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

Venice, 1st August 1546

In this land that isn’t land colours are forever assaulting the eye, and the bizarre apparel that the people wear seems to have been designed precisely to disorient the passer-by, with bizarre geometrical shapes, extravagant make-up and uncovered breasts, oblong head-dresses, fantastical coiffures and incredible footwear. It prompts weird feelings, nerves on edge, startling encounters in every calle, and the sudden outbreaks of rage to which the inhabitants of this other-worldly city seem so curiously prone.

In this land that isn’t land, the power of women changes the course of events, it suddenly puts a twist on poor tired old masculine reason, confirming a profound sense in my mind — and not for the first time — of the superior virtues of the fair sex , the fruit of resources inaccessible to the rest of us.

In this land that isn’t land, laden with curiosity and a tension that keeps the senses alert, I am about to be welcomed by the woman whose fame, more than that of any other, seems to confirm how right my reflections are; donna Beatrice Mendez de Luna.

She is waiting for me in one of the sumptuous salons of the Miquez house: precious silks draped over delicately upholstered couches, arabesqued tapestries on the walls, along with scenes of Flemish life by Brueghel the Elder, a woodcut by master D�rer, a very lovely portrait by Titian, the great local celebrity, and inlaid boxes by the tireless Venetian master carpenters, the first to rise and the last to go to bed, to the chimes of the Marangona, the great bell of St Mark’s.

Bright black eyes study me. The explosive maturity of a Hispanic woman, face� framed by raven hair lightly streaked with grey, a refined manner that reveals no fear. Brilliant white teeth forming the silent and ambiguous smile that welcomes me. With studied movements she rises from her sofa to come towards me, feline, stretching a neck sculpted with pearls from the east.

I take a bow.

‘Lodewijck de Schaliedeker, the German, who has made such an impression upon Jo�o, my favourite nephew. Finally! German, but with a Flemish name, and what a name! Enemy number one of the civil and religious authority of Antwerp, I remember from those final anxious days before I left that hard-working, greedy land. What bizarre conjectures names provoke, don’t you think? Men seem so fiercely attached to them, but you need only undergo an extra baptism, and pass through another country, to discover how useful, even pleasurable it can be to have several. Do you agree?’

I brush her bejewelled hand with my lips. I am sweating.

‘Without a doubt, donna Beatrice. I have learned to recognise men by the courage they can show, and not by the names they bear. It is a very great pleasure to meet you.’

‘Courage. Well said, messer Ludovico. The name suits you, doesn’t it? Well said. Please sit here next to me. I too have been anxious to meet you, and here we are at last.’

In front of us, on a low little decorated table, a silver tray with wide handles in the shape of interlacing serpents. On it a steaming pot containing an infusion of aromatic herbs.

‘The fame that precedes you is enigmatic at the very least, did you know that?’ She pours the infusion into large porcelain cups. ‘I don’t want to dwell on it, but what my nephew has told me about you has certainly surprised me. Your contacts, past and present, your aura of mystery, and the roads you have travelled, they all go to make an impossibly fascinating mixture. Believe me, I have insisted upon this meeting for many different reasons, first among them — please don’t take offence — being to recommend that you take the greatest possible care about your every movement, your every word, even your every allusion. Please do not think my caution excessive.’

I watch her shifting position on the soft upholstery of the sofa we are both sitting on, bringing the cup to her mouth with both hands, sipping the hot, scented liquid. I hold my breath.

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be as careful as I can. But forgive me for asking: to what do I owe such explicit instructions? Instructions that sound so pressing that they make me think of impending hidden dangers?’

She puts the cup back down on the tray. ‘It’s like this. Let me give you some information about the way things work. The immense power of Venice, a bridge between east and west, is not based on the water upon which mad and brilliant fugitives designed it, any more than it emerges from the crucible of the artists and men of letters that throng the city. For centuries now the rulers of this lagoon have been weaving an intricate web of power and spies, guards and magistrates that no one can escape. There is an extremely delicate balance to the relations that these people enjoy with kings and diplomats in all countries, with theologians, clerics and the highest authorities of every faith, and with wealthy people, crop-growers and manufacturers in all parts of the world. Within the city an intricate network of control affects anyone who passes through it or who lives in it for any length of time. There is a police force for blasphemy, and another one for prostitutes, one for panders and another for brawlers, there are police who control the ferrymen and others who keep the arms-dealers under surveillance. No one can say who is in command here, but everyone fears the thousands of eyes that are always kept fixed on these streets suspended above the water. The strength of La Serenissima is guaranteed by a series of weights and counter-weights. That is all that really counts, in a play of mirrors reflecting misleading images, where appearances deceive, where the real is often concealed behind heavy curtains. Take the Doge, for example, celebrated with those huge regattas, venerated by the people and appointed for life. Yet he himself counts for nothing, he can’t even open the letters that are sent to him, without the prior agreement of the advisers appointed to that specific function. Not to mention those sophisticated thinkers who channel the hatred of the lower classes by dividing them into factions and creating a thousand pretexts, a thousand games, for them to fight among themselves, with violence as bloody as it is