Courtesan's Lover (3 page)

I
explained
all
this
to
Cristo, and then finished my story by saying, “Modesto told me how the poor man had staggered off up the street, and then collapsed when he reached the piazza. Several people—including Modesto—tried to help, but it was no good. He was dead in minutes.”

Cristoforo
rubbed
a
hand
around
his
unshaven
jaw and puffed out a disbelieving sigh. “Poor old man.”

***

A dove clatter-flaps past the window, startling me out of my reverie. It's warm here, and the sun is lying across the gauze over my face. I wriggle a little, feeling a prickling tingle in one of my feet.

He has to be here soon.

And then the door opens, banging back against the wall and making me jump.

Oh,
Dio
! I hope it's him: I shall feel decidedly foolish, trussed up here like a goose prepared for the table, if it's anybody else. Several sets of footsteps clack into the room, and I hear men's voices, speaking in Spanish. One of them is my servant friend from before, I think, but the others are unfamiliar. Their indecipherable conversation rumbles for a moment, and then an order is barked out, the various footsteps retreat, and the door clicks shut.

Somebody strides across the room. I hold my breath. The newcomer pauses, and then I hear soft male laughter, which ends with a cough. A voice says in Italian, “Oh, yes! Juan was quite right—this delivery is indeed ‘
significant.
' Well, well, well, I wonder what it can possibly be. Whatever it is, it must be investigated
immediately
.” This voice, like the servant's, is breathy and heavily accented, though this man speaks more softly, and his grammar is accurate.

A faint tug near my middle pulls me slightly to one side: he's undoing the ribbon. Taking his time, he peels back the fabric, bit by bit, leaning over me to untuck the various layers of gauze. I can hear his breath, soft in his nose. Then, after several seconds, blinking in the light, I am finally able to see who has released me from my wrappings: at first he is silhouetted against the window, but then he moves to one side into the shadow of the damask-hung bedpost, and I can make him out more clearly.

Maestre
Vasquez—I presume this to be him—must be some thirty years old; he is neat and slightly built, with short dark hair and a tidy beard. Like a mythological faun, he has pointed tips to his ears. On meeting my gaze, his smile broadens, he runs his tongue over his lips, and holding out a hand, he gestures to me to sit up.

“Señora Felizzi? I was not expecting to see you so soon. Or for you to arrive quite so
covertly
.”

“Signor Vasquez.” I swing my legs around and stand, smoothing out my skirts with my hands. Then, my gaze on his, I drop down into a curtsy, but my would-be patron takes my hand and pulls me back to standing. We are much the same height. He releases my hand, and, stretching out to touch the neckline of my dress, he feels his way softly down from my shoulder, fingering the lace as he goes. His hand moves across the horizontal, then pauses, his eyes widening as he reaches the first of my all-but-exposed nipples. “Are you hungry?” he says, pinching it for a brief second.

I run my tongue over my lips and smile assent.

“I have had food prepared for us. Come and eat.”

Vasquez lifts the covered platters over onto the table. He seats me in one of the two chairs, pulling the other round so he is sitting close to me. Filling our glasses with a tawny-colored wine, he then lifts off the domes. Olives. Some sort of tiny bird's eggs, nestling in a bed of shredded leaves and little flowers. And oysters. Shucked and gleaming and dressed with lemon slices.

Picking up an olive in his fingers, he offers it to me, obviously expecting to put it directly into my mouth. “Señora?” he asks.

I smile and open my mouth a little. His fingers rest on my lips for a brief second. I turn the fruit over with my tongue, enjoying the briny sharpness, and, having removed the flesh, I push the stone forward so it protrudes from between my teeth. My new friend grins and takes it from me.

“More?” he asks.

I nod.

He repeats the process. Twice.

I reach forward then and pick up an oyster, holding it up for him to eat. He tilts his head back, and, touching his lip with the edge of the shell, I slide the oyster into his mouth. He flicks his head to throw it to the back of his throat and swallows it. As he sits forward again, a thin line of liquor runs down his chin into his beard, and I lean toward him and run the tip of my tongue up the track of the juice, holding the side of his face with my fingers. He smells of brine and incense and garlic.

Letting out a long, slow breath that shivers as it leaves his mouth, he says, “Oh, you are going to be worth every
scudo
! Benevento sang your praises to the heavens, but I think now that he failed to do you justice.”

“I always hope to please.”

“Your hopes are being fulfilled as we speak, believe me,” he says, picking up another oyster. He raises his eyebrows questioningly. I nod, and he slithers it into my mouth. Its sea-smelling bulk is thick in my throat for an instant and then it's gone. Vasquez leans forward and runs his tongue along the edge of my lip.

I open my mouth a fraction.

And that, it seems, is invitation enough for him. He stands, takes my hand, and flicks his head toward the great gold-draped edifice on the far side of the chamber. “Come with me, now, Señora,” he says softly.

And, tracing around inside the curve of his palm with my fingertips as we walk, I follow him across the room.

I
suppose
in
the
end
it
was
not
an
unpleasant
evening.

As
I
lay
wrapped
in
silk
like
a
spider's supper last night, waiting for Vasquez to arrive, I passed the time wondering what my new patron would be like. And, now that I've lain with him, I know that he's greedy. Maestre Miguel Vasquez is a greedy man—greedy for me, greedy for food, greedy for life. His appetites for both his fine suppers and my body would appear to be irrepressible. At times last night I felt that he might almost devour me…my lips are tingling this morning—they're quite bruised from his attentions—and my poor breasts are almost numb.

He
says
little, the Maestre. But there's a fervent eagerness about him, an unsettling intensity that seemed not far from desperation at times yesterday. Has he always been like this, I wonder, or is it just that he has been waiting a long time for an encounter such as we had last night?

Perhaps
he
will
relax
a
little
more
next
time.

I
hope
so. Appetites like his often lead to trouble.

It's Wednesday evening. Filippo di Laviano is running his tongue over his lips. “You know you deserve a particularly severe beating, you insolent little slut,” he says, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

“Why?”

Frowning, Filippo pauses to consider. “Oh…because…because wicked, unprincipled strumpets like you need to be kept in their place…and…men such as myself,” he says proudly, one hand on his chest, “have a responsibility to uphold the morality of the city of Napoli.”

I smother a laugh. It's really rather charming. This quiet and unassuming man was introduced to me a year ago, and it didn't take me long to discover that his subdued air of self-deprecation stemmed almost entirely from the fact that for years he had been quite crushed by the suffocating loneliness of a marriage to a frigid woman.

That first time we fucked, he actually wept with guilt-drenched relief and then poured out a tangled explanation of his many frustrations with his wife. So he tells me, on the occasions that he does manage to persuade her to lie with him (and yes, it
is
persuasion—I absolutely believe that he has no stomach for true coercion), she each time submits obediently, he says, but with a prick-deflating expression of martyred resignation on her face as though she were praying for the achievement of sanctity through suffering.

Poor Filippo endured this for years before being introduced to me. He has never felt able simply to go drabbing, as so many in his situation might well have done. Although he now loves to address me as though I was the most disgusting of lewd harlots, he in fact recoils with fastidious horror at the thought of actually associating with genuine street whores. And who can blame him? The mindless vulgarity and diseased bodies of those poor bitches are far too much of an obstacle, even for one in so much need of relief.

So that I could try to assess what sort of man he was, I asked him quite early on how he felt toward his wife each time she showed such antipathy to being bedded. I thought I knew what he might say. He was sitting in the big chair under the window and took some moments to answer my question; he just stared at the floor, muffled in shame. I watched him, saying nothing. Filippo is a big-boned, heavy man—he must be nearly fifty years old—and though his hair is still thick, it is quite grey. But at that moment, despite the bulk and the silver hair, he looked more like a little boy, caught out in a serious misdemeanor.

When he did speak, it was in hardly more than a stammering whisper. “I know it sounds terrible to say this, but…God…sometimes I almost feel…that I could beat her for what she does to me. But I would never hurt her…
never
…I couldn't…she doesn't mean to…it is
I
who—” He broke off, and I could see he was drowning in guilt. He had confirmed my suspicions.

So I offered him a possible solution.

He stared at me. I'll never forget his wide-eyed expression of total astonishment as I raised an eyebrow, smiled at him, and said, “You may do what you please in here, Signore.”

So, Filippo now comes to see me almost every Wednesday evening; he pays me what he always says is an
exorbitant
fee, so he can spend a few entertaining hours each week being the “guardian of the morals of the city of Napoli”—or whatever else has happened to take his fancy. Without guilt or redress, quite shamelessly, and always with the greatest enthusiasm, Filippo returns here again and again so he can continue to take out his long-running marital frustrations upon my ever-available backside.

Today, as always, his face is eager, and his gaze is fixed upon mine as he unfastens his doublet with trembling fingers.

“If, as you say, I deserve a beating…Signor Guardian…well, what do you intend to do about it?” I ask, hands on hips.

Filippo raises an eyebrow and wags an admonitory finger at me. “Oh, you deserve a lot more than a beating, my girl. It's disgraceful—this city is quite overrun now: absolutely teeming with grubby little trollops, all with a vastly over-inflated opinion of themselves and”—he sucks in a breath and says pompously—“it all needs dealing with! Take off your shift!”

I pull my chemise over my head, and Filippo reaches for my wrists. “Hold on to that,” he says, taking my hands and placing them on to one of the bedposts. I swallow a yawn. I'm unexpectedly tired today—I've been a great deal busier than usual for the past couple of weeks—and as Filippo runs his big hand over my buttocks, I am suddenly unsure whether I really feel like indulging him for the next few hours. He must see something of my fatigue in my expression, for he pauses for a moment, straightens, and then adds in quite a different voice, “If you are certain you don't object,
cara…”

Oh, dear—this won't do. It won't do at all. Filippo has paid in full for his pleasures this evening, and he must have what he wants. His wife may be able to refuse his advances, but I don't have that luxury. Every courtesan's expensive reputation is easily blighted, and in this business, word spreads as fast as a whore's legs; I cannot ever appear anything less than enthusiastic. I summon a smile, which I then lick with the tip of my tongue. Filippo's eyes move to my mouth. “I never object,
caro
,” I say. “You know that. Not to anything.”

Filippo's expression clears, and a pinprick gleam of lasciviousness brightens his eye once more. “Well, in that case…” he says happily. His fingers move to the fastening of his belt, and my buttocks clench involuntarily.

I know what to expect of this evening.

***

Filippo lies on his back with his eyes closed, and an expression of blissful repletion stretches the corners of his mouth. My hips are stiff: I feel like I do after a long day's ride, and my arse is flaming as I walk uncomfortably across the room to the table upon which stands a big, deep-blue decanter of red wine, which shines dark purple where the light from a candle glows behind the glass. I fill two goblets and pad back to the bed, really tired now and relieved that the evening is all but over.

“Drink, Lippo?”

“Turn around,” he says. I do so.

Seeing my bottom, his expression changes. “Oh, dear—I seem to have been rather overzealous. Are you sure you're…” He hesitates, and I smile at his familiar anxiety. It's the same almost every week.

Filippo's needs, though always energetic, are uncomplicated. But I admit I am often tired by the end of his hours with me—though he has nothing of, say, Michele's unpredictable wild energy, Filippo is as demanding a companion in his way. I am often all but
dislocated,
too
.
In fact, on numerous occasions, flattened like a spatchcocked chicken beneath Filippo di Laviano's oblivious weight, I have wondered if I would ever be able to straighten my legs again. But given all this, it is still less exhausting to be passively on the receiving end of Filippo's “punishments” than it is to fight with Michele the way I always seem to. It's not nearly as exciting—but it
is
less tiring.

“Yes, I'm quite sure I'm…” I mimic his worried expression and his unfinished question, and he laughs.

“Well, then yes, I would like something, yes—thank you, Francesca.”

I hand him one of the two glasses and place the other on the table next to the bed. Climbing back a little gingerly under the covers, I take a long draft and swill it around my mouth for a moment, enjoying the dry, sucking feeling against the back of my teeth.

“I should think you needed that, you trollop. You ought to be exhausted.”

“Your performance was most impressive, Signore,” I agree.

He smiles proudly and speaks again, hutching himself up and back against the pillow. “Francesca, can I ask of you a considerable favor…an enjoyable one?”

“More enjoyable than the one I have just done you?”

“That wasn't a favor. You were well paid for it.”

I incline my head in acceptance of this. “Tell me, Filippo, what is it?”

“Well, I have been invited to a play—a meal and a play—next month, by a friend who teaches at the university. At the Long Chamber in that beautiful building in the law faculty, just off the Spaccanapoli—near the Piazza San Domenico Maggiore.”

I say nothing, but wait to hear more.

“Maria does not wish to come with me…” A fleeting wince as of pain crosses his face. “I've told you before, that apart from familiar short excursions, she does not care to leave the house very often, and she is usually anxious in company—but, oh, Francesca, I really don't want to go alone to such an occasion. If I go alone yet again, they will all begin to talk. I wondered if you might think of coming with me.”

“But…can you
really
wish to be seen in public with a
courtesan
, Filippo?” I am astonished. He has never asked such a thing before. Unlike some of my previous patrons who have enjoyed flaunting me around town like some sort of prize exhibit, Filippo has always been at pains to keep his relationship with me entirely covert—we have never met outside the confines of this house.

He surprises me again. “I won't be with a courtesan,” he says with a boyish grin. “I had thought that you might disguise yourself.”

“What—false whiskers and breeches?”

Filippo throws his head back and laughs. “Ha! A delightful prospect—but unrealistic. No, I have it in mind to pass you off as a respectable widow. A cousin, I think, newly emerged from mourning…”

I swill down another bursting mouthful of wine. “Will there be other women there?”

“Oh, yes—quite certainly!”

“Do I not run the risk of being recognized?”

Filippo frowns. “No, I don't think so. Such dedicated academics as Luca and his fellow tutors rarely bother themselves with salacious gossip. No, Francesca, with your hair simply dressed and in, perhaps, some modestly cut frock, I think we could create a believable alias.”

“What will your wife say?”

“I shan't tell her. She is unlikely to ask, and I shan't volunteer the information.”

“Oh, I don't know, Lippo…”

“Might these tempt you?” Filippo hands me his goblet and then climbs out of the bed. He crosses the room to the untidy pile of his clothes he discarded some time ago with such haste and crouches on his heels before it with his back to me. I watch him rummage through pockets, searching for something. His heavy body is pale in the candlelight as he bends forward: prick and balls hang like dark giblets beneath the creamy globes of his buttocks.

“Ha! There we are. Close your eyes.”

He hurries back to the bed and scrambles under the covers.

“Keep your eyes shut, and hold out your hands.”

I put the wine glasses down and do as he asks. Something small and soft lands in one palm, and I open my eyes. A little leather bag lies in my hand. I finger it and feel beads of some sort within.

“Go on. Tell me what you think.”

I loosen the strings and tip out a rope of pale-pink pearls and two matching earrings. They are beautiful, and I am astonished.

“Pearls. Filippo, are these not…?”

“Yes! Your disguise. Forbidden to courtesans, are they not, pearls? They will be perfect. So…will you come? I'll pay for it all.”

The laugh that escapes me is short and disbelieving. Almost a snort. But the idea is entertaining, and I smile at Filippo and agree. “Very well, I'll do it. Shall I have a new name?”

Filippo leans across and kisses my cheek, saying, “I had thought that
Signora
Marrone
has a pleasingly anonymous ring to it. Francesca Marrone.”

“Very chaste.”

“And so you must be. Well, until we come back here after the play, that is.”

“What do you want me to wear, then, Lippo?” I ask.

“Dark blue, I think. High-necked and modest. No slashes, no ribbons—just the pearls. Dress your hair like a mourning Madonna.”

“I'll call Modesto—he can take the order around to the seamstress.” The underhand covertness of Filippo's plan has begun to appeal to me. I climb out of bed and cross to my table. Rummaging through a drawer, I pull out a sheet of paper, a quill, and some ink and scratch a few lines, sketching a rough design for a suitable dress. Feeling another twinge in my hips, I sit back down—carefully—and show the paper to Filippo.

“Oh, yes, Francesca! Exactly what I had in mind. You will be quite lovely.”

“Not too lovely, presumably. You won't want this friend of yours and all his academics asking awkward questions about your propriety.”

“Luca is such a trusting, unsuspicious soul—it will never cross his mind that you are not what you purport to be.”

“Oh, don't say that—you make me feel deceitful.”

“And so you are, you trollop. If it is honesty you want, then perhaps you should not worry about new dresses and simply go as you are now.”

“Oh, no, Filippo, don't start again! Modesto!” I slide out of reach of Filippo's hand, which is once more in search of my bottom.

Modesto opens the door.

Modesto is my secret weapon. His unimpressive size belies his strength—and determination—and more than one of my past patrons has underestimated Modesto's ruthlessness—to his cost. His and my histories intertwine over nearly three years, since the day I heard him sing for the Duke of Salerno. Now, the Duke was one patron I was
very
glad to see the back of—with his endless drinking and the seemingly constant stream of visiting friends and relations. He never seemed to be able to grasp the fact that I have never been at all fond of entertaining more than one at a time.

Modesto was still singing for a living, then. It's a terrible shame that, since his illness, he only has the vocal stamina to sing occasionally, but Modesto's voice is still hauntingly beautiful—enough to bring tears to the most cynical of dry eyes. Its beauty is deceptive, though: its womanish pitch has fooled many into believing him a weakling, but, to my surprise at first, his condition has not, as I initially believed it would have, sapped him of a man's strength, even if he has been so cruelly denied a man's ability to rut.