Courtesan's Lover

by Gabrielle Kimm

  One of the three servants darts forward now and draws back the bed-hangings. The bed within is made up, with the sheets neatly folded back on one side, away from one of several plump pillows. The latent sense of invitation is irresistible.

  I feel my hand being taken. The tallest of the servants, who seems to be the only Italian speaker, is pulling me toward the bed, saying, “Señora, my master arrive very soon. But he not expecting you for another hour. We must get you ready for surprise him.”

  I nod. The servant pulls from a pocket in his breeches a roll of a deep red satin ribbon as wide across as the span of my spread hand. This he flicks out to lie widthways across the bed. Then, from under the bed, he drags a bolt of fabric; pulling the whole length of it off its roll by the armful, he flaps it all out, like shaking out a freshly laundered sheet, across the bed on top of the ribbon. This fabric is sheer and golden, almost transparent, and it shimmers in the low light from the window. It’s absolutely beautiful. It is far wider than the bed, though: I watch as the servant leans across and carefully doubles it over, making it two thicknesses deep.

  ***

  “We could deliver you to Vasquez in a carpet, like Cleopatra,” Cristo had suggested.

  He seemed excited by the idea, but I demurred. “That’s a horrible idea, Cristo,” I said. “It would probably ruin the dress, which cost a fortune. Any carpet you might be able to find will probably be filthy,and I’ll end up covered in dust and cobwebs and smelling of old wool. Not very attractive. It may have been all very well in ancient Rome, or Egypt or wherever it was, but I don’t fancy it in the slightest, here in Napoli.”

  Cristo saw my point in the end, and so we discussed for some time how we might adapt Cleopatra’s plan to suit the occasion. He was wedded to his idea of concealment and would not be moved from it. “People like unwrapping gifts,” he said.

  ***

  “Quick!” the servant says. “Get up here!” He and the other two men help me to seat myself as near to the middle of the bed as we can manage, without creasing my clothes, rumpling the golden fabric, or disturbing the straightness of the ribbon. They almost lift me, in fact. I lie down, both ribbon and gauze stretching out flat on either side of me.

  “Ready, Señora?” my new friend asks. His tone is deferential, but his eyes are dancing. He licks his lips, twitching down a smile.

  I nod again. “Quite ready, thank you. Just don’t wrap it too tightly. It must be left loose: this dress will be ruined if it’s crushed.” I fold my arms across my chest.

  “Maestre Vasquez will be here in moments, Señora,” he assures me, leaning across me and taking the far ends of the sheer length of doubled-over fabric. He lifts it back toward himself, letting it fall so it completely covers me from head to foot. He gently tucks it in under me. Then he takes the other side and folds this back over the first layer, tucking that in on my other side, until all the ends are (so I imagine—I can now see almost nothing) out of sight, and I am neatly wrapped like a big parcel inside four layers of cypress gauze. The last thing I feel is the servant’s hands tying the ribbon around the level of my belly. Not one part of me remains visible: not a wisp of hair, not even the tip of one shoe.

  I feel somewhat confined and discover I cannot really move my arms properly, but I suppose it is still more comfortable and sweet-smelling than a carpet would have been.

  “Are you quite comfortable, Señora?” my friend asks.

  “Quite, thank you,” I reply politely. My words sound oddly muffled.

  “We go downstairs, now, and tell Maestre something important is deliver to the upstairs chamber—as soon as he home. He not be long. You wait.”

  I hear footsteps, the click of the door closing, and finally a soft and sunlit silence.

  As I have been instructed, I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  All I can hear is my own breath, inside my silk cocoon, and the rustling of my skirts as I shift position a fraction.

  What will he be like, this Vasquez? Cristoforo has assured me of his wealth, his eminent standing as a senior official in the occupying army, and of his desire for my company. But what sort of man is he? I wonder if I shall enjoy what is about to happen. Will he be gifted in the arts of the bedchamber? Might he even be someone who will turn out to be more to me than a paying patron? Perhaps, in time to come, I shall look back fondly on this evening as the moment something extraordinary began. But then, of course, the converse is just as possible: tonight’s tryst could as easily turn out to be that fateful encounter that every courtesan secretly dreads. Because such fateful encounters do happen. It happened to me all those years ago, after all, did it not? I was lucky to survive that night.

  I might not be so fortunate another time.

  My scar tweaks as I remember.

  But…Cristo made it all sound so enticing the other day.

  ***

  “You tell me you need a new patron—well, what would you say to a Spaniard?” he said.

  “A Spaniard? An Inquisitor?”

  Cristo laughed. “No, no, no—nothing like that—can’t imagine any of them spending a single scudo on such sinful and wicked activities as a liaison with a courtesan—even one as beautiful as you, Francesca. No, this man’s a tremendously wealthy Maestre de Campo in the Spanish Army. I’ve been working with him for months. Now, I could be wrong, but from what I’ve heard him say, I am given to understand that he’s becoming increasingly desperate for the attentions of a beautiful woman. He rarely goes an hour without mentioning the fact, as it happens.”

  I smiled, and Cristo grinned at me. “He’s as rich as Croesus,” he said. I glanced over to where Modesto was standing by the door to my chamber, but my manservant’s face was unreadable.

  “He’s young,” Cristo went on, “younger than me, a good soldier—not the brightest, perhaps, but clever enough to have been promoted several times. He’s a bit particular, I suppose you could say. Others might say pedantic, but—”

  “I really meant, shall I find him attractive?”

  Cristo laughed. “That’s not for me to say, really, is it, cara? Come with me the day after tomorrow, though, and I’ll present you to him—with a suitably ostentatious flourish, I think—and then you can decide for yourself what you think of our young Miguel Vasquez.”

  I wanted to know what Modesto thought of this idea before I agreed to anything.

  “I think you should do it,” he said after a moment’s pause. “What with the death of the Conte di Vecchio, and now the news that the Signore here is leaving the city”—he nodded toward Cristo, then turned back to me—“you have to think of your financial position. With the likes of Emilia Rosa and that simpering little bitch Alessandra Malacoda rising to such dizzying heights in the city, you’re going to have to make sure you keep pace. Old and decrepit he might well have been, but the Conte di Vecchio had status in Napoli, and his patronage was a godsend last year.”

  I looked at my feet and pushed the toe of my shoe down into a knot hole in the floor. He was right, I knew, but, wanting to justify myself, I said, “But I have other patrons. There’s Filippo…”

  Modesto rolled his eyes.

  Irritated, I added, “And I took on Signor di Cicciano a few weeks ago.”

  Cristo’s eyebrows lifted. “That young reprobate? I’ve heard of him. You should be careful, Francesca—I’m surprised you’re still in one piece, from what people have said. I’m serious, you must take care.”

  The same thought had occurred to me, on a couple of occasions in the company of this new patron. Michele di Cicciano can be very wild. Perhaps Modesto had a point, I thought. I need someone steady. Rich and steady. At least while Cristo is away.

  ***

  A door bangs somewhere below me. Somebody shouts, and then several male voices rumble incomprehensibly. Heavy footsteps th
ud on a staircase. My pulse quickens. Perhaps this is him. Oh, dear. Cristo said he had a “prodigious appetite”… What if he is enormous? Shall I end this evening completely flattened? I fiddle my lips between my teeth to redden them, then lick them. I try to lift my arm to pinch color into my cheeks, but the servant has tied the ribbon too tightly, and I can’t reach my face without spoiling the lie of the cloth.

  No one comes into the room, however, and within seconds, the sounds from below fade away. My thoughts begin to wander again.

  ***

  The poor Conte di Vecchio. I feel horribly responsible for his death. I told Cristo about it—I said I’d killed him. Oh, I know I didn’t actually do it, but I still feel so guilty about it that it seems to me sometimes that I did. I should never have agreed to see Vicino da Argenta that day, vile man that he is. It was stupid of me. Modesto has always told me I should keep away from him. And if Argenta hadn’t been with me that afternoon, the Conte di Vecchio would still be alive, Modesto would be happy with the money I’m earning, and I wouldn’t be lying here like an oversized birthday present, unable to move, almost entirely ignorant about the man I am to bed.

  Cristo was shocked when I told him about the Conte di Vecchio. He had known the old man was dead but not how it had happened.

  “I hadn’t seen him for two or three weeks,” I said. “He’d been on a trip, I think.” I pictured the old man—Giovanni Battista, the elderly Conte di Vecchio: stooped, stiff and slow in his movements, the wreck of a once debonair adventurer. Lovemaking had cost him dearly every time, I think, but he had enjoyed it—on the days when he was able to manage it—and on those occasions when his bones had ached too fiercely to permit him to rut, he had just liked sitting in my bed with me and listening to me recite poetry or reading to him from my diaries. He was a dear old thing; he was the means of my establishment here in Napoli, and I am genuinely sorry he’s gone. And not just because of the money, either.

  “Go on,” Cristoforo said.

  “Well, as I say, he’d been away for ages. So had you.”

  “It’s an annoying habit of the army, to request one to work from time to time.”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “So, seeing as all my favorites had declined to come and see me, I had to resort to scraping the bottom of the barrel.” I paused. “Vicino da Argenta.”

  Cristoforo did not need to comment. The expression of disgust on his face was eloquent.

  I gave him a wry smile. “I know—the man’s repulsive.”

  “Then why?”

  Shame glowed warm in my cheeks as I admitted it. “Because I needed the money.”

  Cristoforo shook his head and made a soft “tut” of disbelief with his tongue. The heat in my face flared now with irritation. “Don’t look at me like that!” I said. “I have a living to make just as you do. I have two houses to manage and my children to care for. If the men I prefer choose not to come and see me, I have to make do with the ones I would rather avoid.”

  He inclined his head in reluctant acceptance of this.

  “Anyway,” I said. “Vicino had come here early on the evening that Giovanni Battista died. He was drunk—which was hardly a surprise—and he was being particularly boring. I had no wish to engage him in conversation, and he seemed incapable of actually doing anything very exciting, so I decided that the best way to deal with the situation was probably just to make sure he couldn’t expect me to talk to him.”

  Cristoforo raised a quizzical eyebrow.

  “My mother always told me it was ill-mannered to speak with your mouth full.”

  Cristo tipped back his head and barked out a laugh. I continued my tale. “And then, the door to my chamber—this chamber—bangs open. Thinking it’s Modesto, I take no notice, and just carry on with what I’m doing—Vicino’s too drunk to care about the interruption—but it isn’t Modesto. It’s Giovanni Battista.”

  I had glanced over my shoulder from where I was crouched on the floor in front of Argenta. The expression on his poor face—it’s still haunting me. He looked utterly devastated. He said nothing, just stared at me for several seconds, and then blundered blindly out of the door. I made to follow him, but as soon as I started to stand, bloody Vicino caught my wrist and tried to hold me back, and by the time I had pulled myself from his grasp, the front door had slammed and the Conte di Vecchio had gone.

  I explained all this to Cristo, and then finished my story by saying, “Modesto told me how the poor man had staggered off up the street, and then collapsed when he reached the piazza. Several people—including Modesto—tried to help, but it was no good. He was dead in minutes.”

  Cristoforo rubbed a hand around his unshaven jaw and puffed out a disbelieving sigh. “Poor old man.”

  ***

  A dove clatter-flaps past the window, startling me out of my reverie. It’s warm here, and the sun is lying across the gauze over my face. I wriggle a little, feeling a prickling tingle in one of my feet.

  He has to be here soon.

  And then the door opens, banging back against the wall and making me jump.

  Oh, Dio! I hope it’s him: I shall feel decidedly foolish, trussed up here like a goose prepared for the table, if it’s anybody else. Several sets of footsteps clack into the room, and I hear men’s voices, speaking in Spanish. One of them is my servant friend from before, I think, but the others are unfamiliar. Their indecipherable conversation rumbles for a moment, and then an order is barked out, the various footsteps retreat, and the door clicks shut.

  Somebody strides across the room. I hold my breath. The newcomer pauses, and then I hear soft male laughter, which ends with a cough. A voice says in Italian, “Oh, yes! Juan was quite right—this delivery is indeed ‘significant.’ Well, well, well, I wonder what it can possibly be. Whatever it is, it must be investigated immediately.” This voice, like the servant’s, is breathy and heavily accented, though this man speaks more softly, and his grammar is accurate.

  A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side: he’s undoing the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric, bit by bit, leaning over me to untuck the various layers of gauze. I can hear his breath, soft in his nose. Then, after several seconds, blinking in the light, I am finally able to see who has released me from my wrappings: at first he is silhouetted against the window, but then he moves to one side into the shadow of the damask-hung bedpost, and I can make him out more clearly.

  Maestre Vasquez—I presume this to be him—must be some thirty years old; he is neat and slightly built, with short dark hair and a tidy beard. Like a mythological faun, he has pointed tips to his ears. On meeting my gaze, his smile broadens, he runs his tongue over his lips, and holding out a hand, he gestures to me to sit up.

  “Señora Felizzi? I was not expecting to see you so soon. Or for you to arrive quite so covertly.”

  “Signor Vasquez.” I swing my legs around and stand, smoothing out my skirts with my hands. Then, my gaze on his, I drop down into a curtsy, but my would-be patron takes my hand and pulls me back to standing. We are much the same height. He releases my hand, and, stretching out to touch the neckline of my dress, he feels his way softly down from my shoulder, fingering the lace as he goes. His hand moves across the horizontal, then pauses, his eyes widening as he reaches the first of my all-but-exposed nipples. “Are you hungry?” he says, pinching it for a brief second.

  I run my tongue over my lips and smile assent.

  “I have had food prepared for us. Come and eat.”

  Vasquez lifts the covered platters over onto the table. He seats me in one of the two chairs, pulling the other round so he is sitting close to me. Filling our glasses with a tawny-colored wine, he then lifts off the domes. Olives. Some sort of tiny bird’s eggs, nestling in a bed of shredded leaves and little flowers. And oysters. Shucked and gleaming and dressed with lemon slices.

  Picki
ng up an olive in his fingers, he offers it to me, obviously expecting to put it directly into my mouth. “Señora?” he asks.

  I smile and open my mouth a little. His fingers rest on my lips for a brief second. I turn the fruit over with my tongue, enjoying the briny sharpness, and, having removed the flesh, I push the stone forward so it protrudes from between my teeth. My new friend grins and takes it from me.

  “More?” he asks.

  I nod.

  He repeats the process. Twice.

  I reach forward then and pick up an oyster, holding it up for him to eat. He tilts his head back, and, touching his lip with the edge of the shell, I slide the oyster into his mouth. He flicks his head to throw it to the back of his throat and swallows it. As he sits forward again, a thin line of liquor runs down his chin into his beard, and I lean toward him and run the tip of my tongue up the track of the juice, holding the side of his face with my fingers. He smells of brine and incense and garlic.

  Letting out a long, slow breath that shivers as it leaves his mouth, he says, “Oh, you are going to be worth every scudo! Benevento sang your praises to the heavens, but I think now that he failed to do you justice.”

  “I always hope to please.”

  “Your hopes are being fulfilled as we speak, believe me,” he says, picking up another oyster. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, and he slithers it into my mouth. Its sea-smelling bulk is thick in my throat for an instant and then it’s gone. Vasquez leans forward and runs his tongue along the edge of my lip.

  I open my mouth a fraction.

  And that, it seems, is invitation enough for him. He stands, takes my hand, and flicks his head toward the great gold-draped edifice on the far side of the chamber. “Come with me, now, Señora,” he says softly.

  And, tracing around inside the curve of his palm with my fingertips as we walk, I follow him across the room.