When he wakes, sunlight is pressing through the curtains, and the girl still sleeps beside him.
When he wakes again, the sunlight has shifted, grown softer, and the girl is gone. He tries with some success to sink back into slumber, but recollections of the night before—along with concerns about what the girl may have stolen, and the desire to void his bladder—finally rouse him.
Stool and urine in the chamberpot already. Enough water in the pitcher to clean himself. The stack of coins that he left for her is gone, of course, but his own purse still jingles when he lifts it. The ample sheaf of papers in his trunk’s false bottom—letters of advice from a bank in Genoa, an account Narkis established for him—has led him to be somewhat careless with his funds; he turns out the purse on the tabletop to take stock of its contents. Gold sequins, silver ducats, silver soldi, copper gazettes. A few lire and grossi. One scarred and flattened giustina, MEMOR ERO TUI IVSTINA VIRGO visible on its reverse. Coins from other lands: a papal scudi, an English half-groat, a quart d’ecu bearing the device of Henri IV. One blue-green piece he can’t identify. He opens the curtains, winces, holds it to the light. A ducat. A coin of necessity, struck during a siege by a local treasurer from whatever metal could be spared. One side is illegible, worn smooth; the other bears a winged lion, and the year the coin was minted: 1570.
Crivano’s arm spasms and goes numb as if struck on the ulnar nerve; the ducat clatters to the floor, rolls to a corner. Crivano, trembling, stoops to retrieve it. He sits naked at the table, reading the coin’s relief with his fingertips as his eyes grow wet. Thinking of his father. I demand that you end this fatuous sulk at once. I have made my decision. Maffeo and Dolfin will stay here with me. What you say is true: if we defeat the Turks, my estate will pass to them. But we will not defeat the Turks. Don’t you see? The sultan’s victory may come this year, or next year, or ten years from now. But it will come. There is no one who does not know this. To Maffeo and Dolfin, I bequeath my lands and my properties, which are worth nothing, which are in fact a curse that dooms them. To you I give my name, my seat on the Great Council. I am sending you and the Lark to Padua not because you have no legacy in Cyprus, but because the only legacy for you here is death. Crivano wipes his cheeks, dries his face on his peg-hung shirt, dresses himself. Wishing for an instant that he still had Trist?o’s mirror: wanting to read the history in his face, history he’s labored greatly to conceal, to forget. History no other living soul could recognize.
Bells are ringing; he loses count. It must be quite late in the day. Obizzo, he thinks. There isn’t much time left.
On his way out, he ducks into the parlor—unusually crowded—and finds Anzolo by the door to the kitchen. Good day, messer, he says. Did the item—
Ah! Good day, dottore!
Anzolo sweeps forward with a theatrical solicitousness that’s entirely unlike him, and claps Crivano on the shoulders. I am greatly pleased to see you, dottore, he says. But I confess I’d hoped you’d arise a bit later. Knowing of your fondness for lamprey, I had intended to send my girl to the fishmarket this morning, but in my carelessness I forgot until only now.
Crivano is nonplussed: he detests lamprey. I beg your pardon, he says. I don’t believe I requested—
Dottore, a valued guest like yourself should not have to make such requests. You have my apologies. We shall have lamprey for you tomorrow, I hope. Today a very fine turbot will emerge soon from our oven, and I hope you will flatter me by eating some of it before you depart.
Anzolo has a tight grip on his upper arms, restraining him from turning toward the exit. Crivano feels his skin flush, his lip curl with displeasure. A moment ago he’d simply sought to inquire after the parcel he sent to Trist?o; now reflex moves his fingers along his walkingstick’s shaft, preparing to thump this fool in the sternum. He opens his mouth again to protest.
Please, dottore, Anzolo says. I insist.
The innkeeper’s face is garlanded with a beatific smile, but his eyes are fierce—and, Crivano now sees, frightened. The color that rushed to Crivano’s cheek an instant ago now flees; hairs stiffen on his arms and his nape. Of course, he says. Thank you.
A new voice comes from behind him, not a voice he knows: Will you join me, dottore?
Anzolo’s fingers loosen and fall away. Crivano turns.