Q - Luther Blissett (interesting novels to read TXT) 📗

left: I didn’t know my nose was so bent.

I immediately have to clear my head, there’s still a lot to be done: we’re opening tonight.

Donna Demetra comes towards me with a smile: ‘The girls are ready.’

‘And the roasted meats?’

‘The cook’s doing her best.’

She looks around, almost absently. ‘This place looks completely different!’

‘And it’s mostly down to you, you’ve made some very tasteful choices.’

‘Are you going to wear your new clothes tonight?’

‘Don’t worry: I didn’t spend all that money on them to let them moulder in the wardrobe’

Pietro Perna bursts into the tavern with his arms spread wide. He stops, open-mouthed, sees donna Demetra, quickly tries to regain his composure and steps forward with a bow: ‘My compliments to the loveliest jewel in the whole of Venice!’

‘You are the most gallant admirer I have ever had, messer Perna. But you’re early, we don’t start serving before sunset.’

‘I know that, and I assure you that I can’t wait to taste the dishes that you are have lined up for us.’

‘So what brings you to these parts?’

‘Before I crossed the threshold I was sure I knew the answer to that, but the light in your eyes has thrown my thoughts into confusion.’

Donna Demetra bursts out laughing, while I take Perna by an arm and lead him to the end of the hall.

‘Enough of all this mawkishness, what’s happening?’

He takes a step back and throws his hands out. ‘Are you ready, my friend??’

‘I’m all ears, just speak.’

‘Martin Luther is dead.’

*

The wine flows from the barrels, while the glasses are passed from hand to hand in a long human chain winding through the crowd in the tavern. A lot of shouting, cheerful men and women, businessmen and even some minor aristocrats.

Bindoni is getting to grips with a pheasant drumstick which he is gnawing at carefully, taking care not stain his new clothes. Arrivabene is having his hair stroked by one of the girls, and laughing at what she’s whispering in his ear.

Perna is holding forth at one of the tables, telling anecdotes about a life lived between one city and another: ‘Noooo, gentlemen, the Colosseum is an almighty con… a stupid great place, I assure you, full of mangy great cats and rats as big as calves!’

At the next table four young members of the corporation of pharmacists are chewing what’s left of a suckling pig, exchanging very explicit glances with the girls sitting at the end of the hall.

Behind a knot of heads, at the table next to the wall, a man and a young woman are whispering intimately to each other.

I get close to Donna Demetra, who is standing behind the counter.

‘Who are those two sitting at the end? No one takes their lover to a brothel…’

She peers at them and nods. ‘They do if she’s someone else’s wife. She’s Caterina Trivisano, the wife of Pier Francesco Strozzi.’

‘Strozzi? The refugee from Rome? The man who has dealings with the English ambassador?’

‘The very same. And the man with her is her husband’s friend, wait a minute… Donzellini, that’s right, Girolamo Donzellini. He had to escape from Rome along with his brother and Strozzi because the cops were after him. He’s a learned man, he translates from ancient Greek, I think.’

‘And do you know why they were after him?’

Donna Demetra flashes her bright eyes: ‘No, but in Rome it seems as though that’s the only thing they know how to do these days.’

I laugh and make a mental note of the name. I’ve got a circle of dissident literati within spitting distance.

A little further away, three characters are sitting apart, enjoying the spectacle of the cheerful group that has gathered around Perna.�

Donna Demetra anticipates the question: ‘Never seen them before. From their dress I would say they were foreigners.’

I pick up a bottle and a glass and walk over to their isolated table, but not before I’ve caught a fragment of Perna’s tall stories. ‘Florence, of course, Florence, my lord, I’ll put it in writing if you want, is the most beautiful city in the world!’

Their clothes are elegant, the fabric and cut are very refined, their features indubitably Mediterranean: black hair, longer than normal, tied at the back of the neck with ribbons of dark leather. Very fine beards that descend from below their ears to end in a barely visible point.

I turn to them in Latin: ‘Salve, gentlemen, I’m Ludwig Schaliedecker, your host.’

A slight bow of the head. ‘Unfortunately my Latin isn’t a match for my Portuguese and Flemish.’

‘Then we could converse in the language of Antwerp, if you wish. I hope you enjoyed the dinner that the Caratello has given you this evening.’�

Somewhat startled: ‘My name is Jo�o Miquez, Portuguese by birth, Flemish by adoption.’ He points to the young man to his right: ‘My brother Bernardo. And this is Duarte Gomez, my family’s agent in Venice.’

If I had any doubts about this man’s wealth, the massive gold ring that he wears in his left ear dispels it all. A little over thirty, intense black eyes, and a fine smell of leather, spices and the sea, all mixed together.

‘Will you join me for a drink?’

‘I’d be happy to drink the health of the one who has given us such a delicious meal. If you would honour us with your company…’ He points to the chair with an elegant gesture. I sit down.�

‘Really, you know, sir, today an old enemy has finally decided to accept his eternal reward. I’m tempted to drink to that happy event.’

The three cast each other inscrutable glances, as though they could communicate merely by thinking, but it’s always the same one who speaks for them all. ‘So will you tell us, who was the man that you hated so much?’

‘Only an old Augustinian friar, a German like myself, who in his youth most vilely betrayed both me and thousands of other unfortunates.’

The Portuguese man smiles affably, showing perfect white teeth: ‘Then allow me to drink to the painful death of all traitors, of which this world is so sadly full.’

The glasses are drained.

‘Have you been in Venice for long, gentlemen?’

‘We got here the day before yesterday. We’re staying with my aunt, who has been living here for more than a year.’

‘Merchants?’

The youngest brother: ‘Isn’t everyone who comes to Venice? And you, sir, you said you were German?’

‘Yes, but I’ve done enough business in Antwerp to speak the language of those parts.’

Miquez brightens: ‘A splendid city, but not so much so as this one… and certainly not as free.’

His smile is impenetrable, but there’s the hint of an allusion in that sentence.

I refill the glasses. I don’t have to say anything, I’m in my own home.

‘Do you know Antwerp?’

‘I’ve spent the last ten years there, it’s a wonder I never bumped into you.’

‘So you’ve decided to transfer your affairs down here.’

‘That’s right.’

‘When I first arrived, I was told that anyone who came to Venice was a merchant or a refugee. And often both at once.’

Miquez winks, and the other two look embarrassed. ‘So which heading did you fall under?’

It seems that nothing can take away his air of serenity, like a cat sunning itself on a windowsill.

‘The wealthy refugees… Not as wealthy as you, though, I think.’

He laughs cheerfully: ‘I would like to propose a toast to you, sir.’ He raises his glass. ‘To successful flights.’

‘To new lands.’

*

The last customers slip through the door, unsteady on their feet, swaying back and forth like boats in the wind. I join Perna at the table where he’s collapsed.

‘Where did your audience get to?’

He makes a great effort, lifts his head, his eyes fogged, and regurgitates an inarticulate rattle: ‘They’re all arseholes… and they took the girls with them.’

‘Oh, forget the girls, what you need is your bed. And it wasn’t Tuscan nectar that finished you off tonight, either, it was Venetian wine.’

I help him to get to his feet and drag him towards the stairs. Donna Demetra comes to meet us.

‘What can we do for our gallant bookseller, who has been so kind as to entertain our guests?’

Perna, speaking in a shrill voice, springs into life with his eyes open wide: ‘Queen of my sleepless nights! These deformed features do not prevent me from admiring you, extolling you, ad-or-ing you…’ He dives like a dead weight into the skirts of donna Demetra, who gives him an amused hug.

‘If I didn’t know you for the incorrigible seductress that you are, I would think you had a weakness for me, woman of great culture and infinite frailty.’

I pick him up, stopping him from falling backwards: ‘Please!’

I manage to throw him on the bed, utterly harmless by now, almost lifeless.

‘So, Tuscan, you’ve had enough for tonight, we’ll meet up tomorrow morning…’

In a reedy voice: ‘No, no… wait —’ He grasps my arm. ‘Pietro Perna is not going to take his secrets to the grave. Come over here…’

I have no choice, his terrible drunk’s breath hits me.

He whispers: ‘I am…’ he hesitates, ‘from Bergamo.’

He’s almost weeping, as though confessing to some unnameable sin: ‘Stingy people… repulsive women… mountain folk… peasants… I’ve been lying, pal, I’ve been lying to everyone.’

I have to bite my lip not to laugh in his face. As I open the door, I can still hear him saying, ‘My spirit… my spirit is Tuscan.’