Courtesan

by S. C. Daiko

  ‘And you me.’

  We kiss leisurely, lingering kisses. Finally, Andrew pulls away. ‘I’m sorry to leave you, tesoro, but I have to be up early for a meeting with the Doge.’

  He crosses the room to wash, and then he retrieves his clothes. A piece of rolled parchment falls onto the floor. Andrew claps a hand to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I found this by your front door. I should have given it to you sooner.’

  I take the missive from him. ‘I’ll look at it in a minute.’

  Andrew kisses me on the forehead and takes his leave.

  Now I’m alone, I start to read. My eyes widen and my heart sinks with every word.

  The writer has addressed me as a whore, playing with the letters of my name. “Ver”, becomes “verily”. Then “onica”, “unique”. And what he has written, for ’tis a man who has penned this I am sure, is truly horrible.

  To Veronica, verily unique whore,

  I refuse to commit myself to a woman who insists on earning a profit at my expense. Because screwing is neither pleasant nor tasty, kisses are not kisses, and thrusts no longer thrusts without that certain thing that one calls Love. I mean, asking for five or six coins for a kiss, and fifty for barely a fuck! ’Tis truly is a shame that families do not tie up those who pay such prices, as though you had balsam or manna on your cunt.

  No text or gloss will ever state that a lover must give his woman anything besides his heart. Whoever invented gunpowder, whoever betrayed Christ, keeps company with the one who first screwed for money. Wouldn’t you like us to wait on you day and night and give you dozens and hundreds of coins? Sure, go look for some damned cuckold of a cur.

  When getting your voice to match the tone produced by do re mi fa sol la you perform a miracle. No doubt such talents are worth a lot and so is beauty. But dearer and more precious by far than beauty and talent is freedom. The deadly enemy of cats and dogs, for if they are gnawing at a bone, you, bitch, try to grab it from between their paws. And did you mean, slut, not to hoist your cunt just now so that you can go halves if the boys from the street throw apples and boiled chestnuts at it?

  A true love based on sacred trust, to serve with one’s whole heart, are the proper rewards for a great fuck. Your body is so emaciated that your breasts hang low enough to use to row your boat on the canal…

  If it weren’t so upsetting, I would laugh, for the imagery is quite comical. Oh, Dio mio. That I should have inspired such filth from Marco Venier makes me almost want to weep. But I won’t. Instead, I’ll show him. For as certain as my name is Veronica Franco, I’ll show that cuckold of a cur, for that’s what he is, that he has truly met his match in me. Yes, I am unique. And to think that I fooled myself into believing I was in love with him…

  7

  To the Magnifico Marco Venier,

  “Verily unique” among other things, you called me, alluding to Veronica, my name. But I fail to see how one can properly call something “unique” in a critical sense, by way of condemnation. Perhaps you were writing in an ironic way? Yet such ambiguity fails to communicate the point you evidently wanted to make.

  A woman whose renown makes her right to be proud, who stands out for her loveliness or for her bravery, and far surpasses all others in virtue – such a woman is accurately called “unique”. “Unique” is used in admiration and respect by those who know; and whoever speaks otherwise deviates from the true meaning of words. Is it not, sir, merely incorrect emphasis, when hurling insult and abuse at someone, to use a term meant for most exceptional things? Either your purpose was not to defame me, or you were unaware, even lying, when you said it.

  By using “unique” when you call me “whore”, either you imply I’m not one, or that I am and merit some praise. However, after careful analysis of what you’ve written, I find, in fact, that you were criticising me. I distance myself from that aim of yours; I insist on debating it at any cost.

  Prepare your paper and ink and tell me which weapons I must wield in battle with you. You will have nowhere to hide from me for I am prepared for any test of skills and I wait impatiently to start the contest.

  If you do not write me an answer, I will say that you are greatly afraid of me, even though you think yourself so courageous. I happily offer to make peace with you, on the condition that you joust with me just once.

  Yours, the Unique Veronica Franco

  I sprinkle sand on the parchment, then wait for it to dry while I summon Maurizio.

  ‘Si, signora?’

  ‘Pray, take this letter to the Magnifico Marco Venier, and wait for a response.’

  Maurizio returns within the hour. He hands me a small parchment. Three words written large:

  Till the morrow.

  Good, I shall think about the joust while I’m sitting for Tintoretto. ‘Maurizio, please prepare the boat. We need to be in Cannaregio within the hour. The artist will be annoyed if I’m late.’

  Tintoretto’s house and studio are to the north, not far from the Ghetto, on the Rio della Sensa canal. He’s such a famous painter and does me this great honour. We’re friends, nothing more, for he’s married to ferocious Faustina, and she keeps him under strict control. I’ve grown fond of him, and at least his wife lets him attend my dinner parties.

  Typically, for a woman of her class (she’s the daughter of a nobleman), she isn’t seen in mixed company.

  The artist’s studio is on the piano nobile; two great stone-trimmed windows let in a river of light. They call him il furioso for his furious energy when working, and I sit as still as I can, naked but for a silk stole, my breasts bared, a string of forbidden pearls nestling between them. Even though I’m fast getting a crick in the neck, I hold my pose; facing away from him so that he paints my profile. The afternoon sun comes into the room and warms me. I think of what I shall say to Marco tonight, and resolve on the following introduction:

  I do not know if you think it a trivial thing to enter the field to cross swords with a woman, but I advise you now that when we ladies, too, have skills and education, we will be able to prove to all men that we have hands and feet and hearts like yours; and though we may be gentle and delicate, some men who are delicate also are strong, and some, though course and rough, are cowards.

  One day, although it might be a long time coming, surely women will enjoy the same opportunities as men? Then, we shall demonstrate the same physical and mental strength. Ideology is what prevents women from discovering their capabilities. If they were not kept ignorant of their potential, they would reveal it in triumphant encounters with males. Among so many women, I shall be the first to act, setting an example for all of them to follow…

  Finally, Tintoretto puts down his brush. ‘May I look?’ I ask.

  ‘You may. ’Tis finished.’

  I go to stand by his easel. The woman he has painted is truly lovely, much more so than I. ‘Is this an apparition set before me by some trickery of the Devil to make me fall in love with myself, as happened to Narcissus?’

  He laughs. ‘You flatter me, signora.’

  ‘No. You have surpassed divine nature in the excellence of your art. Far more so than I in my writing.’ And ’tis true. I’m under no illusions. Tintoretto’s work will last for centuries, if not millennia, whereas the world is bound to forget Veronica Franco. If I can make a mark in my own century, I shall be happy enough.

  Frost crunches under my chopines as I sway down the calle, my hand on Maurizio’s shoulder. The January night is cold, and a chilly wind ruffles my hair. I pull my cape close. No need for a mask; I cover my face with a scarf. My faithful manservant leaves me at the door of Ca’ Venier. ‘Enjoy a peaceful evening with Domisilla,’ I tell him. ‘I shall ask one of the company to escort me home.’

  This evening I’m wearing a crimson and gold brocade dress over a deep-red underskirt. It feels thick, heavy, smooth and sumptuous as I lift it to mount the stairs that lead to Domenico’s portego. The neckline is wide – out to the points of the shoulders on each side – and the
bodice has been cut low, but not so low that my nipples show. I am not here to entice; I am here to do battle with my enemy.

  I stride into the room and glance around for him. Ah, there he is!

  Marco Venier’s eyes meet mine. His lips form a straight line as he comes up to me. ‘Signora, you have misjudged me.’

  ‘I? Misjudged you? That’s like a donkey telling a dog it has big ears.’

  ‘I did not direct you the missive to which you refer.’

  ‘But… Who else? You were supposed to send me a challenge.’

  ‘I’ve been away, and have only just returned to Venice. I’m perplexed. Why should you think I would want to write similar filth?’

  ‘Quite. If I don’t deserve great praise, neither certainly do I deserve blame so much that someone I’ve never harmed, and who doesn’t really know me, should write against me with such venom.’

  ‘A man who lacks material of which to write, obviously. The satire has been circulating among the members of this salon and all say it was penned by my cousin, Maffio.’

  ‘Maffio? Why should he be so cruel?’

  ‘He’s jealous of you. Has been so ever since your duel that first time you came here.’

  ‘But Maffio is not in Venice. He’s in Rome, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s an itinerant. Wonders from court to court seeking patronage. He was here last week, before leaving to ally himself with the Medici court in Florence. I’m sorry he’s targeted you.’

  I incline my head. ‘I apologise for misjudging you, my lord. I no longer have a reason for a duel, or even a challenge.’

  ‘Oh? I was looking forward to it, and have even prepared some material.’ He bows. ‘Shall we take to the floor?’

  I look him up and down. ‘Why not? All my writing is in my head. I have material enough.’

  Marco claps his hands, and the company falls silent. ‘The lady Veronica and I would duel for your entertainment.’

  Domenico laughs loudly. ‘Finally! I have been waiting for this moment for some time. Marco, pray start!’

  The Magnifico Marco Venier, tall, his muscular thighs and calves encased in scarlet hose, swings his gaze around the portego, then settles it on me.

  ‘Oh, fair lady, if you were to see my heart deep within me, I know that you would compare me to no other lover because of the love I feel toward you.’

  Surely he is jesting? ‘Sir, being ridiculed is a most painful thing, especially in love.’

  ‘If I were to say that I love you as much as my own life, cruel lady, why do you offer no respite for my sorrow?’

  I laugh. ‘Since I will not believe that I am loved, win my approval, sir, with actions.’

  Marco smiles. This is a performance, and I must take it in the spirit with which he intends it. ‘But witness my tired heart,’ he says in a wounded tone, ‘revealed in my pale and sorrowful countenance, and my lonely roving, night and day.’

  ‘If I could be sure of your love, I would cast aside this anxiety, for it is never good to change one’s opinion according to appearances.’

  His eyes meet mine. ‘The man who finds you without pity sees you as Venus for your allure in bed, and the many pleasures discovered in you.’

  I nod. ‘Certain talents hidden within me, I will show you, with extreme sweetness, provided you prove your love to me by other means than praise.’

  ‘Lady of true and unique beauty, how I long to gaze upon your naked limbs, and sweeter still to lie languid in your moistened lap. When you stretch out upon the pillows, how sweet it would be to fall upon you.’

  ‘I could give you such pleasure that you would say you were fully content.’

  ‘Oh, what a happy and blessed paradise, never to be parted from enjoying, lady, your unparalleled charms.’

  ‘So fragrant and delightful do I become, when I am in bed with someone who, I feel, adores and appreciates me, that the joy I bring exceeds all pleasure, so the ties of love, however close they seemed before, are knotted tighter still.’

  Marco bows, deeply. ‘By your lovely hands and arms I long to be embraced, and to have them pull my ties.’

  ‘Let me see the works I’ve asked for, then you’ll enjoy my sweetness to the full.’

  ‘My lady, among beauties you are famous for your learning, and among learned women you are famous for your beauty. Adorn your beauty with a pitying heart for a man who weeps for your love every waking moment.’

  I let out a hollow laugh. ‘But why should we duel with words? What if, all weapons laid aside, we took the path to a love match in bed?’

  Titters from the assembled company, followed by silence. I tap the floor with my toe. Marco bows again. ‘It will be my ultimate pleasure.’

  ‘I can assure you of that.’

  We take our leave of the company, put on our cloaks, and walk to my house. Finding his hand, I tug at him and pull him towards the front door. Moonlight illuminates the calle as, heart pounding, I fumble to insert my key into the lock.

  ‘Pray, let me do it.’ Marco reaches for the fob.

  ‘I can manage, my lord.’ I nudge him out of the way, turn the lock and push the heavy door open. My household has retired long since.

  All is dark except for a tallow candle left burning on the stairwell. It provides just enough light to see up to the piano nobile. I hop on one foot, trying to unlace one of my chopines. Marco steadies me, removes his sword, and kneels to take off both of my shoes.

  I wriggle my toes. ‘Oh, such relief.’

  He touches my calves, behind my knees, and the outside of my thighs, sending a tingle to my core. I place my hands in his hair, and tug gently. ‘Come, my lord!’ I urge him to his feet, then walk up the stairs. He follows me to my chamber, and stands in the doorway, watching me, while I light candles.

  Thank God Lena has her courses and is not waiting for me in my bed. What about my lemon? A child from Marco Venier is a risk I’m willing to take. I pull the earrings from my ears and the bracelet from my wrist, setting them on my nightstand. Slowly, I untie my bodice. Reaching behind I undo my overskirt. My clothes fall to the floor and pool at my feet. Only my underskirt remains. Soon that joins my other garments. I’m standing naked now except for my pearl choker.

  ‘Pray, unclasp me, sir!’

  Turning around, I lift my hair. In a few steps, he’s standing next to me, reaching for the clasp of my necklace and unhooking it, setting it on the nightstand next to the earrings and bracelet. He rests his palms on my shoulders and slides them down my back, breathing fast and deep. I catch the scent of musk and his citrus cologne.

  ‘Disrobe now,’ I tell him. ‘For this challenge, you are required to do exactly as I tell you.’

  Marco disrobes and I go to stand behind him. I take my fragranced cloth and run it from the back of his neck, trailing all the way down his spine to his buttocks. His head falls forward and I rub my breasts against him. Wrapping my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, I pull his head back. ‘Don’t move!’ His arms fall to his side and he stands still.

  ‘Walk to the bed,’ I prod him and he steps forward. ‘To the middle and lie down on your back.’ He obeys my orders. ‘Put both hands in front of you and clasp them together.’ I reach into the drawer of my commode and take out a soft rope, then wrap it around his wrists, weaving it around and in between, leaving the ends dangling. He watches me intently. ‘You agree?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ he whispers, his voice cracking. I pull his hands above his head, and tie the loose ends to the bedpost, securing his arms. I run my thumb across his lips, and he licks it, drawing it into his mouth, making my quim flood. I lower my head to his nipples and nip and suck on each one. He writhes and moans.

  I find his prick. He’s hard, as I knew he would be. ‘Is this for me?’ I spread the moisture that has leaked from the tip with my finger and he moans some more.

  I go to stand at the foot of the bed. His feet are dangling just off the end, and I spread his legs. Marco’s chest rises and falls with
each shallow breath he’s taking. Kneeling between his legs, I can see how ready he is. I sniff his balls; they smell musky, but clean.

  ‘Do you want me to delight you, my lord?’

  He closes his eyes and his breathing becomes more rapid.

  ‘Answer me! Do you want me to delight you?’

  He shakes his head from side to side.

  ‘No? Your upstanding prick is telling me otherwise.’

  I run my fingers up and down his length until he bucks his hips. ‘Tell me you want me to delight you!’

  His body shudders and he opens his eyes. ‘I want you to fuck me,’ he pants.

  ‘Ah, no longer do we engage in the flowery language of courtly love.’

  Straddling him, I settle my quim against his prick. He clamps his legs together, lifts his buttocks off the bed, and pushes back at me until he’s fully inside. Now I let myself feel him, breathe him, and love him, as I ride him, arching my spine, closing my eyes, and throwing my head back, my hair cascading down to tickle the swell of my arse.

  ‘Untie me,’ he pleads.

  I rock myself up and down, taking my time. ‘Not yet.’

  Leaning forward, my taut nipples brushing his chest, I stroke his face. My lips pull at the soft skin of his neck and I give him light kisses behind the ear.

  ‘I need to touch you,’ he groans.

  Reaching up, I pull at the tie and his hands fall from the bedpost to the pillow above his head. I don’t stop moving, but with one hand release the cord from around his hands and wrists. He fondles my breasts, then holds onto my arms. Our bodies move as one and it’s as if we’ve made love together like this every day for years.