do you leave here to meet him?”
“I told you, Caterina. Only the stupid ones follow the rules.” She got up, wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “Are you coming?”
She expected me to follow her, as usual.
“I—I’m going to stay here a few more minutes,” I said. “I’m not tired yet.”
She arched her eyebrows, clearly displeased with me. I shifted on the bench. How ungainly I felt. She scowled and left.
Once alone, my mind started to race. Why had she wanted my little ring? Was she in love with me . . . the way I was with Giacomo? Was the story about her foreign lover even true? Or was it that she simply coveted anything of value? Wanted the precious things that belonged to others?
I went to the fountain, cupped my hands, and splashed water on my face. I knelt before the bowl and kissed my ring. From a distance, I might have looked like I was adoring Saint Catherine. And in a way, I was. For a few weeks now, I had started to believe that she had granted me a miracle. A miracle that was going to get me out of there.
CHAPTER 42
Venice, 1774
“Abbess Marina had a lover?” Leda’s eyes were big with news of a scandal. “And—she once kissed you?”
Caterina nodded. She reached to drink a little more of the Turkish coffee Leda had made, but only cold dregs were left in the cup. Leda had finished every morsel of the orange cheese, and only a sad heel of crusty bread remained on the table.
“You must never let Marina guess that you know any of this,” Caterina warned her. “It is our secret.” She winked at Leda, trying to appear playful.
“How did she ever become abbess?” Leda asked. A reasonable question. Caterina had never understood it, either. It had happened long after she had left the convent.
“I suppose she always wanted power,” Caterina said. Her voice had a note of bitterness she had not intended to let out.
Silence fell between them. Caterina prayed Leda would not pick up on her feelings about Marina. But she did.
“I take it you and the abbess are no longer friends?” Leda asked.
“That’s something I don’t wish to talk about.” Caterina could feel her face becoming hot. She scooped a few crumbs from the table into her hand, which was trembling.
“Then why did Abbess Marina ask you to help me?” Leda persisted.
“Enough. Finito!” said Caterina, sharply.
Leda pulled back her head as if Caterina had bitten her nose.
Caterina began to clear the dishes, keeping her eyes down. She wished she had not flared her temper at Leda. But the girl was treading too close to dangerous secrets. And whose fault was that? Caterina vowed, once again, to keep the rest of her stories to herself.
CHAPTER 43
June came, with summer smells of jasmine in the night air. Leda was now six months with child. Her face had grown puffy, with a little extra chin. Her feet also swelled in the heat, pink flesh pushing at her flat leather slippers. She spent more time sitting, and Caterina had moved a low stool in front of Leda’s favorite armchair by the water so that she could raise her legs and be more comfortable. Caterina also begged her cousin Zulietta to come visit again. Leda needed some distraction.
Zulietta came one Sunday and presented a special gift to Leda after the meal. Pastels. Caterina had never seen these sorts of colored sticks before: such promise laid out in a wood box.
“Grazie, Zulietta—grazie!” Leda thanked her, effusively. Caterina breathed a sigh of relief that Leda seemed to finally appreciate her cousin. “My drawing tutor always talked about pastels—said Leonardo da Vinci used them—but he made me stay with ink and chalks. He said pastels were too soft for me, that I would smear them on my clothes and make a mess of my drawings.”
“I am happy you like them,” said Zulietta. “Pastels are best used to imitate the look of hair and skin and such. And I brought you some paper, too.” She unrolled a bundle of sheets on the table to show Leda. “Blue, like Rosalba Carriera used. Its texture is rough, to hold the colors.”
“Who is Rosalba Carrara?” asked Leda.
“Carriera,” corrected Zulietta. “She was an artist famous for her pastel portraits. All kinds of noblemen and women—foreigners here on their Grand Tour—sought her out for her skills capturing a flattering likeness. Rosalba lived—until about fifteen years ago—right here in this neighborhood of Dorsoduro. She can be an inspiration to you.”
“Caterina!” Leda called out. Caterina turned from where she had been heading into the kitchen with a stack of pasta bowls. She smiled to see Leda running her fingers over the lineup of pastels. “Will you be my first model?”
“Me?” answered Caterina, blushing. Still, she was flattered Leda would want to capture her likeness on paper.
“Certainly, you,” Leda said, beginning already to pluck out colors from the box. Pink. White. Black, for Caterina’s eyes and hair.
“Brava!” Zulietta concurred enthusiastically. “I can tidy up while you sit, Caterina.”
“Grazie,” said Caterina, grateful to her cousin. Since Leda had come to stay with her, she did spend much more time cooking and cleaning than ever before. Who knew this was such a big part of having a child in your home? But, worth it.
Caterina pulled over an armchair and sat down to pose in front of Leda. She watched, fascinated, as Leda stroked out her fair skin, her somewhat faded dark hair. As her face took form on the blue paper, Caterina noted how the moist, greasy pastels gave her skin the radiance of a considerably younger woman. She liked the effect very much. In fact, it made her melancholic, to see her old beauty hinted at in the portrait. But she was making an effort these days not to dwell on the past, not to get lost down painful paths of memory, and so she willed her melancholy away. Cheerfully, and somewhat impulsively, she glued the picture right on the wall when Leda was done. Zulietta and Leda came over to admire it mounted in the graying afternoon light.
After a few minutes, Zulietta turned to her cousin. “Truly, I hate to leave but I have to reach the mainland before dark.”
“I understand,” said Caterina, a touch of sadness coming over her again. She hated that Zulietta did not live in Venice anymore, as she had when they were girls. She missed her all the time.
“Farewell, beautiful Caterina,” Zulietta teased, pretending to kiss the portrait good-bye. Leda giggled and pinkened, realizing Zulietta was complimenting her on how true to life the drawing appeared. Does it? Caterina wondered. Even more than I realize? Maybe more of her beauty was still visible, when she had imagined it was mostly gone.
“Zulietta,” Leda said. “Mille grazie—again. I love my pastels.” Leda hesitated a moment, then pecked Zulietta on the cheek.
Caterina watched Leda approvingly. How far she had come from the sullen, miserable girl she had taken home from the convent. On the other hand, Caterina noted, Leda did, in fact, have pastel smeared all over her clothes.
Some things did not change.
After Zulietta had gone and the sun had lowered into the lagoon, Bastiano drifted upstairs. Caterina and Leda were finishing a light omelet supper. It wasn’t unusual for Bastiano to come and
see Leda at the end of the day. He often brought her simple gifts for the baby from the mainland, like corn husk dolls, or pull-horses carved out of wood. Caterina thought most of the toys were ugly, but Leda seemed to like them. She always kissed Bastiano’s cheeks in appreciation, and he would pat her, pleased but a little stiff, on the back. There was a tenderness between them.
This night, Leda drew Bastiano. She showed him in an armchair reading the Gazzetta, a cup of chamomile tea by his side. Caterina studied the portrait over Leda’s shoulder. It captured the humility of his quiet habits, the surprising grace of his hands. How is it, Caterina asked herself, that Leda sees so much more in my husband than I do? She wondered if she was shallow, that this older, awkward, but nevertheless intelligent and gentle man, could not hold her interest. Instead, she always found herself wishing he were someone else.
That night in bed, Caterina tossed restlessly. Finally, unable to sleep, she lit the candle on her nightstand. She craved seeing her portrait once more. How truly beautiful she looked in the drawing. She could not get enough of seeing herself through Leda’s eyes. These past years, she had rarely even looked in the mirror for more than a minute. She felt somewhat lost to herself. Now, she realized as she tiptoed down the hallway, candlestick in hand, she wanted to see herself again. But only in the dark, when no one could see what she was doing.
“Oh! Leda!” She was surprised to find Leda still awake and sitting at the table, sketching. Leda startled when she heard her voice, turning and stopping midair with what looked like a black pastel in her hand.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” whispered Caterina, coming closer. Leda was working by lamplight. “What are you—”