Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  “Would you like me to help with the little veil?” she questioned hopefully as she ran the exquisite lace over her spread hand.

  Marietta saw how eager she was. “That’s very kind. I’ll show you exactly how it has to be gathered.”

  Sewing on the pearls was intricate work with the finest of needles, but Marietta took delight in the painstaking task. She had only about ten more pearls to attach when she laid the mask aside to get ready to sing at a ridotto one evening. These events were run by noblemen at great houses throughout Venice, known more generally as casinos. They were extremely popular and because they were private affairs, no matter that few strangers or foreigners were turned away, they were exempt from the law that had closed down public ridottos in a move against gaming. In fact, many of those very councillors who had helped to pass the law were among the keenest patrons. The governors had no objection to the Pietà girls singing on the premises since they had no contact with the gamblers. These places were also respectably run, and although assignations did take place there were special houses far more suitable and much less public where such liaisons could be fulfilled.

  It had been snowing all day, giving the city a new and pure beauty. The girls with Sister Sylvia, and the bludgeon-carrying guards who accompanied them on such outings and in Carnival, had to keep their heads down against the driving flakes as they left their gondolas. But the room that awaited the girls was warm with a good fire blazing. It also had two grilles set like windows in the walls, but of so intricate a design that the girls could peep through like the inmates of a harem while they were invisible to those on the other side. Elena had stayed behind with a slight cold, and Sister Sylvia, who thought she might be coming down with the same malady, took a comfortable seat by the fireplace. Two violinists, a celloist, and a girl at the harpsichord were the only musicians. Marietta and two fellow choristers would sing solo and in duet in turn.

  When Marietta had finished her first song she went to look through one of the grilles at the gaming room below. Every table was ringed with players, all of whom were masked. Here as elsewhere the white bauta was popular, men and women in full evening splendor but completing their disguise with a tricorne hat and black mantilla fastened under the chin. Although those wandering about chatted with one another, the players at the tables maintained the complete silence that was traditional.

  Having looked her fill at this scene, Marietta moved to another grille to look out on the reception area. All who came up the stairs from the entrance hall had snow covering their hats or hoods and clinging to their outer garments. Footmen and waiting maids took cloaks and mantles from them, brushed snow from their hats and even took their bauta masks to wipe away the snow that had gathered on the protruding lip. One of the screens provided for those who wished to conceal their identity while their masks were being cleaned stood at a slight angle to the grille. Marietta found that if she stood on tiptoe she could see behind it.

  When three tall men in bauta masks came up the stairs, all snow-covered in their long swinging mantles, Marietta’s attention was drawn immediately to the one in the middle. There was something familiar about the authoritative way in which he moved. Any last doubt as to his identity was swept away when one of the others addressed him.

  “What a night, Domenico! Your wife did well to stay at home with mine for their own game of cards.”

  “I agree, Sebastiano. I wouldn’t have wanted her to come out in these bitter conditions under any circumstances.”

  Marietta held her breath. Was there a chance that she was about to see the face of the man who owned the gilded mask? She felt she was willing him to go behind the nearest screen. To her relief he did, his two companions with him. A footman, respecting their wish for privacy, reached a hand around it to take their bauta masks. Without the least compunction Marietta boldly gripped the grille and raised herself high enough to see the features of Domenico Torrisi.

  His face was just as that special mask had shown. There was the wide brow and cheekbones, the large and well-formed nose with the strongly carved nostrils, the deeply indented chin with its arrogant jaw, and the mouth handsome and worldly with its sensual lower lip. She was able to see at closer quarters that his eyes were a remarkably clear grey. It was easy to judge that in repose he would look stern and fierce, but this evening he was sharing the good humor of his companions, one of whom bore such a striking likeness to him that she could only conclude he was a younger brother. Although all three wore their hair powdered, she was able to tell by Domenico’s straight black brows the color beneath the powder.

  “I’m for a game of Faro this evening,” he remarked, smoothing the lace of his cravat. “What’s your choice, Antonio?” He was addressing his apparent brother.

  “The dice are calling me.” Antonio shook a half-closed fist in the air as if he was already coaxing the dice in his favor, a keen glint in his dark eyes. “What of you, Sebastiano?”

  “I’ll take the cards with Domenico,” was the reply. Then, as the footman’s hand reappeared with the masks, “I see our bautas are ready.”

  Masked once more, the three men sauntered into the first of the gaming rooms—unaware that a Pietà girl, having noted that Sister Sylvia had fallen asleep by the fire, rushed from one grille to the other in order to follow their progress. The candlelight of the great chandeliers played across their wine satin coats. Two women holding half-masks on ivory sticks smiled in invitation, but were to be disappointed. The trio split up, Antonio going on to the dice board and Domenico and his friend turning away to the Faro table out of Marietta’s sight.

  She did not see Domenico again until she was singing for the last time just before dawn. When she was halfway through the song he emerged from the gaming room to leave on his own. She could see him quite clearly from where she was standing. His mantle was put about his shoulders and his gloves handed to him. Yet he waited, glancing in the direction of the grille as he listened attentively. Only after she had reached the final note did he set off down the stairs.

  After sleeping until noon, a privilege granted after such engagements, Marietta told Elena all that had happened at the ridotto. “The coincidence of the gilded mask has gone full circle,” she declared lightly. “The spell is broken and my curiosity satisfied. I know what its wearer looks like and he has heard me sing, even though he will never know the connection.”

  Elena, who knew her so well, thought that for all her casual bravado Marietta sounded like someone not entirely sure that a ghost had been exorcised.

  Chapter Four

  EVERY DAY THE MAESTRO DI CORO RECEIVED LETTERS WITH requests to engage the Pietà choir and orchestra for various events, sometimes for great occasions and others for less formal gatherings. When a request came one day for a soloist and a quartet to provide a musical interlude at a betrothal dinner, the Maestro decided to let Elena have this chance. Marietta helped her decide what she should sing and he approved the selection.

  What Elena had not expected was that Marco Celano should be among the guests. Her heart began to hammer as soon as she saw him and all the romantic feelings she had tried to suppress came to the surface again.

  There were no galleries for such an informal evening. She and the musicians performed in full view of the audience of thirty people seated in a semi-circle. It was on such occasions that, under chaperonage, the Pietà girls had most social contact with their audience, who would converse with them when coffee was served during the interval. Elena, who had met Marco’s smiling eyes all too often while she was singing at such close range, was fully prepared when she and the musicians were drawn into the company to find him leading her to a sofa.

  “This is a good seat away from everybody,” he said as they sat down together. “It is an honor to meet you at last. I admired your voice the very first time I heard you sing.”

  She felt almost overwhelmed by his close presence. He seemed to be invading not only her eyes and her ears but her racing blood as well. Somehow she kept
her head.

  “When was that?” she challenged, certain he would not remember.

  “I recall the occasion extremely well. There was a slight contretemps at the beginning of the evening between a Torrisi and myself, but afterward I was able to enjoy the concert and, in particular, your singing.”

  So he had remembered! A footman was pouring coffee for her and she hoped her hand would not shake with excitement and rattle the cup on its saucer. Fortunately this did not happen. She heard herself making conversation and then he said something that cut her short.

  “I know all about you, Maestra Elena,” he said quietly.

  She caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Your seventeen years are now an open book to me. I know where you were born in Venice, how you were raised by your late great-aunt, who your guardian is, and the very day when you were entered at the Pietà.”

  “Why should all that interest you?” She was amazed that she could remain outwardly composed while her mind had been set awhirl. Her Pietà training now stood her in good stead.

  “Surely you can guess? Why do you think I came here this evening? My late father’s friendship with the head of this house goes back to their childhood but this betrothal is of no consequence to me. I’m here because I learned you would be singing and I could not stay away. I have heard you sing more often than you realize. I deeply regret I didn’t send you flowers after that first evening, but I shall make amends tomorrow. Will you accept whatever comes?”

  She began to feel more in command of this encounter. “If I do?”

  “Then I shall know that a further step might be taken and then another. Unless,” he added, pausing for a telling second or two, “your music is everything to you and you have set your plans for the future.”

  “Music will always be an integral part of my life.”

  “I would not wish it otherwise, but there are other pleasures that it can enhance.”

  “I agree,” she said. “One only has to think of dancing and of Carnival and of theatrical drama and—”

  “And love?”

  She gave him a long slow look under her lashes. “And love,” she repeated. With an instinctive sense of timing she rose to her feet, which was a signal to the quartet to return to their chairs for the rest of the performance.

  As soon as she was back at the Pietà she gave a full account to Marietta, who was prepared to sweep away any doubts she had had about Marco Celano if he should keep his word. Then in the morning a posy of violets in a lace frill tied with silver ribbons was duly delivered to Elena at the Pietà. Blissfully she inhaled the scent of the little blooms. Amid the stems she found a hidden love note.

  From then on Elena continued to receive flowers and notes from Marco. She conversed again with him during a supper following a private concert for selected guests at the Pietà and again at a reception. He was now to be seen wherever she sang. Her happiness was apparent to all, although only Marietta knew the reason.

  WHEN MARIETTA HAD finished sewing on the pearls of the Savoni mask she attached the veil, which Sister Sylvia had prepared. The result was a little masterpiece. As it had to be handed back to Leonardo before the wedding, and without Adrianna’s knowledge, she asked the nun to inform the mask-maker on her behalf that the work was done.

  “There’s no need for a message,” Sister Sylvia replied. “I’ll deliver it myself tomorrow afternoon. Sister Giaccomina and I are accompanying Adrianna to Signor Savoni’s mask-shop. She has never been there. I’ll carry the box in the inside pocket of my cloak and pass it to him at the first chance.”

  Alone in her room Marietta packed the mask in its box, her mind racing. If only she could go too! The sewing of the pearls had created a nostalgic yearning in her to experience again the sights and sounds and textures of her childhood. After slipping the box into a drawer she hurried off to find Adrianna.

  “I understand how you feel,” Adrianna said after hearing what Marietta had to say. “I intended to wait until after my marriage to ask that you and Elena might visit me at home with the nuns, but perhaps I could make a special request to the Maestro on this occasion, which is so important to me.”

  “Elena would like to come too,” Marietta said, for she had not made the request just for herself.

  “Leave the matter with me, but don’t raise your hopes too high. Go now to your choir practice and I will see you at noon.”

  Marietta told Elena what she had requested and they agreed reluctantly that there was not much hope. But when they met Adrianna at noon she had both good and bad news. Elena could not go on the expedition, but Marietta had been granted the privilege.

  “Why has he made the difference between us?” Marietta asked, dismayed on her friend’s behalf.

  “Only because Elena has a lesson with him tomorrow afternoon, but,” Adrianna added to Elena, “he said you could come another time after my marriage.” Her eyes danced. “I was lucky enough to find him in good temper with you both. He had on his desk the new pieces you each composed last week and was very pleased with them. He intends that you shall both have the chance to sing your own work in the near future.”

  These good tidings, although welcome, did nothing to ease the acute disappointment that Elena felt at not being included, simply because she might have caught sight of Marco somewhere on the way. From a window she watched Marietta and Adrianna set off in their veils with the two nuns in the direction of St. Mark’s Square. Then with a sigh she went to her lesson.

  Marietta felt invigorated by the crisp, cold air. Snow had fallen during the night and the sky was still leaden, promising more to come. Icicles glittered over windows and doors as if jewels from the Pala d’Oro had been borrowed to bedeck the city. Near the Piazzetta a triple row of gondolas, snow thick on the covers and the roofs of their felzes, slapped the water at their moorings. Later, toward the hour when evening festivities drew near, transport would be in demand and in the meantime the gondoliers watched out in vain for hirings and stamped their feet to keep warm.

  People had made paths in the snow like trails across the Piazzetta. Sister Sylvia led the way as they went in single file with Sister Giaccomina, who was round as a ball in her thick cloak, bringing up the rear. They passed the tall tower of the Campanile just as its giant bell began its daily toll to summon councillors to meetings at the Doge’s Palace; and, as if to rival it, the two Moors on the clock across the square began striking the hour of two o’clock.

  Sister Sylvia stopped as soon as she had stepped into the colonnaded arcade for Adrianna to come to her side while Marietta took her place beside Sister Giaccomina. Two by two they went along past little shops full of fine wares and Florian’s coffeehouse, from which wafted the most delicious aroma of coffee. A few steps farther on they reached the Savoni mask-shop. Marietta, whose first chance this was to linger and gaze at the masks on display, did not follow Adrianna and Sister Sylvia into the shop, but remained outside to study all that lay in front of her while Sister Giaccomina waited impatiently. In every rainbow hue, as well as in silver, bronze, and gold, the masks tempted and dazzled. Such patterns! Such strange designs with sequins! On some tragic masks drop-pearls hung like tears from the eye-holes. Others represented the Lion of St. Mark, the elements, and similar fantasies, some new to her but many that were endearingly familiar.

  “Come along, Marietta,” Sister Giaccomina urged, wanting to get inside out of the cold.

  Marietta obeyed, throwing off her veil upon entry as Adrianna had done. In the shop, where seemingly every inch was covered by masks, Leonardo stood with his arms wide as if he would embrace them both.

  “Welcome to my shop!” he declared, smiling broadly and kissing their hands, giving Sister Giaccomina cause to experience her own sense of nostalgia. Like Sister Sylvia she was a noblewoman who had moved in high social circles until circumstances forced her to take the veil instead of becoming a wife and mother as she would have wished. Antique books were her interest and food was her consolat
ion. Having glanced at the cakes in Florian’s she could only hope that the mask-maker would have equally delicious refreshment to offer his guests today.

  “Do you have anyone to assist you in the shop, Signor Savoni?” Sister Sylvia was asking.

  “Yes, I have assistants, but they have gone to pack goods in the workshop this afternoon because I am shutting the shop while you are here. I don’t want any interruptions while I’m showing my guests around the premises. I’ll bolt the door now.”

  The shop was so crammed with displays that the large man had difficulty in getting past Sister Giaccomina. Marietta tactfully offered to do it for him and continued to let her gaze travel around the shop as she slipped the bolt home. How contentedly she and her mother would have settled into a little mask-shop of their own if ever such an opportunity had come their way!

  Leonardo, chatting with Adrianna and the nuns, stood aside to let them go ahead through the curtained archway that separated the shop from the workshops at the rear. Marietta, being last, was able to take the mask-box from the pocket of her cloak and hand it to him.

  “You have created a beautiful mask,” she whispered. “The loveliest I have ever seen and I wanted to bring it to you myself.”

  Quickly he thanked her and placed the box out of sight in a drawer.

  As Marietta entered the first of the workrooms she was met by the familiar aromas of glue and paint, canvas and wax and fine fabrics. A craftsman was seated at a workbench sculpting a mask in clay from which a mold would be made for the shaping of a special mask. At another table four women were making papier-mâché masks, using a mold and alternating layers of handmade paper and glue. An apprentice was dipping canvas shapes into wax until they were sufficiently coated. Marietta spoke to everyone, as did Adrianna, who wanted to know all the staff by name. Sister Giaccomina was as fascinated as a child by all there was to see, and pretended not to hear when Sister Sylvia tugged on her sleeve with a fiercely whispered reminder that Carnival and all that went with it made up the Devil’s playground.