Naramsin: Pisa
Naramsin’s Journal.
Pisa, Italy.
During the summer of 1348, I had the good fortune to disembark from a long sea journey into the northern Italian port of Pisa. Pisa held many fond memories for me, and it was through a serendipitous turn of events that I found myself once again on Italian soil. Traveling from northern Spain, the ship had originally been destined for Marseilles, but had been turned away by the French authorities without docking for fear of plague. Indeed, several of the crew had suffered mysterious deaths during the voyage, and as a result the remaining short-handed sailors, a superstitious lot, decided then to sail on to their home port of Pisa without delay. Several of the passengers were not as appreciative of this turn of events as I was, and spent the time from Marseilles to Pisa grumbling about their bad luck.
One of the passengers was a beautiful young woman of some substance, a Mlle. Dominique Gerard on her way back to France after a secretive adventure in Spain. She had been originally accompanied by a party of three silent Moors, two extremely large and sturdy men and an exotic woman, but one of the men, as well as the woman, had expired suddenly during our time at sea, each apparently falling overboard at night on separate occasions, for not a trace of them was to be found. Mlle. Gerard had not seemed upset at their disappearances, nor did she appear to be quite as upset as the others over her redirected journey. Indeed, the faintest trace of a smile played upon her face when she was informed of our continuance to Pisa.
I spent the remaining days of the voyage engaged in pleasant conversation with Mlle Gerard, who was appreciative both of my attentions and the perfect French that I spoke, both of which seemed to agitate her remaining swarthy companion. It should not, therefore, come as a surprise that her last companion also disappeared, two nights before our arrival in Pisa.
We disembarked on 22 June, an inordinately hot day as I recall, docking in the old port which was now nearly, strangely, deserted. My nostrils flared. The familiar stench of death and decay hung palpably in the air. Turning and seeing her quite alone, I offered Mlle. Gerard my services in finding suitable accommodations. She laughed, and in perfect Italian immediately secured directions to a local inn from one of the dockworkers.
Then, with a coquettish smile, she said, “Forgive me for being forward, Monsieur Naramsin, but would you be so kind as to assist me with my trunk? For I am, as you can see, all by myself, and it appears there will be no other assistance readily forthcoming.”
I bowed graciously, and easily shouldered her heavy trunk, which appeared to surprise her. For myself, I carried nothing other than the fine clothes that I wore.
We walked in the twilight from the dock through the narrow streets, not quite prepared for what we saw. The streets were abominably filthy, and the few passersby we saw hurried by quickly. There were fires burning at several intersections, and as we drew closer, we saw hooded men hurriedly shoveling bloated bodies into the flames. The familiar stench of death hung palpably in the air. I was intrigued, and as we entered the inn, I asked the solitary, pale, thin man sitting inside to address what we had seen.
Staring at me with a look of incredulity and resignation, he simply said, “Plague.” I nodded, and in equally perfect Italian rapidly negotiated the cost of lodging with him, after which I gave him a few gold coins. He eyed Mlle. Gerard jadedly. “This way,” he said with a shrug.
I laughed. “My dear sir,” I began. “You misunderstand - ”
Mlle. Gerard placed her hand on my arm. “My husband and I are tired and hungry from our long journey. When will supper be served?”
“There is only soup, boiling in the kettle over there,” he said, pointing to a small black cauldron percolating over a low flame in the corner. “Serve yourselves whenever you like.” He turned and went up a low staircase to the second floor, and we followed him into a small, windowed room with a large paneled bed, faded sofa, armoire, and small table with three chairs.
“You won’t be disturbed,” he said. “There are no other guests.” And saying that, he departed, closing the door behind him.
Locking the door, I put Mlle. Gerard’s trunk down at the base of the bed, and eyed her closely. “Well then, ‘Madame Naramsin‘,” I said softly. “What do you propose?”
She stepped close to me, and slowly brought her arms around my neck. “This,” she replied, parting her lips. My hands went around her waist, and I drew her close as our lips locked. The taste of her mouth, the scent of her hair, and the crush of her generous breasts against my chest intoxicated me as we kissed deeply.
But something was wrong -
I went to push her away, but she clung to me with a sudden feral energy that caught me by surprise. Her eyes dilated and became completely black. Her nails, sharper and longer, dug into my back as she pulled me forward and opened her mouth wide -
I laughed loudly as I broke her embrace and flung her onto the bed. “My dear Mlle. Gerard!” I chuckled.
Glaring wildly at me, she bared her fangs, hissed, and leaped again. I grabbed her in mid-air and easily turned her around, pinning her arms with one arm, and binding both her taloned hands with one hand. She thrashed and kicked to no effect, unable to comprehend what had happened.
Lightly, I brushed her exposed neck with my lips. “Sssshhhh,” I said softly. “There is no need for this, my sweet Dominique. Do you understand?” I ran my tongue slowly along her neck. She stopped struggling, then relaxed completely.
“I’m…. I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I - I didn’t know.”
I released my grip on her, and she turned to face me. Gone was the wildness from her eyes. Her teeth and nails had returned to their previous state, and she stared down at the floor, embarrassed. “Please forgive me,” she said. “It’s just that I was, I am, so hungry….” Then she looked at me quizzically. “But how? I can always sense the difference. Why couldn’t I sense you?”
Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“You there!” came the thin man’s shout. “What the devil is going on in there? Let me in at once!”
I smiled at Dominique. “You did say, mademoiselle, that you were hungry?” A broad grin came over her face.
“At once, my dear sir,” I replied, unlocking the door. “Please, come in….”
After dinner, we walked out into the night together. A yellowish half-moon hung low in the sky. Several stars were obscured by the haze of smoke that rose from the myriad pyres burning throughout the city. The firelight cast dancing shadows on the shrouded buildings as we moved slowly along the stone paths, and the sounds of sobs and screams lay thick on the night air. Corpses piled in the walkways, bilious and oozing, spilled onto the walkways. Half-dead people stumbled by covered in boils, moaning deliriously. The Black Death had Pisa by the throat.
Of course, Dominique and I were unaffected, and we walked arm-in-arm towards the Piazza dei Miracoli, keenly aware of, yet oblivious to the grotesque sights around us as we conversed in the sweltering night.
“I was reborn the year Frederick II was crowned at Aix-la-Chapelle,” she said, looking up at me as we walked. “That was the year of their lord 1215.”
“And who was your teacher?” I asked.
“It was Basil,” she replied demurely.
We walked in silence for a moment. Yes, I remembered Basil. A bit too full of himself ever since his moment of glory with William the Conqueror at Hastings, but not a bad fellow. Unfortunately he let his guard down during the campaign against the English at Crecy-en-Ponthieu just a couple of years ago; forgot that the English longbows with their arrows made of yew (one of the Sacred Woods) would kill him just as easily as the regular French knights. Pity.
“And the Moors on the ship?” I asked.
She smiled. “Protectors, given to me by a gentleman in Spain to guide me safely home. But as you can see, they were worthless.”
“But nevertheless full of flavor,” I chuckled. We both enjoyed the laugh.
Then she gazed at me, and in a low voice said, wonderingly, “Monsieur Naramsin, if that is your real name, please, tell me about yourself. Who are you? How is it possible that I did not know you at once?”
Our heels clicked on the footstones as we entered the Piazza dei Miracoli. “Ssshhh,” I said softly. I stopped and stared at the Leaning Tower in the short distance, happy to renew our old acquaintance after so many years. Looking carefully, I could see that three additional loggias had been completed on the Tower since I had last visited Pisa over a century and a half earlier. The belfry above the sixth loggia had not yet been completed, and would not be completed for another few years; nevertheless, the Tower was magnificent, resplendent in the yellow half-light of the fingernail moon.
“Let’s go to the Tower,” I said, and she nodded assent. Grasping my arm tighter, she smiled sweetly at me. To this day, I recall how beautiful Mlle. Dominique Gerard looked that evening, her lovely face flush and radiant, her raven hair flowing freely down her shoulders, the gentle heaving of her proud bosom, with her dark, bottomless black eyes reflecting the yellowing moon….
“Now, Monsieur Naramsin, please tell me your story.”
And so, I began….