Masquerade (13 page)

Veronica paced up and down the portego. The black silk of her gown swished through the air each time she spun around at the end of the long hall. She had been doing this for ten minutes. In another ten minutes, Angelique would have finished deciding upon the position of her beauty spot and Veronica would have no choice but to join her in the dining room on the floor below where the guests were already gathering.

She had to think quickly. Yet thinking was all that she had done that day. The more she thought about her latest suitor, the more he troubled her. Unlike all his predecessors, Luca Boccassio had
no
secret. And her father seemed especially eager to push them together.

She had met Luca on quite a few occasions since Signora D’Este’s ball on that very first night of Carnevale, but she’d learnt nothing from him that could pass as a secret. She’d even followed him, spoken to friends, neighbours and people at his local tavern, and she still had come up with nothing.

In fact, all she had found out was how much people adored him. Luca was a halo short of being an angel, it appeared. He had no secret. And if he had no secret . . .

She did not want to think how that sentence would end.

Veronica slammed her hand down on the small table beside her, nearly upsetting a vase of white carnations. This was not the calm, controlled person her success depended on. She had to maintain her composure and control her hostility. The best way – and sometimes the only way – to discover her suitor’s secret was by feigning pleasantness to get close to them, to get to know them, to learn where he spent his time, whose company he kept, how much wine he could handle.

Veronica looked at the staircase that led down to the piano nobile. She could hear guests arriving. She pressed her eyelids shut and when she opened them again, it was with new purpose. Luca had to have a secret, everyone had one. She simply hadn’t discovered it yet.

At the sound of a door opening, Veronica turned to see Angelique appear from her bedroom. She looked beautiful in a yellow gown, her golden hair adorned with artificial birds.

‘How sweet of you to wait for me,’ said Angelique, gliding into the portego.

‘Where is Orelia?’ asked Veronica.

‘She’ll be along in a minute.’ Angelique linked arms with Veronica and motioned to the staircase. ‘Shall we?’

Veronica rolled her eyes. ‘If we must.’

‘I know you hate the idea of marriage, but you have to admit, Luca is very handsome,’ said Angelique, squeezing her sister’s arm.

‘So is a vase,’ replied Veronica dryly, ‘but I do not wish to marry it.’

When they stepped into the dining room, Veronica saw that it was more than just a small gathering as her father had described. The room was filled with people talking and laughing. Some were masked, some not.

Angelique disappeared into the crowd, but Veronica stayed where she was, her eyes scanning the faces. There were the usual guests: patricians, neighbours, merchants, people who would make you regret not inviting them. She could not see Luca among them. Perhaps, he was not coming. Was it possible that he had already changed his mind about wanting to marry her? Why else would he not be here?

While Veronica was celebrating her incredible fortune, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned and found herself looking into a pair of deep brown eyes.

‘My apologies for being late,’ said Luca, pulling at the sleeve of his navy blue dress-coat.

‘That’s perfectly all right,’ said Veronica. ‘I’m so pleased that you could come.’

Luca looked down at the ground sheepishly, which accentuated the crooked shape of his nose. ‘I almost didn’t.’

‘Oh, why ever not?’ said Veronica.

‘It’s probably wise if I keep that to myself.’

Veronica suppressed a smile. This was going to be easier than she imagined. ‘You can trust me.’

Again, Luca fiddled with the edge of his sleeve. Veronica noticed there was a dark patch covering his lower arm, dark like blood. She exhaled in anticipation. Was he about to confess to murder? That would indeed be a challenge to paint.

‘I almost went for a swim in the Canal Grande.’

Veronica raised an eyebrow. Had someone tried to murder Luca?

‘How so?’ she whispered in a voice that she hoped would encourage him to reveal more.

Luca lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘I had given my gondoliers the night off, intending to have a quiet evening myself. My parents are attending to business on the mainland, you see. Then I remembered your father’s invitation and decided that rather than ask one of the gondoliers to work, I would row myself here. It didn’t look that far, just across the canal . . . Let’s just say, I would not advise anyone but a gondolier to try it.’

Veronica laughed.

‘I’m sure I’ll be able to laugh, too, when my clothing dries. You should see the state of my periwig,’ said Luca, his cheeks reddening.

Veronica half-smiled and looked away. She did not want to encourage his act as the bashful gentleman. It was sickening.

‘Let me apologise about how our last conversation ended,’ said Luca. ‘I did not mean to offend you.’

‘If you’re referring to our conversation about the moon, I was not offended.’

‘Good because . . .’

Veronica’s heart quickened. This was the moment when he would confess his love for her. If she had to hear those vile words, she would not be able to eat her dinner.

‘Oh, look!’ she said. ‘Everyone’s taking their places at the table.’ Without meeting his eyes, she hurried over to the table and sat down in one of the few remaining seats. Luca followed, taking the seat opposite her.

A few places down, at the head of the table, sat her father. He gave her an encouraging nod. Veronica busied herself with straightening her cutlery, not daring to look up to see if anyone else noticed. The last thing she wanted was for her and Luca to become society gossip. Once that spot fire was lit, there was no way to control the blaze.

Eventually, Veronica cast her eyes down the length of the table and saw Orelia seated beside Angelique. That was where she should be, away from her father and away from Luca.

She turned her attention to the banquet laid out on the table. Steam rose above bowls of white Bassano asparagus, artichokes and stewed aubergine. There was a selection of seafood dishes, dishes such as seppie col nero, cuttlefish cooked with their own ink; sarde in saor, fried sardines with onions, raisins, pine nuts and vinegar; and branzino al forno, baked bass on sliced onions and tomatoes. Amongst all these were creations designed to impress; cheese carved into the shape of birds, gilded oysters, dishes coloured with saffron and a profusion of oh-so-expensive pepper.

A moment later, her father stood up and tapped his fork on the side of his glass. Hush fell over the room. Everyone turned to look at him.

‘I would like to welcome you all and thank you for joining us this evening. The reason I have invited you here is to introduce you all to my dear goddaughter, Orelia.’

He extended his arm in Orelia’s direction, causing her eyes to dart around nervously.

‘She has come to live with us from Rome through tragic circumstances. I ask that you embrace her as a daughter of Serenissima . . . Now, please enjoy the feast!’

The guests toasted Orelia and then dinner truly began. Veronica waited while a servant filled her plate with food, knowing her tastes exactly. Conversations began around her, but her ears were attuned to only one conversation, the one that her father was having with Luca.

‘I would rather have my eyes poked out than be in the audience of a Goldoni play,’ said her father.

‘The future of the theatre is with playwrights like Goldoni. The Commedia dell’Arte is dying. It is improvised nonsense that makes commoners roar with laughter,’ said Luca, his voice calm and even.

‘The Commedia dell’Arte is Venice. Anything else is an insult.’

Luca’s eyes danced. ‘I disagree. It’s time stock characters disappeared from the stage entirely and the people of Venice see themselves appearing on the stage . . . What are your thoughts, Veronica?’

Veronica choked on her mouthful of turnip. She had prepared herself to be civil and well-mannered, but she had not come prepared to give her opinion. That was not part of the role she had stepped into this evening.

Veronica studied Luca. His eyes had not left her and there was a crooked smile on his face. He was playing with her, just like he had at Signora D’Este’s ball on the first night of Carnevale. She could play games, too, even if she did really agree with his views and argued frequently with her father about the issue.

Veronica swallowed and dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. ‘If you want my opinion, I believe the opera far exceeds the theatre in any form.’

Down the other end of the table, an entirely different set of dramas were playing out.

Sitting facing the mirrored wall, Bastian adjusted the position of his white bauta mask dusted with the finest particles of gold glitter. Despite its commonness, the bauta was his favourite mask because it allowed absolute freedom. There was no telling who was beneath the mask and due to its ingenious design, the wearer could eat and drink freely beneath the projecting chin. It also distorted one’s voice, which was perfect for occasions like this.

Tonight, he was not Bastian Donato. He was Marco D’Este. He had been surprised when he had received a note from Marco that afternoon suggesting they swap identities for the evening. Marco had not forgotten to mention that the banquet was in honour of Orelia. If they both played their cards right that evening – Bastian with Orelia, and Marco at a high-stakes card game held in a secret location – it would be a very profitable evening indeed.

Next to Bastian sat one of the D’Este’s servants, Francesca. She seemed to be enjoying herself or maybe she was just consuming too much wine. Every so often, her eyes darted around as if someone might see through her disguise.

Bastian looked over at Orelia. She looked breathtaking in a green gown, the material so lustrous it shone like an emerald. He was seated across from her so he could ‘gaze in her eyes with eyes confessing fire’, in the words of the Roman poet, Publius Ovidius Naso. Bastian had decided that if he was going to make Orelia fall in love with him, where better to start than with
The Art of Love
, the instructional guide on how to find and keep a woman.

Having made the pursuit of women his soul purpose in life, Bastian thought he had known everything about getting them. On some topics he could have written the book. He didn’t have any offending hair sprouting from his nostrils that the poet advises against, and he was lavish with promises and flattery. But there was a lot he had learnt from the guide, such as not forgetting a woman’s birthday or that a man’s tears will move stone.

That afternoon, Bastian had just finished reading the chapter titled, ‘At Dinner Be Bold’. He took a sip of wine. According to the poet, drunkenness hinders the pursuit of love, though, in some circumstances, it is useful to pretend to be drunk. Bastian certainly hoped all his effort would be rewarded.

To Orelia’s right was Angelique Contarini. She was very pretty, but he had decided long ago to stay away from Signor Contarini’s daughters for fear of crossing their over-protective father. Maybe he could break that rule tonight. He was Marco, after all.

Bastian looked around and noticed that people were beginning to leave their seats, heading either to the library to play cards or the sitting room to gossip and listen to the musicians.

He had to draw Orelia aside. In ordinary circumstances, he would only have to wink at the woman he wanted and they would follow him anywhere. This girl was different – wary and guarded. He would have to make her trust him, somehow.

With the empty seats now dotted around them, it was possible to hear individual conversations. Pretending to still be eating, he listened as Angelique asked the woman across from her how long until she was expected to give birth. There was an awkward pause when the woman replied that she was
not
pregnant, before Angelique launched into saying, ‘The funniest thing happened today. Orelia and I were at the Rialto and when I turned around, Orelia was gone. I found her standing in front of a stall selling canaries with tears in her eyes. I practically had to drag her away.’

The woman laughed, the ample flesh above her tightly cinched chest jiggling.

Bastian looked at Orelia. Her cheeks had reddened and she looked down into her lap. In the moment before the laughter ended and the next topic of conversation began, Bastian stood up. ‘How about a game of Blind Man’s Bluff?’ he cried, deliberately adding a slight slur to his words.

Beside Orelia, Angelique clapped her hands. ‘Si, Si!’ she cried, just as he predicted. ‘That is a splendid idea . . .’

‘Marco,’ said Bastian with a wink.

Angelique blushed. ‘Anyone who wishes to play can join us in the portego.’

Around them guests began to stand up, but Orelia stayed seated. Bastian watched with interest as Angelique practically pulled her up. ‘Come on. It will be fun,’ she said.

They filed through the dining room into the portego where Angelique appeared holding a blindfold. There were ten players. Among them were Francesca and the round not-pregnant woman, otherwise known as Signora Visconti.

‘Who shall be in first?’ asked Anglique.

‘I’ll think of a number between one and ten,’ said Bastian in a commanding voice he had learnt from his father. ‘Whoever guesses it will be in first.’

‘That’s fair,’ said Angelique.

Closing his eyes, Bastian pretended to think of a number, but instead he was thinking about what Orelia’s initials could be. He didn’t know her surname. He wondered where they would be embroidered on her chemise. On the sleeve? Near the hem?

‘I have a number in my head,’ he said eventually.

‘I guess nine,’ said Angelique.

Each guest took a turn guessing a number. But there was only one guess he paid attention to. ‘My number was four,’ he said at the end, looking directly at Signora Visconti.

‘Give me the blindfold,’ she huffed.

‘You have to take your mask off to be in,’ said Angelique, handing the piece of material to Signora Visconti. ‘Otherwise, the blindfold won’t sit right and you’ll be able to see.’

Bastian froze. He hadn’t taken this into consideration when he suggested the game. If he took his mask off, everyone would know that he was not Marco D’Este.

He glanced towards Francesca, but she was already gone.

Calmly, Bastian took off his dress-coat and handed it to a servant. He didn’t need to hide. He just had to ensure he didn’t get caught, and when he looked around at the giddy players, he realised that wouldn’t be too difficult.

Signora Visconti handed over her mask and tied the blindfold around her head. The moment her hands went out in front of her, guests shrieked and ran off in different directions. Signora Visconti’s hands reached at thin air as she took tiny steps forward. Bastian was right, he wouldn’t get caught, nor would anyone else for that matter.

Bastian’s eyes searched for Orelia and found her standing on the other side of the portego, watching Signora Visconti carefully. He approached Orelia from behind and when he was close enough whispered, ‘You should have told that woman that she deserved to be in a cage, not the canaries.’

Orelia quickly turned her head to look over her shoulder, her striking eyes wide and bright. Then she did something entirely unexpected, she laughed. ‘That would certainly have made her readily accept me as a daughter of Serenissima,’ she whispered.

As he had done when they danced on the first night of Carnevale, Bastian moved his mouth close to her ear. ‘Why is it so important to be accepted?’

‘Because then I won’t stand out.’ After a pause, she added, ‘Is your name really Marco?’

Bastian gave her a mischievous smile. ‘I think you know the answer to that, which is why you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me all evening.’

Before Orelia could respond, Signora Visconti swiped at the air only inches from them. Bastian pushed Orelia out of the way and they ran along the wall to the other side of the portego. When they were safely out of Signora Visconti’s reach, they both laughed.

‘I was disappointed that we did not spend more time together at La Fenice,’ said Bastian, whispering into her ear.

‘Really?’ said Orelia, looking straight ahead, watching Signor Visconti. ‘Because I had a wonderful time with a charming gentleman in Box 43.’

Bastian stiffened for a moment before calling her bluff. ‘Signor Loredan is very fit for someone approaching his eightieth birthday. Did you get my gifts?’

‘I’m not the sort of woman who enjoys artificial flowers. Perhaps if you had written the musical composition yourself, I might’ve been more impressed.’

‘Perhaps this will impress you then. . . .’ Bastian moved around to face Orelia, but before he could do anything further, he felt two hands grip his shoulders from behind.

‘Buonanotte, Marco,’ whispered Orelia as Signora Visconti cried out in victory.

For a moment Bastian stood there dazed, not believing he’d been caught. He quickly regained his senses, winked at Orelia and fled from the room.