by Sarah Dunant
“Then I will let you go alone.” He drops his hand. “Though for a man as homesick as I am, a woman of such beauty and a dwarf of such…perfect proportion and passion bring rare warmth to my heart. I have a house off the Grand Canal, near Campo San Polo. Perhaps on another occasion, when you do not have your ‘sisters’ to visit, you might—”
“Thank you, but—” I break in.
“We might indeed,” she adds sweetly.
I pull her away, and we walk carefully across the square, his eyes on our backs until we move around the corner into another alley. Once we are far enough away, I turn on her.
“How could—”
“Ah, Bucino, don’t lecture me. You smelled those gloves. That was no ordinary Turkish merchant.”
“And you are no ordinary whore, to pick up men on the streets. What would you have done? Taken him back to your bedroom and had me creep in and steal his jewelry?…That would have been the end of it then and there.”
“Oh, it was safe enough sport. He was as eager to get to the fight as the rest of them. I wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been. But you have to admit, we had him, Bucino. With no hair and someone else’s dress on, we still had him.”
“Yes,” I say. “We had him.”
The house sleeps early tonight. In the kitchen, Meragosa is wedged into the broken chair by the stove, a grumbling snore coming from her open mouth—a pose to which she is becoming accustomed as her stomach grows rounder on our savings. While I cannot swear to it, I suspect that these last few weeks she has been creaming off a few scudi from each shopping purse, but I have had better things to do than watch her every move, and until we are ready to fend for ourselves, the devil we know is the one we have to live with.
Upstairs, my lady lies buried beneath the coverlet. She often sleeps this way now, her head and face covered as if, even in sleep, she is protecting herself against attack. But while I am tired enough, my spirit is jumpy with the excitement of the day, and from the window there is a glow to the south, where the city is celebrating. I slip a few coins from the purse between the slats of the bed and head to the streets toward San Marco.
Though I would not admit it freely, the city still sends shivers into my soul at night. By daylight I have trained myself to walk the narrowest of the canal fondamenta without fear of falling in. But after sunset, the city shifts closer to nightmare. In Hell the boiling oil at least has smoke rising off it, but on nights with no moon and few lamps, there is little here to tell black water from black stone, and in the darkness sound moves differently, so that voices which start by moving toward you end up surprising you at your back. Since many of the bridge parapets are higher than my nose and most windows start above my head, any journey after dark is like running through swerving tunnels, and there are moments when the water comes loud on all sides and my heartbeat interferes with my sense of direction. I move fast, keeping tight to the walls, where my companions are rats, who scurry head to tail like links in a chain. The only consolation is that, while they look fierce enough, I know them to be as scared of me as I am of them.
Tonight, at least, I am not alone on the streets, and by the time I reach the Merceria, I am merged into a stream of figures pulled like moths toward the lights of the great piazza.
In general I am not much prone to wonder. I leave that to those who have the time and the stature. Heaven is too far above my head for me to be able to detect even a shadow of it, and what others see as great architecture usually gives me a crick in my neck. In fact, there were times before I realized how easy it was to die when the great Basilica of San Marco would have been an opportunity more for crime than for wonder, since any crowd of pilgrims busy gaping upward would have offered instant pickings for a dwarf with fast hands. But I am a respectable citizen now, and I value my lumpy flesh too much to risk having bits of it strung up between the Pillars of Justice, and while the Roman in me still finds the basilica’s fat domes and Byzantine gaudiness too rich for my classical stomach, I have seen how its splendor puts the fear of God—and of the power of the Venetian empire—into all those who come to wonder at it.
As for me? Well, I am fonder of the more humble stone carvings around the columns of the Doge’s Palace in the piazzetta nearby. Not only are they low enough for me to see but the stories they tell are more about real life: bowls of fruit so lifelike that the fig skins look about to burst open; a dog with startled eyes crunching on a mouthful of honeycomb with the bees still buzzing in it; and my favorite, the story of a man courting a woman, goes all the way around the column, even—after marriage—into bed, where they lie wrapped together under a stone sheet, her hair cascading in hard, frizzy waves across the pillow. When I was young, my father, who was so shocked by my shape that for some years he assumed I was an imbecile, once gave me a piece of wood and a small whittling knife in the hope that God might have put talent in my thumb. I daresay he was thinking of the stories of the great Florentine artists who were discovered in the countryside chipping Madonnas out of road stones. All I did was gouge a piece out of my finger. But I could remember the Latin name of the salve the doctor gave us to stanch the wound, and by the end of the day I ended up in my father’s study with a pile of books in front of me. I would probably be there still if he hadn’t died six years later.
But there is no room for maudlin thoughts, not tonight; the place I walk toward now is filled with pleasure, bursting with people and noise, and lit by so many firebrands and candle lamps that the basilica’s high old mosaics glow fiercely in the firelight.
I cut in from the northeast. I have a healthy fear of crowds (we dwarves are as vulnerable as children in mobs and are more likely to die underfoot than in our own beds), but I know this one will be worth it, and I thrust my way quickly through until I am near a stage built in front of the basilica. A group of half-naked, blackened devils are prancing around, yelling obscenities and poking pitchforks at one another and into the crowd, until every now and then a spout of flame leaps up from a hole in the floor and one of them is pulled screaming and shouting down through a trapdoor nearby, only to clamber back onto the stage a few minutes later to boost the throng. Behind them under the north loggia, a choir of smooth-faced castrati is singing like a host of angels, only someone has built their platform too close to the dogfighting pen, and their voices are half drowned by the frenzied howling of the animals waiting for their turn to die. Meanwhile, on the other side, in a built-up pit of sand, a man and two large women are wrestling as a crowd cheers them on and occasionally joins in.
From every window around the piazza, there are tapestries and banners of arms unfurled and hanging, and the open spaces are crammed with young noblewomen, dressed as if they were going to their own weddings, so that when you look up it feels as if the whole city has let down its hair and is showing off to the crowd. Gangs of bright-stockinged young men are gathered underneath, yelling up to them, while an old man parades back and forth through the crowd, a wooden prick the size of a club poking out from his velvet cloak, gleefully showing off his wares to anyone who cares to look.
I skirt around the edge of the crowd and buy some sugared fruits from a stall in the piazzetta near my beloved columns, where the butchers and salami makers have their stalls during the day. The great wharf at the end is filled with long ships, their masts all dotted with hanging lamps so that it looks as if the very sea is lit up. Everywhere you look there are flags of the great lion of Saint Mark, and in front of the two Pillars of Justice, a troupe of acrobats is forming a human pyramid four stories high to be finished off with a dwarf on its top. They have set poles with firebrands all around so the spectacle is well lit, and the first three tiers are already complete. I worm my way forward, and the spectators, taking me to be one of the performers, push and manhandle me gleefully to the front. The final two men are scaling their way up now, cautious, like young cats, while at the side the dwarf is perched on the shoulders of another single acrobat, waiting for his turn.
When the top
tier is secure, the two of them move over to the pyramid, the dwarf waving to the crowd and swaying dramatically as if he is already about to fall. He is dressed in silver and red, and if anything he is even smaller than I, though his head is better proportioned, which makes him less ugly, and he has a wicked grin. He hooks himself onto the back of the existing second story. In the torchlight, you can see the sweat on their bodies and the twitching of the muscles as they strain to hold the geometry in shape against his extra weight. He stills himself for a moment before starting to clamber higher. While the street is full of performances that are made to look harder than they are, this is not one of them. A fit dwarf may be able to do all kinds of things that another man cannot, like squatting on his heels for hours or getting up from sitting on the ground without using his hands (you would be surprised how people delight in watching me repeat this simplest of movements), but once we are standing, our leg bones are too short to allow much flexibility. Because of this, we make bad acrobats but excellent clowns, and for that reason we are more fun to watch.
He is up as far as the third story now, and the pyramid is shaking a little with his clumsiness. One of the men at the bottom lets out a savage yell, and the dwarf grimaces and flaps, so the crowd thinks he is really in trouble, which allows them to laugh at him even more. But he knows what he’s doing, and when he finally gets to the top and secures himself, out of his doublet he pulls a piece of colored silk on a small stick like a flag and gives a triumphant wave. Then he sticks it on his back and bends himself over until he is crouched like a dog, his hands and feet balanced on each of their shoulders, so the flag now flies like a standard above him.
It takes the crowd a moment to grasp the impact: to see how, in the light of the firebrands, his pose is a mirror image of the great stone winged lion at the top of the Pillar of Justice above him, its wing standing up like its own flag from the ridge of its back.
Despite myself, I, like everyone else, am applauding madly, because it is magnificent and because, of course, I wish that I could have done it myself.
“I would not even consider it, Bucino. There are a dozen better uses for your talents.”
The voice is strong and low, like that of a singer who has been taught to hold the note longer than the chorus, and I would have known it anywhere. I turn, and even though all I can think of is the trouble he will cause, I am pleased to see him.
“Look at this, my friends! The ugliest man in Rome has come to Venice to show up its beauty. Bucino!” he yells, and grabs me around the middle, raising me till my eyes are level with his. “God’s wounds, man, you are a sight to behold. A dozen chin hairs don’t make a beard. And what’s this pauper’s shit you are wearing? How are you, my little hero?” And he shakes me a little to emphasize his point.
Around him, a group of youngbloods and noblemen, encouraged by his insults, laugh louder at the sight of me. “Don’t laugh,” he booms. “This man may look like a jester, but he suffers from the cruelest joke God can play. He was born with the body of a dwarf and the mind of a philosopher. Isn’t that right, my squat friend?” He is grinning as he sets me down, though his face is a little flushed from the weight of me.
The truth is he is no painting himself, but then he was growing plump on patronage even before the attack maimed his hand and sliced a zigzag into his neck.
“Whereas you, Aretino, have the body of a king and the mind of a sewer.”
“A sewer? And why not? Man spends as much time excreting as eating, even if the poets would have us believe otherwise.”
And the young men behind him whoop their delight.
“I see you’ve found like-minded souls to befriend you in this strange city.”
“Oh, indeed. Look at them. The cream of the Venetian crop. All dedicated to my advancement. Aren’t you, boys?”
They laugh again. But for the last interchange we have slipped into Roman dialect, and they have probably caught only half of what we were saying. He takes me by the shoulder and pulls me off to the side, leaving them a little way behind.
“So.” And he is still beaming. “You are safe.”
I bow my head. “As you see.”
“Which means she is too.”
“Who?”
“Ah, the woman you would never have left Rome without, that’s who. God, I have been frantic these last months for news of you both, but I could find no one who knew anything. How did you get out?”
“I ran between their legs.”
“I would expect no less! You know the bastards broke into Marcantonio’s workshop. Destroyed all his plates and machines, beat him to within an inch of his life, and then ransomed him. Twice. Ascanio abandoned him, did you know that? At the first gunshot. Stole the best books from his library and ran, the scum.”
“And what of Marcantonio now?”
“Friends raised the ransom and got him as far as Bologna. But he’ll never engrave again. His spirit was broken along with his body. My God, what a circus of infamy. You didn’t read what I wrote about it? My letter to the pope? It had even the sharpest of Roman critics crying in shame and horror.”
“In which case, I’m sure your words were more real than my experience,” I say evenly, and brace myself for his guffaw and the hearty slap on the back. Like my lady, he was never one to hide his talents from the world.
“Oh, thank God for the fact of your deformity, Bucino. Or I would have to count you as my rival. So—tell me. Seriously. She is safe, yes? Thank God. How was it?”
How was it? “It was a huge party of death,” I say. “Though you would have approved of parts of it. Along with ordinary Romans, the Curia and the nuns took much of the worst.”
“Ah, no. There you do me an injustice. I flayed them with words, but even I wouldn’t wish the stories I have heard upon them.”
“What are you doing here, Pietro?”
“Me? Where else would I be?” He raises his voice now with a gesture to the men behind him. “Venice. The greatest city on earth.”
“I thought you said that about Rome.”
“I did. And so it was. Once.”
“And Mantua?”
“Ah, no. Mantua’s full of numbskulls.”
“Does that mean the duke no longer finds your poems flattering?”
“The duke! He is the greatest numbskull of them all. He has no sense of humor.”
“And Venice does?”
“Ah—Venice has everything. The jewel of the Orient, the proud republic, mistress of the eastern seas. Her ships are the womb of the world’s treasures, her palaces are stone and sugar icing, her women are pearl drops on a necklace of beauty, and—”
“—and her patrons don’t know how to close their purses.”
“Not quite yet, my little gargoyle. Though they are all noble merchants in this city, with taste and appetite. And money. And they are eager to turn Venice into the new Rome. They never liked the pope, and now that he’s melting down his medals for his own ransom, they can get their hands on all of his favorite artists. Jacopo is here. You know? Jacopo Sansovino. The architect.”
“Fancy that,” I say. “Maybe he’ll get a few decent commissions at last.”
“Now, now. There is already work for him. Those lead camel humps on their gold monstrosity—sorry, the great basilica—are falling down, and there is no one here who has a clue how to hold them up. You don’t understand, my little friend. We are great men here. And we will soon be wielding even greater influence. So—where do you say she is?”
I shake my head.
“Oh, come. She’s not still angry with me? When one has looked death in the face, what is a little slander? It made her famous anyway.”
“She was famous enough without it,” I said. And the memory of his betrayal hardens me against his charm. I move away from him. “I have to go.”
He puts his hand on my arm to hold me back. “There is no quarrel between you and me. And never has been. Come. Why don’t you take me to her? This city has wealth enough for all o
f us.”
I stand still and say nothing. He drops his hand. “You know I could have you followed. God’s teeth, I could have you murdered in the street. Assassins here have a higher success rate than in Rome. No doubt something to do with all that dark water. Which I seem to remember is not to your taste at all. God, Bucino, you must truly worship her to have followed her to this dank world.”
“I thought you said it was the greatest city on earth.”
“And so it is.” He gestures back to the boys, raising his voice.
“The greatest city on earth.” Then, dropping it again, “I could help her, you know.”
“She doesn’t need your help.”
“Oh, I think she does. If she didn’t, I would know of her already. Why don’t you ask her anyway?”
The group comes up and surrounds him again. He wraps his good hand around one of their shoulders, and they move off together into the crowd, though not before he has thrown a final look at me. Seeing them closer now, I realize they are not quite so well dressed that they own the streets. Though you would not tell that from the way they walk them.
One thing is for sure. Even with La Draga’s gum alum and pigs’blood, we will not be pretending virginity now. Damn him.
The house is dark when I let myself in, but as I climb the stairs I hear music coming from the upstairs room.
I open the door quietly. She is too intent on her playing to notice me. She is sitting on the edge of the bed facing the window, one leg crossed high over the other under her skirts, the better to support the body of the lute, and the light from a cheap candle at her feet is throwing flickering shadows around her face. Her left hand is on the fret board while the fingers of her right are cupped and moving high like spiders’ legs over the strings. The sound makes me shiver, not just for the beauty of it—her mother, who was scrupulous about developing her talents, would have had her learning when she was barely able to walk—but because it speaks of the possibilities of our life to come. I have not heard her perform since we were thrown out of Eden almost a year ago, and when her voice comes, while it is not quite the siren song that pulled Odysseus toward the rocks, it is still sweet enough that were there babies awake in their cradles nearby, it would soothe them into sleep. The notes rise and fall as the song weaves a story of fresh beauty and lost love. It never fails to amaze me how a woman whose job it is to suck the seed from a dozen wrinkled pricks has a voice pure enough to rival that of a virgin nun. Which only goes to prove that while God may hate sinners, he sometimes saves his greatest gifts for them. We will need all of them now. Her fingers stay high over the strings as the sound dies away.
