Thunk… Thunk… Thunk…
I smiled woodenly and went out to see.
And gape. Poised like an alighting angel on the landing outside was the most breathtakingly gorgeous exciting ravishing woman in the entire world. The perfection of her face, the lightning speed of her wit, and the enslaving madness provoked by her peerless body inspire men to pay hundreds of ducats for a night with her. Sometimes more than that. She was, of course, Violetta herself, my beloved, the finest courtesan in Venice.
Violetta will sometimes provide the Maestro with strategic advice on the wealthy, for it is among them that she spends her evenings and finds her patrons. I visit her whenever I can; she never comes calling on me.
"I'm busy," I whispered. Whatever his other frailties, the Maestro has ears like a bat. I rolled my eyes in the direction of the atelier.
"It is wonderful to see you again, Alfeo." Violetta sighed a low-pitched, heart-stopping sigh. She had automatically slid into her Helen-of-Troy persona, which meant that she wanted something; no man can resist Helen. Her voice thrilled like a low note on a cello, and eyelashes fluttered over deep-set eyes promising all the joys of the Prophet's paradise. "But you mustn't try to distract me, you lovely man. Later I'll have lots of time for whatever it is you want. I came to consult Maestro Nostradamus."
"Consult? If you need your horoscope cast, I'll be more than-"
"No. I want him to find somebody for me." She extended a hand, and I perforce offered my arm, for she was wearing her platform soles, which make her considerably taller then I am. In February her hair lacked the glorious auburn glow that it gains from summer sunshine, but it was coifed, scented, and bejeweled as if for a state banquet. A pearl necklace and low-cut scarlet gown shone through the open front of a floor-length miniver robe. Altogether, dressing her would have cost a duke's ransom and taken at least a couple of hours; she rarely opens her eyes before noon.
I locked the door behind her and escorted her into the atelier. The Maestro was scowling again. There are few people whose company he enjoys at all and he hates to be interrupted, so he ranks unexpected visitors with lice and vipers, even if they bring money with them. Violetta can be an exception because in her Minerva mode she is at least as brilliant as he is, and the idea of an educated woman fascinates him. I hoped she would be a welcome distraction for him in his present mood; his expression suggested that he thought I had sent for her.
"Donna Violetta Vitale, master."
"I can see that. Send her home and you come right back here."
It was my turn to sigh. I had never known him quite this bad.
"I trust I find you well, Doctor?" Violetta said, advancing toward him. But that silvery, flutelike voice belonged to Aspasia, her political and cultural mode, and if anyone could outmaneuver Nostradamus, it was she. She bobbed him a curtsey, then made herself comfortable on one of the two green chairs on the far side of the fireplace. I beat a strategic retreat to the desk in the window, where I was out of the Maestro's sight and could adore Violetta at my leisure. Her eyes are the deep blue of the sea when she is Aspasia. I don't know how she makes these transformations and neither does she; she claims it is not a conscious choice.
"I do not recall inviting you to be seated, woman. Who is this person you want me to find?"
The city regards Nostradamus as an oracle. All sorts of people come asking Who? Where? When? What? and sometimes even How? or Why? questions. Amazingly often, he can answer them, for a price.
"A murderer."
His mouth shrank to a pinhole and his eyes to slits. "You think I'm a common sbirro? Any time I have exposed a murderer it has been because I needed to know his identity for some other, more worthy reason." Not true at all, but he likes to think that unmasking criminals is beneath a philosopher's dignity. "Talk to the Signori di Notte. Or go directly to the Ten." He dropped his gaze to the book on his lap, believing that he had just ended the conversation.
Violette lobbed a sympathetic glance across at me, who must live with this. "You have a wonderful wit, lustrissimo, or do you really think that the Lords of the Night can catch anything more serious than head colds? This matter will not interest the Council of Ten."
After a moment Nostradamus looked up, frowning. According to what it would have you believe, the Most Serene Republic is governed by the nobility of the Great Council, who elect one another to dozens of courts, councils, and committees, whose mandates overlap so much that every magistrate has some other magistrate watching over him. Our head of state, the doge, is a mere figurehead who can do nothing without the support of his six counselors. This grotesque muddle is justified as necessary for the preservation of freedom and prevention of tyranny.
In practice, the real government is the Council of Ten, whose official mandate is to guard the security of the state, but which meddles in anything it fancies-permissible wages and prices, what clothes may be worn, the way banks operate, so on and on. The Ten certainly include murder within their jurisdiction.
The Maestro eyed his visitor angrily. "The name of the victim?"
"Lucia da Bergamo."
"Your relationship to the deceased?"
Violetta's smiles normally brighten the room, but this one brought enough pathos to make a songbird weep. "She was my mentor."
"She was a… courtesan?" That he did not choose one of the word's many vulgar synonyms I found mildly encouraging.
"She was."
"Dying is a hazard of your trade. Women who earn their bread in bed are always at risk. Why should this one be any different?"
I spread my hands and shrugged hugely to tell Violetta that the case was hopeless. In his present mood, the Maestro would not shift himself to investigate a murdered pope, let alone a courtesan.
She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "She still had all her clothes on, and also her jewels."
That was certainly unusual, and the Maestro took a moment to respond.
"When and where did she die?"
"She was last seen three weeks ago, January fourteenth. Her body was found floating in the lagoon about a week later."
"Bah! What the fish left of her body, you mean. It is impossible! No witnesses, of course? No clues or leads? Has her last customer been identified?"
Stony-faced, Violetta said, "I did not hear the news until three days ago, and some of it only this morning. No to all of your questions."
"Impossible. Ask the recording angel on Judgment Day." He bent to his book again.
"You are the greatest clairvoyant in Europe."
He did not reply.
"Clairvoyance only reveals the future," I said softly. "Not the past."
Violetta ignored my remark. "Lucia left me everything she had, and I will gladly pay it as a reward for the capture and execution of her killer."
The Maestro raised his head like a hound that has scented its quarry. "And how much is that?"
Violetta-Aspasia looked close to tears. "Depending on how much the house sells for, the notary told me he thought it would amount to about 1,470 ducats."
Nostradamus painfully twisted around to stare at me, no doubt wondering if I had stage-managed this conversation. I had no difficulty in looking suitably startled. A courtesan with such a fortune was almost as amazing as another one offering to give it all away. Giorgio, our gondolier, would need a century to earn that much, because his wages are limited by law to his board and fifteen ducats a year.
Obviously Lucia had been a cortigiana onesta like Violetta, an honored courtesan, one who entertains men with her wit and culture. Sex is not the least of her attractions, but it is far from the only one and not necessarily the greatest. Men are drawn to Venice from all over Europe by the beauty and skill of our courtesans. The state permits them to ply their trade and then taxes them exorbitantly.