S. Parris - The Secret Dead

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The following night, I barely waited until the sun had setbefore slipping out of the side gate and through the alleys to the Cerriglio. Ineeded company, drink, the easy conversation of my friends. Pushing open the door,I was assaulted by its familiar heat and noise, the animated shouting of adozen different arguments, its odor of charred pig fat and young red wine andsweat. In the back, someone was strumming a lute and singing a love song; hisfriends were filling in bawdy lyrics, howling with laughter. I stood still fora moment on the threshold, allowing the tavern’s chaos to crash over me,pulling me back to the world I knew. I had not been able to eat all day, andnow the smell of hot bread and meat tickled my throat, filling my mouth withsalt and liquid.

At least half the Cerriglio’s customers were young friars fromSan Domenico and their companions. Gaudy women moved among the tables, strokinga forearm or sliding a finger under someone’s chin as they passed, gauging theresponse. One caught my gaze as I stood there and I blinked quickly away; whenI looked at their painted faces, all I could see was the bone and gristlebeneath the skin.

I scanned the room, looking for my friend Paolo. Laughterblasted across from the large table in the center, where Fra Donato was holdingcourt, as usual. He glanced up and saw me standing alone; his eyes narrowed andhe leaned across and muttered something to Fra Agostino beside him, whose liptwisted into a sneer. Neither of them troubled to hide the fact that they weretalking about me. I had barely spoken to Fra Donato, but I knew his reputation.His father was one of those Neapolitan barons who had managed to cling to hisland and titles under the Spanish, which led people to speculate about what heoffered them in return. But he was a valuable benefactor to San Domenico, andhis son was regarded as a prior in the making, despite the boy’s obviousdistaste for the privations of religious life. Fra Donato was tall and unusuallyhandsome, with the blond looks of a northerner; it was said he was a bastardand his mother a courtesan from Venice, or Milan, or even, in some versions,France or England. Whatever the truth, his father indulged him generously andDonato had certainly learned the trick of buying influence. He was a few yearsolder than me; I had not expected to attract his attention, but recently I hadbeen aware of his scrutiny in services and at chapter meetings. I guessed that Ihad been pointed out to him as a potential troublemaker, and that this hadpiqued his interest. Now, though, hot with the fear that people could smell thegirl’s blood on my skin, I could not help but interpret any suspicious glancesas proof that someone had seen me last night and knew my dreadful secret. Ifelt the color rising in my face as Donato and his friend continued to whisper,their eyes still fixed lazily on me.

“Bruno!”

I whipped around at the sound of my name and saw Paolo at acorner table with a couple of his cousins, a jug of wine between them. Heraised a cup and I hurried over, grateful to be rescued.

“I thought you had a fever?” He poured me a drink andhanded it over.

“It broke in the night. I’m fine now.”

He grinned. “Well you look fucking awful. Are you sure youshould be out of bed?”

I gulped down the wine, feeling its warmth curl through mylimbs. I was about to make some lighthearted comment to fend off any furtherquestioning, when I was prevented by a commotion from behind us. Voices raisedin anger; glass shattering, the crash of furniture hitting the floor. I turned,and I swear that, just for an instant, my heart stopped beating.

The dead girl stood in the center of the tavern, in frontof Donato’s table. She had knocked over a chair, it seemed, and dashed theglass from his hand. A blood-red puddle spread across the table and drippedslowly to the floor. She was shaking with rage, her right hand extended,pointing at him. The hubbub of music and conversation died away inanticipation; people always enjoyed a good fight at the Cerriglio.

It was her; there was no question about it. The same glossyfall of black hair, the marble skin, the delicate features and wide-spaced eyesas unspoiled as they would have been in life. The same slender throat, unmarkednow. But she had knocked over the chair; how could that be, if she was aspirit? I held myself rigid with fear, my hand so tight around the cup I fearedit would crack, though I could not will myself to move. I did not believe inspirits of the dead and yet, buried deep, I had not shaken off the childhoodmemories of my grandmother’s tales, of revenants and unhallowed souls returningto be revenged on the living.

The girl balled her fists on her hips and cast a defiantglance around the room. I froze as her eyes swept over me, but there was noflicker of recognition. If she had come for vengeance, surely I would be herfirst target? But she turned her blistering gaze once more to Donato, threw herhead back, and spat in his face.

A cheer went up from the onlookers, all except Donato’scomrades. He wiped his cheek with a sleeve, but his movements were those of asleepwalker. He was staring at the girl with a mixture of horror and disbelief.

“Where is she?”

“Who?”

“You know who!” The girl quivered with rage.

Donato rose to his feet and attempted to recover somedignity. “You have me confused with someone, puttana . I do not think Iknow you. Unless I was more drunk than I remember last night.”

This won him a smattering of laughter from the crowd. Thegirl tossed her hair and her eyes flashed.

“Oh, you know me, sir. And I know who you are.”

“So do most of your sex in Naples.” More laughter.

“Have you killed her?” Her voice was clear and strong; shemade sure everyone could hear.

Donato paused, as if catching his breath. The mood in theroom shifted; you could feel it like the charge in the air before a storm. Heleaned across the table.

“I have no idea what you are talking about. But if youaccuse me of anything in public again, I will see you before the magistratesfor slander. Now get out.” He allowed a pause for effect, before adding, coldand deliberate: “ Jewess .”

The word hung between them like the smoke that follows ashot. The girl stared at him as if she had been struck. A sharp intake of breathwhistled through the crowd, followed by a startled cry; in a heartbeat, thegirl was up on the table, silver flashing in her hand. Fra Agostino pushed Donatoout of her reach, a lamp rolled to the floor and smashed, someone screamed, andthen the doorkeeper they called L’Orso Maggiore (for obvious reasons)shouldered his way into the fray and wrenched the girl’s right arm behind herback, sending her knife clattering to the ground. She carried on, yelling andspitting curses as he dragged her off the table and toward the threshold, aseasily as a bear would pick up a rabbit.

“Where is her locket?” she roared, at the door. Sherepeated the same question, louder, as L’Orso hurled her out into the street.You could still hear her cries, even when the door slammed after her. Gradually,the hubbub of conversation resumed until it drowned her out.

“Donato really should learn to take more care where he putsit,” remarked Paolo, shaking his head as he reached for the wine. “He’ll ruinhis father with paternity suits one of these days.”

“Paternity suits?” I turned to look at him.

“Some neighborhood girl accused him a couple of years ago,threatened to make a fuss. His father had to pay the family off. Sounds like he’sat it again.” He gestured toward the door, then glanced at me. His brow creasedand he laid a hand on my arm. “ Madonna porca — are you sure you’re all right,Bruno? You’re white as a corpse.”

“I need some air,” I said, pushing the table away.