she asked.
I hesitated.
‘Was it a woman?’
‘I think so.’
She nodded. ‘I can’t say I’m familiar with this particular recipe, but when I prepare my own concoctions, which are much in demand, especially among men of a certain age –’ she peered over the counter at her three clients, who shifted and chuckled on their chairs like chickens in the presence of a fox – ‘I tend to favour nettle seeds. Musk too, just a pinch. And –’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what’s it
for
?’
She knocked the stopper back into the bottle with the heel of her hand. ‘In my opinion, it’s to increase your potency.’
This was so unexpected that I couldn’t, for a moment, think how to respond.
‘You anoint your parts with it,’ she said.
‘My parts,’ I said faintly.
‘Your root. Your yard.’ She paused. ‘Your pego.’
‘All right, Beanpole,’ one of the men said, laughing. ‘I think he’s got the point.’
I pocketed the bottle and made for the door.
‘She likes you, whoever she is,’ the man added as I left the shop.
‘Careful,’ said another.
On a dark February afternoon, I was summoned to the Grand Duke’s winter apartment. The wind was blowing hard again, and as I hurried across the courtyard at the back of the palace I thought I could smell the river, dank and green. I climbed a flight of stairs to the first floor. It was draughty up there as well; the tapestries, though heavy, were shifting on the walls.
When I was ushered into the Grand Duke’s presence, he was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back. By his feet was a cockerel, a leather strap running from one of its legs to the leg of a nearby chair. Its comb trembled in the shadows like a small red flame.
‘I haven’t seen you at court,’ the Grand Duke said, staring out over the city. ‘At least, not recently.’
I told him I was sorry. I talked about my work, and how I tended to get lost in it.
‘I understand.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes find the whole business rather tiresome myself.’
Only a few days earlier, while visiting my workshop, Pampolini had launched into a series of scurrilous jokes about the Grand Duke, jokes that referred to his Austrian lips, his sexual proclivities, and so on. Later, though, he had become more serious. In Pampolini’s opinion, Cosimo would have made a superb cardinal, but he didn’t have what it took to rule a duchy. It wasn’t his fault, Pampolini said. When he was growing up, his mother had surrounded him with priests – bigots like Volunnio Bandinelli – who taught him to treat the secular world with disdain.
‘Take a seat,’ the Grand Duke said.
Dipping his hand into the barrel that stood next to the window, he scattered a few bits of grain, which the cockerel fell on with a kind of mechanical ferocity. I was curious to know what it was doing in the room, but couldn’t think how to phrase the question. When I looked at the Grand Duke again, he was studying me with his usual glum expression, which always gave me the feeling I had disappointed him.
‘I’ve just come from the chapel,’ he said.
I waited for him to go on.
‘As a rule I find some comfort there, some consolation, but these days –’ He faltered, then pushed out his lower lip. ‘I’ve been having the most frightful dreams.’
I murmured something vaguely sympathetic.
‘My sleep is broken every night. No, more than broken. Shattered. Demolished. Smashed to smithereens. I’m tired all the time.’ He collapsed into the chair beside me and gave me another long look from beneath his drooping lids. ‘I’ve been dreaming about my wife.’
In one dream, he said, he had been laid out on a catafalque. Though dead, he had been acutely aware of his surroundings. There was a ring of jagged, brown rocks above him, as if he were lying in a grotto in the palace gardens. He could also see some arum lilies and a disc of bright blue sky. Then his wife’s face appeared. ‘At last,’ he heard her
I hesitated.
‘Was it a woman?’
‘I think so.’
She nodded. ‘I can’t say I’m familiar with this particular recipe, but when I prepare my own concoctions, which are much in demand, especially among men of a certain age –’ she peered over the counter at her three clients, who shifted and chuckled on their chairs like chickens in the presence of a fox – ‘I tend to favour nettle seeds. Musk too, just a pinch. And –’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what’s it
for
?’
She knocked the stopper back into the bottle with the heel of her hand. ‘In my opinion, it’s to increase your potency.’
This was so unexpected that I couldn’t, for a moment, think how to respond.
‘You anoint your parts with it,’ she said.
‘My parts,’ I said faintly.
‘Your root. Your yard.’ She paused. ‘Your pego.’
‘All right, Beanpole,’ one of the men said, laughing. ‘I think he’s got the point.’
I pocketed the bottle and made for the door.
‘She likes you, whoever she is,’ the man added as I left the shop.
‘Careful,’ said another.
On a dark February afternoon, I was summoned to the Grand Duke’s winter apartment. The wind was blowing hard again, and as I hurried across the courtyard at the back of the palace I thought I could smell the river, dank and green. I climbed a flight of stairs to the first floor. It was draughty up there as well; the tapestries, though heavy, were shifting on the walls.
When I was ushered into the Grand Duke’s presence, he was standing at the window, hands clasped behind his back. By his feet was a cockerel, a leather strap running from one of its legs to the leg of a nearby chair. Its comb trembled in the shadows like a small red flame.
‘I haven’t seen you at court,’ the Grand Duke said, staring out over the city. ‘At least, not recently.’
I told him I was sorry. I talked about my work, and how I tended to get lost in it.
‘I understand.’ He sighed. ‘I sometimes find the whole business rather tiresome myself.’
Only a few days earlier, while visiting my workshop, Pampolini had launched into a series of scurrilous jokes about the Grand Duke, jokes that referred to his Austrian lips, his sexual proclivities, and so on. Later, though, he had become more serious. In Pampolini’s opinion, Cosimo would have made a superb cardinal, but he didn’t have what it took to rule a duchy. It wasn’t his fault, Pampolini said. When he was growing up, his mother had surrounded him with priests – bigots like Volunnio Bandinelli – who taught him to treat the secular world with disdain.
‘Take a seat,’ the Grand Duke said.
Dipping his hand into the barrel that stood next to the window, he scattered a few bits of grain, which the cockerel fell on with a kind of mechanical ferocity. I was curious to know what it was doing in the room, but couldn’t think how to phrase the question. When I looked at the Grand Duke again, he was studying me with his usual glum expression, which always gave me the feeling I had disappointed him.
‘I’ve just come from the chapel,’ he said.
I waited for him to go on.
‘As a rule I find some comfort there, some consolation, but these days –’ He faltered, then pushed out his lower lip. ‘I’ve been having the most frightful dreams.’
I murmured something vaguely sympathetic.
‘My sleep is broken every night. No, more than broken. Shattered. Demolished. Smashed to smithereens. I’m tired all the time.’ He collapsed into the chair beside me and gave me another long look from beneath his drooping lids. ‘I’ve been dreaming about my wife.’
In one dream, he said, he had been laid out on a catafalque. Though dead, he had been acutely aware of his surroundings. There was a ring of jagged, brown rocks above him, as if he were lying in a grotto in the palace gardens. He could also see some arum lilies and a disc of bright blue sky. Then his wife’s face appeared. ‘At last,’ he heard her
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