The objective or solution, at the top, was another trump, the World, number XXI. And, finally, the danger to be avoided was the knave of swords. With the possible and worrisome exception of that one, the reading was as straightforward as any I had ever seen. The presence of three of the major arcana made it powerful, but it could not tell me where Grazia Sanudo was at the moment.
Having tucked my deck away, I went to peek out at Number 96, the smaller house next-door. The leaded panes of my windows bear colored or prismatic glass so no one can see in, but I can peer out through a few clear gaps, and much pleasure I have of them. Number 96 is a bawdy house and on sunny afternoons the inhabitants gather on the rooftop deck, the altana, to bleach their hair. They are fully dressed, you understand, even to hats with no crowns, only wide brims to shade their faces and spread out their hair. The view is admirable all the same, and that day there were fifteen shapely nymphs gathered there. To my joy, fourteen of them were outshone by the radiant beauty of Violetta.
The calle dividing the buildings is very narrow, so my preferred way of visiting her is to remove a couple of loose window bars, squeeze through, and just jump. That saves me having to walk down forty-eight steps and back up sixteen to her apartment. I haven’t died yet, although a couple of times the results have been in doubt for a freezing fraction of a second. I would not try it before witnesses.
I opened the casement. “Damsels!” I cried. “I am available to the highest bidder.”
Were I to record their replies, the Vatican would add this book to the Index Librorum Prohibitorum.
“Your ribaldry fails to conceal your lust for my incredible virility,” I said. “Just ask Violetta!”
“We did,” they replied in chorus, as if they had been rehearsing.
Abandoning the unequal struggle, I quit the field and went down the conventional way to the watergate, where a lighter was tied up, either half-loaded or half-unloaded, but deserted during the midday break by all save a youthful Marciana watch-boy. There is no pedestrian fondamenta flanking the Via San Remo on our side, only a narrow ledge, along which an agile young man can work his way crabwise as far as the watersteps at the end of the calle. Another ledge beyond that took me to the watergate of 96, where I was admitted by Milana, Violetta’s maid. Milana is tiny and has a twisted back, but she is ever cheerful and devoted to her mistress.
“My, you must have moved fast,” I told her.
“The thought of seeing you inspired me, messer. Hurry, she is waiting for you.”
That remark inspired me, so I took the sixteen treads at a run. Violetta Vitale is the most esteemed courtesan of Venice, and men squander fortunes for a single night with her. Her apartment is opulent, the bedroom most of all. With a silken bed standing on gold columns, walls adorned with splendid art and crystal mirrors, it would not disgrace a king’s palace and she has entertained royalty there. Violetta works by night and I by day, but when she is at home we often manage to meet around noon. Sometimes we just talk. Not often, I admit, and that day she rushed to greet me barefoot, with her hair still flowing loose. She had discarded the high-necked sleeved robe she wears to keep sunlight from darkening her creamy skin, and her silken undergarments hid no secrets. She eclipsed even the three naked goddesses looking down at us from Titian’s magnificent Judgment of Paris.
“I came on a business matter,” I protested. “I cannot stay.”
“It has been three days! I am insanely desperate for you, Alfeo Zeno, and if you do not feel the same about me, then you have some explaining to do.”
She was right, of course, and actions speak louder than words. Our embrace was fervent, almost frenzied, and no one can arouse a man faster than Violetta when she is in her Helen of Troy mode. By the time her chemise slid down to join my cap and doublet on the floor, I was ready to sweep her up and carry her to the bed. Then she pulled back to stare at me.
Gazing into furious green eyes, I realized with dismay that now I was holding Medea, who is dangerous, capable of anything. I tried to pull her close again and she resisted.
“Business? Three days without me and you come here for business?”
“I was teasing!” I protested. “Joking.”
“Joking? Teasing? I will teach you to tease.” Hands clawed at my face.
In my reflex move to avoid damage, I released her. She ran nimbly to the door. I followed without trying to make myself respectable, because the only other person around would be Milana, who must have seen many men wearing much less than I was.
Violetta’s dining room is small and intimate, of course, sized for two, and there she was already seated at the tiny table, pouring wine. Two steaming dishes of ravioli awaited us, so obviously she had set this up with Milana, who is a good cook, although not in Mama Angeli’s class. Yielding to the inevitable, I finished removing my shirt to help even the odds and sat down beside her.
Medea was amused by my pretense of calm, knowing perfectly well how ignited I was. She picked up a savory morsel and leaned even closer to put it to my mouth. I accepted it, licked her fingertips, and reciprocated. Most wealthy Venetians have taken to eating with silver forks instead of fingers, a procedure that greatly amuses foreign visitors. Not my courtesan. She can make anything, even feeding, into foreplay.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. The ravioli was excellent. But when Violetta offered wine and I refused, she realized that I was serious. I was thinking of the knave of swords, of course, when I could think of anything other than those incredible breasts so close. Fencing and drinking do not mix.
“What sort of business?”
“Zuanbattista Sanudo.”
Try saying that with your mouth full of shrimp ravioli.
Violetta popped another treat in my mouth. “Easy. The Sanudos are one of the oldest noble clans, claiming descent from doges of the ninth century. Zuanbattista has served on all the big councils-the Collegio, the Senate, the Forty, the Ten. Fought at Lepanto. Now he’s had three years as ambassador to Constantinople and before that he led a special mission to Paris, triumph upon triumph. He’s in the innermost of the inner circles. His first wife was a Marcello and his second a Morosini, meaning he married into two of the biggest families in Venice. He did well financially out of the second marriage, I believe. She was the sister-”
“Madonna Eva?”
“Correct. She or Zuanbattista inherited the publishing business. Likely they’re planning to marry their daughter into another of the big clans.”
“So he’s a possible future doge, then?”
“When he’s old enough. Even now, with his diplomatic record and strong connections in the Great Council, he’s almost a shoo-in to be elected a procurator of San Marco as soon as there’s a vacancy.” She fed me again.
“Rich enough?” I mumbled.
She shrugged, a magnificent sight. “He owns huge estates on the mainland.”
Our thighs and shoulders were touching. I was going mad.
“And how do you know that his wife dreams of being dogaressa?”
Medea laughed harshly, but the laugh ended as something much gentler. Diamond features softened to pearl and emerald eyes to the dark of a moonlit night. Helen was back.
“An entertaining young noble I met on the mainland. He made a bid for my affections. He was mad at Eva-a beautiful young wife abandoned by an ancient husband in pastoral tedium, and he so-o-o handsome.”
“She was not responsive either?” I could guess that the young man’s bid for Violetta had not been high enough, or she would not be discussing him.
“He never saw even the outside of her bedroom door, so he told me. She claimed she dared not risk her husband’s political future with a scandal. As if anyone would care!”
“I care,” I said, rising from the table. “And now I really must leave.”
Medea flickered into view for a moment. “Don’t you dare!”
I shrugged and turned for the door. I felt the terrazzo floor shiver as she moved. Two soft arms went around me. Hands groped. I moaned and leaned back.
And so on. Fill in the details for yourself.
No, it was much better than that. Violetta is the finest courtesan in Europe.
Later, while we floated together in what the major poets refer to as postcoital euphoria, she inquired sleepily what else I needed to know. Violetta as Helen is the sexiest woman in the world, but that was not her voice. I peeked at her, nose to nose, and confirmed that her eyes had changed from dark to blue, from night to
