Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  Marietta asked Leonardo about his outworkers, and he told her that he employed quite a number, but none from her village. While the nuns were out of earshot she told him of the circumstances surrounding the golden mask. She did not want her chaperones to think her interest more attached to the wearer than to the mask itself.

  “I’ve reason to believe,” she said, “that I’ve seen that golden mask from my mother’s workshop on Signor Domenico Torrisi.”

  “The head of the House of Torrisi himself?” Leonardo shook his head doubtfully. “I can’t think it is the same. I have always made his masks, and I don’t remember making such a one for him.”

  “Then I was mistaken.” She was aware of being disappointed.

  “Wait a moment!” Leonardo wagged a finger in the air to stir his memory. “When would this mask have been made?”

  “In the late summer of 1775.”

  “It was around that time I was laid low with a fever, one of those unpleasant illnesses that are said to come to the city like the plague itself from foreign ships, when a special Torrisi order came in. My chief craftsman was also stricken by the fever and I didn’t want to trust such fine work to any other man in my employ, so I handed it on to someone who would do it well.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Your employer at that time, Signor Carpinelli.”

  “So it could be the same mask after all.”

  “Indeed it could.” He opened a cupboard to reveal stacks of old ledgers. After finding the one he wanted, Leonardo turned to the month of August and ran his finger down the names. When he found what he was looking for he punched his forefinger on the entry. “There we are! ‘One mask to be molded and gilded from the sculpted face of Signor Domenico Torrisi. Work carried out by the Carpinelli workshop.’”

  “So I was right?”

  As he closed the ledger he looked puzzled. “How strange that you should have remembered that mask. It must be because it was the last piece of work you did at home.”

  “I suppose that might be so,” she replied noncommittally. There was no way of explaining how it had fascinated her.

  The tour of the workshop over, Leonardo escorted his guests back to a private room where refreshments had been delivered by a serving man from Florian’s and set out on a marble-topped table. There were dishes of sweetmeats and cakes, together with a steaming pot of hot chocolate; the cups and plates were of Chinese porcelain. When they were all seated, Leonardo watched proudly as Adrianna poured the chocolate. His happiness, as on the evening of the reception, was so apparent that he endeared himself anew to Marietta. She hoped that one day she might count him as a friend even as she did Adrianna.

  After the refreshments, while everyone was still talking, Marietta asked if she might return to the shop itself to look around more closely. The nuns gave their permission, content to try another cake or two, and Leonardo was able to move into Marietta’s vacant seat next to Adrianna.

  In the shop without her veil, which she had left on the back of her chair, she was free to try on any mask she fancied. It was like being back in her mother’s workshop, the whole atmosphere imbued with the symbolic meanings, mysteries, and secrets of the many faces of Carnival.

  For fun she picked up a grotesque olive green mask and held it to her face in front of the mirror. It was that of the character Brighella, a wily, impudent servant who would assist his master in any kind of debauched intrigue. It was not a suitable mask for a Pietà girl, and if either of the nuns had chosen to look into the shop at that moment they would have shrieked their shock. Amused, she exchanged the Brighella for the mask of a lawyer character, who was played in Carnival as portly and learned and a true know-it-all. This mask covered only the forehead and gave the wearer a bulbous nose.

  She laughed at the effect and was returning the mask to the shelf when she became aware of being watched. It made her realize for the first time that with the gloom of the snowy afternoon deepening toward darkness outside, she was as fully illumined by the chandelier suspended above her as if she were on a stage. But who would loiter to stare at her when the weather was so bitterly cold? Slowly she turned her head to look in the direction of the shop window.

  In the dusk the young man looking in at her was silhouetted against the blanket of snow lying in St. Mark’s Square, and she could just see that he was smiling.

  Her sense of humor gained the upper hand. He must have found the effect of these grotesque masks as funny as she did. Safe in the knowledge that the shop door was securely fastened and Sister Giaccomina unlikely to resist yet another cake before allowing Sister Sylvia to move from the table, she took up a moretta mask. Putting the button behind its mouth between her lips, she took her hands away as if she were a conjuror to show it had no visible support. She heard the applause of his gloved hands through the glass of the window. He applauded again when she took the gilded stick of a half-mask and held it to her eyes. But when she clamped on Pulcinella with its clown’s beak of a nose she saw him shake his head, although he laughed.

  She changed it for a papier-mâché one that Columbina might have worn, a half-mask that prettily covered the nose. Marietta tied the ribbons behind her head, but when she turned from her reflection to the shop window again he had gone. Her immediate disappointment turned to panic as the door burst open and he entered, shutting it again quickly to keep out the cold. Too late she realized she must have failed to shoot the bolt right home.

  “Good day, mademoiselle. Do you speak French?” he asked in what she took to be his native language.

  “Only enough to understand what I’m singing and pronounce the words correctly,” she replied in his tongue, “but I’m not fluent.”

  “So far you have spoken the best French I have heard since leaving France,” he praised. “I happen to have some Italian and so between us we should manage very well. How splendid that you should be a singer as well as an entertainer with masks!”

  “I had no idea at first that a spectator was outside.” With a soft little laugh she removed the Columbina mask and returned it to its shelf. She knew she should call Leonardo and then retreat to the nuns’ chaperonage, but she was enjoying this unexpected encounter too much to let it end so soon. This stranger seemed to have set the whole atmosphere of the shop to vibrating. He had classic good looks—a thin straight nose, wide cheekbones, and a bony jaw; his complexion was olive, his eyes dark and bright and good-humored, set romantically in lashes as dark a brown as his unpowdered hair.

  “Allow me to present myself,” he said, switching to strongly accented Italian. “I am Alix Desgrange of Lyon. I arrived in Venice yesterday from Padua on the Grand Tour in the company of a friend, Henri Chicot, and the Comte de Marquet, our tutor, whose duty is to instruct us in the wonders of the art and architecture of all the countries we are visiting. He also advises us on the purchase of works of art to take home. Your servant, signorina.” He swept off his tricorne and bowed to her.

  “It is as well you came yesterday,” she said, thinking that this young Frenchman, who was surely no more than nineteen or twenty, had such a carefree attitude that he must be extracting the maximum fun out of what would otherwise be a most tedious test of cultural endurance. “I heard today that the lagoon is beginning to freeze where the River Brenta flows into it.”

  “It is certainly cold enough. I had never expected to see Venice in the snow.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “As long as possible. My friend Henri and I have had a surfeit of vistas and views, statuary and picturesque ruins and handsome paintings. Now we intend to enjoy the carnival. For that I need a mask. Would you advise me?”

  She did not hesitate. “With pleasure.” Her encompassing gesture indicated the full shelves and mask-covered walls. “What is your preference? Comical? Grotesque? Mysterious? Dashing?”

  “A mask that will take me anywhere.”

  “That is easily settled. It has to be a bauta mask for you.” She took one from a peg and held
it out to him. “This is the most popular mask for regular use with men and women because the prominent upper lip juts out over the mouth allowing unimpeded speech as well as eating and drinking.”

  “Let me try it on.”

  She handed it to him. “You can turn the bauta up against the side of your tricorne if you want to be free of it for any reason. I always think it looks like a curious ornament, but it is constantly done.”

  He held the bauta to his face while she tied its ribbons for him. When he turned to face her again her heart seemed to miss a beat. For the first time the bauta mask did not convey a sinister graveyard look, for his eyes through the aperture were so merry.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Splendid! You are now wearing the official mask of Venice, because it is the only one permitted to be worn out of Carnival, although not before the hour of noon.”

  “What an odd rule. I had heard that Venetian law is full of them. Is it true that gondolas must always be black?”

  “Yes, it dates back to an old law intended to curb the Venetian love of extravagance and flamboyance, although there is plenty of color on the canals on festival and regatta days. You’ll see! But tell me, is the mask comfortable?”

  “Extremely so, but it’s an odd shape.” He felt the base that stuck out over his mouth in the shape of a monkey’s upper lip. “This must make me look like an ape!”

  “No!” she protested. “See for yourself in the mirror.”

  He looked at his reflection and laughed. “The Comte de Marquet will never recognize me in this!”

  “You can be doubly sure of that,” she suggested mischievously, “if you wear a traditional mantilla with it.”

  “I’ve seen them on people everywhere I’ve been in the city.” He was enthusiastic. “Show me the best you have.”

  She looked behind the counter and found a drawer full of mantillas. Quickly selecting one of the best, she unfolded it and handed it to him. He removed his tricorne and she draped the mantilla over his head before fastening it under his chin. While he replaced his hat she smoothed the cape of the mantilla over his shoulders.

  “There!” she exclaimed with satisfaction, stepping back a couple of paces to study his appearance. “Remember it is accepted by all that in a bauta you need never raise your hat or bow to any man, because it eliminates all social distinctions just like the carnival itself.”

  “Another curious rule,” he joked, “but a most useful one.”

  “If you buy yourself a long black mantle with its own deep shoulder-cape to go with it you’ll look like a native Venetian. You mentioned that your tutor is a comte. If you are a nobleman too, then you should buy a silk mantle with a fur lining, because silk is the only fabric that the law allows the nobility to wear. At least”—she added—“if you aim to look as if you belonged to the city while you are here.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “I’ve no blue blood in my veins. A black wool mantle will suffice.” He regarded his reflection in the mirror again with renewed mirth. “I know I’m going to have a splendid time in Venice!” Swiftly he turned to face her again. “Would you share it with me?”

  “I?” Astonishment arched her brows. “That is impossible!”

  “Nothing is impossible! Didn’t you know that? Tell me your name.”

  She hesitated only briefly, swept along by the intoxicating experience of flirting freely for the first time in her life. “Marietta Fontana.”

  “So, Signorina Fontana, let us arrange where we should meet.”

  “That, Monsieur Desgrange,” she replied in amusement, “is far too difficult a problem for either of us to solve.”

  “I can’t believe that. What time do you finish work here? Until I have a chance to get my bearings beyond the immediate vicinity of St. Mark’s Square perhaps I could meet you here at the shop? Where would you like to go? To a performance of Commedia dell’Arte—I’ve heard the plays are enormous fun and full of laughter. Or would you prefer to dance? I have had a good supper-place recommended to me by someone I met who was in Venice last year.”

  She was filled with a yearning to spend an evening with him. To go to the theater was one of her ambitions. To dance would be wonderful. She and Elena knew all the latest dances, for when the orchestra played at balls, note was taken of the new steps and the information passed around. Never before had she experienced such fierce longing to break loose and go her own way for a brief spell. She felt almost angry with the Frenchman for making such a dazzling offer she could not accept.

  “I’m not free to dance or sup or go anywhere with you,” she said sharply. Then, overcome with remorse for speaking so harshly, she softened her tone. “Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed such entertainment, but it’s out of the question.”

  “Why?”

  “This is a pointless discussion.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “Let us concentrate on your purchases. Would you like to try on any other masks?”

  He was not to be turned aside so easily. “Are you betrothed?”

  “No!” Surprise made her laugh at the unlikely reason he had surmised for her refusal. “Far from it.”

  “Then are you the daughter of the mask-maker? Have I been presumptuous in thinking you to be his assistant?”

  Smilingly she shook her head at his persistence. “It’s nothing like that. If you made a thousand guesses I don’t believe you would ever reach the truth of the matter. I will explain. Have you heard of the Ospedale della Pietà?”

  “Certainly I have. All Europe has. The Comte de Marquet is presently trying to obtain tickets for a concert by the choir tomorrow evening.”

  “I shall be singing at that concert. I am a Pietà girl.”

  He pushed up his mask. His expression had become serious and he narrowed his eyes incredulously. “What are you doing here then? I heard that those girls never go anywhere on their own.”

  “We don’t,” she said, and explained how she came to be on the premises. “The shop was supposed to be closed for the afternoon and the door bolted. But when you came in unexpectedly I saw no reason not to help you choose a mask.”

  “I’m glad you did.” He smiled at her. “Shall you be visiting here again soon?”

  “That’s most unlikely.”

  “Then where am I to see you next?”

  She pursed her lips ruefully. “Only from a seat in the audience.”

  “That won’t do at all!” He was adamant. “Let us plan another meeting in the face of all odds.”

  She felt quite light-headed. His determination to see her again was intoxicating. “If there is any way to meet you I will find it,” she promised half in jest, wanting to prolong his keen pursuit for the sheer novelty of the experience.

  “Good. You have only to tell me the time and the place. I will await you.”

  She studied him under her lashes. He had not taken her remark as a joke. She supposed it to be one of those nuances of translation one missed when not entirely at home in a foreign language. Although she was inexperienced in such matters, she sensed the strength of his attraction. The inner guard that she had been keeping up against him, and even against herself, began to melt away. But she was still unsure whether it was Alix himself or the tantalizing glimpse he had given her of a joyous liberty beyond the walls of the Pietà that was drawing her into dangerous waters.

  “I would need to think how it might be managed,” she heard herself say. Her thoughts were racing. Could she slip the net of the Pietà for an hour or two? Perhaps with Elena’s help she’d be able to find a loophole.

  “We are staying in a house on Campo Morosini,” he said. “You could always send me a message.”

  “A message!” she exclaimed with gentle mockery. “You might as well be on the moon for all the chance I would have of sending one. Also, most of us at the Pietà have no one to write to us, which means any letter that does come is placed before one of the governors first.”

  “Then tell me where you expect to sing a
gain after the concert tomorrow.”

  She told herself that he could find out easily enough even if she refused to tell him. Crossing to the counter, she took a sheet of paper and wrote down a list of forthcoming performances and venues.

  “You will need a map of Venice to find some of these places,” she warned.

  “I have one already,” he said, putting the list away in his pocket. Then voices were heard in the corridor and there came the sound of footsteps approaching.

  “Quick!” she exclaimed in alarm. “I must not be found alone with you! Please get behind that display figure!”

  It was a wicker frame draped in a long mantle with a wig and a high-sided tricorne, the face represented by a mask painted with green and white diamond shapes. Alix stepped swiftly behind it, and Marietta swung away just as Sister Sylvia pushed aside the curtain in the archway and entered.

  “Go along and get your cloak now, Marietta,” she instructed, dressed ready to leave. “We are about to go.”

  Marietta went past her into the corridor where she had left her outdoor garments. She was anxious to get back into the shop before the nun’s sharp gaze detected Alix’s presence, but Leonardo was prolonging these final minutes with Adrianna, reluctant to see her go. Marietta had to join in the conversation courteously while every second seemed as long as an hour.

  Sister Sylvia, believing herself alone in the shop, dropped her pious attitude toward the masks. She touched the gauzes and lace that trimmed the most feminine of them and picked up one on a stick with curling feathers, which she laid sensuously against her cheek. Secretly she would have loved the chance to join in the revels of Carnival. Was it any wonder that she had grown sharp-tongued and bitter during the years of celibacy that had been so cruelly imposed on her?