The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  Vestris and some other dancers burst in and separated the screeching combatants. As soon as Fosca realized that she was not alone, she pulled her cloak over the bottom half of her face. She looked around desperately for her black oval mask, which had gotten kicked out of sight in the scuffle, and instead snatched up one of Lia’s, a molded larva of blue satin. She pushed through the curious crowd of dancers in the room.

  “Let me out! Let me out!”

  Finally, she was alone, in the narrow alley alongside the theater. She closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. She felt shaken and sick. What odious behavior. What lack of self-control! Battling with that slut, like a couple of whores brawling over their pimp. She felt disgusted with herself. She wanted to die, to throw herself into the murky waters of a canal and lie in the silt and the filth on the bottom until the tides moved her bones. At last she pulled herself up, fastened on the mask, and drew the hood of her cloak over her head. She walked swiftly towards the square in front of the theater.

  A shape appeared at her elbow. “Signorina Gabbiana?”

  Without thinking she said, “Yes?”

  “A note, Signorina.” He handed her a folded rectangle of paper, sealed with a blob of wax bearing the imprint of Alessandro’s signet ring. She looked up. It was Guido, The Loredan gondolier, but he wasn’t wearing Loredan livery. She said curtly, “Wait,” and she opened the note.

  “My darling Lia,” she read, “my meeting has been cancelled. I shall be free earlier than I thought. Come as soon as you can. I shall be waiting impatiently—each minute an hour, an eternity. My love, hurry.” The note was signed with the initial “A.”

  Her hands trembled. She felt the heat of anger rising again to her cheeks and she remembered Lia’s mocking words “I love your husband . . . you can’t hang onto a man ... too good for you. . . .”

  “Guido?” She faced the gondolier and moved her mask aside for a moment. He turned pale with fear at his mistake. “Guido, do you love me?” she asked.

  Without hesitating, he said, “Donna Fosca, I would gladly die for you.”

  “Then help me now. Does she know you?”

  “Yes, I have often brought her messages, Signora. Please, forgive me.”

  “It’s all right. Go to her and tell her that he will be engaged in meetings with the Doge until very late tonight and that he cannot see her. Will you do that for me? I promise, no harm will come to you. He won’t touch you. I will protect you. When you have seen her, come back here.”

  “Yes, Donna Fosca, I will do it.” Impulsively the young man grasped her hand and pressed it firmly to his lips, then he disappeared into the alley at the side of the theater.

  Fosca thought furiously if not too clearly. She would go home and repair the damage done in the fray, and then she would go to Alessandro’s casino.

  One hour later, Fosca made her way up the staircase to the apartment at the top of the house on the Calle Cristo.

  Alessandro had been waiting for some reply to his message to Lia, and he flung the door open when he heard the knock. A small masked woman stood on the threshold.

  “My darling,” he said fondly, “You came so quickly!” He took her hand, kissing the palm softly, and ushered her inside. “I’m happy you came so soon. We’ll have that much longer together. Are you very tired?”

  Fosca withdrew her hand said, “I fear you are laboring under a misapprehension. Signor.” She pushed back the hood of her cloak to reveal a mass of red-gold hair. “I am not, I regret, who you think.”

  He recognized her, of course. He loved her too well not to know the nuances of her voice, her carriage, her fragrance, the shine of her hair. Damn her, he wondered, what kind of game is she playing now? But he hid his surprise and said smoothly, “You will forgive my confusion, Signora. I was expecting another lady. ”

  “Yes, I know. I have come as a messenger from her, Signor.”

  “May I relieve you of your cloak and mask?” he offered.

  “I think not. I cannot stay.”

  “A pity,” he sighed. “Would you disappoint me twice in the same afternoon?”

  Fosca took a breath. “She asks me to tell you that she will be occupied with rehearsals far into the night, and that she cannot come to you. She was deeply unhappy about this occurrence, I could tell, and she asked me to convey her deepest apologies and regrets.”

  Alessandro nodded thoughtfully. “I see. Well, such are the misfortunes and vicissitudes of love. And you, Signora? You are—her friend?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Fosca said warmly. “We know each other very well. We have quite a lot in common.”

  Loredan stifled a grin. So, she wasn’t ready to reveal herself. “You do, indeed. For one thing, you are both very beautiful. Differently colored, of course, but both quite dazzling. I can tell very little more until you remove your mask, though. Won’t you?”

  “No, no.” Fosca shook her head and stepped farther into the room. Was it really possible that he didn’t know her behind the mask? “I couldn’t unmask for you. You find me in a rather awkward situation, Signor. By performing this favor for Signorina Gabbiana, I place myself in a somewhat compromising position. Visiting a gentleman in his casino—alone and unchaperoned. You can see how embarrassing it would be if anyone found out.”

  “Your husband, for instance,” Alessandro suggested slyly.

  “Particularly my husband,” Fosca nodded. “He is extremely jealous of me, the poor man. But I have vowed never to embarrass him publicly, and so you see, I must be very careful. I am sure I can trust you to be discreet, but I cannot trust luck.”

  “I appreciate your caution, Signora,” Alessandro said, “and I quite approve. But it’s rather warm in here, don’t you think? At least let me take your cloak. I promise I won’t try to unmask you. You have my solemn word.”

  Fosca yielded up her cloak and he smiled appreciatively. Her gown was cut very low, off the shoulder, with large puffed sleeves that came to the elbow. Her skirts were flowing, but narrow, in the new style, and the waist was quite high, just under the bosom. She wore fingerless white lace mitts and carried a small mother-of-pearl fan not much bigger than her hand. Her hair was dressed in a mass of curls, piled and pinned on top of her head. Even masked, she presented a dazzling spectacle.

  She looked around her. “How perfectly charming!” she exclaimed, and thought angrily. So this is how he spends my son’s money, entertaining his whores in grand style. I’ve never seen anything so disgusting. She approached the fireplace and raised herself on her toes to examine the small painting over the mantel. “A Watteau, if I’m not mistaken! And over here—a Fragonard as well! Utterly enchanting, Signor. It’s a lovely room—very French, is it not?”

  “Yes. I have always admired the French taste in decoration.”

  “And in other things as well?” Fosca smiled suggestively. She strolled across the room, touching a figurine here, a flower there, admiring and exclaiming. The long windows were open to admit the soft breeze from the sea, and she went out on the balcony.

  Alessandro followed her. A small table had been set up outdoors, overlooking the little courtyard below. The table was covered with snowy linen and it bore a shining array of silver dishes with covers and a bucket of ice for chilling champagne.

  “Perhaps you would permit me to offer you a glass of this champagne, Signora?” he said, lifting the bottle and uncorking it. “It seems a pity to waste it on myself. It’s very dry. I think you’ll like it.” He poured.

  She accepted the glass from his hand and said, “Signorina Gabbiana is a very fortunate lady, I think, to have found such a generous and learned friend.” She raised her glass in a silent toast to her host.

  “You are too kind,” Alessandro said with a smile, touching the rim of his glass to hers. “I assure you, the good fortune is all mine. Having an opportunity to entertain you in her place is more than I deserve.” He refilled her glass and they drank again, not taking their eyes off each other.

 
“You’ve had this place a long time?” she asked. “Oh, yes. About a dozen years, I guess. I am not a man who likes change. It’s much the same now as it was then. But I think it needs redecorating. Perhaps you would like to make some suggestions? I would be very grateful for your advice.”

  Fosca stood at the doors and looked at the room. “It’s delightful, just as it is. I am sure if you change the people who visit you here from time to time, it will always seem new.”

  “Valuable counsel,” he said, smiling to himself. “But I’m neglecting my duties as a host. You must take supper with me.” He turned back to the table and lifted the cover from one of the dishes. “As you can see, I have more than enough for two, and it would please me greatly if you would join me. It’s only a cold buffet—nothing fancy—I was uncertain just when my guest would arrive. I think the choice of dishes might interest you: oysters, some cold pate in a crust, fruits and cheeses—ah, fresh strawberries! And under this one—mushrooms in a cold sauce. I detect just a hint of garlic.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Fosca, surveying the exquisite dishes. Really, the Doge himself didn’t eat this well. All for that dancer! “But I don’t think I should stay.”

  “Your husband again?” Alessandro said sympathetically. “You are very faithful. But surely he would understand. Everyone must eat, after all. Even golden-haired goddesses like yourself!”

  “I have never found him to be very understanding,” Fosca said. “But you’re right, of course, one must eat—and it looks so very tempting—”

  “Please,” said Alessandro, pulling out a chair and settling her into it. “Now what may I serve you first? Oysters, perhaps? So good with champagne, I find. I’m sorry I have no ambrosia.”

  Fosca laughed. “I must disillusion you, Signor. I am no goddess, only a mortal woman with mortal appetites and mortal failings.”

  “You will never persuade me to believe that,” Alessandro said warmly.

  “Ah, you should consult my husband,” Fosca said, lifting a shining oyster on a half shell and tipping it into her mouth. She swallowed some champagne to help wash it down. Alessandro refilled her glass. “He could catalogue all my faults alphabetically, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t think I like this husband of yours,” Alessandro said disapprovingly, uncovering the mushrooms and spooning some onto her plate. “Does he always intrude when you’re trying to enjoy yourself?”

  “Always.” Fosca savored a mushroom and helped herself to another. “He has a lot of bad habits.”

  “Let us make a pact never to mention him again.”

  “I’m agreeable to that, surely,” Fosca said. “But what about your wife? You have a wife, do you not?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Alessandro swallowed an oyster and patted his mouth with his napkin. “A very gracious and beautiful woman with, alas, a host of bad habits.”

  “How sad for you,” Fosca sighed, picking up another oyster. “Let us not discuss her, either. It’s only fair.”

  “Agreed. Our respective spouses are now— forgotten!” He waved his hand. “What shall we discuss in their absence? Politics? The Church?”

  “The theater? The weather?”

  “Fearfully dull, all of them. Does one discuss fireflies when a comet is blazing across the sky? Let us talk about you, Signora.”

  “A poor choice of subject,” Fosca said. She drank more champagne and nibbled at the pate. Her brain was buzzing faintly but pleasantly. She suppressed a sudden urge to laugh. Imagine, dining à deux with Loredan and pretending—no, almost believing!—that he wasn’t Loredan at all. How droll! “I am only a simple creature with simple tastes. Unlike your friend, Signorina Gabbiana, I have no accomplishments, no talents.”

  “But you need none,” Alessandro assured her. “Does the sun have talents? None, that we know about. Yet we couldn’t live without its light and heat.”

  “You’re very kind,” Fosca smiled and coyly toyed with a mushroom on her plate. “But I would prefer to talk about you, Signor.”

  “Ah, an infinitely boring topic,” Alessandro said with mock regret. “I am old, as you see, and turning gray. I have lived long enough and managed to accumulate neither wealth nor power nor fame. Only knowledge, from lessons hard learned. Sadly, beautiful women disdain old men of learning. I can’t blame them.”

  “You’re wrong!” Fosca exclaimed, stopping a forkful of pâté midway along its passage to her mouth. “If anything is wanting among young men today, and if anything contributes to their excruciating dullness, it is want of knowledge. I am sure that I could ask you a hundred and one questions on a hundred and one different subjects, and you could answer them all with absolute accuracy.” The pâté was delicious. Smooth and well-spiced, and the crust wasn’t a bit soggy.

  “Well, perhaps a hundred of them,” Alessandro said modestly. “I must confess that even I have gaps in my knowledge.”

  “Indeed? In which area, I wonder? Botany?”

  “No, I am an accomplished botanist.”

  “Ah. In physics?”

  “I have read Newton. I fancy I understand and comprehend the laws that govern the universe. I am also a musician, and a poet—albeit a poor one.”

  “I am sure you judge yourself too harshly,” Fosca said.

  “And I have the rudiments of knowledge in things nautical, theological, and philosophical. But the area in which I have gained the littlest knowledge, and which I have tried without success to conquer—but surely you can guess?”

  Fosca pretended to ponder the question while she munched a bit of Camembert on a crust of bread. Finally she said, “In love.”

  “Ah, then my ignorance is obvious!” he said triumphantly. “Or else you are unusually astute in that area. Yes, of course you are.”

  “Naturally, as a woman of no accomplishments and no talents, I have had to master the subject which requires neither.”

  “But love requires both accomplishment and talent,” Alessandro said, plunging his knife into the cheese. “I am certain that you have conquered a hundred hearts. ”

  “But what can one do with a hundred hearts?” Fosca shrugged, wrapping her lovely mouth around an enormous strawberry. “Collecting hearts is not unlike catching fish: you keep pulling them in, one is exactly like another, and the sport quickly becomes tedious. In love, as in fishing, there are few new worlds to conquer.”

  “You think not? Well, you could use your skills to land a bigger fish. A monster!”

  “He would still have gills and fins and scales,” Fosca pointed out, reaching for another berry. “A fish is a fish, when all is said and done.”

  “And a lover is a lover.”

  “Precisely. You think you have a gap in your education, Signor, but let me reassure you, there is less to the science of love than you might suppose. You have very likely learned it all twice over and forgotten it again.”

  “You are just being kind to me, but I would expect nothing but kindness from you,” he said with a sad smile. “Suppose I told you that in my long life there has been only one woman that I loved, and she alone has eluded me. Hers is the heart whose conquest I desired most, and hers is the only heart I ever pursued that I failed to capture. What do you think of that?”

  “Why, I think the fault is not yours at all, but that the fault lies with her. She is cold, and without a heart, or you could not have failed to win it. But I am very curious—you have whetted yet another appetite with a a vitalizing morsel—who is this ungrateful woman?”

  Alessandro shook his head. “I cannot break the vow of silence, the pact that we made.”

  “You mean—?” Her mouth dropped open.

  “Yes. My wife.”

  Fosca could feel a flush rising behind her mask. You astonish me, Signor. Surely—isn’t it—it’s rather a rash thing to do, to fall in love with one’s spouse!”

  “It is indeed. I have a horror of offending propriety and violating the strictures of good taste, and I have tried hard to hide my broken heart. I have ma
naged rather successfully most of the time. I feel quite sure she has never guessed my secret.”

  “I imagine not,” said Fosca weakly.

  “I think now that I must have fallen in love with her the first time I saw her,” he said reminiscently. “I glimpsed her through a window, a young girl with hair that looked like bright flames in the sunlight. She was wearing a blue dress, and she was running. It’s a picture I shall always treasure. At the time I didn’t admit to having any feelings for her at all. I wooed and wed her because her family connections were valuable to me. I went about it all in the most cold-hearted way. I deliberately set out to make her love me, and then I compromised her so that her father could not refuse my offer. I killed her love. I never dreamed that one day I would sell my soul to regain it. Things that come easily are seldom appreciated as they ought to be, I find.”

  “That’s true,” Fosca murmured.

  “I saw what I was doing, but I told myself it didn’t matter. Perhaps I thought she had no right to be so innocent, so naive, so foolish as to believe in love. I was cynical, worldly, disillusioned. I killed her love,” he repeated softly. “I behaved cruelly and unfeelingly towards her from the first. I lit the spark that fired her resentment of me, and later I fanned the flames until resentment became hatred. I ignored the sorrows that touched her—her father’s unhappy death, a child that didn’t live—because they didn’t really touch me. Through it all I never once showed her the slightest consideration, or warmth, or understanding. I treated her as a possession, an acquisition. I even had the effrontery to be outraged when she finally refused to submit to my desires.” He winced at the memory.