Inamorata (3 page)

N
ICHOLAS

I
watched her in the Rialto strolling among the fishmongers and the peddlers, a vision of grace that caught every eye she passed, so beautiful it made one ache to see her. That was one thing that had never changed: despite everything I knew of her, the desire I felt for her remained, and I feared it always would, my own wasting disease. No one could compare to her as she hovered over pyramids of speckled plums and pressed an elegant finger to test the freshness of a tunny. She laughed with a produce seller as she weighed a bright pepper in her hand, those perfect lips parting, flashing white teeth. She wore dark blue that accentuated the red in her hair, the gray of her eyes. Jet buttons. A hat with a black feather sweeping to brush her cheek.

I stayed out of sight. I would show myself soon enough, but for now, I only waited in the shadows as she bought a bit of red mullet, a loaf of bread, a melon—she had a particular fondness for it—though none of these things would appease her real hunger.

I followed her like the devotee I was as she made her way to a small cafe and took a seat at one of the tables on the street. I hid myself behind a stall selling spicy
sguassetto
, watching as her gaze darted from one thing to another. As always, I felt the draw of her, stronger now, as it always was toward the end, and I knew others felt it as well—a juggler had staggered as she passed, dropping one of his pins; an organ grinder stuttered over his keys. But she was not hunting, I realized. She was waiting, which meant she had already found her next victim. I wondered how much talent he had, if she thought he might be the
one
, or if he was only easing the pain of her hunger while she searched.

My senses sharpened as a man approached her, and she broke into a charming smile. He was tall and blond, though not so blond as I, his hair straight where mine was curly. He sat down at the table and pulled his chair close to her, touching her familiarly—already her lover, then—and as if he could not help himself, something I remembered. His hair was too long; his coat frayed at the hem. I thought I’d seen him before—at the salon, perhaps, though not for some time. He was an artist of some kind, of course. And young as they all were. Pretty as she liked them. She was always so predictable.

I leaned back against the wooden post of the stall and waited impatiently through ordered coffees and sweets, fawning and rather nauseating public intimacies. Then at last, he rose, leaning to kiss her before he left.

I hurried after him. I could almost smell the tang of his sweat as I followed him out of the Rialto. The vision of that little room in Barcelona flashed through my mind, strengthening my resolve. I had spent the last seven years doing exactly this, trying to save these men as I wished someone had saved me, but more importantly, keeping them out of her hands. This one, and hopefully the next and the next and the next. And when the cycle was permanently broken . . . I hoped—I believed, I prayed—that the talent she’d stolen from me would return. Then, I could become again the poet I’d been on my way to becoming. Then I could take back my life.

This man did not go far. Only to the Campo San Bartolomeo, where he sat at the wellhead, pulling out his notebook and a pencil. I expected him to begin scribbling frenziedly—the inspiration she provided was like a fever—but he only sat there, staring blankly at the page. After a few moments I stepped up to him, casting a shadow. He looked up, frowning and squinting at me where I stood in the sun.

“Hello,” he said, cautiously polite. He was as English as I was, too distracted even to try for French, which was widely spoken here, a clean substitute for the incomprehensible Venetian dialect.

“Oh, thank God you speak English,” I said. “I’ve spent the whole morning looking for a countryman in this wretched maze.”

He lifted a hand to his eyes to shield them from the sun, and smiled. He wore a great deal of cologne. I smelled it from where I stood, even in the open air. “You must be new to Venice.”

“A veritable babe,” I lied. “I arrived just yesterday and already I’ve been lost three times. How does one navigate?”

“Getting lost is part of the experience.” He motioned to his notebook. “I’ve written my best poems playing Wandering Jew among the
calli
.”

“You’re a poet?”

He ducked his head humbly. “I make some claim to it.”

“Well so do I! Imagine, a fellow poet
and
an Englishman! You must let me buy you a drink. There’s a cafe just over there. Come with me and regale me with your impressions of Venice.”

“I would, but—”

“And if you’re a poet, surely you’ll know Katharine Bronson? She’s a good friend of mine; in fact, she’s who I came to Venice to see. I’m to go to Ca’ Alvisi tonight for her salon, assuming I can find it.”

“I’ve been there. Though . . . not for a while.”

“So you can point me in the right direction.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Perhaps you know another friend of mine too. Odilé León?”

I saw the friendliness in his expression melt away, replaced by suspicion tinged with jealousy. “You know Odilé?”

“I’ve known her for years.”

“Really? I confess I’ve only known her a short time, but . . .”

“A moment with Odilé is worth a thousand lifetimes, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” His expression turned to one of such longing and adoration it was almost embarrassing. It was like seeing myself in a mirror, as I’d once been.

“Ah, the stories I could tell you,” I said. And then I waited.

The opportunity to speak of her with someone who understood was what hooked him, as it always did. It was one of my better strategies. He nodded and offered his hand. “I’m Nelson Stafford. Perhaps we should have a drink.”

I shook his hand. “Nicholas Dane. And I would be delighted.”

He rose, tucking away the notebook and pencil, and I led him to a cafe across the campo. But I didn’t stop at one of the outside tables. Instead, I took him inside, to a table in a dark back corner, away from prying eyes. He was so eager to speak of her that he didn’t question why I might choose gloomy darkness in lieu of bright late-summer sunshine. I ordered a bottle of wine, though it was barely past noon. When it came, he gulped down the first glass in moments. Now, with time to observe him more closely, I noticed the signs of her demolition. He’d been with her at least a week, I thought. Perhaps two. He looked famished, like someone who could not eat or sleep for thoughts of her. It was hard to tell if this was the best time—too early, and they wouldn’t listen; too late and . . . well, too late.

“When did you know her?” he asked me fervently. “How long ago? Where?”

“I met her when I was twenty-three,” I said, sipping my own wine. “Nearly seven years ago. In Paris.”

“Ah . . . to think of her in Paris!”

I gave him a thin smile. “Do you imagine she fails to bewitch any city she visits?”

“Were you—”

I shook my head, trying to put him at ease. He would listen to nothing if he thought I was a rival, past or present. “We were friends only.”

“How could you resist her?”

“She’s the one who chooses, like any woman. Haven’t you learned that by now? Surely there’s not a man in the world who wouldn’t be with her, given the chance. I would have done anything for her once, but she didn’t return my interest, more’s the pity.”

He poured more wine, drinking it thirstily. “She is . . . she is beyond anything I’ve ever known. Such inspiration . . .”

“Yes indeed. It’s what she does, you know. Inspires. Until she doesn’t.”

He was in the middle of taking a sip, and he paused, frowning over the edge of his glass. “Until she doesn’t?”

“Your poetry was what caught her eye, wasn’t it?”

“She saw me writing at Florian’s. She sat down beside me and I found myself reading lines to her aloud. She said it was sublime.”

“You’ve written odes to her?”

“Yes. Yes, who wouldn’t?”

Idly I played with a spoon, watching how the gaslight glinted upon it. “Have you written a great deal?”

“I did, but . . . but lately—”

“Lately you’ve been too distracted to write.”

His gaze leaped to mine. “How did you know?”

I shrugged. “It’s what happens. You’ll get over it. Unless you’re
lucky
enough to be chosen.”

“Chosen?”

“Then, why, you’d write an epic for the ages. She is the muse of all muses, and if she chose you, she would inspire a poem that would give you a fame you’ve only dreamed of.”

He was watching me closely, with a fevered light in his eyes, never doubting. No, of course not. He’d already felt the pull of her, the exhaustion of such a rapacious appetite.

I went on. “But such a thing has a cost. That poem would be the last you ever wrote. Except for doggerel, perhaps. Rhymes for children to speak as they learn their letters. Mother Goose. ‘Daffy down dilly has come into town . . .’ ‘Little Tom Horner. . . .’ Whatever genius you once possessed would simply disappear.” I snapped my fingers, and he jerked as if the sound startled him. “You’ll go mad or take your own life. But dying of a peaceful old age . . . no, my friend, you can’t hope for that—unless you do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Leave her now. Walk away from her and live. Or stay and die in madness and frustration.”

He stared at me in stunned amazement. “Leave her? How could I possibly do that?”

I poured his next glass of wine. “You said you’re having trouble writing. You haven’t eaten, unless I miss my guess—”

“I’ve no appetite.”

I lowered my voice. “You’re desperate to have her. You can hardly think of anything else.”

He went red. “You said you were never her lover. How do you know these things?”

“My friend, I have known this woman for years. I know what she is capable of.” I leaned back in my chair. “Do you think you’re the only one? There have been dozens before you. Hundreds, even. I have seen it again and again.”

“Hundreds?”

“Hundreds. She will destroy you. She will drain you until you are nothing but a shell, and then she will discard you, the way a spider discards her prey once she’s sucked the fluids dry. And if that is the worst of it, you will be fortunate indeed.”

He reached for his wine and drank convulsively.

I cajoled, “You don’t understand what’s happening to you. You’re afraid and desperate in the same moment. Shall I tell you what happened to the others she
inspired
?”

He nodded, wide-eyed as a child.

“Suicides. Slit wrists or poison. Some hanged themselves. I personally saw one pulled from a river with his pockets full of stones. At least two of her victims went mad—one says nothing, but only stares into space and drools onto a bib tied around his neck. The other raves in an asylum. Do you know what he talks of? Demons, my friend. He claims to see serpents in every shadow. That padded room has become his own Garden of Eden, where he faces Satan’s temptation every moment of every day. Do you know what he dreams of? Odilé. He wakes screaming.”

“That’s absurd,” Stafford said boldly, but I heard his uncertainty.

“Is it? Ah, well, I suppose you know best. But I’ll just say this: the last place I saw her was in Barcelona. She had seduced a violinist. He played like an angel, truly. I tried to warn him, just as I am warning you, and he reacted just as you are now. Do you know where I saw him next?”

Nelson Stafford shook his head.

“Dead on the pavement outside her door. He’d shot himself in the head. He was only eighteen.”

Stafford paled. “But . . . how . . . I wouldn’t know how to leave her.”

“Simply walk away. She won’t pursue you. I promise.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I’ll see you next at your funeral. For God’s sake, man, think about it, at least. You know in your heart that what I say is true. Listen to me. I’m trying to save you.”

“Save me?” He went to pour the wine; the bottle was empty. He dribbled the last few drops into his glass and grabbed it with trembling hands, draining it. “Why would you care? You don’t even know me.”

“No, I don’t. I could just leave you to drown. I have no idea how big your talent is, or if you matter in the least to this world, or if she will even consider truly choosing you. But I find I have no stomach for madness and despair, especially when I have the power to stop it.” I gripped his arm and said softly, “Please, I beg of you. At least consider my words. Think about it. Meet me here tomorrow afternoon. If you can’t tell me then that you believe me, at least give me another chance to convince you.”

He looked fearful, but he nodded. “Very well. I’ll . . . think about what you’ve said. And I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”

I was relieved. He’d been easier than I’d expected; perhaps the timing had been what I’d hoped. But then again, the real task lay before him still. It was premature to think I’d made any difference at all. “That’s all I ask. You’ll meet me here at three?”

“I will,” he assured me.

“Good,” I said, smiling. “I want to show you just how good a friend I can be.”

O
DILÉ

I
heard him behind me, his sigh and the faint creak of the mattress, t
he soft
ssshhh
of the fine mosquito netting as he pushed it aside. I drew my dressing gown closer and looked down at the Grand Canal outside my window, the early morning sun pearlescent, soft where it caressed the barges loaded with brightly colored fruits and vegetables making their way toward the Rialto market, fish shining like fine metals in their baskets, glittering tunny and sardine, the amethyst of octopi, Venetian chains of dark eels.

The Canal was crowded now, the early mornings and twilight the busiest times. I closed my eyes, breathing deeply of the morning: bitter coffee and toasty polenta; the greasy, smoky oil from a fritterer’s; the garlic of sausage and the pungent, salty broth of the
sguassetto
the gondoliers ate by the bowlful; along with the familiar reek of algae and seaweed in a low tide, the river smell of the Canal, wet stone.

And of course, his cologne. Too heavy again.

I opened my eyes and glanced down at the windowsill, at the little Murano glass dish the color of blood, the mound of white ash from a burned pastille within it. I stirred it with my finger, raising the noxious stink of camphor meant to keep off mosquitos, burned off now but still lingering. I was glad the summer was nearly over; there would be no need for pastilles for a time, or the nasty, heavy smoke that was nearly worse than the bites, nor for mosquito netting. I would soon be able to leave the lamps on with windows open to smell the city without being bedeviled.

A sharp stab of pain made my fingers spasm in the little bowl, spilling ash.

I heard him slap and curse. “Damn these cursed bugs. How do you bear it?”

“Autumn’s nearly here,” I said, knowing I must tell him to go. The hunger never left me now. It was gnawing and relentless.
One every three years,
she’d said, the words both a promise and a curse, and now I felt the curse, the dark terror that waited restlessly for me to fail. Less than a month left to choose, and I was no closer to finding the one I searched for. I had been so certain Venice was the place. Paris had not held him. Nor Florence, though perhaps there had been one or two there who might have done, had they not been taken from me too early.

It was desperation that had driven me here, to the city that had always served me well, that had nurtured Byron and Titian, Veronese and Tintoretto and Canaletto. But the days passed so quickly. The darkness within me was growing. It was harder now to command. My appetite devoured everything, just as it was devouring this one. He’d been complaining of headaches; often he struggled for breath. He was not the one; I knew it already. Two hundred and fifty years of immortality had taught me what I needed, and he was not it. I knew he must go before I lost control and drained him completely, which I didn’t want to do. I must find the right one before it was too late.

Too late.
I felt a cold little clutch of fear. No, it wasn’t too late. I would not fail again. Each time I had, the terror had stayed longer; it took more victims and more time to remake myself. How long would it take to survive it the next time? Or would I?

I still had time. The three years mandated were not yet over. I had until the fifteenth of October to find him.

But first I must release this one. I turned from the window. He looked up from pulling on his boots. He was shirtless still; when he straightened, the morning light brought out the red in the curls on his chest. “Tell me you want me to stay and I will,” he said urgently. “God knows I don’t want to leave.”

“I thought you had an appointment.”

“I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going.” He strode over to me with an odd clopping gait, one boot on, the other foot bare. He pulled apart my dressing gown and buried his face in my breasts. I felt the rough stubble on his cheeks against my skin. “The only appointment I want to keep is with these,” he murmured, and suddenly I was overcome with weariness. I was so tired of this. A thousand times I’d taken men to bed. A thousand thousands. All to feed my hunger, all in search of that singular, momentary rapture that came when I made the choice, when the bargain was agreed to and sealed. I lived for that moment. But there was no reason to take this one to bed or let him touch me again. I raised my hands to push him away.

But just then, he lifted his face. He looked ravaged, gaunt and restless, his blue eyes reddened, his pale skin ruddy. My hunger was tearing at him, and it raised a sadness and pity in me I could not suppress. I did not want to hurt him. I did not want to hurt any of them. But I always did.

Let him go, Odilé. It’s better done now. He is not the one.

“I’ll write odes to your breasts,” he said hoarsely. “Sonnets. Rondelets. I promise it.”

“Or perhaps an elegy,” I suggested.

“An elegy? God no! How could such exquisiteness inspire sorrow?”

As gently as I could, I pushed him away. “Write whatever poems you wish. But you have an appointment, and you should not let me keep you from it.”

“How can you stand to be away from me, when I cannot bear a moment apart from you?”

I felt what was left of his talent feeding the harsh, hungry maw of my craving.

“Why do you tremble?” he demanded. “Please, God, let it be from fear of losing me.”

He had fallen to his knees. His arms encircled my hips. He pressed his face to me, kissing the curls between my legs. I must end it now. Swiftly, ruthlessly. I must be out hunting again before I lost control.

But pity was my downfall, as always. A few more minutes before I set him loose—what harm could it do? I gripped his hair, tangling the soft honey of it in my fingers, pulling until he gasped—something he liked. He looked up, hopeful as a puppy pleading for scraps, eyes big and blue and heavily lashed. I liked his eyes best of all, I thought. Those, and his poetry. He had written so prettily.

I let him crawl up me, a monkey on a tree. I let him press me to the wall. He lifted me, fumbling with his trousers even as I wrapped my legs around him. I let him pound me into the crumbling plaster wall as I grabbed for purchase, and as he moaned and panted into my throat, I felt my dark and ceaseless appetite sink its teeth into him and the bliss of momentary relief. It could not last, but oh it was something; it was sweet. He groaned with agony, collapsing even as he came, releasing me hard, falling to his knees, shaking with combined ecstasy and terror. He looked up at me.

“God, I adore you,” he gasped. “What’s happening to me?”

I knelt down, taking his cheek into my hand. He surged toward it, my very touch an addiction. I kissed his forehead softly. “You should have gone to your appointment.”

I left him gasping in a ball of weakness on the floor, and called for Antonio to throw him out into the street.