Veronica COURTESAN (3 page)

We’ve established a routine, Mamma and I. On Mondays she washes my hair. After the first soaping, she massages my scalp for half an hour to encourage new growth and then rinses it twice in waters made from boiled vine stock with barley straw and crushed liquorice root to bring out the lights and make it shine.

My tresses fall to my waist, and the colour is rich with layers of honey and gold, which light up as it dries, resting like a cloak over the edge of a high chair where I sit with my back to the afternoon sun. Whilst it dries, Mamma plucks my hairline so that my forehead is high and clear, and my
figa
so that it remains free of lice. I have to grit my teeth and swallow the pain. She then applies a special bleaching paste to my face and neck (she told me it contains bean flour, mercury, dove entrails, camphor, and egg white).

When the mask is removed ─ an hour and half is too short and two hours too long ─ my skin is red and sometimes even spotty, but Mamma soothes it with cucumber water and warm towels.

On Tuesdays, heavily veiled and masked, we go to the Jewish Ghetto to search the second-hand clothes shops for the right apparel. As soon as the money starts coming in we’ll employ a dressmaker, but for now we have to make do with the almost-new dresses some wealthy women have decided don’t fit right or suit them well enough.

Wednesdays are my favourite days. We discuss literature and I’m able to give my mother an education of sorts. She pretends not to agree with my opinions, sparking what I hope are witty responses from me. We laugh together when we discuss one of the stories in Boccaccio’s Decameron, the one about the strong young man who goes to work in a nunnery and pretends to be a deaf mute so he can fuck all the nuns. I love Boccaccio’s themes of bearing misfortune with grace and patience. Things tend to work out in the end. And I hope the same will happen for Mamma and me. Paolo hasn’t been back to bother us; he must have resigned himself to living without me.

Thursdays I practise walking in the chopines that will give me elegance and the swaying gait of a temptress. I learn to dance in them, but don’t really enjoy the experience. I feel a tad ridiculous, as if I’m walking on stilts.

On Fridays, I practise the lute, my favourite pieces are the Venetian
pavane
, and I sing. I love singing, and one day I hope I will write my own songs. Mamma teaches me to colour my lips and cheeks with vermilion.

Saturdays I read and write poetry. Sundays, after Mass, Mamma and I play Trappola, the trick-taking card game. Although ’tis illegal, she says I will play it with my clients, and I’m getting quite good at it. Every night I rub a thick bleaching paste laced with rosemary onto my teeth. My gums I treat with mint, and my eyes with drops of witch-hazel water to moisten and highlight the whites. Oh, and my Murano bottle is a regular ritual. Of course.

I know not if I’m attractive, for there are no full-length mirrors at Mamma’s. When I set up my own house, I shall purchase one. I’m curious as to why they say I’m beautiful. My hair is fair enough, I suppose. My waist is small and my breasts, when I cup them, fill my hands. My face, in my hand-held mirror, seems symmetrical. It would be wonderful if someone painted my portrait one day. Such dreams I have, and I’ve yet to make my debut. Impatience mixed with trepidation washes through me. I know I shall be good enough. But will my patrons be good to me?

A picture of Paolo comes into my mind, but I push it away. He’s not worth me thinking about. He should never have married me. Other men are not like him. Papa is a drunkard, yet he’s not violent. I grew up with brothers who treated me as their equal. Even so, I can’t help a niggle of anxiety…

At last Mamma decides I’m ready for my debut; my cuts and bruises from Paolo have healed and, wearing our masks, she and I go to the perfumery on the Rialto Bridge, where she has ordered my fragrance in advance: essence of damask rose and frankincense. Signor Rossi, the owner of the shop, bows to us and hands over two packages. One with my perfume and the other containing the same scent in oil form to rub on my gloves and shoes. Mamma pays him then takes my arm. I’m wearing my chopines today and neither of us sports a veil. We progress across the bridge to the edge of the canal, where a gondola is waiting to take us to St Mark’s.

The boat’s polished silver rudder glints in the afternoon light, the gondolier clad like a courtier in scarlet and gold velvet, his single oar resting in its socket. I sit next to Mamma on the red velvet seat as the boatman slides his oar down into the water, manoeuvring us away from the dock and out into the main channel. We pass the colourful German merchants’ trading house,
Fondaco dei Tedeschi
, decorated with vibrant frescoes of Greek gods and goddesses, a tribute to sacred and profane love. Tall chimneypots rise up like enormous wine goblets on the serving tray of the skyline.

I take off my mask for the world to see me. Head up, neck long, hands folded, I’m wearing my favourite of the second-hand dresses, deep blue silk with pale cream heavily-embroidered sleeves. The bodice is trimmed with gold to draw attention to the plunging neckline. My breasts have been forced upwards to such an extent that my nipples are peeking out over the top. Wide skirts billow from the jewelled v-shaped band below my waist. The dress contains so much material I hope the Doge is not out and about, for he has approved a law limiting the display of sumptuous clothing not only by courtesans, but by the wives of the patricians who govern this floating city. Such apparel is deemed to be wasteful and challenges male authority.
Ha!

I wonder about the Doge, who wears white-and-gold regalia, and is picked by means of a series of secret ballots so complicated that Mamma cannot explain the process to me. When he die
s
– as this one will soon enough, I think, for I’m told he’s as wrinkled as an old prune, his family will be excluded from the next ballot. In this way Venice prides herself on being a true republic. Ah, Venice. How I love my city. Venice: the best, most beautiful, most ancient, most just, most peaceful. Venice –
la
Serenissima
– the Most Serene Republic. Why do I feel this way? I’ve never been anywhere else, but I’ve read our history and have compared it with that of the other Italian states. Truly, there is no comparison.

I think about our politicians, who wear long, dark coats, cloths like togas thrown over one shoulder, and the simplest of black caps on their heads. When I was a child, Mamma would take me to mass at St Mark’s and I’d see them gathered in the square like a flock of well-kept crows. Only men have political power. Sometimes, I wish I’d been born a boy, but not today. Today, dressed up like I am, I’m relishing my femininity.

There’s a freshness in the air, signalling the end of summer. I want to draw my shawl around my shoulders, except I’m here to put on a show. Has anyone noticed me? We pass a boatload of men dressed in the bright red robes of senators; their necks swivel at the sight of us. Mamma has already received a bid from Jacomo, but she wants to be sure his is the highest.

She’s worked wonders with my hair; she’s coaxed and teased it into feathery curls at my brow, ringlets around my cheeks, and the rest of it falls in slow, rolling waves down my back.

We do not alight for to do so would attract unwelcome attention. Courtesans are tolerated, indeed their taxes swell the coffers of the Senate, but the way I’m dressed would be deemed too extravagant.

There are men standing in groups below the twin pillars of justice. Except ’tis not the merchants who catch my eye, but the cooling embers of a large fire.

‘What happened there?’

Mamma sighs. ‘’Tis where they burnt a sodomite last Wednesday.’

‘Who did the burning?’

‘The State Inquisitors,
cara
.’

A chill, and my teeth chatter. The pyre has cast a blight upon the afternoon and I suggest to Mamma we return home.

I’m waiting for Jacomo to arrive. Relief washes through me that he’s won the bid, for I wouldn’t like to give my so-called virginity to a man I’ve never seen before. For a short while, Mamma and I feared Papa would ruin the evening. He came home, roaring drunk and demanding even more wine. Mamma gave him a flagon full and now he’s snoring in his chamber; he should stay that way until morning. We hope.

I’m nervous; my hands are shaking. Will Jacomo di Babolli be kind to me? The plug of pigs’ blood is in place, and I’m dressed in such finery I’m like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. We purchased this gown yesterday and ’tis my new favourite: emerald green silk stitched with seed pearls, the skirt and train has used so much cloth the Doge would deem it scandalous.

A knock at the door, and Mamma ushers Signor Jacomo into the room. We’ve splurged on beeswax candles rather than tallow, but, not having been able to afford many, the corners of the room are in darkness. My client is tall, yet I tower over him in my chopines; I dip a curtsey to meet his height.

‘Signora Veronica. Your beauty is even greater than my wildest dreams.’ He kisses my hand and my tummy flutters so.

‘You flatter me, Signor Jacomo.’ I point to the chair. ‘Pray, take a seat, and I shall sing for you.’

‘I’m not one for music and poetry. Nor even for conversation. My needs are basic. You’ll find me an uncomplicated man.’

I stand back and regard him. Why pay for a courtesan when all he wants is a fuck? ’Tis his money and who am I to complain? I can’t help feeling disappointed, however. I was looking forward to showing off my skills. I touch his cheek, his beard silky beneath my fingers, and I trace a line down to the edge of his mouth. Within seconds, he’s sucking on my thumb like a babe. He lets out a groan, takes hold of my hands and places them on his codpiece. I feel a twitch, and I sense a power over this man, this stranger, who needs me so.

We go to my chamber. My dress is cumbersome and to disrobe complicated. Yet Jacomo knows what to do without me having to ask. Soon I’m standing in front of him in my shift, unbuttoning his doublet, raining kisses down his chest, and unlacing his cod. When I drop to my knees, he lifts me up. ‘No need for that.’

He touches the tip of his finger to my breast then pinches my nipple. I let out a gasp, and ’tis not one of pain; the pinch has sent a shiver to my core. Jacomo pulls me against him; without my chopines my belly is soft against his prick. Lifting my knee, I nudge at it with my
figa
. Another groan from Jacomo, stronger this time. He buries his hands in my hair. My first time kissing a man, but Mamma has taught me what to do. I slip my tongue into his mouth then move my head back to tease him. His eyes meet mine, hot with desire. ‘Let me disrobe you completely,’ he says, pulling up my shift.

Jacomo removes the rest of his clothing, lifts me onto the bed and stretches out beside me. Sliding one arm around my waist he strokes my hair with the other. ‘So beautiful,’ he whispers. ‘Like burnished gold.’ My glance meets his. ‘And your eyes are like the forests; they change from emerald to dark green depending on the light.’

‘Why, signor Jacomo. For a man of few words you are most eloquent.
Grazie.
’

He nods and his hands slide down, his fingers brushing the sides of my breasts before cupping my buttocks, his erection nudging against my abdomen. Taking his hands from my back, he slips his forearm under my chest and turns me across his lap. His fingers between my legs support my weight. The hand across my chest keeps me pinned against his arm. As he moves it to cup my breast, I catch the intense concentration on his face.

‘Part your legs.’

I obey, and his fingers slip into my
figa.
My apple juices are flowing already. ‘Put your arms around my neck so I can feel your breasts against me.’

I do as instructed. His prick pushes against my inner thigh as his legs slip between mine. The planes and curves of his muscles are rock-hard against my soft flesh. ‘Spread yourself wide.’

I become a starfish, spread-eagled while the heat of his body covers me like a blanket. ’Tis as if I’m watching myself from a distance, detaching the real me from this wanton creature on the bed. His hot breath, cinnamon-scented, blows across my cheek while I curl my fingers into the thick hair on his chest.

Jacomo’s tongue trails from my neck up to my ear. My breasts are swelling and my nipples ache. I arch up and press them against the solid wall of his chest. The relief is momentary as my
figa
throbs. Remembering ’tis my job to give him pleasure not his to pleasure me, I wait until he’s ready.

Jacomo pushes his prick against my nub and I strain upwards with my hips to wrap my legs around this thighs. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you,’ he says.

Mamma told me to lie still at this stage and so I do. But when he tries to enter me, the plug of pig’s blood blocks his way and he has to exert himself to get past it. The pressure against my
figa
increases. Feet under my hips I arch upward, impaling myself, biting my lips against a cry. His prick is much thicker than my Murano bottle and he has truly deflowered me.

Jacomo growls low in his throat, sinks his fingers into my hips and pulls. I feel him tearing my flesh. Before I can register any pain, he’s pulled out and is surging anew.
Maria santissima!
This man will break me in two. But I no longer care. I twist. To get closer or away? I don’t know. ’Tis too savage. Too fundamental. Too exciting.

‘Yes,’ he growls again, thrusting deeply into me, his hips slamming against mine, his mouth at my breasts.

He lifts my feet until my ankles are hooked around his hips, but I can’t swallow the whole of him into my
figa.
Jacomo gives a low laugh, slides his arms under my thighs and flips my legs over his shoulders. The air is filled with the scent of our fucking: apples, vanilla and musk. He drives his prick into my
figa
, grinding his hips against my pearl on the downstroke, forcing me to take his entirety. Then he pulls all the way out. And in one almighty lunge, re-seats himself to the hilt. His balls slap against my rump.

All the breath leaves my body, and then I’m pushing back at him as the pleasure grows. ‘Is this good?’

‘More than good,’ he grunts. ‘More than good.’

‘Do I please you?’

He doesn’t answer; he doesn’t need to. A groan escapes from deep within him and I feel his prick jerk as he spills his hot seed into me. I haven’t reached my joy; I didn’t expect to; I liked it well enough.

Jacomo turns on his side and kisses my forehead. ‘You surpassed all my expectations. I want exclusivity.’

‘Exclusivity?’ Mamma will not be pleased. She said men need the challenge of competition to keep them coming back for more.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘That or nothing. I’ll set you up in your own house in a good area with servants of your own. What say you to that?’

‘I say that will be wonderful. What say you to some conversation?’ I trail my finger across his thigh. ‘With a glass of wine and some
biscotti?
’