Veronica COURTESAN (8 page)

I’m lying on my fragranced sheets, a woollen blanket over me, and firelight plays across the marble floor of my chamber. I no longer have to worry about getting pregnant. Lena has taught me a way of preventing more babies from seeding themselves. Half a lemon, flesh and pips scooped out, tucked up inside my
figa
, right at the top, so that it sits over and blocks the entrance to my womb.

Oh, I can’t wait to see Andrew. I’m craving his touch… No need for entertainment tonight. He strides through the door at last, peeling off his doublet and hose as he approaches my bed. ‘I’ve just been so see our son,’ he says.

‘I hope you didn’t wake him.’

‘Of course not. He was fast asleep and didn’t even stir when I kissed his cheek. A fine boy, and he’s grown if I’m not mistaken.’

‘He certainly has.’

Andrew stands naked in front of me. ‘Before you ask, I’ve bathed this evening,’ he laughs. ‘My wife is convinced I shall expire on the morrow.’

I open my arms and he comes into them, his bristly beard against my cheek. ‘My darling Andrew, how wonderful that you are here.’ We kiss, an achingly tender kiss, slow and gentle. There is great affection between us. His calloused palms catch the undersides of my breasts and cup them. His murmur of pleasure rumbles against my chest. I put my hands on his shoulders and run them down his back to curl around his buttocks. He presses into me, crushing his erect shaft between us.

I wrap the fingers of one hand around his prick, the other hand cupping his sack. Then I caress his length until I reach his tip, smiling as the first beads of moisture leak from him. Kneeling in front of him, I take him in both hands, pushing my hands down on him in a hand-over-hand cycle. When his breath starts to come in gasps, I lean forward and suck him into my mouth.

I have to stretch my jaw wide. He smells and tastes clean: musky, slick and smooth. Careful not to graze him with my teeth, I bob my head up and down, wrapping my lips around him. He tangles his fingers in my hair. One hand pumping him at the base, I slip the other one underneath to stroke the stretch of skin behind his balls. He pushes up with his hips and I lower my head to take him deeper. His body tenses as I work him with my hand and suck so hard my cheeks hollow. He gasps a shuddering breath, arches his back, and tightens his grip on my hair as he shoots a spurt of viscous saltiness against the back of my throat.

‘Ah, Veronica,
tesoro
. How I’ve dreamt of this for many a night while I’ve pumped myself and thought of you.’

‘And I of you.’

‘Except you weren’t without love, were you?’

‘There’s no love like yours, my dearest Andrew.’ And ’tis true. Andrew is a hero, a god, and I really do adore him.

‘Lie back, Veronica. Let me enjoy you and give you pleasure.’

He moves with agonizing slowness over my body, kissing me from the tips of my toes, up the length of my calves, across my hips, to arrive at my breasts. My nipples tingle and stiffen as he caresses one and sucks the other. Wetness soaks my
figa
, and I want to feel his mouth there.

I spread my legs, willing him to put his tongue inside me, but he runs it up my inner thigh instead, just outside my labia, then across my belly and down the other thigh.
Oh, please, put it in!
No such delight. He kisses behind my knees instead, then the soles of my feet. He runs his hands up my legs ahead of his kisses, touching his lips to my hipbones again, and finally, at last, to my core. Just a kiss, though, his lips stroking my entrance, then a single shallow lap of his tongue. I’m moaning and writhing in desperation
. Ah, finally.
His tongue flicks against my nub.

I groan and pull his head against me. He sucks on my pearl as he pushes his thumb into me, curling it to stroke my
figa
walls. His pace is still slow and he pauses once to spit into his other hand, smearing the saliva against my
culo
. His finger works its way in until I feel his knuckles against me. My breathing is a long-drawn, high-pitched moan, rising into a panting whimper as my joy approaches. I claw the bed and don’t even try to quieten my squeals. My figa muscles clench around his thumb and my arsehole clamps his finger as he moves both hands together. I twist in paroxysms of pleasure. Finally he takes his hands from me, and I’m as limp as a ragdoll.

Andrew gets to his feet, washes his hands in the basin (like I have taught him), and goes to the wine and biscotti he knows are on the table. He returns to the bed with them, then dunks a biscuit in the sweet vino and feeds it to me. I lie on my side, every bone in my body relaxed. Some wine has dribbled between my breasts. He licks it up and progresses to swirl his tongue around my nipples. They harden and a thrill of desire travels down to my
figa
. We kiss, our tongues laced together, our lips pulsing.

He rolls me over and his weight descends on me. I feel a new pressure probing my entrance, but he doesn’t enter me. Oh, how I want to beg him! Except, I won’t. His pleasure before mine, always. He pushes the tip in, grips himself in his hand and moves in circles inside me, brushing my pearl. I suck in a ragged breath. And then he pulls away.
Oh, Dio!
His lips find one breast, and his fingers the other
. Oh, santo cielo!

Without warning, he thrusts into me with one push, driving to the hilt, hard. My eyes fly open and I breathe out a gasp. His mouth remains on my nipple, and he doesn’t thrust again, just stays there, buried to the root, our hips grinding together. I try to move against him, but he holds my hips down with one hand. I can feel my joy building; I want him to move, need him to thrust.

‘Please...’ I can’t help myself.

He grazes his teeth on my stiffened nipple, then moves to the other. His hand holds me down, keeping me from rolling my hips.

‘Andrew, please!’ I want him deep, want to feel his length sliding inside me.

He chuckles. ‘Please what?’

‘Please fuck me.’

‘Hard, or soft?’ He pulls out slowly then thrusts in hard.

‘
Dio
, yes! Like that.’

He withdraws bit by bit, until only the very tip of his prick is left inside me, and he hesitates there, stopping the flutter of my hips with his hand before crashing back into me. Again, and again, slow out, fast in. Deep thrusts. Hard into me.

‘Don’t stop!’

He settles his weight on me, forearms planted underneath my neck, his lips crushing mine in hungry kisses. I wrap myself around him, holding him as he drives into me, faster now. He moans his joy, and the hot liquid of his seed fills me and tips me over the edge. Stars burst behind my eyes so intense is my climax. I let out a shriek. And still he thrusts into me, pushing me beyond joy into an intensity of pleasure so powerful it hurts. Finally he slows and strokes my face with trembling fingers. ‘That was unbelievable, Veronica. You have bewitched me.’

‘And you me.’

We kiss leisurely, lingering kisses. Finally, Andrew pulls away. ‘I’m sorry to leave you,
tesoro
, but I have to be up early for a meeting with the Doge.’

He crosses the room to wash, and then he retrieves his clothes. A piece of rolled parchment falls onto the floor. Andrew claps a hand to his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. I found this by your front door. I should have given it to you sooner.’

I take the missive from him. ‘I’ll look at it in a minute.’

Andrew kisses me on the forehead and takes his leave.

Now I’m alone, I start to read. My eyes widen and my heart sinks with every word.

The writer has addressed me as a whore, playing with the letters of my name. “Ver”, becomes “verily”. Then “onica”, “unique”. And what he has written, for ’tis a man who has penned this I am sure, is truly horrible.

To Veronica, verily unique whore,

I refuse to commit myself to a woman who insists on earning a profit at my expense. Because screwing is neither pleasant nor tasty, kisses are not kisses, and thrusts no longer thrusts without that certain thing that one calls Love. I mean, asking for five or six coins for a kiss, and fifty for barely a fuck! ’Tis truly is a shame that families do not tie up those who pay such prices, as though you had balsam or manna on your cunt.

No text or gloss will ever state that a lover must give his woman anything besides his heart. Whoever invented gunpowder, whoever betrayed Christ, keeps company with the one who first screwed for money. Wouldn’t you like us to wait on you day and night and give you dozens and hundreds of coins? Sure, go look for some damned cuckold of a cur.

When getting your voice to match the tone produced by do re mi fa sol la you perform a miracle. No doubt such talents are worth a lot and so is beauty. But dearer and more precious by far than beauty and talent is freedom. The deadly enemy of cats and dogs, for if they are gnawing at a bone, you, bitch, try to grab it from between their paws. And did you mean, slut, not to hoist your cunt just now so that you can go halves if the boys from the street throw apples and boiled chestnuts at it?

A true love based on sacred trust, to serve with one’s whole heart, are the proper rewards for a great fuck. Your body is so emaciated that your breasts hang low enough to use to row your boat on the canal…

If it weren’t so upsetting, I would laugh, for the imagery is quite comical.
Oh, Dio mio
. That I should have inspired such filth from Marco Venier makes me almost want to weep. But I won’t. Instead, I’ll show him. For as certain as my name is Veronica Franco, I’ll show that cuckold of a cur, for that’s what he is, that he has truly met his match in me. Yes, I am unique. And to think that I fooled myself into believing I was in love with him…

To the Magnifico Marco Venier,

“Verily unique” among other things, you called me, alluding to Veronica, my name. But I fail to see how one can properly call something “unique” in a critical sense, by way of condemnation. Perhaps you were writing in an ironic way? Yet such ambiguity fails to communicate the point you evidently wanted to make.

A woman whose renown makes her right to be proud, who stands out for her loveliness or for her bravery, and far surpasses all others in virtue – such a woman is accurately called “unique”. “Unique” is used in admiration and respect by those who know; and whoever speaks otherwise deviates from the true meaning of words. Is it not, sir, merely incorrect emphasis, when hurling insult and abuse at someone, to use a term meant for most exceptional things? Either your purpose was not to defame me, or you were unaware, even lying, when you said it.

By using “unique” when you call me “whore”, either you imply I’m not one, or that I am and merit some praise. However, after careful analysis of what you’ve written, I find, in fact, that you were criticising me. I distance myself from that aim of yours; I insist on debating it at any cost.

Prepare your paper and ink and tell me which weapons I must wield in battle with you. You will have nowhere to hide from me for I am prepared for any test of skills and I wait impatiently to start the contest.

If you do not write me an answer, I will say that you are greatly afraid of me, even though you think yourself so courageous. I happily offer to make peace with you, on the condition that you joust with me just once.

Yours, the Unique Veronica Franco

I sprinkle sand on the parchment, then wait for it to dry while I summon Maurizio.

‘Si, signora?’

‘Pray, take this letter to the Magnifico Marco Venier, and wait for a response.’

Maurizio returns within the hour. He hands me a small parchment. Three words written large:

Till the morrow.

Good, I shall think about the joust while I’m sitting for Tintoretto. ‘Maurizio, please prepare the boat. We need to be in Cannaregio within the hour. The artist will be annoyed if I’m late.’

Tintoretto’s house and studio are to the north, not far from the Ghetto, on the Rio della Sensa canal. He’s such a famous painter and does me this great honour. We’re friends, nothing more, for he’s married to ferocious Faustina, and she keeps him under strict control. I’ve grown fond of him, and at least his wife lets him attend my dinner parties.

Typically, for a woman of her class (she’s the daughter of a nobleman), she isn’t seen in mixed company.

The artist’s studio is on the
piano nobile
; two great stone-trimmed windows let in a river of light. They call him
il furioso
for his furious energy when working, and I sit as still as I can, naked but for a silk stole, my breasts bared, a string of forbidden pearls nestling between them. Even though I’m fast getting a crick in the neck, I hold my pose; facing away from him so that he paints my profile. The afternoon sun comes into the room and warms me. I think of what I shall say to Marco tonight, and resolve on the following introduction:

I do not know if you think it a trivial thing to enter the field to cross swords with a woman, but I advise you now that when we ladies, too, have skills and education, we will be able to prove to all men that we have hands and feet and hearts like yours; and though we may be gentle and delicate, some men who are delicate also are strong, and some, though course and rough, are cowards.

One day, although it might be a long time coming, surely women will enjoy the same opportunities as men? Then, we shall demonstrate the same physical and mental strength. Ideology is what prevents women from discovering their capabilities. If they were not kept ignorant of their potential, they would reveal it in triumphant encounters with males. Among so many women, I shall be the first to act, setting an example for all of them to follow…

Finally, Tintoretto puts down his brush. ‘May I look?’ I ask.

‘You may. ’Tis finished.’

I go to stand by his easel. The woman he has painted is truly lovely, much more so than I. ‘Is this an apparition set before me by some trickery of the Devil to make me fall in love with myself, as happened to Narcissus?’

He laughs. ‘You flatter me, signora.’

‘No. You have surpassed divine nature in the excellence of your art. Far more so than I in my writing.’ And ’tis true. I’m under no illusions. Tintoretto’s work will last for centuries, if not millennia, whereas the world is bound to forget Veronica Franco. If I can make a mark in my own century, I shall be happy enough.

Frost crunches under my chopines as I sway down the
calle
, my hand on Maurizio’s shoulder. The January night is cold, and a chilly wind ruffles my hair. I pull my cape close. No need for a mask; I cover my face with a scarf. My faithful manservant leaves me at the door of Ca’ Venier. ‘Enjoy a peaceful evening with Domisilla,’ I tell him. ‘I shall ask one of the company to escort me home.’

This evening I’m wearing a crimson and gold brocade dress over a deep-red underskirt. It feels thick, heavy, smooth and sumptuous as I lift it to mount the stairs that lead to Domenico’s
portego.
The neckline is wide – out to the points of the shoulders on each side – and the bodice has been cut low, but not so low that my nipples show. I am not here to entice; I am here to do battle with my enemy.

I stride into the room and glance around for him.
Ah, there he is!

Marco Venier’s eyes meet mine. His lips form a straight line as he comes up to me. ‘Signora, you have misjudged me.’

‘
I
? Misjudged
you
? That’s like a donkey telling a dog it has big ears.’

‘I did not direct you the missive to which you refer.’

‘But… Who else? You were supposed to send me a challenge.’

‘I’ve been away, and have only just returned to Venice. I’m perplexed. Why should you think I would want to write similar filth?’

‘Quite. If I don’t deserve great praise, neither certainly do I deserve blame so much that someone I’ve never harmed, and who doesn’t really know me, should write against me with such venom.’

‘A man who lacks material of which to write, obviously. The satire has been circulating among the members of this salon and all say it was penned by my cousin, Maffio.’

‘Maffio? Why should he be so cruel?’

‘He’s jealous of you. Has been so ever since your duel that first time you came here.’

‘But Maffio is not in Venice. He’s in Rome, isn’t he?’

‘He’s an itinerant. Wonders from court to court seeking patronage. He was here last week, before leaving to ally himself with the Medici court in Florence. I’m sorry he’s targeted you.’

I incline my head. ‘I apologise for misjudging you, my lord. I no longer have a reason for a duel, or even a challenge.’

‘Oh? I was looking forward to it, and have even prepared some material.’ He bows. ‘Shall we take to the floor?’

I look him up and down. ‘Why not? All my writing is in my head. I have material enough.’

Marco claps his hands, and the company falls silent. ‘The lady Veronica and I would duel for your entertainment.’

Domenico laughs loudly. ‘Finally! I have been waiting for this moment for some time. Marco, pray start!’

The Magnifico Marco Venier, tall, his muscular thighs and calves encased in scarlet hose, swings his gaze around the
portego
, then settles it on me.

‘Oh, fair lady, if you were to see my heart deep within me, I know that you would compare me to no other lover because of the love I feel toward you.’

Surely he is jesting?
‘Sir, being ridiculed is a most painful thing, especially in love.’

‘If I were to say that I love you as much as my own life, cruel lady, why do you offer no respite for my sorrow?’

I laugh. ‘Since I will not believe that I am loved, win my approval, sir, with actions.’

Marco smiles. This is a performance, and I must take it in the spirit with which he intends it. ‘But witness my tired heart,’ he says in a wounded tone, ‘revealed in my pale and sorrowful countenance, and my lonely roving, night and day.’

‘If I could be sure of your love, I would cast aside this anxiety, for it is never good to change one’s opinion according to appearances.’

His eyes meet mine. ‘The man who finds you without pity sees you as Venus for your allure in bed, and the many pleasures discovered in you.’

I nod. ‘Certain talents hidden within me, I will show you, with extreme sweetness, provided you prove your love to me by other means than praise.’

‘Lady of true and unique beauty, how I long to gaze upon your naked limbs, and sweeter still to lie languid in your moistened lap. When you stretch out upon the pillows, how sweet it would be to fall upon you.’

‘I could give you such pleasure that you would say you were fully content.’

‘Oh, what a happy and blessed paradise, never to be parted from enjoying, lady, your unparalleled charms.’

‘So fragrant and delightful do I become, when I am in bed with someone who, I feel, adores and appreciates me, that the joy I bring exceeds all pleasure, so the ties of love, however close they seemed before, are knotted tighter still.’

Marco bows, deeply. ‘By your lovely hands and arms I long to be embraced, and to have them pull my ties.’

‘Let me see the works I’ve asked for, then you’ll enjoy my sweetness to the full.’

‘My lady, among beauties you are famous for your learning, and among learned women you are famous for your beauty. Adorn your beauty with a pitying heart for a man who weeps for your love every waking moment.’

I let out a hollow laugh. ‘But why should we duel with words? What if, all weapons laid aside, we took the path to a love match in bed?’

Titters from the assembled company, followed by silence. I tap the floor with my toe. Marco bows again. ‘It will be my ultimate pleasure.’

‘I can assure you of that.’

We take our leave of the company, put on our cloaks, and walk to my house. Finding his hand, I tug at him and pull him towards the front door. Moonlight illuminates the
calle
as, heart pounding, I fumble to insert my key into the lock.