Chapter 7
618 Words
7At that very time, Manisante was quickly making his way through the maze of alleyways unaffected by the deepening darkness of dusk: he could have found Ponte Vecchio with his eyes closed. He was going to meet his two accomplices at the tavern they favoured. He had been there a few times in the past: a place worthy of its fame for being one of the rougher places livening up the city nights and a known favourite for outsiders just passing through.
He walked with a kind of sacred concentration which isolated his senses, blurring his perception of the pungent odour of urine and rotting leftover food, mindless also of the other people out at that hour: shady individuals, petty thieves and tricksters meeting to plan their night jobs. Respectable husbands and fathers who instead of dining honestly at home were also out looking for distractions, hidden inside their cloaks. He kept moving relentlessly forward not hearing the small bells of the prostitutes or the vibrant laughter of students who had abandoned their books at the setting of the sun and were now more intent on studying the pleasures to be found in the street.
He finally reached his destination, the «Divine Flower» tavern and the loud noise coming from the wide-open windows jolted him from his thoughts: tavern songs, coarse laughing, cursing and swearing. A big plaque stuck out above the entrance bearing the original drawing that explained the name of the place: a dark rose, with its stem in a wine jug.
He hesitated a moment on the doorstep, looking about cautiously. In truth, he had little to fear: the tavern was quite far from his neighbourhood and very different to the places he usually visited, thus offering quite a safe location. He pushed the squeaky door open.
Once over the threshold, he was immediately engulfed by a familiar stink created from the mixing of various bad smells: the rotten wood of the barrels, the crackling animal fat in the fried food, the wine in glasses and spilt onto the floor, as well as the powerful body odour and sweat of the filthy patrons.
He spotted his two accomplices waiting for him and, pressing through two happy groups immersed in their game of dice, headed towards their table. «To your health, Messer», Arturo said in welcome, raising his wine mug. Paolo instead, welcomed him with a quick wave of his left hand, the right hand otherwise engaged under the skirts of a colourful courtesan perched on his lap.
Manisante sat on the chair kept for him. The girl stared at him with her dark eyes magnified by make-up, before shifting her amazed gaze to Paolo: «And who is this now? Is he your brother?»
«Calm down, Angelina. We are not even relatives!» answered Paolo, pinching her arm in jest.
«I do not believe you! You are identical!»
«What an exaggeration! Identical, hah! We might resemble each other a little».
«No, Angelina is correct. There is a strong resemblance. I was amazed myself, the first time», Arturo said in her favour.
«Perhaps you are brothers by the same father», laughed the p********e, winking maliciously at the mysterious man.
He slowly poured the wine into a mug, his eyes scanning the tavern, before answering the girl in a tone that did not allow for any response:
«Deal with it, sweetheart. We are simply friends for fun».
My heart would come with you
On your departure, my Lord,
If I still had it with me
After Love took me prisoner through your eyes.
What will come with you are my sighs,
Which are all that remain to me, my trusted and dear companions,
Those, and my cries and complaints.
If you see you are lacking their escort,
Then know I am dead.
(GASPARA STAMPA, Scorta Amorosa, 16th CENT.)
- Writer
