Casanova's Secret Wife Read online

  “Leda,” Caterina said, “Bastiano is nineteen years older than I am. But it’s not only years. He’s the kind of man who—” She looked at her favorite painting, the one hanging right over them. “If he was looking at that painting—the Virgin in a field at sunset, her hand on a rabbit, her Son reaching for it and showing His innocent tenderness—Bastiano would say to me, ‘What’s that frame made out of? Walnut?’”

  Leda giggled and then cried a little more. Her emotions were everywhere tonight. Caterina couldn’t help laughing a little, too. Even the most disappointing things in life could be comical, given enough time.

  But she was ready to leave off talking about Bastiano.

  “There was another man,” she confided. “When I was even younger than you are.”

  Why was she doing this? It wasn’t to help Leda; she didn’t fool herself about that. No, it was for herself. She was greedy to revisit a place where the ground was still sweet.

  She rose from the table and went into the small room that was now her bedroom. Her ivory box sat on the nightstand, its smooth surfaces reflecting the moonlight that slivered in from the window. The key she always kept strung around her waist. It was red-brown with rust, and so was the lock on the box. And for the first time in many years, she opened her box, twisting the key with a shaking hand.

  There they were, stacked inside: all her dusty letters, filled with old love stories. Letters from her cousin. Letters from her lover. Letters that were not really letters, more journals she had written for herself. She fingered a few pages near the top, checking to see that the words were all still there. Strange how old possessions wait in time, wait for you to remember them.

  She took just a few letters from the early days to Leda, to aid her memory. And she began to talk to the girl. But she knew just where to stop. She was careful to leave the darkest stories of her past safely locked up.

  CHAPTER 3

  Venice, May of 1753

  Twenty Years Before

  “Caterina!” my brother Pier Antonio called. The words floated up to the loggia at the back of our house, where I sat most days. “Come down! There is someone I want you to meet!”

  I was delighted to find my boredom interrupted. My world at this time was no more than a series of boxes: my loggia, which looked over a high-walled garden . . . the garden, with its back wall facing a tiny courtyard, Campiello Barbaro. A narrow canal ran alongside the house and emptied into the Grand Canal.

  Running downstairs, I tripped on my own heeled slipper. I stopped just before reaching the doors to the pòrtego to adjust the bodice of my green floral dress, which had slipped, and neaten the curls at my neck.

  Walking in, I saw a tall man in his late twenties standing by the windows and talking to my mother. The room stretched from one end of the house to the other, and was filled with gloomy paintings and heavy gilded furniture. When my mother saw me, she gave the man a curtsy and quietly departed. Amor, her little white dog, followed behind. Near the doors, my mother gave me an encouraging smile.

  “Mademoiselle,” the tall—and strikingly handsome—man exclaimed as I came closer, startling me by speaking in French. “Your mother and brother cannot stop praising you! I told them I had to meet you myself.” His eyes took me in appreciatively from head to toe, and he bowed deeply.

  “Signor Casanova is backing me in my new business enterprise, Caterina.” My brother strutted into the room holding some papers. “Soon we’ll be supplying the whole city with beef, and I will make him a rich man.”

  Signor Casanova looked like he might be suppressing a smile. I was relieved he didn’t take my brother too seriously. No one got rich from any of Pier Antonio’s business schemes.

  I resisted revealing my own disdain. Pier Antonio was more than twice my age—I was fourteen, he was thirty-two—and had been a liar all his life. My father had been right to kick him out of the house. But now that the cat was away on business, Pier Antonio had simply walked all over my mouse of a mother and moved back in.

  “Can you entertain our guest while I write up our contract?” my brother asked me. He spoke too quickly, and rarely looked anyone in the eyes.

  “Certainly,” I answered.

  “Come join me, then,” Signor Casanova said, gesturing over to a sofa. I took a seat, and he sat a respectful distance from me. “It is my good fortune to find you at home.”

  “Oh, I am always at home.” Stupid. I had just made myself as interesting as a chair.

  He gave me a kind smile. “Then you make others seek you out. That is the clever way to do it.”

  Our eyes met, and I smiled back gratefully. I dropped my gaze, then peeked up to study him more. His skin was swarthy, and his black eyes had a fiery light. He wore a sapphire-blue waistcoat with exotic birds sewn all over it, and on his fingers, several jeweled rings.

  “I’ve just come back to Venice after several years abroad,” he explained. “I was lucky enough to meet your brother, and even luckier now to meet you.” He leaned in closer, and my heart started to beat furiously at his nearness.

  “Where did you travel?” I asked, moving a bit away and also changing the conversation away from myself. What did I know about the world? I rarely went out, except with my mother—and usually, to church.

  “Paris, for two years. Then Dresden, and lastly Vienna. A splendid city, but I was ready to come home.”

  I wondered if he had run out of money, which would explain what he was doing now with my brother. But I left it unsaid.

  “Tell me about Paris!” I begged instead. “Did you ever see the king? Louis XV? It’s said he is very handsome.”

  “He is. Like a god. He makes you believe in the idea of majesty just looking at him.”

  “And the queen? A beauty, too?”

  “Oh, no! She is old and very religious. She dresses badly, and wears big Polish bonnets.”

  I laughed gaily. His eyes lingered on the curve of my lips.

  “The court ladies are all ugly, too,” he went on, clearly warming to my laughter. “They wear heels a half-foot high to look taller, and teeter about with their knees bent like this—” He jumped up and did a ridiculous imitation.

  I squealed. “Signor Casanova—”

  “Giacomo—”

  “Giacomo, if you say such preposterous things, you will stop the sun in its orbit!”

  “What?” He stopped his funny walking and sat down again.

  “Oh, it’s a saying of my mother’s—she’s from Dalmatia. If you hear a crazy thing, you say it is so crazy it will stop the sun in its orbit.”

  “My innocent, do you still believe that the sun orbits the earth?” He looked at me with a surprised smile. “I was taught the same nonsense—the earth is suspended motionless at the center of the universe. But this idea has been soundly disproved. A book by Niccolò Copernico has turned the cosmos inside out—” Here, he drew with his long fingers in the air, showing me the earth being moved out of position. “The sun now sits at the center of all things.”

  I was embarrassed by my ignorance. In just a few minutes, he had altered my view of the heavens and set the whole world spinning.

  I looked into my lap. “I apologize, Signor Casanova. I know as much about the world as a caged bird. I’m sure you are very bored.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “I find you perfectly charming.” I blushed at this news, and he seized the opportunity to take my hand.

  “Oh!” I pulled it back, not displeased—only surprised at his boldness.

  My brother came back into the room, and Signor Casanova made polite excuses. Suddenly, he had to go.

  He left without signing the contract. He was clever that way—oh, I saw that many times after. He got what he wanted, but he never got drawn in too far. What was it he once said?

  Cheating is a sin, honest cunning is simply prudence.

  CHAPTER 4

  That night it rained. The next morning was damp and cloudy. I was keeping busy in my father’s study. It was my favorite ro
om in the house—at least, when he was away. With its Turkish carpets and leather-bound books, it was a comforting room to be in. One whole wall was decorated with intarsia, panels made from cut and fitted pieces of different types of wood. The art was so lifelike, it fooled the eye. There were inlaid pictures of musical instruments, a half-empty hourglass, even a squirrel that looked like it might scamper down onto the floor. The woodwork was very old—you can be sure my father had not commissioned this kind of whimsy.

  Rows of his account books lined the shelves. His business was dull, in my fourteen-year-old opinion. He traded in wine and olive oil along the Adriatic and Ionian seacoasts.

  I pulled down a big book of maps from a shelf. Then, a painted Book of Hours from my mother’s collection of devotional books.

  I sighed. Thinking of my mother always made me sad. She had been changed in the head from the time my younger brother, Sebastiano, had died. That had been seven years ago, when he was five. Now it was as if she lived with ghosts in her head.

  I heard a strong knock at our land door and startled. I tiptoed as far down the hallway as I could without being seen.

  “Buon giorno, Signora.” The voice I had been dreaming of all morning—downstairs!

  “Buon giorno, Signor Casanova,” my mother said. “It is a pleasure to see you again. Are you looking for Pier Antonio?”

  “I am.”

  My heart sank. What did he want with that rat?

  “I’m sorry. He is out. I don’t know when he will be back.” That was the truth. We never knew Pier Antonio’s comings and goings, day or night.

  “Bene, Signora.” A pause. “May I see the signorina, then? Pier Antonio asked me to deliver a message to her if he was not home when I came by.”

  I bit my finger with excitement. Would my mother let him in?

  “Certo, Signor Casanova.”

  Of course, she should have sent him away. That’s what my father would have done. But she chose to give me this small happiness. I think she knew I was lonely—we both were back then, I now realize.

  I ran back to the study. Breathless, I set myself up at a small table and pretended to study the Book of Hours.

  My mother showed Giacomo in with a slightly nervous smile. She left the door open on her way out, and I suspected she would stay in the next room, embroidering and listening.

  “Buon giorna, Caterina,” Giacomo called. “What are you reading?” Sunlight beamed in through the window and fell on his light green silk jacket. He sat down and peered over the colorful pages.

  “Oh—” He was immediately disappointed. “Prayers.”

  “I like to read the stories about the saints,” I said, trying to make it sound interesting.

  “Truly?” He pulled a chair next to mine. “Saintly lives are the most boring kind.”

  I needed a moment to collect myself after this insight.

  “I take it you have not been leading a boring, saintly life?” I teased.

  He laughed out loud. “Far from it. Life is happiness when we let ourselves enjoy its pleasures: good health, a purse full of money, and love.” He moved his leg against mine, and I could feel the watch in his breeches pocket press against my thigh.

  “This is your recipe for happiness?” I asked. His eyes were dancing. His joy made me smile.

  “It is. There are misfortunes, of course, as I should be the first to know. But the very existence of these misfortunes proves that the sum of good is greater.”

  “Misfortunes?” I asked, curious whether there was something more to him than fine clothes, jewels, and a handsome face. But he was not about to let me find out. He was already on his feet, changing the subject.

  “Is there nothing to read in this whole library but account books and books on religion?” he questioned, taking inventory of the shelves. “No poetry, no novels?”

  “Nothing else,” I answered, blushing. “My father doesn’t let me read anything else.”

  “You deserve more than this library offers,” he said, shaking his head in disapproval. “Impressive as it seems at first, it is impoverished. It is my duty to bring you something to delight your mind.”

  “What?” I asked eagerly. “Something you have written yourself?”

  “I have the modest start of a career in literature,” he said, bowing slightly. “Last year, my translation of a French opera into Italian verse was staged in Dresden.”

  “How impressive!” I exclaimed, clapping my hands together.

  “Not really,” he said, keeping a straight face. “Only my mother seemed to like it.”

  “Oh—” I stammered, both amused and embarrassed at his theatrical failure. “I’m sure you are a gifted writer. Perhaps the music was simply bad.”

  “How adorable you are, my angel,” he sighed, seeming almost regretful of the fact. He sat back down and took my hands in his. “I envy the man destined to be your husband.”

  I heard a tinkling of metal on the floor. My mother’s scissors, dropping from her hands next door? I pulled away.

  “You shouldn’t,” I whispered, apology in my voice.

  “I understand,” he said, exhaling deeply. He ran a hand through his hair, which was expertly dressed and scented with jasmine pomade. “You are right, of course. I should probably not have come, but I found myself unable to resist.”

  Hearing this, a loving flame rose from my soul and spread to my whole face.

  “You will come see me again?” I asked. “I am so very lonely . . . and you cheer me immensely.” I dared to place my hand lightly on his forearm. He moved it to his chest, where I could feel his heart beating wildly, and the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

  “I will,” he said, rising and staring down at me with eyes that seemed torn with some decision.

  “I shouldn’t, Caterina. But I will.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “I hope you realize you will not hold his interest for long.”

  Pier Antonio spoke to me as we made our way toward Campo Santa Margherita a few days later. We had told our mother we were going to Mass together, and she had believed it—kissing us lightly on our cheeks before we set off.

  “Why not?” I argued with my brother. “Giacomo seems quite taken with me.”

  “He’s used to more excitement.” Pier Antonio gave me a sly glance. “Not a fourteen-year-old girl who still says her bedtime prayers at night.”

  “What do you know?” I snapped, watching him put his hands together and imitate my fervent praying.

  “Don’t misunderstand me—” He laughed. “I want him to fall in love with you. It ties him even more to my business interests. But—don’t expect too much.” I blushed deeply, embarrassed by his meaning.

  “We can all change for the better,” I reminded him, repeating a phrase often spoken by our parish priest, Father Ludovico.

  “We can all change, huh?” Pier Antonio mocked me. “Tell me more—since you know so much about men.”

  I chose to keep my mouth shut the rest of the way.

  A few minutes later, we arrived at a tavern. I had always been curious where Pier Antonio spent his time, and now I got to see for myself. That is, once I adjusted to the dim interior, lit only by a couple of half-shuttered windows. The whole place smelled of cheap wine: sweet, like apricots and figs. Unkempt men and a few obviously low women sat at tables playing cards. As out-of-place and uneasy as I felt, no one seemed to notice me much. The glimmering piles of silver zecchini commanded everyone’s attention.

  Pier Antonio led me toward a partition that blocked off the rear of the room. Behind this, Giacomo sat waiting for me.

  He sprang up the instant he saw me. “Finally!” He deluged my hand with kisses. I relaxed immediately, feeling reassured at my decision to come.

  Looking up, I saw with dismay that Signora Castello was also there. She was my brother’s mistress. She lay on a sofa against a side wall and blew me a kiss. I ignored the detestable woman. She was married to some unfortunate, who must have been so bad she pref
erred my brother.

  Pier Antonio went over to her. Her dress was partly up, and he greeted her by putting his hand on her bare thigh, above her stockings and garters.

  “I’ve brought you a gift,” said Giacomo, distracting me from the unsavory scene. He presented me with a pair of long, leather gloves. They were bright blue with a black geometric pattern on them. They matched nothing I owned, and particularly not the painted Indian cotton dress I was wearing that day, with its delicate flowers and sprigs. I even wondered—after the ugly conversation I’d had with my brother—whether he had bought the gloves for someone else, then decided to give them to me.

  “How—unusual they are!” I stammered, slipping them on. The fit was perfect.

  “The color reminded me of a beautiful caged bird,” Giacomo said, taking my gloved hand and kissing my wrist. His mouth traveled luxuriously up and down my arm, to the inside of my bare elbows and back to the tips of my waiting fingers.

  I blushed with pleasure. How poisoned was my thinking! The gloves were clearly meant for me. I vowed to become the kind of woman who would wear such gloves: beautiful, vibrant, and unusual.

  “Go on!” my brother cried out, taunting us from the sofa. “She wants a real lover’s kiss!” Pier Antonio groped Signora Castello and gave her the kind of kiss he meant. She answered by pushing him back and climbing on top of him. He lifted her breasts out of her chemise and cupped them in his hands. She began to unbutton his breeches, greedily reaching in.

  I turned my face to the wall, horrified at what was unfolding. But a large gilt mirror faced me. I could still see everything, could hear my brother’s grunts of pleasure.

  My face was burning, and I think I said something stupid to the wall about my new gloves.

  The next thing I knew, Giacomo had turned me around. He used his body to block my view. He urged me to forget what I was seeing, to think only of him. To remember I was better than all of this.

  He kissed my black curls and my white powdered face, and told me I was his angel.