Veronica COURTESAN (2 page)

Last night, I made my decision. I’m eighteen now and want more from life. I know my mother will be pleased. It will be a way out of semi-poverty for her if I’m successful. And I will be. For when I set my mind to something, I always achieve it.

’Tis common knowledge that Mamma was a courtesan before she married my father, one of her regulars. She’d made the mistake of falling in love with him, she told me many times. As soon as they were wed and she started giving him children, his eye had wandered. He’d gone on whoring with the prostitutes who frequented the
Ponte delle Tette
, that bridge where they bared their breasts and enticed wayward husbands like my father, who squanders his money on wine and women. The church and state ignore prostitution, for they believe it discourages sodomy.

‘You will have much to learn,’ Mamma says after I’ve explained the reason for my change of heart. ‘But you are fresh and beautiful. Some man will pay highly to take your maidenhead. I shall be your procurer like my mother was mine.’

I look Mamma in her heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I’ve sparked the interest of a man. His name is Jacomo di Babolli.’

‘Ah, I was wondering if there was more to it.’ She nods, her dark curls streaked with grey. ‘Is he wealthy?’

‘He seems so.’

‘I’ll find out. But first, you’ll need to learn the tricks of the trade. You can tell Paolo that your marriage is over. Ask him to return your dowry or you’ll expose his impotence to the world. I’m sorry you were married to that man, my daughter. Life will be better for you now.’

‘I hope so.’

My mother places her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheeks. ‘You will need your own fragrance. A perfume made just for you that will differentiate you from all other women and drive men mad. Also the right clothes. Setting you up will cost money. A lot of money. I shall have to pawn my jewellery in the Ghetto.’

‘Thank you, Mamma. You’ll be paid back and more. Don’t worry.’

‘I know,
cara
. With my help and your beauty and intelligence, you’ll be the best courtesan in Venice.’

’Tis only when Mamma leaves that I remember I’m no longer a virgin. Lifting my fingers to my nose, I catch the scent of apples and musk. Even if I scrub my hands, the fragrance remains. Perhaps ’tis only my imagination…

Paolo’s face turns puce when I tell him my intention. ‘You’re my wife, and will stay with me.’

I put my hands on my hips, determined to show I’m not afraid. He could kill me if he wished, for he’s far stronger than me. But I’ve taken enough of his bullying. I shall never let a man bully me again. Ever. ‘I’m leaving you, and I want you to return my dowry. That, or I’ll get an annulment; our marriage hasn’t been consummated.’

Paolo laughs. ‘Never. Those silver spoons grace my dining table nicely. And I’ve heard your moans at night which signal to me you’re no longer intact. You’d be branded a liar at the medical examination.’

I feel my cheeks burn. ‘You are despicable.’

‘And you, my wife, are a decadent whore.’

How dare he spy on me? Speechless, I turn on my heel and march to my room.

I wait until he goes out then put on the mask worn by Venetians at all times when out of doors, a simple one to hide my identity. Mamma has sent a porter to carry my belongings. Domisilla accompanies me to my old home. We cross the Grand Canal by gondola ferry. The wide watery thoroughfare is busy, packed with boats taking goods to the warehouses and trading establishments. Last night’s rain has washed the foulness from the air; the salty tang catches the back of my throat. In the Dorsoduro quarter, ’tis but a short walk to Campo Sant’Agnese. My maid goes to find Giulia, our family’s faithful servant, while I sit with my mother in the
portego
. Domisilla is young, blonde, and pretty. I know she has a soft spot for Giulia’s nephew, Maurizio, a handsome youth, tall with red hair. I came upon them canoodling in the pantry the last time I visited Mamma. We shall have to organise a wedding before the year is out, methinks.

Mamma grabs my hand. ‘Jacomo di Babolli is the richest merchant in Ragusa on the Dalmatian coast. You have done well,
cara
. When the time comes, I shall be your go-between and ask him to bid for you.’

‘What do you mean, bid?’

‘Your virginity will go to the highest bidder. ’Tis how things are done.’

I take a deep breath and let it out again slowly.

‘Mamma, I’m no longer a maid.’

A hand flies to her throat. ‘Didn’t you say that Signor Panizza has never bedded you?’

Blushing furiously, I explain how frustration led me to seek my own pleasure.

‘There’s a trick.’ She’s laughing now. ‘For women who need to fool their husbands on their wedding night. You can use it too. A plug made up with gum alum, turpentine, and pigs’ blood. Poof!’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Instant virginity.’

She laughs again and I join in. ‘Do you think it will work?’

Mamma gives me a look. ‘Of course it will. Lessons first, however, and then pleasure. Not your pleasure,
cara.
You have to forget that for your job will be to give pleasure not to receive it.’

I nod, thinking of Paolo’s book. My eyes practically fall out of my head when Mamma reaches under the cushion and pulls out a loaf of bread shaped like a prick. ‘Lesson number one. You’ll need to take this into your mouth, all the way down to the back of your throat, without making any marks with your teeth. But first I must teach you how to touch a man so that his member swells to this size.’

‘You mean it isn’t always as big?’ I think of the bulging codpieces that poke out from between men’s legs. Then I remember Paolo’s lack of arousal and shudder.

‘Sometimes it’s as small as a mushroom. You’ll be surprised how quickly it can grow when you stroke it. Your movements should be slow and subtle. Don’t touch it straight away. Gently rest your hand on your patron’s leg, then brush your fingers on his cheek. Let your shawl slip down so that he can see your breasts. All these things you can do after you’ve entertained him.’

‘Entertained him?’

‘Most definitely. You’ll be an honoured courtesan. Highly sought after. There are only just over a hundred among the thousands of whores in Venice.’

‘So many?’

Mamma ignores my question. ‘When you are entertaining your patron by singing, playing the lute or spinet, or with witty conversation, you must flirt with him, entice him into your bed.’

‘Why do I have to take him in my mouth? I thought my
figa
was made for a man’s prick, not my mouth.’

‘All part of the seduction,
cara
. Men will stick their pricks in all our orifices, including our back passage. If you are really fortunate your patron might seek to give you pleasure too, by sucking your
figa
. Never, ever, ask him to do it, though. The initiative must come from him. There are men who enjoy the taste and smell of us.’ Apples and Musk. Of course.

She takes a lump of bread dough from the small bowl on the table and rolls it into a ball. Slowly, she pulls on it and soon it has elongated. She gets me to repeat the process until she’s satisfied.

Now ’tis the turn of the prick-shaped loaf. It takes me several tries and I almost choke before Mamma is happy with my performance.

A loud knocking at the front door, and we startle. A shout, ‘Give me back my wife!’

Dio mio!
’Tis Paolo. Mamma and I traipse downstairs. She goes to the keyhole. ‘Leave this minute! Or I shall report you to the authorities.’

‘They’re more likely to insist your wayward daughter returns to her husband.’

‘Not to a husband who beats her.’

‘You’ve not heard the last of this.’

Silence. Mamma pats my hand. ‘There’s nothing he can do,
cara
. You’re not to worry.’

But I do worry. How can I possibly return to a loveless marriage and live with a man who mistreats me?

Tonight, I suck on my Murano flask even more lustily and rub my pearl until it starts to elongate like a tiny prick. No longer do I confess my sin to the priest, for the last time I did so I must have titillated him too much. He was groaning, the confession booth was shaking, and his prick formed a small tent in the curtain between us.

I can’t wait for my next lesson with Mamma. Finally, there’s a purpose to my life, and ’tis not just the seeking of pleasure. I’ve heard there are literary salons in Venice where courtesans are welcome. I want to find out if my writing is good enough for publication, and the only way I can do that is to find an audience.

‘Veronica, this is Francesco the fishmonger’s son,’ Mamma says the following afternoon. ‘He’s happy to be our model.’ She smiles and strokes the young man’s bare torso and buttocks. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’

‘Truly, he is.’ Broad chest and flat stomach. In a couple of paces I am behind him. His posterior is firm and my hands ache to cup his rump. I hope Jacomo will be like him. ‘An Adonis.’

‘Not all your clients will be as easy on the eye.’ Mamma snorts. ‘Some will be old and flabby, but you won’t mind if their purses are fatter than their paunches. Come, Veronica, touch Francesco’s prick and put into action the theory I taught you yesterday.’

I’m surprised I don’t feel embarrassed. There’s no love, no emotion; ’tis purely an act. It comes to me then that my life will become that of an actress. My body will no longer be mine for it will belong to the men who pay for it. There’s a part of me, though, that no one will ever own: my mind. I shall keep that for myself. And if I can use my body to promote my life’s work, then so be it.

I feel the veins of his shaft pulsing under my touch. Cupping his heavy, tight testicles with one hand, I start to work his length with the other. He’s bucking now, bending his knees and thrusting, driving himself through my slippery grip. His eyes are hooded and his breathing is coming in short, sharp gasps.

‘Down on your knees, now,
cara
,’ Mamma orders. ‘Take him into your mouth, and when he spills his seed, swallow it all. Make eye contact with him every now and then, to show how much you are enjoying it.’

I lower myself and wrap my lips around his prick, swallowing him until I gag he’s so big. He thrusts into my mouth and a shudder passes through him. I taste the smoky, salty thickness of his essence against my tongue and my throat. Glancing up at him, I swallow. Mamma gives me a piece of silk, and I wipe my mouth.

‘You did well,
cara,
didn’t she, Francesco?’

Throughout the whole performance he’s not said one word, but his smile tells me how well I’ve “performed”.

‘You’re a natural, Veronica. I think we’re going to make a fortune.’

Is that all she can think about? Money? I glance at the shabby furnishings and threadbare tapestries. There’s been no roasted meat on the dining table here for years. We’ve lived off pasta and fish.

My three brothers, Jeronimo, Horatio and Serafino are no longer living in the house for they have made their own way in the world,
grazie a Dio
.

Papa is conspicuous by his absence; I can’t remember the last time I saw him. Where does Mamma get money? Surely she hasn’t gone back to whoring? For whoring it would be; she’s too old to be a courtesan. I’m happy to help her. ’Tis the least I can do for she brought me into the world and cared for me. It wasn’t her fault I was given to Paolo. That was Papa’s doing so he no longer had to feed me. And if Mamma has gone back to her old profession, albeit in a minor capacity, I can’t lay any blame at her door. I only hope my husband leaves me alone, so I can start a new life.