❦
Giulio Corsentini – walrus-moustached, balding, with laughter lines on his cheeks – was wed to Magnella Finelli after her first husband, Ormanno Finelli, was murdered.
At the time, Magnella lived with her mother and sisters in a villa only a horse ride from Corsa. The trees of the orchard had been burnt down and its wine cellar, once bounteous, had been distributed among the houses of the Dugii, and the houses of the families loyal to the Dugii. There remained a king-sized bed and a dining table with fourteen chairs, but everything of worth – the silver, the gold, the china and fine fabrics of cloth and silk – had been stripped from the house. There were no males. Magnella, being the youngest, slept on a cloak at the foot of her mother’s bed.
Giulio came from a town near the Calpesacate mountains. His father owned fine vineyards and drank, monthly, with the Dugii. When Giulio arrived, he was accompanied by twenty men on horseback, rapiers at their waists. Giulio wore a breastplate, black and dimpled, and rode a white horse, its hair well-combed and its sides sleek and undirtied. The Dugii arrived later, similarly armed, and bearing the banners of their house, a rampant rooster against blood red.
Magnella watched all this from the bedroom window. Her sisters perched on the sill, combing their hair with their hands. ‘He looks handsome,’ one of them said. And on a sunlit day, Magnella conceded, Giulio may have looked handsome. The war had thickened his arms and chest. His hair was rampant with delicious curls and his moustache trimmed and twisted to points.
When Giulio came inside, still cloaked, he was damp from sweat. He bowed to her, kissed the hands of her mother and her sisters, and then finally Magnella herself. One long wet kiss on the back of her hand.
The Dugii concealed their mirth when he sat beside her. Her first husband would have refused to have Giulio in his house, let alone at his table. Now, however, Giulio edged towards her, smiling meekly and wiping sweat from his forehead. He said to her:
‘When they sent me your portrait, my eyes stung from your beauty. Now that I am here, I believe I shall leave this villa blind.’
Magnella said: ‘I suppose one of your poets provided that line. I hope you are paying him poorly because he deserves to starve.’
She was twenty-one. Giulio was thirty five.
The wedding occurred in spring, in a clearing flooded with blooming pink cherry trees. Magnella wore lime-green at Giulio’s insistence and tried to bronze herself with make-up. As part of some well-crafted joke by Ignazio and Valente Dugo, Magnella was to keep the name of Finelli. Giulio, meanwhile, would lose his family name. During the dances Magnella was passed between the men of Dugii and the Corsentinii till her feet ached. Giulio watched from the sidelines; his brothers slapped him on the shoulders.
‘What a fine woman you have wed?’ said the eldest.
Her sister refused a dance and had three of her nails ripped out. Men made her mother drink wine till she was sick. Magnella herself had her dress ripped at by Giulio’s father, then by Valente Dugo, who ran a thumb over her nipple. During the toasts, a Dugii man presented Giulio with Ormanno’s canine, bound on a necklace of sheer silver.
Finally, Magnella was piled into a carriage and they made their way to Corsa.
His fingers fumbled at her corset. Ormanno’s tooth slapped against her face. He grinned while they did it, un-monstrous, child-like. He seemed to think her still a virgin – is this okay? Are you okay? Am I hurting you? She dug her nails into his back, tried to plant her feet so she couldn’t feel it. He came abruptly, wheezing and frowning, and toppled onto his back, slick with sweat.
After he fell asleep, she woke and cleansed herself. She chewed mintleaf on the balcony while the city slept. Above her there were constellations named after the Finellii, below her the streets. She could make out the villa in the hilltops, the party had flowed into the house and all of its windows glowered orangely. She thought: this is it now.
℘
Time passed. Her hair became a thicket of bristling strands, dotted with grey. Crow’s feet emerged about her eyes. Her breasts swelled to great globes and her arse grew dimpled and pocked. She found hairs where she should never find hairs (on her chin, curling into her belly button). On occasion, she caught herself in the mirror, a slumped and sad frog – witch-like, rotting.
The streets were renamed.
A pouch of white, mottled fat heaved and squirmed now beneath Giulio’s shirt. Gravity stole his manhood; his breasts overlapped his stomach, his stomach overlapped his crotch. His teeth rotted and rotted. Veins of rank brown snaked across them. They tapered to points. Magnella offered, on many occasions, to install dentures for him. He refused from misplaced pride.
The constellations were renamed also.
℘
Mists gathered on the canals of Corsa; icicles hung from windowsills; rainfall filled the courtyard of the Finellii manor. From her window, Magnella watched flower heads adrift in the foam. She had on a dark green cloak, which itched when it touched her skin. Beside her stood Tessa Viari, bearing news. She was made to wait.
Out in the courtyard, Giulio was trying to rescue their cat, Kaspar, from the flood. It perched on a tree branch, bolt upright, its yellow eyes flashing in the daylight. It was mewing, shrilly, into the morning air. Giulio had taken off his boots and was in the process of removing his hose.
‘There, there,’ he said. ‘There, there.’
Magnella grunted. ‘I hope it drowns, you know.’
‘The cat?’
‘For now.’ Magnella looked Tessa up and down. ‘You’ve entered unannounced.’
‘I apologise mistress, I come with news.’
She showed Magnella the letter which had arrived that morning; it bore the sigil of the Dugii, the rampant rooster, in wax.
‘Is it today?’
‘Three days late.’
Magnella took the letter from her.
‘I suspect this is some cruel errand they have elected to send me upon.’ She began to cut at the seal with a knife. ‘Last year, a day spent shovelling muck. A year before, ferrying about a beggar boy. Perhaps, this year, they might slip and have me murder my own cat. Not knowing, of course, the cat has that in hand, and all I’ll have to do is bring them the poor thing in a box and weep a little.’
‘I don’t think the cat’ll drown,’ Tessa said.
‘And why is that Tessa Viari? Are you beholden to some cat-based augury? Are you and Kaspar in cahoots?’
‘Cats are patient. Patience makes drowning extremely difficult.’
‘Patience makes starving extremely easy; the poor thing hasn’t eaten now for a day.’
‘He knew help was coming.’
‘Yes,’ Magnella said, and watched her husband hang his hose over both shoulders. He turned to look at the window where she stood. He waved; Magnella did not.
‘One day, regardless of whether the Dugii wish it, I’m going to murder that cat,’ she said and began reading the letter. She sighed, then read it again.
‘Really, he should have a servant fetch the cat,’ said Tessa.
Magnella did not reply. Outside, Giulio had made his way to the base of the tree and was trying to encourage the cat into his arms. Kaspar looked at Giulio and mewed again.
Tessa smirked: ‘He’s not moving without a basket.’
‘Nor an armed escort,’ said Magnella, distracted. She chewed something in the inside of her cheek.
‘Can you get me a boat to Cartane?’ she said.
℘
This time, Magnella thought, lounging on corduroy cushions, the bitches of the Dugii have outdone themselves.
Magnella and Tessa had left Corsa by the grand canal, when the marketeers were setting up. Some called to them, but weak calls, like they were clearing their throats for better custom. Out on the lagoon, ice chunks floated and Magnella, despite her cloak (and Tessa’s cloak) shivered. She could see islands stark against the mist, and, in the far distance, Cartane.
Tessa did not shiver, of course; Tessa just stared towards the destination, frowning. Her face was wrinkled like a turned pomegranate and had fierce, pip-like pupils. She wore her hair cropped, monk-like, and did away with finery – her smocks and gowns, always grey, brown, black. Magnella could not imagine Tessa’s lips, so chapped and purple, kissing other lips.
‘Lagia has still not bled,’ Tessa said. Her fingers fretted at the fringe of her hood; she grimaced when she found loose stitching. ‘I am beginning to become concerned with the girl.’
Magnella heaved a sigh. ‘I am very much aware of your concern Tessa, you are most vocal.’
‘She is sixteen. Do you not worry? If she doesn’t bleed soon we will be unable to marry her.’
‘It is not uncommon.’
‘Nezzetta hasn’t bled yet and, as a result, she is spoiled for us.’
Magnella watched a pair of long-necked swans pass over the water, the tips of their wings cresting the water. Me, she thought, she is spoiled for me.
‘Lagia can’t marry until she’s bled,’ Tessa said. ‘And then it’ll be within a month. The odds-’
‘Shall be considered after Cartane. Let us do one terrible thing at a time.’
The vast tower of Cartane emerged from the mist. Cartane seemed as if made of a dozen structures at once, a maze of shifting stone and uneven work. Archways and spiral staircases ran its length. Crenellations dotted its stone work. Balconies protruded. Statues rose across from towers, towers became arches, arches became bridges and bridges became whole substructures.
At its base were the many graves and tombs of Corsa, but the dead were not bound to the earth. Those who could afford it were buried high, within the tower itself and every new generation wished to be buried higher. If Magnella squinted, she could see scaffolds perched upon the structure where expansions and re-constructions were taking place. And if she squinted harder, the black robed acolytes of Cartane going about their work.
At the pier, a set of crooked steps kinked through the graveyard to the main tower and three sandoli rocked gently. Magnella could glance the gondoliers, asleep beneath the awning. The mark of a great gondolier, her mother once told her, was that they could sleep wherever whenever, and wake, instantly, upon your arrival.
‘Let’s move,’ Magnella said. ‘I want to be off of this dreadful island by noon.’
Magnella made her way uncomfortably up the rain-slick steps. They passed row upon row of gravestones, some chipped and broken, some cleaned by rain. Many lent against the rows before and after, their inscriptions hidden from view. Worm ivy grew in abundance, its white branching roots clawing at the stone.
The door of Cartane’s tower ran towards a single peak, and at its top the figures of Death, Disease and Age were locked in a loving embrace. Around it, their faces turned reverently upwards, were the many heroes and politicians of Corsian history.
Magnella paid a trix to the doorman, huddled with his copper cup.
Inside, darkness, dampness. The roof often sloped to scalping height. Guttered candles lit the way poorly. There were stalactites carved into the stone, a touch which infuriated Magnella. And even here, grave plots had sprung up, carved into the walls and filled with the recent dead.
‘How spectacularly pleasant this whole experience is,’ Magnella said.
Finally, they arrived. An acolyte, old and grey, in complete black, was making notations in a vast ledger. It spanned the length of his desk and each page was as long as Magnella’s arm. On its white page, Magnella saw names and numbers. That’s all that seem to be in the ledger, names and numbers, crammed into the margins, squeezed at the very top and very bottom of the page. Behind the acolyte, shelves decked with sand timers measured time in ounces.
‘Salve citizen,’ the acolyte said, looking up.
Magnella waved his greeting away with a hand. ‘I think it is fairly obvious why I am here. Let us make this painless.’
The acolyte nodded.
‘Understandable.’ he said. ‘Name?’
‘Magnella Finelli.’
‘And the plot you wish to purchase?’
Magnella removed the dispatch from her sleeve.
‘This plot,’ she said and tossed the dispatch onto the book itself. When the acolyte read it, he frowned at her.
‘You understand you are able, and welcome, to purchase a plot within the tower itself?’
‘I do.’
Again, he nodded. ‘There is a modesty to buying a plot so close to the shore. When the annals of Corsa are written, our historians will not be able to look upon your visage or read descriptions of your wealth and titles. This is most modest.’
Magnella brushed both her eyelids with her thumb, the tip came away damp.
‘Do any of the Finelli have plots in the tower?’
‘The modesty of your family has been praise-worthy,’ the acolyte said. ‘There are no Finellii plots located inside the tower, sixty-seven located amongst the grave stones nearest the shore.’
‘Is this grave plot amongst them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many are at the shoreline?’
‘Seven, this, (he held up the dispatch) is one of the closest.’
‘I see. We are most modest.’
Magnella removed the purse from her sleeve and tossed it onto the book.
‘In fact, the modesty of Magnella Finelli is such that she has even sought to grant the cult of Cartane a generous donation.’
With a nudge, she sent it over to him. The acolyte opened the bag. His eyes seemed to expand.
‘The cult of Cartane thanks you,’ he said.
‘Please,’ Magnella said, wanting to plunge two candles into the man’s eye sockets, ‘speak no more, praise stings my meek and most diffident ears.’
They passed the plot upon their return. Water lapped at the gravestones below; worms heaved in the muck. To the left of the plot, a carpenter of little renown and to its right, a girl, eleven, who died in a fire. The girl’s stone was a mere rock, plunged into the earth. Her inscription had been fashioned with a knife. The carpenter’s marker was an ornate wooden half moon, but snails crawled across its frame and the wood had been half-eaten by worms. During high tide, Magnella thought, the water must drown both of these plots. The fish will chew out my eyes within a week. I will be bones, awash with salt.
℘
‘I, Magnella Finelli, come before you Dionosio Belgradi, first citizen, to propose a marriage between our two houses.’ She paused, many eyes were upon her. ‘The Finellii descend from the ancestors of Corsa, our people were the first to arrive and shall remain till Corsa is ash and its memories wind. History is plump with our deeds. With no aspersions upon the noble house of Belgradii, and with much humility upon behalf of the Finellii, it is observable by all that your family are new to our city. You have arrived by boat from the Eswen and established yourself within a generation. This is praiseworthy.
‘Now while your house is very much in ascension, you are apart from the noble tradition of Corsa. The houses of the Dugii and the Rutacarii consider you, falsely, an upstart. The Pullii believe you to be merely passing through the streets of Corsa as if vacating. They believe that Corsa is a temporary distraction for the Belgradii, and not a home. The Mastacarii speak of your innocence as if you were but babes and the Fiorinii have all but dismissed you.
‘The House of Finellii thinks different. We see the truth. We see that the Belgradii are a great house and shall continue in greatness. We see that the Belgradii are not upstarts but innovators, that they are at home in Corsa and deserve its respect. A union of our houses would grant you prestige. Your sons and daughters were gain lasting influence within Corsa and its families.
‘My daughter, Lagia, has deep affections for your son, Ottavio. Ottavio himself openly courts her. Our house is bedecked in the many flowers he bequeaths upon her. And although my daughter is unbled and undebutted, I am willing to grant her hand to Ottavio, in advance. A marriage between these young lovers would be a happy one, and would be greatly fruitful for both parties and their children.
‘I have a sizeable dowry with which to buy your good favour and will have my servants send gifts in order to secure this transaction. I come to you humbly with my proposal, and ask only that you take time to consider these well-wrought words.’
Magnella lowered her head and tried to remain still. Opposite her, Dionosio, broad shouldered and chewing upon his thumbnail, sat within a wooden chair, made especially to fit his great height. Ermine fringed his neck, and the gold hand of first citizen clasped his cloak together.
Dionosio’s court was arrayed about him – beards, moustaches, fine shoes and spotless ruffs, necklaces. Men of much ambition and money gathered here. They owned whole streets, knew where cheapest to obtain any material, and bargained, sportingly, for the daughters of noble houses. In the doorway to the back of the room stood Lucio, Dionosio’s secretary and magistrate, a set of notebooks under his arm. Lucio had his cap pushed up to reveal his forehead, and his eyes, steely blue, watched Magnella.
‘Do we have an agreement?’ Magnella said, staring into the patterned rug.
Dionoisio frowned at the sky through the south window. Grey clouds gathered above the terracotta rooftops of the Savenia Novella. From where Dionosio sat, he reached behind him and removed his cap from the back of his chair. It was scrunched into a tight felt ball. With a snap of the wrist, he had it right.
He breathed deeply.
‘Lucio,’ he said, glancing over at his man, ‘What can be done for Magnella Finelli?’
The magistrate stepped forward, his pen raised, a question upon his lips.
℘
Tessa stitched quietly in the belly of the boat. She listened to the lapping of water and the snick, snick, snick of her needles. Tessa’s needles were carved from a shadowwood tree in the Illuro. Her son found them in a market in some western port and brought them back for her. Even in the mid-winter cold the black wood felt warm to the touch.
She knotted the yarn around the right needle, then knotted till she was all the way up. She switched her the right needle to her left hand, then started knotting the rows once more. She believed she would have half the scarf done when Magnella returned.
And return she did. Magnella burst onto the boat, causing the whole sandolo to shake. She gathered up her dresses, angrily, and perched upon the middle bench. She placed her head in her hands, and gripped her hair.
‘Where too?’ the gondolier said.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Take us home,’ said Tessa and returned to her knitting.
She knotted the yarn around the right needle, then knotted again till she was all the way up. She switched her the right needle to her left hand, then started knotting the rows once more. She did this twice, before she looked up.
Magnella stood above her with a hand outstretched.
‘Give,’ she said and motioned to the needles.
Tessa shook her head. ‘No.’
Magnella’s face hardened. ‘You’ll give.’
Tessa shook her head, and then Magnella grabbed at her. Tessa tugged the needles away. This way, then that way. ‘No,’ she said, ‘no’. Magnella struck her – in the ribs, the shoulders – and swore at Tessa. Water slapped against the rocking boat. The scarf’s thread had unravelled and danced between the pair. Finally, the gondolier stopped the boat and said, ‘ladies, please, please stop’. But then Magnella was squeezing at Tessa’s fingers, at the joints, and Tessa dropped the needles. They clattered towards the stern and the pair turned and made for them.
Magnella got there first. With a palm on Tessa’s forehead, she shoved the woman into the bow. Tessa clattered over the mid-bench, and cracked her head against the gunwale. Magnella, panting, red in the face, held the needles up. Without taking her eyes from Tessa, she tossed the needles, under-arm, across the canal. With a tick-tap, they bounced off a low wall and hit the water.
They sank slowly, the scarf moving like an eel beneath the waves. Tessa watched them fade from view.
‘It did not go well then-’
‘Tessa,’ Magnella said, trying to get her shawl about herself. ‘If you speak once more, I will force a bouquet of nettles into your maidenhood.’
℘
Kasper settled on the windowsill during the late afternoon. He wrapped his tail underneath his back paws, as if underlining them. He squinted at the rain, torrential still, then closed his eyes and nussled his head into his shoulder.
Wind whistled through the courtyard.
Magnella, collapsed on the bed, tried to sleep. For lunch, she had requested feta, peppers (both yellow and green), and red onion, drizzled in olive oil. After that, she’d found a bottle of wine and poured herself a pair of glasses. By the third, she grew tired and ascended to her chambers. She played now, idly, with a golden stylus her husband had bought her.
She wrote, of course. She wrote as much as possible. She wrote to far off lands – to Calpesacate, Drost Beck, Posunt – and further, to Eswen, to Chaule, even Sokpo. She wrote for dowry loans, repayable at much interest. She wrote for suitors. She wrote to marry Lagia ahead of time. She wrote to well-off families. To her many cousins, requesting their attendance, or their hand. She wrote: ‘Bring only your most handsome and well-coffered friends (ensure they are well coffered first and foremost)’. She wrote: ‘It is with much gratitude I return your missal and again, I beseech you…’ She wrote for her family. For her former husband. For her unborn children.
She did not write now. Instead she dozed, woozy, her face feeling thick and drowsy. Sleep did not come. She rolled over and the doorway was empty. She closed her eyes, and opened them. Now Tessa was there. She held a white sheet.
Magnella sat up, eyelids heavy, and said:
‘Tessa, what is that?’
Tessa raised the sheet into the light, in its centre was a patch of pure red. She held it up as if holding it up was the answer to Magnella’s question. Magnella was too drunk for this game.
‘Again,’ she said. ‘Tessa, what is that?’
‘It is Lagia’s bed sheet.’
‘The girl spilt wine.’
Tessa shook her head.
‘The girl is a woman.’
She held up the sheet once more to the light, and the light shone pinkly through the blood, and for a moment, just a moment, Magnella saw the shadow of a broken cockerel play upon the floor.
The Hotel 