by Martin Seay
The hair on her body is curiously fine, the same russet hue as her cropped scalp. On her shins it’s nearly blond. A thin hooked scar, well-healed, traces the lower edge of her left scapula. He pulls her toes, probes the hollows of her armpits, drags his knuckles across the rough verruca on her foot. Pinching her lips, her nipples, her earlobes: the flesh blushes and puffs. His thumbs smooth her brows, brush her closed lids. When her eyes open—their pupils shrinking—he looks at them for a long time. Peculiar colors. Greens and grays and browns. A deep swift stream, churned by the boots of soldiers.
Gradually she becomes impatient, unnerved, uncertain of how this use of her will end. She begins to reach for him, to redirect his actions into something intelligible. Each time she does so he stops her hands: gently at first, then more forcefully, if only to feel the occult architecture of muscle and sinew straining against his own. This is a new invisibility, blood-warm and mindless, hidden under skin. Nothing like the one sought by the alchemists. Every discovery is instantly forgotten.
This continues across what seems like many hours, although Crivano recalls hearing no bells. Only when they’re both clumsy, fumbling, all but asleep, does he let her touch him. She settles an arm around his waist; her hand makes a few perfunctory strokes. He rises to clean himself.
Sometime during the night her snores wake him; he’s uncertain of the hour. Dark. The lamp on the table has burned itself out; the fresher one in the corner still flickers. He slides from bed, refills the new lamp’s reservoir, shapes its wick with a needle until he’s built a steady flame. Then he unlocks his box of physic.
He places his square marble slab on the tabletop, along with a pair of small tin spatulas and a sealed jar of beeswax, and turns to inspect his herbs. Birchbark. Fig-leaf resin. Celandine. The biennial henbane he bought from the apothecary, moments before he met this girl for the first time. Why did he purchase so much of it? Enough to kill everyone in the White Eagle, and many more besides. Might not the sale raise suspicion?
He puts that concern aside, makes his selections, measures them onto the slab. Then he gathers beeswax on a spatula, softens it over the lamp-flame, smears it across the scattered herbs, stirring and scraping them into an ointment. Once he’s gathered it in a vial, he returns to his box, fishes out a long slim razor, and rouses the girl.
She recoils when she sees the blade. He claps a hand over her mouth before she can scream, pinching her nose, pressing her skull downward until the bed-ropes groan. Then he begins to whisper in her ear, and he keeps whispering until her struggles cease, until she understands and accedes to what he’s about to do.
He releases her, then takes hold of her thigh and rolls her quickly over on her stomach. He straddles her, rests his buttocks against her own, bends her back leg. As if she’s a horse he’s shoeing. He tilts the pad of her foot toward the lamp until the wart is clearly visible. Then he begins to cut.
He draws no blood, or very little. As the shaved-away callus litters the sheets, he sweeps it to the floor with the back of his hand. When the area of the verruca is cleared, he applies the poultice, then dresses it with a snug bandage. Clean this every night, he says. Put ointment on it every morning. Don’t walk unless you must. If you do these things, within a month it will cease to trouble you.
He stands, freeing her. She he rolls onto her side, then cocks her leg, prods the bandage. Looks at him. Dottore, she says.
She says nothing else. After a moment, she rolls onto her belly and draws in her limbs, rising sphinx-like on her knees and elbows, swaying sleepily in the lamp’s flame. Crivano watches her for some time. A sound escapes his throat: a wet exhalation, like a small beast dying or being born. Then he climbs across the mattress and commences to use her in the manner of the Greeks, in the same manner the janissaries would sometimes use him, in same the manner he’d sometimes put the Lark to use during the long slow dream of their boyhood, those unspoiled days when nothing was different and nothing would ever change.
54
When he wakes, sunlight is pressing through the curtains, and the girl still sleeps beside him.
When he wakes again, the sunlight has shifted, grown softer, and the girl is gone. He tries with some success to sink back into slumber, but recollections of the night before—along with concerns about what the girl may have stolen, and the desire to void his bladder—finally rouse him.
Stool and urine in the chamberpot already. Enough water in the pitcher to clean himself. The stack of coins that he left for her is gone, of course, but his own purse still jingles when he lifts it. The ample sheaf of papers in his trunk’s false bottom—letters of advice from a bank in Genoa, an account Narkis established for him—has led him to be somewhat careless with his funds; he turns out the purse on the tabletop to take stock of its contents. Gold sequins, silver ducats, silver soldi, copper gazettes. A few lire and grossi. One scarred and flattened giustina, MEMOR ERO TUI IVSTINA VIRGO visible on its reverse. Coins from other lands: a papal scudi, an English half-groat, a quart d’ecu bearing the device of Henri IV. One blue-green piece he can’t identify. He opens the curtains, winces, holds it to the light. A ducat. A coin of necessity, struck during a siege by a local treasurer from whatever metal could be spared. One side is illegible, worn smooth; the other bears a winged lion, and the year the coin was minted: 1570.
Crivano’s arm spasms and goes numb as if struck on the ulnar nerve; the ducat clatters to the floor, rolls to a corner. Crivano, trembling, stoops to retrieve it. He sits naked at the table, reading the coin’s relief with his fingertips as his eyes grow wet. Thinking of his father. I demand that you end this fatuous sulk at once. I have made my decision. Maffeo and Dolfin will stay here with me. What you say is true: if we defeat the Turks, my estate will pass to them. But we will not defeat the Turks. Don’t you see? The sultan’s victory may come this year, or next year, or ten years from now. But it will come. There is no one who does not know this. To Maffeo and Dolfin, I bequeath my lands and my properties, which are worth nothing, which are in fact a curse that dooms them. To you I give my name, my seat on the Great Council. I am sending you and the Lark to Padua not because you have no legacy in Cyprus, but because the only legacy for you here is death. Crivano wipes his cheeks, dries his face on his peg-hung shirt, dresses himself. Wishing for an instant that he still had Tristão’s mirror: wanting to read the history in his face, history he’s labored greatly to conceal, to forget. History no other living soul could recognize.
Bells are ringing; he loses count. It must be quite late in the day. Obizzo, he thinks. There isn’t much time left.
On his way out, he ducks into the parlor—unusually crowded—and finds Anzolo by the door to the kitchen. Good day, messer, he says. Did the item—
Ah! Good day, dottore!
Anzolo sweeps forward with a theatrical solicitousness that’s entirely unlike him, and claps Crivano on the shoulders. I am greatly pleased to see you, dottore, he says. But I confess I’d hoped you’d arise a bit later. Knowing of your fondness for lamprey, I had intended to send my girl to the fishmarket this morning, but in my carelessness I forgot until only now.
Crivano is nonplussed: he detests lamprey. I beg your pardon, he says. I don’t believe I requested—
Dottore, a valued guest like yourself should not have to make such requests. You have my apologies. We shall have lamprey for you tomorrow, I hope. Today a very fine turbot will emerge soon from our oven, and I hope you will flatter me by eating some of it before you depart.
Anzolo has a tight grip on his upper arms, restraining him from turning toward the exit. Crivano feels his skin flush, his lip curl with displeasure. A moment ago he’d simply sought to inquire after the parcel he sent to Tristão; now reflex moves his fingers along his walkingstick’s shaft, preparing to thump this fool in the sternum. He opens his mouth again to protest.
Please, dottore, Anzolo says. I insist.
The innkeeper’s face is garlanded with a beatific smile, but his eyes are fierce—and, C
rivano now sees, frightened. The color that rushed to Crivano’s cheek an instant ago now flees; hairs stiffen on his arms and his nape. Of course, he says. Thank you.
A new voice comes from behind him, not a voice he knows: Will you join me, dottore?
Anzolo’s fingers loosen and fall away. Crivano turns.
A compact and sinewy man has risen from his seat at the corner table; he salutes with a raised hand. His garments are simple, grays and blacks, but of good fabric. His several rings and silver pendant put him at the uneasy margin of the sumptuary laws—unless he’s a citizen, or a noble, which Crivano very much doubts. The cut of his hair and beard suggests Spain. His loose bearing recalls the battlefield.
I have just finished my own meal, the man says, and now find that I have nothing better to do on this fine summer day than to sit in this parlor and broaden my association. Shameful to be so idle, I suppose. But gregariousness can be its own species of industry, don’t you agree, dottore? Please. Sit.
His jeweled hand drops to indicate the chair before him. The lace curtains behind him move in a breeze—swaying in unison as if linked by a thread of spidersilk—then sag again, inert. Through the windows, under the awning of a joiner’s shop across the street, Crivano spots two loitering figures; both wear new cloaks of like provenance, though of differing hue. The man at the corner table also wears such a cloak, and has opted not to surrender it to the parlor closet, although the weather is quite warm. As Crivano watches, one of the men across the street shifts and turns, revealing a single rolling eye, a dark hole of a mouth, a confusion of scars from chin to forehead, ear to ear. It’s the bravo he saw yesterday morning on the Mercerie, by Ciotti’s shop. Crivano takes a long slow breath, tightens his sphincter so as not to shit himself.
I don’t believe I know you, sir, he says.
As yet, the man replies with a bow, you do not. I’m called Lunardo.
Vettor Crivano, Crivano says.
Yes, dottore. I know.
Lunardo points to the chair again, raising his eyebrows good-humoredly. Crivano smiles. He has his walkingstick, and the stiletto in his boot. There will be more of these men—outside, and also in here, at other tables. If the White Eagle has a rear entrance he doesn’t know where it is; he should have checked.
He steps forward and sits. Lunardo settles into his own chair. The three men at the next table aren’t wearing cloaks, but Crivano can feel their eyes follow him. Six bravi, then. More?
Who are you? Crivano says. What do you want?
I am only a proud resident of the Rialto, Lunardo says, concerned for the security of my neighborhood. I have a few questions for you, dottore. Very simple questions.
Sbirri, Crivano thinks. In the employ of the Council of Ten. That’s good. Were they assassins, they probably would have cut him down last night in the streets. How long have they been watching him? How much have they seen? The girl he brought here? Perina at the convent? Serena at his factory? When he first saw these men on the Mercerie, were they following him, or Narkis? What snares does he now step among?
Ask what you will, Crivano says.
I shall. Where is your home, dottore?
I have come only recently to the city from Bologna. Until I establish myself, this locanda is my home.
You were a student in Bologna?
That’s right.
And before Bologna, Lunardo says, where was your home?
Surely you know all of this. Come to your point, please.
Lunardo smiles. Where do you hear the Mass?
Crivano furrows his brow. San Cassian, most recently, he says. Also San Aponal. Why?
Do you know Lord Andrea Morosini? Or his brother, Lord Nicolò? They keep a house on the right bank of the Grand Canal.
Crivano scans Lunardo’s face before he answers. The man’s eyes are bright and quick, his mien that of a cunning animal, inventive at feeding itself.
The Morosini house, Crivano says, is on the left bank. I was there two nights ago. I met both brothers at that time.
Anzolo is moving across the room, a full plate in one hand, a goblet in the other. His Friulian serving-girls stand awkwardly aside. Are you good sirs quite content? he asks two men seated at the parlor’s opposite end. And you, sirs? Is everything to your liking? This latter query is directed to the three men at the next table: he’s showing Crivano where the sbirri are. Eight, then. The plate appears before him. Enjoy, dottore, Anzolo says. Be cautious of the little bones.
Lunardo waits for Crivano to begin eating. Crivano has no appetite, but lifts his spoon anyway, feigning as much hunger as he can manage. Baked turbot, with a crust of crumbs and cheese. Rice porridge dotted with small grapes.
If you did not know the brothers Morosini prior to two nights ago, Lunardo asks, what brought you to their home?
Crivano chews very slowly before answering. I believe the Morosini often host scholars, he says. I am a scholar.
They invited you?
I was invited, yes.
Lunardo seems amused by this—by everything under the sun. The ill-matched rings on his fingers, Crivano now understands, once belonged to other men: men who now rot in prisons, or fill ossuaries, or pollute the lagoon with their corpses. The heavy silver pendant around his neck is in the shape of a key. Not functional, probably. No way to know what it means, if anything. Crivano recalls the key inked on his own chest, the emblem of his orta. The girl saw it last night. Has she told anyone?
What went on at the Morosini house two nights ago, dottore?
You know this already, I’m sure.
I do, Lunardo says. But I would like you to tell me.
A lecture. By a friar from Campania.
What was the friar’s name?
I don’t remember his name. He is called—and calls himself—the Nolan.
What did he speak of in this lecture?
A bone pricks Crivano’s gums. He scrapes it along his teeth with his tongue to strip the sweet white flesh, then pushes it between his pursed lips, plucks it away with his fingers. Mirrors, he says. He spoke of mirrors.
And what did this Nolan have to say about mirrors, dottore?
Crivano lifts his goblet and sips. What little I do recall, he says, you could not possibly comprehend.
Lunardo laughs, shaking his head ruefully. Then he leans forward. Last night, he says, Brother Giordano Bruno, known to you as the Nolan, was taken into custody by the local tribunal of the Inquisition, and detained in order to answer very serious charges of heresy. If you are unable to explain to me what the Nolan said, dottore, then you had best prepare yourself to relate it to the tribunal, because you are all but certain to be called before them. Until then, you are not to leave the city under any circumstances. Do you understand?
For a moment Crivano is bewildered. Then he struggles mightily to keep the relief from his face. The Inquisition? he says. They arrested the Nolan?
That is what I said, dottore.
Crivano’s eyes water; his diaphragm quakes. Subtly he pricks the heel of his right hand with his knife to distract himself, to stave off the gathering hilarity. Heresy! he thinks. The overbearing little fool must be ecstatic!
But surely this is a trap. It must be, even if what this man says is true. Eight sbirri to question a solitary witness in such a trifling matter? Some other unspoken concern is afoot. Good fellow, Crivano says, I assure you I can report no heresy committed by the Nolan. Obscurity? Yes. Fallacy? Again, guilty. But not heresy.
Lunardo nods. I see, he says. Tell me about his lecture, dottore.
It was, as I said, obscure. And, at times, false.
You have a particular interest in mirrors, don’t you?
Crivano forces anger into his eyes to blot out the fear, willing his gall-bladder to spill forth its contents. I would not say so, he says. I don’t believe I have a great number of particular interests. My interests, like those of any true scholar, are universal.
You were in Murano yesterday, Lunardo says. In the Serena family gla
ssworks.
Crivano takes a bite of fish, an impatient sip of wine.
What were you doing there?
What does one do in a glassworks, sirrah? I was buying glass.
Glass, dottore? Or a mirror?
Mirrors, as you may have noted, are often made of glass.
The Serena family made a mirror for you?
Crivano’s pulse flutters in his neck, like a small bird trapped in a flue; he hopes his ruff is high enough to hide it. He shifts in his chair and opens his legs, intending to avoid hitting his knee on the underside of the table when he lifts his ankle to draw the stiletto. No, he says. The Serena family made the frame. A craftsman at the Motta shop made the mirror. Alegreto Verzelin, he’s called.
Describe this man to me, dottore. This Verzelin.
Tall, Crivano says. Slight. Unkempt. Quite mad, I should judge. A sickness is upon him which causes him to produce a great deal of phlegm, much as a rabid animal does. In my time as a physician I have never before seen its likeness. Why do you ask?
When did you last see Maestro Verzelin?
Crivano looks at the tabletop, tapping the wood with his fingertips, counting backward. Four nights ago, it was, he says. I approved the work he’d done, and I gave it to the Serena craftsmen to be completed.
You haven’t spoken with Maestro Verzelin since then?
I didn’t speak with him then. I only saw him. He seemed badly troubled by the symptoms of his sickness. When I tried to engage him he hastened away. When I sought him in the streets I did not find him.
I should very much like to see the mirror these craftsmen made for you, dottore.
I suppose you would, Crivano says. But you will not do so. It is halfway to Padua by now, I imagine. On its way to Bologna.
