Free In the Company of the Courtesan by Sarah Dunant Page B

noses. Women with no slits for babies. Men with breasts as well as balls. The world is full of tales of the Devil in deformity, yet the truth is that ugliness is a good deal more common than beauty, and in better times I have usually been able to find pleasure enough when I needed it. Just as men are ruled by their pricks, so women, I have found, are more curious, even mischievous animals, and while they may mope and pine after perfect flesh, they also have a hankering for novelty, are susceptible to humor in flattery, and may come to enjoy acquired tastes even if they do not like to admit it in public. And so it has been for me.
    Still, even in the most adventurous of houses, filth and poverty do not rank as natural aphrodisiacs.
    I am rinsed and pulling on my new old clothes when the chair rattles against the wood and Meragosa pushes her way into the kitchen. On the table my purse is near the plate of food. My fist covers it fast, though not so fast that her narrow eyes don’t take it in.
    â€œWhoa…sweet Jesus!” She shivers theatrically in disgust.
    â€œThe rat has got itself wet at last. You found the Jews then?”
    â€œYes. That’s yours.” I motion to the plate. “If you want it.”
    She pokes a finger into the fish flesh. “How much’d it cost you?”
    I tell her.
    â€œYou was cheated. You give me the money next time, and I’ll sort it for you.” But she is sitting and eating it quickly enough. I stand watching for a while, then pull the broken chair closer to her. She yanks away quickly. “You keep your distance. You may be washed, but you still smell like a sewer.”
    In the battle between her need to keep the purse strings open and the gut swell of her loathing, she is having trouble getting the balance right. I lean carefully back in the chair, keeping my eyes on her as she eats. Her skin is like an old leather purse, and there are barely any teeth in her mouth. She looks as if she has been ugly forever. From the pulpit, her hideousness would be proof of her sins, but there would have been a time when even she was peachy ripe, when her clients saw sweetness rather than decay. How many hours have I spent watching old men with chicken-gizzard necks trying not to salivate over my mistress’s flesh as they swap Platonic platitudes about how her beauty is an echo of God’s perfection? The word
sin
never slipped their lips. One of them even sent her love sonnets in which the rhymes careered between the carnal and the divine. We would read them aloud together and mock him. Seduction is amusing enough when one is not deceived by it.
    â€œDo you know a woman called La Draga?” I say after a bit.
    â€œHer real name is Elena something.”
    â€œElena Crusichi?” She looks up briefly. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t. What d’you want her for?”
    â€œMy lady needs to see her.”
    â€œMy lady, eh? Needs to see La Draga? Well, what a surprise. What’s she going to do for her? Weave her a wig?”
    â€œWhat she does for her is none of your business, Meragosa. And if you want to keep your belly full, you should be careful what you say now.”
    â€œWhy? Because of the size of your purse? Or maybe because I’ve got a famous Roman courtesan upstairs? I’ve seen her, remember. I went up there and had a good look while you were out. She’s not going to be making anybody’s fortune anymore. Oh, she used to have it, all right. She was the most luscious little virgin in Venice for a while. Trained to have a man’s tongue hanging out of his mouth at a hundred paces. But it’s gone now. Her snatch is stretched and her head is burned stubble. She’s a freak with no future. Just like you, rat man.”
    The more she rants, the quieter I am beginning to feel. Sometimes that’s how it works with me. “What happened to my lady’s mother, Meragosa?”
    â€œI told you. She died. You