Secrecy by Rupert Thomson

rare drawings. He was fortunate enough to count the Grand Duke among his many clients. In most civilized countries, it seemed, there were people who shared his predilections … He left the sentence hanging, not quite complete. It was his habit to imply or suggest, I realized, but never to explain; he would be the last man in the room to incriminate himself.
    ‘I’m beginning to see how you might fit into a city such as this one,’ I said.
    ‘You’re a Jesuit, I take it.’
    ‘I was educated by the Jesuits. How did you guess?’
    He shrugged. ‘It must be the way you express yourself.’
    ‘Interesting that you should notice,’ I said lightly, ‘when it’s you who have been doing all the talking.’
    ‘And there’s the proof.’ Towne smiled. His teeth, which were crowded and crooked, seemed at odds with his carefully trimmed beard.
    Just then, we were called to the table, and he could say no more, though he slipped me his card before we parted.
    Among the many ‘Sicilians’ who waited on us that night was a girl whose hair gleamed like the obsidian I had collected once on the island of Palmarola. Her skin had an olive-gold patina that would darken quickly in the sun. With that colouring, you would have expected her to have brown eyes, but they were a clear, translucent blend of green and blue, like seawater at midday when the light is at its strongest. Her forearms, bare to the elbow, were slender; I could have circled her wrist with my thumb and forefinger. My breath caught in my throat.
Wasn’t she the girl I’d seen in the apothecary window?
    I looked round, but she had disappeared – to the kitchens, most likely – and for one reckless moment I thought of following her. At the same time, I knew that since the entire evening was being staged in my honour people would be watching me. I sat back in a kind of daze.
    Sitting opposite me was the Grand Duke’s younger son, Gian Gastone, his eyes watery and pink, his jaw-line lost in folds of fat. It was astonishing to think that he was only twenty. I watched him reach for his wine. He was so drunk that his hand described a semi-circle in the air and came back empty. He stared at it with bleary suspicion, as though it had played a trick on him. Before I could look away, he noticed me, and lurched forwards, over the table.
    ‘Are you a spy?’
    Then, all of a sudden, the girl was standing next to me, leaning down. I turned my head sideways, my nose close to her hair, and tried to breathe her in. I thought I smelled cinnamon – or was it nutmeg? Once again, I remembered the afternoon of Fiore’s tour. Was this really the same girl? My hand was resting on the tablecloth, and as she reached past me to remove a plate the underside of her forearm brushed against the back of my hand, and I felt a shock go through me, all the way to a small, surprising place in my left heel, but she moved on without acknowledging that anything had happened, without even seeming to have noticed.
    *
     
    During an interval between courses, I walked over to Bassetti. He was talking to the Grand Duke’s librarian, Magliabechi, a man famed for his learning, his lack of interest in hygiene, and his love of hard-boiled eggs.
    Bassetti turned to include me. ‘I trust you’ve settled in?’ In repeating the words I had used at our first meeting, he was mocking me gently.
    I smiled. ‘Everyone’s been very kind.’
    Magliabechi gave me a caustic look. ‘Remember what it says in the
Politica
. “Do they seem friendly and trustworthy? Watch out!”’
    I was about to reply when Gian Gastone, who was sitting nearby, snatched his wig off his head and used it as the receptacle for a sudden, forceful jet of vomit.
    ‘Never a good idea,’ Bassetti murmured, ‘to try and keep up with the English.’
    He covered his nose, and the two men moved away.
    Towards the end of the banquet, the Grand Duke made a speech in which he described the profound effect my
teatrini
– my little theatres –