”Yes?” I think a voice creaked out, or it could have been the door. I decided to speak anyway and take the initiative in the interaction.
”I seek a seamstress,” I began. “Milady Flavia –”
”It’s siesta!” croaked the voice. “Piss off!”
The door slammed. Puffs of dust rose up. I looked up at the sign again to make certain I had come to the correct establishment. I knocked again. The nose and chin and the rest of the face they belonged to appeared at the window. It was the face of a crone, her eyes like blackcurrants in a crumpled paper bag. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but her expressive and expansive gestures were both eloquent and obscene. I would not be budged. I knocked the door again, and then a third time.
The door opened a little further this time and the crone allowed her whole head to peer out.
”We don’t want no trouble,” she whimpered. I was about to point out that her double negative indicated that she did in fact desire trouble but I considered this may complicate matters.
”So do I,” I replied. “I mean, neither do I. Want no trouble. I come merely to request the services of a seamstress on behalf of Donna Flavia.”
”Hmm.” The crone cast me an appraising glance from head to toe and back up again. The appraisal found me wanting. “Good day to you,” she said and slammed the door again.
Ah, the charm of the peasantry! It never fails to escape me.
I stepped back into the street and looked up at the sign, hanging limply from a rusty bracket. Those faint scissors could, I realised, just as easily be a pair of legs... I blushed as I became aware of the error – not because I am prudish when it comes to knocking shops (in fact, my master must have kept several of them in business single – um – handed). Rather I reddened because of the blacksmith’s assumption that I, my master’s former man, would automatically have the same appetites – which I do, to some extent we all do, save that our appetites are tempered with notions of restraint and moderation. My reputation seemed indelibly stained by that of my master’s, which is hardly fair when you know the truth. Most of the time, I was the one holding the coat. Oh, I had my moments, don’t get me wrong, but my master never held my coat. Well, he would sometimes wear it as a disguise, but that’s something else entirely.
I blinked and raised my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. From the window it must have appeared to the crone that I was saluting. She returned the gesture with one of her own. Her advanced age must have robbed her of all propriety. I responded with the lewdest hand signal I could think of and strode away, indignantly.
There was nothing else for it. I had to go to the inn.
I got there just as the innkeeper was closing the last shutter. He shook his head as I approached and pointed up at the sun as if it had “siesta” written all over it. I fished in my depleted purse for a coin. He peered at it as if my fingers had just shat in his hand, and then nodded.
I followed him inside.
***
It was such a relief to be indoors although it took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the gloom. The taciturn innkeeper poured me a goblet of watered wine and indicated a low settle on which I could, um, settle, until the sun was bearable again.
At first glance, I thought I had the place to myself but then I became aware there was a figure in an alcove, so motionless I had initially taken it to be one of those quirky items of decoration you find in taverns: a stuffed bear or a wooden native of the New World holding out cigars. The figure’s shoulders heaved out a sigh and it gave me quite a start, I can tell you. When a statue, even if you only believe it to be a statue, starts moving of its own accord, you can guess things have taken a turn for the worse, take it from me.
Within seconds the figure was wracked with sobs. I ventured a few steps closer and realised this was the figure of a young girl, her features veiled by a, well, by a veil. Clad head to toe in black, she held a handkerchief of black lace to her mouth and was making the most pitiable sounds, my heart was touched. I crashed into her table with my hip and discovered this was an effective yet painful way of announcing my presence.
She caught her sobs mid-breath and looked at me. ”More wine,” she said in a cracked voice, punctuating her words with a sniff.
”Oh no, Miss, I don’t work here –”I protested.
”Well, you look as though you do. It’s rather unfair of you to approach me, looking for all the world like a member of staff and then tell me that is not the case.”
It was my attire, of course. My livery, having like all of us seen better days, made me out not as a servant of one of the better houses in the region, but as a lowly tapster’s boy.
The young woman seemed on the verge of dissolving into sobs again so I fetched her the goblet from my table. “Have mine,” I said, trying to infuse those two words with as much kindness as I could.
”So do you work here, or not?” She poured the contents of my goblet into her own. “You have fetched me wine when I did request it.”
”It was a one-time thing,” I said and offered her a smile. Her posture changed as she looked me over.
”So, to settle the matter once and for all, you are not employed here?”
”Miss, I am not.”
”Good,” she said and patted the stool facing her as invitation for me to sit. “I could do with someone to talk to.”
***
She said her name was Angelina and she had been, until her mistress’s recent passing, the confidante of Donna Somebody-or-other - you have to understand my recollection of her story is not as thorough as it might be, because Angelina chose at that point to raise her veil. Even though her cheeks were flushed, her nose and eyes red with crying, she was the picture of perfection, in my opinion. I have seen a lot of female faces – most of them over my master’s shoulder, granted, but he did not restrict himself to a particular type. I saw faces and forms from all walks of life, of every age, size and shape, and I can aver categorically that Angelina’s lovely visage was unequalled in beauty. You could bet your life that my master would have been on her like a starved cat on a mouse and I felt a flash of relief, for which I was immediately stricken with guilt, that he was not around to see this vision before me.
She was accompanying her mistress’s body back to the family seat which was somewhere the other side of Cadiz. They had been to Seville for some kind of festival (I told you I didn’t absorb all the details) when the old dear had taken ill and died in her sleep. Angelina described the scene of finding her mistress stone cold the following morning, eyes wide and mouth agape, with such affection for her late employer that it was all I could do to reach out and squeeze her hand out of fellow feeling. Alone in Seville, she had had to make the arrangements to transport the body back to Cadiz and there aren’t many people willing to undertake such a, um, undertaking, with there being rumours of plague rising again in the larger cities.
”A pox on the plague!” I swore and immediately wished I could cut out my tongue. Of all the idiotic utterances!
Yet Angelina giggled at my outburst and she leaned forward and patted my knee with her gloved hand. “You’re sweet,” she smiled. “And I don’t know your name.”
I was barely managing not to fall over in a swoon. My knee trembled and the fleeting warmth of her touch travelled up my leg and to my – well, let’s just say my concentration was presented with another challenge.
”So what is it?” I realised she was asking me. Candlelight glinted in her tear-moistened eyes, eyes that were indigo in colour, eyes in which a man might drown.
I crossed my legs but this only increased my discomfort.
”Your name, silly!” she laughed, like a brook trickling over pebbles. “What’s the matter with you? Are you under some kind of enchantment?”
Oh, yes! I bloody well was!
”Leporello,” I managed to b
urble. She repeated it back to me and I nodded to her to signify she had got it right.
”The little hare!” she clapped her hands. “That’s what your name means. The little hare! I shall call you Bunny – if that’s all right with you?”
I had lost the ability to speak apart from emitting vowel sounds.
”Well, Bunny, you must tell me everything about yourself. We have established that you do not work here. What is your story?”
She leaned forwards, her lips parted slightly. I had to place my hat on my lap.
What could I tell her, this loveliest creature? I waffled about Donna Flavia and her goat and how I was single-handedly restoring her house and making it habitable. I hinted that I too had recently lost a boss to the grim reaper (without stating exactly how grim it had been) and she nodded and patted my knee again.
We talked of many things. How Cordoba smells after the rain. How Sevillians are up themselves. How cheese and wine together is a marriage made in heaven. How Cervantes makes us laugh.
We were so caught up in our conversation we were unaware of the inn opening up around us and other patrons coming in. Their noise and chatter we did not notice. At some point Angelina must have signalled to the innkeeper because he came over and refilled our goblets but the adulterated wine sat there untouched. We were intoxicated with ourselves and each other and I did not want the afternoon to end.
But, like all good things and all bad things too, it did end. Angelina got to her feet. I got to mine. She clasped my hand in both of hers and thanked me for my company. It was time, she announced, to go sit with her mistress. This threw me for a moment because her mistress was dead, wasn’t she? But then I realised she meant sitting with the casket, which the innkeeper had permitted to house in the stable rather than allowing it into the inn itself, in case it was bad for business. You could see his point, I suppose.
I offered to sit with her until it grew dark, at least, but she considered this suggestion improper. “You can’t have a man and a woman alone in an outbuilding unless their names are Mary and Joseph.” I laughed at this, perhaps a little too much, and she laughed too, further ensnaring my heart and devotion.
I walked her to the stable. The sun was on the point of setting and the sky could not have been coloured more romantically if Our Lord had tried. Our parting was reluctant and awkward. We opted for a mock-courtly approach with me bowing low and flamboyantly and her curtseying and batting her eyelashes. I kissed the back of her glove and she rewarded me with a smile of such warmth I could have burst. There was also sadness in her eyes that I wanted to take away. The sadness, I mean, not her eyes. I didn’t want to take them away unless I could have the rest of her as well.
I watched as she went inside. I have never been more envious of a bunch of horses in my entire life. They, fortunate beasts, would have her company while I would trudge back to Donna Flavia and her bloody goat. Oh, to be transformed into a stallion and give Angelina my back! I would gallop her away from her cares.
I began the walk back to the house. I was returning without the seamstress I had been bidden to fetch, but as I walked, there was an aching within me that was like a stitch.
And yet my feet barely touched the dusty ground. I was like a hummingbird hovering over the ruts in the lane (I know, I know, hummingbirds hover in place) forged by carts over the years. I didn’t even turn my ankle in the hardy grasses – a first! All these things were beneath my notice; it is only on reflection, as I make an account of myself, that the details come to mind. You may be aware of the phenomenon when you spend the evening out drinking. The long walk home is nothing to you. Some kind of guardian angel guides your steps, or if you’re not into supernatural agents from beyond (and believe me, I wish I could gainsay the concept), you putter along like a clockwork toy with no recollection the next morning, when your scalp is squeezing your skull, of the journey you made without thought for your own safety. Well, my journey that early evening was something akin to that experience –oh, let’s just say if you’ve ever been in love, you’ll know how I felt.
Yes, I said it! I was intoxicated with the young lady. I was falling in love with her. This is me reflecting again. At that moment, I was unaware of everything other than her lovely face, her lovely laughter, her lovely eyes... Well, you get the picture.
Upon my arrival at Donna Flavia’s gatepost, reality slapped me in the face like one of my master’s gloves. There was a horse tethered there. All horses are basically the same animal in different colours but this one seemed familiar to me. I had seen this horse before and recently. The horse gave no sign of recognition and continued to ignore me, as do most people when they recognise me, it has to be said.
Puzzled, I made my way around to the rear entrance (of the house, not the horse!). So, Donna Flavia had a visitor! The suspicion formed in my mind that this was why she had despatched me on a wild seamstress chase. She wanted me out of the house while she conducted whatever “business” she might with this mystery guest. Well, I was stunned. She didn’t seem the type. My master’s voice sprang to my inner ear: “They rarely do,” he chuckled.
I shivered to dislodge him and considered that the visitor might be an impromptu one. A weary traveller pausing on his way, perchance, unable to make it to his lodgings before siesta time. We were barely half a league from the tavern though, so that explanation didn’t seem very likely.
I let myself in and crossed the kitchen – you wouldn’t recognise the room. I had scrubbed it to within an inch of my life, disenfranchising several dozen spiders and a frog in the process. I padded along the corridor – the corridor which had lost the smell of mildew thanks to my hard labour and the introduction of cuttings of the local lavender by the vase– and paused at the drawing room door. Milady and her visitor were within. They weren’t saying much and what was said I couldn’t make out. The ticking of the hall clock impeded my hearing to the extent that I felt like smashing its face in with the heel of my shoe. I stooped to put my eye to the keyhole- a practice I had stooped to many times during my master’s shenanigans. I confess with shame it provided fuel for my lustful imagination later on. I wasn’t expecting to peep on a similar scene involving Donna Flavia – in fact I was in mortal fear that this would be the case – but I felt protective towards her (well, towards myself and my employment status) and perhaps I could be of assistance.
I couldn’t see a damned thing. The hole was clouded with cobweb. The arachnid occupation had slipped that one by me. I attempted to blow it clear, mindful of creating too much noise and advertising my presence. I puckered my lips and gently exhaled. Any eight-legged resident might had presumed I was trying to snog it. This eventuality did not come to pass. Instead what happened was the door was opened sharply inwards, I fell on my face and found myself planting a smacker on the dirty boot of the gentleman caller.
”Leporello!” gasped Donna Flavia, fanning herself. Her face was a writhing mask of mixed emotions. I scrambled to my feet. This brought me eye to eye with the guest. It was the customer from the blacksmith’s. That’s where I had seen the horse before! While I was pleased to have that piece fall into place, it struck me that there were many other gaps in the puzzle. Had he been here the entire afternoon? And what on Earth had they been doing?
”I have returned, Milady,” I explained, altogether redundantly and with a deferential nod. “I come to see if you and your guest require refreshments.”
”No, no!” Donna Flavia seemed appalled by the idea. Alarm widened her eyes and she chewed her lower lip anxiously. “Signor Martello was just leaving.”
This man, this Martello, opened his mouth as if to contradict her, seemed to think better of it and closed his mouth again. I stepped back into the corridor and ushered him with a graceful sweep of my arm towards the front door. Donna Flavia remained in the drawing-room, clearly relieved to be rid of him.
”I say, might you recommend a decen
t tavern, my good fellow?” Martello addressed me in a nasally voice, like a duck with a head cold. “You look like a chap who knows his taverns.”
My chest rose at this slight. He was on the attack, putting me in my place. This told me all I needed to know about this rogue, for rogue he undoubtedly was. Your true nobility treat servants with utter contempt or ignore them completely. Those on the way up the social ladder think servants are to be abused, verbally, physically, every which way. They don’t respect our position, and by extension, anyone’s position. They think they can buy their way up through the classes by amassing wealth. Now, say what you like about my master, but he treated his servants and, more tellingly, those of others, with the respect due to their rank. (With me, of course, he was different. We were childhood companions, after all. I would venture so far as to state that I was the closest my master ever came to having a friend. This thought fills me with both pride and sadness – but enough of that! Back to our rogue!)
This despicable fellow was clearly on the up-and-up. What then was he doing sniffing around Donna Flavia whose dog-paddling to stay in place had almost led to her drowning in poverty and debt? Well, there was no way I was having him go anywhere near the lovely Angelina if I could prevent it. I made show of thinking about his query before giving him complex instructions that would lead him, circuitously to The Black-Eyed Boar, completely in the opposite direction. He repeated the instructions back to me. I nodded and said them back, in a short-hand version. He nodded although I could see his mind was swimming. I watched from the front steps as he walked along the drive, rehearsing the directions to himself, towards his horse.
He mounted the beast (having untied it first, of course) looked back at the house and pointed up the lane. I nodded to encourage him and off he and his horse trotted. I closed the door, glad to be rid of the knave and almost jumped out of my skin to find Donna Flavia standing before me.
Leporello on the Lam Page 4
