Courtesan's Lover (9 page)

“He's good, Salvatore,” Michele muttered. He let his chair fall back onto four legs with a bang. “As I told you. He will get good prices for whatever you throw at him. For anything.”

watched Carlo without speaking for several long seconds, his gaze moving from one of Carlo's eyes to the other, back and forth. One hand fingered the tiny plaits beneath his chin.

“And what exactly would you be wanting to gain from this,
Sinjur
?” he said after a pause.

“Another tenth.”

“No.”
shook his head. “Too much.”

“A twelfth, then.”

considered. “A twelfth of what is left after Cicciano takes his cut,” he said at last.

Carlo frowned, but, after a pause, nodded once. “Very well.”

Marco reappeared from his shadowed corner. “Would you care for more
grappa
, signori?” he said.

Carlo smiled up at him. “Thank you—no.” Marco held his gaze for a moment, then turned to go, but Carlo caught his arm before he could leave. He felt Carlo's thumb stroking his protruding wrist-bone for a second, then Carlo smiled and said, “I might perhaps see you before I leave.” Marco nodded, ran his tongue across his lip, and left, hoping that Carlo was watching his back.

From a vantage point behind a protruding brick buttress, he saw Michele di Cicciano pick up one of the glasses and raise it to eye level. “Well, Salvatore…does the
have a new crew member?”

curled one of his plaits around his forefinger again, jutting his chin forward so that his crooked lower teeth overlapped the upper. He stared silently from Michele to Carlo and back for several seconds, and then his eyes crinkled into a smile, and he raised his glass to clink it against Michele's. “Aye,
Sinjur
, I think that we do.”

Carlo's eyes glittered, and he joined in the toast.

Behind his buttress, Marco fingered the bone of his wrist and watched the three men drain their glasses.

As well as being “particular,” as Cristo said he would be, my little Spanish soldier has turned out to be a very secretive person. It's strange, but he has consistently refused to come to my house in the Via San Tommaso, preferring, he says, to site our tumbles on that great gold-hung
lettiera
in his apartments in the Via dei Tribunali. Personally, I would have thought that if secrecy was such an overriding preoccupation, then sneaking out to my house would be much easier and safer for him than allowing me to visit him in his apartment. But he doesn't seem to share my opinion.

Each time I come here, it is always through that same servants' entrance, though since that first day, it has almost always been Vasquez himself letting me in. If a servant ever opens the door, Vasquez appears within seconds and dismisses the servant instantly. I can only imagine that everyone is given strict instructions to keep away, for I never see anyone about; Vasquez has made sure that no one interrupts our hours together, so far, and he has always insisted that I bring none of my own people with me. In fact, since that day when I was bundled into his room by his servants, and turned by them into a gauze-wrapped gift, the palatial apartments at the Via dei Tribunali have apparently been completely deserted, apart from the two of us. We climb the stairs to his rooms together each time, entirely alone, our footsteps echoing in the emptiness. I always feel as if I should be whispering.

***

This afternoon, some three weeks after our first encounter, I have another invitation to dine with
Maestre
Miguel Vasquez.

We eat like royalty at every meeting, Vasquez and I, that's one thing—so I suppose that, despite appearances, there must be servants somewhere in the building preparing the food. Although he is very slight and slim, Vasquez seems to derive almost as much pleasure from food as from fucking. He positively stuffs himself each time we sit down to a meal, whereas I frequently feel rather sick after consuming less than half the amount he does. It
is
always delicious, but it's often far too rich: suckling pig glazed in honey, tiny liver and pork
tomacelli,
oysters, of course—often oysters—the finest pike and crayfish and numberless beautiful bowls of the most fragrant fruits. It's always delicious, but I frequently struggle to finish what I'm given. Thinking about this, if our relationship is to continue, I shall have to start watching how much of it all I actually eat, or I'll end by becoming horribly fat, and then no one will want to bed me at all, and my life as a courtesan will be at an end.

“I'll be back later to bring you home,” Modesto says as we arrive at Vasquez's apartments. He regards me critically, then tucks a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, brushes something from my shoulder and runs a thumb gently along one cheekbone. As he usually does, Modesto has accompanied me from the Via San Tommaso, and he will collect me again later on. Although Vasquez does not care for my manservant to stay on the premises, he hasn't objected so far to Modesto seeing me safely to and from the door.

“Thank you,
caro
. I'll pass on any interesting tidbits as soon as I see you, of course.”

“Hmm.” Modesto sounds grumpy.

“What's the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Well, it's all very well, your regaling me with these scandalous nuggets of tittle-tattle that you pick up in all the various beds you inhabit, Signora—”

I look sideways at him, and raise an eyebrow.

“—but you ought to write it down more regularly. You need to keep that book of yours up to date.”

“I always do.”

“Always?” Modesto looks skeptical. He glares at me for a second and then says, “Well. You make sure you do. It's important—you never know when you might need to draw on that store of tasty little snippets.”

“I promise,
caro
. Everything I tell you, I'll write down as well.” I kiss his cheek as the door is opened by the servant who met me that first time. His name, I have discovered since, is Juan.

To my surprise, rather than wearing his usual smile, Juan looks anxious—almost panicked, in fact. Before I can say a word, he has hustled me inside, nodded farewell to Modesto, and closed the door. “I so sorry, Señora,” he says. “I not know where he is. He not here since hours.”

“Please don't worry. I can wait. I'm sure he'll be here as soon as he can. Shall I just go upstairs and wait for him there?”

Juan accompanies me up to the big golden room. The evening light outside is as yellow as the damask hangings; it won't be long till sunset, and the shadows are rapidly lengthening and deepening to a rich violet. I sit myself down in one of the chairs and watch Juan for a moment or two, as he riddles the fire and lights a few more candles, though some two or three dozen are already burning. Then he pours wine into a large glass goblet, holds out a hand toward it by way of inviting me to drink and, assuring me yet again that Vasquez must surely arrive soon, he backs out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I am alone. As I was that first time. Though this time I have rather more freedom to move about, luckily. I pick up my wine and drink. It is sweet and heavy, and feels warm and thick around my teeth.

Along the length of the credenza, the usual silver-domed dishes have been laid out. Putting down my wine and lifting up the first lid, I see crayfish tails, fanned out prettily and dressed with some sort of sauce. I dip a finger into the sauce and suck it.

At the end of the bed is a chest, whose polished surface gleams, reflecting the glow of the many candles. A stack of papers sits neatly at one end of this chest. I bend to look at the topmost sheet. It's in Spanish. I speak only a few words of Spanish—mostly gleaned from Filippo, in fact—and so, after fingering through the pages for a few moments, I quickly become bored and pat the papers back into a neat pile.

I take my glass up to the top of the bed, wondering if I might save myself some time later by just undressing now and getting under the covers. As it happens, I'm not very hungry, and perhaps, if the
Maestre
finds me already between his sheets, he might not bother with the meal and I won't have to eat anything. This dress fastens at the front, so I can take it off by myself quite easily.

Sitting on the bed, I heel off my shoes.

I am just squinting down at my bodice laces, which seem to have become tangled, when the door bangs open, making me jump. I drop the lace-ends and stand up, feeling as if I have been caught out in a misdemeanor, and thanking heaven that I'm not still fingering my way through the
Maestre
's private papers. I doubt he would take kindly to that sort of intrusion.

Vasquez strides into the room, accompanied by three men. He does not notice me in the shadows of the bed hangings. He sounds furious. Having turned round to face his three companions, he starts shouting at them in Spanish, brandishing in one fist a sheet of paper that has clearly been folded and sealed at some point, but is now open; Vasquez flaps it in the men's direction, his face distorting around his angry words.

I have never seen him like this—in my company he has always been softly spoken, eager, and greedily energetic. I can hardly recognize him.

The tirade lasts a few moments, and then, on what is presumably an order of dismissal, the three men leave the room. Vasquez slams the door behind them and kicks it for good measure. He reads what is written on the sheet, then screws it into a ball. Then, pausing for a moment, as though trying to decide what to do, he smooths the paper out and reads it again, crosses to the end of the bed, and lays the crumpled sheet on top of the pile of papers, through which I was riffling only seconds ago. Then, apparently changing his mind again, he picks the letter up once more, folds it, over and over, and pushes it down into a pocket in his breeches.

He looks up then and sees me watching him.

The fury slides off his face like melted wax, leaving his expression quite blank.

My curiosity is wildly aroused, but of course, I say nothing. Anything other than silence at this moment would be inappropriate. After all, I know why I'm here. Holding his gaze, I sit back down on the edge of the mattress, pulling at my laces. The knot, thank goodness, unravels. Still staring at him, I unfasten everything and push the sleeves off my arms. The bodice falls to the floor.

Vasquez remains silent, standing still and staring at me, as though bewitched, as I run my hands over and around my breasts, and then up into my hair. I unhook my skirts and let them fall from me, leaving me standing before him in my shift. With my gaze fixed upon his face, I walk slowly over to the table and pick up a tall, thin red glass jug which I know contains water. I do not look at what I am doing, but, holding my arm up and still staring at Vasquez, I run my tongue over my lips, tilt my chin up, and pour a steady trickle of water from the jug down over the front of my chemise, moving across from shoulder to shoulder. I have to stifle a little gasp—the water is cold, but in fact it's not unpleasant. The lawn of my shift is instantly transparent; it clings to me like a skin and I feel my nipples contract.

Vasquez's mouth opens and his gaze drops to my breasts. He looks like a hungry dog staring at a bone.

I think he has forgotten his anger.

***

“You poured water all over yourself? Are you still wearing the wet shift? If you are, you'd best get it off quickly,” Modesto says as he closes the front door and we both go down to my kitchen.

“Yes, I am, but it's almost dry now. But, Modesto, listen to this. I've been saving the best little nugget until we got home. Definitely something to put in my book.”

“What? What is it?”

“Sit down, and I'll tell you.”

“Just a moment. Wait till I'm ready,” Modesto says. I sit at the big kitchen table and lean on my elbows. Having filled a small bowl with water, Modesto puts it down on the table, then, picking up a handful of kitchen knives, he sits opposite me and lays them out neatly in front of him. Reaching out behind him to a shelf—tipping his chair back onto two legs in the process—he unhooks a long leather strop from where it hangs on the wall, puts one end of it under one foot, and pulls the other end taut with his left hand. With an expression of tender determination on his face, he dips the blade of the longest knife into the water, and starts whetting it against the strop, first one way, then the other, back and forth, with long, smooth, deliberate strokes. The blade hisses very softly, and a thin lather builds up beneath it as Modesto works. Looking up at me, he pauses in his stropping and says, “Well? I'm ready now.”

I wait for a second, to give my revelation a suitable impact, and then, like dropping a stone into a pond, I say into the expectant silence, “Vasquez fathered a child on a nun.”

Modesto stops what he is doing and stares at me. “
What?
When?”

“I'm not sure—over a year ago, I think.”

“How do you know? What did he say?”

I pause, trying to remember exactly what Vasquez had actually said. “We'd finished, and were lying quietly, side by side. He had his eyes closed and was looking exhausted, when he suddenly turned to me, caught me hard by the wrist, pulled me in toward him and said, ‘You cannot have a child. You must not.'” I imitated Vasquez's breathy, lisping voice.

“He said that? What did you say?”

“Nothing. I just looked at him.”

“And?”

“He said—I think it was more to himself than to me—‘I'd be utterly disgraced if it happens again.'” I run my fingers over my hair; my braids are coming loose, and the whole edifice is about to come crumbling down.

Modesto puffed out a breath. “He must trust you to have admitted such a thing to a courtesan.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure it's trust. I think it's desperation. Anyway, by now, after the shouting and the letter, I was simply bursting with curiosity; I had to know. I asked him—I said, ‘When did it happen before?”'

Modesto smirks at me, shaking his head. “You asked him outright?
Merda!
You have no shame, Signora,” he says. “Not a shred. Did he tell you?”

I shrug, nodding. “It took him several attempts to manage the admission, but in the end he said it. He didn't give me much detail, but, as I understand him, he was newly arrived in Italy, and had been billeted for a couple of weeks near a convent in Milano. The sisters were providing food and drink, apparently, and this particular novice had been detailed to take care of him, and…well, one thing led to another, he said, and she ended up expecting his child.”

Modesto pushes his mouth out in a moue of acceptance of this. “What happened to her?” he says.

“Vasquez didn't say and I didn't like to ask—you see, I do have
some
shame. I said that obviously one cannot be certain about these things, but assured him that I always take every possible precaution, as such an eventuality would be as unwelcome to me as it would be to him—I didn't mention the twins, of course—and he seemed to calm down about it.” I pause, and then add, “I wonder if that letter was about this woman and the child. Maybe that's what made him think about it tonight. What do you think?”

“Whether it was or not, just write all this down, Signora,” Modesto says. “Get your pen out and write down every last word.”

“I will, I promise. And now could you come upstairs with me and help me into some dry clothes,
caro
? I
am
still a little damp.”