Rossetti was at Lina’s the next time that Leonor came promenading by. As it happened, she loved to take note of his absences, having caught him on several nightwalking errands, the last time being seven winters ago, when she, with her wolfskin cape over her shoulders and her fingernails painted dark, approached her rendezvous with a certain dilettantish Count, while as for Rossetti, a thespian female had lately attracted him by means of a dark cloak ribbed with decorations and a feathered beaver hat; she was smooth, lovely, opulent and plump; she was positively swanskinned; so he was just descending from his plinth when Leonor shrieked out, just to torment him: Police, police! Rossetti’s deserted his post!
Please, cara, be discreet!
Leonor coldly informed him: I hate discretion. I hate hidden tricks.
Having heard about the time she screamed down Mussolini’s mistress in Milan, he tried to brush past her in silence, so she spat in his face. After that he despised her, of course, whereas from Leonor’s point of view it could have been over; not only did she forgive him but he interested her (if he but knew it) as a physical form — because Leonor, who during her self-apprenticeship used to visit the morgue ever so often, had long since lost interest in cadavers, admiring mummies for their sculptural qualities, and preferring above all the perfection of that relic which deteriorates the least: the skeleton. Who could be more bone-durable than a bronze man? Of course she never mentioned this to him, not wishing to turn his head.
This morning Giovanna occupied the master’s place; having amassed confidence in the course of this last summer, she had slowly become the sort of apple-breasted woman who likes to stand nude on a plinth, with a bronze apple in her hand. And perhaps the kindly Madonna made her appear especially enticing to Leonor on that morning. Right away she craved to paint her nude, maybe holding out a tray of sweets, and definitely doing something with that adorable palm leaf; on second thought, maybe the sweet creature ought to forgo the tray and raise the palm leaf over her head as if she were an Amazon with a sword.
Rossetti, she said, I like you much better as a woman.
I am a woman, said Giovanna shyly.
But you look so mannish! Don’t lie to me or I’ll spit on you again.
You see, I’ve studied under him. Usually I stand down there. I try to act as he does, because—
Listen, baby, why don’t you run away from here and come to my cat funeral?
Oh, no, signora! I—
Is that man telling you what to do? Listen, precious. Come with me. If he says an unkind word to you, my friends and I will come here with blowtorches. Do you or don’t you like cats?
I—
Then come. Right now, sweetheart. I dislike the deference with which your Rossetti’s been treated. Oh, what nice breasts you have. I’ll make it worth your while.
Since Giovanna, like Silvia, could not say no, she let Leonor take her hand, and stepped shyly off the plinth, with her bronze heart clanging rapidly within her hollow bosom. Although in her time she had certainly seen things even more exciting than two white-wimpled farmwomen flirting with a young shepherd (for many things do happen in a park), she wondered what she might have missed. For instance, no one had ever held her hand before. Leonor, who knew how to pick up a cat such that even though its hind legs dangled it took no fright, led Giovanna with kindred gentleness into the stinging white sun, which had been doubled and half-melted amidst the oily brown rainbows of the Canal Grande. It seemed as if the curtain of water had already begun to part, and the white clouds crawling beside this splendid gash could have been the cigarette smoke of spectators at an orgy. Giovanna began to feel warm and limber. Now they turned down apartment-shaded stairs and through an arch where Leonor had once met a sweet Bohemian vampire named Milena; and presently Leonor unlocked a door in the wall, led her upstairs and unlocked another door. They were greeted by a wide-eyed, high-eared cat, who kept bristling out his whiskers. Then came three more cats, all coffee-colored like the reflections on the dark reddish-brown floor of the Caffè San Marco. Leonor was already kissing a kitten as sleek as the longhaired thespian who played Salome a century ago.
So this is my place, said her hostess unnecessarily. Later I’ll take you beneath the easel, because I’m going to paint you as a nude cat goddess. You see, we’re going to have a funeral for Giulia and Lilith. Now, these are more of my cats. I’ll introduce you later. Time to get ready. Here. What’s your name?
Giovanna.
Giovanna, take this atomizer and spray perfume on all those heaps of catshit, so our killjoys won’t dare complain. Oh, mama, there you are! I have a cat mask for you! Did you hear there’s going to be a double funeral? Giovanna, this is my mama, Malvina. She’s my best friend. Mama, this girl’s in love with Rossetti, the one in the Giardino Pubblico.
Well, well, said Leonor’s mama, smiling and fanning herself. Rossetti, of all people!
What do you see in him, anyway?
You see, Leonor, he’s like my father.
Does that mean you want to fuck him? Yes or no? Anyway, don’t let that man dominate the situation. Mama, darling, entertain this little girl while I change.
Malvina Fini stood in her sweeping black dress, smiling appraisingly at Giovanna as if at a suitor. She said: Are you interested in my daughter?