Courtesan's Lover (10 page)

The next few weeks pass in something of a blur. Now that I am juggling three regular patrons, two of whom wish to see me at least twice a week, I have almost no time to myself, and, as well as being tired for much of the time, I am becoming increasingly worried about how seldom it seems to be that I can manage to spend more than snatched moments with the twins.

The money I am making is reassuring though. And I suppose that's the thing: I must just keep putting away safely everything I earn and storing it up. Because I have to: I cannot for a moment contemplate the thought of my girls whoring—even the idea makes me feel sick. I'd rather die than see them doing what I do. Unlike me (I discovered this life late, compared to most), most courtesans are born to it—born into harlotry—like that little snake, Alessandra Malacoda, who, if I am to believe the Neapolitan gossips, was introduced to the delights of the bedchamber at the age of ten by her pimping whore of a mother. No doubt
La
Malacoda
has made her mamma proud of her. And she plans, so I have been told, to be just as proud of her own daughter. Hoping she'll be kept in luxury in her old age, no doubt. The child is four. God! The very thought makes me retch.

Beata and Isabella have no concept of what I do when I am not with them. I have spun them indeterminate yarns about my activities, which seem to satisfy their undemanding, childish curiosity, and both Ilaria and Sebastiano know that I would dismiss the pair of them instantly if they ever breathed a word of the truth to either girl.

What I am to do when the girls reach an age where they will start to ask more demanding questions, or to search for answers for themselves, I don't know. I cannot allow myself to think too hard about it; my fears for them almost suffocate me when I let my mind dwell for too long upon what might become of them in years to come. I shall have to find them husbands, I think, and to do that, I will need money. They'll need dowries. So, whatever I feel about it all and however tired I might become, I must just remember why I am doing it.

And there are recompenses, after all. I have a veritable treat in store this evening—it's been awhile since I had the pleasure of bedding a virgin.

Whatever the challenges and rewards of one's more experienced customers, it makes a refreshing change to deflower an innocent. I haven't had the chance very often. There is something quite charming about seeing a boy's clumsy attempts gain in confidence as he follows your instructions, though I suppose there is one thing to consider: It has to be said that it
is
something of a responsibility. More than just ensuring that he enjoys the occasion, there is another, more far-reaching consideration: that the experience he has—literally—
in
your
hands
may color the attitude he will bring to any other woman he beds in years to come. With every move you make, you might be setting a standard by which he will judge women for the rest of his life. For myself, I have found that the future happiness of those other, unknown sisters weighs just as heavily on my conscience as the present customer's immediate pleasure. You must simply “tread carefully,” I suppose you might say. Nothing too alarming. Let him glimpse the possibilities, but do nothing to encourage the sort of vices you—or others—might regret in encounters to come.

Those will come later, with or without your help.

***

It was a most unexpected commission. I had turned away from the market in the Piazza Girolamini with a length of lawn wrapped in waxed paper in a basket over my arm, intending to give it to Bianca the next day, so that she could make a start on “Signora Marrone's” chaste chemise. The afternoon was bustling again after the quiet of midday, and the streets were already thronging and noisy.

A gaggle of colorfully dressed young men had almost blocked the narrow path at the point at which it joined the piazza, and I had to edge between the group and the rough wall of the corner house to gain access to the street beyond, holding my basket high to keep it from banging against any unwary head or back. One or two of the group broke off from their argument and stared insolently at me as I picked my way across the cobbles. At least some of them appeared to have recognized me, though I am now far beyond the pockets of men such as these. I pretended to ignore them as they nudged each other and jerked their heads in my direction. Even after more than ten years' whoring, though, a group like this makes me nervous, and I walked a little faster, aware of a faint twinge in my scar. I wished Modesto was with me. They hurled suggestive comments at me like lewd missiles; the ribald remarks followed me until I was able to turn the corner at the far end of the street, but the men did not move. I made no sign that I had heard them at all, though behind the dignified exterior I was struggling not to turn back toward them, to let loose a volley of insults of my own. I know a choice few.

I walked on for some moments, breathing steadily again and taking my time to balance on the uneven cobbles in my infernally uncomfortable
chopines
. Stupid things—I cannot imagine why such unusable shoes were ever invented, and were it not for the fact that they are so much admired in Venice, I should not be bothering to try to introduce them here.

I never feel at ease when I am wearing them, though.

I can't run in them.

I clutched handfuls of my heavy skirts and stepped up onto one of the ridges created by last summer's quake. The ridge runs right down the length of the street, like a cutlass scar along the forearm of a privateer, reminding me unpleasantly of that terror-soaked day last July when the earth cracked and shook for what seemed like hours.

“Excuse me, Signora…”

In contrast to the mocking taunts I had just endured, the voice that cut through the jostling chatter and into my thoughts was polite—cultured even—and I smiled as I turned to see who had spoken.

“Might I speak with you?” The slight edge of awkwardness in the voice of the young man I now saw, and the pucker of anxiety between his dark brows, made me wonder if this might perhaps be potential business.

“Can I help you?”

He hesitated.

“It is…Signora Felizzi, isn't it?”

I eyed my new companion curiously. Neither tall nor short, well built and square-jawed, he was dressed in a dark-green doublet and breeches of obviously superior quality. He wore his clothes with a faint air of self-consciousness, as though the items were a very new purchase and thus still unfamiliar. In style, his garments seemed designed for someone rather older: perhaps he needed to impress in his line of work. His dark hair he wore a little longer than is currently fashionable. He looked, in short, as though he might be able to afford me.

“I have been told of your…growing reputation…Signora…”

I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Indeed? And just what ‘reputation' might that be, Signore?”

He held my gaze but flushed. I waited for a moment, rather enjoying his discomfiture, and then helped him out. “How did you know you had found the right person?”

“I was given a description.”

“Which was?”

The young man's color deepened still further. He said, “I was told to watch out for a woman with black hair, brown eyes, and the sort of beauty that would make me catch my breath.”

Trying not to look too pleased with this, I asked, “And who gave you this description?”

“Michele di Cicciano. I had approached him to ask for his help with a small problem, Signora,” my companion continued. “A problem of a very delicate nature. I have a good friend who has a younger brother, about whom he has been worrying a great deal.”

So this young man was not seeking my favors for himself. A shame. But, whatever the business was, it needed to be discussed. “Perhaps, before you tell me any more, we should go somewhere a little more discreet,” I suggested.

My new friend agreed. We walked together for some moments without speaking and found a low wall in the shadows of the great Castel Nuovo, where we both sat down.

The young man began again. “Well. This boy is a fine lad, but what is bothering my friend is that his brother seems to have shown no inclination at all to initiate himself into…into…” He flushed an interesting shade of dark pink and stumbled as he tried to complete his sentence.

“Into…the ways of the world?” I suggested.

He grasped the straw gratefully. “Exactly! And Signor di Cicciano feels that you might be the perfect person to…er…bring this state of affairs to a satisfactory conclusion…without denting the lad's self-esteem…” He trailed off.

“And just how old is your friend's brother?” I asked.

“Nearly eighteen, Signora.”

With a disbelieving half-laugh, I said, “Not so old that his reluctance to perform should be a cause of anxiety, surely?”

“His brother thinks it is, Signora. He has his reasons.”

I paused, wondering what those reasons might be, though I was able to hazard a guess. Perhaps he was afraid his young brother might prefer…dallying with his own kind. The penalties for proven sodomy are so terrible nowadays that were this so, the young man's brother's fears would be well-founded. Contemplating the thought that I might have been chosen merely as an extremely expensive way of luring a young man from the perils of perversion, I asked, “Why do you think I should be interested in this child?”

“Hardly a child, Signora. Gianni is perhaps a head taller than me, and already has regular recourse to a razor.”

Something did not feel right. I wanted to know what the real reason for this commission might be. “In that case,” I said, frowning, “why should so impressive a young man need the services of a bedfellow as expensive as myself? Would not a girl of his choice suit him as well, and leave his—or his brother's—pocket considerably better stocked?”

The young man smiled broadly and stood up. He leaned back against the wall. His weight was on one foot; the other he crooked up against the cracked roughcast. “If we leave it to Gianni, Signora, he'll be a virgin until he's fifty.”

Perhaps my surmise was wrong. Perhaps this was all little more than an elaborate joke being set up at the unfortunate Gianni's expense. (If the young man's brother was a friend of Michele's, this was not inconceivable.)

“He's very shy, Signora,” said the man in the green doublet, by way of explanation.

“Do you set me a challenge then, Signore?”

He laughed. “If you like.”

I liked both my companion and the idea more and more as the minutes passed. My moment's unease lifted. “Very well…” I named a price for two hours of my time. The young man's eyebrows lifted into his hair and he flinched, sucking in a shocked breath through his teeth and whistling it out again, but rallying, he agreed. I presumed that he must be aware that even if it seemed an exorbitant sum, I am, after all, still considerably less expensive than either of those conceited bitches, Emilia Rosa or Alessandra Malacoda, if not yet as well known. But time may change
that.
We arranged a day and an hour, and my companion bade me farewell. As he disappeared into the crowd, though, I realized that I had let him leave without having discovered his name.

***

My new customer arrives shortly after sunset on the appointed day. I am upstairs; there is a loud knock at the front door below, and I hear Modesto come up from the kitchen. He opens it and says something I cannot catch and then there is a burst of unfamiliar male laughter and the sound of feet on the step. I can hear more than one voice outside. Then, after a pause, the door closes and the sounds of the street are cut off. I come to the top of the stairs. Standing next to Modesto is a long-limbed boy with dark curly hair and wide eyes—eyes which just now seem distinctly anxious and self-conscious. This is perfect. Lack of experience can just as easily show itself as timidity or bluster in these situations…and the bluster can be tedious. I don't think it was this boy's laugh I heard just now.

His friend has described him accurately: Gianni is tall and, as with many of his height, he is slightly round-shouldered and stoops a little, as though in apology for his excess of inches. An uneven, downy fluff of beard is doing its very best to make an impression upon his face, which none the less still loudly proclaims both his youth and his inexperience.

I come down to meet him. “Gianni?” I ask, and he nods, blushing furiously. I suppress a smile and decide that I must take this one very gently indeed. I indicate that he should come with me back up the stairs. My young customer edges past me, gazing around him for all the world as though he intends to purchase the place.

Modesto gives me a meaningful stare and pats his doublet over the place where I know he keeps a knife, but I smile and shake my head. There will not be any trouble from this boy. With an almost imperceptible shrug and an excuse for a bow, he disappears through the door to the kitchen.

I follow Gianni up the stairs, and as he turns his head, I see that he is still wide-eyed and intently absorbing as much as he can of his surroundings. We enter my upstairs chamber. I close the door behind me. Gianni is studying the ceiling, the paintings on the walls, the window hangings, the rug upon the floor—everything, in fact, except me. He is carefully avoiding looking at me.

And I think he is averting his eyes from the bed.

The temptation to shock, to be outrageous and astonish him, is tremendous, but I don't think I will succeed with him tonight if I do. This will need a delicate touch.

“Please, sit down,” I say politely. He sits on a chair and stares at his hands, each of which is gripping a knee. The white knuckles betray his anxiety most endearingly. I watch him for a moment. He has a fine-boned face and large brown eyes; his hair is almost black and falls in tangled curls. A muscle tenses in his cheek. A lock of hair falls over one eye and he flicks his head sideways to shift it, still regarding his hands upon his knees. He moves his fingers a little, but the bone-colored wheals of tension remain.