– in Bologna, Cuif thought, or Padua – where by a mixture of bribery and intercession he secured his master’s degree while still in his twenties. Every week he wrote to the Grand Duke’s mother – or
his
mother, as he now thought of her – and when he was in his thirties he returned to Florence so as to be of service to her. He joined the monastery of Santa Maria Novella as a librarian, but he also supplied Vittoria with religious texts, administered the holy sacraments and led her in prayer. It was said, in fact, that he was the only person who could handle her.
‘So he’s a Dominican,’ I said.
Cuif nodded.
Not a bald patch, then. A tonsure.
‘I sometimes think it might explain why he’s so prickly,’ Cuif said.
Ever since Savonarola had made an enemy of the Medici family, he went on, the Dominican order had been out of favour in Florence. When judges or inquisitors were needed, it was the Franciscans who were called on. To be a Dominican was to be in a minority of sorts, and vulnerable as well, to some extent, no matter how many influential friends one might have.
‘You know a lot,’ I said, ‘for somebody who never leaves his room.’
‘You think you’re my only visitor?
I smiled. ‘Before I go, would you show me your new trick?’
‘I already did.’
‘Did you? When?’
‘You missed it. You weren’t paying attention.’
‘Show me again.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Not now I’ve been drinking.’ He eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘You’ll just have to come back, won’t you?’
*
One morning I found Signora de la Mar at the foot of the stairs, holding a package that was addressed to me. Some idiot had left it outside the back door, she said, and she had almost tripped over it on her way out. As I turned the package in my hands, I thought of the pistachio-coloured ankle-boots I had bought Fiore a month or two before, and how her face had lit up when she put them on.
‘How is Fiore liking her new shoes?’ I asked.
The signora rolled her eyes. ‘She practically sleeps in them.’
I didn’t open the package until I reached the privacy of my workshop. Inside, in a simple wooden box, was a halved pomegranate , the red seeds facing upwards. A thin glass bottle lay next to it. There was no note, no card – nothing to indicate the sender’s identity. To a Jesuit, the pomegranate had a symbolic value, since the seeds were believed to represent the drops of blood Christ shed when he wore the crown of thorns, but in a secular context it alluded to the tension that existed between secrecy and disclosure, and I knew instinctively, as soon as I saw it, that the package had come from the girl in the apothecary . What was in the bottle, though? I removed the stopper. I thought I could smell roses, but there was also a pungent element, something almost fiery, like a type of pepper. On returning to my lodgings that evening, I asked the signora if she could tell me what it was. She put her nose to the bottle, then straightened up. She had no idea. She had never smelled anything like it.
A day or two later, I called at an apothecary located in a shabby arcade on the south side of the Ponte Vecchio. The three men sitting by the window fell silent as I walked in.
‘Beanpole?’ one of them called out.
The woman who ran the place was so short that the top of her head was on a level with the counter. When I put the bottle down in front of her, she had to look round it to see me. I asked her if she’d be kind enough to identify the contents.
‘Is it yours?’ Her eyes were a bleary blue-black, like unwashed plums.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was a gift.’
I sensed the men behind me, craning to catch a glimpse of what I had brought.
The woman removed the stopper and inhaled once or twice. She muttered to herself; a smile drifted across her wrinkled face. She poured a few drops into a spoon, touched a finger to the clear, oily liquid, and tasted it.
‘Who gave it to you?’
his
mother, as he now thought of her – and when he was in his thirties he returned to Florence so as to be of service to her. He joined the monastery of Santa Maria Novella as a librarian, but he also supplied Vittoria with religious texts, administered the holy sacraments and led her in prayer. It was said, in fact, that he was the only person who could handle her.
‘So he’s a Dominican,’ I said.
Cuif nodded.
Not a bald patch, then. A tonsure.
‘I sometimes think it might explain why he’s so prickly,’ Cuif said.
Ever since Savonarola had made an enemy of the Medici family, he went on, the Dominican order had been out of favour in Florence. When judges or inquisitors were needed, it was the Franciscans who were called on. To be a Dominican was to be in a minority of sorts, and vulnerable as well, to some extent, no matter how many influential friends one might have.
‘You know a lot,’ I said, ‘for somebody who never leaves his room.’
‘You think you’re my only visitor?
I smiled. ‘Before I go, would you show me your new trick?’
‘I already did.’
‘Did you? When?’
‘You missed it. You weren’t paying attention.’
‘Show me again.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘Not now I’ve been drinking.’ He eyed me over the rim of his glass. ‘You’ll just have to come back, won’t you?’
*
One morning I found Signora de la Mar at the foot of the stairs, holding a package that was addressed to me. Some idiot had left it outside the back door, she said, and she had almost tripped over it on her way out. As I turned the package in my hands, I thought of the pistachio-coloured ankle-boots I had bought Fiore a month or two before, and how her face had lit up when she put them on.
‘How is Fiore liking her new shoes?’ I asked.
The signora rolled her eyes. ‘She practically sleeps in them.’
I didn’t open the package until I reached the privacy of my workshop. Inside, in a simple wooden box, was a halved pomegranate , the red seeds facing upwards. A thin glass bottle lay next to it. There was no note, no card – nothing to indicate the sender’s identity. To a Jesuit, the pomegranate had a symbolic value, since the seeds were believed to represent the drops of blood Christ shed when he wore the crown of thorns, but in a secular context it alluded to the tension that existed between secrecy and disclosure, and I knew instinctively, as soon as I saw it, that the package had come from the girl in the apothecary . What was in the bottle, though? I removed the stopper. I thought I could smell roses, but there was also a pungent element, something almost fiery, like a type of pepper. On returning to my lodgings that evening, I asked the signora if she could tell me what it was. She put her nose to the bottle, then straightened up. She had no idea. She had never smelled anything like it.
A day or two later, I called at an apothecary located in a shabby arcade on the south side of the Ponte Vecchio. The three men sitting by the window fell silent as I walked in.
‘Beanpole?’ one of them called out.
The woman who ran the place was so short that the top of her head was on a level with the counter. When I put the bottle down in front of her, she had to look round it to see me. I asked her if she’d be kind enough to identify the contents.
‘Is it yours?’ Her eyes were a bleary blue-black, like unwashed plums.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was a gift.’
I sensed the men behind me, craning to catch a glimpse of what I had brought.
The woman removed the stopper and inhaled once or twice. She muttered to herself; a smile drifted across her wrinkled face. She poured a few drops into a spoon, touched a finger to the clear, oily liquid, and tasted it.
‘Who gave it to you?’
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