The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “You asked to see me. Signora,” Raf said. “Well, here I am. I warn you, I have little time—”

  “Dear me,” Rosalba clucked, “you young people are always in such a hurry! Come and kiss me, Fosca!” She turned her cheek and Fosca complied. Rosalba gave Raf an appraising look and said, “So this is your lover!”

  “Mother!” Fosca gasped.

  “You needn’t sound so shocked. It’s the truth, isn’t it? Really, anyone would think you were a prude, Fosca.” She subjected Raf to a short but penetrating scrutiny. He had an inexplicable urge to fidget. He felt ten years old again. “Well, Fosca, he’s quite a fine figure of a man. Handsome, in a rough sort of way. I don’t blame you a bit for eloping with him. I might have done the same when I was your age.”

  “I assure you. Mother,” said Fosca stiffly, “that whatever happened—”

  But Rosalba ignored her. “So,” she said to Raf, “you are the young man who has brought Venice to her knees!”

  “Forgive me. Signora,” he said with the merest trace of a smile, “but I suspect that General Bonaparte has had something to do with that, too.”

  “Oh, him,” she sniffed. “Yes, but his interest is only transitory. Venice will be only one of many jewels in his crown. But it means more to you than just a trophy of war, doesn’t it, boy? Well, now that you have us, what do you intend to do with us? Must we address each other as ‘citizen’ and ‘citizeness?’ I defy anyone to call me ‘citizeness.’ Horrid word!”

  “We will exempt you from that, then,” Raf said a little impatiently.

  “Will you?” the old woman exclaimed. “How very kind of you. But you needn’t humor me, merely because I am old. Old people deserve no more consideration than the young. Age happens to all of us; it’s not an award for goodness or virtue, God knows. But so many people are deceived into believing that we ancients are truly sweet and kind.”

  “In your case that is no deception,” Raf said smoothly.

  “So you do know how to pay a compliment!” Rosalba beamed. “Not a brilliant one, but rather good, even so, don’t you agree, Fosca? But I imagine that he has paid you many pretty compliments.”

  “Very few, actually,” Fosca said.

  “You surprise me. Well, young man, you’ve come a long way from the ghetto haven’t you? Governor of Venice! I imagine your grandfather would be very pleased with you.”

  Raf frowned. “What do you know about my grandfather?”

  “Old Eli the peddler? I knew him well, everyone in Venice did. He made a show of being scrupulously honest, which earned him rather a larger share of business than I suspect he deserved. He was shrewd. Oh, yes, I know all about him, and I know all about you, boy. You’ve worked very hard to prove that a bastard can be as good as any legitimate child, isn’t that so?”

  Raf's mouth tightened. “Yes, I have. And I’ve succeeded!”

  “Yes, you’ve succeeded. You went to Padua to study law, didn’t you? But you left the University when your grandfather died. So touching. You took over his business, and became even richer than he was. Surprising how much income a little pushcart can generate, isn’t it? He must have been a very astute merchant, indeed.”

  “He was,” Raf said sharply. “Very clever. I learned a lot from him.”

  “One man can’t teach another anything, but we all like to pretend that it’s possible. Where would Socrates be without such a myth to sustain him, or Christ? So, your grandfather bought and sold used goods, and you are buying and selling a used-up city. I don’t think you’ve made a very smart bargain, boy.”

  “The fabric of the city may wear,” he replied, “but the spirit doesn’t. 1 don’t think I did so badly. I won’t dishonor this city, Donna Rosalba, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Me?” The old woman cackled. “I’m not worried about anything. At my age, what would be the point? Death is the solution to all our worries. Mine, and yours, and Alessandro’s, and Fosca’s. She sighed deeply and closed her eyes. “You may go now, both of you. I was just curious to see what you looked like, boy. You remind me of Alessandro’s grandfather, my father-in-law. You never met him, Fosca. He was dead long before you and Alessandro married. He looked like a peasant, large and square. Like a man who should be tilling the earth instead of making laws. Stubborn. Hard-headed. No flair for diplomacy, like Alessandro, because he hated lies. Sometimes men like that are the best leaders of all. They know men and their capabilities, and they aren’t afraid to refuse to pander to their wants. He was the last great Doge Venice ever had. I am glad that you are like him.”

  She said nothing more. After a few moments, Fosca tugged at Raf’s arm and they left her room. Out in the hallway, Raf let out a long breath.

  “What was that all about? What is she some kind of witch? How did she know all that stuff? Did you tell her?”

  “I have never discussed you with her. I told you, her Carlo brings her all the news, and she never forgets anything. It’s the only pleasure they have left. He gathers tidbits and brings them to her, and they pore over them together. Those two know more about what’s happening in Venice than anyone else. They’re both over eighty.” Fosca said angrily, “Hardly a mention of her own son, who is languishing in the Tombs, thanks to you!”

  “I don’t think Loredan could languish anywhere,” Raf said. “He’s too much of a prig.”

  Fosca said stiffly, “I’ll have one of the servants show you to your rooms. The house is yours now. The larder is full, and so are the cellars.”

  He laid a restraining hand on her arm. “And Paolo? Is he here, too?”

  “Yes, he’s here. With his tutor. Fra Roberto. He misses his father greatly,” she added cruelly. “I know you’re busy Captain. Forgive us Loredan women for keeping you from your duties.”

  “Fosca, don’t be like this,” he said softly. “You’re not keeping me—”

  “Like what?” She removed herself from his reach. “I haven’t been insulting to you, have I?”

  “You’re hiding from me, trying to get away. Don’t. That mask of noble condescension doesn’t become you. It never has.”

  “I really don’t know what you mean, Captain,” she said. “Pray excuse me.” She walked away from him down the hall to her own room. She didn’t look back, and he gazed after her until she disappeared.

  Then he sighed deeply, clapped his hat back on his head, and shouted orders at the top of his lungs. He had a lot to do, including drafting a proclamation to the Jews of Venice, summoning them forth to enjoy the rights of free men, citizens, after centuries of oppression.

  No one who saw the great bonfire in the Piazza that night would ever forget it. Flames leaped high into the air, nearly reaching the top of the campanile, some said, and the flying sparks were more spectacular than any Carnival fireworks.

  Raf and Fosca stood side by side on the loggia of the Cathedral. The four bronze horses that had stood for centuries on that porch overlooking the square were gone now, taken away as part of the plunder of wartime. But so had they arrived from Greece a long time ago, as spoils of war.

  French soldiers and Venetian Jacobins threw into the fire trappings and symbols of defeated glory: the Doge’s oddly-shaped hat, the cornuto; the Golden Book, in which were listed the names of all the noble families in Venice; the red robes of Senators and black togas of Council members; and lastly, hacked to pieces, the magnificent gilded ship, the Bucintoro, used once a year to carry the Doge out to sea where he performed the ancient ritual of marrying Venice to the Adriatic. The gilt decorations, the richly carved angels and cherubs, the plush seats and polished decks, were all fed to the devouring flames. It marked the end of Venice’s sovereignty, the passing of the old order.

  Fosca thought, “Perhaps, like the phoenix, it will rise someday from is own ashes.” But she knew in her heart that it would never happen. The shame of surrender and the disgrace of defeat had cut too deep. Venice had been living on borrowed time for the past two hundred years, existing independentl
y only by the grace of her stronger neighbors. Now it was time to pay for her Carnivals and dreams and childish pleasures and come into the grown-up world.

  She gave a throaty sigh, like a moan. Raf looked over at her and saw that her face was drained of color, except for the wet trails on her cheeks that caught the fire’s glow. He realized that this was torture for her. He shouldn’t have made her come.

  “Let’s go now,” he said, taking her arm.

  But she stood fast, shaking her head. “I want to stay until it’s over. Until the ashes are cold.”

  He let her go. A fight broke out at the far end of the Piazza, between some Barnabotti and some loyal patriots. French soldiers quickly intervened and dragged all participants off to jail. Fosca’s gaze never moved from the flames.

  “I never paid much attention to any of this,” she said. “I took it for granted, because it was always there. The flags. The Lion of St. Mark. The ceremonies and the traditions and the costumes. It was all like one long, beautiful pageant. Bright and gay. But it wasn’t real. It was just show, invented to impress the poor and ignorant, and visitors from abroad, and eventually everyone was bored by it and no one was impressed. But it went on just the same. Like you said that day in the Senate, the old hag pretended that she was still young, and she believed it, because no one dared say different.”

  “That’s true,” Raf said.

  “But are such lovely lies all that terrible?” she wondered. “Is it wrong to think yourself greater than you are? How many people get through their dreary, dull lives by pretending that they matter, that they are needed, that they are loved? It may be a lie, and everyone knows it’s a lie, but they need that lie to survive.”

  “No one needs a lie,” Raf said. “A lie is a crutch. A healthy man doesn’t need a crutch.”

  “No.” She sighed again. “So now we’re free, liberated. All of us, Jews and nobles and bourgeoisie. But at what cost? The end of the illusion.”

  Raf thought of his Aunt Rebecca, whom he had visited that afternoon. It was the first time he had been to Lia’s house since they quarrelled and he struck her, but he didn’t see her. He knelt down by the side of his aunt’s bed and told her that she was free, that the French had come and that the gates of the ghetto had been flung open. She didn’t understand. She shivered and asked him for another blanket. He repeated what he had said, and she reminded him to hurry home because he wasn’t permitted to be on the streets after sundown.

  Fosca leaned wearily against him. “I’m tired. Please take me home, Captain Leopardi. ”

  The palazzo felt strangely quiet and cold. Raf walked Fosca to her room. There was no welcoming fire in the grate. No Emilia. No chambermaid. The bed had not been turned down. The curtains at the windows were still open.

  Fosca said “You might as well come in. I can’t imagine where they’ve all gone. Anyone would think this was a holiday.”

  She walked around the room performing the small tasks that ordinarily would have been done for her. It made her feel better to be doing something.

  “It is a holiday, for everyone but you,” Raf said. “I told my men to make sure that everyone in the house went to the Piazza tonight. Very often people don’t understand that something important has happened unless they see evidence with their own eyes, something spectacular, memorable.”

  “Yes, that fire was our Bastille,” Fosca said, sinking wearily onto her bed and kicking off her shoes. “What, I wonder, will be our guillotine? No, you’re right. It was spectacular. Even beautiful. Were the heads falling into the baskets beautiful like that? A pity they didn’t let me stay longer in Paris. I would have liked it, I think. All those heads.”

  “Stop that, Fosca,” he said sharply. “There’s no reason to be morbid. No one died today. No one will die.”

  “Only Alessandro. You’ll kill him, I know you will.”

  “Yes, but only if he’s found guilty.”

  “But who will do the judging? You. And you will find him guilty, of being noble, and aristocratic. Of being ambitious for himself, and for Venice. He is guilty. Guilty of being in love with me. Guilty of opposing the forces of freedom.” She lay back, flinging her arms over her head.

  Raf stood over her. “I love you, Fosca.”

  “I have no part in your new world, Raf,” she said.

  “I’m one of them. I can’t change that. I can’t forget my upbringing. I can’t change my likes and dislikes. I wept tonight because the world I know is gone. But I am part of that world. I wept because I was losing part of myself. You and I don’t belong together. Alessandro and I do. We speak the same strange language. It’s obsolete, I know, but we understand each other. We understand the symbols, the importance of certain gestures . We know how to dance the minuet, the gavotte. I am Fosca. Daughter of a Dolfin. Wife of a Loredan. I swear allegiance to the Doge and to the Republic of Venice.” She closed her eyes.

  Raf sat down beside her and stroked her cheek. “No one knows better than I do just how meaningless—and effective—slogans can be, Fosca. Don’t hypnotise yourself with words. Names. Dolfin. Loredan. Doge. They are just that—words. Vanished as soon as they’re spoken. Don’t think about them. Look at me, Fosca,” he urged, and she opened her yes. “I’m here with you now. We’re alone together. We love each other. This is the real world. Here and now. Us. ”He le leaned over and kissed her.

  She turned her head on the side. “Words. Wife. Mistress. Lover. Only words. Love. Loyalty.”

  “We’ll rule Venice together,” he said.

  “Rule? I don’t want to rule. I can’t even rule myself. I have no power over my own desires. How could I ever exert my will over others? Go on, Raf. Do whatever you want to me. Make love to me. I’ll probably respond, because I won’t be able to stop myself. But that’s my body. My soul is different, strange and separated. Far away. I feel light-headed, sleepy. As if—I had taken poison.”

  “Stop that,” he hissed fiercely.

  “You take the poison,” she went on dreamily, “and you wait. You don’t know how long it will be before you feel anything. You don’t know if there will be any pain at all. Perhaps not. Or perhaps it will be unbearable, and death will be a relief. And so you wait, and wait—”

  Raf got up. “Nobody ever died of self-loathing, Fosca,” he said harshly. He left the room. She gazed unblinking at the ceiling over the bed.

  The judicial tribunal met a few days later. Raf presided, flanked by two other officers.

  The Chief Inquisitor and his two helpers, Alessandro thought wryly as he faced them. He felt no fear, merely some irritation at being awakened. He had been allowed no books in his cell, and he found he preferred sleep to thought. Thinking always brought him images of Fosca, which cut like knives into his heart. But lately these piercing, painful images had started to invade his dreams.

  “Alessandro Loredan, you stand accused of the murder of Captain Emile Laugier,” Raf said. “How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty, of course,” Alessandro said with a bored yawn. “I’m no murderer.”

  “We have witnesses who saw you drive a sword through his vitals,” Raf said. “Would you like me to read their statements?”

  “You’re a soldier, Leopardi,” Alessandro said with a shrug. “You know damned well that spitting an enemy on your sword in time of war isn’t considered murder. It’s unpleasant, and messy, but not murder. Still, if that’s what you choose to call it for your revolutionary purposes, so be it.”

  “The accused pleads guilty to the charge,” one of the other officers remarked to the secretary who sat in a corner taking it all down.

  “Venice and France were not at war at the time,” Raf reminded the prisoner.

  “No? So a neutral nation has no right to protect its boundaries against attack by an unfriendly power? I stand corrected. I seem to have been laboring under a misconception.”

  “You acted without permission of your own government,” Raf said sternly. The man’s imperturbable calm annoyed him. “Thi
s tribunal has no choice but to find you guilty and to sentence you to death. You will be executed in one week, in front of a firing squad.”

  “May I return to my cell now?” Alessandro asked without a ripple in his calm. “I find this whole farce rather boring.”

  Raf nodded curtly to the guards, who led Alessandro Loredan through the door to the Bridge of Sighs.

  “Well, he certainly took that calmly enough,” one of the French officers observed.

  “Maybe, but that kind always falls apart at the last minute,” the other said. “I’ve seen ’em on the guillotine, cool and calm as you please, and then just when it comes time to kneel down and put their heads in the notch, they start cryin’ and carryin’ on. Shameful. Oh, he’ll break, you’ll see.”

  “I don’t think so,” said the first with conviction. “I’ll make you a small wager. A hundred francs?”

  “A hundred francs? We haven’t been paid in six months, remember? But a glass of wine says—”

  “Next case,” Raf said wearily. “That is, if you gentlemen are ready?”

  “Ready enough.”

  Late that night, Raf went to Loredan’s cell in the Tombs.

  “Ah, I expected you,” Alessandro grunted, wincing at the strong glare from Raf’s lantern. “I knew you couldn’t pass up an opportunity to gloat.”

  “Why not? You didn’t.”

  “No, must be a human failing, this urge to crow over the carcass of your foe.” Alessandro’s eyes became accustomed to the light and he looked around his cell. “Ah, this isn’t so bad. I notice that you gave me the same room you enjoyed as a guest here. Very appropriate. The turning of the worm, eh? So this is liberation! I can’t say I think much of your idea of freedom. ”

  “Murderers forfeit freedom in any society,” Raf said.

  “We’re not in front of your friends now,” Alessandro said. “You don’t have to wave any revolutionary flags in front of me. I’m not impressed. Yes, I killed the man. I only regret that I didn’t get an opportunity to impale more of you on my sword.”