by David Hewson
‘I bet they will,’ the servant said.
‘Yes, yes. Find the people whose names are written here and tell them they’re invited. Eight o’clock, prompt. We’ll follow the Venetian convention so the young men should wear masks while the ladies go barefaced.’ He got up to leave and so did Paris. ‘Any questions?’
Pietro looked at the pair of them and blew upon his whistle.
‘Very good, boy,’ Capulet told him. ‘Now go about your business. As we shall ours.’
The two men ambled off. The ducks returned. Cormorants dived and swam in the placid river. The boy sat down, scratched his head and stared at the scribbles on the paper in front of him.
‘Find the blokes whose names he’s written here? Easier said than done, mate.’
He blew his whistle again then went to the table and stole the last of the almonds scattered there. ‘Can’t read, Master. Never learned. If you’d ever asked you’d know.’
He held the paper up to the bright blue sky and stared at the scrawls of lines. However much he squinted none of it was any clearer.
‘I need some help. A learned chap.’
Down the street a pair of young men were walking, deep in earnest conversation. One wore fine clothes, the other better than Pietro’s own but stained with grass, brambles sticking to his britches.
‘Or better even two.’
* * *
Benvolio said, ‘Here’s the point’
‘Finally? The point? That didn’t take long.’
‘Sometimes you put out a blaze with water. But sometimes you put it out with fire. Bigger, brighter. Hotter. If you’re giddy with agonising over Rosaline stop spinning round and round for heaven’s sake. Find another girl. One who’s not so…’
‘Not so what? I keep thinking there’s something you’re not telling me.’
‘As if. I only speak the truth. This is a temporary affliction of yours. Besides, a little perspective wouldn’t go amiss. While you whine and wail there are people out there a lot worse off than you.’ He stopped and pointed at the fool by the roadside, a servant in threadbare clothes blowing on a simple whistle. ‘That poor soul for one.’
Pietro wandered up.
‘Good day, fellow,’ Romeo said. ‘Nice whistle you’ve got there.’
‘Made it myself. Little knife and a bit of wood. I’m good at whittling and whistling. Not a lot else. No use at reading at all. Are you any good with letters? You look the sort–’
‘I can read my own fortune and it’s full of damned misery.’
The servant grinned, a little baffled. ‘I am a simple sort. It strikes me you don’t need to read proper for something like that.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his grubby britches. ‘What I need to know is… can you make sense of all them words and squiggles? Might as well be a spider trailing its little legs through muck to me.’
‘We’re busy,’ Benvolio told him. ‘No time for games…’
The servant looked desperate. ‘No game for me, sirs. My master’s handed me this paper then hopped it. They’re his orders to go fetch people for his ball this very night. Now I may know where most of the toffs in Verona live. But if you don’t tell me which of them you want it’s not a lot of use now, is it? Still…’ He started to put the paper back in his pocket. ‘If the two of you are similarly afflicted to poor Pietro here and cannot understand a word…’
Romeo groaned. ‘Give it here.’
The hand was flowery, that of an elderly gentleman, he guessed. The note said, ‘Signor Martino and his wife and daughters; Count Anselm and his beauteous sisters; the widow of Utruvio; Signor Placentio and his lovely nieces; Marshal Escalus and his nephew Mercutio; Cousin Arturo, his wife and daughters; my huntsman Di Capua and his fair daughter Rosaline; Signor Valentio and his wife; Lucio and the lively Helena.’
Benvolio, peering over, said, ‘Helena’s very lively indeed from what I hear. This is a fair assembly. All the fine families of Verona. Especially the younger ladies.’
‘Where’s this fair assembly to go?’ Romeo wondered.
‘Up,’ Piero answered.
‘Up…’
‘Up to our place. Where else?’
‘Which is…?’
‘My master’s.’
Benvolio slapped his forehead. ‘Your master being?’
‘A great and rich man called Capulet. Did I not mention this?’
‘Perhaps you did…’
Pietro looked at them in anticipation. ‘If you two gents were to point me in the right direction I’d happily let you in the back door. Lots of posh grub. Drink as well. I saw cook chasing a peacock round the garden before I came out. You ever eaten peacock?’
‘Stringy,’ Benvolio observed.
‘Well, at least you got the chance to find out. The young men should wear masks. Like they do in Venice. All I want in return…’
He tapped the paper.
‘We couldn’t possibly,’ Romeo said.
‘Masks?’ Benvolio wondered.
‘Like they do in Venice,’ Pietro told him. ‘Apparently.’
‘Let me read it,’ Benvolio said, snatching the paper before Romeo could speak. ‘We gladly accept.’
He went through all the names on the list. The youth seemed to know every palazzo and back alley in the city. All he required was the family. And then he had them pat.
‘Eight o’clock,’ Pietro said, stuffing the page back in his pocket. ‘Come round the back and see me. I am in great debt to you, sirs.’ He stared at them and for a second didn’t seem slow at all. ‘You’re not Montagues, are you? ’Cos if that’s the case I fear this invitation’s not for you. In spite of all your kindness.’
‘Good God… do we look like Montagues?’ Benvolio asked with heat.
Pietro gulped. ‘No. Not at all! Come take a cup of wine with us tonight. The place will be full of lovely ladies. Well above my standing sadly. But there you go…’
He blew on his whistle once more and was on his way.
Benvolio rubbed his hands with glee. ‘There you were cursing your luck, eh?’
‘Rosaline…’ Romeo whispered.
‘Horses hunt. And so do men. That father of hers is coming up in the world if Capulet’s got him on his list. Mercutio’s on it, too.’
The marshal’s nephew had become a companion of theirs since he’d turned up from Venice, apparently under something of a cloud.
‘But–’ Romeo objected.
‘But nothing. You heard. We’ll stay hidden behind our masks. With Mercutio. The nephew of our beloved marshal. That means you’ve two friends in attendance. No one will know two foul Montagues have slipped into the place. Capulet’s lining up every young noblewoman in Verona for this banquet. God knows why. You can eye up your Rosaline without fear or favour and not a soul will notice. When you see her next to them…’
‘She’ll still look beautiful.’ His misery was back. His face forlorn. ‘The loveliest under the sun. None can compare–’
‘Because you never did! You’ll see. I’d bet good money you’ll reckon your swan a crow before the night’s out.’
Romeo glared at him. ‘A crow?’
‘It was a turn of phrase. I’m not a poet. Just a man who tries to get by. You have got a mask, haven’t you?’
‘Don’t we all?’
‘To an extent,’ Benvolio agreed. He looked at Romeo’s torn, stained clothes. ‘Now let’s consider what you’ll wear.’
* * *
They called her Nurse though it was fourteen years since she’d last taken the babe Juliet to her breast. Her real name was Donata Perotti, a fisherman’s wife from Peschiera, a village on the shores of the vast inland lake of Garda fifteen miles to the west. Shortly after she fell pregnant her husband drowned trying to navigate a sudden summer storm. Their daughter died just three days old. The following week the woman was thrown out of her tithed house. Destitute, she’d found herself in Verona knowing what to look for: a rich family with a wife about to give birth. Most upper-class
women viewed the idea of breastfeeding as abhorrent. If a wet nurse were available they’d hire her for a year or more after the child’s birth, and hand over most of the motherly duties – cleaning, bathing, dealing with night-time yowls – to their temporary servant.
Capulet could be an ogre, but his wife was a kindly woman and didn’t have the heart to make Donata Perotti destitute twice over. So, even though she could be loud and coarse and occasionally impudently rebellious, Nurse had stayed in the household, taking a small bedroom a few doors along from the extensive apartment over the garden where Juliet slept.
It was now four in the afternoon in the large study at the front of the palazzo.
‘Nurse.’
Bianca Capulet’s head was spinning from trying to manage all the arrangements of the coming banquet.
‘Yef…’ The woman’s mouth was full of cold pork. Over the years she’d grown decidedly fat through scavenging the Capulet kitchen.
‘Please don’t eat in here. The furnishings cost a fortune. Where’s my daughter?’
The servant woman swallowed down the last of the meat then chuckled.
‘There’s a question, eh? Where’s Juliet? Where is that girl? I’ve been asking that day and night ever since she were tiny and still I don’t have an answer. The young these days… Juliet! Juliet!’
The door opened and she walked in.
‘There’s no need to shout. I’m not deaf.’
‘Your mother wants you.’
Juliet was still in her morning clothes. A simple linen shift. No jewellery. ‘Well. Here I am–’
‘This is a private conversation. Please…’ Bianca Capulet shook her head as if this might clear it. There was so much to consider. Such a dainty and dangerous path to tread. The woman was making for the door, her big hips rolling as she walked.
‘No, Nurse. I’m sorry. Stay here. I need a witness. Lord knows you’ve been here long enough. You’re a party to these things too. My daughter’s still a child…’
‘Sixteen!’ Nurse cried. ‘Same number as her teeth. Top and bottom now all those baby ones have gone.’ She opened her mouth, displaying mainly gums. ‘Show your mother, love. I only got ten and a bit meself, all round. Rest fell out years ago. All the more reason we take good care of those little pearls of yours, don’t we?’
Juliet stared at the two of them. ‘You called me here to talk about my teeth?’
‘Seventeen come Lammas Eve,’ Nurse added. ‘My little Lucia would have been about the same. Had she not died, of course, God rest her. Too good for this world. Too good for me if I’m honest.’
‘Mother–’
‘I were damned lucky your kind family took me in. Leaking milk everywhere I was and starving all the same.’ She waddled over and patted Juliet on the head. ‘You took care of that, didn’t you, little one? Couldn’t get you off my tits for love or money. Had to put wormwood on ’em or I’d never have weaned you, greedy little monster–’
‘Nurse!’ Bianca Capulet pleaded.
‘And if your bawling weren’t enough we had that earthquake. You and the master were over in Mantua for business or something. I was determined this lass had had enough of me. Ye gods… the biting and the whimpering…’
‘Please, Mother. Make her stop.’
‘You fell on your back, girl, after that. You won’t remember but I do. Lord and Lady out of the house. You tumbling on your little arse, all the kitchen lads laughing and looking, legs akimbo on the tiles. Bump on your head the size of a cock’s testicle. That was a week, that was.’
‘I’m going to scream in a minute,’ Juliet announced.
Nurse was beaming, ear to ear. ‘All the pain we go through and still you’ve got to laugh.’ She patted the girl on the head again then rearranged her long blonde locks. ‘You were the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen. I’ll get a brush and do your hair. I just hope to see you married one day.’
Juliet retreated, hands on hips. ‘Ah, right. I see what this is about now. You conspire–’
‘Conspire?’ Nurse asked, offended. ‘What do you mean? I’ve changed you, fed you, cleaned up that bed of yours when you wet yourself in it. I’ve a right to hope to see your wedding–’
‘Mother…’
‘Both of you listen,’ Bianca Capulet begged. ‘Please.’
There was quiet for a moment. Then outside they heard someone running round the garden, a peacock squawking. A louder shriek from the bird, a victorious curse followed by silence.
‘Marriage,’ her mother said. ‘Where do you stand on the matter now, Juliet?’
‘Where I stood this morning. Indifferent beyond the point of outright apathy. I’m sure it’s a great honour, but not one I dream of at the moment. Thank you all the same.’
Nurse guffawed. ‘Oh, marriage is an honour. And what comes after too. You’ll be dreaming of that before long at your age. I was. Couldn’t wait–’
Her mother waved at the woman to be silent. For once it worked. ‘You must think of it, love. There are girls younger than you in Verona already with child–’
‘So?’
‘I wasn’t much older–’
‘You lost a son! My father reminds of that fact day in and day out! Now he plans to marry me off…’
‘Count Paris seeks you for his wife–’
‘Paris!’ Nurse did a little jump and clapped her white and flabby hands. ‘That fine nobleman from Florence with all the money! Oh, there’s a match from heaven, sweetheart. Such a fellow… He’s like a god. Like one of them statues you see outside big buildings–’
‘He’s a man,’ Juliet objected. ‘Just a man. Also I saw he has a beard. A beard!’
Nurse chuckled, a low and knowing sound. ‘Nothing wrong with a few whiskers. Get them rubbing up and down your back…’
‘He’s ten years my senior or more. With a beard. I do not know him. Any more than he knows me. I have other interests at the moment.’
‘Such as what?’ her mother wondered. ‘All you do every day is read books and lounge around the garden.’
‘I wish to see the world. Florence for a start. I told you. And I… I can teach Nurse to read.’
Nurse grimaced. ‘I’m too old to learn new tricks like that. How many times do I have to say it?’
‘You’re a child,’ her mother said. ‘A girl. Even for a woman like me it’s not as if we’re… free to go wherever we wish.’
Persuasion was the only course. Bianca Capulet came and took her daughter’s hand. ‘Bear with me. Have patience. Paris will be at the banquet tonight. At least be civil. Observe him. He could take you to Florence.’
‘And all I have to give him in return is my life?’
‘He’s a handsome man.’
‘Very,’ Nurse agreed. ‘Classy as well. A right toff, much more so than your mother and father if you don’t mind my saying, my lady. All that money…’
‘Paris comes from an ancient and noble family. Your father’s spoken with him. He’s sincere and truly loves you. A bachelor’s like a book without a cover. You’re the final piece that makes his life complete. He knows that. He prays you’ll realise it too.’
Nurse nodded. ‘This house needs a baby’s cry in it again. Not that I’ll be feeding the little mite. Not with these dried-up–’
‘Be honest with me, daughter. A quick, straight answer. Could you love him?’
‘How can I know?’
‘I’m not asking you to agree. Not yet. Just give the man a chance.’
Juliet sighed. Arguments seemed to fall from the sky sometimes, like rain. She wouldn’t avoid them. But they weren’t sought either. ‘I’ll try and like him. What more can I say?’
Even this small admission felt like victory.
‘I never much liked my Pino,’ Nurse observed. ‘Not when I married him. Wasn’t that keen afterwards to be honest. Argued all the time. But at least he was out on the lake all day. And nights, well…’ That filthy laugh came again. ‘Nights aren’t for talking, are they?’
> A knock on the door. Pietro was there holding out his piece of paper.
‘I found them, my lady. Those people on the master’s list. Told them all to come along tonight for it’s a grand party you’ll all be having. They moaned a bit about the short notice but free drink and food’ll always get folk out in Verona, won’t it?’ He was beaming and then remembered something. ‘Apart from Count Anselm. Him and his sisters are stuck at their country house apparently. Someone there’s maybe got the plague. Servants reckon the place has got a red cross on it and soldiers won’t let anyone come or go.’
‘The plague. Where?’ Juliet whispered.
The lad shrugged. ‘This side of Vicenza I think.’
‘That’s a way from here,’ her mother said. ‘What state’s the kitchen in?’
‘Chaos. The cook’s cursing the pot boys. The pot boys are cursing me. Everyone’s calling Nurse all manner of names ’cos she keeps coming in and pinching grub.’
‘I do not!’
‘Well, that’s what they say. But it’ll all be ready, mistress. Eight o’clock. For you and your guests.’
Bianca Capulet smiled at her daughter. ‘Nurse? Find the best dress you can. White in there somewhere as I said. Jewellery.’
‘Bah,’ Juliet muttered.
‘That diadem we bought you.’
‘I said, it hurts.’
‘Love does hurt, dearie,’ Nurse chipped in. ‘But there’s such a sweet and secret delight behind the pain. Let’s get my girl even prettier and trap you the perfect husband. Happy days.’ She winked. ‘And then come happier nights.’
* * *
The three of them met at the promised place: the tombs outside the church of Santa Maria Antica. Romeo was dismayed to see Mercutio relieving himself beneath the columns when he and Benvolio turned up.
‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he complained. ‘Do you have to piss on the royal tombs?’
Mercutio finished, laughing. He was a good eight years older. Both Romeo and Benvolio wondered what had happened in Venice to bring him to little Verona. And why he had no connections, no friends among men of his own age. All the same he was entertaining. Good company, if somewhat unpredictable.
