"She's all right?"
His forked beard twisted around a fearsome leer. "She was all right when she promoted me to messenger boy." He handed me a letter.
I thanked him and started to open it. He had already turned to leave.
"No use replying," he said over his shoulder as he started down the stair. "She's gone; her giovane was waiting. And if you offer me a soldo, I'll break your neck." He looked back again at the first landing. "I got well paid."
"Don't tell me," I said and closed the door. Damn him! I could easily imagine Helen rushing to go out, handing the note to him and throwing her arms around his ugly neck to kiss him when he agreed to see that I got it. I hoped that was all he had meant.
"A letter from my beloved," I said as returned to my place in the atelier. "All it says is, Was not allowed in, so Popess no help." I could not help adding, "As predicted, but at least she's safe."
Nostradamus grunted but did not comment on the pros or cons of tarot. "It's time to count out the gold for Circospetto."
The night was young yet, but I was happy not to have to talk any more. I fetched the scales and a heavy bag from the secret cache. While the Maestro watched in sullen silence, I counted out one hundred sixty-three sequins and weighed them. I added two ducats and two lira and put the lot in the money pouch. It weighed more than a pound, but it was not bulky.
At that point my master announced that he was going to bed, which did not surprise me when his hips were obviously still troubling him severely. He spurned my offers of help, though, and hobbled off on his canes. I put the money pouch in a desk drawer and tidied up the pile of books he had left by his chair. I had hours to wait before my appointment with Raffaino Sciara, so I could catch up on my housework.
I took the chair I had been using earlier and carried it back to its place behind the door. At that point I said, "What?" to myself. I may even have spoken it aloud. A moment later I started to laugh. An observer might have thought I had taken leave of my senses. I certainly spoke aloud when I said, "Oh, tarot, I love you!" Then I laughed even harder.
24
The atelier door is opposite the fireplace, and behind the door stand the two chairs. The armillary sphere and various astronomical instruments stand farther along the wall, then comes the cabinet of sky charts, and so on. That brings you to the corner with the window wall, which holds only the big double desk, my seat at the near side, and the Maestro's at the other. I had been able to see Sister Lucretzia from there, but mostly I had concentrated on the Maestro's verbal tussle with Friar Fedele.
An armillary sphere consists of a series of bronze or brass rings, most of which can be moved, all set in an outer horizontal ring, which is fixed atop a pedestal. We use it to calculate the positions of stars and planets at various times of the year. The horizontal ring, which is called the Horizon Ring, unsurprisingly, is wider than the others, like a circular table with a very large round hole cut in it. It is possible to set small objects on it, or balance larger ones, and what I had found on it was a book bound in brown leather.
I had not put it there and the Maestro never would. I knew right away who had, but none of us had seen her do so. She could have laid it on the other chair, but there it would have been more conspicuous and her brother might have noticed it as he was leaving. Now I knew who was represented by the Popess in my tarot, bless her beads and wimple!
I carried my find over to a lamp and riffed through it. A few pages at the end were blank, but the rest was a diary of numerous short entries. I fancy myself as open-minded, but the very first one I read made my jaw drop.
Thursday, 7 th.
Chiara Q, dinner and theater, her house. Twice in bed on her back, once on a chair with her straddling him.
I won't quote any more of them. Some were much worse. They all followed the same pattern, a date without month or year, a woman's name, and then a note of the sexual actions and positions employed. In rare cases more than one woman was mentioned, and sometimes men also, although then only by Christian name. Many of the acts mentioned were obscene, some illegal, and at least one carries the death penalty.
The wonder was not that a nun had disposed of the book, but that she would even soil her fingers to throw it in the Grand Canal. Had she stolen it with the deliberate intent of delivering it to the Maestro? I could not imagine her daring to take it home to the convent.
Should I show it to him right away? That would be my normal reaction, but Circospetto might be going to show me the Ten's records on the case very shortly, and I might do a better job of understanding them if I had studied the book first. I took it to my desk, gathered lamps, and set to work.
Nowhere was the hero of the saga identified except by the male pronoun. I had never seen Zorzi's writing, but the hand looked nothing like the letters Domenico had forged, which had deceived donna Alina. I fetched out the Orio contract I had just filed and compared her signature with the book. Signatures are not the most reliable samples of handwriting, but the match was close enough to strengthen my suspicions. Since I had seen an identical book in the lady's treasure box, I had to assume that she had written the filth.
I had trouble imagining the most egotistical young toady regaling his mother with his prurient exploits and her paying him for it, but that was the only explanation that came to mind. How big a fortune had she squandered on her son's vice? What must her marriage have been like that she had resorted to such vicarious entertainment?
At first the entries were sporadic, as the hero took up the sport. After a few months' practice he had became a satyr, rarely missing a night, sometimes enjoying two separate women in different places-or possibly he had just become a more creative and convincing liar, although it's a rare man who can deceive his own mother. Besides, this sordid catalogue merely confirmed what Alessa had told me about his habits.
I had no way of proving that the book was genuine, but I soon established that it was at least relevant to our search. A few rare mentions of Saints' days instead of dates led me to a 1 Tuesday following a 28 Monday, and the universal calendar from our astrological bookshelf told me that I had found March 1586. As March 1 is New Year's Day in Venice, I marked the place with a piece of paper and went looking for 1587. I rapidly established that the record ran from the summer of 1584 to December 23, 1587. There it stopped, a few hours before Gentile Michiel died. The book was either an incredible hoax or it was extremely germane.
The last record consisted only of the name "Tonina Q" with no details, pornographic or otherwise. December 23 listed Caterina Lotto, who had apparently been an accomplished acrobat, but was doomed to be Honeycat's third victim, in spite of her fearsome guardian, Matteo Surian. That discovery prompted me to go back to the beginning and riff through, listing each woman's name and the date she first appeared. Venice is reputed to have ten thousand courtesans, but at the end Zorzi's catalogue listed only sixty-seven, which seemed a quite modest total for a healthy youngster with unlimited money and minimal morals, over a period longer than Scheherazade's thousand and one nights.
When I had reached the end I worked backward, noting the last time each name appeared. That took me longer, but it confirmed that some names were mentioned only once, others frequently. I did not have time to count the number of times each name appeared, but I could identify his favorites, which included all four of Honeycat's victims: Lucia da Bergamo, Caterina Lotto, Ruosa da Corone, and Marina Bortholuzzi. I also recognized the names of some highly regarded women whom Violetta had mentioned. Alessa appeared many times-she seemed to enjoy gondolas-but there was no mention of Violetta, to my heartfelt relief.