Votive (28 page)

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.

I
T 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.

The mist clung to us with damp purpose, adding to the weight of our clothes, making me bitterly cold. The air was so still, a precursor to the snow that would later flutter and fall. Just as my teeth began to chatter and I’d lost the feeling in the end of my nose, we finally turned off the Circolo Canal and into one of the bigger waterways that also sliced through the city. Here too elegant, multi-storey casas with their arched windows and engraved facades loomed above us, appearing – impossibly – to float on the dark green waters. Craft lined the sides of the canal, canvas covers securely in place, bobbing against their palines. It was almost mesmerising watching Salzi’s oar split the water, hearing snatches of song, voices, the thump of cargo, the slap of waves and the cheer of happy men. The further we went, the noisier it became, and I realised with growing excitement that we were heading for the mercato, the major marketplace of Serenissima – a place I’d heard so much about, but never before visited. I leant forward, willing the gondola to go faster as anticipation surged through me.

Salzi steered carefully, weaving us through the now heavy traffic. I forgot my earlier instructions not to twist my head and instead looked in every direction.

There were hundreds of gondolas drifting, bumping and pushing past each other. Some rested against water-stairs, emptying their passengers onto the fondamenta. Others aimed for little jetties, remaining still long enough to either take on people or offload them. The cold disappeared in the warmth of chatter, laughter, and human enterprise.

In moments, we were out of the gondola and on the fondamenta ourselves. My zoccoli, which were at least fifteen inches high, enabled me to see in all directions. Domed by the grey blanket of mist that hovered a respectable distance above us, the mercato spread out in an explosion of colour and sound.

It was a series of wide calles, lined by two-and three-storey casas that leant together like conspirators, blocking the light, while below them occupying every square inch of space were stalls, with vendors behind, beside and in front of them shouting the benefits of their wares. Women with baskets over their arms argued with the men and fondled the fruits and other produce, adding to the din. We pushed through the crowd, Hafeza and Rosalina in front, Giaconda beside me and Salzi bringing up the rear.

Moving slowly through the throng, we encountered dirty urchins, giggling at their game, scurrying past my skirts, sweeping them in their wake. Stallholders promising customers the best deals blocked my path, waving their produce beneath my nose, cajoling, pleading with me to buy. Salzi would step forward and shoo them away. I saw other courtesans, the hair on their heads as high and elaborate as their zoccoli, their pale faces deeply rouged, beauty spots prominent on their cheeks or necks. None was alone, but accompanied by servants or, in some cases, patrons. All were masked.

There were dwarves, nuns from the convents, tradespeople of all description milling, shopping, and gawking. Upon togati and doublets, I saw many a woven crest, a pang of recognition making me draw breath. Chandlers, candlemakers, butchers, tanners, paper and maskmakers all mingled with fishmongers, fruiterers, fabric and spice merchants. Perfumes filled the air and faces of different colours wandered past, oblivious to my stares. I saw men blacker than Hafeza,
their skin so dark, they looked like shadows in our midst, their wide, white smiles splitting their faces, bringing them to life. There were people with eyes the shape of almonds and beautiful skins the colour of a golden sunset. Their voices were musical as they chanted rather than spoke. I saw hunchbacks, people pushing against the throng to touch their deformity for good luck. Cripples, some like Jacopo, only much worse, limped by. There were beggars, nobiles, mothers, children and even, my heart almost stopped, a real-life harlequin. He pirouetted in a small space in the corner of a campo, then dropped to his knees on the stones and began plucking a mandolin. Soldi were thrown to him, bouncing off the cobbles, but not before a dwarf, also dressed in the geometrical patterns of his master, and hidden beside a floppy-eared donkey with huge panniers, detached himself from the beast and scooped them up, encouraging further generosity with a series of clumsy cartwheels.

We continued to press ahead. I glanced at the stalls – there were fruits of all shades and shapes on display, mounds of spices that looked like vivid dust that could blow away in the wind. I inhaled their pungency and tasted them deep in my throat. A man dressed in a turban and shiny robes beckoned us to try the liquid in his bizarrely shaped vials. Perfumes mixed in a wild infusion and I tried to catch the different odours and place them. My head spun and my heart soared. I wanted to drink this moment in, sup on this melange of wonders.

As we continued, a juggler appeared out of nowhere, flinging flaming torches into the air. The crowd gasped before breaking into applause as he first spun them so quickly they formed a circle of light and then caught them, one by one, dousing the flames.

I was still trying to see what he would do next when I was steered into a nearby series of rami, up some wooden
stairs and then whisked across a bridge. On the other side of the Circolo, the noise and number of people diminished and then completely vanished. We wandered briskly along the empty fondamenta and I wondered where we were going. I looked at the signs hanging over the shops and recognised the insignia of the tailor – the golden thread, reel and scissors. We had crossed into the Tailors Quartiere.

We turned off the main canal and into a dark ramo. Light did not reach this narrow lane. Giaconda drew to a halt before an unremarkable shop. Its window was streaked with grime, making it hard to see inside. A cat snaked past the door, rubbing its scrawny body along the wood, yawning as it did and revealing its sharp little teeth.

Before Salzi could reach the door, it was flung open, and standing there was the strangest man. Dressed in a light-coloured togati, which in itself was unusual, he wore a yellow cap upon his head. The sleeves of his shirt were the same mustard colour, only the cuffs were stuck full of pins and an assortment of ribbons. He was as short as he was wide, barely reaching my elbows. He had deeply hooded eyes and a nose that resembled a beak – it was long and very narrow. I wondered if he had to inhale harder than most in order simply to breathe.

‘Buon giorno! Signorina Maleovelli, how wonderful it is to see you!’ His voice belied his looks. It was resonant and thickly accented. There was something hypnotic about it. ‘Come in, come in!’ He bowed so low, his large but slender hands scraped the floor which, I noted as I lifted my skirt and stepped over the threshold, was scrupulously clean.

Only Giaconda and I entered the premises. The others waited outside, which was just as well, because the interior was cramped. I dropped my dress and looked around. In every direction there were yards of fabric, stacked in bales, rolls and simply hanging in lengths across every wall and
surface. It was like a chest of soft jewels – dazzling. This was also because the shop was illuminated by dozens of candles, good-quality ones that exuded no smoke or odour. Positioned so as not to pose a danger to the materials and sitting in long, silver holders that had wax catchers at the base, they added grandeur to the place that I would not have assumed from its exterior.

‘I received your message, Signorina, and I have what you requested.’ He bowed again. ‘Is this the lady in question?’ He tipped his head at me quizzically.

‘Sì, Signor Tedeschi. This is my father’s ward, Tarlo Maleovelli. The cloth I asked you to procure is for a dress I want you to make in order that we can formally introduce her to society.’

The old man bowed again and nodded vigorously. ‘A dress? Sì, sì.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I can see why you have gone to such expense, shall I say, taken such a risk. She is worth it, no? What a lovely shape, what fine bones.’

Giaconda did not answer; she simply inclined her head slightly.

I continued to gaze around the shop, looking at the sumptuous material, trying to pretend that Signor Tedeschi’s scrutiny didn’t bother me. I recognised velvet, silk, wool, damask with its heavy patterns – all expensive textiles. One aspect of my education had not been wasted.

‘Well, Signor Tedeschi, where is it? We do not have time to loiter,’ said Giaconda brusquely.

‘Aspettare, wait, please,’ said Signor Tedeschi and plunged into the fabric, appearing to be consumed by its soft maw. On closer inspection, I saw there was a door hiding under the impromptu curtains. He returned in seconds carrying a long roll of what looked like spun gold.

Under the gentle light of the candles, the bolt shimmered like molten metal, reflecting the flickering flames and casting
a wide halo. It was stunning, and I found myself lost for words. I could sense Giaconda’s eyes on me from behind her mask. ‘You like this, Tarlo?’

‘It is … beyond lovely.’

Giaconda smiled. ‘Molto bene, Signor Tedeschi. We will take it.’

The Signor made a sound that might have been delight.

‘Included in the price we agreed upon is the making of the dress, sì?’ added Giaconda.

‘Sì, Signorina, it’s all included in the quote I gave you.’

‘Bene, bene. I expect you at the casa tomorrow morning, then. My maid has some initial measurements for you to start with. I also want you to follow my design to the last detail, is that clear? I will provide you with the jewels you are to sew onto the dress tomorrow.’

My eyes widened in astonishment. Jewels on the dress? The Maleovellis were sparing no expense – this was to be a grand introduction indeed. I wondered where and when it was going to occur. My heart started to beat faster at the thought.

‘It is clear, Signorina. This is a very exciting commission. You honour me with your patronage.’

‘Only so long as this is kept secret, Signor Tedeschi. If I should find that one word of this escapes, then not only will you never have our patronage again, you will no longer enjoy the business of anyone in Serenissima.’

‘I understand, Signorina. I am always discreet.’ The small man regarded Giaconda with knowing eyes.

‘Sì. That you are, Signor.’ Giaconda reached out and touched the old man’s face. His eyes lit up.

He took her hand and kissed her glove. Giaconda pulled it away with what appeared to be reluctance. ‘We will start tomorrow,’ agreed Signor Tedeschi. ‘When do you require the dress?’

‘By the end of the week.’

‘The end of the week?’ Signor Tedeschi staggered backwards into his bales, clutching one to prevent himself from falling, the other screwing up his shirt over his heart. ‘Signorina, non é possible!’

Giaconda reached into her purse and pulled out a small leather pouch. It bulged like a bag of nuts. She held it out in front of her. ‘I think you’ll find it’s not only possible, but it will be done.’