He smiled, for the first time since we had set out. ‘Of course. This is one of the most important anatomisations I have ever performed. To study a child in utero is a rare piece of luck, as I told you.’
Not for the child, I thought. ‘But you cannot publish your account, surely?’
‘True. At least, not in Naples, and not under my own name. Eventually, however, who knows …’ His voice tailed off and his eyes grew distant. Perhaps he was dreaming of a book full of his experiments and discoveries.
‘But in the meantime – are you not afraid someone will find your notes?’
He smiled again, like a child holding a secret. ‘I keep them very safe. And I trust you, as I said.’
I forced myself to return his smile, though he meant that I was now as deeply implicated as he was. In ways I could not yet fully comprehend, I felt irreversibly altered by what we had done that night. Despite scrubbing myself with scalding water and a bristle brush until my skin grew raw, I could not erase the smell of blood, nor the memory of the girl’s wild death stare. Fra Gennaro made me up a bed in the infirmary, so that I was excused the office of Lauds on account of my supposed fever, but I could not rest. If I closed my eyes I saw her walking towards me with her hands outstretched, pleading, before she reached up and tore the skin from her own face until it hung in tatters from the bloodied pulp beneath.
The following night, I barely waited until the sun had set before slipping out of the side gate and through the alleys to the Cerriglio. I needed 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 a dozen different arguments, its odour of charred pig fat and young red wine and sweat. In the back, someone was strumming a lute and singing a love song; his friends were filling in bawdy lyrics, howling with laughter. I stood still for a 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, and now the smell of hot bread and meat tickled my throat, filling my mouth with salt and liquid.
At least half the Cerriglio’s customers were young friars from San Domenico and their companions. Gaudy women moved among the tables, stroking a forearm or sliding a finger under someone’s chin as they passed, gauging the response. One caught my gaze as I stood there and I blinked quickly away; when I looked at their painted faces, all I could see was the bone and gristle beneath the skin.
I scanned the room, looking for my friend Paolo. Laughter blasted across from the large table in the centre, where Fra Donato was holding court, as usual. He glanced up and saw me standing alone; his eyes narrowed and he leaned across and muttered something to Fra Agostino beside him, whose lip twisted into a sneer. Neither of them troubled to hide the fact that they were talking 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 on to his land and titles under the Spanish, which led people to speculate about what he offered them in return. But he was a valuable benefactor to San Domenico, and his son was regarded as a prior in the making, despite the boy’s obvious distaste for the privations of religious life. Fra Donato was tall and unusually handsome, with the blond looks of a northerner; it was said he was a bastard and his mother a courtesan from Venice, or Milan, or even, in some versions, France or England. Whatever the truth, his father indulged him generously and he, Donato, had certainly learned the trick of buying influence. He was a few years older than me; I had not expected to attract his attention, but recently I had been aware of his scrutiny in services and at chapter meetings. I guessed I had been pointed out to him as a potential troublemaker, and that this had piqued his interest. Now, though, hot with the fear that people could smell the girl’s blood on my skin, I could not help but interpret any suspicious glances as proof that someone had seen me last night and knew my dreadful secret. I felt the colour 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 a corner table with a couple of his cousins, a jug of wine between them. He raised a cup and I hurried over, grateful to be rescued.
‘I thought you had a fever?’ He poured me a drink and handed it over.
‘It broke in the night. I’m fine now.’
He grinned. ‘Well you look fucking awful. Are you sure you should be out of bed?’
I gulped down the wine, feeling its warmth curl through my limbs. I was about to make some light-hearted comment to fend off any further questioning, when I was prevented by a commotion from behind us. Voices raised in 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 centre of the tavern, in front of Donato’s table. She had knocked over a chair, it seemed, and dashed the glass from his hand. A blood-red puddle spread across the table and dripped slowly on to the floor. She was shaking with rage, her right hand extended, pointing at him. The hubbub of music and conversation died away in anticipation; people always enjoyed a good fight at the Cerriglio.
It was her; there was no question about it. The same glossy fall of black hair, the marble skin, the delicate features and wide-spaced eyes as unspoilt as they would have been in life. The same slender throat, unmarked now. But she had knocked over the chair; how could that be, if she was a spirit? I held myself rigid with fear, my hand so tight around the cup I feared it would crack, though I could not will myself to move. I did not believe in spirits of the dead and yet, buried deep, I had not shaken off the childhood memories of my grandmother’s tales, of revenants and unhallowed souls returning to be revenged on the living.
The girl balled her fists on her hips and cast a defiant glance around the room. I froze as her eyes swept over me, but there was no flicker of recognition. If she had come for vengeance, surely I would be her first target? But she turned her blistering gaze once more to Donato, threw her head back and spat in his face.
A cheer went up from the onlookers, all except Donato’s comrades. He wiped his cheek with a sleeve, but his movements were those of a sleepwalker. 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 some dignity. ‘You have me confused with someone, puttana. I do not think I know you. Unless I was more drunk than I remember last night.’
This won him a smattering of laughter from the crowd. The girl 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; she made sure everyone could hear.
Donato paused, as if catching his breath. The mood in the room shifted; you could feel it like the charge in the air before a storm. He leaned across the table.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about. But if you accuse me of anything in public again, I will see you before the magistrates for slander. Now get out.’ He allowed a pause for effect, before adding, cold and deliberate: ‘Jewess.’