the bundle of yellowing parchment Giaconda offered, my hand shaking slightly, my insides very warm.
‘Of course, the best way to learn how to please a man is to be with one.’ She stood up and leant over, caressing my cheek as she spoke. ‘Your time approaches, Tarlo.’
Clutching the parchment tightly, I did not trust myself to speak,
‘Do not fear,’ she said, leaning closer. ‘I know you disapprove of Signor Moronisini. I will make sure your first is not so … old. I will also ensure he is gentle.’
I opened my mouth to protest then shut it again.
I shivered – from fear, excitement or premonition, I did not know.
Happy to have dinner in my room that night, I lay on the bed and thought about what Giaconda said. I could not change what for me was inevitable. It was clear that, in order to work towards the greater goal of bringing the Estrattore home, I had to be in a position where I could advance the Maleovellis, and the best way for me to do that was as a courtesan. Giaconda had explained that, as a courtesan of a particular calibre, I would have access to the nobiles’ casas, to their bedrooms and to their minds. Once she had enjoyed the same sort of entrée, but time and the reduction of the Maleovelli fortunes had meant that doors previously open had closed, and they’d been forced to rent accommodation in other sestiere to maintain business. For me it would be different. Once inside the casas, I could burn my candles. No-one would suspect a courtesan of that type of manipulation, let alone of being an Estrattore. Not if I was as careful as I intended to be.
I threw aside my concerns and wild imaginings and opened the bound pieces of parchment. The title, ‘School of Whoredom’ should have prepared me for the contents, but I still found myself blushing and giggling and feeling very hot as I read a fictitious dialogue between an older woman and a young courtesan. They were so graphic in their descriptions of what happened between a man and a woman, so open in their conversations. I had to keep putting the pamphlet down as pictures flew into my head, and scenarios that I found quite arousing formed. I rolled from my back onto my stomach and kept reading. When the first candle burned to a tiny stump, I lit another. The fire smouldered, its heat no longer necessary. My fevered imagination kept me very warm.
It wasn’t until I fell into an exhausted sleep in the early hours of the morning, that the images of men and women, flirting, taking pleasure from each other’s bodies, feeling sated and satisfied by the transaction between courtesan and gentleman, translated into a vivid dream. A dream in which I was a courtesan, and my lover a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick black hair and night-time eyes that regarded me with such intensity it took my breath away. I knew this man. He was as known to me as my own face.
It was Dante.
Every kiss we shared, every caress, made me ache with desire for more. I moaned and half-woke to find myself clutching my pillow. I buried my head and tried to return to that place where Dante was alive and he was mine. It was fruitless.
When I finally roused, I felt tired as well as unfulfilled and restless. I trembled, and not only from the chill in the room. I rose, and after first blowing on the fire to stir the glowing embers into flames, went to the bowl that rested on the cabinet and splashed water on my face. I picked up a drying sheet and rubbed my face vigorously, as if shedding the residue of my night memories. I caught my reflection in the mirror and went and stood in front of it.
Instead of seeing myself, Dante stood before me. The sheet fell from my fingers. His hair was tousled, his face smudged with dirt, his teeth so very white. His eyes sparkled and he wore that knowing look of his – the one that bespoke mischief and something else besides. Then, it all swam and changed. I was looking down on him. He stared back at me and I lost myself in the depths of his gaze, indifferent to the blood pouring out of his mouth and over those firm, full lips.
I threw myself against the mirror, clutching its sides, pressing myself against the glass, trying