Casanova in Bolzano

The Consultation

That evening he sat in the restaurant of The Stag drinking mulled wine, waiting for the card party to arrive. They appeared cautiously: the chemist whom Balbi brought along, the dean who had visited Naples, a veteran actor, and an army officer who had deserted the day before at Bologna. They played for low stakes, going through the motions, getting to know one another. The chemist was caught cheating and was asked to leave. The soldier pursued the fat, foolish-looking man to the door and threw him out into the street where the snow was still falling. By midnight Giacomo was bored. He and Balbi went upstairs to his room where they lit candles and, with elbows propped on the table, set about marking the pack of cards he had bought that afternoon and which the engraver and printer had decorated with the legend STAMPATORI DE NAIBI immediately below an image of Death and The Hanged Man. The friar was surprisingly skilled at the work: they labored in silence, waxing the corners of the most important cards and using their nails to carve identifying symbols into the wax.

“Are you not worried this might get us into trouble?” asked the friar in passing, absorbed in his task.

“No,” he replied, holding an ace of diamonds up to the light and examining it through half-closed eyes before winking and painstakingly marking it. “What is there to be worried about? A gentleman is never worried.”

“A gentleman?” queried Balbi, sticking his tongue through his pursed lips, as he tended to do when expressing astonishment. “And which gentleman might that be?”

“I,” he said and touched the marked card gently with his fingertip. “Who else could I mean?” he stiffly remarked. “There are only two of us in the room, and it is certainly not you.”

“Do gentlemen cheat?” asked the friar and yawned.

“Of course,” he replied, throwing the cards away and stretching his limbs so his bones cracked. “It is very difficult to win otherwise. It is the nature of cards to be fickle. There are very few people who can win without the aid of some device. In any case,” he went on in a matter-of-fact voice, “everyone cheats. At Versailles the most respectable people cheat: even generals and priests.”

“Does the king cheat too?” asked Balbi, somewhat awestruck.

“No,” he answered solemnly. “He simply gets cross when he loses.”

They considered the nature of the king’s anger. Soon enough Giacomo was alone, and eventually he, too, sighed, yawned, and went to bed. For three days he continued in this deeply solitary fashion with only Balbi, Giuseppe, and little Teresa for company. He played faro with messenger boys and oil salesmen in the bar of The Stag, frequently winning, thanks to the waxed cards which certainly helped, though he occasionally lost because everyone else cheated at the time, especially in the taverns of London, Rome, Vienna, and Paris, where professional itinerant gamblers offered banque ouverte to all and sundry. He remembered one occasion when he had fought a Greek whose remarkable dexterity enabled him to produce ace after ace from his sleeve, but he felt no anger at the time, it was only to keep in practice.

He didn’t see Francesca nor did he make any special effort to look for her just yet.

It was as if life itself were slumbering in thin air below mountain peaks.

Then there came three days of raging winds when the windows of The Stag were plastered over in snow. The sky was thick with gray woolly clouds as dirty as the cotton in Mensch’s ears. The suits, the shirts, the coats, the shoes, the white silk Venetian mask, the walking stick, and the lorgnette were delivered, and he had a coat for Balbi too, if only for the sake of cleanliness and respectability, because the friar was running round town in a robe that might have been worn by a corpse freshly cut down at a public hanging. But most of the time he just sat in his room alone in front of the fire, in the apathetic, melancholy frame of mind that, despite a lively curiosity and an acquaintance with music, action, lights, and the thrill of the chase, he, of all people, had been ever more frequently afflicted by these last few years. It was as if everything he had planned and dreamed about in jail — life, pleasure, and entertainment — now that he was back in the world and had only to stretch out his hand to grab it, had lost something of its attraction. He was seriously considering returning to Rome, going down on his knees to his generous friend, the cardinal, and asking for forgiveness: he would beg to join the priesthood or plead for a position as a librarian in the papal offices. He thought of towns where nothing awaited him but inns, cold beds, women’s arms from which he would sleepily have to disentangle himself, the corridors of theaters where he’d hang about and tell lies, and salons and bars where his carefully prepared cards might provide him with a modest haul of gold: he thought of all this and yawned. He was acquainted with this mood of his and was afraid of it. “It’ll end in flight and a bloody nose,” he thought and drew together the nightgown covering his chest because he was shivering. This condition had begun in childhood and it was accompanied by a fear and disgust that, without warning, would suddenly come over him and end in nosebleeds that only Nonna, his strong, virtuous grandmother, could cure with herbs and lint. He thought of Nonna a lot these days, never of his mother or his siblings, but of this strong woman who had brought up three generations in Venice and had been particularly fond of Giacomo; she kept appearing in his sad and somewhat disturbing dreams. Nonna used to place an icy piece of lint on his neck and cook him beetroots because she believed that beetroots were effective against all sorts of bleeding, and eventually both the bleeding and the sadness would pass away. “Nonna!” he thought now, with an intense yearning that was keener than anything he had felt for other women.

Francesca lived nearby: by now he knew which house, knew the Swiss guard with his silver-tipped stick and bearskin cloak, had seen the lackeys, the hunters, and the postilions who escorted the duke of Parma on his journeys into town, and, in the evening, he would walk past the palazzo whose upper windows glimmered overhead — the duke enjoyed a busy social life, receiving guests, giving parties — and in the light that streamed from the window across the street he would imagine the magnificence of the reception halls. Balbi, who had talked to the servants, told him that every evening they replenished the golden branches of the chandeliers with three dozen candles, candles of the finest sort, made of goat fat, which the chandlers of Salzburg provided specially for the duke. “Francesca lives in the light,” he acknowledged with a shrug of his shoulder, but he didn’t talk about her to Balbi. Yes, Francesca lived in the light, in a palace, attended by lackeys, and on one or two evenings he could even hear the stamping and neighing of the bishop’s horses as he drew up at the coach entrance and imagined the horses glittering in silver and dressed with a variety of official insignia. For the duke of Parma kept a busy house in the winter months, as befitted his rank, and perhaps the dignity of his young wife, too. And yet there would have been nothing easier than to enter the house and pay his respects to Francesca; the duke would no longer complain of his attentions, and had, in any case, intimated that he wanted to see him — or that, at least, was what Giuseppe had said. It was true that he mentioned it only once, on his very first visit and not since then, for he came every day to run his delicate pink fingers along Giacomo’s jowls, to rub his temples and reset his curls, and, every morning, he would recount in considerable detail the events of the previous night: the manner of the reception, the nature of the party games, the gaiety of the dancing at midnight, and the ins and outs of the card sessions conducted into the early hours of dawn. Giacomo noted them all. Every evening there was dancing, cards, reciting of verses, and playing of party games; every evening there was feasting and drinking at the duke of Parma’s. “Does the duke not get tired?” he occasionally asked in his most arch manner. “What I mean is, does he not tire of so many parties, every night? He stays up late each time; don’t you think this might be tiring for a man of his age?…” Giuseppe shrugged but refused to say any more.

The barber had mentioned the invitation only once, on the first day, and having mentioned it once remained eloquently silent on the subject, skirting the guest’s ingenuous questions. “Is the duke tired?…” he echoed and, lisping fastidiously, chose his words with care. “He would have every reason to be tired, I suppose. His Excellency always rises early and goes to hunt at dawn, however late he retired the previous night, then he takes his breakfast in his wife’s bedroom, where they receive guests at the morning levee. Is the duke tired?” he repeated the question and shrugged. The tiredness of the privileged was quite different from the exhaustion of the poor. The wellborn eat a lot of meat and that is what makes them tired. He, Giuseppe, would only say that, as far as he personally was concerned, he was never tired of dancing, flirtation, or of cards, but thinking, fine manners, and the general standards of behavior required by high society had often exhausted him. “The duke is given to thinking!” he whispered confidentially. And he winked and fluttered his eyelashes as if he were betraying some secret passion of the duke’s, a major vice or a tendency to a peculiar form of depravity; he winked as if to suggest that he could say more if he chose, but would not, because he was a careful man and knew the ways of the world. The stranger heard the news and bowed. “Given to thinking, eh!” he asked in a low voice indicating intimacy. They understood each other perfectly. The language they spoke was their mother tongue in the full meaning of the word, the language of people who, without knowing it, share certain tastes, certain traits of character: it was an underworld language that the inhabitants of a superior world can never quite understand. However, Giuseppe made no further mention of the duke’s invitation to the visitor: it was something he passed on, that first day as a matter of minor courtesy, then kept his peace, a peace that, in its own way, said as much as his loquaciousness.

“Is the duchess beautiful?” asked the visitor one day, in a disinterested, airy sort of way, as if the question were of no importance. The barber composed himself to answer. He put the tongs, the scissors, and the comb down on the mantelpiece, raised his epicene, long-fingered hand like a priest bestowing a blessing during mass, cleared his throat, then quietly embarked on a singsong, pleasantly lilting speech. “The duchess has dark eyes. On the left side of her face, near her downy pitted jaw, there is a tiny little wart which the chemist once treated with vitriol, but it has grown back again. The duchess artfully covers up this wart.” He recited all this, and a wealth of other minor detail, as though he were a priest delivering a sermon or an apprentice painter discussing the graces and shortcomings of a masterpiece. The coolness of his judgment signified an appreciation far surpassing mere enthusiasm. For Giuseppe was every day in the presence of the duchess, before the lesser and the greater levee, when the maids were depilating Francesca’s shins with red-hot walnut shells, polishing her toenails with syrup, smearing her splendid body with oils, and scenting her hair with the steam of ambergris before combing it. “The duchess is beautiful!” he sternly declared, the solemn expression ludicrous on a face as childish and effeminate as his, a face so chubby it was not quite human, the kind of face some highly respectable artist might have painted on the walls of an aristocratic woman’s bedchamber at Versailles as the face of a shepherd in a naïve, sentimental, wholly unselfconscious, and charmingly corrupt pastoral. The visitor waited while the long, delicate fingers finished with his face and hair and, having learned that the duke was given to thinking and that the duchess was beautiful despite the fact that a tiny wart had grown on her face again, he listened to various other interesting items of news. He remained silent while the other talked. They might have shared a common language but now they were speaking of different things. The fact remained that the duke had not repeated his desire to see the visitor.

So he stayed in town, that foreign, somewhat alien town, even after Signor Bragadin had sent the requested gold, along with a wise and virtuous letter full of noble, practical advice that was perfectly impossible to follow. Mensch was delighted that Signor Bragadin had obliged, and enthusiastically counted out the money with trembling, assured fingers, using a blend of German, French, and Italian expressions, separating interest and capital, with much mention of the terms “credit” and “security.” Signor Bragadin had in fact sent more money than his adopted son had asked for, not a lot more, just a little extra to show that an official loan was being topped up by the affections of the heart. “A noble heart,” thought the moved fugitive, and Mensch nodded: “A sound name! Fine gold!” As to Signor Bragadin’s letter, it contained all that a lonely, aged man could or might say while exploring such unconventional feelings, for all feeling is a form of exploration, and Signor Bragadin knew that this relationship would do nothing to enhance his whiter-than-white reputation and spotless respectability. No gossip or suspicion dared attach itself to the senator’s name but, when it came down to it, how far would Venice understand the deep morality underlying his affection? An ordinary Venetian would wonder whether this feeling, even in such irreproachable form, were all it seemed to be, and would not understand why a nobleman, a senator of Venice no less, should squander the affections of his old and none too healthy heart on a notorious playboy. “Why should he?” asked the Venetian public, and the more vulgar of them put their hands to their mouth, gave a wink, and whispered, “What’s in it for him?” But Signor Bragadin’s knowledge was deeper than theirs: he knew humanity’s most painful obligation is not to be ashamed of true feeling even when it is wasted on unworthy subjects. And so he sent money, more than his fugitive friend had requested, and wrote his long, wise letter. “You have made a new start in life, dear son,” he wrote in firm, angular characters, “and you will not be returning to your birthplace for some time. Think of your home with affection.” He wrote a great deal on the subject of his homeland, a page and a half. He advised Giacomo to forgive his birthplace because, in some mysterious way, one’s birthplace was always right. And a fugitive, more than anyone, especially he, who was now to be swept to the four corners of the world, should continually reflect on the fact that his birthplace remained his birthplace in perpetuity, even when it was in error. He wrote gracefully, with the certainty that only very old people with highly refined feelings can write, people who are fully aware of the meaning of every word they use, who know that it is impossible to escape our memories and that it is pointless hoping that we might pass our experiences on to others; who realize that we live alone, make mistakes alone, and die alone, and that whatever advice or wisdom we get from others is of little use. He wrote about his birthplace as he might of a relative who was part tyrant and part fairy godmother, stressing that, whatever the strains, we should never break off relations with our family. Then he wrote about money and, much more briefly and practically, about a friend in Munich who was prepared to help a traveler at certain times, up to certain amounts; he wrote of the Inquisition which was greater than the great ones of the world, or as he put it, how the “powers of Church and State were fully united in the hands of the leaders of this incomparable institution.” But he had to write this, for as the addressee recognized, a sentence to this effect could not be omitted from any Venetian letter, for even the letters of Signor Bragadin were open to the inspection of the messer grande. Then he gave his blessing for the journey, and for life itself, which he said was an adventure. Giacomo read the letter twice then tore it up and threw it on the fire. He took Mensch’s gold pieces and could have set out for Munich or elsewhere immediately. But he didn’t. It was his fifth day in Bolzano and he had got to know everyone, including the captain of police, who called on him to ask most courteously how long he intended remaining in town. He avoided answering and cursed the place after the official left. He paid off debts and gambled away the rest in the bar of The Stag and in the private apartments of the chemist whom they had earlier ejected from The Stag but who was now hosting sessions of faro at home. Without money, and with the address of Signor Bragadin’s acquaintance in Munich in his pocket, he had every reason for moving on. But now that he had paid the innkeeper and the shops, had bought a present for Teresa, and offered a handsome tip to Giuseppe; now that the gold had allowed him a few moments of Venetian brilliance, he could afford to stay. He enjoyed credit, not only with Mensch, whom he had sought out again in the last few days, not just with the shops who had been paid off once, but with a more problematic company, the gamblers. An English gentleman — who, when he wasn’t gambling, was studying the geology of the surrounding mountains — accepted his IOU address in Paris. Given such losses and gains achieved by dint of experience and light fingers, having paid off old debts and piled up new ones, the natural ties of his new situation, based on interest and a general relaxation in his circumstances, slowly established themselves. Everyone was happy to extend credit to the stranger now because they knew him, because they recognized that the odds on him winning or losing were impossible to calculate: they accepted him because the town quickly got used to him and tolerated his presence behind its walls the way any man tolerates a degree of danger.

And is that why he stayed? No, it was because of Francesca, of course, and because the duke had said he’d like to see him. He waited for the call the way a peasant youth waits at the bar of his native village when someone challenges him. He stands there with his hands on his hips, as if to say: “Here I am, come and get me!” Giacomo struck the same attitude: he waited silently. What did he want of Francesca? Her very name was disturbing, full of the regret of unfinished business. He could of course have decamped, penniless, to Munich, where the elector of Saxony had just arrived and the weeks ahead promised splendor and amusement with pageantry, first-rate theater, Europe’s most brilliant gamblers, and mounds of snow. He could have left at any time, not sneaking off at night or when it was foggy, but in broad daylight, in a fancy carriage, his head held high, because he had paid his debts to innkeeper and shopkeeper at least once and because Mensch was still sufficiently under the spell of Signor Bragadin’s credit to service him. But instead of going, he stayed because he was waiting for a message from the duke. He knew the message would come eventually, that the palazzo guarded by the solemn Swiss guard with his silver-tipped staff would send for him. He understood that the lack of communication was itself part of a secret dialogue, that there was a purpose in his arrival in Bolzano, that he had things to do. So every day had a meaning: he was waiting for something to happen. Because to live is, in some respects, to wait.

One afternoon, when the main square was full of blue-gray shadows and the wind was hooting and screeching like an owl through the flues of the fireplaces in The Stag, he was sitting idly in the fireside chair, his skin covered in goose pimples, leafing through a volume of Boethius in his lap, when the door opened and Balbi stumbled in, waving his arms.

“They’re here!…” he declared triumphantly.

Giacomo turned pale. He leaped from his chair, smoothed his rice-powdered hair with all ten fingers, and whispered hoarsely, his voice a faint squeak.

“Get me my lilac coat!”

“Don’t bother,” said Balbi, tottering closer. “You can greet this lot in shirtsleeves if you like. Only don’t undersell yourself!” And when he saw the look of fear and incomprehension on his fellow fugitive’s face, he stopped, leaned back against the wall, and clasped his hands across his belly. His speech was a little slurred and he giggled with embarrassment, his full stomach shaking. He was enjoying the secret delight of knowing that he was the begetter and abetter of a wonderfully clever piece of mischief.

“There are only three of them this time,” he said, “but all three are rich. One of them, the baker, is quite old; he is first in line. He is old and deaf, so you must be careful to address his more intimate problems in sign language or the whole of Bolzano will hear of his shame. He will be followed by one Petruccio, a captain who considers himself a gallant. He is not quite the gallant now. He is waiting quietly with his arms folded, leaning on the banisters and gazing into the deep. He looks so miserable that he might be contemplating murder or suicide. He’s a stupid man: easy game. The third client, the priest’s secretary, arrived precisely at the hour I told him to. He’s young and looks as if he might burst into tears. And there’ll be more of them coming. Allow me to inform you, dear master, that your reputation both frightens and attracts people. Ever since you arrived they have been bombarding me with questions in private, in bars, in doorways, and later in shops and warehouses, but also in the street, anywhere they could confidentially take me aside, press a few pieces of silver into my palm, and invite me for a drink or a roast goose. They are begging to be introduced to you. Whether your name attracts or frightens them it seems they can’t forget it.”

“What do they want?” he asked mournfully.

“Advice!” said Balbi. He put two fingers to his lips then raised them into the air, rolling his eyes, his belly shaking with silent laughter.

“I see,” said Giacomo and gave a sour smile.

“Now be careful,” Balbi warned him. “Mind you don’t set too low a price on your services. How long do you want to stay here? A day? A week? I’ll make sure you have visitors and clients every afternoon: I’ll have them lining up on the stairs as they do for famous doctors when someone’s dying or coming down with the plague. But remember not to set your price too low: demand at least two gold pieces for each item of advice, and if it’s potions they want, ask for even more. I learned a lot in Venice, you know. During the period of my retreat”—this was how Balbi delicately referred to his time in prison—“I came to the conclusion that a thought can be as sharp as a file and worth its weight in gold. You are a clever man, Giacomo. There are purses out there overflowing with gold. Let them weigh your wisdom by the pound. What do you say?… Shall I send in the baker?”

And so they began to arrive in patient, sheeplike manner, Balbi herding them in each afternoon, from noon to dusk. His new profession amused Giacomo. He had never played this game before. People came to him with wasted bodies and troubled souls and stood in a line at his door exactly as Balbi had said they would, much as they did outside surgeons’ apartments in big cities, but instead of arms in slings and broken ankles they brought broken hearts and wounded self-respect for treatment. What did they want? Miracles. Everywhere people wanted miracles: they wanted love that would cater to their vanities, power without effort, self-sacrifice that wouldn’t cost more than a gold piece or two, tenderness and understanding providing they wouldn’t have to work too hard to earn them…. People wanted love, and wanted it free, without obligations, if possible. They stood in line at his door, in the corridor of The Stag, the crippled and the humiliated, the weak and the cowardly, those who thirsted for revenge and those who wanted to learn forgiveness. The range of their desires was diverting enough. And there was an art to the handling of the private consultation that offered a glimpse into the mysteries of love, a mystery he himself had never had to learn. Venetians were born knowing the ways of love, they knew them down to their fingertips and their traditional wisdom coursed like an electric current through his every nerve. The art he inherited was ancient too, and once he got over his initial surprise and recognized the ailments the sick brought to him, once he had learned to explore the hidden places and the secret scars, he gave himself willingly and passionately to the project of quackery. His fame soon spread and it quickly became known that he was holding surgeries every afternoon until dusk. Balbi dealt efficiently with the business side of things and kept a strict eye on the waiting patients.

Everyone came to see him, not only from the town but from outlying districts, too. The first to arrive was the deaf baker, who in his seventieth year had become a victim of passion. He hobbled in, a bent figure leaning on his stick, his stomach so fat it hung over his knees, and his brown felt cloak hardly covered it. “Let me tell you what happened,” the baker began, panting, and stopped still in the middle of the room to draw a ring in the air with his short rough stick. Then he went on to describe what had happened, as they all did eventually, though only after an initial period of stubborn silence or a sulky shrug of the shoulders. Then they blushed and the first few words came stumbling out, a stuttering confession or two, after which their entire manner changed: they no longer felt ashamed and told him everything. The baker was angry and spoke very loudly the way a deaf man does when he is furious and full of suspicion; he had to be calmed with tactful, fluttering gestures. In a voice that was as deep as it was loud, he informed Giacomo that he could not cope with Lucia, and the only question was whether he should hand her over to the Inquisition or strangle her with his own bare hands then cremate her in his large oven where the lads would bake their long, crumbly loaves each morning. It was a straightforward choice, and it was in such simple terms that Grilli the baker, the seventy-year-old president of the master bakers’ guild, saw matters relating to Lucia. The person to whom these questions were addressed, whose advice and professional opinion was being sought, sat and listened. He stroked his chin with two fingers, as scientists were supposed to do, crossed his arms, and from under knitted brows darted sharp, quizzical glances at the angry old man, hearing his complaints with some amazement. “It is a tricky problem!” he exclaimed in a loud stage whisper so that the baker should hear him. “Damned tricky!” Suddenly he grabbed the old man by the arm, dragged the scared, resisting body to the window, took the warty wrinkled face in the palms of his hands, turned it to the light, and spent a long time peering into his rheumy eyes. The consultation took some time. The baker wept. His weeping and snuffling was a little theatrical, not altogether sincere, perhaps, but it was involuntary, if only because he didn’t know what else to do. Some terrible intimate disaster had occurred and he could not reconcile himself to the disgrace that would now follow him to the grave. “I have a recommendation,” the stranger ventured after careful consideration. “You should buy her rings. I saw a few over at Mensch’s, quite attractive ones, with sapphires and rubies.” The baker grunted. He had already bought rings and a gold chain and a little cross with diamonds and a silver figurine of the saint of Padua, with enamel inlay. But none of it helped. “Buy her enough silk for three skirts,” he advised. “It will be Carnival soon.” But the baker waved the advice away and wiped a few tears from his face. The cupboards at home were full of silk, cotton, felt, and brocade. They thought a while in silence.

“Send her to me,” said Giacomo generously, with a new firmness.

The baker hummed and hawed, then slowly began to back away towards the door.

“That will be two gold pieces,” said the stranger, accepting the fee, flinging the finely minted coins on his desk, and courteously escorting his guest out. “Send her tomorrow morning!” he added as an afterthought, as if doing him a considerable favor. “After mass. I shall have more time then. I’ll speak to her. Please don’t kill her just yet.” He opened the door and waited while the old man, careworn and somewhat terrified by both the advice and his own helplessness, crossed the threshold. “Next please!” he cried to the dark staircase and pretended not to see the shadows huddled in the half-light. “Ah yes, the captain! This way, my valiant fellow!” he warbled cheerily, ushering the grim figure through the door.

And so he conducted his surgery. The varieties of sickness did not surprise him; he knew them and understood that it was the same old disease, only under various guises. What was the disease? He thought about it, and once he was alone in the room, he pronounced its name: selfishness. It was the grinning mask of selfishness that lay behind every problem, stinting what it could and demanding everything one person could demand of another, ideally without having to give anything in return, nothing real or substantial in any case. It was selfishness that bought its darling a palazzo, a coach-and-four, and jewels, and believed that by presenting her with such gifts it had parted with something secret and more precious without the exchange of which there can be no true attraction or peace in one’s heart. It was selfishness that wanted everything and believed it had given everything when it devoted time, money, passion, and tenderness to the male or female object of its affections, while withholding the final sacrifice consisting of a simple, almost incidental, readiness to leave everything and devote its life and soul to the other without expecting anything in return. For this is what lovers, those peculiar tyrants, actually wanted. They were happy enough to give money, time, rings, ornaments, even their names and hands, but in all this welter of gift giving, there was one thing they were all determined to keep back, and that something was themselves, whether that self was Lucia or Giuseppe or the gallant captain, Petruccio, now standing in the middle of the room, grasping his sword with both hands and looking as grim as he might at his own execution.

“What is the problem, dear captain?” he asked in his friendliest, most charming manner. But the captain was warily turning his head about, like a wild animal examining his cage. Then he bent to the stranger’s ear and whispered the secret. He stood there with burning eyes, gripping his sword, his warrior heart wildly beating, and whispered it. No, this was not a matter he could advise him on. He shook his head in complete understanding and tutted indignantly. “Perhaps,” he said in a low voice, “you should leave her. You are a man. A soldier.” But the captain did not answer. He was like the dead who realize that nothing will ever change again, that they are stuck in this uncomfortable position in the grave, under the earth, under the stars. He was not a man who took readily to advice, preferring to treat his injuries as lower ranks: a senior officer does not consort with lower ranks. “Leave her!” Giacomo repeated, warmly, with genuine sympathy. “Even if you can’t bear it, it’s better than your current suffering.” The captain groaned. His understanding was that there was no advice, no consolation, no remedy for his grief. That groan, that wounded, hopeless grunt of his, was a declaration. “Even this suffering is better than not seeing her; it is better to live like this than to leave her,” it said. Some people just can’t be helped.

Many more people came, usually arriving near dusk. The priest’s secretary, a spotty-faced boy who read Petrarch and could not bring himself to write a letter to the lady of his heart’s desire, received his advice at the cost of one gold piece. The stranger wrote the letter for him, solemnly escorted him out, then shut the door and laughed till his sides split, throwing the gold into the air, before passing it over to Balbi, who took his hands as they shook each other in delight. “Doctor Mirabilis!” cried Balbi, his cracked voice whinnying with laughter. “They’re even coming in from the countryside now!” Snow was falling thickly, but they kept arriving despite the drifts and showers, not only men, but women, too, with veils over their faces, promising cash in hand, tearing the jeweled brooches from their bosoms, casting their veils aside. “Work your wonders, Giacomo, talk to him, brew me a magic potion, tell me your opinion, is there any hope for me?…” they begged.

One day there arrived a woman, no longer young, a solid, respectable figure, her dark fiery eyes ablaze with passion and hurt. “I came in the snow,” she told him, her voice raw with feeling, as she stood by the fire, opened her fur stole, shook her head, and waited for the sparkling snowdrops caught on her veil and scarf to melt. “One horse died. We almost froze as the evening closed in. But here I am because they say that you give advice, understand magic, and know people’s hearts and souls. So get on with it.” She spoke indignantly, as though smarting from an insult. He offered the lady a chair and paid close attention to her. He had known women in every state and condition of life, and having found reason enough to be wary of them, kept his eyes open for changes of mood. She ignored his offer. She was past forty, tall, red-faced, and healthily plump, the kind of woman happy enough to stand in the kitchen and watch the pork roast, who washes her face in rainwater and whose linen cupboard smells pleasant without the use of scents, the kind of woman who would happily administer even an enema to the man she loved. He regarded her with respect. There was enough passion smoldering under the furs and in those flashing eyes to set a forest on fire. She was used to giving orders and probably kept her household on a tight rein. Servants, guests, relatives, and admirers would all listen devotedly to whatever she had to say and would be sent scattering by her fury. Even her tenderness would smolder with a sharp aroma, like the brushwood fire in a forest when herdsmen forget to put it out after preparing game. She was a woman strong in anger through whom the tide of feelings ran most powerfully, and she stood now in commanding fashion, ready to deal the world several sharp blows, after which, with a single passionate movement of her firm arms, she would sweep some chosen loved one to her breasts in a deathly embrace. The snow, the cold fields of Lombardy, and the smell of the River Adige all emanated from her presence. “Here I am,” said the woman, puffing slightly, her even voice barely under control. “I have come to you. I have come, though the laundry has piled up at home, though they are smoking salami, and though they say that in November, in the hills round here, a traveler is likely to be eaten by wolves. I am a Tuscan,” she said quietly but firmly.

The stranger bowed. “And I am Venetian, madam,” he said, and, for the first time, gazed more deeply into his guest’s eyes.

“I know,” the woman replied and took a gulp. “That’s why I am here. Listen, Giacomo. You have escaped from prison and know the secrets of love, so they say. Look at me. Am I the sort of woman who should humbly beseech a man to love her? Who is it who looks after the house? Who works in the fields in July at harvest time? Who shops for new furniture in Florence when we have to present an imposing face to the world? Who takes care of the horses and their equipment? Who mends the socks and underwear of her fastidious master? Who makes sure that there are flowers on the table at noon and that musicians with flageolets are playing in the next room when it is somebody’s birthday? Who keeps all the drawers in order? Who washes in cold water every morning and every night? Who has linen brought over from Rumburg so that the bed in which the man of the house embraces her should smell as fresh as the fields of Tuscany in April? Who keeps an eye on the kitchen so that every requirement of his delicate stomach and demanding palate should be satisfied? Who tests the flesh of the young cockerel before it is slaughtered so it should be as plump and tender as he likes it? Who checks the smell of the calf’s leg brought over from the butcher in town? Who goes down to the cellar, down those dangerous steep stairs, to sulphur the wine casks they have rolled in barrels from the vineyard? Who makes sure that the glass of water they have left on the small table by his bed at night should contain a spoonful of sugar because after his carousings and lecheries, his weak heart needs a drop of sugar before he can sleep? Who stops him eating too much ginger and pepper? Who turns a blind eye to his lustful moods when ropes and chains can’t keep him at home? Who keeps her peace when she can smell the rotten perfume of other women on his coat and linen?… Who puts up with it all? Who works and says nothing? Look at me, Giacomo. They say you are wise in the ways of women, a brilliant doctor of love. Look at me. I have borne two children and lost three, no matter that I groveled on my knees before the image of the Virgin, begging her to keep them alive. Look at me. I know time has had its way with me, that there are those who are younger, who smile more obligingly, and are better at wiggling their hips; nevertheless, here I am. Am I the kind of woman whose kisses are to be rejected? Just look at me!” she cried in a hoarse, powerful voice, and opened her fur coat. She was wearing a dress of lilac-colored silk, her dark brown hair covered by a headscarf of Venetian lace, a golden clasp holding together the shawl across her mature, pleasantly full bosom, her build tall and muscular without a trace of excess fat, firm of flesh and sound of blood, a solid forty-year-old woman with white arms, her head thrown proudly back. She stood before him and he bowed to her with a natural male courtesy, in genuine admiration. “There’s no need to bow,” she said, lowering her voice, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t left the estate in a snowstorm and traveled all the way to Bolzano just so that I should be bowed to by a stranger. It’s not consolation I am seeking. I know what I know. I am a woman. I can sense when a man is looking at me. I can recognize genuine desire in an impudent, unrespectful stare but can also feel the circumspect passion in a mere glance. I know I have a few years left in which to make the man who loves me completely happy.”

She drew the fur across her chest once more, as if cold or embarrassed, hesitated, then continued in a fainter, more tremulous voice. “Why can’t I have what I want?…” she asked. Her voice was perfectly quiet now, and she was taking deep gulps in an attempt to hold back her tears, speaking humbly, without a trace of Tuscan pride. “What should I have done?… I gave him everything a woman can give a man, passion and patience, children, excitement, peace, security, tenderness, freedom from care… everything. People tell me that you understand love the way a goldsmith understands gold and silver: question me then, stranger, examine my heart, make your judgment, and give me your advice! What should I have done? I have humbled myself. I was my husband’s lover and accomplice. I understood that there had to be other women in his life, because such was his nature. I know he desired in secret and that he came running back to me to escape the pressures of the world, to escape his own passions and adventures, and that he still escapes because he is frightened, because he is no longer young, because death is breathing down his neck. Sometimes I have willed him to grow old and to be plagued by gout, so that he should be mine again, so I could bathe his aching feet…. Yes, I have longed for old age and for sickness, may Our Lady forgive me and may God pardon my sins. I gave everything. Tell me what else I should have given….”

She was abjectly begging for an answer, her voice faint, her eyes full of tears. The man thought about it. He stood before her, his arms crossed over his chest, and his verdict was courteous but final.

“You should have given happiness, signora.”

The woman bent her head and raised her handkerchief to her eyes. She stood dumbly weeping. Then she gave a great sigh and answered subserviently in a cracked voice.

“Yes, you are right. It was only happiness I couldn’t give him.”

She stood, head bowed, fondling the gold brooch with her delicate fingers, as if distracted. Still staring at the floor, she added, “Don’t you think, stranger, that there are certain men to whom you cannot give happiness? There is a kind of man whose whole attraction, every virtue, every charm, emanates from his incapacity for happiness. The entire faculty for happiness is absent; he is stone deaf to happiness, and, just as the deaf cannot hear the sweet sound of music, so he is insensible to the sweet sound of happiness…. Because you are right, he never was happy. But, you see, this is the man that heaven and earth have chosen for me, and it was not as if he found happiness anywhere else, either, however he looked for it, in over fifty years. He is like the man who buries his treasure in a field then forgets where he has buried it. He digs up everything in sight, he turns his whole life over…. I sold my rings and pendants so that he could travel further afield to seek it, because, believe me, there was nothing I wanted more than to see him happy. Let him seek happiness on voyages across seas, in strange cities, in the arms of black women and yellow women, if that is his fate…. But he always came back to me, sat down beside me, called for wine or read his books, then spent a week with some slut with dyed hair, usually an actress. That’s the kind of man he is. What should I do? Throw him out? Kill him? Should I go away myself? Should I kill myself?… Every morning after mass I have knelt before the Savior in our small church, and, believe me, I searched my heart carefully before coming to you with my grief and wounded pride. Now I will go home and my pride will no longer be wounded. You are right: I did not give him happiness. From now on I shall only want to serve him. But please tell me, for I am desperate to know: seeing that there are men incapable of happiness, do you think the fault is entirely mine? He is restless and melancholy and seeks happiness at every turn: in the arms of women, in ambition, in worldly affairs, in murderous affrays, in the clinking of gold coins; he seeks it everywhere, all the while knowing that life can give him everything but happiness. Is there anyone else like this?…”

She spoke the last words challengingly, as if she were demanding something or accusing him. Now it was he who bowed his head.

“Yes,” he said. “Take comfort. I do know such a man. He stands before you.”

He spread his arms and bowed deeply, as if to signal that the consultation was over. The woman gazed at him for some time. Her fingers trembling, she clasped her fur coat together and the two of them moved toward the door. Then as if talking to herself, by way of good-bye, she said:

“Yes, I felt that…. I felt as soon as I stepped into the room, that you too were that kind of man. Perhaps I felt it even before I set off in the snow. But he is so terribly lonely and sad…. There is a kind of sadness that may not be consoled: it is as if someone had missed some divine appointment, and had found nothing to interest him since. You have more self-knowledge than he does, I can tell that from your voice, see it in your eyes, feel it in your very being. What is the trouble with these people? Is it because God has punished them with too much intelligence, so they experience every feeling, every human passion, with the mind rather than the heart?… The thought had occurred to me. I am a simple woman, Giacomo, and there is no need for you to shake your head or to be polite. I know why I say these things. I make no apology for my simplicity. I know there are forms of intelligence beyond those admired by the vainly intellectual, that the heart has its own knowledge, and that it too is important, very important…. You see, I came to you for advice, but now that it is time to go it is I who am feeling sorry for you. How much do I owe you?”

She drew a silver-crocheted purse from the lining of the coat and extended it nervously toward him.

“From you, signora,” said the man, bowing once more as at the end of a dance, his knee slightly bent, his arms spread wide, “I will not accept any money.”

He declared this in a spirit of generosity, humbly enough but with just enough hauteur in his voice for the woman to turn around at the threshold.

“Why?” she asked over her shoulder. “It is what you live on, after all.”

He shrugged.

“You, dear lady, have already paid a great price. I would like you to be able to say that you met with a man who gave you something for nothing.”

He escorted her as far as the stairs, where they looked at each other once more in the gloom with serious and somewhat suspicious expressions on their faces. He raised the candle high to light his guest’s way, for it was already dark and the bats were beginning to flitter through the stairwell of The Stag.