The Mirror Thief(163)
He slumps against a pillar in the colonnade of the Treasury and closes his eyes, breathing through his sudarium. Sober now, but aching, exhausted. The White Eagle seems very far to go. A baffled heaviness that’s stalked him all day has at last overtaken him; he still cannot fathom its source. The aim of all his intrigues is now practically within his grasp: in mere days his work will be done. So wherefore this misdirection, these impediments, that seem to bubble from the ferment of his own brain? Even now, as he tries to retrieve Obizzo’s visage, the only image that appears is Perina’s veiled face, her beseeching eyes. Only escape, she said. Nothing more.
There is another course that Crivano could take. The thought rattles his heart. How easily Obizzo could join Verzelin on the lagoon’s floor: a fugitive, he’s practically dead already. Then a private word to the senator—I have recognized one of the Turks at the fondaco as the chief tormentor of my days in bondage, and I must be revenged—to protect him from the sultan’s agents. A meeting with Narkis in a secluded spot; a stiletto between his ribs. Serena would say nothing; what could he say? In two decisive sweeps, the conspiracy would be erased. Here, then, is the ultimate perversion: Crivano could abandon the betrayal masked by his current respectability and become respectable. The gecko who drops his tail.
He has the senator’s blessing. He could wed the foolish lovely girl. What would prevent it? Who would object? He could forsake his current treachery for a treachery altogether more loathsome and more profound, a treachery unknown to every other living soul. The idea is not without its appeal: to become, at last, the perfect impostor.
Someone is watching. Crivano opens his eyes.
It’s the whore. She’s only steps away, standing with her back to the canal. Her expression empty, or emptied. Here I am, it says.
Until now he has taken her for a provincial girl, selling herself during the Sensa for extra coins; in doing so, he may have been too hasty. She’s chosen this moment with care. She seems certain of what he’ll do; more certain than he is himself. He wonders how that could be possible.
He tucks away his sudarium and steps toward her; she greets him politely. He inquires after her foot, and she says that it still troubles her. He asks if she has a bed for the night, and she says that she does not, not yet, but that she’s sure she’ll manage. Then he asks her price.
Back at the White Eagle, he interrupts Anzolo’s supper to give him Serena’s parcel. This must be delivered to Dottore Trist?o de Nis before dawn, he says. You will find him at the house of Andrea and Nicolò Morosini. The men who carry it should be well-armed, entirely trustworthy, and lacking any formal affiliation with this locanda. Its contents are of incalculable worth, and uncertain legitimacy. I intend now to retire, and I should not like to be troubled prior to the fourteenth bell. Oh—have a chambermaid bring a large washbasin, a clean flesh-brush, and a spare pitcher of water to my room. An extra lamp, as well. Immediately, please.
The whore is stepping from her skirts when the knock comes. Crivano opens the door wide enough to gather in what the maid has brought, then shuts and bolts it with muttered thanks. He fills the basin, lights the lamp, and hangs up his own garments while she washes herself. Her eyes linger on the two emblems that mark his skin—the key on his chest, the Sword of the Prophet on his calf—but she asks no questions. Her long shadow stretches over the walls, dulling and sharpening in the erratic light.
When she’s done, he grips her by the neck and washes her again, scrubbing hard until her flesh turns rosy beneath its sun-darkened brown. She makes no protest. He wipes her dry, directs her to the bed, moves the lamps closer. Then he begins to inspect her, minutely, for condylomata and chancres. His eyes are dry and tired. She’s immobile, silent, watching the ceiling. Soft voices rise from the street outside. From somewhere more distant comes the low liquid whistle of a scops-owl.
He stands, washes his own arms past the elbow, and directs her to sit up. Then he tilts her head toward the light and puts his fingers in her mouth. Her tongue, her cheeks, her throat are free from signs of disease. He tips her back onto the wool-stuffed mattress, folds the hinges of her knees, and applies his spit-slick fingers to her anus and vulva. He intends this as a prudent preliminary to copulation, but it soon becomes an end in itself: it is what he wants, what he is doing, why he brought her here. He recalls the invasion of Georgia: lovely young corpses stacked in a barn in Tiflis, the stench of death arrested by the brutal cold. Extraordinary machines! More perfect with their souls gone. He could have spent hours exploring them, days cutting them to pieces.
The hair on her body is curiously fine, the same russet hue as her cropped scalp. On her shins it’s nearly blond. A thin hooked scar, well-healed, traces the lower edge of her left scapula. He pulls her toes, probes the hollows of her armpits, drags his knuckles across the rough verruca on her foot. Pinching her lips, her nipples, her earlobes: the flesh blushes and puffs. His thumbs smooth her brows, brush her closed lids. When her eyes open—their pupils shrinking—he looks at them for a long time. Peculiar colors. Greens and grays and browns. A deep swift stream, churned by the boots of soldiers.
Gradually she becomes impatient, unnerved, uncertain of how this use of her will end. She begins to reach for him, to redirect his actions into something intelligible. Each time she does so he stops her hands: gently at first, then more forcefully, if only to feel the occult architecture of muscle and sinew straining against his own. This is a new invisibility, blood-warm and mindless, hidden under skin. Nothing like the one sought by the alchemists. Every discovery is instantly forgotten.