Q by Luther Blissett (poetry books to read txt) 📕
The final blow: 'Omnia sunt communia, sons of whores!'
His head flies into the dust.
* * *
The houses are being ransacked. Doors smashed in with kicks and axe-blows. We'll be next. No time to lose. I lean over him.
'Magister, listen to me, we've got to go, they're coming... For the love of God, Magister...' I grasp his shoulders. He whispers a reply. He can't move. Trapped, we're trapped.
Like Elias.
My hand clutches my sword. Like Elias. I wish I had his courage.
'What do you think you're doing? We've had enough of martyrdom. Go on, get out while you can!'
The voice. As though from the bowels of the earth. I can't believe he's spoken. He's moving even less than be
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Immediately behind that there are two other canvases of similar dimensions. Two unfinished portraits: one of a woman and one of a magistrate. The woman is bejewelled from head to toe, big golden rings dangling from her ears, in accordance with the habit that the women of Venice have of exposing quantities of jewels, pearls and precious stones all over their bodies. The magistrate wears a vividly-coloured toga, which is supposed to indicate his membership of one of the many associations within the government of La Serenissima.�
From blasphemy to fighting, from foreigners to nightlife, there is no aspect of the life of the Venetians that is not governed by a particular magistracy. Pietro Perna maintains that the system really is very complicated, so much so that the people have probably given up understanding any of it, and abstain from protesting and contesting it, discharging all their tensions into more brutal games such as bull-running, and the traditional battles between the two factions called the Castellani and the Nicolotti, for the conquest of a bridge, by means of blows and kicks.�
A precious cornice, covered with stucco and openwork, is followed by a rather mysterious painting: in it, the lagoon appears crammed with all kinds of vessels, amongst which one stands out, decorated with flags and colours. From the top of it a man who might be the Doge is making a curious gesture towards the open sea.
‘You’re interested in paintings, my friend?’ Perna’s shrill voice startles me from behind. ‘Or are you stupefied by their subjects?’
I point at the figure in the centre of the picture. ‘That’s the Doge, isn’t it?’
‘The very same, his most serene self, seen here in the ceremonial act of marrying the sea, throwing a gold ring into the waves, in accordance with the “Festa della Sensa”, the Ascension of the Virgin. The Venetians go crazy about that kind of ritual.’ He shakes my hand and his smile broadens. ‘Welcome to Venice!’
‘Glad to see you again, Pietro. Now that you’re here, I hope you’ll guide me through this maze, I still haven’t managed to get my bearings. And perhaps in exchange I can be of use to you in some way…’
Looking rather circumspect, he comes very close to me: ‘As a matter of fact you can, you can… and it involves a woman, you know? I’ve got a letter for her here, but I can’t take it to her servant, because if he sees me he’s likely to get rather nasty. I wondered if you wouldn’t be so kind… Without being too conspicuous, obviously.’
‘Will you finally give me that dinner you promised me in Basle?’
‘Ask and ye shall receive, my friend, a heart that’s mad with love doesn’t fret about the cost!’
Venice, 12th June 1545
The racket from below makes me leap to my feet. Shouts, chairs being knocked over. Someone comes running up the stairs. I reach for my dagger.
The door flies open, and I find myself staring into the terrified eyes of Marco.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Terrible business, sir, terrible… They’re going to kill her, I’m sure they’re going to kill her!’ He goes on rambling in Venetian.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s going on?’
‘The Mule, my lord, the Mule is down below, with two of his men, he wants to punish donna Demetra, Holy God, he’s going to kill her!’
I push him out of the room.
‘Who’s the Mule?’
‘He keeps whores on the Calle de’Bottai, he says donna Demetra’s been stealing his girls…’ The rest is unintelligible.
I go downstairs. It looks as though the landsknechts have passed through the tavern: tables knocked over, smashed chairs. The girls are huddled, terrified, in a corner, and there are three men standing there, one of them with a knife to donna Demetra’s throat.
Five paces between me and the nearest one: early thirties at the most, clutching a pointed stick. The tallest one is clutching donna Demetra by her hair, with his blade to her skin, the third is at the door.
They see me. The tall one says something in Venetian. Stupid, murderous face. He’s the boss.
The one with the stick creeps towards me. An inexpert jab. I grab his arm and head-butt his nose in. He tumbles back in surprise. I pick up the stick, look into the Mule’s eyes and spit on the ground.
A twisted sneer. He hurls donna Demetra to the floor and shouts something, pointing his finger at her.
He’s about to come in my direction. I break the stick over his shoulders and whack him in belly with the stump. He bends double, I’ve hurt him.
I draw my dagger and slip it into one of his nostrils, grabbing him by the hair.
A glance at the other two: his hands to his bleeding nose, that’s him out of play, the other one’s already planning to sneak off, to judge by his face.�
‘Marco!’
The boy is behind me. ‘Holy Christ, sir, do you want to kill him?’
‘Tell him if I see him in these parts again I’ll rip his head off.’
The boy growls something in Venetian.
‘Tell him if he touches donna Demetra or any of her girls, I’m going to hunt him down and rip his head off.
Emboldened, Marco puts more rage into it than I could have mustered.
I push the Mule towards the door, and finally give him a resounding kick up the arse. His two partners slip out behind him.
Donna Demetra gets up, arranging her clothes and hair.�
‘Thank you, sir. I’ll never be able to make it up to you for what you’ve done.’
‘If you could you tell me who I’ve just thrashed, donna Demetra, we’ll be quits.’
She sits down in a chair, while the girls throng around her attentively and Marco hands her some water.
‘The Mule runs the brothels along the Calle de’ Bottai.’
‘And he hates you that much?’
She smoothes down her hair. ‘Some of the girls who worked for him decided to come to me. They weren’t satisfied with the treatment that the Mule meted out to them. Low pay, and he hits them, I don’t know if you quite understand…’
I nod. ‘I can imagine, he didn’t seem quite the gentleman.’
Donna Demetra smiles: ‘Gentlemen are capable of worse than that, my lord, and that’s why even your intervention today won’t protect us against all professional hazards.’
‘I understand. So as long as I’m here, donna Demetra, I hope you will accept my services.
Venice, 20th June 1545
Pietro Perna harpoons a scrap of buttered bread, and between one mouthful and the next he launches into the description of the main course of the evening.�
‘Gentlemen, a little lesson in the ways in which the Venetian culinary arts have been able to flavour and revitalise a typical northern dish, salt cod. Our Nordic friends merely boil this fish after keeping it in the bath for two days.’ He comes over and hugs me with an air of commiseration. ‘I say: what an unforgivable lack of imagination. While we’re on the subject, my friend, have you ever tried it?’
‘Of course, many times.’
The Italian lets out a great laugh and raises his eyes to the roof-beams. ‘And I’m sure it slipped down your throat very quickly, too, without making much of an impression. The flavours you will taste today, on the other hand, will leave an indelible memory. So: after being boiled, our cod is dredged in flour, seasoned with salt and pepper and an oriental spice that we call cinnamon. Then you fry up some butter, garlic and onion, capito? And after a while you add some crumbled anchovies, some chopped parsley and some wine. Then, when the wine has dried you add some milk, capito? You pour it all over the fish and cook it until the milk has boiled away. Finally you serve it with the exquisite accompaniment of slices of polenta. It truly is a marvel!’
Bookseller Arrivabene’s maid heaps abundant spoonfuls on to my plate, while Bindoni refills my glass with religious solemnity. He talks to me in a mixture of Latin, German and Italian, the latter a language that reminds me of the one spoken by Spanish merchants, and of which I manage to make out a few words.
‘No drink accompanies the fish as well as wines from the hills around Verona.’
Perna gives a start, and turns to me, speaking in German: ‘I hope you didn’t understand what our printer here just said, because otherwise you’re going to have to start keeping notes in your notebook, under the heading “Bollocks talked by Bindoni”. Then he switches to Latin. ‘Our friends aren’t aware that you’ve already had the opportunity to try the best Tuscan wines, capito? And they’re trying to get you to believe that La Serenissima is unrivalled where wines are concerned.’
‘Come on, messer Pietro, you Tuscans have no idea what to drink with fish, everyone knows that!’
‘Just as everyone knows that the Doge has demijohns brought to him from Mon-te-pul-cia-no!’�
‘I have heard,’ I begin in broken Latin ‘that the Venetian merchants, since the discovery of the New World, have been concerned that the western ports might increase in commercial importance. And it’s true, if they sit down at the table and start talking about sauces and wines every time they’re supposed to talk business, they won’t be able to hold Columbus entirely responsible for their own decline.’�
Perna studies me for a moment, takes aim and fires: ‘On the other hand, if the merchants of the North don’t stop talking about business and nothing else, they’ll soon find themselves rolling in money, capito? But they won’t have a notion what to spend it on, because smoked herring will be their only meal, beer their only drink and Luther’s Bible their only book.’
‘Fine,’ smiles Bindoni, ‘then let’s try to talk about books, where, at least in terms of printing, the Tuscans have some catching up to do. What do you propose, exactly?’
Perna speaks incredibly concisely, perhaps to allow me to catch every word: ‘The Benefit. He finances and distributes within the territory of the Republic, you print, Arrivabene sells in Venice and I look after the area around Milan.’
Bindoni scratches his black beard. He’s a man of about forty, a hint of a receding hairline and an olive complexion.
‘Calm now, Perna, slow down a bit. You’re making it sound far too easy.’
‘What? How many copies have you sold so far?’
‘About three thousand, the whole print run. But we have to be more cautious now. Since last year the Magistratura degli Esecutori has stopped merely supervising games of chance and blasphemy, and turned its attention to violation of the printing laws.’
Perna is careful to tell me in German: ‘They’re the Venetian censors.’ Then, vexed, he looks at Bindoni and takes a sip of wine. ‘But we’ve always printed everything here in Venice.’�
Bindoni says, ‘Yes, but now the Council of Ten are more cunning than they were. Before they’re printed, all books have to receive the authorisation of the Executors. I have serious doubts that they’d give it to The Benefit of Christ Crucified.’
Perna looks at me to check that I’ve caught all that, then turns to his two partners: ‘Is there a problem with printing it clandestinely?’
Bindoni: ‘No, but we’ll need a cover title.
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