{"product_id":"in-lucias-eyes-isbn-9781400096121","title":"In Lucia's Eyes","description":"\u003cb\u003eBased on a woman who appeared briefly in Casanova’s legendary diaries, here is an elegant and moving story of love denied and transformed from the author of \u003ci\u003eThe Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi\u003c\/i\u003e. • \"Intelligent, poignant, and yes, sexy.... A literary page-turner for those with a brain as well as a heart.\" —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLucia works as a servant girl in Italy and is engaged to be married. But after the  pox disfigures her face, she flees in shame without telling her lover. Years later,  as a reknowned Amsterdam courtesan who never goes out without her veil, Lucia is  at the theater when she recognizes her long-lost fiancé, Giacomo Casanova; and she  cannot resist the opportunity to encounter him again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Based on a woman who appeared  briefly in Casanova’s legendary diaries, Lucia emerges as a brilliant woman who becomes  every bit his match. \u003ci\u003eIn Lucia’s Eyes\u003c\/i\u003e is an elegant and moving story of love denied  and transformed.“Enthralling...Packed with the color of 18th-century life...A complex examination  of thwarted love...A marvelous reversal of hunter and prey, with a soupcon of  \u003ci\u003eDangerous Liaisons\u003c\/i\u003e...Lucia’s slightly arch voice throbs with as much searching  intelligence as sexual passion... What makes \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eIn Lucia’s Eyes\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e so fascinating is  its melding of disparate veins: It’s a painful story that arrives at profound insights  about the nature of love, but it’s spiked with bodice-ripper suspense and humor;  it’s an intensely private testimony of one woman’s peculiar survival, but it’s laced  with a fascinating survey of 18th-century intellectual history. Brace yourself with  all the skepticism you want, you’ll still be seduced.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eThe Washington  Post Book World\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “An irresistible subject...Lucia is a prostitute with a 24-karat  intellect. By the end of a novel that consistently pits reason against emotion, she  has found the means to satisfy each.”\u003cbr\u003e —Kathryn Harrison, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Intelligent, poignant, and yes, sexy.... A literary page-turner for those with a brain as well as a heart.\" —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Japin has done his historical homework...A mesmerizing look into a Europe of  long ago.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e—Condé Nast Traveler\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A dark intrigue...Vivid...Startlingly  poignant...unfolding in intricately plotted flashbacks and divan-rattling love  scenes.... Through Lucia, we’re able to discern firsthand the secrets of Casanova’s  success.”\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e—Vogue\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Inspired by a character in Giacomo Casanova's \u003ci\u003eHistory  of My Life—\u003c\/i\u003ea once beautiful girl disfigured by small pox whom the great seducer meets  again in the brothels of Amsterdam—Arthur Japin spins an enthralling tale on the  mystery of first love and its endurance in the face of a lifetime of hardships.\"\u003cbr\u003e —Andrea Di Robilant, author of \u003ci\u003eA Venetian Affair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"To see the world through Lucia's  eyes is to see it in the fullness of wonders and dangers most never notice.\"\u003cbr\u003e —Paulo  Coelho, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Alchemist\u003c\/i\u003eARTHUR JAPIN was born in Haarlem in 1956. He studied theater in Amsterdam and London  and spent many years acting on stage, screen, and television. His first novel, \u003ci\u003eThe  Two Hearts of Kwasi Boachi,\u003c\/i\u003e appeared in thirteen languages and is now being made  into an opera and a film. He lives in Utrecht.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Arthur Japin’s \u003ci\u003eThe Two Hearts of  Kwasi Boachi\u003c\/i\u003e is available in Vintage paperback.\u003cb\u003e    Amsterdam 1758 \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The evening on which I came to see everything in a new light, I was   planning to dine, as I did every Thursday, with Mr. Jamieson, a   wholesaler of skins and tobacco, and then perhaps to go dancing with   him. It was only after an attack of gout had forced the good merchant   to cancel our appointment that I decided to visit my box at the   theater.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Don't misunderstand me. I am not used to luxury. Since the calamity,   I have been at life's mercy and am very frugal. I've had to be. For a   long time I had no idea what the next day would bring: whether I   would go hungry, whether anyone would shelter me, whether I would be   attacked and forced to move on. Even after I'd finally attained a   certain status in Amsterdam, I always limited myself to a bare   minimum of finery--only what was expected in the circles I was   obliged to move in and the sundries I needed to practice my   profession. I never allowed myself extravagance. Nor did I feel the   want of any. In the last couple of years, however, I did allow myself   one thing: a permanent box seat at the French theater on the   Overtoom, which I visited whenever time permitted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I was on my way there that evening in mid-October. As usual, I had   hired a small but respectable boat. There was a chill in the air. In   Amsterdam the cold on the canals is worse than in Venice. More   piercing and insidious, it sets in months earlier and tends to settle   in the bones rather than the lungs. All the same, I prefer a boat to   a carriage. The people on the quays tend to ignore those who pass   them on the water. More or less unnoticed, I am able to study others   at my leisure. On the evening in question I was doing just that,   partly for my own amusement and partly for professional reasons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    In the curve of the Herengracht, two gentlemen caught my eye. One of   them I already knew: Jan Rijgerbos, a stockbroker. A friendly,   cultivated widower, Rijgerbos is fit, well built, and undemanding.   His companion was unknown to me. He had a dark complexion and a   striking profile. It was the latter feature that immediately   attracted my attention. His appearance touched me in a way I could   not explain. I asked the boatman to row faster so that we might stay   abreast of the two men walking on the quay, and I continued to study   the stranger. His face was oval, and a blond wig framed it to   advantage. Although not particularly handsome, he soon aroused my   desire quite unexpectedly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This annoyed me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I am the one who arouses desire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was too slight for me anyway, I decided. What's more, dressed as   he was according to the latest Paris fashion--in breeches of yellow   silk that showed his calves--he cut an absurd figure in such bleak   weather. I lost interest and began surveying the other pedestrians.   As we passed under the Leidsebrug, however, Rijgerbos and his friend   were just crossing it and I managed to catch a snatch of their   conversation. They were speaking French: one with difficulty, the   other with apparent ease. I liked the sound of the Frenchman's voice   and ordered the boatman to stop beneath the arches of the bridge. We   waited there in the shadows until the two men were out of sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Were it not for the recklessly low neckline I was wearing, or that my   thoughts that evening were far from elevated, or that I am scarcely   the kind of woman a higher power would squander ten minutes of   thought on--were it not for any of these incontrovertible facts, you   might imagine that God, or maybe the devil, had arranged the whole   thing for His entertainment. A coincidence like this! How rare it is   that we are allowed a glimpse of the grand scheme within which all   our lives are arranged. All the years of being buffeted by fate had   not prepared me for what would follow. All that time I had been   constantly on guard. And now, just as I was beginning to think that   fortune had finally grown bored with tossing me about, it rose up   again, coming to feral attention to seize me by the throat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    This time I cannot but accept that some catastrophes do have a   purpose. It does make sense to persevere. I have been furnished with   proof of that. Or at least, God willing, I soon will be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I took my seat as usual shortly after the performance had begun, so   as to offend as few spectators as possible. The opera was an old   pastoral play that had recently been put to music by a composer from   Grenoble. The performers were mainly the theater's regular company,   and ovations welcomed the favorites. The lead, a shepherdess, was   being played by a soprano who had triumphed in this role all over   Europe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Midway through the first act, Jan Rijgerbos knocked at the door of my box.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Well, this is a surprise,\" I said. \"I had no idea you liked the   theater. I don't recall ever seeing you here before.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He was too well bred to show his discomfort at talking to me, but he   did take care to remain out of sight of the audience below. I am used   to that--no harm--and I didn't hold it against him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I must confess that the music is too mannered to my ear, but what do   I know of it? No, I have a guest, a friend from France. He is   visiting our city as an agent of the French treasury and insists on   attending the theater every evening, as he does in Paris.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Rijgerbos stepped aside to reveal his guest, whom he introduced as   Monsieur le Chevalier de Seingalt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"They sold us our seats in the pit with the assurance that we'd have   the best view of the performance,\" the man said in French, bowing to   kiss my hand. \"But no one warned us that the evening's most beguiling   spectacle would not be onstage.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    There is nothing a man can say to a woman that I haven't heard   before. Compliments about appearance in particular always depress me,   especially on a first meeting. From the outset, their sense of   obligation seems to weary them. Dispatched on a mission they have no   faith in, they inevitably stumble, like plow horses pressed to   perform dressage, and their fatigue in the face of the task is   evident from the outset. Some women live for sweet talk. I would   rather go without. But how is a man to know that? Most aim to please   with little understanding of our pleasure.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I cordially invited the gentlemen to join me in the box. Jan   concealed himself behind the curtain, but Seingalt stepped forward   unembarrassed in full view of everyone below. The yellow silk of his   conspicuous suit seemed to light up in the glow of the downstage   candles.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was only when he was sure all eyes were upon us that he sat down   and deliberately slid his chair closer to mine. This could mean only   one of two things: Either Jan had told him nothing about me, or he   had told him everything and Monsieur le Chevalier was an absolute   fire-eater. Either way, I decided to like him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    We listened to the rest of the aria in silence, I all the while aware   of Seingalt looking at me. He was trying to make out the outline of   my face through the lace I was wearing as a veil. Although I knew he   would not succeed, his attempt disturbed me. I had to master my   breathing to avoid betraying my excitement. His eyes, large and black   under heavy lids, would wander, sometimes down over my body,   sometimes up in the hope of catching my expression.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    When the big chandeliers were lit for the interval, I moved aside   into the shadows. The chevalier began to inform me of his recent   arrival from Paris and of his mission to ease France's beleaguered   financial position by selling to the Dutch French government bonds   that had depreciated because of the war. He was staying at the Star   of the East, on the corner of the Nes and the Kuipersteeg. When he   said this, he probed once more for an expression on my face, to no   avail. Eventually he asked what no one in his position had dared to   ask before: whether I would reward his friendly curiosity by allowing   him a glimpse of my countenance. He was clearly unused to a woman's   refusing him anything, because later he tried again, less politely.   Finally he asked forthrightly why I would begrudge him something for   which his desire had only deepened as we spoke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"If you owned a valuable gem,\" I said, \"you wouldn't oblige everyone   who asked to gawk at it, would you?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He smiled, conceding. \"No, I would keep it in perfect safety.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"That is just how I keep myself, monsieur.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e     From the day I first decided to wear a veil, I have found its effect   on men to be remarkable. More than anything, men want that which has   been withheld. A happy certainty is no match for a mystery denied.   Given a choice, a man will always take the unknown.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"This gem of yours must be unique in the world,\" the savior of France   remarked with a pout, letting his gaze glide mischievously down my   bare throat, \"considering that you have no qualms about exposing   other treasures to the idle gawker.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"Give up, sir,\" I advised. \"You have met your match.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I toyed with him a little longer until he fell silent and pretended   that the singers, who had returned to the stage, were demanding his   attention. Not to dash his hopes entirely, I opened my fan and laid   it on the plush before him, a sign well understood all over Europe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    For years I was accustomed to seeing myself in the eyes of others. I   judged myself by their reactions to me. The looks they gave me were   the key to who I was. Then I hit upon the idea of drawing a curtain   over all that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    At first I covered my face only to go out. Constraining myself in   this fashion, I found a freedom I could remember only from my   earliest childhood. Since putting on the veil, I have lived as if   reborn. Unseen by others, I have no need to look at myself. Delivered   from the image that had eclipsed my every other sense of reality, I   move once again through a world without danger, like a child among   protective elders. They allow me more latitude, no longer seeing me   as one of them. I don't have to join in their serious discussions.   While they sit at table, I imagine myself crawling around on the   floor between their legs. Children are aware of the judgment of   adults but don't let it weigh on them. That is the lightheartedness I   rediscovered in my disguise. And it pleased me so much that in the   last few years I have drawn my veil over almost all my waking hours,   even at home, sometimes even alone. At work I always wrap myself in   it. It's what has made me so successful.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    The play takes a dramatic turn. The squire warns the shepherdess: His   son may be in love with her, but he will be disinherited if they   marry. To preserve her beloved's happiness, she pretends to love   another, then abandons her flock to join a convent. Just after she   has become a bride of Christ, the lovesick youth comes knocking at   the gate. He has discovered the whole scheme, but too late. She   allows him one last look at her beauty. Then she dons the wimple and   is lost to him forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"What desecration!\" Seingalt sighed, as the soprano disappeared under   her habit. His indignation was genuine and the words just slipped   out. \"Hiding something so beautiful; that must surely count as a   mortal sin!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    \"I am happy to leave the judgment of our sins to Him who invented   them, monsieur.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    He looked at me with a wry smile. \"Perhaps He would take the same   opportunity to explain why someone like you would choose to hide   herself.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Soon after, I closed my fan and put it away. Heroines who sacrifice   themselves needlessly should not count on my sympathy. I'm annoyed by   silly geese who let their minds overrule their emotions, and glad to   see them get what they deserve. Rather than sit through the rest of   the act, I asked the gentlemen to excuse me. The pastoral was   upsetting, and I come to the opera to be diverted, not disturbed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    It was hardly the first time I had been accused of hiding behind my   veil. A frequent misconception, since quite the opposite is true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I hide the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I have lowered a curtain before it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Through that haze of lace and silk it looks so much softer.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e    2\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I don't remember any boundaries. Pasiano, the estate where I was   born, extended out over the hills as far as the eye could see. The   doors were always open. I could walk for hours and, whichever way I   went, everything was familiar. My parents never worried about me. In   the morning, when I raced off after a bird or a rabbit, they weren't   afraid to see me disappear. They knew that by midday the smells   spreading out over the fields from the kitchens would lure me home   for lunch. While still young I befriended the horses in the meadows,   and in time they let me ride them, with my hands clinging to their   manes and my heels in their flanks. The chicks from the fowl yard   were my toys, and the overseer's dogs were my playmates. Together we   rolled down the golden slopes and ran through the woods. The streams   in the valleys were warm and shallow, and until my tenth birthday the   gamekeepers were forbidden to set traps. At Pasiano there was no   danger. There were no limits to my happiness. I spent my childhood   fearless and unjudged.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I had no reason to believe that things in the world beyond its   grounds were any different.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    Like everyone else, I learned to feel before I learned to think. It   was only after people had begun to teach me that I began to   distinguish things and recognize facts. But I never put what I was   taught above the things I knew intuitively. Even now, I am reluctant   to admit disagreeable realities. Self-delusion has the benefit of   letting us believe that everything is still possible. I have a talent   for that. It makes me feel less afraid. Were the devil staring me   straight in the face, I would still convince myself that my visitor   was an angel. I'm sure I could even set Lucifer to doubting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e    I believe in dreams. I understand them, feel at home in them. For my   first fourteen years, I lived one. That doesn't mean I won't see the   truth. I actually see it much too clearly.A Novel of Casanova","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300644638949,"sku":"NP9781400096121","price":13.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781400096121.jpg?v=1767729924","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/in-lucias-eyes-isbn-9781400096121","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}