Q - Luther Blissett (interesting novels to read TXT) 📗
- Author: Luther Blissett
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My eye falls upon her d�colletage, I still haven’t quite become accustomed to the generous Venetian cut. Hot flushes. I study the bottom of the cup with apprehension: a pulp of black leaves. My bones feel soft, I melt into the couch. I laugh, irrelevantly.
‘Do you think that’s funny?’
�‘Forgive me, but this agreeable situation doesn’t accord with the sinister story you’ve been telling me. I have seen wars and massacres, and I’m not very used to the subtler weapons of power.’
‘Never underestimate them. What I meant was that where authority does not lie in the hands of a single prince, but is distributed among various magistracies and corporations, it’s possible to undertake the most daring manoeuvres. But only as long as you are able to acknowledge and gratify those powers when necessary. That is the freedom that prevails in Venice, not the city ordinance, which many praise but no one understands.’
She comes nearer, and a sudden waft of perfume makes my head whirl: ‘You see, we lend them the money. As ever, the same people who have flattered us will sooner or later begin to hunt us down. We’ve learned to do the same. We ally ourselves with important men, we support vital interests and activities, we decide when and how to untie our purse-strings. The Rialto merchants are our debtors, and so are the armourers in the Arsenal. The patrician families of the Council, and the dynasties that supply bishops and magistrates to the Republic, owe us a fair proportion of the splendour with which they choose to surround themselves. For such people money is as important as the air they breathe: they have to think twice before opposing us. On the other hand, we have to be aware that the bond won’t last all that long.’
Her nephew’s phrase: ‘Travel light.’
She smiles: ‘Corruption is a thin wire kept taut by weights and counter-weights. That’s the caution I was talking to you about.’ An expression of anxiety flits across her face. ‘You have to know who to keep on your guard against, what forces might destroy your equilibrium. There’s this new race of inquisitors, sly and fanatical, supported by Cardinal Carafa, who’s the most dangerous of the lot. Always in the right place for decades now, he’s the driving force behind the Congregation of the Holy Office, which the Pope set up for him, and since ‘42 he’s been in charge, breeding a pack of ferocious, devoted and incorruptible bloodhounds. And they’re the ones to be on your guard against, they sense their prey, they spot it and pursue it till it falls.’
Donna Beatrice manages to communicate to me all her anxiety, an ancient fear that seems to have been with her since the beginning of time. I shiver.
‘I know these people. Fear is the weapon they use to subjugate mankind. The fear of God, of punishment, and of people like them. We can’t train armies to combat them, but we can inspire other people to do so. There’s this party of cardinals hostile to the Inquisition, the Spirituali, but unfortunately they aren’t much use in a fight: while the others are serrying their ranks, this is the only real landmark they’ve managed to produce.’
I take the little volume out of my bag.
She nods: ‘The Benefit of Christ Crucified. I read it with great interest and I agree with you. It may not be enough to keep the dogs at bay, but it has a strength of which not even the Spirituali are aware. There are plenty of priests, doctors, clerics, men of letters and other important people in the Church who are open to these ideas. Paul III is a coward, but if the next Pope were a Spirituale — maybe that Englishman everyone thinks so highly of, Reginald Pole — we might see changes in the air.’ Another smile. ‘Do business with us, Don Ludovico.’
She takes my hand between hers.
‘What an amazing couple!’
Jo�o Miquez bursts into the room, followed by Duarte Gomez. Gleaming teeth and the sound of boots.
‘So, Beatriz, you’ve got our guest wrapped around your little finger. You’ll notice that he, unlike your perverted nephew, prefers women.’
Donna Beatrice has a ready answer: ‘But he surrounds himself with girls in the bloom of youth, from what you’ve told me.’
I look around uneasily. I’m overcome with embarrassment. ‘Stop it, please.’
Miquez bows ostentatiously and Gomez bursts out laughing. I extract myself from the crossfire.
‘Friends, few people have welcomed me with such cordial familiarity as you have today. Your refined instincts are a constant source of amazement to me, opening up the possibility of fascinating vistas. The mark that has been branded on your people now appears to me in all its inconsistency. You would have to have travelled the length and breadth of the world to be able to depict it so clearly. I am grateful for the trust you place in me. I am still waiting for you to come back and honour my table, Jo�o. As to you, Donna Beatrice, every one of the girls who frequent the Caratello would have to be reborn three times before acquiring a fascination equal to your own.’
Jo�o and Duarte applaud with amusement.
‘I shall keep my goodbyes brief: consider the contract signed on our first deal.’
Venice, 7th October 1546
Forty-five ducats. Plus thirty, eighty-one, sixteen. Subtract the girls’ wages, food and wine.
‘Demetra! We’re out of ink!’
A jocular and irreverent voice comes from the kitchen: ‘Use your memory, Ludovico, your memory!’
Forty-five plus thirty: seventy-five. Plus eighty-one: seventy-five plus eighty-one…
‘…Those sons of bitches, darling, once they decide they’re after you, you’ve had it, they’re not going to let you go. And they’d like to sneak in everywhere, listen to everything…’
Yelling fit to wake the dead, and meanwhile that hand rummaging under her skirt. Seventy-five plus eighty-one makes a hundred and fifty-six, that’s right, plus sixteen.
‘Ah, but here in Venice Carafa’s cops have a hard life, we don’t let them walk all over us… we don’t let them come and stick their noses into our affairs. We sort out our own problems with heretics and blasphemers…’ Plus sixteen, and drop it you bastard, plus sixteen: one hundred and seventy-two.
‘…so, my beauty, you know who Cardinal Carafa is? No? Then I’ll tell you. He’s a wrinkled, toothless old man and if you saw him at night you’d shit yourself with fear… I have met him, yes, but you don’t see the old man about that much, no, he doesn’t like it… he prefers the darkness, like demons and witches.’
With the corner of my eye I can make out a flurry of hands in skirts and cleavage. That’s it, subtract the girls’ wages and then…
‘A nosy old spy, he wants to know everything about everyone, and then I, my darling, would be first on the list because I like wine and whores.’
Twelve, plus fifteen, plus…
‘Nobody knows how old he is, he’s been there forever, he was spying when your mother and I were still at the breast. He spied on the Emperor, and the king of England, he spied on Luther, he spied on the princes and the cardinals. Then the Pope kept him happy by putting him in charge of the Inquisition, so he could really enjoy himself. And he’s made his presence felt, indeed he has… He’s recalled all his spies scattered around Europe, that’s right, to infiltrate the Church with them.’ The girls’ wages. ‘He was born to spy, that’s what I tell you, he’s dangerous, if it wasn’t for the fact that we keep our ears open here in Venice, he’d want to get us all in line as well…’ He spied on Luther, twenty-seven scudi_, he spied on Luther, recalled all his spies scattered around_, twenty-seven plus forty-two, the Inquisition, he’s always been there, he was spying when you and I were still at the breast, he spied on Luther, twenty-seven plus forty-two makes sixty-nine, there’s still all the rest, recalled all his spies to infiltrate the Church with them, the Inquisition, he prefers darkness, sixty-nine you know who Cardinal Carafa is? Add fifteen for the wine_, no one knows how old he is, he’s always been there, he spied on the Emperor, he spied on Luther_.
He spied on Luther.
I raise my eyes, the accounts melt away: only the girls, the groping hands have vanished. Empty chair. Pressure in my head, behind my eyes and at the base of my neck, heavy as a rock.
‘Where did he go?’
A shrug, they show me the coins between their fingers.
Gone. It’s night, slipping on the wet cobbles, a blethering noise in the distance tells me he’s making for the Rialto. Running, quick or I’m going to lose him, running. A corner, another one, a little bridge, following the voice, a slurred version of a song in Venetian dialect, running at breakneck speed into the darkness, at the end of a street a fat shadow swaying drunkenly.
My heavy steps make him start, he draws a stiletto at least a foot long.
‘Don’t be afraid! I’m the manager of the Caratello.’
‘I paid my bill, Messere…’
‘I know. But you haven’t tried the wine we keep in reserve for valued guests.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’ He narrows his red-rimmed eyes, his head must be fairly spinning.
‘Not at all, it’s on the house, I can’t let you leave without trying this bottle.’
‘Well then, if that’s the deal, and if you’ll lead the way I’ll be happy to follow you.’
I grasp him under the arm. ‘You’ll try not to fall into the canal?’
‘Don’t worry, Bartolomeo Busi’s been drunker than this.’
*
‘Bartolomeo Busi, formerly a Theatine friar. Before Carafa’s black crows threw me out. Only two years ago, that’s right, servant of God, and in my own way I still am, fuck it. I go with whores, certainly, maybe I overdo the wine a little, but that’s all stuff you can explain, the good Lord isn’t too worried about that, no. Now I find myself working my arse off in the Arsenal, sewing sails all day, look at my hands! Bastards! It wasn’t like that in the monastery, it wasn’t a bad life: I pottered about in the vegetable garden, spent some time in the kitchen, met a load of people, important guests, cardinals, princes. Do you think a monastery’s a place remote from the world? Not a bit of it, people are forever coming and going, women especially. I was there at the start, the bastards, I didn’t want to make a career of it, given that I’ve always been an ignoramus. Spies! Yes, fine, every now and again I would pinch a few spuds, a piece of beef, to sell it on outside, but nothing more than that. And instead they put this story about that I was a sodomite. A sodomite! They all knew I’ve only ever liked women, not little boys and all that filth the abbots get up to. Any excuse. The truth is that things had started to go bad some time before, my friend. It was understood that spies, informers and cops were taking charge. What’s the point of taking the vow of poverty, renewing the church, chasing the thieves out of Rome? All sort of abuse went on behind the back of that pious man Gaetano da Thiena. And pious he was, the moron. And who was there? You know
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