Garden of Venus by Eva Stachniak

money in trust for Sophie, her daughter’s dowry to be paid to her on the day she stands at the altar beside her groom. There will be assurances for the rides in a carriage, and the new dresses, and shawls Dou-Dou likes so much. She could keep all the gifts he might give her: the dresses, the rings, the pendants.
    ‘Do you want my soul too, woman,’ the internuncio laughs, but Sophie can tell he is not angered by her mother’s shrewdness. He is a man of honour, he assures Mana. He will do what is right.
    ‘If she pleases me though,’ he says, his finger raised in the air as if he were warning her that not all is settled yet.
    ‘A virgin,’ Mana answers boldly, ‘needs a good teacher. Then she will learn how to please.’
    He likes that. His laughter rings out, shaking his belly up and down, bringing moisture to his eyes.
    He takes a small ring from his finger and slips it into Mana’s hand. They examine it later, carefully. Note the thickness of gold, and the shine of the small sapphire. The colour, Mana would tell her later as if Sophie hadn’t noticed it herself, of his eyes.
    The crimson robe is wrapped tightly around him. Crimson, he will tell her later, is the colour of the Polish nobles.
    The internuncio is sitting in a gilded armchair, a glass of wine in hand, legs spread. ‘Come,’ he says and she walks slowly, her eyes cast down. Slowly, holding her legs together, just the way Mana has shown her. Inside her, her mother’s fingers have slid a pessary made from a lamb’s bladder. She is not to upset it by too sudden a movement. A vial of dove’s blood is hidden in a secret pocket in the fold of her shift. When he is asleep beside her, she is to quietly spill the blood on the sheets. She takes small steps, her hips swaying gently.
    ‘Closer,’ he says. Her feet are bare, the skin tingling at the smoothness and richness of the carpet.
    Her head is spinning with her mother’s words. Don’t look him in the eye. Hold your head down. Smile, don’t laugh. There will be time for laughter later. There will be time for dancing and for rejoicing when your future is assured. Not now, not yet.
    ‘He is a libertine,’ Aunt Helena has said. ‘For such a man there is nothing sweeter than corrupting innocence.’
    Now her shift is lying on the floor. Her naked body is covered with a sheet, so white that it shines. Her hair has been beautifully braided and pinned high, revealing the nape of her neck. Her eyes have been kohled, lips reddened. At the
hammam
her mother has helped her scrape the hair off her legs and made a special nourishing face mask from an egg yolk and honey. Her skin when she touches it is smooth.
    ‘Closer. You are not afraid, are you?’ he asks, rising from the chair, putting his glass aside. There is another glass of wine on the side table, filled to the brim. It’s for her. She is to drink it with him. To pleasure. To love. To the good times.
    ‘Life is so short, Dou-Dou, so fleeting. Shouldn’t we suck the pleasure out of each moment?’
    Nodding, she takes one more step toward him. She takes the glass in her hand and sips the wine slowly, avoiding his eyes. One small sip after another. The wine smells of oak and berries. It is heavy, with a tinge of sweetness.
    ‘Is it good?’ he asks.
    She nods. She can hardly stop her eyes from darting to the sides. The internuncio’s bed is big. The four posts rise almost to the ceiling. Underneath she can see a white chamber pot, covered with a lid.
    The wine dizzies her. She giggles and puts the empty glass back on the table. The room is hot and she feels drops of sweat gather and roll slowly down her back. The internuncio fills the glass again, but he is not asking her to drink, so she doesn’t reach for it.
    She closes her eyes, just like Mana told her to do, when he parts the edges of the sheet and stares at her for a long, long time. He is muttering something in a language she doesn’t understand. He sniffs her like a dog might,nose close