Candle in the Attic Window(53)
Excited beyond the point of reason, I nightly dreamt of them. The idea of them, how they would look, their scent, their cool, portentous feel in my hands. What hidden knowledge they might reveal possessed me. At last, I sent Zoesi to secure them for me. I had realized the outrageous price by selling my dead mother’s wedding ring, one of my dearest treasures. At the time, it seemed a small price to pay, to acquire an object so extraordinary.
The Magus
By the time Milady ordered me off to Firenze to collect the latest of her trinkets, I had become disgusted to my core by being made to act as her errand boy. Arriving in that glittering, giddy metropolis, my first thought was to secure lodgings. I had no intention of returning to Ferrara the same day. A bird released from its cage will fly free as long as it may. Inquiries about the house of the painter Della Gabella produced the news that the painter had left his home and family, and was living in a house of ill-repute with Angelina, the exquisite beauty who was said to have been the model for some of his cards.
Certain that, with these changes in his fortunes, he must now be in great need of monies, I reasoned that procuring the mistress’s cards would present no problem. The house, so-named ‘Garden of Earthly Delights’, was on one of the narrow alleys leading away from the Ponte Vecchio. It was not difficult to find. Reaching a massive wooden door that guarded the entrance to this ‘garden’, I knocked several times, only to have it opened by the largest, shiniest Moor I have ever seen. The head was shaved, the massive body entirely encased in a voluminous robe, making it impossible to determine whether this creature be man or woman.
“My good lady or gentleman,” I began.
“Ha.” Don’t know what to make of me – do you?” the creature mocked. “‘Merisondé’ will do. How may I help you? From the look of you, you aren’t the type to require the kinds of services we offer here.”
“You are correct in that assumption, Merisondé. I seek the painter Giovanni della Gabella. I am told he is to be found here.”
“Oh, you want the lunatic. If you can take him off my hands, I’ll make it worth your effort.”
“He is mad, you say?”
“Not so as you’d notice outright, but something about him upsets the other customers. My regular business has fallen off since he took up residence.”
“I’m sorry to learn that. Perhaps I can help.”
“Somebody has to. He’s been keeping one of my best girls from working. And now, neither has set foot outside his room for two days.”
“Direct me to him and I’ll do my utmost.”
“Right this way. If you can shift that miscreant out of my house, I’ll give you personal service, myself – free of charge.”
Tempted as I was to find out what was under that kaftan, I declined.
A stirring in my chest, a vague new hunger, was pulling me upwards to the painter’s room. I knocked, knocked harder, called the painter’s name – all to no avail. So it was, uninvited, that I entered the maestro’s lair.
The scene that greeted me should be indescribable. Even now, I wish those images were not forever burned onto my memory. The once-beautiful model lay, sprawled naked on a bed, her shaved sex open to all eyes, her blue-white body a mass of cuts and stripes oozing blood and pus. I feared that she was dead, but a soft moaning, like the purring of a dying kitten, told me that life still flowed in her.
On the floor nearby, in a pool of urine and excrement that had attracted the attention of a host of flies and other insects, the painter sat staring with cloudy eyes at the beautiful deck laid out in the traditional Spread of Destiny. As I entered, he looked at me and moved to shield the cards from my glance. From what I did see of the pictures, his future was not going to be pleasant.
“Go away! “ he cried. “You cannot take my beauties.”
“You have promised them to the Madonna Parisina. Here, I have money for you.”
“I don’t want the filthy bitch’s coins. She cannot buy my love.”
“I thought your love was the model Angelina, there.”
“That,” he gestured with his head toward the bed, “that is dross. It knows nothing, sees nothing, is worth nothing. Only my beauties here can speak the truth.” He stroked them with a lover’s touch. I winced to see him fondle the lovely images with his filthy hands.
At that moment, Merisondé arrived, a shadow falling across the carnage in the room. “You beast! Monster! What have you done to my beautiful Angelina?”
“Not so pretty, anymore – is she?” cackled the painter.
Turning to one of the blond giants who had followed her, she ordered, “Get that foul creature out of my house! Throw him into the Po so he doesn’t stink up our streets.”
Then, kneeling on the bed, cradling the dying whore, she commanded, “And fetch the doctor. Now!”
“Well, Signor from Ferrara,” Merisondé said to me, as the wretched painter was dragged, crying and screaming, out the door, “It seems you have forced an ending to this sorry tragedy. There, take those accursed cards. Get them and yourself out of my house, as well.”
I was only too happy to oblige her. Scooping them into a pouch I had prepared for this purpose, I thanked her and departed. I was already crossing the ancient bridge, with its mercantile temptations, when I realised that I was unexpectedly 40 ducats richer.