What Casanova Told Me (9 page)

May 5, 1797

Today I was witness to the fall of an empire.

I walked back to my hotel this morning through a vast, sorrowing crowd who watched in silence as the three Inquisitors of Venice were led in chains through the Piazza San Marco. They were taken to a gaol on San Giorgio Maggiore on General Bonaparte’s orders; Father told me it was the Doge himself who issued the command, as most of the French army is still camped far away on the western edge of the lagoons.

At least this means there will not be battles with the French in Venice. The Doge and his Grand Council have surrendered their city. Prisoners, including the old Greek whom Father and I saw yesterday, stood with the silent
crowd. The French have thrown open all the gaols and these fortunate wretches can hardly stand upright.

When I arrived back at our hotel, Monsieur Casanova was waiting in my room. How he persuaded the concierge to let him in, I do not know. I found him sitting at my desk, Finette asleep by his feet. I thought of what people would say about the impropriety of entertaining a man in my bedroom, but a sly voice whispered: Asked For, do not fear. Although he is a few inches taller, you have the advantage of youth and can easily outwrestle him. This is a trustworthy feature of My Poor Friend: my muscles are as strong as a boy’s from cutting pond ice in Massachusetts.

“Ah, Miss Adams.” My visitor rose from his seat, and I caught the scent of rosewater as he bowed to kiss my hand.

“Such formality is out of fashion, monsieur,” I said, shaking his hand firmly. Like titles and court wigs, I thought.

“I do my best to uphold the standards of polite society,” he smiled. “Please forgive me for intruding. I hoped in the privacy of your quarters I could tell you the story of the woman in the portrait.”

After a moment’s hesitation, I nodded, and we seated ourselves. I was aware of his scrutiny as I removed the cape Father had bought for me in Paris. It was made of blue silk with brilliant quilted thread in the modern style.

“I admire your
zenda.
And the Grecian banding on your gown.”

I thanked him, surprised that a gentleman who still uses dress wigs would care for my republican taste.

“Where is your friend from?” I hid my nervousness by asking a question, an old childhood habit.

“Aimée was born on the island of Martinique into the noble French family of the Dubucqs.”

“Ah, so she was affected by the Terror!”

“Her convent in Nantes was closed early, because of political agitation in the countryside. She was on her way back to Martinique when she disappeared, travelling with her childhood nurse, Da. May I?”

He pointed at the water pitcher. I nodded and Monsieur Casanova poured us each a glass of water. It had become very warm in my little room.

“First, will you grant an old gentleman a simple courtesy? I long to hear a female voice speaking the words of my beloved.”

With a theatrical shake of his lace-trimmed wrist, he unfolded several wrinkled sheets of writing-paper and handed them to me.

The letter was in French and the penmanship delicate. There was neither date nor address but I did not think much about it because my visitor was talking again in his gravelly voice.

“We met only once, in 1784, five years before the Revolution. Nantes, like many cities on the French coast, was feeling the anger of the peasants.” He gave me a sweet smile. “But I cannot complain about the turmoil of those times, Miss Adams, since the Revolution which I abhor made it possible for Aimée and me to find one another. Will you begin?”

“My French is not good enough to read your letter out loud, monsieur. “My father and I speak a Boston twaddle.”

He turned on me one of his heavy-lidded glances. “And I speak French like a Venetian. Does my accent mean that I should censor myself?”

I shook my head. It was true, the old gentleman spoke French with an odd, lilting accent, emphasizing the second-last syllable of his words. I had noticed his peculiar tic when we met on the public barge.

“Will you grant me this favour, Miss Adams?”

Slightly breathless, I began:

My beloved Giacomo
,

I write to you no longer as Mademoiselle Aimée Dubucq de Rivery but as Nakshidil Sultan, wife of Abd-ul-Hamid I, the Sultan of all Turkey. The arrangements for smuggling this letter out of the Seraglio have been made with the greatest difficulty, although luckily I have made a friend in the harem, born a Christian like myself. She is a Georgian and the mother of Selim, who stands next in line to the throne. When I told her my story, she took pity on me and agreed to send this letter with a Jewish doctor who visits the harem to help the women with their pregnancies. I am well, despite the way my life has changed since you and I met. I was travelling to Martinique and the arranged marriage that had been prepared for me after the death of my parents, bringing such sorrow to both of us. How could I know the remorseless Fates were negotiating an arrangement more powerful than anything my relatives could devise?

Our ship crashed into a sea gale as we passed the Strait of Gibraltar and its seams began to open. As Da and I spoke our Hail Marys, a Spanish ship rescued us. You can imagine what rejoicing followed, although Da and I stayed below deck to avoid unpleasantness. But stranger events were to come. As we neared the Palma di Majorca, our Spanish vessel was attacked by Algerian pirates. Da and I were taken aboard as prisoners to be sold into slavery. A change of circumstance that by now may have killed Da—I have not seen my old nurse since Algiers where we
were sold to different bidders. I was bought by Baba Mohammed Ben Osman, the King of the Barbary Corsairs, a terrible old man who Da thought was sure to ravish me and indeed when he took me to his quarters, he made a great show before his servants of leading me into his bedroom. But once there, the old pirate poured me heavily sugared tea and announced he was going to make me the Empress of all Turkey—and himself a fortune.

Dearest love, you may imagine my bewilderment over such a suggestion. What fools these Barbary men are over fair hair! The flaxen locks of my Viking forebears saved my life. And I cannot help thinking, Giacomo, that because their blood thunders in my veins, I have been able to meet my terrible fate with courage.

The old pirate outfitted me with clothes and jewels and sent me in a magnificent ship as a present to the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire. I was received there by the chief of eunuchs in the Seraglio, and shortly thereafter brought before Sultan Abdul. He seemed delighted by my appearance, although he spoke no French. He sent me off for a hot bath in the palace and when I was washed and oiled and refreshed, a servant took me into a large room where veiled women sat on floor sofas eating a meal of quails and rice. I was greeted by Selim’s mother, the kindly grey-haired lady who has become my friend. She had recently lost a child and was dressed in the plain jacket and pantaloons of a commoner to show she was in mourning.

We ate pilaf with a flavoured dish of minced meat rolled up in vine leaves and served in tomato sauce. Then came little birds toasted on a skewer and lastly, candied and dried fruits. My new friend presented me with two handsome bracelets. Before I could thank her, a servant appeared and led me along a passage called the Golden Path.

How did I survive that night? The answer is simple. I looked at this old Turk, my husband, whose breath smells like musty
clothing left in attics, whose skin is as papery as parchment, this soft, puffed-up creature who, the women whispered to me, has been weakened by lazing about the harem—and then I closed my eyes and imagined he was you.

I heard a gentle moan and looked over at my guest.

I have never seen a man give way to tears, at least not a man of his stature and age, and I found myself deeply saddened.

“I am very sorry,” I whispered. “Should I stop?”

“It does my heart good to hear you. It is like hearing

Aimée herself. Please don’t stop, Miss Adams.”

Oh my darling, several weeks before I encountered the Sultan, I realized that I am pregnant with your child. If only you could rescue me—you who escaped from the worst prison in the Venetian republic. I am miserable in the world of the Turks. The Seraglio despite its beauty and luxury—its grilled rooms, its aviaries and incomprehensible Arabic libraries, its lovely baths, its kitchen with the great ice pits made from snow that was wrapped in flannel and brought on muleback from Mount Olympus for the making of sherbet and other cooling delicacies—the Seraglio is as much a prison to me as your Venetian Leads.

The Sultan’s wife has promised to help me escape. For the moment, do not write. It is too dangerous. One of the odalisques who was “in his eye,” as the women say, disappeared last week. Some of the wives whisper that she was put in a sack and thrown into the Bosphorus because she was having an affair with a French trader. I cannot afford to be careless with my affections, as she was. I intend to live, dearest one, to return to you.

Your Aimée

Postscript

It is months since I began this letter to you. The birth of our son was a strange affair, Giacomo. They placed me in the royal birthing chair—made of walnut and shaped like a horseshoe with a plank seat, while the midwife chanted “Allah is most great.” When all was over and our son, Mahmud, had arrived, these superstitious women placed three sesame seeds on his navel to protect him from the evil eye, put me to bed under gold shawls, and set the Koran wrapped in a silk bag on my stomach. To celebrate Mahmud’s birth, my husband, the Sultan, believing your son is his, ordered cages of nightingales to be hung in the groves of lilacs. On his command, lights were set near enormous glass globes of coloured water in order to reflect the gushing fountains of the palaces. If I hadn’t been miserable, I might have enjoyed all this beauty, but the truth is, my soul, that I thought only of you. No one knows of my bewildered, angry feelings. The child is sitting in the lap of his taya, who is feeding him marzipan water to keep him calm. He is smiling at me as I write.

“She gave birth to your son! He will be a young boy by now. You must find them both,” I said, thinking of the loneliness of growing old without the one you love. Father says I wish to deny the nature of the universe because I want to keep those dear to me from experiencing sorrow. He is fond of quoting Ecclesiastes: “to everything there is a season … a time to be born and a time to die …” But Father became an Atheist after Mother’s death and has no right to quote the Bible to make his arguments. “I could help you.”

“You would help me?” he asked softly.

“Gladly. You should rescue her from that terrible world.”

“Perhaps that world is no more terrible than ours.” He
turned so that I could not see his expression. When he faced me again, I extended my hand and shook his firmly.

“Your French is good for an American,” he said, smiling. “May I come another time? I have a second letter I would like you to read for me.”

I hesitated, thinking of what Father would say about the impropriety of meeting in my rooms.

“Perhaps we should meet in a café.”

I thought a look of disappointment crossed his face but it was gone so quickly that I could not be sure.

“A café will be noisy. But I understand how our friendship could cause problems for you and a man in your father’s position. So let us meet by the Florian at sunrise, while Venice sleeps.”

“It will be an adventure,” he continued. “At that hour, the cats are on the prowl and it is a marvel to watch them chase the pigeons who fly off in great clouds of feathers.” I agreed since I was eager to see the grandeur of the great square empty of all souls except the four-footed citizens of Venice. And, after loaning me Aimée’s letter so I could enter it here, he bowed to me and left. Finette began to yelp for her master. I put the dog on my lap and brushed her coat with the implement he had left for that purpose. It was touching to see the melancholy in the small creature’s face, ordinarily so alert, and I thought of the love its owner has
for his pet and of the hopeless circumstances surrounding the mother of his child. If only I
could
help him.

Ah, I have begun to believe my new friend is who he says he is. Am I too trusting a soul?

A Fruitful Thought for the Day: Trust must sometimes be rewarded, or it wouldn’t be cherished by the human heart.

May 6, 1797

Finette is gone and I am bereft.

This morning, I went to the Piazza San Marco at dawn and he was not there. I saw two French soldiers on a ladder, changing the hands on the clock to French time, whose day starts at midnight as it does in America. Before the arrival of the French, the day began here at dusk. The sight of their soldiers moving the hands of the old Venetian clock distressed me, and for the first time I understood I am in a conquered city. As the faint light increased, small, dark feline forms began flitting like smoky wisps through the columns of the arcade, but there was no sign of Monsieur Casanova. So at least he had not lied to me about the cats. I was filled with a longing I do not understand. It seemed to me my emotion was connected to Monsieur Casanova. I sensed his presence in the piazza, just as I did that first evening when he followed me up the tower, and I had the notion he was directing my thoughts and feelings.

I set out for home in the murky early light. Small boats had begun to crowd the docks by the Molo and fishwives with brightly painted shoes hurried past me carrying their baskets. When I reached my lodgings, Finette was gone.
The concierge told me he had seen a tall man in a frock coat leave the hotel, carrying a bundle under his arm. Bewildered, I went upstairs and found his note:

I came for Finette, as the spies here have taken note of our friendship. Do not try to find me. When I can, I will notify you of my whereabouts. Thank you for all your kindnesses.

Your servant, Jacob

Postscript

I have enclosed Aimée’s first letter—the first I ever received. I know you will treasure it, as I do, and return it to me when you can.

I looked around the room and saw that he had taken the dog’s toys. I became dispirited, thinking I might not see Jacob Casanova again. Venice is in the hands of the French, putting an end to Father’s trade mission, and the wedding is fast approaching. Soon we will be on our way home to America. I sank down on the chaise to read Aimée’s letter, hoping her words would comfort me, and when they did not do so, I tried to amuse myself by copying a translation of her letter onto these pages so I will not forget the sentiments she expressed to Monsieur Casanova:

Darling Giacomo:

Do you know, my soul, how much I wanted you, from the moment you stepped out of the small wood near the Château d’If and helped me rescue my pet from the swan—that vicious, deceptive bird which pretends to be so serene. I am no longer a
girl—as you know—and it amuses me now when men see seduction as an act they inflict on us, the weaker sex. From you, I learned that a true attraction moves naturally and at once in both directions. When I felt this mutual recognition between us the world blurred into a kind of ether and I saw nothing except you. Why does this recognition occur between two people in the first place? If I understood the reason, I would be the wisest woman in the world. I know myself a little—I am fiercely proud and a good Catholic, while you, Giacomo, are forced to disguise your abhorrence for Europe’s snobbery to make your way in life. Your capacity to appreciate is a gift for me and all of us who know you.

I suppose someone more skeptical than I would not have returned with you to the Château, where you were writing
Icosameion
—your delightful phantasy of the world beneath the earth. Remember? You spied me from the windows of your bedroom on the grounds below, chasing Charlotte. As I write, I see you—a tall, chestnut-haired man, vigorous, rushing towards the swan waving your hands and making such a commotion that the bird stopped pecking at my dog and hissed at you instead.

In a moment, you had Charlotte in your arms—barking furiously because she did not know you—but the great bird no longer had its prey. It plunged back into the lake and swam off to join its fellows and the two of us laughed because it was clear that Charlotte longed to go after them, pawing your chest so eager was she to renew the chase.

I did return to the Château and I knew when I went up to your room and watched you dip biscuits into your rather vinegary wine—I am sorry, Giacomo, it was vinegary—that I would let you make love to me. As you ate the wine-soaked biscuit, I found myself wondering how your fingers would taste in my mouth. And when you played the old lute you found in the
closet, and Charlotte began to snore on your canopy bed, how natural it was for me to lie down beside her, the wine warm in my veins. That day, it seemed as if all the time in the world lay before us.

You undressed me, your eyes grateful. I imagined the swans floating below us, and when you made your connection, I too was a swan floating on a nameless lake. Strange, fragmented visions appeared before me—of myself submerged in water as white feathers drifted above my head. I lost sight of you completely and thought only of myself. Afterwards, you told me that what I felt is how all lovers feel as the moment of
jouissance
approaches, that we use each other well in order to please ourselves. You begged me to stay and said you would find a pastor to marry us. Is it not odd the way life surprises us? Perhaps if I were not an orphan, I would have had the courage to tell Da to go home without me.

Your loving Aimée

Postscript

Do not fear that your age will lessen my desire for you. My love will make you young, Giacomo, and stop the ticking of the clocks. Love is the force that stares down the face of time itself.

My hands were trembling when I finished copying Aimée’s letter. I know nothing of the physical truth of men’s bodies, and I found myself wishing I had been the young woman at Château d’If. This thought made me restless and I stepped out onto my balcony overlooking the Grand Canal. Venice was coming to life; the streets echoed with the voices of shopkeepers and gamblers returning from a night in a local casino. In the lane below my balcony, three German men in capes and high boots were
singing a high-spirited round. Their exuberant male noise made my spirits sink still further. What can Venice—which has not a single museum or gallery of art—offer a traveller like myself?

First Inquiry of the Day: Will I find a love such as Aimée speaks of in her letter? No sooner do I ask this of myself than a dreadful answer comes: Not in this lifetime, Asked For Adams, not in this unkind universe is there a man who will see your value.

Lesson Learned: It is better for a woman like me not to think about love. Are we not all monsters spawned by other well-meaning monsters?