The Alchemist's Pursuit Read Free Page A

investigate a murdered pope, let alone a courtesan.
    She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “She still had all her clothes on, and also her jewels.”
    That was certainly unusual, and the Maestro took a moment to respond.
    â€œWhen and where did she die?”
    â€œShe was last seen three weeks ago, January fourteenth. Her body was found floating in the lagoon about a week later.”
    â€œBah! What the fish left of her body, you mean. It is impossible! No witnesses, of course? No clues or leads? Has her last customer been identified?”
    Stony-faced, Violetta said, “I did not hear the news until three days ago, and some of it only this morning. No to all of your questions.”
    â€œImpossible. Ask the recording angel on Judgment Day.” He bent to his book again.
    â€œYou are the greatest clairvoyant in Europe.”
    He did not reply.
    â€œClairvoyance only reveals the future,” I said softly. “Not the past.”
    Violetta ignored my remark. “Lucia left me everything she had, and I will gladly pay it as a reward for the capture and execution of her killer.”
    The Maestro raised his head like a hound that has scented its quarry. “And how much is that?”
    Violetta-Aspasia looked close to tears. “Depending on how much the house sells for, the notary told me he thought it would amount to about 1,470 ducats.”
    Nostradamus painfully twisted around to stare at me, no doubt wondering if I had stage-managed this conversation. I had no difficulty in looking suitably startled. A courtesan with such a fortune was almost as amazing as another one offering to give it all away. Giorgio, our gondolier, would need a century to earn that much, because his wages are limited by law to his board and fifteen ducats a year.
    Obviously Lucia had been a cortigiana onesta like Violetta, an honored courtesan, one who entertains men with her wit and culture. Sex is not the least of her attractions, but it is far from the only one and not necessarily the greatest. Men are drawn to Venice from all over Europe by the beauty and skill of our courtesans. The state permits them to ply their trade and then taxes them exorbitantly.
    â€œAlfeo!” Nostradamus snapped.
    â€œMaster?”
    â€œWarn Mama that we have a guest for dinner and tell Bruno I need him.” Although he rarely displays it, Nostradamus does have a sense of humor; sometimes he can even laugh at himself.

2
    T he dining room on the upper floor of Ca’ Barbolano can seat fifty. The Maestro and I dine there in splendor every day, with silver tableware on damask tablecloths under grandiose Burano chandeliers. I dine, he nibbles. The palace belongs to sier Alvise Barbolano, who is richer than Midas and a similar age. The old man lets the Maestro stay on the top floor rent free in return for some trifling services, including business astrological advice, trading clairvoyance, and effective roach poison. The Barbolanos live below us, on the piano nobile . Below that are two mezzanine apartments, occupied by the Marciana brothers and their respective families; they are of the citizen class, partners with sier Barbolano in an import-export business.
    I once suggested to the Maestro that he obtain a chair on wheels, but he does not need it while he has Bruno, who is a mute, a little larger than Michelangelo’s David . He happily lifted Nostradamus, chair and all, and carried him through to the dining room. He loves to be useful.
    And Mama Angeli loves to cook. St. Peter’s fish comes from the deep sea especially to bathe in her orange sauce and I marvel that the holy man himself does not descend to sample the result. Even the Maestro ate industriously for several minutes. Violetta has dined with royalty, but she raved about the food and discussed with me the two magnificent Paolo Veronese paintings on the wall. She was still Aspasia, her political mode.
    I asked her about Carnival, which had been running