“Just after I cut your lowborn heart from your body, my hands will control
all
of Venice.
”
There was a gasp from the crowd. One of the revelers cried out. “This Cavaliere—he does not act like a worthy son of Venice. He acts like a disease.” Heads nodded sternly in agreement while others jeered the man.
Jacques, seeing his main chance, thrust. Grimani parried a low
prime
. Then with blades bound, the two duelists arched body to body, only their sharp steel between them.
With snakelike quickness, Grimani delivered a blow with the pommel of his sword to Jacques’ chin.
Jacques reeled backward.
“My grand plans will succeed,” Grimani cried. “But first, you must die.”
Jacques tottered uncontrollably until, from somewhere deep in his memory, he heard his brother’s advice. “You may want to use
Maistre
Liancour’s lunge, which may save your life someday.” Next came the motherly advice of Zanetta. “A young man needs a proper
snuffbox. I’ve given you boys few gifts, but to you I present this
snuffbox, my son, so you’ll find respect when you enter good society. Carry this gift wherever you go.”
A river of memories sped through Jacques—faded faces
churning at him, odd singsong rushing in and out. Black-and-white Carnivale
masks swirled past. He tried to grip his smallsword. Tinkling
laughter began. It was Dominique’s, and its music seemed effervescent and
beautiful. “Perhaps we should sharpen your fencing skills,” she
teased. “Beginning now.”
Jacques roused with a newborn passion. He retightened his
fingers around the sword hilt and spun deftly about, narrowly avoiding
Grimani’s killing thrust. Presently, he stood granite still and issued a feral growl. “I loathe you, Michele Grimani. Your fiendish ways
bring a hideous blight upon the Republic of Venice. Personally, too—you offend me.”
Michele Grimani offered a callous smile.
Now, as if animated by a wolflike spirit, Jacques, in one sleek and effortless move, extended his sword’s point, lifted his front leg, kicked hard his back one. His voice raised to a pitch so clear and savage the very air seemed to vibrate. In a swift jump-lunge, he bounded, his unpitying steel aimed at the heart of Michele Grimani.
Then—amidst the heat of combat, in the daunting precision of his lethal lunge—Jacques relented. He collapsed his outstretched arm, the needle-sharp point halting a finger’s width from the flesh of his enemy who, frozen in place, had failed to parry quickly enough.
Michele Grimani cried out as if a white-hot iron had passed
through his chest. His weapon tumbled from his hand. He remained fixed to
his spot, staring at the sword point, gurgles of fear rising from his
throat.
When Jacques bared his teeth and glared into the frightened eyes of the vanquished man, the shouts from the crowd seemed far away.
“My sword cries out for blood,” Jacques hissed, his point
pressing mercilessly at Grimani’s breast.
Now expectation packed the noiseless air.
In good time, Jacques again spoke. “Neither the unyielding
punishment of prison nor a life of ill-advised adventuring could cure
my defects. I was not an upright man.” He paused. “But I’m changed.” Jacques finished the thought in his heart:
For this I’m grateful
.
He slipped his hand into the coat pocket of Cavaliere Michele
Grimani and quickly removed his gold snuffbox. He snapped it
open. “You lied, Cavaliere. There is indeed Spaniol to be had.” Hurling the contents at Grimani, Jacques closed the lid, and tenderly kissed the keepsake he so cherished before placing it in his pocket.
Grimani’s face reddened like a fat plum.
Jacques whispered at him. “You have, as the French say,
folie de grandeur
. A delusion of greatness, Cavaliere. But then you yourself must carry that burden.”
Jacques raised himself to his full height and cradled his
smallsword
against his cheek while the crowd of revelers moved toward him.
The mass of Venetians—commoners, aristocrats, sirens, shopkeepers, free
men and women—heartily cheered Tomaso’s childhood friend, Casanova.
A tall, regal-looking man quieted the crowd before stepping toward Grimani. “Cavaliere,” he barked, “hearing from your own
mouth how you conduct the business of our great republic—by
circumventing its laws and customs—I and my colleagues,” he gestured behind him, “these distinguished personages, will make
certain you shall bring no more dishonor to Venice. There will be investigations, and we will do our utmost to ensure that you be removed from offices of power and your name be stricken from the Golden Book. You are a disgrace. To your family. To the Republic of Venice.”
Stooping over, the man snatched Grimani’s smallsword from the ground and strode quickly away. Silence covered the crowd.
Every line etched in Grimani’s grim countenance seemed to
burst with pain.
Jacques—now cognizant only of the streaming sunlight, his face inspired with intense earnestness—raised his sword to the heavens and saluted the broad, blue sky that canopied Venice. It was a good
thing—to be alive. He stood a short while before a slight smile
creased
his lips.
To you, Francesco, and to the woman—the fine woman—who loved us.
The revelers hoisted Jacques to their shoulders and, bearing him that way, scrambled past the shamed Cavaliere until, near a lapping waterway, he was set down.
“Good Casanova,” declared Tomaso, “surely you have regained your name. With you among us—as a friend—Venice will be a far better place.”
“Tomaso, please lend me your handkerchief,” were Jacques’
simple
words. “I have a wound very near my … heart.” A single tear
warmed his cheek.
He pressed the cloth to his chest, then accepted Tomaso’s
helping hand.
The throng of revelers, joining with other carnivalers, swelled
into
larger streets, surged forward in a torrent of carefree voices, and
spilled out into the grand piazza called San Marco.
Jacques Casanova, escorted by the jubilant crowd, imagined that glorious Carnivale breathed in ten thousand Venetian hearts—that men, women and children everywhere celebrated and rejoiced.
I, too, rejoice
.
I’m at peace
.
I’m home, where I belong.
Then his thoughts turned to Petrine.
THESE HISTORICAL PLACES,
people, and events were a
beginning point, a point of departure, for
The Secrets of Casanova:
Honore Fragonard (1732-1799) was the director of the world’s first veterinary school in Lyons, France. The Fragonard Museum, with a number of unexplained anatomical exhibits, exists to the present day in the outskirts of Paris.
Michele Grimani was a member of the
Inquisitori de Stato
. The
Grimani family was initially listed in Venice’s roll of patrician
families—the Golden Book—in 1297.
The Stables of Solomon may still be seen in Jerusalem.
The Lisbon earthquake killed approximately thirty to seventy thousand people in November 1755. Following the earthquake, the three ensuing tidal waves wreaked further havoc.
The Vatican’s
Index librorum prohibitorum
lists some four
thousand books forbidden throughout the world. No layman may read or
possess any of them without special permission granted only for
single books and in urgent cases.
Casanova was imprisoned in Venice’s I Piombi prison in July 1755—for unspecified charges—and was incarcerated there when the Lisbon earthquake struck in November. He and a renegade priest (incarcerated with him) made a daring escape—the only men ever to do so. In 1787, Casanova wrote
Story of My Flight,
which he later repeated in his autobiography.
Portugal held a great fascination for Casanova all his life, and although he traveled widely, he never set foot in Portugal.
In December 1759, the Marquis de Pombal (Carvalho e Mello) expelled all Jesuits from Portugal.
Giacomo Girolomo Casanova died June 4, 1798, in Bohemia. His final deathbed words were: “Almighty God and you witnesses of my death, I have lived as a philosopher and die as a Christian.”
In the waning years of the eighteenth century, the oldest
republic in the world—Venice—in the hands of Napoleon, ceased to exist.
Dear Reader,
The fiction I write is made up of exaggeration and fabrication, of the evasion or erasure of known facts, of the reordering of events
and dates, and of a good deal of prose created by my vivid
imagination. Some call this literary license. I’ve taken immense literary license with my fiction.
Please do not take any of this book as factual; it is fiction.
They say writing is a solitary experience. I agree. Rewriting,
however, is a collaborative experience. Following is a thank you to the many people who have supported the writing of
The Secrets of Casanova
.
I lovingly acknowledge Lisa Michaels, “patron of the artist,” for giving, in so many ways, love, support and understanding. In my life, there has been no other like her. I have loved her—not always well—but always.
My sons, too, have been a mainstay while I’ve confined myself to the computer or a pile of musty books. They witnessed their dad’s actions first hand—and tolerated his obsession. I love them mightily and thank them from the depths of my heart.
Deepest and greatest thanks to Robin Maxwell, the “carrot and stick” woman who inspired, prodded, and generally used her every
trick to support the creation of this manuscript. To her I owe
considerable cash, although as I consider it, a friendly and warm
“Love ya, dear friend” might suffice. I’m extremely beholden to
Robin for her encouragement, her unwavering assistance, and her
enduring friendship. And let me not forget her sublime sense of
humor!
The manuscript grew immensely under the tutelage of Teresa Hoyer. I laud her for her patience, expert suggestions, compassion, perseverance, and for her overestimation of my abilities. If Robin
Maxwell is midwife to
Casanova,
Teresa Hoyer guided the
manuscript from infancy into adolescence. Her skills have been indispensable to the creation of this book.
From the book’s adolescence to adulthood, there was Charis Conn, the editor who played a substantial role in the shaping of the
manuscript. Professional, smart, and frank—great qualities for an
editor.
Editor extraordinaire Cynthia White capped the
Casanova
creation with her unswerving dedication, her diligence, and her insight. She performed heroically time and again.
To Jeff and Paula—they will never know …
To Harold—for truly making
The Secrets of
Casanova
possible. Here’s to you, Dad, for your faith and sincerity.
Others who were instrumental: Gabriella Herkert and Polly Blankenship, two writers whom I greatly admire, who set the bar just high enough and without whom
Casanova
could never have matured. Much other assistance was given by Todd Herman,
Barbara Soichet, Bob Haas, Sam Johnson, Susan Jeter, Alan Adler, Matt Briggs, Natasha Kern, Susan Brandner, Michael Schaitel, Elizabeth Lyon, Max Thomas, Christopher Gortner (whose personal
generosity under professional duress was astounding), Billie
Morton, and Linda Lazar (who designed a marvelous Web site). I also thank Stephen Les and Sarah Milici who, for inspiration, gifted me with a Casanova action figure(!). Thanks to all, y’all!
It goes without saying that the wonderful folks at Booktrope
earned my respect and unflagging admiration: Katherine Sears, Jesse James Freeman, Greg Simanson, and Julie Klein, among a slew of others. These are talented, dedicated, and generous people.
All of these folks are champions, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart.
As for the
many
sources used to write
Casanova
, special credit must go to John Masters for his superb biography of Giacomo Casanova, to Willard Trask, (the “first true English translation direct from Casanova’s own autobiography” says John Masters), and to J. Rives Childs, “that dean of Casanova students.”
Last, I give great, great credit to Giacomo Casanova’s
History of My Life
—a must-read for anyone intrigued by the man.
The Secrets of Casanova
would certainly not have come into being without the adventurer Giacomo Casanova—a man who lived an unparalleled, if not exemplary, life. A life that continues to fire the imagination of all who know his story. I am one who fell under his spell.
Adios …
Till we meet again.
GREG MICHAELS
SEPTEMBER 1, 2013
The Printer’s Devil
by Chico Kidd
(Historical Fantasy) A demon
summoned long ago by a heartbroken lover in Cromwellian
England,
now reawakened by a curious scholarly researcher. Who will pay the
price?
Sweet Song
by Terry Persun
(Historical Fiction) This tale of a mixed-race man passing as white in post-Civil-War America speaks from the heart about where we’ve come from and who we are.