Gary Jennings - The Journeyer

My father said mildly, but with finality, “I am a merchant and she is the widow of a merchant and Venice is a merchant city, where all know that there is no better reason for doing anything than a mercenary reason. To a Venetian, money is the second blood, and you are a Venetian. Now, I have heard your objections, Marco, and I have dismissed them. I wish to hear no more. Remember, a closed mouth says nothing wrong.”

So I kept my mouth closed and said nothing more on the subject, wrong or otherwise, and on the day my father married the Dona Lisa I stood in the confino church of San Felice with my uncle and all the free servants of both households and numerous neighbors and merchant nobles and their families, while the ancient Pare Nunziata tremblingly conducted the nuptial mass. But when the ceremony was over and the Pare pronounced them Messere e Madona and it was time for my father to lead his bride to her new dwelling, together with all the reception guests, I slipped away from the happy procession.

Although I was dressed in my best, I let my feet take me to the neighborhood of the boat people. I had only infrequently and briefly visited the children since my release from prison. Now that I was an ex-convict, the boys all seemed to regard me as a grown man, or maybe even a person of celebrity; anyway, there had come a sort of distance between us that had not existed before. However, on that day I found no one at the barge except Doris. She was kneeling on the planking inside its hull, wearing only a skimpy shift, and lifting wet wads of cloth from one pail to another.

“Boldo and the others begged a ride on a garbage scow going out to Torcello,” she told me. “They will be gone all day, so I am taking the opportunity to wash everything not being worn by somebody.”

“May I keep you company?” I asked. “And sleep here again in the barge tonight?”

“Your clothes will also need laundering, if you do,” she said, eyeing them critically.

“I have had worse accommodations,” I said. “And I own other clothes.”

“What are you running away from this time, Marco?”

“This is my father’s wedding day. He is bringing home a marègna for me, and I do not particularly want one. I have already had a real mother.”

“I must have had one, too, but I would not mind having a marègna.” She added, sighing like an exasperated grown woman, “Sometimes I feel I am one, to all this crowd of orphans.”

“This Dona Fiordelisa is a nice enough woman,” I said, sitting down with my back against the hull. “But I somehow do not wish to be under the same roof on my father’s wedding night.”

Doris looked at me with evident surmise, dropped what she was doing, and came to sit beside me.

“Very well,” she whispered into my ear. “Stay here. And pretend that it is your own wedding night.”

“Oh, Doris, are you starting that again?”

“I do not know why you should refuse. I am accustomed now to keeping myself clean, as you told me a lady ought to do. I keep myself clean all over. Look.”

Before I could protest, she stripped off her one garment in one lithe movement. She was certainly clean, even to being totally hairless of body. The Lady Ilaria had not been quite so smooth and glossy all over. Of course, Doris was also lacking in feminine curves and rotundities. Her breasts were only just beginning to be distinct from her chest, and their nipples were only a faintly darker pink than her skin, and her flanks and buttocks were but lightly padded with womanly flesh.

“You are still a zuzzurullona,” I said, trying to sound bored and uninterested. “You have a long way to go to become a woman.”

That was true, but her very youth and smallness and immaturity had their own sort of appeal. Though all boys are lecherous, they usually lust for real women. Any girl of their own age, they tend to regard as only another playmate, a tomboy among the boys, a zuzzurullona. However, I was somewhat more advanced in that respect than most boys; I had already had the experience of a real woman. It had given me a taste for musical duets—and I had for some time been without that music—and here was a pretty novice pleading to be introduced to it.

“It would be dishonorable of me,” I said, “even to pretend a wedding night.” I was arguing with myself more than with her. “I have told you that I am going far away to Rome in a few days.”

“So is your father. But it has not prevented his getting really married.”

“True, and we quarreled about that. I did not think it right. But his new wife seems perfectly content.”

“And so would I be. For now, let us pretend, Marco, and afterward I will wait, and you will come back. You said so—when there is another change of Doge.”

“You look ridiculous, little Doris. Sitting here naked and talking of Doges and such.” But she did not look ridiculous; she looked like one of the pert nymphs of old legend. I truly tried to argue. “Your brother always talks of what a good girl his sister—”

“Boldo will not be back until tonight, and he will know nothing of what happens between now and then.”

“He would be furious,” I went on, as if she had not interrupted. “We should have to fight again, the way we fought after he threw that fish so long ago.”

Doris pouted. “You do not appreciate my generosity. It is a pleasure I offer you at the cost of pain to myself.”

“Pain? How so?”

“The first time is always painful for a virgin. And unsatisfying. Every girl knows that. Every woman tells us so.”

I said reflectively, “I do not know why it should be painful. Not if it is done the way my—” I decided it would be maladroit of me to mention my Lady Ilaria at this moment. “I mean, the way I have learned to do it.”

“If that is true,” said Doris, “you could earn the adoration of many virgins in your lifetime. Do show me this way you have learned.”

“One begins by doing—certain preliminary things. Like this.” I touched one of her diminutive nipples.

“The zizza? That only tickles.”

“I believe the tickling changes to another sensation very soon.”

Very soon she said, “Yes. You are right.”

“The zizza likes it, too. See, it lifts to ask for more.”

“Yes. Yes, it does.” She slowly lay back, supine on the deck, and I followed her down.

I said, “A zizza likes even more to be kissed.”

“Yes.” Like a lazing cat, she stretched her whole little body, voluptuously.

“Then there is this,” I said.

“That tickles, too.”

“It also gets better than tickling.”

“Yes. Truly it does. I feel …”

“Not pained, surely.”

She shook her head, her eyes now closed.

“These things do not even require the presence of a man. It is called the hymn of the convent, because girls can do this for themselves.” I was being scrupulously fair, giving her the opportunity to send me away.

But she said only, and breathlessly, “I had no idea … I do not even know what I look like down there.”

“You could easily see your mona with a looking glass.”

She said faintly, “I do not know anyone who owns a looking glass.”

“Then look at—no, she is all hairy down there. Yours is still bare and visible and soft. And pretty. It looks like …” I reached for a poetic comparison. “You know that kind of pasta shaped like a folded little shell? The kind called ladylips?”

“You make it feel like lips being kissed,” she said, as if talking in her sleep. Her eyes were closed again and her small body was moving in a slow squirm.

“Kissed, yes,” I said.

From the slow squirm, her body seemed to clench briefly, then to relax, and she made a whimpering noise of delight. As I continued to play musically upon her, she made that slight convulsion again and again, each time lasting longer, as if she was learning through practice to prolong the enjoyment. Not ceasing my attentions to her, but using only my mouth, I had my hands free to strip off my own clothes. When I was naked against her, she appeared to enjoy her gentle spasms all the more, and her hands fluttered eagerly over my body. So I went on for quite a while, making the music of the convent, as Ilaria had taught me. When finally Doris was shiny with perspiration, I stopped and let her rest.