The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “So the fine gentlemen fancies himself a swordsman,” Raf sneered.

  “The finest in the land, if you must know,” Alessandro informed him. “I don’t mean to boast. It’s the truth.”

  “I’d like to test your boast,” Raf told him. “A pity we won’t get the chance.”

  “Why not? A little duel might liven things up around here. I’m not in my best form—that requires practice, which is hard to come by in prison—but I could still take you.”

  Raf flushed at the dare. Alessandro noticed his anger and smiled.

  “What’s the matter,” he taunted softly, “are you afraid of being bested by an old man? No one needs to watch you make a fool of yourself. You’ve been aching to fight me hand to hand for a long time, haven’t you? Come on, then. Why not? My wits against your youth. I warn you, though, wits win every time. It’s hard to beat an old fox.”

  Raf said, “You’d like me to rise to the bait, wouldn’t you? A duel on the parapets in the moonlight, no one watching. You slaughter me and make your escape. Sorry I can’t accommodate you this time.”

  “A pity,” Alessandro shrugged. “I would have enjoyed disarming you, and then turning you over my knee and whipping you soundly before I cut your throat.”

  “A pleasure we’ll both have to forego,” Raf said with a grin. “Well, any last requests, Loredan? I won’t be back.”

  “So premature in your farewells,” Alessandro clucked. “I still have a week left to me. Why not pay your final visit a little later? I don’t think you’ve enjoyed this one enough. In a week I might be showing a little more of the fear and trembling you wanted to see tonight. I might—but I doubt it.”

  “Any messages for your wife?” Raf asked with a trace of a sneer.

  “I have no wife,” Alessandro said matter-of-factly. “If you are referring to Fosca, I have nothing to say to her in death, any more than I did in life. I’m sure she’s adapting very well to your new regime. She always was more of a whore than a lady. I wish you joy of her, Jew. You’re both prostitutes. Very well suited to each other.”

  “I could kill you for that,” Raf said tightly.

  “Well, why don’t you? I won’t care. She certainly won’t.”

  “You’d like me to put you out of your misery, wouldn’t you, so you won’t have to think about her in my arms. Too bad, Loredan. She’s mine now. Call her what you like, but you know that a woman in love is no whore.”

  “Men who frequent the same whores over and over again frequently fancy themselves loved,” Alessandro said, closing his eyes and stretching out on his hard bunk. “It makes the association more palatable.”

  Raf’s hand flew to his sword, but the other man seemed to be unaware of his visitor anymore. Raf called for the guard and left the cell. He would be glad when Loredan was dead.

  The announcement of Loredan’s conviction and death sentence was posted on the Cathedral doors. A few Barnabotti rejoiced that their opponent was meeting such a just and fitting end. But most Venetians, ashamed of their government’s cowardice and cheated of a spokesman and leader by Alessandro’s premature arrest, mourned his fate and raged at the French, and in particular at Raf Leopardi.

  Fosca heard the news from Guido. “You’re certain?” she said weakly. “Oh, God, I knew it would happen!” She knew that further pleading with Raf would do no good. It would only make him more obdurate and stubborn. “Is there nothing we can do?” she wondered desperately.

  Guido shook his dark head mournfully. “No, Donna Fosca. Although I would give anything to free him. Others feel the same, many others. This won’t make the Jew very popular with the people, let me tell you. A lot of them think he is a traitor to Venice.”

  “But he’s not!” she cried, defending her lover. “He loves Venice!” But he was going to execute Alessandro, and there was nothing she could do to stop him. She thought hard. Perhaps there was still one person in Venice who could reason with Raf, who could persuade him that executing one of the city’s most respected leaders would only hurt his own leadership. “Guido, take me to the Canal Regio.”

  Like Alessandro, Fosca was surprised at Lia’s tastefully decorated house. Unlike Alessandro, she recognized some of the furnishings as having come from Raf s ghetto house. She felt a surge of jealous anger but firmly set it aside. She had no reason to doubt Raf s love for her now, and she needed the dancer’s help.

  The slatternly maidservant directed her to wait in the drawing room and went to fetch her mistress. In a few minutes Lia appeared. She was clearly on her way out, dressed in a long-sleeved blue gown with contrasting shawl and bonnet.

  “Oh, it’s you!” She regarded Fosca with a mixture of astonishment and contempt. “Well, what do you want? I was just about to leave.”

  “You’re not very hospitable to guests, are you?” Fosca said.

  “Would you be, if I called at Ca’ Loredan?” Lia sat down. “You’d refuse to see me, and send me away with a flea in my ear. There’s no reason on earth why I should show you any respect at all.”

  “No, you’re right. There isn’t.” Fosca sat on the edge of a tall chair across from Lia. “Alessandro is in prison. He’s going to be executed next week.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lia’s hard expression softened a little. “Well, it’s too bad, but what can I do about it?”

  “Speak to Raf. He might listen to you. He won’t listen to me, because he’s so jealous—”

  Lia shook her head. “No, he’s jealous of me, too. Like a fool, I told him that I loved Alessandro. Besides, I haven’t seen Raf for ages. He comes from time to time, but we don’t meet. I couldn’t persuade him that a clear sky was blue if he wanted it to be cloudy. Why don’t you work on him a little harder? He’s in love with you. I know he’s stubborn, but—”

  “It’s no good. I’ve tried and tried. You said that you were in love with Alessandro.”

  “Maybe I was, a little. I certainly cried enough when he left me. He’s a fine man. You were a fool to treat him as you did.”

  “I suppose I was,” Fosca admitted. “He’ll never love me again. But I don’t want him to die. You—you saved Raf from the Tombs. Couldn’t you do it again, for Alessandro?”

  Lia gave a shout of laughter. “Oh, that’s really marvelous! You want me to bed the whole French garrison and free your husband so that you can have him back! What arrogance! Why don’t you do it yourself, if you want him that badly? But I warn you, you won’t get within ten miles of that cell. I know. I tried to see him yesterday.”

  “You did?” Fosca said anxiously. “And what happened?”

  “What do you think? They turned me away,” Lia shrugged. “Raf’s no fool. The French are more careful with dangerous criminals than the Venetians were.” She watched Fosca, who seemed bowed down by despair. “Do you know who masterminded Raf s escape? Your husband.”

  “What?” Fosca jerked her head up. “What are you talking about?”

  Lia told her about the masquer who had aided and advised her, and how years later she had met Alessandro and seen through the disguise.

  “But why?” Fosca wondered, frowning. “Why would he do it? Let him go free, when he hated him?”

  “He did it for you, so that you could never blame him for your lover’s death,” Lia said.

  “But why didn’t he ever tell me?”

  “No one else knows in the world, except those mutes who helped him. I swore I’d never say a thing.”

  “But you must!” Fosca said excitedly. “You must tell Raf at once! It might make him reconsider.”

  “No, I won’t. I promised Loredan that I would never tell him. But you—”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Fosca said, rising. “He’ll have to reconsider. He’ll know that Alessandro’s not the monster he thinks him.”

  Lia said warningly, “Don’t count on it. In the first place, he’ll never believe it. And even if he did, he wouldn’t let it dissuade him. He wants your husband dead.”

  “I wouldn’t care if h
e freed Jesus Christ himself,” Raf said brusquely. “I want him dead.”

  “Then there’s nothing more I can say—nothing,” Fosca whispered.

  “No, Fosca,” he said. “Not a thing. No tearful entreaties. No bribes. No promises. It’s over. Forget about him. Soon you’ll be free, really free.”

  He put his arms around her, and then carried her to bed. She didn’t resist him. But it was like making love to a ghost. The life had gone out of her, along with her hope. She looked up at him, but he knew she wasn’t seeing him. Her mind was far away, in the Tombs, with her husband.

  XVII

  GATES

  Since the arrival of the French battalion and Raf's commandeering of Ca’ Loredan as his headquarters, none of Fosca’s friends had come to call. Not even those who, like Antonio and Giacomo, had remained doggedly faithful in the aftermath of her worst scandals. Now, not even they came.

  One night she and Raf attended the opera, and her fears were confirmed: the aristocracy of Venice had turned its back on her as a traitor and a collaborator. Even those unsavory souls like Gonzaga, who had once welcomed her as a fellow outcast, now pretended that she didn’t exist. Not a head turned to greet her when they entered the theater, although a path widened to allow them to pass. Fosca saw Antonio, who gave her a sorrowing look and quickly turned away. Even the dwarf Flabonico snubbed her. Tears burned her eyes.

  “Let’s go home, Raf,” she begged in a husky whisper. “Please.”

  “No,” he said stubbornly. “I’m not going to let you back down. Don’t let them see how much it hurts. Don’t let it show.” He gripped her arm and led her to their box.

  People looked at them, then looked away quickly. The theater was strangely quiet; instead of the usual rowdiness, there were hushed conversations, disapproving murmurs, a few scandalized gasps.

  They sat through the first act of Mozart’s The Magic Flute, but there was no magic in the evening for Fosca, who barely heard a note of the music and didn’t even look at the stage, her eyes cast down. When the act ended and people began to leave their seats to socialize during the interval between acts, Raf leaped to his feet and said in a booming voice that carried to every part of the auditorium,

  “You’re nothing but pious hypocrites! There isn’t a woman here with a tenth of the courage she has!”

  Fosca gasped, “Raf, no! Please!” She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back in his seat.

  He shook her off. “You do your loving in back alleys and whorehouses, and Heaven help anyone who proclaims her love in public!”

  Fosca moaned and covered her face with her hands. I can’t bear this, she thought. I’ll die of shame.

  The audience murmured angrily. The place sounded like a vast roomful of hissing serpents.

  Then someone yelled, “Jew Murderer! Take your whore and get out of here! We don’t want you here, either of you!” Other angry voices joined his. Raf stood silently while they hurled accusations of murder and treason.

  He and Fosca stayed until midway through the second act, and then he took her arm. “Let’s go.” He led her out of the theater to his waiting gondola, the most elegant of the Loredan boats that he had taken for his personal use.

  “I’m sorry, Fosca,” he said when they were on their way back to Ca’ Loredan. “I didn’t expect that.”

  “I did,” she said. “I didn’t know it would be so horrible, though. It was a shock.”

  “Those hypocritical bastards,” Raf seethed. “I didn’t realize—it never occurred to me that moving into your palazzo would put you in a position like this. Damn them!”

  “It’s not important,” she said wearily. “They knew all about us, you see. How they must have laughed when you took over the house—and its mistress. And then you sentenced Loredan to death. Getting him out of the way. A nuisance! Strange, no one in Venice has ever taken husbanding very seriously—neither the husbands nor the wives nor lovers. And all of a sudden they’re outraged by this public show of adultery.”

  “It won’t last,” he said not very convincingly. “They’ll forget. They’ll accept us.”

  “No, never. I know them. It doesn’t matter that most of them don’t have a sequin left. It doesn’t matter that there is no more Golden Book. You can’t erase the fact that they are nobility from their minds. Nor the fact that I betrayed Loredan, and them.”

  “But you didn’t betray anybody!” he raged. “This was all my doing!”

  “They don’t see it that way, ” she said calmly.“ I’m not blaming you, Raf, I thought I could have it both ways—husband and lover. But I shouldn’t have tried to see you again. It was a mistake—I should have known better. But I couldn’t stay away. I love you— And now I have to pay. It’s only fair.”

  Later that night he made gentle love to her, but it was like holding a wraith. She seemed to have no weight, no substance. Raf told himself that time would heal her hurts, that she would recover from Loredan’s death, that things between them would be even better than before. All the same, he sensed that he was losing her, and it frightened him.

  During the day Raf plunged into the work of organizing the new government. In place of the Signoria there were now numerous committees: Public Safety, Maintenance, Religious-Affairs, Canals, Commerce—all the things that the nobles had managed in their lumbering but effective way were now delegated to members of the general public. Committee members were selected from among the working people and the bourgeoisie; they were doctors, lawyers, shopkeepers, gondoliers.

  Men and women were encouraged to address each other as “Citizen” and “Citizeness,” as Donna Rosalba had predicted. In the ghetto, they called the Chief Rabbi “Citizen Rabbi.” This was equality without masks, which were banned.

  Raf encouraged the Jews to leave their cramped homes and move into neighborhoods all over the city. The new government declared an end to all excommunications, logically, since the dangers to Jews that would have resulted from breaking Venetian laws no longer existed. One Saturday just a few days before Loredan’s scheduled execution, Raf attended services in three synagogues. Wary of him at first, and still reluctant to violate the old strictures of excommunication, the Jews avoided him. They were unsure of where his real loyalties lay. That afternoon he ordered the gates of the ghetto to be taken down and burned.

  It was an impressive sight. The fire was set in the square in the heart of the New Ghetto, less congested and less flammable than the Old Ghetto, where Raf had been raised. French soldiers hacked the gates to pieces and tossed them to the flames. When the conflagration had subsided a little, Raf stood on the steps of the synagogue and addressed the crowd.

  “Listen to me, all of you! Some of you know me as a man who has been fighting for the freedom of Jews, and all men, for many years. Today I wear the uniform of a French soldier. But underneath I am still a Venetian, and in my heart I am still a Jew.” There were appreciative murmurs from the crowd. He went on, “This is a new age, my brothers. An age of religious tolerance and freedom, and the brotherhood of all men. No field of endeavor is closed to you. You have the right to worship where and how you choose. You have the right to elect representatives to the new government, to choose the men who will speak for you. You can walk the streets of Venice freely, at any hour, without fear of arrest or detainment. Your children will never know the real meaning of the word ‘ghetto.’ The age of persecution and oppression is past, gone forever! In the last days of the Republic you showed your loyalty to those who oppressed you. You gave your treasures freely. I am sure that you will be equally honorable and loyal to this newer government, which has already given you so much.”

  The crowd in the square was silent for a moment, then burst into spontaneous cheers. A short, black-robed man raced up the steps and embraced Raf warmly. It was his old friend, Malachi, whom he hadn’t seen since the day he and Fosca ran away together. Then others came forward to greet him, and to offer congratulations and thanks, even rabbis and members of the committee that had order
ed his excommunication. Finally Lia, modestly dressed in black, her hair covered, greeted him solemnly in Hebrew and kissed him on both cheeks.

  “What’s this?” Raf laughed. “Are you thinking of becoming a nun, Lia?”

  “No! Tell him, Malachi! He won’t believe me—”

  Malachi grinned. “On this day, Lia became a Jew! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Raf gaped at the smiling girl. “You’re right. I don’t believe it.”

  “You see, I told you!” Lia said gleefully. “Well, why shouldn’t I?From now on, it’s not such a bad thing to be a Jew. And I’m the first Jewish ballerina Venice has ever had, I’m sure!”

  “Now remember, Lia, from now on you can’t eat pork,” Malachi cautioned with mock severity.

  “Why not?” she demanded. “It hasn’t killed me up to now. I think that’s a silly rule. I think it ought to be changed!”

  “Wait, wait, you just became a Jew today,” Malachi laughed. “Give yourself a little time before you take on the Talmud!”

  “This is a great day,” Raf said, watching the thick black columns of smoke rising from the embers of the ghetto gates. “I’ve never been so happy.”

  “You have every right to be proud,” Lia said warmly. “And we’re all proud of you!”

  “If only Aunt Rebecca could be here—”

  “But she is here!” Lia said excitedly. “Look up, at that window!” She took his arm and directed his attention upwards to a second-floor window of a house that overlooked the square. Raf’s Aunt Rebecca, well-wrapped against the chill, sat watching the proceedings with a gentle smile on her old face. “I didn’t want her to miss this. I think she’s looking much better, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” Raf said. He looked down at her. “Thank you, Lia. For her. For this.” He fingered the edge of the black shawl. “I hope you didn’t do it just for me.

  “For you! I should say not!” Lia lied. “I’m a Jew at heart, really I am. I’m still waiting for my savior!”