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Authors: Elle Newmark
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and his footsteps receded.
The muscles in my arms quivered as I pulled myself up with raw hands, taking care not to grunt by keeping my lips pressed hard together. I swung one leg up to the slate floor and the scraping sound made Signora Ferrero say, “I think that cat’s on our balcony now.”
The chef clapped his hands and yelled, “Shoo!” Signora Ferrero laughed, and her laughter covered the sound of me hoisting my body over the railing. I crouched in the recess beside their open door and leaned my head back against the wall while my breathing slowed and the cool night air turned my sweaty face clammy.
The chef and his wife moved about the room, preparing for sleep. Like all good Catholics, they put out the light before they undressed down to their underclothes and slid modestly into bed. But once they were under the sheets, I heard murmurs and kisses and the easy whispers of casual intimacy.
I couldn’t believe that that night, of all nights, he would blithely make love to his wife as if nothing unusual had happened. I heard the swish of bed linens, a yawn, and a pillow being plumped … then nothing. What were they doing ? I resisted the impulse to knock my head against the wall in frustration. But wait—they hadn’t yet bid each other good night. Surely they wouldn’t go to sleep without that pleasantry.
The chef whispered something, and as I strained to make out his words a scarred and scabby cat leapt silently from the next balcony, jumped down from the railing, and sauntered along the slate floor. It hopped onto my lap and brushed its tail against my face. I pinched my nose to hold off a sneeze and shoved the presumptuous animal off me.
Signora Ferrero’s sleepy voice floated out the door. “… so he poisoned a peasant. It’s despicable but hardly his first murder. Why do you care so much about this one?”
“ Cara , he tried to revive a dead man.” The chef made a disgusted sound through his nose. “First he kills him, and then he pours something down his throat to bring him back. Insanity! I’m sure it has to do with that book. It’s all this mad talk about formulas for immortality and alchemy. … Everyone’s going crazy. Some scheming alchemist probably duped the doge into buying a potion to defeat death. I just hope he was clever enough to get out of Venice before the doge tried it. The old man probably paid a fortune for a vial of cat piss.”
“A potion to defeat death? Is he so great a fool?”
“He has syphilis and doesn’t want to die. People believe what they want to believe. But if the doge starts killing to find that book, people will panic, and the rumors will get wilder. The doge is bad enough, but imagine the carnage if Landucci or Borgia become interested.”
“Boh.” Signora Ferrero loaded the word with contempt. “Landucci is vile. And Borgia, calling himself pope—he’s a disgrace. Do you know he has more than twenty bastards? No wonder they call him the father of Rome.”
The cat beside me arched its back and spat, but not at me. Another cat had alighted on the railing, and they stared at each other with feline scorn. Both reared back and raised their hackles. I thought, Oh , Dio, not a catfight .
Signora Ferrero spoke through a yawn. “Landucci and Borgia are too smart to be bothered by silly rumors. The doge is just desperate. He may not live long enough to find his chamber pot in the morning, much less that book.”
The chef mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and his wife’s voice turned consoling. “Amato, calm yourself. Even if the doge finds this book, what difference would it make? There are no magic formulas. It might be best if someone did find the book and put an end to the gossip.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why are you upsetting yourself? There’s no alchemy, no immortality. As for love potions …”
I stopped breathing.
Her voice turned coy and teasing. “Come here, amore .” She murmured something, the bed linens rustled,
The muscles in my arms quivered as I pulled myself up with raw hands, taking care not to grunt by keeping my lips pressed hard together. I swung one leg up to the slate floor and the scraping sound made Signora Ferrero say, “I think that cat’s on our balcony now.”
The chef clapped his hands and yelled, “Shoo!” Signora Ferrero laughed, and her laughter covered the sound of me hoisting my body over the railing. I crouched in the recess beside their open door and leaned my head back against the wall while my breathing slowed and the cool night air turned my sweaty face clammy.
The chef and his wife moved about the room, preparing for sleep. Like all good Catholics, they put out the light before they undressed down to their underclothes and slid modestly into bed. But once they were under the sheets, I heard murmurs and kisses and the easy whispers of casual intimacy.
I couldn’t believe that that night, of all nights, he would blithely make love to his wife as if nothing unusual had happened. I heard the swish of bed linens, a yawn, and a pillow being plumped … then nothing. What were they doing ? I resisted the impulse to knock my head against the wall in frustration. But wait—they hadn’t yet bid each other good night. Surely they wouldn’t go to sleep without that pleasantry.
The chef whispered something, and as I strained to make out his words a scarred and scabby cat leapt silently from the next balcony, jumped down from the railing, and sauntered along the slate floor. It hopped onto my lap and brushed its tail against my face. I pinched my nose to hold off a sneeze and shoved the presumptuous animal off me.
Signora Ferrero’s sleepy voice floated out the door. “… so he poisoned a peasant. It’s despicable but hardly his first murder. Why do you care so much about this one?”
“ Cara , he tried to revive a dead man.” The chef made a disgusted sound through his nose. “First he kills him, and then he pours something down his throat to bring him back. Insanity! I’m sure it has to do with that book. It’s all this mad talk about formulas for immortality and alchemy. … Everyone’s going crazy. Some scheming alchemist probably duped the doge into buying a potion to defeat death. I just hope he was clever enough to get out of Venice before the doge tried it. The old man probably paid a fortune for a vial of cat piss.”
“A potion to defeat death? Is he so great a fool?”
“He has syphilis and doesn’t want to die. People believe what they want to believe. But if the doge starts killing to find that book, people will panic, and the rumors will get wilder. The doge is bad enough, but imagine the carnage if Landucci or Borgia become interested.”
“Boh.” Signora Ferrero loaded the word with contempt. “Landucci is vile. And Borgia, calling himself pope—he’s a disgrace. Do you know he has more than twenty bastards? No wonder they call him the father of Rome.”
The cat beside me arched its back and spat, but not at me. Another cat had alighted on the railing, and they stared at each other with feline scorn. Both reared back and raised their hackles. I thought, Oh , Dio, not a catfight .
Signora Ferrero spoke through a yawn. “Landucci and Borgia are too smart to be bothered by silly rumors. The doge is just desperate. He may not live long enough to find his chamber pot in the morning, much less that book.”
The chef mumbled something I couldn’t hear, and his wife’s voice turned consoling. “Amato, calm yourself. Even if the doge finds this book, what difference would it make? There are no magic formulas. It might be best if someone did find the book and put an end to the gossip.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why are you upsetting yourself? There’s no alchemy, no immortality. As for love potions …”
I stopped breathing.
Her voice turned coy and teasing. “Come here, amore .” She murmured something, the bed linens rustled,
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