In the Company of the Courtesan (21 page)

“Ah—I am sorry. I didn't hurt you?”

“No. No…I am fine.”

I pick up the vial and turn to her. “Here—”

But her hand is already out waiting for it. I might ask her how she knows I have it, but I will no doubt get some answer about the sound of glass breaking or not, or the different ways a man moves with a pot or an empty palm. As it is not Thursday, I did not expect to find her here, but a busy house has its fair share of aches and boils and fevers, and a clever courtesan keeps her servants as healthy as herself. For my part, I am too busy to cross paths with her often, and when we do meet, we are so mutually civil that if you did not know, you might mistake us for friends. Underneath, however, the scars inflicted by my suspicion and her retaliation all that time ago still remain, and we cannot help but be wary of each other. Sometimes I think if I had the will, I could find a way to heal things, for I am not totally without manners, and these last few years I have charmed my way into the affections of one or two women infinitely more appealing than she. But, if I am honest, they were also more stupid, and I think I fear that she would see through me, even with her eyes closed.

“What's happened? What's going on up there?”

“A gift has arrived. I cannot help you with it. You had best see it for yourself.”

And so I do—the second I enter the
portego.
For no one with eyes could miss it. It is propped against the wall: a great, full-length silvered mirror, bigger than anything I have ever seen before, shining like a starburst in the room, its surface catching the sun and reflecting the great distance of space and light flooding in through the loggia opposite. The whole house is gathered in honor of it: my lady, Gabriella, Marcello; and, standing, watching their glee, is our glass merchant client, Vespasiano Alberini.

“Oh, Bucino! Look! Look what my lord Alberini has brought us!” Her face is lit up almost as bright as its surface.

“Oh. You should have been here! It took eight men to bring it on the barge from Murano, and when they winched it up from below, each time it faltered, I thought my heart would stop for fear that it would smash. But my lord took charge of everything.” And she moves over to him and squeezes his arm, and he laughs at her enthusiasm, for gratitude always brings out the happy child in her. “I wish La Draga had not rushed away so fast. Oh, isn't it the most remarkable thing you have ever seen?”

Indeed it is, and its presence in our house will be all around town by tomorrow, thanks to the drama of its arrival. Alberini is one of our better customers: a substantial merchant, in girth as well as talent, and a man who is abreast of the newest techniques in the foundries almost before the workmen themselves understand their potential. In love my lady says he is like a wild boar, all bristle and bellowing bulk, but hand him a piece of glass, from the most elaborate crystal to the finest ornamented majolica, and his hands are as careful and delicate as an angel's and his voice puts poetry into commerce.

I remember the first time he dined with us. He brought my lady an exquisite crystal wine goblet decorated with her name in the newest diamond-point engraving. “Feed your eyes on this miracle, my friends,” he said as he showed it to the guests. “Into this transparent nothingness went sand and pebble and ash and a fire hotter than Hell. It is a testament to the glory of man and a lesson from God: beauty as perfect and fragile as life itself.”

And as he said it, he pretended to drop it, so that the whole room sucked in a great breath of fear before he grinned and held it up to the light like a communion chalice. I have watched him repeat the exercise half a dozen times at different gatherings, and I love his sense of theater and his salesmanship. It almost makes me wish I was a priest so I could buy up all the misshapen failures of the workshop and drop them from the pulpit every Sunday to put the fear of death into my flock. No wonder he has made his fortune—there are not many men who can sell philosophy in a glass and yet still know the best wine to pour into it. Luckily for us, over these last few years he has become enamored enough of my lady's body to want to see it reflected every which way in his mirrors, for the business of glass exploits vanity as much as it peddles humility.

“You like it, Bucino?” he says, and his round face is split with a fat grin.

“As always, my lord—you bring us miracles.”

“Beauty for beauty. A fair exchange.”

“Oh, come, come closer, Bucino—you must see yourself in it.” And my lady is beckoning to me. “Really. It is the most amazing sight. Move away, Gabriella, and let Bucino come.”

I walk up and stand next to her.

And she is right: it is amazing. The morning sun is rich around us, and there we stand, revealed in our full-length glory: a tall, willowy beauty with a mane of flowing, golden hair and a squat, ugly troll, its fat head reaching barely as high as her breast. I feel my breath catch in my throat. I should have made myself more ready for the sight. God knows, I have done what I can. My clothes are expensively tailored to the proportions of my body, quality shining through the cloth, and my beard—which has many more than the few strands that Aretino once mocked—is combed and perfumed with musk and citrus to go with my kid gloves. Yet in this mirror I am still a shock to myself. For the truth is that in my own head I feel neither as small nor as different as I actually am, so that the sight of myself in any surface—not to mention such a vast, clean expanse of it—is always a greater pain to me than it ought to be.

“Oh, don't scowl so, Bucino. Your face is sweeter without the frown.” And she pokes at me. “Isn't it a marvel?”

“A marvel,” I say, trying to readjust my features.

“Oh, and look. Just see the way this seam on my skirt bunches to the left. I knew this dress was too bulky at the bottom, but the tailor told me it was only because I was bending to look at it. My God, this invention will make you a fortune, my lord. Not only does our room now seem as large as a palace, but it will change the art of dressmaking forever. We sack our tailor tomorrow, Bucino, you hear me?”

“I think we would do better to pay his bill first.”

And we all laugh.

“So,” says our benefactor. “I must leave you. The men are needed for another delivery.”

“Oh, my lord, surely not so soon.” And she pouts most prettily. “I tell you, when you come next, we will set up our table here, right in front of the mirror, so we can watch ourselves as we dine. Say it will be soon.”

Her enthusiasm makes him pause. “Well…if I finish at the warehouse, I might be able to return later tonight.”

She shoots a glance at me, for we both know it is Friday and she is booked out to the Crow.

“Ah, my lord, alas, we are already spoken for,” I interject, taking the blame on myself. “But…if something should change, I will send you word immediately.”

As soon as he is gone, she is again regarding herself critically in the mirror. I start my story of the Jew, but she is only half listening, for the bit of her that is not in thrall to her reflection is busy with her diary. “Oh…really?…But you must tell me later—I was getting ready when Alberini came, and now I am due at Tiziano's within the hour, and you know how he complains if I miss the light…. Gabriella! Tell Marcello to get the boat ready now. I will be there when I have changed my clothes.” She turns back to me. “Why don't you come, Bucino? He promises it will be the last sitting. Maybe he would let you see it today.”

And she is almost flighty now with good humor. Which is a relief, for in recent weeks she has been rather disgruntled and distracted with me; but then, like most women, my lady lives by the moods of the moon, and over time I have found it is best to ignore what I cannot decipher. The stemming and flowing of such fluids are La Draga's business, not mine.

I shake my head. “I am too busy. I still have the accounts to do.” Though the truth is, the mirror has depressed me more than I choose to admit, and I do not care to be seen outside.

“Really, Bucino! You spend as much time with your head in a book as a scholar these days. I am surprised you are not publishing a study of Venice like every second fellow here. My God, if I have to sit through another evening's talk about the greatness of the Venetian state and constitution, I think I might fall asleep. Oh, I tell you, Loredan and his Crow guests spoke of nothing else last week.”

“Then maybe you should hold your soirees in front of the mirror from now on. That will keep their minds on the job at hand.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Once she is gone I settle myself in my room, which is at the back of the house off the
portego,
and take out my account books. For all my complaining, I love this place. It was built to my specifications, and each thing in it fits me precisely, from the wooden bed, small enough for me to feel not too lonely as I lie alone in it, through the bookshelves in perfect proportion to my height, to the desk and chair constructed so I do not have to use cushions or waste time clambering up and on. Once I am sat here, with my pen in hand, my account books open, and my hourglass in front of me, the sand running free, I am as close as I come these days to satisfaction.

I said once that if we found ourselves living in a house with an abundance of light, I would never complain again. And I swear I do not do so now. It is true that I work harder on our success than I did on our failure. It is also true that my lady and I are no longer as close in triumph as we were in adversity. Of course. Her day is my night, which means that when she sleeps I am mostly at work, and the times when we are in public together we are careful to play mistress and servant rather than comrades. While our clients are less vulgar than some, a trade such as ours is always greedy for the gossip of perversion, and the cohabitation of beauty and beast is safer as a Platonic notion than as an Aretino-type sonnet. Should I choose to feel excluded, which I have done sometimes, for I too have my moods, I remind myself that the harvest is always the busiest time for the farmer, and there will be space enough for leisure later, when age and fashion make our trade less brisk.

For now, between us, we run a thriving business, as complex and demanding as many others on which the city builds her wealth. With Rome struggling to rebuild herself and Florence a shadow of her former glorious self, Venice has become Europe's great metropolis for travelers: a haven for shoppers, businessmen, and pleasure seekers, all of them eager to sample whatever she has to offer. And high on the list are the charms of her professional women. So much so that there is almost a whiff of the old Rome to her now, and the gossip is that respectable women can barely get into the church on a Sunday these days, such is the crush of new courtesans showing off their wares.

In public, the old doge's face shows all the signs of a man with a permanent bad smell in his nostrils. I daresay disapproval will become state policy before too long—the wheel always turns full circle—but for now sinning is still as profitable as goodness, and so we make hay all year round. The spring months are our busiest time though, for it is then that ships prepare to depart again and the pilgrims gather in readiness for the Holy Land. Once they have glutted themselves on relics (Venice has enough bones to create a small army of semiribbed saints), you would be surprised how many of them give in to an extra sin or two before setting sail on the journey that will absolve them.

As in Rome, I am both the housekeeper and the gatekeeper. I mark down each and every soldo that comes in and goes out, since, when the bedroom door is closed, all kinds of rats can nibble at the kitchen supplies, and we both know of rich whores who died in poverty because of bad housekeeping. In the same way, no one enters or leaves the house without my knowledge. We do not entertain German heretics, for my lady's memory is as long as her hair was once short, and we are careful with passing trade, for while it is sorely tempting to slip foreign visitors in along with the regulars (Aretino's fulsome entry into the Register of Courtesans has brought all manner of rich trade to our door), doing so has its dangers. The pox brought by the French into Florence and Naples forty years ago is now a full-blown plague of the loins, and while you can refuse sick men, it is harder to spot the disease before it breaks the surface. La Draga has drafts and ointments for the lesser brands of itch and heat, and whatever we think of each other, I cannot doubt the efficacy of her remedies. Among her many talents, she is known to be able to rid a woman of a child while it is still in liquid shape in the womb. This is one skill that thus far we have had no need of. For it seems that my lady does not conceive, or at least she never has while I have known her. Had her mother been less ambitious and used her savings to sell her daughter into marriage to a tailor or a shipbuilder, her barrenness would have proved a more defining badge than her beauty. As it is, I think it brings her some sadness now, as there are women in her profession who have a room full of cots by the time they are her age, and while their children will not inherit titles, the city is full of rich men who are fond enough of their bastards to do them favors to help them make their way in life.

It is my job to meet all new customers before they see her and to settle their bills. In this way, I hope to sift out impostors or troublemakers. The worst are the men who use their fists as well as their pricks. Of course, no courtesan earns her living without some punches or bruises. That is a given. There are some men who cannot do it at all unless they have to fight for it a little, while others can be so overwhelmed by the sin that they have to inflict a little punishment as they take the pleasure. But these you can usually spot with their clothes on, for their lust vibrates with anxiety. My concern is with those I cannot read, the men who hold the violence inside them until the door is closed or the first bottle is drunk. I have seen it enough to know that there are a few for whom it is natural, as if they were born preferring the taste of meat over fish, and the devil in their loins is fed less by the act than by the pain they cause and the excitement they get from the causing of it.

In such matters, it's to our advantage that our cook has fists like ham bones and a temperament to go with them, and that Marcello, the boatman, while he is the gentlest of men, is built like a warrior with a roar like the echo in a cave. In these last few years we have had to use their respective talents only once, and that time my lady was more scared than harmed, for we got to her within seconds of her screams. The man in question ended up in the canal with a broken arm and rib. While I have no doubt he might try it again, he would find it harder to do so in Venice, for though the security police might overlook such offenses (the world is full of women who go to the altar having been forced by their husbands as a last resort in courtship), there is a word-of-mouth register for such offenders among the best-known courtesans in the city.

As to my lady. Well, her moods notwithstanding, she shines bright enough at present, enlivened by fresh blood and gifts. She has been in business now for fourteen years all told, and will be twenty-nine on her next birthday. Which makes her no longer young for her trade—it is rare to find a successful courtesan over thirty who admits to her real age—though she still looks fresh enough for us to keep her age at twenty-two for the new visitors.

In this way we have made up all that we lost in Rome, and while I still fear high tides and yearn sometimes for the coarser energy of the Romans, you could say that we are secure here.

Indeed, you could say we are content.