Casanova (Library of Illumination Book 4)

by C. A. Pack

  “That’s the way they wrote the letter S back then.”

  “Ahhh ...” He opened the Merchant of Venice to a random page. A handsome young man wearing something that a medieval knight might wear suddenly appeared.

  “Jackson,” Johanna barked.

  The teen closed the pages and pushed the quire away. The knight, however, remained.

  Johanna stared at their unexpected visitor. He had long, dark-blond hair and the most beautiful gray eyes she had ever seen. She looked from him to the folio pages he had sprung from, and her brow wrinkled. What is he still doing here? “Can I help you?” She didn’t know what else to say.

  He gave her a dazzling smile. “Buon giorno, signorina. Sono Giacomo Casanova.” He stared at her for a moment. “Non riconosco il tuo stile del vestire. Sono a Venezia?” I do not recognize your style of dress. Am I in Venice?

  Johanna nudged Jackson. “Do you speak Italian?”

  “No.”

  “Buon giornois ‘good morning.’ That much I know. And he said something about Venice, so maybe that’s where he’s from.” Johanna turned toward the knight. She tapped herself a couple of times and said, “Johanna.” It had worked for Johnny Weissmuller in Tarzan of the Apes, so why shouldn’t it work for her?

  The knight gave her another dazzling smile. “Si, si, Johanna.” Then he tapped his own chest. “Casanova.”

  Jackson narrowed his eyes. “Casanova, like the lover?”

  “It can’t be. Shakespeare didn’t write about Casanova.”

  “Shakespeare.” Casanova said the bard’s name with an Italian accent as he shook his head. He saw the folio and pointed to it. “Non Shakespeare.” He tapped himself again. “Casanova.” He looked around and held out his hands. “Dove mi trovo?” Where am I?

  Johanna didn’t know what to say, because she didn’t understand Italian.

  Casanova tapped the section of the folio that he had sprouted from. He pointed to it. “Questa è Venezia. Venezia.” This is Venice. He looked around the room, then tapped the worktable and shook his head. “Non Venezia.”

  Johanna shook her head as well. “No Venezia. Library of Illumination.”

  “Library? Ahhh. Biblioteca di Illuminazione.” He nodded and smiled. “Grazie.”

  —LOI—

  3

  Casanova’s stomach rumbled. He patted it as he said, “Ho Fame. Mangiamo. Si?” I’m hungry. Let’s eat.

  Jackson quizzed Johanna. “What do you think he’s saying now?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think he’s hungry.”

  “Either that, or he’s asking where do you keep the Ex-Lax.”

  “Not funny.” She turned to Casanova and said one of the few Italian words she knew. “Mangia?”

  Casanova nodded. “Si, mangia. Mangia!” He slipped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a one-armed hug.

  She looked at Jackson. “I don’t have any food in the house. I need you to run out and pick up some lunch.”

  “You mean like pizza?”

  “I don’t know if he’s the pizza type, considering he just came out of a seventeenth-century folio. Get some grilled vegetables. Spaghetti with meatballs and sausage.” She paused. “Get lasagna, too. And a salad. And whatever you want for yourself. Make sure they throw in garlic knots and Italian bread.”

  “What ... no risotto or tiramisu?”

  “Risotto. I didn’t think of that? They probably had that back then. Get shrimp risotto. And an order of chicken parmigiana.”

  “That’s a heck of a lot of food. Are you sending King Arthur with me to help carry it back?”

  “What are you, crazy? You know I can’t let him leave this place.” She went into her office and took a one-hundred-dollar bill out of her bag, thought twice about it, and grabbed a second bill. She gave the money to Jackson. “Here, this should be enough.”

  “So what are you and lover boy going to do while I’m gone?”

  She made a face at him. “Oh, I don’t know. Just let your imagination run wild.”

  The problem was, Jackson’s imagination did run wild, and he didn’t want to give Casanova enough time to get too friendly with Johanna. He knew he couldn’t carry all the food back on his bike, so he literally ran to Piccolo Italia, a popular Italian restaurant in the village. It was lunchtime, so before he could even place his order, he was forced to wait on line behind all the people who had just stopped in for a slice and a soda. The longer he took to get lunch, the more time Johanna would be alone with Casanova. THE Casanova. Jackson hated the idea, and couldn’t get back to the library fast enough.

  Under normal circumstances, Johanna and Jackson might share a pizza in her office, but it would be too crowded in there for three. Besides, there would be way too much food to spread out. The only solution would be to eat in Johanna’s apartment. She beckoned Casanova to follow her up the stairs, which he seemed more than happy to do.

  Casanova watched Johanna as she pressed the lever that led to a private suite of rooms. He followed her into the kitchen and stared at the stainless-steel appliances. Johanna set the table with plates and glasses, while he inspected his surroundings. Overcome with curiosity, he walked over to the refrigerator and pulled the door open, then slammed it shut when he felt the blast of cold air. Not knowing what else to do, Casanova sat down and picked up his fork.

  “That’s how it is where you come from, huh?” Johanna said aloud. “You’re ready to be served? I guess the men rest comfortably while the women do all the work.”

  He shook his head. “Non capisco.” I don’t understand.

  “Yeah, I bet you ‘non capisco’ because you don’t want to ‘capisco.’” That much she knew from hearing Carmine and Dante say it at Piccolo Italia whenever she asked for extra bread or more olives. She was pretty sure they understood her but pretended not to.

  She paced herself, setting the table very slowly. She had no idea how long it would take Jackson to get back with their food, and she didn’t know what to do with Casanova once she was done. She looked at the clock. Jackson had been gone a half-hour. I should have phoned in the order rather than just sending him there. He could have stuck around here longer, and the pick-up order would have been given priority.

  Instead, she was alone in her apartment with a sexy, extremely cute guy who was watching her every move—practically undressing her with his eyes. At least that’s what she thought he was doing.

  Stop, she scolded herself. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. This guy probably couldn’t care less about you.

  “Johanna.” Casanova said her name out loud.

  She smiled at him. “Yes.”

  He thought she was very pretty in an exotic and unusual way. Most of the women he knew had an artificial beauty. They wore wigs, and their faces were often painted white and heavily powdered. Some of them had adopted the conceit of adhering patches of decorative fabric to their faces. The patches were considered very fashionable, but Casanova suspected some women used them to hide pockmarks and scars. The women he seduced were always clothed in corsets, petticoats, and stomachers, with overskirts made of lace, ruffles, or elaborate fabrics worn over hoops and panniers. They reminded him of an onion with many layers that needed to be peeled away.

  But Johanna was different. She wore her hair long and loose, and her face was natural, with neither powder nor paint covering it. She dressed more like a man than a woman. She wore a scarlet satin shirt, and Casanova was fairly certain she wore neither a corset nor anything else underneath it. When she’d leaned over the table to set utensils in front of him, he’d been treated to a fairly good view of her attributes, and he saw no stays or padding of any kind. She wore tight breeches that closely followed her form, and knee-high leather boots with very high, skinny heels. He found it exhilarating just to watch her move—his senses heightened by his attraction to her.

  His usual modus operandi had always been to gain an attractive woman’s trust, shower her with small favors, and be attentive yet stan
doffish, so that she would desire him. But he was clearly at a disadvantage here, because they spoke different languages, and he had no idea where he was or who she was.

  Johanna dropped a knife and it clattered to the floor. Casanova rose in a flash, scooped up the knife and handed it to her.

  Johanna smiled at him. “Thanks ... grazie.”

  He returned her smile. Maybe seducing the intriguing Johanna would not be so difficult, after all.

  “Johanna?” Jackson shouted her name when he did not find her in the main reading room or antechamber.

  “We’re upstairs.”

  He stormed the steps like a herd of stampeding cattle, balancing various containers of food on top of two pizza boxes. He exhaled his relief when he saw Johanna’s clothes and hair did not look messed up and a table separated her from Casanova. Jackson placed the food on the kitchen counter.

  “You bought two pizzas?”

  “No. One’s bread and garlic knots, and I think they stuffed the container of salad in there. This is the lasagna and sausage and veggies and stuff.” He pointed to each as he named them. “I brought back an entire pizza in case Don Juan over there wants some.”

  Casanova perked up. “Don Juan! Don Juan Casanova era il mio grande, grande nonno.” Don Juan Casanova was my great-great-grandfather.

  Dismay showed plainly on Jackson’s face. “What’s he saying, that he’s Don Juan and Casanova all rolled into one?”

  “I don’t know,” Johanna answered. “He’s responding to whatyousaid. So please, stop referring to him as ‘Don Juan’ and ‘lover boy.’ It seems to upset him when you call him by another name.”

  “What do you know about this guy, anyway?”

  “Not much. Just that legends say he’s a great lover. I guess we could do a little research. This is a library. The library.”

  “All right. But let’s eat first. My pizza is getting cold.”

  Just like Jackson’s birthday party, it looked like Johanna had ordered too much food, but by the time they had finished eating, all that remained was a slice of pizza and a meatball. Lunch had looked like a race between Jackson and Casanova to see who could pound down the most food. At this rate,Johanna thought, I’ll soon be broke. It’s not that she had a problem with money, because—as Mal had promised—her salary was very, very good, and she didn’t have many expenses. But after shelling out several hundred dollars for just two meals, she had to find a way to make the menfoot the bill for their own food. It wouldn’t be easy. Jackson didn’t have much money to begin with, and Casanova had no income at all—at least, not in Exeter in the twenty-first century. Casanova came out of a book. Where does he get off eating that much food? How can he eat at all? He isn’t real.

  Casanova watched as Jackson helped Johanna clean off the table. This young man is playing my game, making this woman indebted to him. I’ll let him help her for now. I need to find my own door into her heart.

  After cleaning the kitchen, Jackson asked Johanna where he could find a book about Casanova.

  “Why are you in such a rush?” she asked.

  “I’m not in a rush. You’ve got a famous, historical person here, who came out of the pages of a book and didnot disappear when those pages were closed. He’s not supposed to be here. That’s a pretty big problem, if you ask me, because he’s in the wrong time period, and if he does something he’s not supposed to do here, it could change the future. That may not bother you now, but remember what Einstein said when we asked for his help with the blue orb, that the difference between the past, the present, and the future is just an illusion?”

  “I think you’re getting all worked up over nothing.”

  Casanova watched as Johanna and the boy called Jackson got into a spirited debate. He didn’t know what they spoke about, but they were both passionate about what they said. This was good; not that they shared passion but that they did not see eye-to-eye on whatever it was that they talked about. He would make sure he and Johanna were simpatico, so he could win her favors for himself.

  After lunch, Johanna led Jackson and Casanova back to the main reading room and motioned for them to sit on the sofa, while she searched for Casanova’s memoirs. Even though she had pretended otherwise, she was as anxious as Jackson to learn more about their visitor. Whenever he looked at her with his gorgeous gray eyes or spoke to her, she felt all tingly inside. She wondered what it would be like to be romanced by Casanova, and felt herself blush.

  Meanwhile, Jackson went on a quest of his own. He retrieved one of the iPads that Johanna had purchased for the library and brought it back to where Casanova waited. The Venetian watched as Jackson powered up the iPad, wirelessly matched it up to the library’s computer, and downloaded a translation app. The sudden images that appeared on the piece of black glass and the way Jackson manipulated them with just his fingers left Casanova wide-eyed.

  Johanna rushed back with The Memoirs of Jacques Casanova de Seingalt but stopped short when she spotted Jackson with the iPad. “What are you doing with that?”

  “I just downloaded an app for an Italian-English dictionary that converts text to speech, so that we can figure out what Romeo over here is saying.”

  “I can’t believe you did that. I didn’t want you touching the iPads yet, so I put them in the drawer. Yet you went behind my back and not only took one out but downloaded an app without my approval. Which I still wouldn’t mind, because your decision to use a translation app is brilliant. Except you then had to go and ruin it all by calling him ‘Romeo.’ He has a name. Call him Casanova, or Giacomo, or don’t call him anything at all.”

  Jackson thought Johanna might get annoyed with him for using the iPad, but he didn’t expect her to berate him for referring to Casanova as “Romeo.” To make matters worse, she did it in front of the guy. That was not Johanna’s style. Still, the randy Italian probably couldn’t understand her, so Jackson didn’t mind that much.

  Casanova poked him in the chest a moment later and said, “Jackson.” He then pointed to himself: “Giacomo Casanova.” He said it louder. “CASANOVA. Non Romeo.” He resolutely folded his arms across his chest.

  “See what I mean,” Johanna continued. “What are you trying to do, start an international incident?”

  Jackson immediately became defensive. “How can I start an international incident over a guy who doesn’t exist? Doesn’t he have to be real to be involved in an international incident?”

  “No. He doesn’t,” Johanna argued. “What you said about him was insensitive and demeaning, and a lot of people would jump all over it for being politically incorrect.”

  “You mean the protocol policeare going to come breaking down my door because I referred to a guy—who has an infamous reputation as a womanizer—as Romeo?”

  “NON ROMEO,” Casanova shouted emphatically.

  Jackson sighed. “Are you going to look for an answer in that book, or should I?”

  Flustered, Johanna opened the book without thinking. A gaming table appeared, and so did a replica of Casanova, with a considerable pile of ducats sitting by his left hand.

  “Ah,” Casanova said, jumping up to get a closer look at the gaming table. “Excellente.” He picked up a ducat and unexpectedly locked eyes with himself. The shock proved to be too much. He immediately fainted.

  One of the men jumped up from the table and squatted down next to Casanova’s slumped form. “Ci sono due di lei, Casanova? Lui è il suo fratello?” There are two of you, Casanova? You and your brother?

  “Close the book,” Jackson whispered. “Maybe he’ll disappear.”

  Johanna did what he asked. The others disappeared, but Casanova remained on the floor, unconscious.

  “It didn’t work.”

  “Yeah, but at least we now know that if we meet ourselves in another time period, the world as we know it won’t end. Do you have any idea what that guy said to him?”

  “No.”

  His fingers flew over the virtual keyboard. “He said something that remind
ed me of the film Goonies. The bad guys were called the Fratellis. Remember that?”

  “He didn’t say ‘Fratelli.’ It sounded more like ‘fratello.’”

  Jackson continued his search. “‘Fratello’ is brother. That’s got to be it. He called him the guy’s brother.”

  “What does it matter? It doesn’t help us.”

  “Yeah, but at least it shows that the translator that I downloaded works.”

  “Whoopee,” she said quietly.

  Casanova started to moan. “Looks like lover boy is coming back to life.”

  Johanna glared at Jackson for a second before brushing Casanova’s hair away from his face.

  Their Italian visitor opened his eyes. He blinked a few times and smiled. “Johanna,” he said softly.

  “Jackson, help me move him to the sofa.”

  As they lifted Casanova to a standing position, the ducat dropped to the floor. Jackson kicked it across the room without a second thought.

  Johanna pouted but otherwise ignored what Jackson had done. “Get him a glass of water.”

  “Please?” Jackson added derisively.

  She ignored him.

  He grudgingly left her alone with his rival while he fetched a glass of water. Maybe I should throw some arsenic in it. That made him wonder if he could be prosecuted for killing a man who died more than two hundred years ago.

  Johanna took the glass. She sat next to Casanova and held it to his lips. Casanova placed both his hands over Johanna’s, as if to keep her from getting away.

  The gesture did not get past Jackson, whose eyes were riveted on their hands. He didn’t know what he felt more, jealousy or hatred.

  Johanna felt a warm flush when Casanova placed his hands over hers. She watched him sip the water, and then looked up to see his pale gray eyes drinking her in. She suddenly felt flustered, but didn’t pull her hand away. She didn’t want him to think she was rude, or uninterested.