In the Company of the Courtesan (34 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

The days pass slowly. Men come and go, but our Crow sends messages that he is delayed on government business. Gabriella, who grows seemingly more innocent the longer she serves in a house of sin, is sent out with Marcello to the office of the church prison to inquire after her cousin, a young woman from the Celestia district who was taken by the church officers ten days before. The news she brings tells us mostly what we already knew. A woman, Elena Crusichi, has been arraigned for witchcraft, with depositions from the Church and witnesses, and she is to be brought to trial when the evidence is ready. She has been moved from the local district prison to the central one, beneath the Doge's Palace, and is being held there at the expense of the state, which means that she will slowly starve—Venice is as canny as anywhere else when it comes to questions of money and justice. Food will be allowed in from outside from relatives, but only if it is shown not to contain anything that might help her in her spells or Devil worship.

If we cannot free her, we can at least keep her well fed. From now on, Mauro will be cooking for a prison as well as a whorehouse.

He is already under pressure. Tonight, at last, Lord Loredan is to visit, and since it is well known that his juices flow as freely from his palate as from his prick, Mauro has the job of producing the first climax, to which end he is now clucking away in the kitchen, as loud as the capon that, roasted with orange and cinnamon sauce, will make up one of the dishes. After that, assuming our lordship can still locate his prick under all the food in his belly, it will be up to my lady.

Though La Draga's fate has affected us all—even Gabriella has lost something of her sparkle—my lady has subdued her anxiety to her will, throwing herself into business and the task of making herself irresistible again. In this way, while she cannot keep her lover, she might yet save her friend. She is as much in charge of the household as I am now, and her energy almost gives me hope. She has spent the whole day in her own kitchen with pastes and perfumes, creams and tweezers. Her skin is swan-white and smooth as silk, her breasts push out like rising full moons from a dark velvet sunset, and her smell is jasmine with a hint of musk rose underneath. Most men would give her anything she asked just to have the pleasure of watching her unlace her bodice. But Loredan is a man born to privilege, someone who expects rather than enjoys perfection, and he has been known to come and leave without a single compliment passing his lips (though he is not so stingy with his purse).

The fact is, apart from his ability to pay on time, I know little about our great Crow, or what he does when he is ruling Venice. All I know are the harsh little cries he makes when in the throes of his pleasure: staccato bursts that I have come to liken to the sharp cawing of his namesake bird. Some of our regulars bring their worries and triumphs with them (when business is good, Alberini offers miracles of reflection or transparency; when it is bad or a shipment arrives broken and the bill is on him to replace it, he growls and complains as if my lady were his wife rather than his paramour). But Loredan leaves the affairs of state in the chambers of the Doge's Palace: while he is happy to talk of Venice as an ideal, the facts he keeps to himself. As a member of one of the greater families, those who in effect rule the rulers, he is, I don't doubt, both a diligent servant of the state, serving where he is elected, and a politician who uses his family influence to bribe or buy the votes he needs to get himself exactly where he wants to be. While he is no longer at the very heart of the matter—his place on the great Council of Ten expired a few months ago—there is no one he does not know, and if there is a scandal to be revealed or concealed, he will surely have intelligence of it. As to his capacity for sympathy—well, he has been known to be generous with what is in his power to give, such as an invitation to the Sensa. But this…God only knows what he can or will do.

Though we too will know soon enough.

He comes usually at twilight and leaves in the early hours. But tonight he is late, so that she and I are as nervous as caged dogs by the time he arrives. I sit in my room while she entertains, a book on my lap but no words going into my head. Sometime after midnight I hear the boat push off, the call of his boatman as he moves into the main channel. I wait for her to come out. Finally I go to her. She is sitting looking out onto the water, her hair a great storm around her shoulders in the way I remember it from that catastrophic night in Rome when she screwed the enemy to save our lives. Soldiers and bureaucrats. Always the toughest of clients. She turns, and I can almost read their encounter in her eyes.

“There was nothing I could say, Bucino. He knew about it all already.”

“How? What does that mean?”

“I don't know, except that it is being talked about. In the government. That much is clear. The trial starts next week, before church officials and a representative of the state court.”

“What else did he say?”

“Ooh—that the laws on blasphemy and cursing are there to protect the state against the spread of disorder and heresy. And that the murder of babies, in or out of the womb, is a serious offense. My God, and that was after I had serviced him! I swear his head is back in the council chamber before his seed is dry on the sheets.” She laughs bitterly. “And I am supposed to be good at my job.”

“It's not your fault. He was always a cold fish. We celebrated his status, not his amiability. What did you tell him?”

“That she had healed my neighbor's child and that I had offered to intercede for her. I don't know if he believed me. I didn't tell it very well.” She laughs again. “For six years I have been his way of relaxing after the rigors of government. He has never seen me cry before, and I don't think he knew quite what to do with it.”

She stops, and we both know the tears are still close by. She is not used to failing with men, my lady, and in different ways she has experienced more of it in these past few weeks than in many years. But now is not the time for her to be felled.

She shakes her head impatiently. “He said he would do what he could. And as far as that goes, I think he will. Aretino is right, Bucino. There is a palpable nervousness in the air. He was distracted all evening, even before I took him to bed. When I asked him why he was so busy and delayed, he said it was foreign business, and when I tried to find out more, he closed up like a clam again. But when Fausto was here the other night, he told me that the Turks are harassing Venetian ships again and that no one wants to admit to the losses.”

La Serenissima. The tension underneath the serenity.

So what do we do now? We don't need to ask the question, for the answer is clear to both of us. We must wait and see.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Marcello and I take the food daily, docking the boat at the edge of the wharf to the left of the Pillars of Justice and making our way across the
piazzetta
to the side entrance of the prison. I have come to appreciate a certain symmetry in the architecture of justice and punishment that I hadn't noticed until now: not just the fact that the scaffold is constructed in full view of the Doge's Palace but that the palace which houses those who make the law also incarcerates those who break it. Though in this, as in everything else, there is a hierarchy. With enough money, you can buy tenure in one of the cells whose grilles look out onto the
piazzetta
itself, from where you will enjoy fresh air and a view of the pillars, which with money and good counsel you will not end up between. I swear there are beggars who would swap homes with these inhabitants, for along with eating their own food, they even get to entertain friends and relatives. On more than one occasion I've seen noblemen charged with fraud, or some such, playing cards or in conversation with youngbloods or even the occasional well-dressed lady.

Those with less influence and no money are buried in the danker cells under the floors, and while they may not hear the agonies of the men and women who are strung up outside, no doubt we cannot hear theirs either. I still remember my old well historian telling me how when they burned a notorious gang of sodomites—which was the greatest crime, for some of them were nobles and their association smacked of insurgence against the government—they garroted the Crows before the fire hit them but left the poorer, prettier boys with whom they had played to do the screaming.

At the prison entrance, we give the food to the jailer and—on Aretino's advice (his low-life connections are impeccable)—slip a coin half under the pot to make sure it gets to her. I have asked a dozen times if I might see her to be assured that she is being fed, but my jiggling charm gets me nowhere and the answer is always the same: those accused of heresy are confined alone and allowed to see no one.

Our days grow darker as the summer sun lifts higher in the sky.

Two mornings ago my lady's young lover left on a round galley bound for Cyprus. He spent a last night with her before he went. I shook his hand when he came in and asked his forgiveness for my bad behavior. He seemed almost embarrassed—for all her experience, he is still only a pup—but it was important to me that we made our peace. What passed between them I have no idea, except that the sounds which came from her room that night were as much about pain as about passion and the next day she did not emerge until the sun was already down. I, who would do anything to ease her sorrow, was useless. I know she was missing La Draga dreadfully. As a man who has lived so long with women, I have learned that there are times when they are the only ones who can help one another.

I miss La Draga too. Not just for the moment, but for all the moments before when I chose not to recognize her.

 

The trial, once it has begun, takes place behind closed doors in one of the council chambers of the palace. For the first few days I stand outside the entrance to see if I can spot the witnesses arriving, sustained by the fantasy that if I recognize the woman who accosted La Draga in the square I could show her how much damage a devil with dog's teeth might do to a liar. But the palace swallows hundreds of people daily—the governors and the governed—and one angry old woman looks much like another.

After a while gossip starts to spring like so many leaks from an old pipe: that one of her accusers had lost a baby in her eighth month and later found rusty nails and extracted teeth under her pillow, a sure sign of witchcraft. Yet La Draga admits nothing, and her defense—a quiet, clear logic—has at times caused offense to those adjudicating. Also, that to test her veracity, she has been subjected to the torture of the rope, though it would seem it has not changed her testimony.

I, who am not much of a praying man—I have never quite understood if I am talking to God or to myself—have grown into the habit of addressing Loredan instead. His strangled croaks of pleasure echo in the night with monotonous regularity as my lady saves her greatest ingenuity for the one who has the influence. I think the longing left in her for the pup she now feeds into Loredan. He must feel it, because she is incandescent with beauty and tenderness, and despite his seeming implacability, he is not a cruel man. I know he has registered the anxiety of the household; even professionals cannot pretend joy when there is so much sorrow. It was he who, when the rumors of trial began to circulate, went out of his way to assure my lady that the court's treatment of La Draga was moderate given the temper of the times and that the rope was used only sparingly.

A few days ago while he was at dinner, I helped serve and engaged him in conversation about reform of the Church and Contarini's history of the state, and we talked about the emphasis of charity over devotion and the role of purity in just government. I doubt he was fooled by my passion when it came to the power of clemency within justice, but I think he enjoyed the discussion, for his arguments shone through well enough.

It would be easier if we were ruled by fools; then at least we would expect nothing. I don't think I have ever been so afraid.

On the afternoon of the sixth day, I am returning home from delivering the food when I spot a well-dressed boat docked at our entrance. There are no suitors booked until evening, and my lady would not entertain newcomers without my vetting them first. As I cross in through the water doors, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and the figure of the Turk emerges in front of me, turban tall, in rich, flowing robes.

We have not seen each other since that day he saved me from drowning and the bird's talons sank themselves into my ears. My God—how many aeons ago was that?

“Ah, Bucino Teodoldi. I had hoped I might see you before I go.” And his smile is broad. “I was…visiting your lady.”

“You were?”

He laughs. “Don't worry. I am not to be put in your precious account book. We had business to discuss. I had wanted to come before to ask after your health, but…there have been other things demanding my attention. Tell me, how are you?”

“Alive.”

“In body, yes, but not, I think, so much in spirit.”

“I—I am burdened by a certain worry, that is all,” I say.

“Ah. Such is the way of the times. I am come partly to say good-bye. I have been recalled to the court. The relations between our two great states have grown sour again, and while we are not yet at war, it is clear I will not be welcome here much longer.” There is a pause. “I shall miss teaching you my language.” And he pauses again, no doubt to give me more time to change my mind. “But I think perhaps you make the right choice. While Venice may not appreciate you, there are those who are fond enough.” He holds out his hand to me. “Take care of yourself, my little friend. I have enjoyed your company.”

“And I yours.” I take his hand, and as I do so I see an image of a city filled with elephants and fountains, peacocks, mosaics, and tightrope walkers, and I wonder for a flickering instant what the great Constantinople might have offered me. But it is only an instant; it passes.

Upstairs, my lady is in the
portego
in deep conversation with Gabriella. But she stops as she sees me and dismisses the maid.

On her way out, Gabriella's eyes do not meet mine. My gut squeezes with panic.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“Bucino, come.” My lady holds out her hand to me, smiling. Her eyes are bright, but she is an expert at faking enthusiasm when she feels none and I am too eaten up by nerves to know the difference anymore between wild hope and despair. “You look tired. Do your legs hurt? Sit down with me.”

“My legs are fine.” On the table I notice the rich red leather binding of Petrarch, the silver lock twirled into place. “Why is the book here? Has something happened? Tell me.”

“I—I have heard from Loredan. It—it seems he can get us access to visit her in prison. Only it involves money, a payment, a kind of bribe….”

A bribe. Of course. The lubricant that oils every position and principle in this pure state. You are baying at the moon, Gasparo Contarini—for this city is already sold to the Devil.

“How much?”

She opens a small drawer in the desk and slides a purse across the surface to me. I pick it up, I who can tell the shape and the weight of a ducat through material better than most men. It is not a small amount.

“Where did you get it?”

“It doesn't matter.”

My eyes fall back to the book.

“It's not what you think,” she says hurriedly. “I haven't jeopardized our future. I haven't sold the book.” She pauses. “Merely…extracted a few pages.”

“What?”

“I—I have removed two of the prints, and the sonnets to go with them.”

“For whom?”

But of course I already know.

“My God, you sold them to the Turk. How—”

“Listen to me, Bucino. It made sense. I know how we live hand-to-mouth, and this was too great an amount for us to raise alone. If I had tried to sell the whole book, there would have been no time to find the right bidder for the right price and the city would have been alive with gossip. But then I heard the Turk was leaving, and I went to visit him. The sultan's appetite for novelty is famous, and since he has more women than I have men, I thought he'd enjoy the company of a few lascivious Romans. This way we keep the bulk of the book intact and raise the money we need. Your Turk was most generous.”

“But why didn't you tell me about it? We should have discussed it.”

“Because…” She stops. “Because you would have seen it as too great a risk for our future and said no.”

Is she right? The old Bucino would have refused, certainly. As to what this new one might have done, I have no idea, for she has done it for me.

“Aretino? Does he know?”

“Abdullah Pashna was his idea. He says by rights he owns only one of the engravings anyway. For without us they wouldn't exist at all.”

Ah, my Turk is right. There are those here who are fond enough of me.

“I doubt your mother would approve,” I say quietly.

She shrugs. “My mother died alone of the pox. That's what putting business above the heart did for her. You are lucky. Abdullah would have given a lot more for you, you know. But, as we are partners, I told him you were not for sale.”

“Oh, thank God for you, Fiammetta Bianchini.” I laugh.

“Bucino”—she puts her hand over mine—“I am sorry…but there is something else you must know.”

 

What? Had I expected that they would let her walk free? Disregard the bones, forget the book, forgive the amulets and potions, the signs and incantations, block their ears to the poison of Devil gossip? The fact is that La Draga was guilty before the law long before she was arraigned in any courtroom. I am not so stupid or so love struck that I didn't know that. But then so are a thousand others, equally guilty, and how many of those go on to die in their own beds? There is not a state in Christendom where justice isn't a commodity as salable as a shipment of silk or a woman's virginity. You just have to know the price and the people to pay it to. Not a state in Christendom.

Except, it seems, for Venice.

Our great Crow says he did what he could. That is what he told my lady, and that is what she believes. She says he did not need to tell her ahead of the verdict being announced, but he wanted to warn us. There have, it seems, been “discussions” about this case; while the potions and divinations on their own might have been seen as misguided faith, the bones have condemned her. They and the fact that she consorted openly with prostitutes and courtesans. Though in all of this it is only rumor, for she would give no facts and no names. It is, as Aretino said, a question of timing as much as guilt. With instability building abroad, the state must feel unassailable at home. All these things have conspired to make the verdict harsh but inevitable. The verdict and the sentence.

“But he can and will intercede here, Bucino. That he absolutely promised me. She will not burn, do you hear me? She will not burn, and neither will she suffer unduly.”

Not suffer unduly. And for this, it appears, we must be grateful. God damn the complacency of his mercy, the foul righteousness of his justice. It is as well La Draga is not freed, or I would have a potion from her that would have his prick drop off the next time he tried to use it. I am so angry that my head hurts. But for now, when he comes, I must simper and smile and thank him for his boundless generosity, for the fact is, without his intercession, we will never get ourselves through the prison bars.

Yet in the end, it is not we who go.

The next evening, just before dusk, I clamber ahead of my lady onto the boat, the purse hidden deep in my doublet, and put out my hand to help her on, as is my wont, so the world can see how much I am her servant. But she smiles and shakes her head.

“I cannot come with you, Bucino. The intercession that Loredan has arranged allows for only one visitor. And however much we pay them, there will be some gossip. For that reason it cannot be me. No—” She stops my protest at the same instant it leaves my mouth. “This is not a matter for discussion. It is already decided. You are the one who is expected at the gate. I will wait here for you. Go now.”