A Name in Blood (34 page)

The girl had made a mark that was something like the letter L beneath her name. Caravaggio heard her voice call from the stiff paper, and he wept.
I wanted to protect her, so I left her
behind
, he thought.
But without her I’m a mess.
He had to get to her. He had to get the death sentence lifted, so he could be with her.

The letter had a postscript. He wiped his cuff across his eyes and read on.

Caravaggio looked up at his painting. The Virgin held a young Christ at the top of the canvas. He had given the boy Domenico’s features, but he had thought there was something in him of
the child he might have had if Lena’s pregnancy had come to term. He dropped to his knees and pressed the letter to this heart. If he made a few more touches to her image, he wondered, would
she step off the canvas, clasp his face between her palms and say, ‘Why couldn’t you have done that final stroke two years ago?’ She could have been with him if he had been artist
enough to command her presence out of the paint.

He got to his feet.
I will make her real.

In the Carità, on the edge of the volatile district of the Spanish soldiers and their whores, he entered an inn called the Cerriglio. Woodsmoke burned his eyes. He sat
with a flagon of wine and drank quickly. He turned to the drinkers nearby and raised his cup. He had a letter from Lena. He was loved.

He ate from a basket of dough balls, each one wrapped around a leaf of seaweed to give it a salty flavour and then deep-fried. He called for another jug of wine. The whores at the corner table
turned their heads when they heard him shout. One of them rose to approach him, but she was distracted by music in the street.

A sad-eyed musician entered, playing a
tarantella
on a short pipe, his fingers twirling on the airholes. A blind man came behind him, beating six-eight time on a tambourine and singing
hoarsely in a dialect Caravaggio couldn’t make out. The whores got up to dance. They bounced on one leg. With the other foot they kicked the beat and tapped their clogs to the floor. The
whore who had been on her way to Caravaggio’s table took his arm. ‘Come on, handsome.’

It was hard for him to pick out her features. The wine had struck him quicker than he had expected. The grey light from the windows caught her braid, tied across her head from ear to ear as
Lena’s used to be. She was the same height as his girl and she had Lena’s heavy Greek eyebrows. He would be with Lena again soon. He would find a way to join her in Rome. He drained his
cup, laughing, and stood for a dance.

They swept side to side, their arms above their heads.
Lena.
He drank another cup, his head spinning.
I’m loved.
The whore raised a leg and hooked it between his thighs,
behind his knee, pushing her groin to him in the dance. Her breath was milky with mozzarella when she laughed. He drew back his knee to bring her towards him.

One of the whores brought out a
triccaballacca
, flicking her wrists so that its small mallets swung on their hinges, wood clicking on wood above the rhythm of the music. The dancers
strutted and twisted, as if they were working off the poison of the tarantula, as the originators of the dance had done. Caravaggio sensed his body cleansing something he knew had been killing him
as surely as a spider’s venom. He threw back his head, called out Lena’s name, and roared with laughter. The whore poured wine into his smile.

The night stuttered, cut into disconnected moments by the wine and the fervour of his liberation from fear and loneliness. He threw dice on a bench with a Spanish soldier and
argued when they fell to the floor. He tossed down his cards in a game of Calabresella, cursing a fisherman for palming the Knave of Cups and bringing out a King of Coins from his sleeve.

He ate a focaccia which was so good he was compelled to bother the cook with such boundless encomiums about the recipe that the whore had to drag him away. Then he lay beneath her in her foetid
room above the tavern, groaning and bellowing and grappling with her breasts. He wept and mumbled, not knowing why, as he wrapped himself to her back in sleep.

When he awoke, she was naked, plucking her hairline to keep it far back from her brows, as did all women who wished to be thought beautiful. She turned from the polished pewter plate she used as
a mirror and smiled. ‘Morning, handsome,’ she said.

‘What’s your name?’ His stomach swung within him when he reached for his drawers.

‘Stella. At least you didn’t ask what you’re doing here.’

The snapping rhythm of the
triccaballacca
went on. He frowned, wondering how the
tarantella
could continue all night. Then he realized that what he heard was the pain in his head,
so sharp it seemed to him like percussion.

‘I don’t need to ask
your
name,’ the woman said. ‘I’m going to call you
o’ntufato
.’

‘I don’t understand your bloody Neapolitan dialect.’

‘It means “the angry one”. You were up and down last night like the bit we call the “father of your children”.’ She mimed a penis engorging and deflating and
growing once more. ‘One moment you’d be all over some fellow as though you were friends from childhood; next you’d be cursing him and hurling your cup at his head.’

‘Oh God. I can’t believe it.’ He put his legs into his breeches.

‘There were some rough types at the inn last night. You insulted so many of them, you’re lucky you came away with the nose on your face.’

‘No one cut it off, so now I can lose my nose slowly to syphilis instead.’

She kissed the top of his head. ‘Don’t worry about picking up the French disease from me. You aren’t going to be around long enough to die that slowly,
o’ntufato
.’

When he left the tavern, Caravaggio went down the wide boulevard laid out by an old viceroy from Toledo. A gang of Spanish musketeers grew silent at his approach. The tallest
of them licked his lips and slapped his gloves against his hand. Caravaggio waited for them to come at him, without time even to wonder why they might attack him. They grinned with anticipation and
relish for a brawl. Then their eyes flickered between him and something beyond his shoulder. In a moment he realized that they didn’t intend to fight him. They watched for the spectacle of
another combat.

He spun to the side. His cloak twirled behind him. His attacker’s sword caught in its folds. He unlaced the neck of the cloak and drew his dagger.

Giovan Francesco Tomassoni untangled his rapier from the cloak. ‘Lucky for you, fucker, that you always wear black. They won’t even have to buy you a new suit to lay you out for your
funeral.’ He lifted the point of his sword and lunged.

Caravaggio parried with his dagger, gasping as the long blade shuddered past his shoulder. A quick step and he was in close. He punched Tomassoni under the ribcage.

The hilt of the sword came down on his head. It would have cracked his skull had he not twitched out of its path. He felt his ear burning and numb and he knew the blade had caught him there.
Caravaggio reeled away.

In his eagerness to strike again, Tomassoni slipped on the manure in the street and went onto his backside. The Spaniards laughed and mocked him. One of them tossed a half-eaten rum cake,
catching Tomassoni in the mouth. Furious, he jumped to his feet, spitting cake and wiping crumbs from his moustache.

Caravaggio shoved past the Spaniards and rushed into a narrow side street. He dodged between the children who played naked in the muck and the sacks of produce outside the stores. He cut left
towards the safety of the Stigliano Palace. He heard the shouts of Tomassoni clearing the way behind him and the voices of children and women cursing the man in return.

He stumbled through a dark, vaulted alley, striking himself against unseen objects, scattering cats and rats. In the wealthy quarters of Naples and down by the port, the sun would be bright,
feeding the bay with shimmering opal and splattering the limestone villas with a glow like a young girl’s skin. But here in the Spanish Quarter the lanes were as dark as a gambling den.
Abandoned by the light, Caravaggio went faster into the alleys. At the end of the street, he scrambled into a courtyard. Beneath a squat bell-tower, three high arches led into a church. He sprinted
for the darkness and hid himself behind the altar of a side chapel.

When he heard footsteps through the door, he lengthened each breath to calm himself. He flexed his fingers around the hilt of his dagger.

‘You think I want to kill you, painter?’ It was as though Ranuccio’s ghost spoke in the church. The same accent, the timbre that brothers share. ‘If I intended to take
your life, you’d have been dead a half dozen times already today.’

Tomassoni moved around the nave. ‘Next week, they’ll hold the parade to the cathedral. The sinners will walk on their knees behind St Gennaro’s blood, praying for it to liquefy
again. You ought to join them, to atone for your sins. Ah, but that’s not the forgiveness you want, is it, you godless bastard. Well, don’t worry, I just got my pardon from the Holy
Father for my part in the duel. Your
cumpà
Onorio is absolved of guilt, too. You’re the only one still on the run.’