by Karen Brooks
I considered her words. They sounded sincere. Thoughts of Dante pricked the edges of my mind. The weight of anguish sat beneath my breasts, a burden I would forever carry. ‘You’re right. I did, I do need time. Grazie. You have saved me in more ways than one. But I don’t understand. Why? Why have you brought me here, to your casa? You know what I am, what keeping me here means, the risk you’re taking.’
She sat very still, her eyes on my face, her hands folded in her lap. I felt the colour rising in my cheeks. If she thought my eyes strange, they were nothing compared to the lagoon-green of hers. They were impossible to read. I shifted from foot to foot under her scrutiny. I longed to reach out and touch her, to feel what she was thinking. ‘Why am I here?’ I insisted.
She smiled, revealing even, white teeth. ‘That’s something I’ll save for a longer conversation and for my father to explain. You met him on the gondola as well.’
‘I remember,’ I said. I also recalled just before I leapt into the canal, before the Bond Rider tried to take me, the people from the quartiere who had followed me onto the bridge, calling, shouting. They had witnessed what had happened, Dante’s death. They would now know who and what I was. They would be in grave danger. Pillar’s life would be forfeit. My hand fluttered over my heart. The kind face of Zia Gaia, Dante’s great aunt, swam before my eyes. How would the Macellerias endure the reality of Dante’s death? Would they blame me? Could they forgive me? They would be heartbroken … but they too were not exempt from the danger that must surely lurk wherever I walked.
‘Scusi, Signorina. Do you know anything about the family of the man that was … killed by the Bond Riders?’ I fought to keep my voice even. ‘About the people that followed me onto the bridge? Pillar, my master? Are they all right? Did the soldiers come?’
Giaconda regarded me carefully. A tiny frown marred her otherwise smooth brow. I could see a faint muscle twitching in her cheek. ‘Your questions will be answered shortly,’ she said, finally. ‘For now, you are to prepare yourself to meet with my father.’
Before I could protest, she continued. ‘Once you’re bathed and dressed in the clothes I’ve chosen for you, Hafeza will bring you to the portego – the main reception room. We will be waiting for you, Tallow. We will all be waiting.’ The rest of her sentence remained unspoken, but it charged the air around us. As we have been for a very long time.
Rising from the bed, she bobbed gracefully. ‘I will see you soon. Relax and enjoy Hafeza’s ministrations. For now we will ease your body.’ She gestured to my arm. ‘Later, we will soothe your mind.’
As the door closed gently behind her and I was left alone in this sumptuous room with Hafeza, I wondered why I didn’t quite believe her.
NO SOONER HAD GIACONDA LEFT than Hafeza, with a peculiar gesture and an odd grunting sound, disappeared as well. Before I could react, the door was flung open and she reappeared dragging a large metal tub, shooing me away as I ran to help her.
Over the next twenty minutes, she went in and out carrying large buckets of hot water that she poured into the bath. In no time at all, tendrils of steam rose above the metal edges. My bath was ready – even if I was not.
Hafeza dropped the pail onto the floor and pushed the scarf back on her head. She nodded to me. Whether it was because Giaconda was no longer present, or because she felt assured I would do her no harm, she was in control.
I had only just come to her side when she grabbed the bottom of my shift and began to pull it over my head.
‘No!’ I cried and, with my unbandaged arm, clutched the ends and tried to tug the garment back down, my knees rising as I fought to hide my nakedness. My cheeks burned as we wrestled with the fabric. The thought of being disrobed in front of Hafeza appalled me.
She shook her head and made funny clucking noises, releasing the gown and facing me with her hands on her hips.
I rolled the nightgown back over my legs, my mind roaring in my ears. I found it difficult to look at her, but I did. She regarded me with twinkling eyes. A great smile burst forth, mapping her face with lines and revealing missing teeth. She tossed her fingers towards me and made up and down motions with her hands before flinging them in the air. I understood. She’d seen it all before – from her patent lack of discomfort, even me.
I felt stupid. ‘Mi dispiace,’ I muttered. ‘I’m not used to this – to be being undressed … to being washed, actually, and by someone else.’ I cast my mind back to a few days earlier when Dante’s Zia Gaia had helped me bathe. The day my gender masquerade began to unravel completely. My heart contracted but I remained resolute.
Hafeza’s fingers rested gently on my arm. Her head tipped to one side and I could see the questions dancing in those huge liquid eyes. She rested her other hand lightly against my heart. The warmth of her fingers penetrated my shift. I resisted the urge to extract. I didn’t want to frighten her. Again, she nodded and then took her hand away and pressed it against her own breast.
As if she had been the one to extract from me, I saw compassion in her gaze, in the measured way she gestured. She understood my melancholy. She too had lost someone important to her.
My lips began to quiver. Important was such an inadequate word.
‘You understand,’ was all I said. I could not wait for my strength to return so that I might discover what made Hafeza so unhappy. Was it that she was a slave, that she mute, or was it more?
She nodded once and then went to work. She plucked one of the huge sheets used for towelling off the bureau and, shaking it out, draped it over her shoulder and beckoned me closer.
This time, when she lifted my gown, I didn’t protest. She carefully untied the bandage, and with her help I eased myself into the bath. The water rose as I sat back and my limbs became pale and distorted under its liquid weight. It was deliciously warm. My fingers carved a passage through the water and I marvelled at the way it caressed my skin and how, wherever the fluid rested, it changed its texture. I ran my hand along my legs, from my knees to my toes and then back up, along my inner thighs. My flesh felt like satin. I sank deeper into the water and rested the back of my head against the curved edge of the tub and studied my body. I wasn’t accustomed to being completely undressed, nor to such display. I found it unexpectedly liberating. My newly discovered breasts floated above the waterline, my nipples coral-tipped islands surrounded by a translucent sea. I couldn’t help but stare at this wanton abandonment. I felt a giggle build inside me as Hazefa dipped her hands in the water and began to tease the soap into fragrant bubbles. She produced a sponge and, rubbing the soap into it, started to scrub my legs. The combination of the slippery lather, her deft but gentle fingers and the roughness of the sponge tickled and I had to concentrate not to pull back my legs abruptly.
The firm stroking became rhythmic, and I tilted my head backwards and shut my eyes, enjoying the sensations. Gently, Hafeza lifted my swollen arm and trickled soapy water over it. It was still tender, but the fluid was soothing. I relaxed and my mind began to wander. Where my skin touched Hafeza’s, I could feel her strength, her health and, without meaning to, I drew from her as easily as I inhaled. The pain in my arm blossomed momentarily and then disappeared and a sense of well-being permeated my body. In my dream-like state, I began to extract more deeply. My arm was suddenly released, falling with a splash into the warm water. My eyes flew open and Hafeza sat back on her heels, holding her hand in front of her face, her eyes wide – not in fear, but with wonder.
‘Mi dispiace!’ I cried, gripping the sides of the bath, sitting up quickly and sloshing water over the floor. ‘Hafeza, I didn’t mean –’
She pressed a long, wet finger against my lips, silencing me. Pushing me back into the water, she pried my fingers from the edge and lifted my arm, nestling my formerly damaged elbow in the palm of her hand, examining my upper arm closely, running a finger down my forearm. The swelling and redness were gone. I was healed. Without forethought or calculation, I had mended myself – and without harm to Hafeza. On the
contrary, she seemed … delighted. She smiled sweetly, patting my arm for good measure before retrieving the sponge and, softly at first, but with increasing vigour, resumed washing me. I gave a little moan of approaval.
‘It doesn’t hurt – not at all,’ I said cautiously. She didn’t react. I waited a beat. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked her quietly.
Hafeza paused and looked at me in astonishment before her face creased into another huge smile. She nodded again and then encouraged me to lie back once again.
At first I found it hard to recapture my earlier mood, but before long, my thoughts escaped my tight leash and I began to wonder what I had done to my body. I rested the back of my neck against the rim of the tub, my eyes half open, my flesh submerged in perfumed water and relished being tended to by such experienced hands. I wondered what Dante would think of me, like this, naked and clean, being so fussed over and smelling of lavender. My imagination spilled into realms of longing and my budding laugh was rapidly smothered.
A spray of water in my face shocked me back into the present.
Hazefa waggled a finger at me and shook her head. She’d caught me retreating into territory that I could not afford to go. She really did understand.
More importantly, Hafeza, the Morokan slave, was right. What good did dwelling on Dante do? He was dead. Cane was dead. Pillar was as good as dead. And as for Katina … I had no-one I could trust, no-one to turn to – not anymore. No-one except the Maleovellis. I had to bury my thoughts, my feelings and my fears deep inside – if I didn’t, they would rise and betray me. If not today, or tomorrow, then sometime in my unclear future. Dante would not want that, even if I wasn’t sure I cared what happened to me anymore. I had to harden myself. I had to harden my heart.
I took a deep breath and, as Hafeza began washing me in earnest, exhaled and let myself relax. I pretended that every time the soap or sponge touched my body, it was removing traces of the old me – the unkempt candlemaker’s apprentice – the pretend boy who dared to test his powers and failed. I would not be him any longer. I couldn’t afford to be.
Everything I now did, everything I would become, would be for Dante. For what we could have been if we’d been able to be together.
After all, how can you forget someone who is a part of your very soul?
As for those who had shattered our future … they would pay. I didn’t know how or when, but I knew that somehow, some day, I would make sure they did … and dearly.
IT TOOK ALL BAROQUE’S CONCENTRATION to remain still. He’d been standing in Signor Ezzelino Maleovelli’s study for so long, answering question after question, every muscle in his body ached and weariness such as he’d not known in a long time made him feel heavy – in his heart as well as his mind. He wanted to sit down, to collapse in one of the empty chairs, shut his eyes and hasten the forgetfulness that only an exhausted sleep could bring. But he had to wait to be invited and, now that Signorina Maleovelli had entered the room, that particular overture was unlikely to be forthcoming.
He glanced at her now. A barely repressed excitement attended her, arousing his curiousity. Something was afoot. Baroque could feel her loathing of him emanating from every pore as she sat, twisting in her seat, so she didn’t have to face him. The fact that she needed his services, that her father insisted on using them, only intensified her antipathy. If he hadn’t been so fatigued, he would have enjoyed the effect he was having. But the last few days had wrested their toll. That the Maleovellis had taken his briefcase, the one containing his precious journals, had almost broken him. His dreams of accruing wealth and walking away from his jeopardous double life never mind the hasty promise he’d made to the Bond Riders, had dissolved as quickly as they’d formed. He glanced at where his briefcase now sat, atop papers on Signor Maleovelli’s desk. For a brief second, hope that they had not discovered the false bottom where the books were hidden flashed through him. His eyes slid to his property again. No. It stood as nothing but a monument to his failure.
‘Why don’t you sit down, Signor Scarpoli?’ said Giaconda.
Trying to hide his surprise, Baroque did not wait to be asked again. He slowly eased himself into a chair, clutching the arms as he sank into the tired fabric.
‘Tell me, Baroque,’ said Signor Maleovelli, reaching for his pipe and continuing their discussion. ‘From the time you spent in the taverna talking to Signor di Torelli – that is, presuming you spoke to him before you … dispatched him, and from what you observed en route to us, what was the mood of the popolani?’ The smell of tobacco began to fill the room.
‘They’re shocked, Signor. Shocked that an Estrattore lived with them for so long and they didn’t suspect anything. They talk about his kindness and how inoffensive he was, obedient. This confuses them. It conflicts with what the padres tell them, with folklore and rumour. What they know, what they have experienced, can no longer be reconciled with the stories of Estrattore wickedness and violence – of manipulation – that the Church pedals. So, there’s a great deal of uncertainty and now, of course, there’s the fear of repercussions. They see themselves as victims, but know they will answer to the Doge and the Church as perpetrators.’
‘Sì. Bene. They’d be fools if they thought the Council of Ten won’t act further, never mind this Cardinale Martino. The authorities have to quash any sympathy the popolani feel for the Estrattore quickly. It’s easy to demonise something that’s a part of history, of myth. But once a legend becomes a reality, undermining the propaganda, then there’s a problem that can only be solved by erasing it. If I were the Doge, I would be showing the Great Patriarch how loyal I am by removing the source of the tales and those who repeat them immediately. Making an example of those who persist in resisting the Church’s teachings.’
‘This is what the people fear.’
‘Then they are wise.’
‘Wise, yes. Prepared, no. Not even the events of yesterday can prepare them for what the Cardinale will unleash upon them.’
They sat in silence for a moment.
‘Why did the Bond Riders let you go?’ asked Giaconda, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from her gown.
‘Signorina,’ said Baroque, his mind racing, ‘as I have already said, I’m as surprised as you. I felt sure they were going to kill me. You can see for yourself, they beat me to within an inch of my life.’ Baroque clumsily indicated his face and hands.
‘You told them nothing?’ Signor Maleovelli asked.
‘Nothing. Your plans are safe.’ Baroque shifted slightly, wincing as he stretched one of his legs, moving the jacket he’d taken from Signor di Torelli’s to one side. It was tight across the shoulders and refused to button over his stomach. He longed for his own clothes, his own rooms, as small as they were, hidden away above the rami of the Usurers Quartiere.
‘It was clear the Riders had their own sources of information,’ said Baroque cautiously. ‘They knew a great deal about the apprentice. They have been observing him for quite some time, longer than I did.’ He ceased fidgeting and met Signor Maleovelli’s eyes once more. It was time to play his one and only card.
‘Signor, there’s something I learned from the Bond Riders, something very important. If the apprentice still lives, it will change everything.’
‘Really?’ Signor Maleovelli pushed more tobacco into his pipe. ‘Signor Scarpoli, I don’t think there’s any information you can give me that I don’t already know.’
Baroque used another cough to disguise his laugh. ‘With all due respect, Signor, I don’t believe you could possibly know this.’
‘Why is it that whenever anyone begins a sentence with those words, “all due respect”, they always mean the opposite?’ asked Giaconda of no-one in particular.
Baroque’s palms itched. He wanted to slap the smug look from her face. He thought of Katina, how negotiating with her was so very different from dealing with this woman who liked to pretend she was a nobile. ‘I do mean it respectfully, Signor, Signorina. This knowledge will help you
find the Estrattore. But, in exchange, I would like the items you took from my room at the taverna back.’
‘Oh,’ said Giaconda. ‘You mean the dirty old shirt, brush and bag we found.’
‘Sì.’ He resisted the urge to look at the briefcase.
‘And why on earth would you want those back, Signor Scarpoli? I was only saying to Papa after you arrived last night that we should really replace them. And now that, with the advantage of daylight, I see what you have endured while in our employ –’ she signalled his bruises and cuts ‘– I feel it is the least we can do.’
‘Grazie, Signorina. But these items, they’re very dear to me just as they are. They contain fond memories, you might say.’
‘They are very dear to us too, Signor Scarpoli,’ Giaconda regarded him with defiance. ‘Your information would have to be very good indeed to make us part with something so … meaningful.’
‘I believe it is, Signorina.’
‘More valuable than the knowledge that the candlemaker’s apprentice is, in fact, a girl?’ added Signor Maleovelli.
Seconds ticked away. Baroque gulped. He forced his hands to be still. His mind raced. How on Vista Mare could they possibly know? He’d spoken with the apprentice, watched her from afar for weeks and he never guessed. ‘I was not aware that you already knew this.’
Signor Maleovelli leant on his cane and rose. He hobbled around to the other side of the desk, past the briefcase, searching for something. ‘You’d be amazed to know what we’ve learned in your absence, Baroque. Astonished. A lot can happen in only a few weeks.’
Baroque used the arms of his chair to hoist himself to his feet. The purse in his pocket felt heavy. It reassured him. He would book passage to somewhere, anywhere on the Mariniquian Seas, and start life again. ‘I can see that I’m wasting your time, Signor, Signorina Maleovelli.’ He bowed towards them. ‘We have reached an impasse. I located the Estrattore, which means the terms of our arrangement are over. It serves you no real purpose to keep hold of my … my property; but, if you insist, then I am afraid I will have no choice but to leave Serenissima.’