Masquerade (16 page)

Bastian looked skyward with an intensity he reserved for watching women undress. He would never know freedom like these small, yellow birds. He would never know what it was like to fly away.

‘I hope they’re safe,’ said Orelia. ‘What if they get snatched up by some bird of prey or can’t survive on their own?’

Bastian laughed, glancing away from the sky to look at Orelia. ‘They’ll be fine and even if they are not, isn’t it better to be free for a short while, than caged for life?’

‘You’re right,’ said Orelia, eventually.

‘And you’re beautiful,’ he said. Bastian plucked a white flower that gleamed like moonstone, and held it out it to Orelia.

A cool change seemed to pass over the garden as Orelia’s smile vanished from her face. ‘Is all this just to impress me?’

Dropping the flower, Bastian ran his hand through his hair. ‘It was at first . . . but then when I saw the canaries in their cages, I felt their pain and I had to do something. It’s nice to be able to free something, since I cannot free myself,’ he said, surprised at his honesty.

‘You strike me as the most free man in Venice, dashing about breaking hearts, crashing banquets with stolen identities, and taking innocent girls on midnight dalliances in walled gardens – and I’m sure that’s not the least of it. What do you know about being trapped?’

‘I
live
in the seat of the government. If that’s not enough, my father wants me to follow in his footsteps one day. Can you imagine me being the Doge?’ Bastian shook his head. ‘The illustrious Doge is the most trapped man in all of Serenissima. He can’t even open his own mail or leave the palazzo without an escort. My mother couldn’t bear the life as Dogeressa. She ran off with a Spaniard when I was a child. It’s not the life I want either, but I have no choice. In a few years, when I turn twenty-five, I will have to take a seat on the Great Council like all patricians. In the meantime, my father wants to send me to university in Padua. He thinks he can change me into the man that the council will elect as Doge one day.’

Orelia let go of his hand and sat on the edge of the circular fountain. ‘What’s so terrible about going to university or being on the Great Council?’

‘It’s not what I want to do,’ answered Bastian, sitting down beside her.

‘What do you want to do, then?’

Bastian looked down at the blades of grass.

Dipping her fingers in the water, Orelia flicked cold droplets at him. ‘Tell me.’

‘I want to explore the world like Marco Polo. I love the sea. When I was a child, I taught myself to command a gondola. I used to pretend I was the captain of a ship. My dream still is to sail to all corners of the world and savour its delights.’ He spoke quickly, so she would not have time to laugh at him. ‘But if I refuse to follow the path my father has laid out for me, I’ll be cut off. I’ll have no money and without money, I can do nothing.’

‘There are plenty of women to savour in Venice or have you savoured them all?’

Bastian shrugged. ‘I don’t deny that I’ve made pursuing desire my chief quest in life, but that’s not who I want to be any more. That’s one of the reasons I love this garden so much. I feel like I can be a different a person when I’m here, as though I can leave part of me on the other side of the wall.’

Orelia narrowed her eyes as she looked at his face, as if she was seeing a rare flower opening for the first time. ‘Take off your cloak.’

Bastian grinned, suddenly remembering the real reason he had brought her here. Somehow, between the excitement of freeing the birds and revealing himself to her, he had forgotten about the bet. ‘I usually get a kiss before I begin taking off my clothing,’ he said, with his trademark cheekiness that usually had women melt like wax between his fingers.

Orelia rolled her eyes and grabbed his cloak, pulling it from his back. She laid it down upon the grass, and then lowered herself onto it.

Suppressing his smile, Bastian lay down beside her, their bodies touching at the shoulders as they looked up at the starry sky. He breathed in deeply, his nostrils filling with the scent of lavender, jasmine and rose.

‘This garden is amazing. Who could believe that a place like this exists in a city of stone and water?’ whispered Orelia.

‘They exist; you just have to know where to find them.’

Orelia laughed. ‘How did you come to own this place?’

‘I won it in a bet. I have to say it is the best bet I’ve ever won.’

‘How many other naive women have you brought here?’

Bastian propped himself up on his elbow so he could look into her eyes. ‘None. You are the first . . . Tell me about your life.’

Orelia took a deep breath and said nothing for a few minutes. ‘There’s not much to tell. My . . . parents recently died of smallpox. The only family I have left is my godfather, which is what brought me to Venice.’

Bastian pushed a wave of hair away from her forehead. ‘You’re very brave.’

‘Courage didn’t bring me here, fear did. If I were brave, I would have stayed and rebuilt my life. I am literate. I have skills. But I ran.’

‘Well, I’m glad you ran here,’ said Bastian gently. He wanted to kiss Orelia so desperately, but he was afraid of scaring her off.

‘So am I. As much as I miss . . . Rome, I feel like I belong here, somehow.’

‘They say Venice sings to its blood. Maybe some distant relative of yours was Venetian.’

Bastian felt Orelia stiffen beside him. ‘I better get back to the palazzo now,’ she said, sitting up.

He stared at her, taken aback. He had been so close. What had he said wrong? ‘Stay a bit longer.’

Orelia shook her head.

‘As you wish,’ said Bastian with a sigh. ‘Race you to the door!’ He leapt to his feet and pulled the cloak out from beneath Orelia. She laughed and jumped up. He took off first, holding the lantern in one hand and his cloak in the other. Orelia followed in close pursuit, weaving through the garden. Their laughter filled the night.

When the door came into sight, Bastian looked over his shoulder to see how far behind Orelia was, but she was, in fact, nowhere in sight. A second later, he heard her cry out. He ran back to find that she had fallen over. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, dropping to his knees beside her.

Orelia smiled at him mischievously, then jumped up and ran for the door. He couldn’t believe that she had tricked him. ‘That’s not fair!’ he cried, racing after her. They reached the door at the same time and fell against the wood, out of breath.

Bastian turned to face Orelia and found that she was staring at him. He reached out and touched the side of her face with his fingertips. Orelia closed her eyes with a soft moan and Bastian gently leaned forward to kiss her. Her eyes fluttered open and she pulled away. ‘Please take me home now,’ she said.

Bastian watched on like a fool as Orelia disappeared through the gap in the door. Without her, the garden seemed less enchanting.

The trip back was silent and awkward. When they reached Ca’ Contarini, Bastian helped Orelia out of the gondola. They stood facing each other on the water steps. For the first time, Bastian didn’t know what to say to a woman. So instead of speaking, he stared into Orelia’s emerald eyes, hoping to find some answers there.

‘Grazie,’ said Orelia, looking to the ground, ‘for showing me the garden. I will never forget tonight . . . or you.’

There was something final about her words, but Bastian refused to acknowledge it. ‘When can I see you again?’ he asked.

‘You can’t.’

‘Give me one reason why,’ he said, reaching for her hand.

She let him take it for a moment and then pulled it away. ‘I can’t, mi dispiace.’

Bastian’s chest heaved in and out. He felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He spun around and jumped into the gondola, snatching up the oar and thrusting it into the water.

‘Wait!’ called Orelia.

Bastian turned his head.

‘Your key,’ she said, reaching into her pocket to pull it out.

‘Keep it.’

In all of Veronica’s wildest imaginings, she had never come close to guessing Luca’s shocking secret. But there was one thing she had guessed, and that was that his notebook, nay journal, contained his secret. No wonder he had been so concerned about losing it.

Although Signor Paolo had poorer penmanship than Veronica remembered and had only managed to copy a single page of Luca’s journal, that one page was all she had needed. In fact, the last line of the page was all she had really needed.
‘The day I helped my friend escape from the Piombi altered the course of my life forever.’

For days, Veronica had wondered about her amazing discovery. How Luca had been able to help his friend escape from the rooftop prison across the canal from Palazzo Ducale? Who was this friend? What was his crime? Did Luca help him escape alone or did he have help? Now a criminal himself, why was he still in Venice?

There were so many questions. Veronica had searched for answers in the notebook, but of course she only had one page. The rest of what Signor Paolo had copied had gone on about earlier years at the university at Padua, nothing else useful to her cause.

After deliberating over Luca’s secret for almost a week, Veronica decided that she was over-thinking it. She reassured herself that she had what she needed. It was time to return to her casini.

During breakfast she arranged with Aunt Portia for the two of them to spend the morning at Caffé Florian. Veronica knew that Aunt Portia’s friends met at Florian’s every Wednesday morning. Once they started drinking coffee and gossiping, they could be there for hours. Veronica doubted they would even notice if the towering campanile fell down before them. Many times, she had snuck off to her casini on the excuse of stretching her legs without her absence being noticed at all.

As Veronica readied herself, putting on a cloak and veil, she was filled with the anticipation at painting once again.

‘I’m ready,’ she said, standing in the doorway of Aunt Portia’s bedroom.

‘I’ll meet you in the courtyard in a minute,’ said her aunt, riffling through her jewellery box.

When Veronica stepped outside there was a slight chill in the air that made her thankful for the cloak’s fur lining. She happened upon her father on the staircase. ‘Are you off somewhere?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to Florian’s with Aunt Portia,’ answered Veronica. ‘If she ever decides which necklace to wear.’

Her father laughed. ‘Do you think Orelia is settling in well?’ he asked.

‘Si, I think so.’

‘Bene, it is important that we look after her. I owe that much to her mother,’ he said absentmindedly.

‘Who is she really?’ Veronica asked, having come to suspect that Orelia was more than her father’s goddaughter. ‘Is she your illegitimate daughter?’ Veronica had often been accused of showing little decorum, but she liked to think of her approach as direct.

Her father laughed nervously. ‘You have such an imagination,’ he said. ‘She is my goddaughter, nothing more. She has lost both her parents and I want to make sure her life here is comfortable and happy.’

Standing on the staircase in the cool morning air, Veronica knew her father was lying. She opened her mouth to question him further, but stopped. What right did she have to accuse her father of keeping secrets when she was guilty of the same offence?

‘You’re right,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing her father on the cheek.

His face relaxed. ‘You’re a good daughter.’

By the time Veronica reached the courtyard, Aunt Portia was not far behind her. They took a gondola to the Piazzetta and walked the short distance to Caffé Florian. As Veronica had predicted, her aunt’s friends were already seated in one of the small ornate rooms inside the caffé.

Veronica waited until her Aunt Portia’s coffee had arrived and the topic of conversation had turned to the distasteful renovations of Ca’ Moncenigo. ‘I’m going for a quick stroll around the Piazza,’ Veronica told Aunt Portia, who nodded her response without turning away from the conversation.

The walk to her casini was not quite long enough for Veronica to collect her thoughts, so she took her time setting up her equipment, savouring the smell of the paints and the touch of her brushes.

Staring at the clean, crisp canvas Veronica realised that she’d spent so long thinking about the secret itself and not nearly enough time thinking about how she would transfer this secret onto her canvas. Her painting had to do so many things at once: convince, frighten and threaten. With her other suitors, the painting had formed in her mind the moment she had discovered their secret.

But that was not the case with Luca. Whenever she tried to picture the painting in her mind, all she saw was a blank canvas. Admittedly, the subject was more difficult than the previous subjects she had dealt with, but there was something more to it as well, something she couldn’t put her finger on.

When the secret wasn’t enough, she had to bring other things she knew about the person to the painting. What did she know about Luca? He was the son of a member of the Council of Ten. He was university educated. And he was the only person who had beaten her in chess.

Veronica remembered one more thing: on the night of her father’s banquet, Luca had attempted to pilot a gondola himself, to a wet end. Before Veronica realised what she was doing, she had mixed a blue so dark it was almost black. She applied the paint to the lower half of the canvas in rough strokes. She finished the water with reflections of the fireworks forming satiny ribbons on the surface. Next, she painted the crescent shape of the gondola in the canal between the walls of the Palazzo Ducale and the Piombi. In the background, high above the canal connecting the two buildings, she painted the silhouette of the famous enclosed bridge that afforded prisoners their last view of Venice before their imprisonment.

Fervently she painted, unaware of the hours ticking by. It was mid-afternoon by the time she laid down her paintbrush. Veronica stood up and stepped back to inspect her work.

She had painted Luca standing at the stern of the gondola holding an oar. Veronica had remembered his face well; the slightly crooked nose, the chocolate brown hair, the full lips. But as expertly as she had painted Luca, the viewer’s eye was drawn elsewhere. First to the silvery rope hanging down the side of the Piombi right to the water of the canal and then to the shadowed figure at the bottom of the rope climbing into the gondola.

The painting was perfect, if she did admit so herself. It was exactly the sort of painting that told a story, but most of all it would tell Luca that she knew his secret.

Veronica only wished she could deliver it right at that moment, but alas, the paint had to dry and then a few final touch-ups would be needed, including the all-important addition of her initials at the bottom right corner. And besides she must get back to Aunt Portia at Florian’s.

Veronica quickly washed her brushes and packed away her equipment. It was hard to leave the place she had missed for so long while she had uncovered Luca’s secret, but she knew she must. Her absence, if noticed by her aunt, would be hard to explain. Grabbing her veil and cloak, she hurried down the stairs and into the warm afternoon air that smelt of victory.