Masquerade (11 page)

Bastian and Marco crossed a ponte away from the Campo San Polo, the sounds of the sagra ball following them on the night’s crisp air. The celebrations for the lottery win of a mattress-maker’s wife would no doubt go until daybreak, but the two friends had tired of it soon after midnight.

Bastian tossed the last of his fried sole into his mouth. He loved these neighbourhood balls for the dancing and for the food most of all. ‘Where do you want to go now?’

‘Since we’ve been slumming it tonight, why don’t we go to a magazzino? I feel like some cheap wine,’ replied Marco.

‘As long as there is one not far; my legs are aching.’

‘That’s because you’ve spent the last few hours dancing the furlana with every woman in San Polo.’

Bastian replied with a smile; the fast-paced country dance always put him in a playful mood. Both he and Marco were dressed as the Commedia dell’Arte character, Harlequin. The two looked almost identical in their colourful patched jackets, white felt berets and black masks with a puggish nose, hairy eyebrows and huge bump on the forehead. They found it easier to escape trouble when they dressed alike.

After crossing another ponte, they found a magazzino, but as they approached the entrance they came upon something, or rather someone, in their way.

‘Isn’t that Salvador Oro?’ said Bastian, peering down at the expensively clothed body lying spread-eagled on the paving stones.

Marco nodded. ‘Who else wears bile and Burano lace so beautifully together?’

‘Is he alive?’ said Bastian, watching closely for any signs of life.

Marco nudged Salvador’s side with his boot. ‘Si, he’s breathing. Shame, really.’

‘That’s a bit unfair. He’s not too bad when you get to know him.’

‘I can’t stand him. You know his family’s fortune was made centuries ago through trading wax,’ said Marco, circling Salvador’s body.

‘You’re just jealous of his family’s wealth.’

Marco scoffed. ‘They say he bathes in diamonds!’

‘That would hurt,’ said Bastian with a grimace.

‘I don’t think Salvador feels much.’ Marco gave Salvador a hard kick to the leg. ‘See?’ A mischievous light came into Marco’s eyes.

Bastian knew what that meant.

‘I bet I can convince Salvador when he wakes up that he is a poor man with not even two ducats to rub together,’ said Marco. ‘I bet I can convince him that his life of wealth and privilege was all just a dream.’

‘How do you intend to do that?’

‘That doesn’t matter. Is it a bet?’

‘Fine. I bet that you can’t convince Salvador Oro that he is poor,’ said Bastian, eyeing the ruby ring on Marco’s finger.

‘Bene. Grab Salvador’s feet.’

Bastian obeyed, while Marco lifted Salvador from beneath the arms.

‘Where are we taking him?’ Bastian asked as they walked down the calle, carrying Salvador between them. Even though he was disguised, Bastian cast anxious glances at the people they passed. The last thing he needed was for his father to hear about this. ‘Doge’s son seen carrying dead body through San Marco’, the
Gazetta Veneta
would read. Fortunately, no one they passed seemed to notice the limp body between the two Harlequins, or if they did they simply didn’t care. It was Carnevale, after all.

‘We’ll take him to my family’s casini in Santa Croce,’ answered Marco.

‘I didn’t know your family had a casini there.’

‘I don’t use it often. It’s not the most impressive place to take women, the ones I don’t have to pay. I’m going to make Salvador think he lives there.’

‘You’re always full of surprises.’

‘Let’s swap positions. I’m tired of walking backwards.’

‘You’re so weak,’ said Bastian with a laugh as he stepped around Marco. ‘How much further?’

‘It’s not far now. How is our other bet going, by the way? Is Orelia falling in love with you yet?’

Bastian grinned. ‘I’m taking things slowly with this girl. I’ve been sending her gifts. I think I might invite her to the opera again. It didn’t go so well last week, as you might remember.’

‘Of course, I remember,’ said Marco, almost letting go of Salvador. ‘I had to throw my stockings out after that incident!’

‘That was unfortunate. They were a fetching pair of stockings.’ said Bastian, with a laugh. ‘Anyway, this time, I will request her company and her company alone.’

Marco nodded. ‘There’s nothing like the privacy of an opera box to get a girl to drop her guard.’

‘I’ll need to get this girl to drop her guard and then get that guard to drop its guard.’

‘If you want to admit defeat already, I’ll accept.’

They came to a ponte, which was not easy to cross when carrying a body.

‘Absolutely not. I’m going to win this bet like I win all our bets,’ said Bastian when they reached the other side. He thought he saw a dark flash pass over Marco’s eyes and for a second was worried that Marco might lose his grip on Salvador. The moment passed and Marco smiled. ‘It’s just around the corner.’

They came to Marco’s casini, but the hard work was not over yet. There was still the matter of the narrow stairs. In the end, Marco pulled Salvador up by his arms, while his feet dragged behind his limp body.

With all that Salvador’s body had endured, Bastian was surprised that he had not once awakened from his unconscious state, begging the question of how much alcohol he had consumed.

‘Lay Salvador on the bed,’ said Marco.

Together, they let Salvador’s body drop onto the mattress.

‘Now take off his clothes,’ said Marco. ‘Just leave his undershirt and breeches.’

‘You take them off. I don’t undress men. This is your bet to win.’ Bastian walked away from the bed before Marco could protest.

Bastian looked around the room. It wouldn’t be too hard to imagine that someone who lived here was poor. There were only a few pieces of furniture: the bed with plain white sheets, a table and chairs, a worn rug, and a screen to dress behind.

When he turned to face the bed again, Salvador was lying in his soiled white undershirt. Marco had done away with Salvador’s periwig and his fair hair was messy and matted. He could quite easily pass for being poor, Bastian thought. Maybe Marco would win this bet.

Bastian walked over to the window and opened the shutter. The view was of the wall of a neighbouring casa and a line of washing spanning the calle beneath. On the end of the line connected to Marco’s casini was a dress and bed linen.

The dress looked like it had once been purple, but it was now so faded that it was closer to grey. Bastian reached out the window and grabbed it. ‘I bet you can’t also convince Salvador that you are his wife.’

Marco paused midway between picking up a vase. His arms were filled with other items of small value, probably to put them out of sight. ‘You’re on.’

Bastian tossed him the dress. ‘You’ll need a wig, as well. Though, I don’t know where we’d find a woman’s wig at this hour.’

‘I have one right here.’ Marco walked over to a chest alongside the wall and pulled out a white wig done up in a coiffeur.

‘I’m going to assume a woman left that behind and it’s not yours.’

‘Of course,’ said Marco over the top of the screen, as he began undressing.

Bastian laughed. ‘I’ll be happy when wigs go out of fashion. Wig theft is all those silly pantaloons on the Great Council seem to be concerned with.’

‘Don’t tell me the Doge’s son is concerned with what the Great Council concerns themselves with.’

‘I’m not. Politics bore me. The last thing I want to do is become my father. Now come out, don’t be shy.’

Marco waddled out from behind the screen. The dress was far too short. The seams were strained and material stretched to breaking point. The wig sat atop his head more like a hat than a hairpiece.

‘You look hideous. Poor Salvador. Does he really deserve this torture?’

Marco huffed and smoothed out the front of the dress. ‘He should be lucky to have me as his wife,’ he said with mock defensiveness.

They burst out laughing. Bastian didn’t know what he would do without his best friend. Marco was the only reason he didn’t lose his mind on a daily basis.

The two of them took a seat at the table and sat there talking for the next few hours as they waited for Salvador to sleep off the intoxication. The sun had just begun to rise when Salvador began to stir. At the sound of a groan, Bastian dived out of sight behind the screen, while Marco rose on the spot. Bastian moved around until he found a gap between the panels of the screen through which to watch the performance.

‘Where is my cup of hot chocolate? My washbasin of distilled water? Where are my servants?’ cried Salvador, looking around with a confused expression.

‘Cup of chocolate! Washbasin! Servants!’ cried Marco in a shrill voice, arms flying through the air. ‘Who do you think you are?’

Salvador touched his head and grimaced in pain, then gazed around the room again.‘I am Salvador Oro, son of Bortolo Oro, owner of thirty printing presses. I live in a palazzo on the Canal Grande with a staff of thirty-six servants and even more rooms. Where am I? This is not my palazzo.’

Bastian smiled. Salvador was so pompous; he would never believe himself to be anything less than great.

‘Ha! And I bet you bathe in diamonds too!’ said Marco, with his hands on his hips. ‘Here is some news for you. Your name is Salvador Oro, son of Rocco Oro, pedlar in all six sestieri. This is your casa. You have no more hats than heads! No more gloves than hands,’ said Marco.

‘This is outrageous! I know who I am!’ cried Salvador.

‘Such lunacy! This life of luxury you think you enjoy is all but a dream. This is your real home. I am your real wife.’ Marco thumped his flat chest with a fist.

Bastian stuffed his felt hat into his mouth to muffle his laughter. If Marco was trying to assert his femininity, it wasn’t working. Or was it?

A strange look passed over Salvador’s face. ‘Come lay with me, dear wife, prove you are real, that this is not a dream, too.’ He spoke slowly and deliberately.

Marco’s cheeks reddened and his eyes appeared to double in size. Bastian’s eyes filled with tears of laughter. Even if he did lose the bet, it was entirely worth seeing the look on Marco’s face.

‘I will not lay with you, not while you reek of alcohol and bile!’

‘Then I shall have a bath.’

‘No! We don’t have enough water and I’m not going to the well.’

‘Then a kiss is all the proof I ask and your Salvador I shall be.’

Marco’s face contorted. ‘Fine, one kiss.’

You’ve kissed worse, Bastian thought, remembering the incident last year involving a sagra ball and a pig.

Marco bent down, lowering his face towards Salvador in readiness. Marco’s lips were pressed together in an exaggerated pout in a bid to create distance between them. Moments before their lips touched, Salvador’s hand grabbed hold of a loose curl dangling over Marco’s shoulder and pulled the wig clean off his head.

‘Oh dear!’ cried Marco, his hands flying to his short black hair.

Salvador slammed the wig down on the bed. ‘I knew it! I
knew
it!’

‘You savage man!’ cried Marco shrilly, playfully tapping Salvador with his fan, continuing with the silly charade.

‘I’m going to ruin you, Marco D’Este!’ cried Salvador, lunging at Marco and knocking him to the floor. The man in his underclothes straddled the man in women’s clothes and began punching him repeatedly.

Bastian stood up to help Marco, but he couldn’t help grinning. He had won the bet and he would be laughing for days.

Could life get any better?

Orelia woke up from a nightmare filled with savage flames to another nightmare of an entirely different nature. She blinked her eyes, bringing into focus her bedroom – and the
three
other people in it.

‘Buongiorno,’ sang Angelique, who was sitting on the edge of Orelia’s bed. Veronica was standing at the entrance to the bed alcove, admiring the stucco decoration. Behind her, stood Anna holding a silver tray with a teacup and a pile of donuts on it. Orelia remembered her mother talking about the doughy delights one Christmas, but Orelia had never tasted them before.

‘We thought we would treat you to breakfast in bed,’ said Angelique. ‘Try the hot chocolate. It’s heavenly!’

Orelia didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the blanket up to her chin to hide her indecency, even though she was wearing a modest nightdress, and took the teacup. The sweet liquid filled her entire body with warmth. She looked at the smiling faces around her. Maybe it was a dream rather than a nightmare and she had just forgotten how to tell the difference.

Anna walked up to the side of her bed and held out the tray. Orelia picked up a donut and bit into the soft dough, enjoying the burst of the plump raisins. She licked off the sugar dusting her lips.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Angelique. Her golden hair was pinned into a loose chignon and she looked as fresh and untouched as a wildflower. ‘They’re the best fritelle in Venice. Anna bought them fresh this morning.’

Orelia nodded with her mouth full. She didn’t know what time it was, but judging by the warmth of the sun pouring through the windows, it was almost noon. She, who never used to sleep past sunrise, was now sleeping half the day away. In her defence, they had been out until the early hours of the morning at another masquerade ball.

‘Tell Orelia what you came to tell her so I can go,’ said Veronica, walking around the bed to where Anna stood and taking a fritelle off the tray. ‘Can you please make me a coffee, Anna?’

‘Father is throwing a banquet in your honour next Saturday night,’ said Angelique. ‘He wants to formally introduce you to the most important members of society. He wanted to do it tomorrow night, but I told him the tailor will need a week to make you a gown for the occasion.’

Orelia almost choked on the lump of dough in her mouth. Before she could offer a coherent response, her uncle walked into her bedroom. ‘Has Angelique told you the news?’ he asked Orelia.

‘She has and I’m flattered, but you really shouldn’t make a fuss over me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said her uncle, striding over to a chair and sitting down heavily. ‘We really shouldn’t have put it off this long.’

Orelia’s eyes went from one person to another. She began to feel uncomfortable again.

‘Finish your hot chocolate, so you can get dressed and we can go out,’ said Angelique with mock authority, shaking her finger. She turned her head to address her father. ‘I’m taking Orelia to a tailor in the Rialto.’

‘Molto bene. You’ll need to take Anna with you, as your aunt is expecting a visitor and Maria is working with the clerks on an inventory.’

‘I was going to request Anna come,’ said Angelique, smiling at the young girl. ‘She always has great taste in fabrics.’

‘Are you going with them?’ Signor Contarini asked Veronica.

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’

‘You should. You need some new gowns. Luca Boccassio will be among the guests on Saturday night. He has been asking about you a great deal lately,’ he said to Veronica. ‘He would make a fine husband.’

Veronica slammed her teacup down on the windowsill. ‘I would rather drown in a putrid canal than marry that fool!’ With that, she stormed out of Orelia’s bedroom.

As Orelia sat in the gondola’s felze, it occurred to her that travelling by gondola was not that much different than travelling by horse. In both situations, you moved up and down and if you weren’t careful you could easily come to grief.

Overall, Orelia was impressed with how she was now handling herself in a gondola. She had boarded elegantly without any mishap, but the real test would be in the exit. She had never had any problem dismounting a horse.

Inside the small, shadowed space, she sat opposite Angelique who had changed clothes since breakfast and now wore a cream coloured pet-en-l’air jacket, a shorter version of the robe à la française dress she had worn on the first night of Carnevale. She wore this over a quilted skirt of pink satin patterned with strawberries and strawberry leaves.

Anna sat beside Orelia. She was smiling and softly humming a melody, without appearing to realise she was even doing it. Her voice was beautiful, like a songbird.

Orelia hadn’t spoken to Anna alone since their conversation before the opera. Maria had taken over the duties of dressing Orelia and fixing her hair. Perhaps today, she would find a chance to speak with Anna alone. She had been trying to tell Orelia something about a bundle of letters that night before Maria had interrupted, and Orelia desperately wanted to know what she had been going to say.

Veronica was not accompanying them today. After the scene at breakfast, she had shut herself away in her room and that was that. Angelique had said that these outbursts were as certain as the coming of a full moon and, just like the full moon, it would pass.

Orelia leaned back against the wall of the felze. She needn’t be concerned for Veronica. She was assertive and brave; two qualities Orelia wished she herself possessed.

It was just early afternoon and the Canal Grande was buzzing with activity. As Orelia watched the criss-crossing paths of the many gondolas oared by singing gondoliers, she realised that it was impossible to stay inside your head when there was so much outside demanding your attention.

‘Signor Memo is the best tailor in Venice,’ said Angelique, who was less interested in enjoying the view. ‘He has fabrics from every corner of the world. And there is nothing more delightful than looking through his selection.’

Anna rapidly nodded her agreement.

The gondola began to slow. Orelia turned her eyes to the front and saw the Ponte di Rialto looming before them. She remembered seeing it from the altana of Ca’ Contarini, but her appreciation of it then was nothing compared to the sight of it up close.

The base of the ponte spanned the canal on a single arch while the top was made up of many more arches. Orelia counted them; one in the middle and six on either side. When she looked closer, she saw that beneath the arches were shops facing inward. The ponte was filled with people, some shopping, others stopping for a chat and others just passing over the impossible span.

For a moment, Orelia thought they were going to pass beneath the ponte, but the gondola veered to the left and pulled up beside a length of water steps covered in algae.

Orelia rose and stepped out of the gondola without a single wobble. She had taken a few steps away when she realised that neither Angelique nor Anna were beside her. She turned around and saw Angelique still speaking with the gondolier, while Anna hovered near them.

While Orelia waited, her eyes searched the crowd for the one person she could not seem to get away from. She had not seen Bastian since the night at La Fenice, which was almost two weeks ago, but that did not mean he had left her alone. The first gift he had sent were bunches of blue roses. The next gift was a musical composition commissioned for her. Orelia did not know what the other gifts had been, as she had asked the servants to dispose of anything addressed to her from Bastian.

They walked alongside the Canal Grande, before making a quick turn down a calle and emerging into the Campo Rialto Novo. The campo was filled with wooden stalls selling rich-smelling spices, fragrant flowers of every colour, decorative boxes, and so much more. It was like the bazaars of the East that Orelia had heard stories about.

‘Isn’t this place wonderful?’ exclaimed Angelique.

Orelia looked around with wide eyes. ‘It is!’

Angelique pointed to a church behind them in the square, which was distinguished by a large clock in the centre of its facade. ‘That is the San Giacomo di Rialto,’ said Angelique. ‘That’s how you know you’re at the heart of the Rialto.’

Orelia nodded, realising she should probably be taking note of these things, but she knew that even if she did take note, she would probably forget before dinner. There were so many churches and campos.

‘Come on,’ said Angelique, pulling Orelia and Anna along. ‘The tailor is this way.’

Orelia let herself be led as she listened to the sounds of people haggling and the tunes of street musicians. Amidst all this noise, Orelia heard something shrill and pure, something she had not heard since arriving in Venice. She slipped her hand out of Angelique’s and followed the sound as if she were possessed, pushing her way through the crowd and weaving down calli until she found herself alongside the Canal Grande in an area filled with stalls selling fruit and vegetables. The sound was so close she could almost feel the vibrations in the air. It was the call of a songbird; she knew it.

She looked from stall to stall until she caught sight of the yellow breast of a canary shining as brightly as the sun. She moved closer and her happiness dissipated when she saw that the small creature was trapped within a cage of wire hanging from an awning. More cages, each containing a single canary, sat on the ground around the stall. The only canary that sang was the one in the cage hanging from the awning, perhaps because his lofty position offered a greater promise of freedom than the canaries down below.

Angelique and Anna arrived at her side a minute later, both out of breath and red-cheeked. ‘What were you thinking?’ cried Angelique. ‘I almost lost you.’

‘Mi dispiace. I don’t know what came over me,’ said Orelia. ‘I haven’t seen a songbird since arriving in Venice and I couldn’t stop myself.’

‘There are more than enough pigeons in the Piazza, if you want to see birds.’

‘Are you buying or not?’ barked the man standing among the cages.

‘No, we’re leaving,’ replied Angelique, pulling Orelia away with her.

‘That’s so cruel,’ whispered Orelia, looking back over her shoulder.

‘It’s business,’ said Angelique. ‘Come on, there’s nothing you can do.’

By chance, Orelia’s detour had taken them in the direction of the tailor and only a short distance further Angelique stopped in front of a shop and pulled her through the door. A bell chimed as they entered. The shop was unnaturally light, which Orelia attributed to the rolls of colourful fabrics, reflecting sunlight around the room. It felt safe.

There were no other customers in the shop, or anyone else for that matter.

‘Buongiorno?’ called Angelique.

There was the sound of movement and then an old woman stepped out from behind a cluster of fabric rolls. Her eyes were fixed on Orelia. ‘Isabella?’ she said in a voice made husky by age.

Orelia’s hand flew to her chest and she took a step back, but Angelique grabbed her arm and pulled her forward. ‘That’s Signor Memo’s mother. She’s as old as Serenissima itself,’ whispered Angelique. ‘She gets mixed up with names and faces. Watch, she’ll call me by my mother’s name.’

‘Buongiorno, Signora,’ said Angelique, clasping the woman’s hands. ‘What a pleasure it is to see you.’

‘Ah, Bianca, our best customer,’ said the woman.

Angelique turned back to Orelia and titled her head, as if to say see. ‘I’ve brought my friend,
Orelia
. She needs a dozen new gowns. Is Signor Memo available?’

‘Si, wait here.’ The old woman shuffled to the back of the shop.

Angelique leaned in close to Orelia. ‘I’ll leave you here with Anna. You’ll be fine. Signor Memo is the best tailor in Venice and his mother is harmless.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Orelia.

‘Um . . . to see a pharmacist about my sore throat. Don’t worry, I won’t be long.’

Angelique kissed Orelia on the cheek and hurried out of the shop. The smell of jasmine lingered behind, as it always did when she left a room.

A minute or so later, Signor Memo appeared, followed by a girl of twelve or thirteen. The Signor was tall, lean and about the same age as her uncle. Naturally, he was well dressed.