Lucifer's Shadow

24 Rousseau’s amour

Manzini no longer replies to my letters. I think, dear sister, we must expect the worst. Either the rascal has departed with whatever money there was in our parents’ estate or — and I suspect this is more likely — he has discovered there was none there to begin with and saves himself the time of writing to those who will never pay his bills. I hope this news does not come as such a great shock. I expected it for some time and have tried to prepare you for it. We must make our own way in this world. Our parents’ only bequest is their character and their learning, both better than any amount of gold that might be squeezed out of the codicil of a will. I hope, too, that you find more suitable food than the rich Spanish stuff you write about. We were raised on plain Veneto fare — polenta and meat — not rich spices and strange vegetables that belong in a Moroccan market. It scarcely surprises me you find yourself queasy from time to time if you insist on eating nothing but that muck.

Now, a tale to lift your spirits! Gobbo has wreaked his vengeance upon Rousseau, and I am ashamed to confess I may give you an eyewitness account. First, however, a warning. There be country matters in this story, the sort we used to hear from that wicked old swineherd Pietro when he thought Pa wasn’t listening. If you wish to keep your heart and mind unsullied by some mild filth, I advise you to read no further.

Ah! I do sense, little pen, that our reader has not deserted us! Jolly good…

After our journey to Torcello, Delapole’s party acquired a taste for music — largely, of course, because Delapole himself announced that it was this particular muse which would henceforth claim his attentions. Leo, to my surprise, was not much put out by this. The House of Scacchi is as capable of printing a bawdy ballad or an entire opera as it may turn out copies of Shakespeare or dissertations on the origins of the rhinoceros. Having detected that Delapole would probably never get down to penning his masterpiece — the rich have much time on their hands but little inclination to intrude upon it with work — Leo now supposes, I imagine, that he can be talked into paying for the publication of some unknown opus in order to bask in the glory when its greatness is realised.

To this end I have played a small game. Last night I pretended that I found Rebecca’s score wrapped in paper, like an abandoned baby, on the doorstep of Ca’ Scacchi. Accompanying it was an anonymous note claiming to be from a budding composer, currently trapped in another profession, who wondered whether the House of Scacchi might deem his work worthy of a wider audience. If Leo felt this way, the note adds, he should organise the copying of the parts at his own expense (a come-on, of course, to get him to approach Delapole for funds) and organise a public performance. Should the citizens of Venice agree that the work has some merit when they hear it, the composer promises to reveal himself and appeal to their generosity for the future of his career, reimbursing his sponsor twice over for his support and placing with him the rights for all future publication of the piece.

Leo read the note, issued a rude curse about scroungers, and threw the entire package into a dark corner. I shall, of course, retrieve it and meekly play a few notes to see if it whets his appetite. I have heard a little from the strings of its creator; it is wonderful, of course.

Gobbo returned from Cremona with an instrument under his arm. It’s an ugly thing, to be sure. Big and muscular, the kind of instrument you expect to see beneath the chin of a farmhand, not the loveliest lady in all Venice. On both sides of the belly it has a sap mark which runs as a singular stain parallel to the fingerboard. This is, Gobbo assures us, a “feature” much sought after in Guarneri’s instruments.

Its initiation was at an early-evening concert at La Pietà. Rebecca is sufficiently confident now to attend these events in daylight on her own. On this occasion she managed to make her way into and out of the church without any of us seeing her. Her presence was unmistakable, however. In Vivaldi’s mundane programme — I do wish he’d stick to the old stuff instead of forcing these new mediocrities down our throats — the tone of her new instrument rang out like a shining clarion. Whether Delapole noticed or not, I have no idea. Gobbo had informed us all of his plans; the Englishman’s mind was no doubt on other things.

Gobbo knew I had been up to something with Rebecca and La Pietà. He’s a sly one, though he could not have suspected the scale of our tricks. In any case, he pumped me mercilessly for details about the church, its layout, and what happens before, during, and after concerts. When I had carefully told him what I could, he went into action.

At the end of the concert, after both conductor and musicians had departed, we trooped towards the door. Delapole then took Rousseau to one side, led him into a dark corner, and told him the good news.

“Sir,” he says (I imagine this, but it must have been along these lines). “I have received a message and a token for you from one who would renew an acquaintance.”

“Mr. Delapole,” Rousseau pipes nervously. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“The ladies who played for us on our most pleasant excursion to Torcello. One of them has communicated to me that she thought your face, your form, your learning, all much to her taste, and would be honoured if you might wait here for her arrival. She finds, I gather, the notion of your presence beyond the cruel screen which keeps her out of view most… stimulating.”

The Frenchman pants. His eyes roll upwards to the dusty ceiling. “Can this be true? Which one?”

“I do not know,” says Delapole with a shrug. “No name came with the letter. Only this…”

At which point he reaches into his pocket and extracts a single silk garter perfumed with some exquisite Oriental fragrance. Rousseau almost faints upon the spot.

“Come, come, sir,” Delapole says with a pat on the shoulder. “You recognise a lady in the very heat of passion. Nothing new for you Parisians, of course.”

“Well, yes,” Rousseau stutters. “Of course, of course.”

“More rumpy-pumpy in a week than most of us achieve in a lifetime, I’ll warrant. I wonder you do not populate the entire world with the o fspring of your munificent seed.”

“Oh!” I think at this point the full import of Delapole’s words finally dawned upon Rousseau. This was to be no pretty little flirtation over the co fee table.

“You mean here?” Rousseau exclaims. “In the church?”

“Good a place as any. An act of love is an act of God, is it not? And if God sees everything, he’ll spot you at it whether it’s on his doorstep or in a bawdy house. Besides, in my limited experience of the female — you may, of course, wish to correct me on this — I do find the use of an unusual location may provoke in them extremities of desire which are simply not attained under familiar sheets. I may be wrong, of course… ”

“Oh, no,” Rousseau assures him. “Spot on, dear chap.”

“In that case you are the luckiest man alive, surely. For if this lady is so taken of your person in the public hubbub of a lagoon ski f, why — she’ll positively rip the clothes off you in God’s house, just a few yards away from the hordes of promenaders out for their evening strolls.”

If you may imagine a dormouse squeaking as a naughty child tweaks its tail, you will hear the very sound M. Rousseau emits at this moment.

“Good luck,” says Delapole, and pumps his hand in a comradely fashion.

“You are leaving?”

Delapole laughs. “What kind of chap do you take me for? I believe I hear a noise from behind that rood screen over there.”

Briskly he walks to the door of the church — in darkness now, thanks to the mean windows set in the roof — slams the ancient wood loudly, then tiptoes to join the rest of us, who have hidden in the shadow beneath the great pulpit that juts out into the nave like a ship’s prow.

We try very hard not to giggle. Rousseau stands in the faint circle cast by the light from the dingy rose window, trembling with each sound that comes from behind the screen.

“Mon-sewer!” cries a gentle falsetto voice, and I stuff my fist in my mouth to kill the titters. A shape is emerging from the darkness. It is dressed in what appears to be shiny, cheap silk, just about discernible as blue. A veil covers its head. I can recognise Gobbo’s disguised form immediately. But the lad is slim enough from the front; with his face and nascent hump hidden, he might have been one of the plainer players from the boat if you didn’t share the secret.

“Mademoiselle,” twitters Rousseau. “I have only just learned of your message to me. I do not know what to say.”

The figure in the silk dress takes one step forward, extends an arm (covered by a silk sleeve, thank God, since Gobbo is a hairy chap), and gestured to Rousseau, indicating that he should approach. “What makes you think I invited you here to say anything, sir? Words are fine, but deeds are better. I had heard that when I plucked my little strings, you found yourself transported to some sweet place of fond imaginings. Perhaps I was misinformed. Perhaps you do not find me attractive?”

He took three strides to face her. “Oh, no. Your talent, your presence, they conspire to make me burst with near ecstasy.”

At this point I believe my fist was somewhere deep within my rib cage, and the others weren’t doing much better, either. Even Uncle Leo’s eyes were filled with tears, and there was such a jogging of elbows, snorting, hiccoughs, and general mayhem I wonder Rousseau didn’t rumble us in an instant. Still, his mind was on other matters.

“ ‘Near’ ecstasy, did you say, sir? I would that it were complete before we’re done. I’ve heard you French have tricks that could make us Venetian girls think we are in Heaven itself. Not the ‘leap on, leap o f, ducat by the pillow’ stuff you get from the locals.”

His head lolled from side to side and a breathy sigh issued from his throat. Then he said, “I would adore nothing more than to see your face, my sweetness. The thought of the loveliness that veil must conceal tears my heart apart.”

“Sir!” hissed Gobbo. “You have your customs. We have ours. In Venice it is unknown for a girl to offer herself thus to a man and reveal her identity before the union is complete. What if we find our coupling is not to our tastes? This way we may make a mistake and leave it behind after.”

“I understand.” Rousseau nodded.

“Then come here and pay me honour.”

We held our breath as the two of them approached each other, Gobbo thoughtfully standing in a shaft of light that gave us an excellent view of proceedings while maintaining his head in shadow.

Rousseau knelt upon the floor. “What would you have me do, lady?” he asked.

“Why, kiss me, sir. What else?”

He rose, lips puckered like a clown, and tried to throw his arms around his silk-clad darling.

“Mon-sewer!” Gobbo screeched. “Where are your manners? In Venice a man may never kiss a lady upon the lips until their union has been sealed by the physical pact. Are these your Parisian games? If so, I find them pretty disgusting, to be frank. Perhaps I have judged you wrong here.”

“No, no, no. I am merely unused to your customs, lady. What would you have me do?”

Gobbo drew himself up with a harrumph. “What any fine Venetian gentleman would under the circumstances. Make your way beneath my skirts and find that place where the two of us shall shortly be enjoined. Then plant your lips upon it as a token of your devotion.”

Rousseau looked hesitant. “This is the way things happen in Venice?”

“In all the world save France, if I’m not mistaken. I’ll quench your bestial Gallic hungers once we have the etiquette out of the way, sir, but first things first. It’s only proper.”

“Very well,” the Frenchman mewled, and got down on his knees. Then, gingerly, he dug his head beneath the hem of Gobbo’s dress.

What occurred next remains something of a blur. There was so much incident crammed into so little time, and, for the life of me, I cannot recall who screamed first: Rousseau, when his head made its way north beneath the cover of Gobbo’s dress, seeking joy and finding horror; those of us in the party, who could stand this jest no more and needed to screech like lunatics before our lungs exploded with the strain; or Father Antonio Vivaldi, who at that moment chose to return to La Pietà, perhaps in search of a sheet of music he had left behind, and found instead a ribald commedia dell’arte taking place before him.

Gobbo, with his talent for improvisation, was on top of things in an instant. He moved forward into the light, holding Rousseau’s head tightly beneath his dress all the time, and let Vivaldi screech his fury and outrage till his voice began to run hoarse.

“Get out, you scum!” cried Vivaldi, then crossed himself and panted like a fawn at the end of a hunt. “Leave this church at once, or I’ll fetch the beadles and have you all horsewhipped!”

Gobbo scooped up his frock, revealing Rousseau cowering beneath its folds with his face next to what I may only describe as an upright physical organ not normally to be viewed in public on hallowed ground.

“But, Papa! PAPA!” roared Gobbo, his voice now back to its full, coarse tenor tone and oozing hurt reproach. “Have pity! The froggy has yet to play upon my little piccolo!”

Well, the rest is confusion and chaos. We took to our heels and fled, Rousseau east towards the Arsenale, while the rest of us ducked and dived through the back alleys of Castello, crippled with laughter, short of breath, and tortured, in my case, by a well-deserved stitch. I believe it says much of Venice that a twenty-year-old male servant of unsurpassable ugliness was able to dash through its backstreets wearing a blue silk dress and cackling like a madman, yet none gave him so much as a second glance.

The following day we heard that Rousseau had packed his bags and scuttled back to Paris, promising revenge upon Venice, which he now regards as the very anteroom of Hell. Oh, well. I tried very hard to like the chap, but he did make it rather difficult.

Since Leo was in a good mood when we returned to the house, I went down to the cellar, undid the string on Rebecca’s parcel, and played him, as well as I could, some of the work. Even with my amateurish hammerings, the power of the music is astonishing. It has all the power and fluency of Vivaldi and makes much use of his ritornello idea, employing the same theme, but with endless variations, as bookmarks between passages, some slow, some at the pace of the Devil himself.

Leo, ever the canny one, is of the same opinion. I believe his mind is working, which is, I trust, all to the good.