Lechery flickered in his eyes. “Fiery!”
“Courtesan?”
“No, er, Alfeo.”
I met Imer’s frown. “Any idea who she was, lustrissimo?”
He shrugged. “I forget. Granddaughter? Niece?”
“No further questions, thank you.”
5
I told Giorgio the Karagounis address, which was close by, in the Greek quarter of San Giorgio dei Greci. The Greek ought to be even more susceptible to bullying than the attorney had been, but I had very little hope that these interviews of the Maestro’s were going to do any good at all. Had I been present at that book viewing and seen two people exchange glasses and one of them had then died, I would not admit to noticing anything at all-not at this late date. Had I poisoned one of the glasses myself and switched them deliberately, I would be even more taciturn. But an apprentice does what he’s told. Maybe my master would come to his senses in a day or so.
When we arrived at the door-Giorgio knows every building in the city-I shouted up to a woman drying her hair on a second floor balcony.
“Top floor,” she said.
“You watch out for her, sonny,” said one on another balcony. “She lies in wait for the young ones.”
The first countered: “No, you stop in at her place, handsome. She’s the one who gets lonely.”
“You can share me,” I suggested, earning whoops of approval from spectators at other windows.
Giorgio said, “Good luck. Their husbands carry knives, you know.”
“Husbands or not,” I told him. “I won’t be long.” There were other gondoliers waiting nearby, so I knew he would not lack for conversation.
The stairs were dark and narrow, smelling of urine and unfamiliar cooking, as tenement stairs usually do. I met no husbands and no one lay in wait for me. Top floor was four up, and I slowed to a walk for the last flight, so I would not be short of breath when I arrived. I had a choice of three doors. The first did not answer my knock. Nor did the second, but a woman shouted from inside it, and then told me to try the one opposite, which was the one I had already tried.
Either Alexius Karagounis was out trying to sell his books elsewhere or he had already fled from the Republic. I went back down again. No lonely housewives or knife-bearing husbands detained me.
When we returned to Ca’ Barbolano, the Maestro had already retired for his midday nap, having skipped or just forgotten dinner, as he often does. I carried an armful of books into the dining room, where Mama delivered enough food to feed a galley crew after a long day: marinated anchovies in caper sauce, rice with peas, and tuna with polenta. Then she asked what dolce I wanted.
“I cannot possibly eat all this,” I complained. “I had that pidocchi earlier, remember?”
“Eat it! You are too skinny!” Compared to her, everyone is too skinny.
“I am not as skinny as Giorgio.”
“Bah!” she said. “Forty years I have lived in this parish and never a fat gondolier have I seen.”
“He doesn’t get enough sleep.”
She shook her fist at me and waddled out, chuckling. I ate alone, reading everything known about digitalis.
I went to my room, bolted the door, and changed into shabbier clothes that I did not mind dirtying. My room is not the largest or grandest I could have, but I enjoy the view from its three big windows, which look out across a forest of chimneypots towards San Marco. Most houses are two or three stories high, so the churches, bell towers, and palaces stand up like islands in a stormy sea of red tile roofs. More particularly, my windows overlook the roof terrace of Number 96, and that scenery becomes spectacular on warm days, when the residents sun themselves there. They wear hats with wide brims and no crowns, spreading their hair out to bleach it without browning their faces. That day the terrace was deserted, except for some laundry drying.
The calle between the two buildings is very narrow and little used because it is a roundabout way of reaching the campo, while the wider one on the far side of 96 is straight and also leads to a bridge. Although my windows are about fifty feet above the ground, they are secured by stout iron bars. I opened the center one and peered out, provoking an explosion of pigeons. Three of its bars can be removed just by lifting them out of their sockets and leaning them against the sill-inside the room, of course, so they cannot fall out and drop like iron javelins to impale passing citizens. I wriggled through the gap and set my feet on a hand-width ledge just below, while keeping a firm grip on the bar that does not move. Then I made one long, death-defying stride to the steep tiles opposite, where I could sprawl forward and grab the rail around the altana to stop myself sliding off and making a nasty stain on the ground.
Yes, I could have gone downstairs, out the watergate of Ca’ Barbolano and in the watergate of 96-there is no real pedestrian fondamenta flanking the Rio San Remo, but there are ledges along both buildings just above high water and the manoeuver is not difficult for an agile person. I prefer my secret route, though, and like to think I am deceiving the Ten’s spies. Besides, a man must keep up his reputation.
I unlocked the trapdoor and trotted down several flights of stairs without meeting a soul. Number 96 is owned jointly by four ladies, although many more live and work there. Violetta occupies the best suite, in the southwest corner, and I have a key to its servants’ door. Peering into the kitchen, I found Milana struggling to iron a bulky brocade gown that probably weighed nearly as much as she did. Milana is small and has a twisted back, but she is fiercely loyal to her mistress and I have never seen her unhappy.
She jumped. “Alfeo! You startled me.”
“I do it just to see your smile. Is she up yet?” Courtesans go to bed at dawn, like the gentry. I also wanted to know if she was alone, of course, but that went without saying.
With a doubtful frown, Milana said, “Just a moment and I’ll see,” and disappeared. In a moment she returned, smiling again. “No, it’s all right. I told her you were here.”
I thanked her and went through to Violetta’s chamber, entering just in time to catch a tantalizing glimpse of bare breasts as she pulled the sheet up-her sense of timing would be the envy of any high-wire sword juggler. Her room is vast and luxurious, decorated with silk and crystal and ankle-deep rugs, plus gilt-framed mirrors and erotic art.
Other nations denounce Venice as the most sinful, vice-ridden city in all Christendom, claiming that we have more prostitutes than gondolas. Such talk is sheer envy. We are just less hypocritical about our follies, that’s all. Noble ladies see nothing wrong with a young blood squiring a courtesan to a ball or banquet-they would much rather he flaunt his current plaything in public than debauch their daughters in secret. Many noblemen never marry at all, supposedly to protect the family fortune from being divided between too many heirs, or else just to avoid the fuss and bother.
Harlots to suit every purse are available at Number 96. Violetta is not one of them. She is witty, highly educated, a superb dancer and singer. The stage lost a great actress in her, and it is tragic that Titian did not live long enough to immortalize her beauty. She is not available by the hour or the day, rarely even by the week. She accepts no money, only gifts-an emerald necklace here, a dozen ball gowns there-and the state treasury itself would not buy her favors for a man she did not fancy. Violetta dresses as well as any dogaressa or senator’s wife, and owns more jewels than the Basilica San Marco.
I am not and never have been one of her patrons, but we are friends. We are frequently close friends, especially during siesta, when we both have time to ourselves. Love was not what I had come for that day and I saw at once that it was not immediately available, for she was Medea, teeth and claws, green eyes smoldering. In truth her eyes were not, and never are, green. They are all colors and no color. They change all the time, but at that moment they had a greenish tinge, which is a danger sign. I seated myself on the end of the bed, safely out of reach, and smiled stupidly at her glare.
“Who was that slut I saw you with on the Lido two nights ago?”
“I wasn’t there,” I said. “It was some other man. I was masked, so you couldn’t have recognized me. And she is not a slut. Michelina Angeli. Her mother asked me if I would take her there as a treat for her fifteenth
