Damiano's Lute Read Online Free Page B

whether it be a girl with the figure of a poker or a mother with a dozen children, and Gaspare purely trembled with agitation.
    You’d think he was a girl himself.
    And hey! Gaspare was even jealous of the horse. That was what lay behind his silly resentment of the animal. He was jealous.
    Heat laid a dry hand against Damiano’s face. The clouds had dissolved in the sky. The black gelding trotted now easily, ears a-prick, long head bowing left and right to an invisible audience. It was as though this trip to Provence were Festilligambe’s idea, not Damiano’s. Or rather not Gaspare’s, Damiano corrected himself. Damiano had no pressing desire to meet Evienne and her thieving clerk of a lover in Avignon on Palm Sunday. It was Gaspare who had arranged the rendezvous and set the time. (And what a time! How they had gotten through the snows of the pass at that season was a story in itself, and not a pleasant one. It had almost done for the lute, not to mention the three living members of the party.)
    Gaspare babbled endlessly about his sister, calling her harlot, slut and whore with every breath and always in tones of great pride. He had badgered Damiano into crossing the Alps two months too early,
    just to keep faith with this sister with whom he was sure to squabble again in the first hour.
    There was nothing wrong with Evienne, really. She had a warm, ripe body dusted with freckles, a wealth of copper hair and a strong desire to please.
    But when Damiano compared her to another woman of his acquaintance—a lady whose tint was not so rare or figure quite so generous—all Evienne’s color and charm faded into insignificance.
    Next to Saara of the Saami, all of female humanity came out second best, Damiano reflected ruefully.
    And when Gaspare met Evienne again, along with her lover and pimp, Jan Karl, the boy was sure to learn more pickpocket’s tricks. He was certain to wind up hanged as a thief, if he didn’t die brawling.
    Damiano shut off this silent arraignment of his musical partner, without even touching on Gaspare’s salient vices of gluttony and greed. It was an arraignment too easy to draw up, and rather more pathetic than damning. The upset of spirits it was causing in the lutenist was making his arm throb harder.
    So what if Gaspare was nothing but trash, and daily becoming worse. Who had ever said otherwise—Gaspare himself?
    No. Especially not Gaspare.
    And there was the truth that disarmed Damiano’s argument, Gaspare expected nothing but failure from himself—failure, acrimony, wounded pride. He knew he was difficult to get along with, and he accepted that Damiano was not. Therefore he considered it Damiano’s responsibility to get along with him, as it is the responsibility of a hale man to support a lame companion, or a sighted man to see for a blind.
    And this last tirade, in which the boy had accused Damiano of exactly nothing, had been built on a bizarre foundation of humility. For by letting the lutenist know how disappointed in him Gaspare was, he also let him know how much he had expected of him.
    Damiano’s head drooped. Grass-broken road swept by below the cracked footboard. His fine anger dissolved with the shreds of clouds, leaving a puddle of shame.
    The truth was he didn’t really like Gaspare. Not wholeheartedly, except when the music gave them a half-hour’s unity, or during the rare moments when they were both rested and fed. Gaspare was simply not very likable.
    But the problem was Damiano didn’t like anyone else wholeheartedly either, except of course one glorious angel of God. And that took no effort.
    Gaspare had been right, Damiano admitted to himself. He had failed the boy. He had given him very little, on a human level, since the beginning of winter. Aside from his music, Damiano had felt he had nothing to give.
    And wasn’t the lute enough? Damiano rubbed his face with both hands. God knew it was work to study