What Casanova Told Me (16 page)

June 23, 1797

Moored in Corfu. Bad weather has confined us to ship in the pretty little port of Corfutown. To pass the hours, Monsieur Casanova recounts his escape from the Leads to other passengers who, like me, are spoiling for entertainment. Sparing no detail, my companion describes how he broke through the roof of the Ducal Palace only to realize that the moonlight might reveal Father Balbi and himself to the crowd below. He decided to go on after the clock in the square struck midnight. Our eyes widen as he relives the moment when he coaxed Father Balbi across the roof
on his hands and knees, carefully lowering him through a window with a sheet, and finally, how he nearly fell over the parapet trying to push a ladder into the room below, knowing the priest was ready to abandon him.

Each time Monsieur Casanova comes to the point in the story when he is obliged to let Father Balbi pull him through a broken door in the Ducal Palace, his thighs bloody from the splintered wood, I gasp as if I am hearing the tale for the first time. These dramatic recitations have brought us the attention of a painter from Naples and a Mahometan merchant named Zak.

Every morning, Monsieur Casanova brings cups of frothy chocolate to Zak and asks about Zak’s wife, who keeps below deck with her daughter. Zak says his wife weeps whenever the sea grows rough. So Monsieur Casanova sends her down olives and honey after he finishes “blackening paper,” as he calls his writing. This morning, while I watched, he tore up a page from his journal and tossed it to the sea winds. When I asked him what wish he’d thrown to the Fates, he said, “The hope you will think well of me, Miss Adams.”

His words made me laugh, and he insisted I join him for tea with Domenico Gennaro, the landscape painter, and his interpreter, Manolis Papoutsis.

Monsieur Papoutsis is from a wealthy Greek family in Venice, and like many educated Greeks, he speaks French, the universal language of Europe. He wears a cocked hat and frock coat over long pantaloons drawn up a little above the ankle. Thus, his top half resembles a French gentleman while his baggy breeches evoke a
pasha.
Monsieur Casanova says he wears a fashionable coat so he will be well treated by the Turks, the conqueror of his people.

Monsieur Papoutsis is agreeable enough but Monsieur Gennaro is a gloomy, shambling creature with a belly and spade-shaped beard. He barely spoke to me when I entered his cabin, but as soon as Monsieur Papoutsis filled our cups with wine, he relaxed and showed us his tools: the telescope for enlarging his view of the classical sculptures, and the numerous pencils and knives for cutting his canvases—some as long as eighteen feet—on which he paints his panoramas.

He has been commissioned by a wealthy merchant in Naples to do oil paintings of the Acropolis, and he expounded on the ideal of “noble simplicity and calm grandeur” in the art of the ancients. His talk reminded me of that rascal Pozzo, who cheated Father, and I soon grew weary of it. It was only a matter of time before Monsieur Casanova held out the miniature of Aimée Dubucq de Rivery.

“The long torso is in the French style,” Monsieur Gennaro said. “And I admire your portrait’s epic sweep. You see, Giacomo? The details of slaves picking cotton in the background?”

“The château belongs to the family of Dubucqs,” Monsieur Casanova replied. “Aimée liked to describe the charm of its Atlantic views.”

I hadn’t noticed the slaves in the background, and I leaned forward to see what the painter meant by “epic sweep.”

Monsieur Papoutsis asked for Aimée’s story, and Monsieur Casanova explained that Aimée’s fate had been predicted by an island soothsayer: her cousin Josephine was to marry an emperor, and Aimée to command a palace without enjoying public honours. It is many years since the prophecies were made but today Josephine is the consort of Napoleon, while Aimée is the wife of an Ottoman sultan.

“In her last letter,” Monsieur Casanova said, “my darling told me we shared a star-crossed love—”

“Those are not Aimée’s words,” I interrupted gently. “She wrote, ‘We share so much, dearest love … two star-crossed fates and ardent hearts who cannot be truly happy without the other to love.’”

My friend gave me a pleased look. He then placed his head in his hands and groaned sadly. “Do you think I am worthy of such a woman?” I have never known anyone whose emotions so vividly visit his brow. One moment his face rages like a summer storm, and the next it is as peaceful as early morning light. Perhaps it is a Venetian trait.

“Birth bestows the same value on each of us,” I said.

To my surprise, Monsieur Casanova and the painter guffawed. “Miss Adams, your New World charm is a tonic for old vagabonds like Domenico and myself.”

I did not have the courage to ask him my own question—the one that most concerns me: does he understand that Aimée, too, has aged? That she will no longer be the girl he met so many years ago? I fear my new friend makes no allowance for time and sees in his mind’s eye the youthful figure in Nantes. I curse my narrow, republican heart—by that, I mean my urge to tell my friends where in their lives danger lies. And yet I admire those who act boldly and foolishly—who dash my warnings to the ground and stamp on my fears (which Father would call “trustworthy insights”) and so prove me wrong.

I am too homesick for lessons learned.

June 24, 1797

I cannot fathom Greek men.

I awoke last night to loud sounds in the hall by my cabin and quickly grew alert. Over the noise of shuffling steps, I heard the deep, guttural tones that seem characteristic of Greek men, or at least of the sailors around us. Whether the Greeks are more virile than Americans I do not know, but their gruff voices sound menacing, as if being a man means they must speak from the bottom of their lungs. I was searching for Father’s pistol when my door opened a crack and the baggy silhouette of Manolis Papoutsis came billowing towards me in the moonlight.

“Dear lady, I know how sad you are,” he said. He arranged his features into a smile that perhaps he thought I would find pleasing. “Ouzo will help your broken heart.”

“You big gilly, begone!”

He paused, swaying wildly, then he toppled forward, whether from drink or desire I do not know, and for a moment his shaggy head with its black curls rested on my breast, and he began to kiss me where I have not been kissed before. I gave him a heave, and he fell onto the floor muttering Greek oaths.

“What are you doing, Papoutsis!” The figure of Monsieur Casanova loomed in the door frame. He pointed sternly to the hall and my intruder gathered himself up and hurried from the room.

“I apologize for him, Miss Adams. When I declared my love for Aimée, he assumed you were no longer under my protection.”

I was astounded that an educated Greek like Manolis Papoutsis thought I would accept his advances. When
I mentioned the foolishness of what he had said about the ouzo, Monsieur Casanova warned me not to believe anything a Greek tells me. But the Greeks gave the world democracy so one man’s behaviour will not change my admiration for them.

Lesson Learned: In a strange land, there are strange surprises.

June 25, 1797

Dear Isaac
,

I am writing to remind you to send on the herbs I need to fortify my health, as I am hard pressed to keep up with my young companion.

We have remained in the harbour of Corfutown these few days. And today the beautiful Puritan girl came on deck, pale-faced but in a better humour. She spotted me at my writing desk and talked with pleasing honesty about her life. She is American but well versed in the ways of civilized people after her months in Paris.

She told me that it is common “back home” for young Yankee girls to play quoits and do farm work like field hands. Judging from what I saw today, she was overused in that regard. As we talked, we took off our jackets, glad to catch the sun. It has stormed here since we arrived, so bad weather, along with an old gambling debt, has kept me from going ashore. (There is a certain wife of a certain infantry captain I have no desire to meet again, in Heaven or Corfu.)

Miss Adams’ proportions weren’t lost on our interpreter, Manolis Papoutsis, who clearly has a weakness for large women. I was obliged to scold him for going into her room, but in truth,
I don’t blame him. Miss Adams reminds me of the beautiful girl whose portrait I keep on my watch chain. You like to scold me for loving a chimera, Isaac, but you have always been cautious about affairs of the heart. How else could you succeed for so long at your spy work?

Miss Adams speaks several European languages—a rarity for an American. When I met Benjamin Franklin in Paris, his command of the French tongue was scandalous. At any rate, our young stowaway is already showing an interest in the Greek of the common folk and speaks highly of their dubious race for giving us democracy.

“We Adamses believe in the democracy of humankind,” Miss Adams announced when I told her I was born into a family of actors. As if we have not seen enough of the democracy of humankind at the Bastille! But at this moment it is not my social standing that is bothersome. I confess I’m not recovered from the last dose of love’s folly although I begin each day, as you directed, with powder of rhinoceros horn in my chocolate and trust my vigour will increase. Good chemist that you are, would you ship a carton of boiled kelp from the stones of Venice to me in Athens? The best grows under the Rialto Bridge, next to the stall of the fishmongers. If this should prove difficult, I suggest packets of comfrey, lobelia and chaparral—as many as you can find in the herb market where I buy my theriaca. I am in need of an invigorating tonic so that I can enjoy my last great adventure. I intend to seek moments of
jouissance
wherever I can find them. Bless the French for their wit with language. Who else would invent a single verb to express joy in reading and sexual congress?

And so, once again a thousand thanks for releasing me from Waldstein’s clutches. I am overjoyed to be travelling. I had begun to forget I am supposed to be a man known for bringing happiness to the fair sex. We must grow old as we see fit and not
follow society’s superstitious notions—at twenty a rakehell, at thirty a paterfamilias, at sixty a corpse loved by maggots. What cowardly nonsense! I am not dead yet.

Yours,
Jacob Casanova

Postscript

Dear friend, I haven’t forgotten the warning about sports that overtax a man’s strength. But I see no reason not to take aphrodisiacs with my other medicines. I intend to try the nightshade plant popular with Greek ladies as an aid “for discovering treasure.” An inviting phrase, is it not? I have met an interesting woman aboard ship. She and her husband Zak are sailing with us to Athens. Does the veil create the longing? Or is it the longing that creates the veil?

June 29, 1797

We arrive at the antique land of the Gods!

Today we sailed into the port of Piraeus, Greece. It was so hot the sea shimmered before us in gauzy white strips. I perspired, wrapped in Monsieur Casanova’s thick cloak, which he told me to wear so as not to draw unwanted attention to myself. He warns me that encounters with the Mussulmani, as he calls the Turks, will bring graver problems than those caused by a fop like Manolis Papoutsis. According to my companion, a Mussulmano tortures those who displease him by inserting an oiled pole through the nether parts; the pole does its cruel work slowly and exits through the mouth.

The notion was so unpleasant I suspected him of making it up to scare me, and I laughed. He laughed himself and said how good it was to see me happy, and I told him the weather has improved my spirits. I feel as if I’ve left Father at the bottom of a briny pool and swum up into the hot golden light. Is it so easy to find happiness? By stepping into another world, one encounters a new self? Surely not, and yet this is how I feel this sunny June morning.

From the deck, I could see no harbours or inlets in which to anchor our vessel—only solitary trees that dotted the stony cliffs like the hairs on a man’s beard. I knew the great city of Athens lay a few miles beyond, yet it was impossible to imagine humans living in this lonely place. And when the wind came up, I thought the captain was delivering us to our deaths. I stood with Monsieur Casanova, who seemed amused by my fear that we would be blown off course.

At the last moment, as the cliffs grew larger and larger, the captain gave in to the prevailing winds, and our craft
swung south around a tall headland. We found ourselves at the mouth of a narrow harbour. The wind was still forceful, and the shore was rushing towards us.

“Prosohi, kopela!”
Casanova motioned for me to step behind him as the great sails were unfurled. And to my relief, our boat nosed easily into place next to several merchant ships whose bows rose and fell in the waves. The harbour of Piraeus must be very deep because the prow of our ship almost touched the shore.

When the sailors threw out their ropes, Monsieur Casanova began to strap his effects together: the collapsible writing box on which he is composing the story of his life, a large trunk, a personal plate chest and a small crate of books from Count Waldstein’s library. I stood idly watching as I had taken little with me to avoid arousing the suspicions of Francis—only Father’s pistol, which I keep in my stays, my journal and some walking gowns.

Below the ship a few of the passengers were starting to disembark. Zak, the Mahometan, was staggering under the weight of a sack he was carrying over to a breakwater wall. He returned to the ship for another and laid it beside the first, then, stooping, he gathered stones from the ground. As I watched, he threw a rock the size of his hand at them. Monsieur Papoutsis, making his way down the gangplank ahead of us, shouted angrily at the man.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“There is no time to explain, Miss Adams,” Monsieur Casanova said. “Wait here.”

What followed next was confusing since it was impossible to see the goings-on from the height of the deck. On the wharf, all was noisy pandemonium. By the time I found the courage to disregard my companion’s instructions, the
crowd was going about its business again, and Monsieur Casanova and Monsieur Papoutsis were talking to a man in a long-tailed tunic and pointed shoes. I guessed he was the customs official, because he was holding their papers, though gaping rudely at Monsieur Casanova. I do not think the man had ever seen a gentleman in a tie wig before. On the wharf, Zak’s sacks lay in shredded bundles, while his daughter, a girl of perhaps twelve or thirteen years, stood clinging to her mother, her look of terror heartbreaking to see.

Then came the moment I dreaded: as I walked down the gangplank to the wharf, the official raked his eyes over me as if I was a leg of mutton. I realized he was offended that I was not wearing a veil, but before I could explain he grabbed my hands and began to examine my palms. To my surprise, he flung them down disgustedly and Monsieur Casanova stepped forward, liberally dispensing silver coins into his palm. Imitating my friend, the fellow executed a sloppy bow and, through a series of hand gestures, made it clear we were to go with him to one of the whitewashed shacks along the shore.

There the customs man, along with Monsieurs Gennaro and Papoutsis, sat on its veranda floor drinking and eating what appeared to be the burnt tentacles of a dead sea-creature. I refused their food and sat huddled in my long cloak until Monsieur Casanova took pity on me and excused us, carrying his small plate chest with him. When we were out of earshot, he explained that pirates make a profitable trade out of capturing English aristocrats disguised as commoners. The pirates recognize them by their soft hands and sell them back to their families for large sums. He said my callused palms, a legacy of Aunt
Abby’s farm, led the official to think my family was poor.

“And Zak? Why was he throwing rocks at a sack?”

“His wife and daughter were in those sacks.”

“But why?” I cried.

“He imagined they had offended Allah.” The irritation in his voice stopped further questions, and I guessed there was more to the incident. At last, he found us shade under a flowered tree. It was a pleasant spot on the shore of a freshwater stream. Nearby, a group of young women stood washing their clothes in this natural tub, and farther down the shore a handful of men were swimming in the sea. Their voices flew back and forth across the swollen green waves like the noise of sea birds. I thought I had never heard a happier sound.

Monsieur Casanova brought out a loaf of bread and a large chunk of homemade cheese. He unfolded a large linen cloth from his plate chest and distributed the simple fare on two china plates. Even in the thundering heat of a Greek afternoon, my new friend retains his courtly delicacy.

“What a difficult morning! Let’s enjoy ourselves, Miss Adams.” He held up a bottle of pale golden wine for my inspection and poured us two glasses. “This wretched retsina is an acquired taste,” he said, swirling his wine. “The Greeks poisoned it with pine sap so the Romans would not drink it. Then they learned to like it this way.”

He drank, twisting his lips into a sour face. I did the same, and the shock forced me to put down my glass. As I lifted my eyes, I saw Manolis Papoutsis and several Greeks emerging from the sea, their hair flattened against their necks, the water dripping from their unclothed bodies. My young cousins swam bare in the ponds near Quincy, but none of them looked like the wild, ape-like creatures before me.

“Why are you frowning?” Monsieur Casanova asked.

“I fear our bodies do not live up to the beauty of our souls.” I knew I sounded earnest, like Father when he spoke of philosophical matters, and I expected my companion to laugh. Instead he smiled at me.

“Ah, Miss Adams, our bodies are how we reach divine understanding.”

“The baseness of our physical natures distracts us from true friendship and love, monsieur.”

“I, too, thought like this when I was young—that I should strive for some ideal not of my own making. Now I prefer to seek
jouissance
.”

“Jouissance?”

“Do you remember what your beloved Seneca said about our physical natures?”

“That we should learn self-restraint?”

“No, dear girl. He said that God infuses all matter in the natural world, including our physical selves. Surely, if God is in nature, he is in our bodies.”

“You confuse me.”

“To a good end.
Jouissance
is the moment we all long for. Are you keeping yourself chaste for the marriage bed?”

Down the shore, the young women were trooping across the sand with their laundry, their long walking dresses and embroidered shawls rippling in the afternoon breeze. In Quincy, I longed for a family of my own yet no suitor except Francis had come forward. Now, sitting by the sea with Monsieur Casanova, it struck me that I was glad I was not washing clothes like these Greek women whose forebears had done the same thing for thousands of years, though no one, not even antique travel writers like Pausanias, had bothered to describe their labours.

“I would be unhappy confined to household duties in Massachusetts.”

“Ah! And love? Would it make you happy?”

“Love brings domestic servitude and sometimes death. My mother died in childbirth.”

“Dear girl, there is no need for that to happen to you! If you practise what I teach,” he added.

“What are you speaking of?”

“You will see. You have a world of pleasure ahead of you.”

I shook my head, but he had excited my curiosity.

“I swear the mode of pleasure is infallible, Miss Adams. Its power lies in this: recognize the beauty of the opposite sex, and they will recognize yours.”

“Is it so simple?”

“Yes, all great truths are.” He paused. “If you enjoy men’s charms, they will enjoy yours. But you must accept your own beauty first.”

The wine tasted less bitter on my tongue, and I found myself touched by my companion’s words. Still, he does not understand the burden My Poor Friend poses.

“I fear it is not possible for a woman such as I to be so generous—with myself.”

“In time, you will learn. Women, too, can enjoy their bodies. In this, you are no different from men.”

“I do not believe there are such women.”

“I have met them.” He stared wistfully up at a cloud drifting over our heads, ensnared by a memory. Then he laughed. “But you are weary after your journey. This must wait for another time. Your are coaxing me into giving away my secrets!”

“And you?” I persisted, unable to stop myself. “Do you accept your body the way you accept the body of your lover?”

He fixed me with his hooded eyes. “I am no longer young. That is something else again.”

“Surely, if what you say is true and you ask me to believe it of myself, then it extends to those who have gone beyond youth?”

He didn’t answer. And for the first time I wondered if he had doubts about seeing his beloved Aimée. But when I asked my question a second time, I heard the low whistle of snores. This is how it is with Jacob Casanova. When I expect him to look old, he appears vigorous, and when I decide he is younger than he has any right to be, he looks frail, like the old gentleman asleep on the sand beside me, happily oblivious of the ant crawling over his buckled shoe.