In the Company of the Courtesan: A Novel

by Sarah Dunant

  As she speaks, she rises silently to her feet and is already handing me the instrument. I squirm my way gently onto the stool, hoisting my leg to take the lute, which, I must tell you, is a test for a man of my stature, and settle myself so that as soon as her words end I am ready to play the closing phrases. Of course they are familiar to me, and I also have the kind of temperament that likes to rise to a challenge. My rendering may not set the world alight, but there is delicacy and feeling to it, and enough of an ending flourish to keep their attention acute.

  In the silence that follows the last notes, we risk a smile between us.

  Her voice, when it comes, is like a caress. “Gentlemen, open your eyes and behold the beauty that produces great music.”

  And five sets of eyes duly pop open to see an incubus with a mad grin and a lute clutched to his breast. The exoticism of ugliness and the beauty. Our specialty.

  Whatever they have been expecting, it is not this, and I think they may actually be shocked, because for a long moment the room remains frozen. I stumble off the stool and take a clumsy bow as she moves toward me, raising her hands to greet me and them.

  “Gentlemen. I give you the power of sound and the talent of my faithful and ‘truly’ ugly dwarf, Bucino Teodoldi.”

  And now, suddenly, everybody laughs, and claps and claps again—for what else can they do?—and Aretino whoops and slaps me on the back and calls for more wine, and my lady sits and fans herself and sips at her glass and receives the stream of compliments for which she has worked so effortlessly hard.

  The drink and the wit flow awhile longer, until a few candles start to splutter out. My lady lavishes her praise upon our host, who uses the moment to pluck the poxy Frenchman to his desk to show him a new letter he is writing for his great king, while our painter drowns the sorrows of fidelity in another bottle. At this point our Turk, Abdullah Pashna—for it is indeed the same man who aided us in the campo a few weeks before—gathers his cloak and starts to say his good-byes; there is an unspoken protocol to such introductory events, and it is clear to everyone by now that the flow of the night has gone the way of the soap fortune.

  I must say, it does not seem to worry the Turk much. In fact, ever since my appearance, he has expressed as much interest in me as in my lady, and now, as he leaves, he comes to where I am sitting again and lays a purse of ducats in my lap.

  “For the silence of your feet and the skill of your fingers. It was a fine show, my friend.”

  I glance at my lady, for I do not take tips without her permission, and as I haven’t witnessed the evening, I have no way of knowing what might already have passed between them. Her look lets me know it is fine, and I accept happily, for I, too, still have the excitement of the performance running through my veins.

  “I am a better juggler than I am a musician.”

  “Then you must come and juggle for me sometime. I have a keen appetite for such talents.”

  “Did you go to the bridge fight that day?” I ask, because he may be a heathen, but I have liked him from the moment I met him on the street. Though that, perhaps, is because I know he likes me too.

  “The fight? Most certainly. The ship workers won a great victory, took the bridge from the fishermen within an hour. I have never seen so many people, either in combat or watching. When I go home, I shall petition my sultan to build bridges all over our magnificent city so we may train our own fighters. And you? Do you follow this sport?”

  “I would love to, but I have never seen it. I hear the crush would be deadly for someone of my size.”

  “Then we will find you a boat of your own to watch it from.”

  And I must say, I think that he will keep his word.

  He leaves as the dawn starts to break. Now my lady becomes more focused. She and Treviso sit close to each other on a settle, and she is quiet, almost demure, so that when he puts his hand on the skin of her shoulder, she shivers a little, and the look she gives him is as much one of wonder as one of encouragement.

  “Signor Aretino tells me that you are planning to live in Venice now and that you are in need of a house of your own.”

  “Oh, yes indeed. My home in Rome, which was a place of such merriment and grace, is only a sad memory now.”

  “I would be honored to help find you another.”

  “Oh, sir…”

  She takes his hand and turns it over in her own, as if to study his goodness through his palm lines. Then she bends her lips to it and, I daresay, gives him a promise of things to come with her tongue. And after that they sit a little longer, and then she yawns, putting her hand so sweetly up to her mouth, and says: “I do so love the dawn, though I have never seen it from the water before. Do you think it will be too cold to watch it this morning?”

  And before you can say “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” they are up and wrapped in cloaks, our boatman is roused, and they are heading for a mutual sunrise.

  The Frenchman is dispatched, somewhat miffed but placated by the promise of another evening, and I find myself alone with Aretino and his blessed painter: a situation that feels familiar enough to them if not to me. I help myself to the remains of the food—cold fish pie and sweet berry sauces—while they sit and drink and gossip for a while together, dilatory stuff about people I don’t know, business that isn’t mine. Then they drink some more and move on to the pleasure of the evening and the talents of my lady.

  “So? How do we settle our bet then, eh, Tiziano? I have bought a red velvet jacket with brocade so complex it’ll have your brush shaking with excitement to capture its texture. Though I wouldn’t want it to detract from my face. What do you think my expression should be? One of sober triumph, yes?”

  The painter shakes his head. “I’m drowning in convent commissions. It’ll have to wait.”

  “Ah! You’re too scared of the mother superiors, that’s your trouble. They exploit your Christian charity to pay you less. Forget altarpieces for a while. You’d get a damned sight more for copying the sultan’s face off a medal and sending it home to him via the infidel. You heard him yourself—he was very set on the idea tonight. But as to our wager—you have to admit—I won fair and square. She has the rhetoric of the Greek courtesan Aspasia and the beauty of Phrynê. My God, those Greeks understood the powers of women. A veritable Venus, wouldn’t you say? The perfect fusion of modesty and lust.”

  “Hmm. I got more of her modesty than her lust.”

  “That is because you weren’t bidding.”

  “Where is she anyway?” And he makes an effort to raise himself. They have become maudlin now, in the way men do when the women have left and they are thinking of bed but cannot be bothered to get up to go there. “Where did she go?”

  “To put her mark on the contract.”

  “With whom? Treviso? Venus and a soap merchant! God’s teeth, she is wasted on him.”

  “Oh, don’t mope. Only hungry men need to eat away from home. You know Cecilia would scourge you, and you would regret it soon enough. Fiammetta will probably take off her clothes for you in the name of art if you ask nicely enough. Anything else would be too expensive anyway. I’m right, aren’t I, Bucino? How much does she charge these days?”

  I shrug, for now that the deal is done, the wine and the thought of a future are warming my stomach too. “We have a lot of expenses to make up these last months. What can I say? She isn’t cheap.”

  “Though between us men—and I include you in this, Bucino—she is worth it. Believe me, you don’t know the half of it. There are some high-class whores out there who spend their lives milking their lovers as if they were cows’ teats. First one, then another, then back again, until your purse is as sore as your prick from all the pulling. But not Fiammetta Bianchini. No fits of jealousy, no false tears or wheedling from her. She takes what she needs, gives what they want, and makes it her business to keep them happy. I tell you, not every woman who keeps her clothes on is such a lady. She carries her lust with a perfect mask of decency. An
honest courtesan, that is what she is. And you are lucky to have her, Bucino. As she is to have you.”

  He falls back in his chair, exhausted by his own hyperbole.

  I am an expert with men in their cups, for I have spent many evenings placating the also-rans while my lady retires to the bedroom and the dawn comes in. It always amazes me how men’s characters change when they are in vino: how the most timid become like bulls, spitting and raging, or how a scourge of princes ends up licking your hand like a half-blind kitten. But it is only the wine talking, and most of them forget it all the day after.

  “Those are fine thoughts, Aretino,” I say, refilling his glass.

  “If you wrote them down, she could use them for her tombstone.”

  He snorts. “I have already written them, God damn it. Your precious Fiammetta has her entry in the Courtesans’ Register, just as I promised. A poet of the flesh, that am I. See—Aretino is a man of his word; my God, he is. As are you—a good man, I’ve always said it. As is Tiziano. No, not good. Great! Tiziano is a great man! Look at him. That hand can bring alive anything, anything you ask it to. Damn the lute or the pen. Give me his paintbrush any day. You are a great man, Tiziano! Why don’t you paint the dwarf? Look at him. There’s a face you don’t see every day.”

  But however great he may or may not be, our faithful painter is now happily unconscious.

  Outside, the light is growing, and I can hear the sounds of the first boats arriving for the market. I make my way out through the front loggia to the balcony so I can watch the city yawning and scratching its way into life. But while the sky is streaked like raw silk, the top of the stone balcony is the same height as my head, so that to see anything properly I have to clamber halfway up it and hold myself in place with my hands clutched around the edge. Even for a rich dwarf, the world is the wrong size. I flop down again and peer out between the balustrades, and as I do so I spot our gondola drawing up to the dock below. The Saracen throws the rope and secures the boat and stands for a while, waiting. Eventually Treviso clambers out, arranging himself as best he can after his exertions, and moves across the dock to shake his own boatman into life.

  Once they are afloat and in the stream, the Saracen helps my lady out of the cabin, and she steps onto the landing bay to watch his boat move away and under the bridge. As it disappears, she turns to look out over the canal and lifts her arms to the sky in a gesture of triumph to greet the day.

  “My lady!”

  She whirls around and looks for me, catching sight of my hand and half my face through the balustrades. She is somewhat the worse for wear now; her braided headband is a little crooked, her hair is matted in places, and there is a tear in her dress at the shoulder where the gold hems the neckline. But her laugh is like crystal, and in her flushed face I see a house with polished terrazzo floors, light flooding from one end to the other and the sweet smoke of roasting meats curling up around the stairs from the kitchen below. My God, it has been a long time.

  “Bucino!”

  She waves and beckons to me to join her, and I am just about to turn when I feel Aretino lumbering onto the balcony, leaning over the stone and yelling into the breaking day.

  “Aha! Is that Fiammetta Bianchini, Venice’s newest great courtesan?”

  “Yes, my lord,” she says gaily, and sinks into an exaggerated curtsy so her scarlet skirts flood around her like a bloody lake.

  “Then come up here and get into bed with me, you whore. It’s been a long night, I’m horny as hell, and you owe me that much.”

  “You are too late, sir,” she calls out. “I have a patron now. And he is eager to have me all to himself. For a while at least.”

  “What? A faithful courtesan? What heresy you babble, woman. Go home and wash your mouth out with the best Venetian soap. What about the demands of France?”

  “France is rancid. I leave him for you to handle. Bucino, get yourself down here. I will drop if I don’t sleep soon.”

  I squirm my way out from beside Aretino’s bulk and head for the door.

  “And the infidel? Aha! Now I have you. You liked him, didn’t you?”

  If she answers him, I do not hear it as I go down the stairs and out through the water doors onto the dock to join her.

  “Traitors!” Aretino’s voice whistles above my head. “Come back here, both of you. You are peasants without souls. Look around you. The greatest city in Paradise is waking up and bringing the world to your doorstep. We’ll buy bread from the market, fish from the boats, and drink ourselves stupid into the morning.”

  “Not tonight, Pietro.” She waves her hand up to him as we make our way onto the boat. “Go to bed. We will come and visit when we have our house.”

  “You’d better! And bring me those engravings to look at, you poxy dwarf.”

  The traders on the water are watching the performance now, and they whoop and gesture as my lady climbs back into the cabin. The Saracen, who no doubt has seen it all before, offers me his hand as I stumble my way onto the bench close by. I thank him and let the Turk’s purse rattle a little on my belt so that he knows his night will be worthwhile too. Inside the cabin, my lady leans her head back against the rumpled cushions and closes her eyes as he steers the gondola smoothly out into the current, weaving us through the rising noise and hustle of a Venetian morning, heading for home.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Venice, mid-1530s

  On Thursday, my lady takes no visitors, for she is busy about her beauty. She rises at first light, and with the help of her maid, Gabriella, sets about washing her hair. After the first soaping, Gabriella massages her scalp for half an hour with a cedar paste to encourage new growth and then rinses it twice in waters made from boiled vine stock with barley straw and crushed licorice root to bring out the highlights and make it shine. It is grown to her waist again now, and while it has never quite regained its first glorious weight, it is fine enough for those who did not know her then, and the color still runs rich with seams of honey and gold, which light up as it dries, resting like a cloak over the edge of a high chair where she sits with her back to the morning sun. She uses the hours it takes to dry to have Gabriella pluck her hairline so that her forehead is high and clear. Around midmorning La Draga arrives with a series of freshly made ointments, including a special bleaching paste that she herself applies to my lady’s face and neck and shoulders. I asked her once about its ingredients, and she told me it includes bean flour, mercury, dove entrails, camphor, and egg white, but in what proportions and with what other refinements I have no idea, since she keeps such information as guarded as any state secret. Whatever is left over from the paste, I keep the pot in my room in case of substitution or theft, for you would be amazed by the espionage of beauty among the courtesan community. (For a woman with no eyes, La Draga has proved herself a veritable miracle worker in the business of beauty, so that no one—least of all myself—can begrudge her a regular place in our household now.)

  When the mask is removed—an hour and half is too short, and two hours too long—my lady’s skin is red and sometimes even blotchy, and Gabriella soothes it with cucumber water and warm towels. She spends the early afternoon seeing her dressmaker, practicing the lute, and memorizing some verses. To cleanse her stomach, she drinks only vinegared water prepared by the cook, and before her afternoon sleep she brushes a thicker bleaching paste with rosemary onto her teeth, rubs her gums with mint, and treats her eyes with drops of witch hazel water to moisten and highlight the whites. She is woken at eight, has Gabriella dress and set her hair, and lightly powders her skin, which is now white and smooth as unveined marble, and thus she steps out into the world ready for the night.

  In the Arsenale, where no visiting is allowed but about which there are countless stories, there is apparently a great canal bounded by storehouses on either side and manned by hundreds of workers. When a ship is to be launched, it moves slowly along this wet dock, and at every stage through its windows and onto its decks it is fitted out: cord
age, mortars, gunpowder, arms, oars, hourglasses, compasses, maps, and provisions, down to its barrels of wine and fresh bread. In this way, within a single working day, from the first Marangona bell to the last, a great Venetian vessel is made ready for the sea. I think of this sometimes while I watch my lady attending to the construction of herself, for while ours is a smaller business, in our way we too fit out a vessel, all of us equally committed and focused on its demands.

  As to our house…well, it is fine enough. Not on the Grand Canal itself but nearby, in San Polo, to one end of a wide stretch of waterway between Campo San Toma and San Pantalon. Our piano nobile is washed by the morning sun, which makes it cooler during summer evenings, when we do a great deal of entertaining, and we have a view over sparkling water with no close neighbors to hook their noses into our business.

  Inside, our portego is spacious and elegant, its walls covered with the best secondhand tapestries and silk and leather hangings; while in my lady’s room, her built-in walnut bed is encased in gold-veined curtains, with linen as white and crisp as a fresh snowdrift. For the first few months, this piece of furniture was the exclusive domain of our soap merchant, in whose company she would also read poetry (unfortunately, most often his own) and run occasional soirees for men of letters and trade where everyone talked literature, art, and money. It was only common sense that, as her reputation grew, she should take on extra customers, for exclusivity always breeds competition, and the business of desire is so fickle that even the best purses go home after a while. When faced with other suitors, Treviso’s ardor first grew sharper with jealousy and then became as insecure as his rhyming schemes, so that by the time they parted company, we were already firmly established with other patrons.

  As well as Gabriella (a sweet-faced young girl from Torcello, with few airs to match her graces), our household now includes Marcello, our own Saracen boatman, and Mauro, the cook, who reminds me of Baldesar only in the fact that the more he moans the better his food tastes. He and I go daily to the Rialto, which I rank as one of my great pleasures, for in Venice, with respectable women kept indoors, shopping is a trade for men, and these days I am someone in the markets. The early crowds can be fierce, but Mauro’s bulk and my purse elevate me above the worst of the crush. The stall owners know us and save us the best cuts or the finest fish, for our kitchen has a reputation that almost rivals my lady’s. “Signor Bucino!” I hear their voices calling me. They treat me politely, with an almost exaggerated deference, squatting down in front of me sometimes to point out the shining freshness of a particular fish they have put aside for me. I do not mind their mockery. It is gentle enough, and more palatable than being insulted or ignored.