by Karen Brooks
Dinner in my room became a more frequent occurrence, and I would both hear and sense laughter and movement in other parts of the casa long into the night. I stifled my natural curiousity. Ever since I was caught eavesdropping, I’d done nothing to make the Maleovellis doubt me again. I felt confident that my good behaviour would soon be rewarded in other ways.
I was right. Only it wasn’t in the manner I anticipated.
Now that Jacopo had left, my lessons in reading and writing also ceased. Not that I needed them anymore. I was able to shape my letters well and reading was no longer difficult as I simply absorbed the author’s intentions as I touched the parchment. I would look at the words, and the ideas and purpose behind them would form a context in my mind. It was not reading in the true sense, I guess, but it more than sufficed. Not only that, but it opened a world to me that my confinement within the casa denied. I devoured the various pamphlets and books that Giaconda allowed. I quickly graduated from shopping lists and household invoices to religious texts, philosophical treatises, ancient history translated from Hellenic into Serenissian, and what I loved best: poetry. There was something about the arrangement of the words, the pictures that filled my head and darted in and out of my heart that set my imagination afire.
Giaconda would draw me into discussions about what I was learning. I was astonished at how much she knew and, I admit, impressed. Able to recite poetry, remember important dates and events, even in other countries, converse about the merits of a particular artist or singer or quote lines from a popular play, she would challenge me to do the same. She also told me about the triumphs and misdemeanours of other nobiles, of courtesans and traders. It may have been gossip, but it was different from that I used to hear poisoning Quinn and Francesca’s tongues or even the bits Baroque would periodically divulge. She would quiz me about everything afterwards – test my memory. It became a game between us and, as the days went by, I became a worthy contestant.
She did maintain my lessons in deportment, dancing and dress and continued to work on softening my accent and developing my singing voice which, it turned out, was reasonably melodic. As I had sworn to myself after Renzo’s death, I remained compliant, and with that my confidence grew. Any doubts I had, any misgivings or uncomfortable memories, I simply extracted and distilled into the harlequin. My past faded into a piece of glass as, day by day, I grew into someone else.
In order to become her completely, one last lesson remained.
THE DAY BEGAN IN SILENCE AS SNOW fell softly, secretly, blanketing the casa and cocooning us from the outside world. I attended to my ablutions, dressed and joined Giaconda in Jacopo’s study for cafe. We sat facing each other in the old armchairs, the candles flickering, the little window admitting only a dull light, the books and scrolls with which I was becoming so familiar neatly stacked on shelves. The fire blazed, but the room refused to warm. I sipped my cafe, concentrated on not shivering too much, and waited for Giaconda to begin.
Putting down her cup on the little side table, she regarded me for a moment.
‘You look well, Tarlo.’
‘Grazie. I feel well, Signorina.’ I nursed my cup in the palm of one hand as I had been taught.
‘Bene.’ Over the next five minutes, she questioned me about our conversation the day before – the descendants of the Doge. I answered her without making a mistake.
‘Ah.’ She smiled and picked up her cafe, taking a drink. ‘Your mind will gratify the most difficult and demanding of men, Tarlo. It is sharp and quick. Your memory is faultless. But the mind of a courtesan is only useful if she also knows how to use her body.’
My heart began to beat very quickly. Colour infused my cheeks.
‘Combined, the mind and body of a courtesan can afford a man untold pleasures. You are learning to master one; it’s now time to begin studying the other.’ She gave me a knowing smile over the rim of her cup. She finished the contents, placed it back on the table and smoothed her skirt.
‘Words are one talent courtesans have – but there are many more arts we use. There’s also our lips, tongues, fingers and even our toes.’ As she spoke, she touched the relevant body part before closing the gap between us and stroking mine as well. The sateen of her gloves sent shivers along my spine. ‘There’s also our legs.’ She lifted her dress slowly, like a curtain. My eyes widened when I saw she wasn’t wearing any pantaloons. Her creamy legs looked smooth and inviting. She lowered the skirt. ‘And arms,’ she continued, reaching over and running a finger along mine, pushing the fabric into my skin as she did. I remained completely still less she stop. The pleasure of her touch sent waves of longing through me. ‘And let’s not forget the beauty of our breasts –’ Her fingers danced over my décolletage, goose bumps marking their passage ‘– and naturalmente, the rest of our form.’ Her hand rested lightly over the place where my dress dipped into my lap. I was holding my breath.
‘With that in mind,’ she said, slowly removing her hand and drawing away from me, ‘I want to give you this to read.’ She reached over the desk and picked up a tattered pamphlet. ‘This is an infamous piece by a rather clever man whom I hope you will meet one day. His name is Pietro Aretino – he calls himself a poet. Others call him a peddler of pornografia.’ She shrugged. ‘No matter what he’s called, he’s very popular and his work is … enlightening. Certo, it’s appropriate for our needs.’
I knew his name. He’d been mentioned over dinner a number of times, causing Signor Maleovelli no end of delight. Apparently his work had caught the attention of the Cardinale and not in a welcome way. I didn’t always understand the nuances underpinning much of what Signor Maleovelli said – he often spoke in cipher – but I found it interesting and more than a little thrilling that I was being allowed to read the work of someone so … notorious. I took the bundle of yellowing parchment Giaconda offered, my hand shaking slightly, my insides very warm.
‘Of course, the best way to learn how to please a man is to be with one.’ She stood up and leant over, caressing my cheek as she spoke. ‘Your time approaches, Tarlo.’
Clutching the parchment tightly, I did not trust myself to speak,
‘Do not fear,’ she said, leaning closer. ‘I know you disapprove of Signor Moronisini. I will make sure your first is not so … old. I will also ensure he is gentle.’
I opened my mouth to protest then shut it again.
I shivered – from fear, excitement or premonition, I did not know.
Happy to have dinner in my room that night, I lay on the bed and thought about what Giaconda said. I could not change what for me was inevitable. It was clear that, in order to work towards the greater goal of bringing the Estrattore home, I had to be in a position where I could advance the Maleovellis, and the best way for me to do that was as a courtesan. Giaconda had explained that, as a courtesan of a particular calibre, I would have access to the nobiles’ casas, to their bedrooms and to their minds. Once she had enjoyed the same sort of entrée, but time and the reduction of the Maleovelli fortunes had meant that doors previously open had closed, and they’d been forced to rent accommodation in other sestiere to maintain business. For me it would be different. Once inside the casas, I could burn my candles. No-one would suspect a courtesan of that type of manipulation, let alone of being an Estrattore. Not if I was as careful as I intended to be.
I threw aside my concerns and wild imaginings and opened the bound pieces of parchment. The title, ‘School of Whoredom’ should have prepared me for the contents, but I still found myself blushing and giggling and feeling very hot as I read a fictitious dialogue between an older woman and a young courtesan. They were so graphic in their descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman, so open in their conversations. I had to keep putting the pamphlet down as pictures flew into my head, and scenarios that I found quite arousing formed. I rolled from my back onto my stomach and kept reading. When the first candle burned to a tiny stump, I lit another. The fire smouldered, its heat no longer necessary. My fevered
imagination kept me very warm.
It wasn’t until I fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, that the images of men and women, flirting, taking pleasure from each other’s bodies, feeling sated and satisfied by the transaction between courtesan and gentleman, translated into a vivid dream. A dream in which I was a courtesan, and my lover a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and night-time eyes that regarded me with such intensity it took my breath away. I knew this man. He was as known to me as my own face.
It was Dante.
Every kiss we shared, every caress, made me ache with desire for more. I moaned and half-woke to find myself clutching my pillow. I buried my head and tried to return to that place where Dante was alive and he was mine. It was fruitless.
When I finally roused, I felt tired as well as unfulfilled and restless. I trembled, and not only from the chill in the room. I rose, and after first blowing on the fire to stir the glowing embers into flames, went to the bowl that rested on the cabinet and splashed water on my face. I picked up a drying sheet and rubbed my face vigorously, as if shedding the residue of my night memories. I caught my reflection in the mirror and went and stood in front of it.
Instead of seeing myself, Dante stood before me. The sheet fell from my fingers. His hair was tousled, his face smudged with dirt, his teeth so very white. His eyes sparkled and he wore that knowing look of his – the one that bespoke mischief and something else besides. Then, it all swam and changed. I was looking down on him. He stared back at me and I lost myself in the depths of his gaze, indifferent to the blood pouring out of his mouth and over those firm, full lips.
I threw myself against the mirror, clutching its sides, pressing myself against the glass, trying to merge with it, with Dante. It was no good. I hit my head against its hard surface. Fool, fool, fool.
No matter what I did, no matter how much I tried to shut myself off from my old life, from Dante, above all the others – Pillar, Quinn, Renzo, Zia Gaia, even Francesca and our neighbours in the Candlemakers Quartiere – he continued to haunt me. I rested against the mirror, staring at my feet – white and frozen, and at their reflected twins. Why could I not forget him? It would make all of this so much easier.
Out of the corner of my eye, the harlequin glinted in the flames that now crackled in the fireplace. Despite what I had placed in the tiny statuette, and in spite of my resolution not to feel in that way anymore, I did. I felt so strongly, too strongly. I sighed and pulled away, dropping my arms and studied myself again.
My eyes were shadowed and my face drawn. I ran my fingers through my hair. It was long now, tumbling down my back.
Why could I not block Dante out? It was as if something was preventing me … why?
‘Go away,’ I whispered. ‘Please. I need you to leave me alone. How can I become what I know I must if you are still with me?’
I stared intently, hoping that somehow my own soul would open up to me. But I could not see the truth inside myself, only suffer it.
Dante would never go away. And I did not really want him to. I didn’t need my abilities as an Estrattore to tell me that. But the time had come for me to take the next step. Reading that pamphlet had made me more aware than ever of the desire I was trying to repress, of the urges that were enhanced every day I spent in Giaconda’s company, in this casa, with its lush fabrics, musty scents, and the insatiable lust and greed that clung to every surface.
I was not immune to it – on the contrary, I was absorbing it bit by bit, taking it into myself, deliberately, effortlessly, anything to block out the feelings that warred within me. What I knew was that I could no longer be denied.
‘I want more.’
‘And so you shall have it, Tarlo, cara.’
I did not hear Giaconda enter. I spun at her voice, curtsying and blushing that she should catch me so. She simply opened the door wider and stepped into my room. She indicated for Hafeza, who was close on her heels, to begin my morning bath.
‘Today, Tarlo, you and I are celebrating,’ she said, crossing to the window and flinging open the shutters. Feeble light crawled its way across the bedroom.
‘Sì? Why is that?’ I tried not to pull away as Hafeza dragged a wet cloth over my breasts. I noted the water had been scented with the heady fragrance Giaconda favoured. I inhaled it, trying to shut out my fevered thoughts. It didn’t help.
‘Carnivale.’
My eyes widened. ‘Carnivale! It starts today?’ I had been anticipating its arrival for weeks now.
‘Sì, it officially begins tonight and with that, so does some freedom for you. But since you cannot partake in tonight’s festivities –’ My face fell. She gave a small laugh and continued. ‘I have decided that instead, to make up for this, we will go on a trip so you may have a taste of what to expect.’
My stomach flipped, my hands fluttered. ‘I need the belladonna.’
She tipped her head. ‘Perhaps a little. But you will be masked and caped. This is a chance for you to see without being seen.’
I raised my arms as Hafeza pulled the camicia over my head.
‘Am I to be presented, then?’
‘Today we’re going to buy fabric for the dress you will wear for your first public appearance.’ My head spun.
‘Where? When?’
‘Sooner than you think. How else can we field offers for your most precious of gifts if the nobiles do not glimpse what it is they are bargaining for?’
I knew she wasn’t talking only about my talents as an Estrattore. Bids for my virginity would be seriously considered and the man with the most in terms of connections as well as soldi would be my first paramour. A sense of inevitability tinged with sadness rose. I quashed it immediately. I wanted this. I needed this. The Estrattore needed me to do this.
Giaconda watched me as Hafeza helped me into my gown. ‘No need to hurry. Make sure her hair is dressed well, Hafeza. It’s windy and snow is threatening. And put her in those zoccoli we bought last week – the ones with the exceptionally high heels. Salzi can help her if she finds it too difficult to walk.’ She added something else in Hafeza’s language. Hafeza paused then nodded. A little nub of resistance within me tightened. I wondered what was said.
‘When you’re ready.’ Giaconda reverted back to Serenissian. ‘I will meet you in the portego for a light breakfast. You will need your energy today, Tarlo. It will be a very long one.’
I curtsied as Giaconda, pausing to pick up the pamphlet by my bed, cast me a meaningful glance and, accompanied by a half-smile, swept from the room. I looked coldly at Hafeza. ‘You had better be quick then,’ I said, ignoring the hurt that flashed in her brown eyes.
IT WAS MIDDAY BEFORE WE LEFT the casa and boarded the gondola. Unlike the day we attended the execution, Giaconda eschewed the felze and sat in the bow. As instructed, I sat beside her, wrapped in my woollen cape and with my mask firmly secured over the upper half of my face. I had been taught exactly how to sit, to look straight ahead and resist the urge to turn my head. We were on display.
Hafeza and another servant, a young girl named Rosalina, a kitchen drab garbed in one of my old dresses so as to look like a lady’s maid, perched themselves atop the felze near Salzi, who was rowing, facing towards us. They too remained very still. We presented quite a picture, four women, our dresses fanned against the shiny adamantine surface of the craft, and the tall, elegant boatman with his navy blue coat, his white shirt contrasting with the sun-kissed flesh of his face, his fine hose and straw hat with the striped ribbon that whipped the back of his neck.
We passed by other gondolas carrying a mix of passengers or bearing fruit, vegetables and a range of saleable wares. The gondoliers maintained a constant stream of chatter, calling out when a bank of fog descended so as to avoid collision. One craft glided very close and I caught a brief glimpse of a rather lined face peering out of the window of the felze. On spying us, it withdrew with a noise of disgust and drew the shutter across swiftly.
‘Pretend
you didn’t notice,’ said Giaconda, her lips barely moving. ‘That’s simply Nobile Maggiore’s mother. Her kind does not stand the likes of you or me. They think if they do not see us, we can’t exist. She will be most displeased that she’s set eyes upon us and thus confirmed our presence.’ She gave a small laugh. Beneath her bravado, I could sense resentment. She too was the daughter of a nobile, but begotten on a courtesan, therefore she would never be embraced by her father’s peers. It was so strange that though she was a Maleovelli, she would never be truly admitted to the circles her father occupied.
The irony was that, as a courtesan, she had so much more freedom than the daughters and wives of Nobile Maggiore, of the other nobiles’ wives and daughters. Below the mask, her chin had taken on a determined jut and her mouth was fixed in a smile. Even this freedom exacted a toll.
That hadn’t occurred to me before. It wasn’t so much that Giaconda didn’t care, it was that she couldn’t afford to. Like me, she was forever an outsider. I wanted to reach out and let Giaconda know that I, of all people, understood. But I knew she would pull away. If I was to succeed as a courtesan in these circumstances then I could not care about her either. That she made it easy didn’t placate me. I quashed my sorrow at the thought.
A large arch emerged out of the mist and, and we passed under the Ponte della Pensieri, the main bridge connecting the Ridotto to the Barnabotti Sestiere. Crowds of people jostled against the sides, many looking down upon us. There were cries of ‘Bellissima!’ Something fell into the gondola and I almost leapt from my seat in fright.
‘Steady,’ said Giaconda, placing a hand on my knee.
To my astonishment, two long-stemmed roses lay at the bottom of the boat. Melon-coloured petals were strewn across the seat. Hafeza slid off the felze and picked them up. A few more had missed the gondola and landed in the water, becoming floating tributes to Giaconda, to me – to what we represented. Serenissians loved their courtesans.
