What Casanova Told Me Read Free Page A

deliberate setting aside of what is true in favour of what the believer needs to be true, like the suspension of disbelief during a film or a play. Still, it’s lonely work to be a postmodern skeptic.
    Turning her back on the basilica, she followed Lee’s directions and found herself at the restaurant Da Raffaele. She walked out to the terrace where tables had been set up along the canal, and saw the young photographer from the water taxi drinking a cappuccino. He was dressed in what looked to Luce like a magician’s outfit: an ill-fitting black jacket with flaring lapels and a slight shine to the shoulder seams. His bulkycamera rested on the chair beside him. He stood up, grinning, and she shyly turned away, pretending not to see him. “Miss!” he shouted, and as she turned back, flattered by his persistence, a burst of lights flowered behind his head like miniature strokes of lightning—several simultaneous flashes that illuminated his handsome wolfish face. Then a gondola glided by, crowded with Japanese tourists in the act of lowering their cameras. At the bow stood an accordion player and a middle-aged singer dressed in white sneakers and a homely windbreaker. The singer began his version of
“Arrivederci, Roma”
and the tourists clapped like schoolchildren. At the rear of the craft, the gondolier poled on glumly, a red ribbon dangling from his straw hat.
    The young photographer wagged his head at her, as if sharing his contempt for mass tourism. Luce nodded gravely and stepped inside the Da Raffaele to find a table away from the sea air. She had at least an hour of reading time before Lee arrived for dinner. She felt slightly ashamed of herself for bringing the old journal to this public place—especially to a restaurant with the possibility of food and wine stains. However, her ancestor’s travel journal was in better condition than Casanova’s letters and she felt a little freer with something written by a family member. She would make amends by treating it with extra caution.
    Cradling its handsome spine, she supported the diary on her lap and opened it to the first entry. Asked For Adams’ consistently rounded letters were as economical as the bold italic script of Jacob Casanova was extravagant. Here were no mannered dashes or sweeping flourishes. This was the hand of a Puritan descendant, after all. Broad strokes would be too sensual. She smiled, marvelling at its owner, who had defied her Boston upbringing to travel with a man like Casanova.
    She had first read his memoirs for an undergraduate course in eighteenth-century literature. And she hadn’t forgotten her professor’s description of Casanova as a master of deception. In his lifetime, he’d been a spy, a man of letters, a preacher, a novelist, an alchemist, even the director of a state lottery. There were other professions that she couldn’t recall now. Casanova could be counted upon to invent any role for himself that the situation warranted, her professor had said.
    What role did he invent for Asked For Adams, she wondered.
    April 12, 1797
    God Bless our journey! And bring us the boon of good weather!
    Last night Father and I came into Venice at sunset in strange company. Father’s secretary, Mr. Francis Gooch, accompanied us. Our companions on the public boat, a group of young dandies from Trieste whom Father calls Macaronis, tinkled as they moved, their tight-fitting breeches and damask coats hung with glittering fob chains from which dangled watches, rings and eyeglasses, the source of the delightful little noises. On their heads, the dandies wore powdered wigs in the fashion of the old French court and these full-blown headpieces gave off a stench of pomade oil and starch as they paraded up and down in front of us, demanding that we look at them and not at the beautiful orangeries on the shores of the Brenta.
    These human music boxes laughed and whispered to one another each time they gazed at me. I knew it was mygreat height that had