“Elisabetta it is, then,” my father said, smoothing the way. “A trip to Padua will be good for you, sweetheart. And don’t forget, take advantage and go see—”
“The frescoes by Giotto!” I smiled at him, and he glowed with pleasure. “I will bring you back my sketches,” I promised.
Voilà. It was done. We left two days later, the delay killing me but I could not exactly run out of Venice like a lunatic. Then, they would suspect something was amiss.
Pier Antonio accompanied me on the journey to Stefano’s farm, which is in a small town north of Vicenza, called Thiene.
“All this for an old horse, hmm?” he teased and poked my stomach as we pulled up to the modest farmhouse.
I waved him away and stuck out my tongue. Yes—after ten hours together in a carriage, we were now truly like brother and sister.
Stefano was pacing around the small courtyard in front of the house, waiting for me in the noonday cold. (I had dispatched a messenger to him as soon as we reached the mainland, to let him know when he could expect us.) He greeted me with friendly kisses on both cheeks. Then, his very unfriendly mother, Agnesina, came out to see me.
“You have come here to see the horse, Signorina?” A glance over to Stefano, with eyebrows raised in disapproval. He raised his brows back at her, as if saying, “No—I am not going to send her away.”
“Yes, Signora, to see Farfalle,” I answered, trying to be as sweet as possible.
“You don’t prefer to stay with your cousin at an inn, in Vicenza?” True to form, Pier Antonio had already turned the carriage around and left with Elisabetta.
“Oh, no, Signora. I prefer to be here in the fresh air—and, near Farfalle.”
“For how long, may I ask, Signorina?”
I blushed at my unwelcome. “Oh—not too long,” I stammered. “You will hardly notice I am here.”
Another long glance to Stefano, whose face by now had turned bright red.
“Oh, I think we will all notice you are here, Signorina.”
She clearly distrusted me. Not liking our differences in social rank, and probably fearing I was toying with her son.
But enough about her.
The farm is a simple place, well-kept. The house has only two rooms on the main floor. One is large, with a great stone hearth, where they do all of their cooking and relaxing together. And on the other side of this room, they keep the pigs and sheep! Stefano tells me the closeness of the animals keeps the family warm in winter. A bit disgusting—yes?
Upstairs is a large bedroom for Stefano’s mother, and on the other side of the stairway, two smaller bedrooms for his grandmother and himself. Thank God, the grandmother moved into the mother’s bedroom when I arrived, to give me my own room.
As soon as I had revived from the trip with some bread, salted farm butter, and tea, I insisted on visiting Farfalle. Stefano led me to where she was staying, in a barn behind the house. (The family also owns one heavy draft horse, Orso.) The ground was frozen beneath our feet, the mud like rocks under my slippers. We could see our breath, and I wrapped my wool cloak tightly to try to stay warm.
Farfalle smelled me enter—she immediately raised her head and started looking around. Then, she whinnied. I ran over to her. She looked wobbly on her feet but was standing, a good sign. She stretched out her neck to get as close as possible to me, and even tried to hug me by curling her head around my neck. In the end, though, it was too much effort for her, so I just scratched her between her ears. She gave a long, deep sigh.
I saw a dent about the size of a man in the straw on the floor of the stall.
“Have you been sleeping in here with her?” I asked Stefano.
“Yes,” he confessed. “I find I sleep better if I am near her, instead of worrying all night.”
“She seems better than when you wrote me,” I noted. “Have you tried more remedies?”
“Oh yes,” he said, opening the door to her stall, I presumed to offer her food—though her oats were barely touched. Farfalle followed his every move with her eyes. “Remedies of milk and honey. White wine and black soap. Turmeric, anise seeds, brimstone, and spirits. She is better, but nothing has completely worked. I still find the worms infesting her dung each day.”
“Are there no remedies left to try?” I asked. Farfalle had closed her eyes, and Stefano was stroking her eyelids, which she seemed to adore.
“Only one—I hesitated to do it. Bleeding her at the neck.”
“Then let’s do it,” I said.
“In that dress?” he asked. It was one of my less fancy wool ones, with only a little lace at the neck and sleeves, but still one thousand times finer than the coarse cotton clothes his mother wore.
“Yes, in this dress,” I said. “This is all I have to wear.” I cast down my eyes, feeling criticized for my wealth—which I cannot change.
“No, no, Zulietta,” he said, putting a hand on my arm as I stroked Farfalle’s soon-to-be-cut neck. “You misunderstand me. I am very grateful you are here with me—to help us.”
Stefano went to a nearby cupboard and took out a large, glazed clay bowl and a small silver box. Inside the box was a lancet. He lit a candle and held the blade in the flame for about a minute. Then, while I kept the bowl under Farfalle’s head and tried to distract her with nonsense talk, he made a nick in the large vein of her neck. The blood came running out fast, soaking her brown hair in an instant. We collected about three cups into the bowl. And, I’m proud to say, I never turned away from the sight.
After we were done, I pressed a clean cloth on the cut to stop the bleeding. Stefano went to get her some linseed oil stored in another part of the barn.
“The idea,” he explained when he returned, and Farfalle was lapping the oil from a small cup, “is to cleanse her body of gross humors with the bleeding, then kill the last worms with the oil. Let’s hope it works.”
Well—whether it was the remedies he tried before, or this last one we performed together . . . Farfalle’s health did start to improve. The next day, she ate more of her oats and remained standing for longer. Each morning, I rubbed her face, head, and neck clean with a cloth, and in the evenings, Stefano tossed up the straw to make a soft place for her to rest. After about a week, her eyes started to shine and look bright, and we knew she was getting well again. Stefano returned to sleeping in his own room.
All this time, we worked together as two companions, saying nothing about what had happened between us over the summer. But as I watched Stefano care for Farfalle, I found myself falling in love with him all over again. His kindness, his gentleness, his steady love and faith. On his part, Stefano showed me nothing of his feelings, if any remained. With no future for us, I was sure he knew he had to keep a distance. Only sometimes, I would catch him staring at me—in the barn, or across the table while the family ate together. His mother did not like seeing that, let me tell you! “Pass me the salt,” she would say with irritation, to break the spell between us.
Late the last night, I was packing my clothes in my room. I felt hugely relieved my trip had been a success—that Farfalle was well again—but I also felt some melancholy. Stefano and I had not rekindled our affection, as only now I admitted to myself, I had hoped would happen.
I heard a soft knock. I prayed it was not his mother, nosing in on me.
Stefano stood at the door.
“Come in,” I said. “The hallway is cold.” He came in and sat on the bed. There was no chair, so I sat next to him, keeping myself about half a pace away.
“I’m sorry you have to go so soon,” he said. “I wanted you to have more to remember from your trip than bleeding a horse.” He smiled at me, but his eyes were sad.
“Oh—Stefano.” I put my hand in his, without thinking. It felt natural to comfort him. “Taking care of Farfalle—healing her together—has made me truly happy.”
He smiled again, but not his usual, confident smile, full of life and boyish joy. He seemed serious—and nervous. His hands were trembling
.
“Zulietta,” he began, “I realize all this”—he gestured to the plain, cramped room we were in—“is not what you would ever want, and that I do not deserve you—”
I put a finger to his mouth. “Shh, ” I said. “Stop. I told you how I feel about you.” Hearing this, he kissed my finger, then my wrist, and, seeing no doubt the invitation in my eyes, leaned in to kiss me on the lips.
“I love you, Zulietta,” he said. “More than you could ever know.”
After those sweetest words, we kissed and caressed each other in new ways that felt so good, and right. Though I assure you, Caterina, I did not carry on like a sailor all night! “In time,” I assured him, leading his very eager hand away. “In time.”
The next morning, I cried as I said farewell to him by the carriage.
“Will you come back to me?” he whispered in my ear, clasping my arms tightly. “Promise me you will.”
“I promise,” I said, kissing his neck and laying my head on his shoulder a last, long minute. “I will always come back to you.”
Oh, goodness! I realize writing this letter I never did do any sketches for my father. I will have nothing to show him. Perhaps it is for the best—the time for truth has finally come.
The time for truth has finally come. I folded Zulietta’s letter, about ten pages of elated, carriage-written script. Well—maybe the time for truth had come for her, since she had gotten what she wanted. I swear, I was honestly happy for my cousin, and the small part I’d played in her success.
Now, if only I could get what I wanted.
CHAPTER 75
Late the next night, as I was about to go to bed, I heard the tapping of fingernails on my door. It could only be Marina.
I almost didn’t let her in. But curiosity quickly got the better of me. Had she reconciled with Giacomo? Did she maybe have a message from him for me?
I tiptoed to the door and opened it a few inches. I was wearing only my nightgown and a deep pink damask robe.
There she was in the doorway, so close I could sense her warm skin, her pulse beating in the dark. Marina was still wearing her habit, no doubt back from some tryst with one—or both—of her lovers.
She held out a single sheet of paper to me, folded and unsealed. “It is from Giacomo,” she explained.
I snatched the note from her hand. I went over to my desk and lit the lamp to read.
Caterina—
I owe you an apology for the miserable night we spent together. Now I understand that Marina only wished to bring me happiness, and I was too much of a fool to see her gift in the spirit of generosity with which it was given. I believed I was not loved enough, when in fact I was loved in excess of what I deserved. I am a weak and imperfect creature, beneath you both in everything. Can you forgive me, my angel incarnate?
Giacomo
I laid the sheet down, realizing this meant he had forgiven Marina. He was blind to what she really was, and I suppose he was blind to me, as well. He didn’t want to see what burned down deep.
“He begs you to let him make it up to you,” said Marina, who had followed me into the room, uninvited. “Come dine with us at the casino the day after tomorrow.”
“No, thank you,” I said. To sit there with the two of them, while they ran circles of love around me? No.
Marina pressed.
“He has begged me to bring you. And . . . there is someone else who wants to meet you.”
Ah. There it was.
“Someone else?”
“I told you about him once before. My friend. The Frenchman.”
“Your lover?”
“Yes.”
“Why does he want to meet me? How does he know who I am?”
“He was with me that night, watching you from the secret room. He admired your beauty. Your intelligence. He has asked to meet you.”
I felt angry, but also, oddly excited. My heart started to beat rapidly. I was vain, and hungry for admiration. “Why are you willing to share him?”
Marina considered. “His pleasure is my duty, and his pleasure now is to meet you. You will find him . . . witty and refined, in the way of the French.”
I already knew the Frenchman was ugly from my spy’s report. I knew Marina was lying to me about him, or at least, only telling me half truths. But an idea was quickly forming in my head.
For love is strong as death,
jealousy as hard as hell,
its lamps are fire and flames.
It was something I remembered from the Bible. I decided to take those words now as my guide, like the boys who carried lighted lamps down the dark streets of Venice at night. I would go to the casino and enchant this Frenchman. Flirt with him. I would do it right in front of Giacomo.
He would burn with jealous love for me.
And just maybe . . . I would get him back.
CHAPTER 76
Marina dressed the salad. She tossed the leaves in vinegar and oil, salt and pepper, maneuvering the silver servers to show off her beautiful, dimpled hands. I sat at a small round table next to the French ambassador to Venice, Francois-Joachim de Bernis. Giacomo sat across from me. He had begged me to come to the casino—or so I had been told two nights before—but had seemed uneasy all through the meal. He kept jumping up to fetch the servant to complain about this or that. The oysters are sandy . . . the polenta is lumpy . . . he couldn’t be pleased. Now he sat sulking. I wanted to draw him out of his foul mood, and at the same time, have him notice my charms working on the ambassador.
“Monsieur de Bernis,” I asked in my most cheerful voice, “what is the most exciting experience you have had in all your travels?”
The ambassador considered my question while taking forkfuls of salad into his soft mouth. He was an unappetizing creature. No wonder Marina was more than willing to share him. He had a weak chin and several of them. He was bald and wore a wig to disguise it. Emerald and ruby rings squeezed the flesh of his fingers, so that puffy folds swallowed up the thick gold bands. Still—he was rich, and he bought Marina her freedom now and then from the convent. She clearly saw the trade as worth it.
“Signorina,” he said, his eyes resting too long on my bare arms, “the most exciting moment I ever had was watching a woman experience la petite mort without ever being touched by me.”
Marina broke into a mischievous smile. Giacomo winked at her. I blushed.
“What is la petite mort?” I asked. “A small death?”
“It is what the French call an orgasm,” Marina explained to me. “A man’s weapon wounds a woman to death without taking her life.”
“Oh!” I giggled. “Go on, Monsieur de Bernis.”
“Yes—one evening in London about fifteen years ago, I went to see Farinelli, the castrato singer, at the Opera of the Nobility. When this gelding opened his mouth, his voice was so melodious, neither man’s nor woman’s, I thought I was in paradise. At one point, he sang a single note that rose in strength until my heart flooded, and my whole body experienced a new kind of excruciating pleasure. I looked over to my beautiful companion at my side, and her eyes had sprouted tears. She took my hand and said, “Merci. I have experienced the little death with you.”
“But, Monsieur,” said Giacomo, “was it that she experienced la petite mort with you, or with Farinelli? It was he who brought her to the climax of pleasure. You were merely the voyeur.”
De Bernis scowled. Marina shot a reprimanding look at Giacomo. He risked alienating her lover, who controlled their access to the casino, as well as her ability to escape the convent at all.
“Signor Casanova,” de Bernis addressed him in a luxuriously condescending tone, “I find there is almost as much pleasure in watching other lovers, as in making love oneself. Unless the unfortunate situation should arise, that a lover is too pitiful or selfish to make love to a woman who loves him.” His small black eyes flashed.
Giacomo’s face turned dark red. I had not felt this embarrassed since the night my brother had made love to his mi
stress right in front of me. De Bernis was clearly referring to the night he had watched Giacomo and me from the secret room in the casino.
“Signorina”—de Bernis turned away now from Giacomo and spoke to me—“my friend Sister Morosini has pleased me immensely by bringing you here tonight.” He dotted his oily mouth with a napkin. “I have rarely enjoyed a supper more. I am eager to see you again. Tomorrow night, perhaps—with Sister Morosini?”
“Tomorrow night is too soon for Caterina to leave the convent again,” Giacomo broke in. “She cannot risk it.”
“Yes, I can!” I sensed Giacomo was becoming jealous of de Bernis’s claims on me. Just my plan. I intended to keep it going.
“Caterina—”
“Good,” de Bernis interrupted Giacomo. “Then it is settled. Tomorrow night. I have a French book I want to share with you two beauties.” He flicked his tongue. There was something obscene about him that left little to the imagination. “It is called The Academy of Women. I think you will find it . . . entertaining.”
I started to panic inside. Was he expecting me and Marina to make love in front of him? Or . . . to both make love to him? I had no intention of letting his fat fingers touch me. I told myself Giacomo would step in well before that ever happened—step in and keep me from ruining myself. I was his angel incarnate.
“And what about Giacomo?” I asked, sweetly. “This has been—such a pleasure tonight, and it would be a shame not to include all of our merry group.”
“Signor Casanova, please do join us,” said de Bernis, with a sneer in Giacomo’s direction. Then he stood and gazed right down my dress. “The best pleasures are shared—oui, Signorina?”
I blushed and smiled gratefully, believing I had maneuvered the situation perfectly. I had kept a very unappealing ménage à trois from taking shape, and in doing so, made sure I would see Giacomo again the very next night.
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