Courtesan's Lover (28 page)

And she would write down what she felt each time, in meticulous detail.

***

Fully aware of Filippo's presence in the smallest bedroom on the other side of the wall, Maria wrote and wrote until her fingers ached. Finally, rereading her last paragraph for the third time, she put down her pen and the book and stared at the bedchamber wall for several long seconds. “Now it seems that I
can
think it and write it,” she said to herself. “And that is a considerable achievement. But it will be of no use at all, unless I can find a way to say it and do it.”

Putting her book, pen and ink into a box, she got out of bed and put the box into the long wooden chest that stood at the end of her bed. A folded blanket lay on the end of the bed. This Maria picked up and placed in the chest on top of the box. She closed the lid of the chest, got back into bed, and pulled the covers over herself.

The door to the inn burst open, and a buffet of sea-smelling air pushed its way into the smoky interior. All the candles guttered; a few went out. Along with some half-dozen others, Carlo della Rovere looked around to see who had arrived.

“Cicciano!” he called across the room, raising one hand.

Michele di Cicciano strode toward where Carlo was sitting. Pushing past seated drinkers and kicking aside an empty chair that stood in his way, he slumped heavily onto a bench on the opposite side of the table, breathing loudly through his nose.

After a moment, he said, “Get that effeminate little
bardassa
of yours to bring me a fucking
grappa
, will you?”

Carlo called over his shoulder, “Marco?”

Over on the far side of the room, the thin boy with the greasy pigtail jerked his chin in acknowledgment.

“Two more, can you? In fact, bring us the bottle, why don't you?”

A nod.

“So,” Carlo said. “What's the matter?”

Michele chewed the inside of his cheek and said nothing.

A pause.

“Has something happened?”

“Seems my money's not good enough for her anymore.”

“Who?”

“That fucking,
fucking
Felizzi bitch.”

Frowning, Carlo said, “Is that such a problem to you? She's only a whore. Fair enough, a bloody good one—a bloody expensive one!—but a whore nonetheless. Can't you just find another? Surely there must be at least one other woman in this city prepared to lie back and endure, for the amount of gold you might possibly throw at her?”

Michele hunched his shoulders and clamped his folded arms across his chest; one knee began twitching furiously. With his jaw jutting and his breath still audible in his nose, he suddenly reminded Carlo forcibly of an irascible bull. He half-imagined steam coming from Michele's nostrils, and smothered a smirk.

Michele said, his voice obviously deliberately quiet, “I don't care to be told what to do by a fucking
doxy
!”

Marco, arriving at their table, leaned past Carlo—rubbing his arm along Carlo's shoulder as he did so—and placed a full bottle of
grappa
and a second glass down on the tabletop. Michele snatched up the bottle even as Marco's fingers released it, splashed a measure into his glass, and swallowed it down in one mouthful. Grimacing against the strength of the spirit, he refilled the glass. Emptied it again.

Carlo and Marco both watched Michele for a moment as he refilled and emptied the glass yet again, then Marco laid a hand briefly upon Carlo's sleeve and left.

Attempting to fill the ballooning hollow of silence, Carlo said, “She has children, Cicciano, did you know?”

No reply.

“Extraordinary things. Twins. Completely bloody identical. I'd be surprised if
she
can tell them apart, let alone anyone else.”

Another silence.

Michele glared at him and said, “Just why the fuck do you think I'd be interested in her children?”

“No reason.”

A pause.

Carlo went on, “I saw them the other day. With that eunuch of hers.”

Michele seemed not to be listening. Apparently talking to himself rather than to Carlo, he hissed, “Bloody,
bloody
bitch! Sends the fucking servant down to tell me that she no longer wishes to see me. Won't even
talk
to me herself.”

“What was the reason?”

Michele's voice quivered with anger. He spoke in what was clearly an imitation of the black-eyed servant's voice and accent. “She no longer wishes to…entertain…for a living.” A pause. In his own voice, thick with sarcasm, he then added, “Apparently.”

“So it's not just you?”

Michele flashed him a look. “Apparently not.”

Carlo let out a soft breath of surprise. “She seemed enthusiastic enough the other week, according to my brother,” he said. “I wonder what's changed her mind so suddenly.”

“The
bitch
. I could just—”

Carlo watched Michele's fingers curl and tighten. He thought of Gianni, face crumpled with anger, punching out at him with his unpracticed fist, and fingered his nose, which was still tender. That had all been about the Felizzi woman too; she certainly provoked strong feelings in those people she allowed under her skirts, he thought. Or didn't allow, either, it now seemed.

He thought then, with biting irritation, of the large amount of gold he had lost to this Signora Felizzi, on the occasion of Gianni's defloration. Remembering the conversation he had had a week or so before, with
the little privateer, an idea blossomed in his mind. Carlo felt a slow smile stretch the corners of his mouth, as a possible means of teaching Michele's whore a lesson she would never forget, and of recouping his losses at the same time, began to take shape.

“And what the fuck are you laughing at?” Michele snarled.

Carlo told him. His gaze flicking around the inn to ensure they could not be overheard, he outlined his idea.

Michele stared at Carlo, mouth slightly open. He looked deeply shocked for a moment, but then, his expression hardening, he nodded.

Luca will be here in a matter of minutes. He told me yesterday that he wanted to take me out on the water this morning—his friend Piero Parisetto has a boat, apparently, which Luca says he sometimes borrows when he feels the need to get away from the bustle of the city. It's only small: not large enough for us to take the girls with us, he says, so they'll stay here with Ilaria today.

I hope they don't mind. Poor Ilaria has been looking thunderous all morning. I have told her and Sebastiano that they are to be dismissed and, although I have offered them both a more than generous sum of money to cushion the blow, Ilaria quite obviously feels very poorly treated. (Sebastiano has said nothing, but then I would have been astonished if he had; he rarely gives his opinion on anything.) Neither of them has actually complained openly, but there has been an unpleasant atmosphere of aggrieved resentment seeping through the house since my announcement, like some noxious marsh gas.

They are leaving on Saturday, and Modesto will be moving in to their room next week. The girls are delighted; they are very fond of Modesto.

Eyeing myself in the mirror, I fiddle a stray wisp of hair back into the complicated web of braids I cobbled together this morning, and fiddle my lower lip between my teeth to redden it. My dress is an old, plain, brown one that I haven't worn for years; it's the most suitable thing I have, I think, for an outing in a small boat. It's been difficult to decide what to wear ever since all this happened; so much of my wardrobe is of course so entirely unsuitable for the supposedly sober Signora Marrone. I have been reduced to three or four dresses, and with two of these, I have had to replace their opulent gold lacings and fastenings with much simpler and plainer ones in an attempt to make them seem a little less frivolous.

All this deceit is making me feel desperately uncomfortable. I'm lying to Luca—God! I hate doing it! Luca is so transparently honest that my duplicity seems doubly shameful, and I feel ever less worthy of his affections. But even the
thought
of confessing the truth fills me with dread: it would be catastrophic.

My heart starts to race as I imagine how the conversation might go. How would I set about it? I suppose I would begin by admitting:
I
have
something
to
tell
you…
I'm sure Luca would smile at my trite words, an affectionate air of unsuspicious curiosity on his face
.
Eyebrows raised, head tilted slightly to one side, he would wait to hear what I had to confess, certain that whatever I was dreading revealing could not be anything very terrible.
I
don't know how to tell you this,
I would say,
but…I am not what I have told you I am.
I imagine myself hesitating, and stammering, and struggling to speak. Luca's brow would furrow at the sight of my genuine disquiet, with the first intimations of real anxiety. And then the horrible truth would all burst out, like being sick.
I
am
not
a
widow. I have never been married. My children are not—as I have implied—the legitimate orphan daughters of a respectable merchantman, but are, rather, the bastard offspring of the fifth duke of Ferrara, whose paid mistress I was for eight years, before I ran away from him and set up here in Napoli…as a courtesan. I have made a great deal of money. Neither this house and its contents nor my other house in the Via San Tommaso were in fact left to me by my late husband, as I have led you to believe; rather, one was given to me by a grateful patron, and the other was bought with my own earnings, and you should know that every
scudo
was
earned…the hard way.

I can just imagine the hurt in his eyes; can see him stepping back from me, physical pain and disgust distorting his sweet features. Dear God! How can I ever tell him the truth? But then, if I don't…how am I going to be able to live with the guilt of my deception…and with the constant fear of discovery? Every time I see Luca, I find myself searching his face for signs of a change of heart. I wonder each time if Gianni, or Filippo—or God knows who else—has told him the truth, and I have to admit that I am finding living like this not far from unbearable. I am balanced on the crumbling edge of this abyss, with incipient panic thumping away in my chest half a dozen times a day—and it is proving to be more arduous than I could ever have imagined.

But I can't walk away from it. It has been less than a fortnight since Filippo took me to San Domenico Maggiore and turned my life upside down, and already, I simply cannot imagine life without Luca.

It will all quite certainly crash around me eventually. The only thing is when? How long do I have left?

There is a knock at the front door.

My heart balloons up into my throat, and I pull in a long breath, trying to force it back down to where it should be. I can hear the girls scrambling for the stairs, bickering; they both want to be the one to open the door. Thank heaven, they seem to have taken to Luca, and spend as much time as they can when he is here trying to sit or stand as close to him as they can reach, fiddling with the material of his doublet and peeping up at him coyly from under their lashes. He is lovely with them—funny and kind, and always seemingly interested in what they have to say.

Little feet thud on the stairs again, coming up this time.

“Mamma! He's here!” Bella says, sounding breathless as she pushes open my bedchamber door.

“Tell him to come up to the
sala
,” I say. “And then go and find Ilaria. I'll be there in a second.”

Bella runs back downstairs, and I give a last tweak to my hair, chew my lip once more, and, leaving my chamber, cross to the
sala
.

Luca's smile is wide and warm when he sees me.

I relax.

Before saying a word, he cups my face in his hands and kisses me—slowly and with obvious longing; one hand then slides down around my back, and I find myself arching forward and pressing up against him. Perhaps it's as well that the girls are here or I might not be able to prevent myself from pulling his doublet laces undone.

He stands back from me, drawing breath. “Looking forward to your boat trip?” he says.

“Very much.”

“I thought we might work our way round the coast to Mergellina, if you'd like to…”

A smile and a nod.

“The coastline round there is lovely. I know a place where we can stop and eat our food and then…well, let's see what we want to do after that, shall we?”

I think I know what I might want to do.

***

Beata and Isabella stand on the door sill and wave an enthusiastic good-bye as Luca and I make our way up the street. Luca is carrying a bag of food—sliced pigeon breast wrapped in waxed paper, bread, cheese, grapes, a couple of peaches, and a big bottle of wine. Turning, I call back, “I'll see you this evening. Be good!”

They continue to wave until we are right at the end of the street. Just before we round the corner, I turn back, kiss my fingertips, and blow the kiss toward them. Bella jumps up, pretending to catch it, and Beata tries to snatch it from her sister. Luca laughs. Ilaria, however, standing behind them, stares mulishly at me for a moment before shepherding both girls back inside.

***

Luca told me that Piero's boat was small, but when we arrive at the waterfront it seems both long and heavy to me, and I'm more than a little impressed that Luca is happy at the thought of rowing it as far as he plans to. I think Mergellina is at least three or four miles away. The boat is tied up in front of the Parisettos' house, and, much to my delight, it is painted a bright and vivid yellow. Two huge oars are stowed along its length, and two shiny, polished seats—Luca tells me they are called “thwarts”—cross from side to side. I know nothing whatever about boats, and have absolutely no idea of the seaworthiness or otherwise of this little craft, but it appears to have been beautifully made, its yellow color is sunny and cheerful, and—best of all—it offers me the prospect of a whole day alone with Luca away from the city, uninterrupted by anyone I know.

“Like it?” Luca says.

I nod. “It's lovely.”

“Piero and Serafina aren't here, but Piero said just to take the boat and go, whenever we wanted. So…” He inclines his head toward the boat, holding out a hand to help me in. I take it and gingerly step across into the boat, which shifts alarmingly under my feet. Settling down onto one of the thwarts, I shift my bottom to free the crumpled material of my skirts and, rather awkwardly, stow the bag of food underneath my seat.

“Comfortable?” Luca says, as he steps into the boat himself. Sitting down, he pulls off his doublet and rolls his shirt sleeves up above his elbows. He folds the doublet and pushes it out of sight.

I nod again. As it happens, I'm not, but I should not dream of saying so.

With the confident ease of the much-practiced oarsman, Luca unfastens the rope securing the boat to the shore, picks up one of the oars and, using the end of the blade, pushes against the jetty-edge. He takes up the other oar then, and deftly begins rowing out into open water. For a few moments the only sounds are the slap of the water against the side of the boat, and the soft “clop” of the oars dipping and lifting.

The close-packed houses that jostle one another right down to the water's edge begin to thin out as we make our quietly purposeful way westward. Clustered together in joyous disorder, these waterside dwellings are grubby and dilapidated but teeming with life: half a dozen bare, brown-skinned boys are jumping into the water, shouting with ebullient pleasure, pulling each other in and then slithering out up onto the decrepit old jetty, all angled arms and legs. They glitter with sun-filled water droplets as though encrusted with diamonds as they pause in their play to watch us pass, catcalling and waving at us. Several women look up from washing clothes and stare, and at least a couple of dozen men are busy preparing their boats; they take absolutely no notice of us whatsoever.

“About another mile or two westward, and the coastline is almost deserted,” Luca says, his voice jerking a little in rhythm with the oarstrokes. “There's a little inlet just past the main harbor of Mergellina—I'm going to take the boat up there.”

We row on, alternating between easy, companionable silences and entertaining conversations. We discuss music and art and history, we talk about poetry and politics—wonderful, fascinating, important things about which no one, not even Modesto, has ever,
ever
cared to hear my opinions.

And we talk about each other.

Well…no. That's not quite true. It would be more accurate to say that, in answer to
my
questions, Luca tells me much about himself, and in answer to
his
, I—well, I tell him mostly about Signora Marrone. Sparks of guilt ignite at every lie I invent, but I carefully snuff each spark out as it flares, and, as if in reparation for my deceit, I do my best to offer Luca as many truths as I can risk uttering.

“Tell me something about what you like to do,” Luca says, smiling. “I think I asked you that day at San Domenico, but I seem to remember that you very successfully wriggled out of answering.”

He rests from his rowing for a moment, balancing the oars horizontally under his forearms; the water running from the blades glitters like tiny shards of glass as it falls back into the sea, and the boat tilts up and over a wave.

I hesitate, thinking fast. What
do
I like to do? Now I am asked, I have no idea.

After a moment, I say, “I play the lute.” That is just about true.

Luca's smile widens, and he says, “I love the sound of a lute. Will you play for me one day?”

“I should love to—I'm not very gifted, though.”

“You have to be more gifted than me—I don't play an instrument at all.” He hesitates, then adds, “Having said that, when I was a boy”—another pause—“I did learn to play the
zampogna
…”

He reddens a little as he admits this, and, hearing in my head the dying-cat moaning of that tuneless bagpipe, I cannot help laughing. Putting my hand over my mouth, I try to smother my amusement.

“You're very rude,” Luca says, pretending to sound hurt. “I was often told I played extremely well!”

“By whom?”

“By my mother.”

I imagine a sweet-faced, dark-haired little boy, awkwardly embracing his great, stiff octopus of an instrument; his cheeks bulge with the effort of producing a sound and he is squinting at a sheet of music, watched by rapt and smiling parents—who seem quite deaf to the horrible sound he is producing.

“Your parents must have been very proud of you,” I say, loving the image and meaning what I say.

“No prouder than yours must be of you.”

Oh, God. The shock of this is like a douse of cold water and quite wipes the smile off my face. My father, proud of me?

I cover my discomfiture with a counterfeit cough, and hope that the color I can now feel flaming in my cheeks will be taken by Luca as self-conscious modesty, rather than the biting shame it really is.

I have to change the subject.

“Do you like to read?” I say.

“Oh, dear. I should read much more widely than I do—but there always seems to be so much legal documentation to fight my way through, preparing work for my students.” Luca pauses a moment and then adds, “Do you know, I'm not sure I would have said so before, but since the day of the play at San Domenico, I think I have something of a fondness for Ariosto.”

I smile at him. “I couldn't say
what
I think of his work,” I say. “I don't think I listened to a word of that play.”

“I'm not sure I did either, now I come to think about it.” He is looking at my mouth. “I was concentrating on quite other things.”