by S. C. Daiko
Mamma grabs my hand. ‘Jacomo di Babolli is the richest merchant in Ragusa on the Dalmatian coast. You have done well, cara. When the time comes, I shall be your go-between and ask him to bid for you.’
‘What do you mean, bid?’
‘Your virginity will go to the highest bidder. ’Tis how things are done.’
I take a deep breath and let it out again slowly.
‘Mamma, I’m no longer a maid.’
A hand flies to her throat. ‘Didn’t you say that Signor Panizza has never bedded you?’
Blushing furiously, I explain how frustration led me to seek my own pleasure.
‘There’s a trick.’ She’s laughing now. ‘For women who need to fool their husbands on their wedding night. You can use it too. A plug made up with gum alum, turpentine, and pigs’ blood. Poof!’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Instant virginity.’
She laughs again and I join in. ‘Do you think it will work?’
Mamma gives me a look. ‘Of course it will. Lessons first, however, and then pleasure. Not your pleasure, cara. You have to forget that for your job will be to give pleasure not to receive it.’
I nod, thinking of Paolo’s book. My eyes practically fall out of my head when Mamma reaches under the cushion and pulls out a loaf of bread shaped like a prick. ‘Lesson number one. You’ll need to take this into your mouth, all the way down to the back of your throat, without making any marks with your teeth. But first I must teach you how to touch a man so that his member swells to this size.’
‘You mean it isn’t always as big?’ I think of the bulging codpieces that poke out from between men’s legs. Then I remember Paolo’s lack of arousal and shudder.
‘Sometimes it’s as small as a mushroom. You’ll be surprised how quickly it can grow when you stroke it. Your movements should be slow and subtle. Don’t touch it straight away. Gently rest your hand on your patron’s leg, then brush your fingers on his cheek. Let your shawl slip down so that he can see your breasts. All these things you can do after you’ve entertained him.’
‘Entertained him?’
‘Most definitely. You’ll be an honoured courtesan. Highly sought after. There are only just over a hundred among the thousands of whores in Venice.’
‘So many?’
Mamma ignores my question. ‘When you are entertaining your patron by singing, playing the lute or spinet, or with witty conversation, you must flirt with him, entice him into your bed.’
‘Why do I have to take him in my mouth? I thought my sheath was made for a man’s prick, not my mouth.’
‘All part of the seduction, cara. Men will stick their pricks in all our orifices, including our back passage. If you are really fortunate your patron might seek to give you pleasure too, by sucking your quim. Never, ever, ask him to do it, though. The initiative must come from him. There are men who enjoy the taste and smell of us.’ Apples and Musk. Of course.
She takes a lump of bread dough from the small bowl on the table and rolls it into a ball. Slowly, she pulls on it and soon it has elongated. She gets me to repeat the process until she’s satisfied.
Now ’tis the turn of the prick-shaped loaf. It takes me several tries and I almost choke before Mamma is happy with my performance.
A loud knocking at the front door, and we startle. A shout, ‘Give me back my wife!’
Dio mio! ’Tis Paolo. Mamma and I traipse downstairs. She goes to the keyhole. ‘Leave this minute! Or I shall report you to the authorities.’
‘They’re more likely to insist your wayward daughter returns to her husband.’
‘Not to a husband who beats her.’
‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’
Silence. Mamma pats my hand. ‘There’s nothing he can do, cara. You’re not to worry.’
But I do worry. How can I possibly return to a loveless marriage and live with a man who mistreats me?
Tonight, I suck on my Murano flask even more lustily and rub my pearl until it starts to elongate like a tiny prick. No longer do I confess my sin to the priest, for the last time I did so I must have titillated him too much. He was groaning, the confession booth was shaking, and his prick formed a small tent in the curtain between us.
I can’t wait for my next lesson with Mamma. Finally, there’s a purpose to my life, and ’tis not just the seeking of pleasure. I’ve heard there are literary salons in Venice where courtesans are welcome. I want to find out if my writing is good enough for publication, and the only way I can do that is to find an audience.
‘Veronica, this is Francesco the fishmonger’s son,’ Mamma says the following afternoon. ‘He’s happy to be our model.’ She smiles and strokes the young man’s bare torso and buttocks. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’
‘Truly, he is.’ Broad chest and flat stomach. In a couple of paces I am behind him. His posterior is firm and my hands ache to cup his rump. I hope Jacomo will be like him. ‘An Adonis.’
‘Not all your clients will be as easy on the eye.’ Mamma snorts. ‘Some will be old and flabby, but you won’t mind if their purses are fatter than their paunches. Come, Veronica, touch Francesco’s prick and put into action the theory I taught you yesterday.’
I’m surprised I don’t feel embarrassed. There’s no love, no emotion; ’tis purely an act. It comes to me then that my life will become that of an actress. My body will no longer be mine for it will belong to the men who pay for it. There’s a part of me, though, that no one will ever own: my mind. I shall keep that for myself. And if I can use my body to promote my life’s work, then so be it.
I feel the veins of his shaft pulsing under my touch. Cupping his heavy, tight testicles with one hand, I start to work his length with the other. He’s bucking now, bending his knees and thrusting, driving himself through my slippery grip. His eyes are hooded and his breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps.
‘Down on your knees, now, cara,’ Mamma orders. ‘Take him into your mouth, and when he spills his seed, swallow it all. Make eye contact with him every now and then, to show how much you are enjoying it.’
I lower myself and wrap my lips around his prick, swallowing him until I gag he’s so big. He thrusts into my mouth and a shudder passes through him. I taste the smoky, salty thickness of his essence against my tongue and my throat. Glancing up at him, I swallow. Mamma gives me a piece of silk, and I wipe my mouth.
‘You did well, cara, didn’t she, Francesco?’
Throughout the whole performance he’s not said one word, but his smile tells me how well I’ve “performed”.
‘You’re a natural, Veronica. I think we’re going to make a fortune.’
Is that all she can think about? Money? I glance at the shabby furnishings and threadbare tapestries. There’s been no roasted meat on the dining table here for years. We’ve lived off pasta and fish.
My three brothers, Jeronimo, Horatio and Serafino are no longer living in the house for they have made their own way in the world, grazie a Dio.
Papa is conspicuous by his absence; I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Where does Mamma get money? Surely she hasn’t gone back to whoring? For whoring it would be; she’s too old to be a courtesan. I’m happy to help her. ’Tis the least I can do for she brought me into the world and cared for me. It wasn’t her fault I was given to Paolo. That was Papa’s doing so he no longer had to feed me. And if Mamma has gone back to her old profession, albeit in a minor capacity, I can’t lay any blame at her door. I only hope my husband leaves me alone, so I can start a new life.
We’ve established a routine, Mamma and I. On Mondays she washes my hair. After the first soaping, she massages my scalp for half an hour to encourage new growth and then rinses it twice in waters made from boiled vine stock with barley straw and crushed liquorice root to bring out the lights and make it shine.
My tresses fall to my waist, and the colour is rich with layers of honey and gold, which light up as it dries, resting like a cloak over the edge of a high chair where I sit with my back to the a
fternoon sun. Whilst it dries, Mamma plucks my hairline so that my forehead is high and clear, and my quim so that it remains free of lice. I have to grit my teeth and swallow the pain. She then applies a special bleaching paste to my face and neck (she told me it contains bean flour, mercury, dove entrails, camphor, and egg white).
When the mask is removed ─ an hour and half is too short and two hours too long ─ my skin is red and sometimes even spotty, but Mamma soothes it with cucumber water and warm towels.
On Tuesdays, heavily veiled and masked, we go to the Jewish Ghetto to search the second-hand clothes shops for the right apparel. As soon as the money starts coming in we’ll employ a dressmaker, but for now we have to make do with the almost-new dresses some wealthy women have decided don’t fit right or suit them well enough.
Wednesdays are my favourite days. We discuss literature and I’m able to give my mother an education of sorts. She pretends not to agree with my opinions, sparking what I hope are witty responses from me. We laugh together when we discuss one of the stories in Boccaccio’s Decameron, the one about the strong young man who goes to work in a nunnery and pretends to be a deaf mute so he can fuck all the nuns. I love Boccaccio’s themes of bearing misfortune with grace and patience. Things tend to work out in the end. And I hope the same will happen for Mamma and me. Paolo hasn’t been back to bother us; he must have resigned himself to living without me.
Thursdays I practise walking in the chopines that will give me elegance and the swaying gait of a temptress. I learn to dance in them, but don’t really enjoy the experience. I feel a tad ridiculous, as if I’m walking on stilts.
On Fridays, I practise the lute, my favourite pieces are the Venetian pavane, and I sing. I love singing, and one day I hope I will write my own songs. Mamma teaches me to colour my lips and cheeks with vermilion.
Saturdays I read and write poetry. Sundays, after Mass, Mamma and I play Trappola, the trick-taking card game. Although ’tis illegal, she says I will play it with my clients, and I’m getting quite good at it. Every night I rub a thick bleaching paste laced with rosemary onto my teeth. My gums I treat with mint, and my eyes with drops of witch-hazel water to moisten and highlight the whites. Oh, and my Murano bottle is a regular ritual. Of course.
I know not if I’m attractive, for there are no full-length mirrors at Mamma’s. When I set up my own house, I shall purchase one. I’m curious as to why they say I’m beautiful. My hair is fair enough, I suppose. My waist is small and my breasts, when I cup them, fill my hands. My face, in my hand-held mirror, seems symmetrical. It would be wonderful if someone painted my portrait one day. Such dreams I have, and I’ve yet to make my debut. Impatience mixed with trepidation washes through me. I know I shall be good enough. But will my patrons be good to me?
A picture of Paolo comes into my mind, but I push it away. He’s not worth me thinking about. He should never have married me. Other men are not like him. Papa is a drunkard, yet he’s not violent. I grew up with brothers who treated me as their equal. Even so, I can’t help a niggle of anxiety…
2
At last Mamma decides I’m ready for my debut; my cuts and bruises from Paolo have healed and, wearing our masks, she and I go to the perfumery on the Rialto Bridge, where she has ordered my fragrance in advance: essence of damask rose and frankincense. Signor Rossi, the owner of the shop, bows to us and hands over two packages. One with my perfume and the other containing the same scent in oil form to rub on my gloves and shoes. Mamma pays him then takes my arm. I’m wearing my chopines today and neither of us sports a veil. We progress across the bridge to the edge of the canal, where a gondola is waiting to take us to St Mark’s.
The boat’s polished silver rudder glints in the afternoon light, the gondolier clad like a courtier in scarlet and gold velvet, his single oar resting in its socket. I sit next to Mamma on the red velvet seat as the boatman slides his oar down into the water, manoeuvring us away from the dock and out into the main channel. We pass the colourful German merchants’ trading house, Fondaco dei Tedeschi, decorated with vibrant frescoes of Greek gods and goddesses, a tribute to sacred and profane love. Tall chimneypots rise up like enormous wine goblets on the serving tray of the skyline.
I take off my mask for the world to see me. Head up, neck long, hands folded, I’m wearing my favourite of the second-hand dresses, deep blue silk with pale cream heavily-embroidered sleeves. The bodice is trimmed with gold to draw attention to the plunging neckline. My breasts have been forced upwards to such an extent that my nipples are peeking out over the top. Wide skirts billow from the jewelled v-shaped band below my waist. The dress contains so much material I hope the Doge is not out and about, for he has approved a law limiting the display of sumptuous clothing not only by courtesans, but by the wives of the patricians who govern this floating city. Such apparel is deemed to be wasteful and challenges male authority. Ha!
I wonder about the Doge, who wears white-and-gold regalia, and is picked by means of a series of secret ballots so complicated that Mamma cannot explain the process to me. When he dies– as this one will soon enough, I think, for I’m told he’s as wrinkled as an old prune, his family will be excluded from the next ballot. In this way Venice prides herself on being a true republic. Ah, Venice. How I love my city. Venice: the best, most beautiful, most ancient, most just, most peaceful. Venice – la Serenissima – the Most Serene Republic. Why do I feel this way? I’ve never been anywhere else, but I’ve read our history and have compared it with that of the other Italian states. Truly, there is no comparison.
I think about our politicians, who wear long, dark coats, cloths like togas thrown over one shoulder, and the simplest of black caps on their heads. When I was a child, Mamma would take me to mass at St Mark’s and I’d see them gathered in the square like a flock of well-kept crows. Only men have political power. Sometimes, I wish I’d been born a boy, but not today. Today, dressed up like I am, I’m relishing my femininity.
There’s a freshness in the air, signalling the end of summer. I want to draw my shawl around my shoulders, except I’m here to put on a show. Has anyone noticed me? We pass a boatload of men dressed in the bright red robes of senators; their necks swivel at the sight of us. Mamma has already received a bid from Jacomo, but she wants to be sure his is the highest.
She’s worked wonders with my hair; she’s coaxed and teased it into feathery curls at my brow, ringlets around my cheeks, and the rest of it falls in slow, rolling waves down my back.
We do not alight for to do so would attract unwelcome attention. Courtesans are tolerated, indeed their taxes swell the coffers of the Senate, but the way I’m dressed would be deemed too extravagant.
There are men standing in groups below the twin pillars of justice. Except ’tis not the merchants who catch my eye, but the cooling embers of a large fire.
‘What happened there?’
Mamma sighs. ‘’Tis where they burnt a sodomite last Wednesday.’
‘Who did the burning?’
‘The State Inquisitors, cara.’
A chill, and my teeth chatter. The pyre has cast a blight upon the afternoon and I suggest to Mamma we return home.
I’m waiting for Jacomo to arrive. Relief washes through me that he’s won the bid, for I wouldn’t like to give my so-called virginity to a man I’ve never seen before. For a short while, Mamma and I feared Papa would ruin the evening. He came home, roaring drunk and demanding even more wine. Mamma gave him a flagon full and now he’s snoring in his chamber; he should stay that way until morning. We hope.
I’m nervous; my hands are shaking. Will Jacomo di Babolli be kind to me? The plug of pigs’ blood is in place, and I’m dressed in such finery I’m like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. We purchased this gown yesterday and ’tis my new favourite: emerald green silk stitched with seed pearls, the skirt and train has used so much cloth the Doge would deem it scandalous.
A knock at the door, and Mamma ushers Signor Jacomo into the room. We’ve splurged on beeswa
x candles rather than tallow, but, not having been able to afford many, the corners of the room are in darkness. My client is tall, yet I tower over him in my chopines; I dip a curtsey to meet his height.
‘Signora Veronica. Your beauty is even greater than my wildest dreams.’ He kisses my hand and my tummy flutters so.
‘You flatter me, Signor Jacomo.’ I point to the chair. ‘Pray, take a seat, and I shall sing for you.’
‘I’m not one for music and poetry. Nor even for conversation. My needs are basic. You’ll find me an uncomplicated man.’
I stand back and regard him. Why pay for a courtesan when all he wants is a fuck? ’Tis his money and who am I to complain? I can’t help feeling disappointed, however. I was looking forward to showing off my skills. I touch his cheek, his beard silky beneath my fingers, and I trace a line down to the edge of his mouth. Within seconds, he’s sucking on my thumb like a babe. He lets out a groan, takes hold of my hands and places them on his codpiece. I feel a twitch, and I sense a power over this man, this stranger, who needs me so.
We go to my chamber. My dress is cumbersome and to disrobe complicated. Yet Jacomo knows what to do without me having to ask. Soon I’m standing in front of him in my shift, unbuttoning his doublet, raining kisses down his chest, and unlacing his cod. When I drop to my knees, he lifts me up. ‘No need for that.’
He touches the tip of his finger to my breast then pinches my nipple. I let out a gasp, and ’tis not one of pain; the pinch has sent a shiver to my core. Jacomo pulls me against him; without my chopines my belly is soft against his prick. Lifting my knee, I nudge at it with my quim. Another groan from Jacomo, stronger this time. He buries his hands in my hair. My first time kissing a man, but Mamma has taught me what to do. I slip my tongue into his mouth then move my head back to tease him. His eyes meet mine, hot with desire. ‘Let me disrobe you completely,’ he says, pulling up my shift.