Stone Virgin

  This conversation with Battistella unsettled Ziani for the rest of the day, as if he were the dupe of time and memory. Besides, he was beginning to feel dissatisfied with the pace of his narrative. It seemed to be dragging somewhat. Perhaps he was spending too much time on the description of preliminaries. He was impatient to get Francesca’s clothes off, reveal her beauties, describe the tunes they had played together. His cold heart was stirred by the memory of these exploits; he crept to reach them, stalking them as it were through the thickets of his prose.

  However, something held him back. In part he was handicapped by egotism. To sell the Mémoires, and retrieve his fortunes, he was depending in equal measure on the scandalous and the erotic. At the same time he wanted to be noted as stylist, as man of the world. He imagined the reader exclaiming aloud at the justice of his observations. Elements such as these are not easily combined. So far he felt he had managed things well: in Venice and elsewhere public figures and the scions of noble houses had been exposed and discredited, one revealed as a card-sharp, another as pimp to his numerous female relatives, a third voyeur of his own wife and two footmen with her knowledge but not theirs; to mention only a few. This chapter, these episodes of Francesca and old Boccadoro and the Madonna, he had envisaged as one of the highlights. But some quality of reluctance had crept in, he knew not how. Dues of recognition had to be paid, slowing him down.

  When he resumed it was with the determination to get to his conquest with the least possible delay:

  In the days that followed we met quite frequently in different places about the house; and whenever we met we stopped to talk. These meetings had always an air of accident about them, but it has been my experience that at certain junctures of human affairs accident is aided by design. Certainly it is true that we met more often in those few days than during my whole stay before.

  We talked of indifferent things and took care not to laugh together much. We were never really alone. For one thing, Maria was always in attendance. She kept at a distance and busied herself usually with some task of stitching; all the same, those eyes and ears of hers missed nothing. But it was Bobbino that was the real constraint upon us. Wherever we looked we seemed to see him, lounging idly, doing nothing in particular. If we walked in the garden he would be there, not far away. If we sent him about his business he would be back before long, on some pretext or other. When we were behind closed doors he knew it and for how long. Thus we were obliged to speak gravely, for that was what Boccadoro would expect; and Francesca had to keep Maria by her for that same reason.

  But there is a language which lies within and around what is spoken; and this developed rapidly between us precisely because of these constraints I have mentioned. In pauses, and in inflexions of the voice, we talked to each other, with eyes on eyes, with hands that did not touch. Thus the supervision aided me, fretting Francesca, making us accomplices. I owed much to the lout Bobbino.

  Boccadoro himself, for ten days following, spoke no more to me about the matter, either by hint or direct question. I think now, and must have supposed then, that Francesca was deliberately keeping him waiting for her ‘verdict’. This allowed meetings in the meantime while she was supposedly making up her mind, confirmed him too in his laughable belief that there would be dislike to overcome on her part before the Ziani message of duty and morality could be brought home to her. These were the tactics of her cunning, not prompted by me. Nevertheless, I was the instigating force …

  So it was that during this period the Casa Boccadoro resembled the physical universe, in which, as the Englishman Newton has shown, all bodies are bound together by a principle of mutual attraction or repulsion, either inclining to cohere in regular figures, or inclining to recede. All of us were held in balance: myself, Francesca, Boccadoro, Bobbino – even my Battistella, to whom I had complained of that animal’s intrusiveness and who sought to distract and deflect him. (Battistella was an astute fellow in those days, now addled, poor soul.)

  This celestial state was shattered when Boccadoro announced his intention of leaving for Verona, where he had business to attend to. He would be away for one night, he said. Bobbino was left behind of course, to spy. All the same, I don’t think Boccadoro had any suspicions; he was not a man to review judgements once formed; and this explains his fury later, when he discovered us.

  He left early in the morning, but it was not until mid-afternoon that Francesca and I met. She kept to her own quarters till then, perhaps to mark the vulgarity of haste. For one so young she had a great sense of occasion.

  Ziani paused, sighing. He had not known then what monstrously memorable forms her sense of occasion could take. That same night he was to discover it …

  He had made up his mind to take her to the theatre, this being the first thing in which they had found a mutual interest. However he had spent his wages and had no money besides, or very little. He had borrowed two liras from Battistella, who could always, by means Ziani did not inquire into, feeling they verged on the miraculous, produce a little money, but it had still not been enough. He had hung around Florian’s for an hour or so before lunch in the hope of making a touch – there was only Florian’s then, Quadri had not yet opened on the other side of the Piazza. But it was awkward, after he had been away so long – awkward, on being recognized, to start asking for a loan. Bad policy, too. He had given it up almost and was walking on the Broglio, feeling dispirited, when by great good fortune he had met Pietro Gradenigo who had been a fellow student and who at once agreed to lend the eight liras he needed. Enough, with what he had already, for a box at the San Samuele, also wine and biscuits. However, after all this, with the well-known perversity of women, she had asked to be taken to a gaming-house … Should I mention my poverty, he wondered, my ploys to obtain money? No, it is incompatible with conquest. He took some snuff, wiped his eyes, resumed writing:

  She wanted to go to the Ridotto, where she had never been in her life before. She wanted to do something she had never done before, she said, and she could not keep the pleasure from shining in her eyes. This was an occasion to do something for the very first time.

  But what about Bobbino? We looked at each other for a moment. Then I asked if she could trust Maria. Yes, she said, she had complete faith in Maria’s discretion. And I in Battistella’s, I said, he is the most faithful creature alive. So let us take them into our confidence, let us appeal to them for help, let us throw ourselves upon their mercy.

  And this is what we did, and at once, summoning them to us, holding a council of war. Neither was well disposed towards Bobbino: Maria because – and this I understood only from nods and compressions of the lips and salvoes of glances – he did not keep his dirty hands to himself; and Battistella – but this I knew already – because Bobbino was a bully and jealous of his position in the household. Jointly they begged us to have no further inquietude: they would take care of booby Bobbino.

  We were set on the adventure anyway; less assurance would have been sufficient; but I felt relieved to have Battistella’s support. In many difficult situations, before that time and since, I have benefited from his resourcefulness and sagacity. (He is less reliable now, through age, poor soul. His mind inclines to stray.)

  We left by the street door, quite soon after dinner, while Bobbino was in the pantry still. We were masked, of course. Therefore once on the street anonymous, completely free from recognition and detection. Venice, alone perhaps of cities, confers this freedom on her children, because of the universal custom of masking, which in the middle years of the century was more widespread even than now, masks being commonly worn in public places whether it was Carnival or not and by people of all degrees. With this custom comes that other one of sexual debauchery, the casual trafficking for which our city has long been famous, even more than Rome, that città delle donne. The anonymity conferred by masks has been a potent force in our history, adding to the excitement of intrigue as it grants immunity from the consequences, emboldening the prick while it r
enders the cunt more yielding. I was sensible of boldness myself in that region, not to say effrontery. For her state I couldn’t answer, but I hoped. She was elated and inclined to laughter.

  The masks we wore were full face, of that close-fitting kind, oddly like death masks as it always seemed to me, white in colour; and with them we wore the bauta, which had become very fashionable, more ample in those days than now, covering the head and shoulders. In these, and our loose-fitting clothes, we were well disguised.

  Francesca’s mood of excitement increased as we walked down the short street on to the salizzada. She made loud remarks about other passers-by and raised her concealed face often to laugh. She was determined, on this great occasion, to enjoy everything, right from the beginning – and of course she had to show it. I began to understand how high-strung she was. How violent she could be I had yet to learn.

  From the Rio di Fontego we took a gondola towards San Marco, one of the best routes in the city in my opinion, the water broad enough and the way winding, with very varied views. The evening was warm, with a light scirocco blowing. The bridges and rive were all lit up, crowded with idlers and strollers and pleasure-seekers of every sort, and those who live by them, whores, mountebanks, pedlars, pimps, all doing a brisk trade, Venice being full of strangers just then, come to see the celebrations for the visit of the King of Portugal. That day there had been a big regatta on the Grand Canal and fireworks were promised for later. Hoping for more money our gondolier began singing for us, ‘Venezia, gemm’ adriatica, sposa del mar’. He had a tenor voice, not very strong, but sweet. We kept the curtains of the cabin open so that we could sit looking out at the people and the lights. Francesca laughed and exclaimed less and by this I knew she was beginning to enjoy herself. The moon, not quite full, was straight before us, low in the sky, over the Bacinto. We descended at the Ponte de la Canonica. I paid the man extra to avoid a wrangle and we made our way from behind the Basilica into the Piazza.

  We began at once to cross the square in the direction of San Moise, where the Ridotto was. But I was worried still about money. I had about eleven liras in all, barely a ducat. It was possible Francesca had nothing with her – I did not want to use her money in any case. Now at the Ridotto, even in those days, in order to play faro or spigolo one needed more than this, they did not play small games; and to play the numbers, without enough to cover initial losses, was to invite an abrupt end to our entertainment. I was hoping for a good deal from this evening and I wanted no failures.

  As we passed under the Nuove Procuratie I happened to notice the sign of the Guardian Angel, and I suddenly remembered the Moro coffee-house alongside, which I had used to frequent once, with the two small inside rooms, where they had card tables and a biribisso wheel – the place has been closed down since. On the spur of the moment I suggested to Francesca that we should try our luck in there. The stakes would be lower. Besides, I thought, she should see something of the underworld of Venice there, which she would not have seen before. Had she not said that she wanted to do things for the very first time?

  It was crowded and hot inside, the usual rabble of rogues and harlots, mingled with some of the best blood in Venice. There were faces I recognized: masks were obligatory here, but they were often too flimsy to conceal the features, mere tokens – the doorkeeper kept a stock for people arriving without one; an eye-mask or a false nose was considered enough. The din was great; sexual commerce was incessant at the fringes of the tables, conducted by prostitutes and by women who had lost at cards and wanted to play again – for a few liras they would copulate standing up in the passageways off the gaming rooms, enveloped in the folds of their cloaks. The place throbbed with noise, reeked of sweat and wine fumes and sexual discharge. And Francesca loved it. She laughed as we jostled through to the tables and her eyes were gleaming in that white mask.

  Fortune favoured us, as I shall relate. A man in a black mask that left nothing but mouth and chin exposed, was making good use of that mouth at the biribisso table, boasting he had understood the system. His manner was truculent. His purse, which he made no attempt to conceal, bulged with sequins.

  It was this casual display of gold that made me suspicious. I have a nose for dupes and this was not one. It seemed to me that he was acting a part. He had begun by asserting loudly that the wheel went in certain runs and sequences, four on red, two on black, the third red always in the zone of the twenties– or some such thing – it is a long time ago now. The croupier – the only one without a mask – told him to play or move off. In a rage – real or simulated – he put down a handful of gold sequins on the middle band of the red. And he won. And he won again.

  Since then I have seen the trick played often enough. Always there is someone who claims to be an infallible winner. Others are sceptical but when they see him win they begin to believe it and they put their money with his. When there is enough on the table, everybody loses. The money of the boaster returns to the bank.

  Simple enough, but effective. Then I had only instinct to go on. I gave my money to Francesca for luck and told her to put it with his. With eyes if possible more brilliant than ever she did so. We doubled our money twice. Then I took it up. At the next turn the bank took everything.

  From that point onward everything went well for us. We played faro and won. We played bassetto and won. Francesca brought me luck. She sat beside me and sometimes played a hand, sometimes whispered advice. I asked her if she wanted to go on to the Ridotto but she preferred to stay where she was, here where we were winning, amidst the uproar and the reek. She loved every minute of it – I never knew anyone to enjoy things as she did …

  When we finally rose from the table it was after midnight and between us we had won some thirty sequins, over six hundred liras in the exchange of the time. It was more ready cash than I had had for years. We went out to the front room of the Moro and sat in a corner and took the masks off our heated faces and drank a bottle of champagne together, glass for glass.

  What time it was when we left I do not know. The Moro used to stay open till three or four in the morning. We walked arm in arm to the San Marco boat stage. There were still a good many people about on the Molo – Venice being then as now a city of inveterate noctambulists – and the gondolas were plying. It was quiet on the water, full tide – the level at the Molo was not more than a few inches below the bank. There was a thin mist, making the moonlight seem luminous. Where the oar broke the surface the ripples gleamed. We were both slightly drunk: with champagne, with the elation of winning, with the sudden quiet and beauty of the night. Our boatman this time was silent but in the distance, towards the Lagoon, we could hear singing, voices answering voices. Francesca herself sang, a snatch from an old song, gentil mia donna. She trailed a hand in the water. She allowed me to kiss her, on the cheek several times, once on the mouth.

  We returned by the side canal that ran below the house. Thus it was that we came through the garden. We lingered there; and there the lady did something else for the very first time.

  Ziani sniggered mechanically to himself and reached for his snuffbox. He was becoming increasingly uneasy. He sought to recall that nighttime garden of long ago. Not dark there but twilight – dawn was not far away. Scents of the garden, the roses, the acacia blossom – musk smell of early summer. Deep steady smell of the roses. There was the brackish smell of the canal. The statue glimmering in her alcove – her form and the roses, the white ones, the only defined things in the garden, as if they were first to anticipate the day. And the oval of the girl’s face. They had sat together in the dimness of the arbour, on the wooden bench against the wall, behind the statue – she was at the entrance, their guardian angel. No, I knew already that this had been a cloister, we were on church ground. I knew she was the Madonna Annunciata, I had found Longhi’s book by that time, in my delvings in the library, among those neglected volumes, though I spoke of it to no one. I knew who she was when I crowned her with the roses …

  His uneasine
ss grew. If I had not done that, he thought, perhaps Francesca would not have done what she did. Before going into the arbour they had made a chain of roses for her head. Alternate red and white roses. She split the stems with her nails. Then he had laid this circlet of roses round the stone brows. He had addressed a mock plea for lovers to her, and genuflected, to make Francesca laugh, calling her lady Venus, Our Lady of Lovers. There was an emanation of light about her, a light different from that elsewhere, or so it seemed – an illusion, trick of the mingling of day and night in the garden. The roses had smelt of their wounds as well as their perfume. The Madonna had seemed to listen …

  I must get back to myself, he thought. Man of the world, stylist. What is needed now is some general observation on the nature of the fair sex, followed by a deft description of the romantic ambience, then graphic details of how I had her.

  I have often remarked that when the ladies grant us their ultimate favours and surrender the keep, it is not because we have roused their appetites or dominated their wills, still less because we have convinced their minds, but because, generous creatures, they wish to make us gifts. It is in the arranging of suitable circumstances that the man of the world shows his mettle.

  Our hearts were full to overflowing with the beauty of the night, our minds with the sensations we had experienced, the excitement of the tables, the return over the moonlit water, the tranquil garden with its sweetly mingled odours, where the last of the night contended with the first of the day. There was everything here that was needed to appeal to the fancy, touch the sentiments, incline the mind to thoughts of love.