The Secrets of Casanova by Greg Michaels

Author:Greg Michaels [Michaels, Greg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Historical
ISBN: 9781620152744
Google: 6PDsAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: 1620151782
Publisher: Booktrope Editions
Published: 2013-10-20T16:00:00+00:00

***

For several days, the caravan followed the ancient byway that wound through the desert panorama. At the beginning of one evening, the sunset melted the bleak landscape of ominous Judean hills into soft shades of purple, pink, and orange. There, on an immense plateau, glittered the revered city of Jerusalem.

The caravan moved slowly toward the walls of the city, but the sun had not disappeared before a sighting of the Temple on the Mount gave Dominique a triumphant excitement.

“To think I walk the same ground that Jesus, my Redeemer, walked,” she cried. The adventurers and their guide pitched camp outside Jerusalem.

When the next morning arrived, Jacques sat atop his camel thinking, wondering if his purse would be adequate in Jerusalem. He laughed aloud. So I now should concern myself with thrift?

Khalif collected his pay, his animals, then bid farewell. By the time Petrine had arranged food and lodging, twilight had nearly swallowed the ancient city, but armed with Khalif’s hand-drawn map, Jacques was able navigate to an old and rugged dwelling on a narrow and sinuous street.

Jacques glanced at his companions—one at each elbow—then knocked on the thick wooden door before him. Far away, a yelping dog seemed to respond.

“I don’t want to be standing in this street in total darkness,” Jacques said. He knocked again.

“Who! Are! You!”

Petrine and Dominique recoiled in alarm. The timbre of the sound suggested a screeching woman.

Jacques’ neck hairs stood on end. He took a moment to regain his composure, then decided upon his best French to communicate. “My name is Jacques Casanova. You come highly recommended to me by Omar Ibn Khalif.”

In the center of the door of the clay-brick house, a peephole flipped open. A voice barked back in staccato bursts. “How is it you know Khalif?”

“He led us from Acre to Jerusalem.” Is this a woman? A woman guide?

Silence.

“Khalif promised we would find a porter, a guide worthy of our task.”

Not a sound.

“He gave only your address,” Jacques whispered.

“No name?”

“No name. You see, I trust Khalif. Just as you must.” Jacques stepped farther from the peephole, hoping that whoever was inside might have a better view. “I’m from Venice.”

“Fool, your clothes and sword already tell me you’re an outsider. Hah! Never are Jerusalem’s streets empty of strangers. Let me see the color of your coin,” croaked the voice from within.

Jacques opened his purse and sprinkled his palm, making the coins jingle as loudly as he could.

The voice again sounded. “You’re a fine figure of a man. Are you a Jew or a Christian?”

“Christian.”

“Prove it.”

“Yes, my …” Jacques stopped, then slowly lowered his hands while the startling realization dawned on him. He turned slowly to Dominique and Petrine.

In the last remnants of daylight, Dominique’s eyes gleamed from within the hood of her domino. A sprightly smile broke across her lips.

“Pardon me,” Jacques turned to the peephole, “I’m a professed libertine who has done a great deal of odd service, but in truth, I’ve never utilized my penis as a passport!”

The stillness from the other side of the door brought a rising heat to Jacques’ cheeks.

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