The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (14 page)

He swallowed hard and gave me a forceful glare.

“I will say this and you must speak of it to no one. Your husband’s name has been slandered.”

“I know. I know what they are saying.”

“You do? His reputation is at stake and through this, your own. If you are protecting him, you stand to be judged. You may even be seen as a willing accomplice. Do you understand, Signora? You have enemies in your own parish who have soiled his name. They have made claims that…about your marriage.”

Oh, that I had not already known what he set out to tell me. The stench of betrayal ripped through me as he spoke those words. I could not believe any of it was happening.

“Listen to me, Signora. Sodomy is seen as the greatest of crimes. Forgive me if I must sound to you like Bernardino di Siena whose preaching is endless and whose hatred of sodomites knows no limit. It is not in my nature to rile against men. What I say now, I say it for your own good. In the eyes of many, sodomy undermines the institution of family.  The Consiglio is firm in this regard and has taken upon itself to prosecute those who defile the Republic with their crimes.  Had your husband been alive—”

“He is not guilty!”

His voice fell back. He looked at me, a little stunned.

I remember that I turned my back away from the
avogadore
. I wrung my hands, still shaking from my outburst.

“How do you know this?” I heard him say behind me.

Oh, that I had the courage to tell him. But I held fast to my secret. It was too heavy a burden to bare. I wanted no one to know.

He stood closer and gazed at me.

“It is for your person, I fear, Signora. Only for your person. The Consiglio is unrelenting and you will suffer should your name be blemished.”

“Allow me some time,
avogadore
. I will tell you what you wish to know. You ignore the extent of the suffering that will also befall me if I were to remain silent. I know well what I must do. I will not stand for gossip. I will not be humiliated. You are not from here and so you cannot know how even the slight trifles can spread and grow and the harm they can do. I would rather flee from the Republic than be shunned and shamed by my own parish. But please, allow me time, and I will give you all that you need to preserve Giacomo’s name. The funeral procession is tomorrow. I…” I could speak no further. I had realized an enormous truth.

What had come to pass? Was this Florentine telling me to fear the Consiglio? Was this naïve
avogadore
trying to warn me, when all along, I knew!  Oh, how I knew!  

Oh, that he had known everything and seen through my loathsome soul. Oh, Antonio, my friend. My dearest friend.

I let out a whisper, clutching at the lace on my sleeves. I swallowed the tight knot in my throat.  “After the funeral…when the procession is over, I promise that I will give you everything I have. So that you may present what you will to the Consiglio dei Dieci and save my name. They will listen…perhaps.”

“So then, you have documents? With signatures?”

I refused to look at him. I stared into the internal courtyard.

“No. I have a diary. Giacomo kept a diary for years. And in it, there is…”

“Are you trying to tell me that you have read it? I take it that you mistrusted your husband, Signora.”

He was no fool the
avogadore
. No fool at all.

“I read it,” I whispered. “I knew of it for years but never opened it until…”

I turned to face him. His face was illuminated by the afternoon sun and he watched me with an expression that I could have almost mistaken for adoration.

And still, even as his dark gaze pierced through my being, I knew that he saw nothing.

For I am more wretched than what he imagines.

Finally he placed his black hat upon his head, in readiness to depart.

“I will be patient, Signora. Here is my address if you care to write to me when you are so disposed to give the proof you speak of.”

“Soon. Await my letter,” I said, showing him to the door.

He seemed satisfied. He inclined his head quietly, stepped outside and turned. Such was his presence that even as he left, I felt as though he had eyes on the back of his head. I remained still, at the doorway, frozen by his words.

When he had gone, and only when I had watched him step out of our
calle
, did I realize how much I shook. Anger had twisted my face as I walked past the entrance mirror.

It had come to this. After all these years. All my secrets would soon be stirred from the slumber of the past and would return to engulf me. I was trapped.

I stared back into the kitchen, hearing it–that infernal sound.  The din of
her
charms echoed in the house, gold chains around
her
neck tinkling in the darkness. I pressed my hands to my ears, refusing to hear anymore.

I had a thought that perhaps it was I, the dead soul of this house, the old Ca’ Contarini with its cold walls, soon to be airless, silenced forever, shut off from the world behind black velvet drapes.

The Testimony of Angelo

From an entry in Antonio da Parma’s journal

The evening approached fast as I parted from Catarina and sought out Francesco Visconti’s atelier.  I was determined to find him before the
signori di notte
would. I ventured into Santa Croce, passing myself as a tourist in need of a lavish mask for Carnivale. In my most polished Florentine dialect, I questioned servants and slaves as to where I might find the brilliant
mascheraro
, Francesco Visconti.  It was not long until I was quietly led to the edge of Santa Croce by a Nubian gondolier. Beneath a
sottoportico
, a small door with aged cracked wood was pushed to usher me in. Here, I would find Angelo, said the slave. Angelo was a short nimble man of sixty who ran night errands for several artisans in the
sestiere
. It was known that he worked with Francesco and could lead me to him.  Strangely for days, the slave noted, Angelo had kept to himself, speaking to none.

“Angelo!” he called out as we both entered. “Angelo, this Florentine seeks the Visconti atelier.  Awake, Angelo!”

I stepped inside the miserly one-room home and shuddered.  In the dim light, I could discern empty goblets still reeking of ale. The tiled floor was littered with chewed chicken bones and stale bread crumbs and even in the winter, flies buzzed upon every surface. The smell of despair pervaded Angelo’s abode.

“It is not like this often, Signore,” muttered the slave, pinching his nose. “It must be that he has taken ill. Angelo! Angelo, awake!”

I heard a weak wail from the kitchen and turned.  In the dim light, I saw a form in a soiled white shirt, asleep on a stool.  A head with a wild bunch of gray hair slowly lifted from a dirty table.

“Angelo, you have a visitor,” urged the slave, seeing him awake. “This Florentine wants you to lead him to the Visconti atelier.”

To my surprise, the man he had called Angelo seemed to tremble in the darkness. His haggard, unwashed faced stared at me, its red eyes filling with horror.

***

Angelo’s Tale

If you listened to him sometimes, you know, he talked to them. Yes. Yes. The masks. He talks to them as he paints their faces onto solid plaster. They come alive. They come alive for him. Gold, gems, feathers, the rubies in their eyes; you see them shine, and you know he sees them, just like I see you.  But he sees their souls. And he tells them, “You are the night. You are the jewel of the night.”  So gentle his fingers, a true artist, he drapes them with the silks and when he is finished with them, he smiles. He is not the only
mascheraro
in Venezia.  But he is the only one who can breathe life into the masks. The only one. I always knew this. Always.

We were friends since, how many years? Fifteen years. I come often, to the atelier, we are friends, yes? Angelo, he says, you waste nothing. I am poor. I have not much to give you. You will work hard he tells me. I laugh. Work hard, I always work hard.

He was happier when she was alive. But Magdalena died soon after the child was born.

They lived in Castello first.  Surrounded by wealth and princely mansions, he despaired. A castaway noble without his riches. He could not even pay the Republic taxes for months.

But she was his strength. And she had all the ideas.

They say never trust the people of Napoli. But Magdalena was no ordinary Napoletana. She was an artist. She was carrying the child in those days. But she was not afraid. To be sure there was gossip at first. A lot of gossip from the Rialto right up to Castello. What is the Magdalena up to everyday in the markets? What is she doing out of the house? Shouldn’t she be at home? And the foolish woman is with child. Come to think of it, I’ve not seen her in Church. Have you? What is taking up her time?

Oh, I know what she was up to. It was a game at first. She told Francesco she could find him a trade in no time. She mastered all the tricks right from the start and she knew the art...I don’t know. Angelo thinks she was born to this art.  When they opened the old atelier it was empty. But days, weeks went by and it soon became filled with pretty things.  She had it all figured out the Magdalena. She learned when to order the metal ornaments, the feathers and beads, or where in Murano they could find and buy the cheapest crystal pieces. In Burano, she found a trader who would offer the most delicate lace and the best price.  She listened to the news in the Rialto, until she understood when the plaster came in and the best days for the paint prices.  She paid a broker who would bargain for the best value jewels.  She parted with hundreds of ducats for that, and for the glitter, the gold and silver leaf, too. There was a time when she asked me to take the gondola right up to the seamstresses of the Arsenal, so that we could hunt down for leftover silk bails.

I knew she was up to something that Magdalena. Being a gondolier makes one silent but we watch and know much. And then two months before the child was born, she called me up to the atelier with a delivery of paints and brushes. Francesco was sitting in front of the most beautiful mask I had ever seen. I stared at it and the Magdalena rose and walked to me with a strange look on her face.

“What is it Angelo?” the signora asked me as I crossed myself. I was still staring at the mask when she added, “You look as though you have seen a ghost in the canal.”

“Signora, it is just… I have never, never in my life, seen such beautiful work.” And it was true. Oh, it was true! Such workmanship. The mask I saw that day! It was crowned with a Moor’s turban in folded silver silks. A red feather, jutting out of a ruby stone, set upright, in the middle of the brow. The eyes peered at me beneath turquoise hoods edged with gold glitter. The right and left cheek were sprawled with notes from a pasted music sheet and the lips were encrusted with gold and crushed jewels.

“You see what I was telling you, Francesco
mio
? You are improving!” she said. “Try it on, then, Angelo. Please yourself. Put it on, so we can see…
Bellisimo
!”

And Francesco let me have it.  He let me hold it to my face. I stood before a mirror to see myself so masked. And I felt… Angelo, this is truly madness.

“Do you like it?” she asked, all lashes batting and mouth pouting. Oh, she was so beautiful.

“Oh, Signora…” I could only whisper as I peered into my reflection. My tattered gondolier clothes seemed improper beneath such mask.  She was nodding to herself. Oh, she was very satisfied. And then Francesco spun to a thick velvet cloak resting on a nearby stool. With a big grin on his face, he had me put on this heavy garment so that we could all see the mask against a purple cloak. Such splendor. I’d never looked so dashing.

I felt myself blush.

“You make these, Signor Visconti, and perhaps more like this one, and the whole of Venezia will come to your door!” I chirped. I eyed myself pleasantly from head to toe, enough to make the Magdalena smile. I forgot that she was with child because there was much excitement in her face. She was not at all tired as one would expect from her condition. She had this passion about her and her dark eyes glistened wildly whenever she spoke. And in her voice, was life.

I remember this beautiful day because I was made to feel part of their family, the Ca’ Visconti. She placed her arms around Francesco and kissed his cheeks.

“You are ready!” I heard her say. “I will teach you all I know; all I know, Francesco.”

I felt dizzy, and for a moment the turban was heavy on my head.

“I shall remove it now.”

The Magdalena smiled again. I thought she looked like an angel then and I know Francesco thought so too. It was the way she had reached for the mask and then with her other hand was rubbing her belly with content. Was there ever a happier woman in all Venezia?

I tell you what, Angelo was a very happy man, too, that day. After months of being unsure, I had finally seen the Magdalena’s dream come alive and Francesco was a grateful husband. I liked seeing them both so sure and pleased with themselves. Is there anything happier than hope when a man and a woman are joined to raise a family? And happier still if one can create art such as that the Magdalena was capable of. And Angelo does not lie. Truly it was a glorious mask as the one that I was made to wear in the atelier. I remember that my poor heart was bursting with joy when I first glimpsed my reflection. I even think that the whole atelier was alight with music; as though there were angels singing and each note rang in my ear, resonating with the laughter of children.

After that day, I worked harder. I wanted to see their trade grow. They hired Maffeo to oar the gondola while I tended to the atelier and dispatched deliveries.

So now you ask me what I was doing in the night before the Winter Solstice. Let me tell you.

For years I clean the atelier at night. Francesco knows me. He trusts me. I never steal anything. Angelo is not a thief. I would have given my life for Francesco and for his little one.

So on that night, the night you want to know about, I come to the atelier when the time is right. It is past midnight. It is dark when I arrive. The canal waters are still. The neighbors lie asleep. The Visconti windows are shut. Only the moonlight guides me. But then I see a glow on the top floor of the atelier.  I look up. This is where Francesco likes to climb when he is creating and wishes to remain in peace.

Ah! Francesco is still in the atelier I tell myself. 

But I have to clean up. So I bang on the door but he does not come.  And I think to myself, Angelo, should you enter now and disturb the
mascheraro
or should you maybe return later? I stand back and look up to the window where my master is at work. So late. And again, I think to myself, Angelo, but how many years has it been and never once, remember this, never once has Francesco worked so late without warning you first.  So I turn, preparing to leave but then I see a black feather. It is hovering around me. Then two feathers.  One settles on my shoe. So I take it between my fingers and I am not sure what to think of this black feather.  I think– Angelo, this feather just flew out from Francesco’s atelier.  Is the
mascheraro
throwing away his feathers now?  I spin around and I look up to the room upstairs. Devil take me!  What now? Now the shutters have flown open, banging on the outer wall and a light bursts out but, still, I do not see Francesco.  And by some enchantment, I watch feathers, silver and gold dust spray out of the room, painting the sky it seems.  The building glows like gold. Gold, I tell you! Signore, I cross myself.  It is lit as though by that exploding powder from the Far East. It is aglow with the sparkling dust.  And still feathers and swirls of fabrics are flying up in the space above and beyond.

At this, I rub my eyes and shake my head. Are you dreaming, Angelo, I ask myself? It is long past midnight, Angelo, I tell myself.  But what I see, is the vision of a delirious drunk in the early hours of the morning; not one who is sober and has come to clean the atelier as he has for over fifteen years. I feel the hair rise on my head. I stare up again.  The windows are shut now.  How shut? Angelo, Angelo, think. Did one ever stir by the window? No. Did one ever shut them? No. No, I did not see a hand, I swear to you–the window shut as though... And not a sign of Francesco.  Madre de Dios, I am frightened. My teeth chatter in the cold and I can take no more. 

So I run. I drop my lantern and run.

That is the last time I have seen the atelier.  I have not returned since.

What I think? You ask Angelo what he thinks. I think, Signore that something has begun. No, no, I cannot say.  The moon saw.  She saw it all. And how brightly it shone on that night, when I was there.  The light on the atelier was gold if ever there was gilded light. Oh, Signore, to return there? Now? No. Never! You would not return if you knew what Angelo saw.

But what was it, Signore? What shone out from his window in the middle of the night, and like this, with all that dust flying around and the feathers? Old Angelo does not know what to make of it. But he is afraid. Very afraid. 

Signore, I will tell you, if you do not think me mad.  I believe something evil dwells in the atelier.