Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  In the dawn light their gondolier waited obligingly under the bridge of the side canal leading to the water gate of the ospedale. A light mist lay like a spread of tulle over the lagoon. When the baker’s apprentice came alongside in his boat, Marietta put her request to him. He nodded and pocketed the money Alix had produced. There was more waiting while he tied up at the water gate, sprang onto the steps, and pulled the bell. Then he took in the first basket of bread. When he reappeared for a second load he beckoned that the coast was clear.

  The gondolier propelled his vessel to the steps. Marietta kissed Alix lightly. Then she alighted speedily and disappeared into the Pietà with a rustle of her skirts. She reached the safety of her room without meeting anyone, but only just in time. No sooner had she closed her door than others began to open and footsteps began pattering about. Before she changed out of her Columbina costume she put the rose in a vase of water. It kept its freshness for a week.

  LOUISE DID NOT want to leave Venice, but she had had three months there prior to Alix’s arrival and the date of departure did not rest with her. Her uncle and aunt, with whom she and her cousins had traveled, were ready to go home. The last social event of her time in La Serenissima was to be a costumed ball for three hundred people in honor of her twentieth birthday, which by chance coincided with the last night of Carnival. The Pietà choir, including Marietta, was to give a short performance before supper and then the orchestra would take over and play for the dancing until a champagne breakfast at dawn.

  Louise had never been one for flamboyant display, and a family evening with a few friends would have been much more to her taste, but her grandfather was so pleased with all he had arranged that she did not have the heart to protest. At least he had agreed to let everything be Venetian. It seemed pointless to her to have it otherwise. She would miss Venice, but so long as her grandparents were in exile she would return whenever she could.

  It was the growing imminence of Louise’s departure that made Alix face up to how transient was his own sojourn in Venice. It could happen without warning that Jules would decide it was time to pack and move on. The days slipped by swiftly as schemes for the elopement passed through Alix’s mind and were rejected as previously unseen flaws came to light. It was when Marietta mentioned that she would be singing at Louise’s birthday party that he was able to finalize a plan. It seemed fortuitous that a ship would be leaving Venice for France at the same time as the dawn champagne breakfast. But he would need Louise’s help. She had proved her friendship once before, but maybe this time she would decide that he was asking too much.

  Throwing on his mantle and taking up his hat and gloves, he set out from the apartment to call on her.

  AT THE PALAZZO Celano a family conference was taking place. Marco sat facing the semi-circular group much as if he were in front of the inquisitors of the Council of Three, and his annoyance was mounting. The importance of the occasion had merited his mother’s presence in Venice. Signora Apollinia Celano, a small matriarchal figure of sixty, lived in the country with Marco’s widowed sister Lavinia. His two other sisters were in the convent of a closed order, put there against their will by their mother when they failed to gain husbands she considered suitable. Five of his six brothers were also present, four having come from Celano palaces in the city that he permitted them to occupy. His eldest brother, who was in the priesthood as was customary for the firstborn of a noble family, had traveled from Rome to be spokesman. Three elderly uncles completed the gathering. His youngest brother, Pietro, born much to their mother’s chagrin when she was forty-five, was being taught the skills of medicine in a monastery in Padua mainly devoted to the healing of the sick. He was expected to remain there and take holy orders in due course.

  Marco’s gaze ranged over those present. “I will not be dictated to,” he stated rigidly. “It was decided by my late father that I should be his heir with the right to marry and none of you can contest that. Not you, Mother. And not even you in your cardinal’s soutane, Alessandro!”

  Alessandro, resplendent in his vivid red silk garments, sat in a high-backed chair at their mother’s side, his elbow on the wooden arm, his chin propped by a finger and thumb. “In your case we can, brother. When the future of a Venetian line is at stake even a priest may have special dispensation to marry and beget sons.”

  Another brother spoke up. Maurizio at thirty-two was next in age to Alessandro. A sharp-eyed, thin-lipped scholar of repute, who suffered from poor health as the result of a childhood illness, he had been responsible for the plans used on two occasions to outwit the Torrisis.

  “You’ve had twelve years, Marco,” he said relentlessly, “since you were sixteen in which to take a bride. You’re abusing your privilege.”

  “I’m entitled to some bachelorhood,” Marco retorted.

  There was a derisive laugh from Vitale, whose handsome looks were prematurely aged by debauchery, his temper made volatile and his face bloated by drink. “Come now, brother. That is our lot. Yours is to take a wife.” He turned to the brother beside him. “What say you, Alvise?”

  “I agree.” Alvise, strong and virile, considered himself to be the best swordsman in Venice. “Marco has far exceeded any allowable sowing of wild oats.”

  The hard tones of their mother’s voice cut across their discourse. “Your brothers are right, Marco. Two years of philandering should have been more than enough. I’m entitled to grandchildren and the House of Celano to an heir!”

  Her third son, Filippo, who had not spoken before, leaned forward in his chair to jeer at Marco. Broadly built and powerful, he had no liking for this brother who had inherited all he coveted for himself. “You’re in a difficult position, brother. Remember you have yet to prove your manhood!”

  Marco leapt to his feet, hands clenched in wrath. “If you were not my brother I would have killed you for that insult!”

  “I don’t doubt that you have bastards at the Pietà and other orphanages. I’m referring to legal offspring.”

  “That’s enough!” Marco took a threatening step forward, but was checked by his mother rapping her closed fan on the arm of her chair, intent on diffusing what was clearly an inflammatory situation. It would not be the first time these two hostile sons had taken up swords against each other, but it had been some years since Marco inflicted the scar on his brother’s cheek. She understood, however, that with Filippo eighteen months older than Marco, it was natural for him to be jealous of the younger man’s good fortune.

  “Calm yourself, Marco! Sit down and listen to what has to be said.” She turned to Filippo as if he were still a boy and told him to keep quiet. Then, seeing that Marco had reseated himself, reluctant and glowering, she addressed him again. “Our patience as a family is exhausted. A few weeks ago I entrusted your uncle Giacomo to find a suitable wife for you and he has done so, for which we thank him. She is not an heiress, but that is no cause for regret since it is offspring and not money that we need. In fact, I have noticed all too frequently that heiresses, coming as they invariably do from families lacking male heirs, are often as barren as Domenico Torrisi’s wife has proved to be, or else produce nothing but daughters. Thus the dowry of the young woman chosen, such as it is, happens to be of little consequence. A pauper of breeding would have done as well. The important factor is that she comes from fecund stock.”

  Marco jerked forward in his chair. “Mother!” he roared. “I pardon you through your considerable age for daring to speak in such a manner to me, the head of the House of Celano!” His furious glare turned on the rest of the company. “I will not even hear the name of the female misguidedly selected for me. I am no longer a hapless youth to be married off without voice in the matter.”

  His mother spoke sharply. “You have me to thank for that! I interceded with your father when you were fifteen to spare you that fate!” She recalled how she had gone down on her knees to her husband, begging that their son be allowed to make his own decision when he came of age. Sentimentally she h
ad hoped Marco would take a wife for whom he could care tenderly for as long as such feelings lasted in marriage. There had been nothing like that between his father and herself. She had not known then what her husband might well have already suspected, that Marco would most likely become a philanderer, reluctant to uphold the responsibility of marrying that had been placed upon him. Her only weakness in an otherwise strong and merciless nature was her motherly devotion to her fifth son. From the moment of his birth, he had awakened latent maternal instincts in her, which all her other babies had failed to do. She supposed she had spoiled him foolishly as a result, but she excused herself because it happened so often with one child in a family. If Marco had any fault in her eyes it was his Celano temper. It came too close to the savagery of Filippo’s rages for her liking, but as always she found an excuse for him. All the blame could be placed on Filippo, for when they were boys he had led the others in tormenting Marco as the favored one. Inevitably Marco had had to find ways of getting back at them until he grew to match them in strength and height. Privately it distressed her that they should see him cornered now, for she knew they were maliciously enjoying his discomfort. Filippo was intent on taking over from Marco, and both Alessandro and her brother-in-law had advised her to make him head of the family if Marco should fail to comply with their wishes. She would do her best to see that did not happen. Turning slightly, she signaled with her fan to her brother-in-law Giacomo. “Tell Marco our choice.”

  The elderly man rose from his chair to emphasize the importance of the statement he was about to make. “We have decided on Signorina Teresa Reato. You have known her since childhood, Marco. I have spoken to her father and he is willing to permit the match when the Carnival is over. Not in Lent, of course, so we have settled on the first Saturday after Easter.”

  Marco gave a humorless laugh. “So you would try to foist that creature on me! She has a figure like a stick and a face like a kitchen pan.”

  His mother blazed at him. “Shame on you! How dare you speak thus of a wholly worthy young woman!” She poked her cardinal son’s arm with her fan. “Tell him now, Alessandro.”

  “The betrothal will be announced after the signing of the marriage contract tomorrow,” Alessandro said in slow, deliberate tones, “and the marriage will take place on the day that has been set. If you refuse to accept this arrangement we shall go to law and reduce you to permanent bachelor rank. Filippo will replace you as head of the House of Celano.”

  Marco was stunned. His mother nodded to show her full support of this decision. It was unbelievable that she should turn against him now. How could she contemplate seeing him lose this great palace and all the wealth and power that went with it. He had known he would have to marry eventually, but Teresa Reato would have been his last choice. His only chance lay in playing for time.

  “Very well,” he said condescendingly, “I shall marry, but not Teresa. I insist on choosing my own bride.”

  “Within the allotted time?” Alessandro pressed.

  “A betrothal by the end of four weeks.”

  “No. That is not good enough. You have come to the end of your rope. It is useless to prevaricate. The decision has to be made today. To whom do you wish to be betrothed instead of Teresa?”

  Filippo drawled tauntingly from his chair, able to see, as they all were, that Marco was nonplussed. “We are waiting, Marco.”

  Marco knew he was trapped. Mentally he flicked through the daughters of families he knew, but not one stood out from the rest. Then enlightenment came as he suddenly recalled Filippo’s mention of the Pietà. He had been planning to make Elena his courtesan. It would have been easy to arrange once he was sure of her. The Pietà would never have released her for that purpose, but since he owned one of the opera houses in Venice she could have been offered a prima donna’s position and everything would have been settled from there. Now he saw her in a different light. He compressed his lips in a satisfied smile, leaning back in his chair. “Maestra Elena of the Pietà shall be my wife.”

  Astonished silence greeted his announcement. Then, as he had expected, they all began to talk at once. Alessandro, well used to filling a cathedral with his stentorian voice, boomed out a question, causing the others to fall silent.

  “Is she a soloist in the choir or the orchestra? You forget that although I am familiar with the high moral standards of the Pietà’s young women I have been away from Venice too long to know any of them by name.”

  “She is a singer.”

  “Was she a foundling bastard?”

  “No. Her father was a small-scale merchant in the wine business and her mother a gentlewoman. Both died of fever within a few years of their marriage and Elena was raised by a respectable relative. She was entered as a fee-paying pupil at the Pietà by a lawyer acting as guardian when this relative fell ill and shortly afterward died.”

  Alessandro turned to his mother. “Well, Mother? What do you think?”

  She nodded, inwardly overjoyed that Marco should have bested his brothers and Filippo in particular. “Let the governors be approached immediately, Alessandro. Go to the Pietà now and make your own thorough investigation. See the young woman for yourself. If all is well, we can proceed as originally planned. I shall stay on here for the marriage and remain until I can be sure that she knows how to manage a noble house and all that involves.”

  Her widowed daughter, Lavinia, who had been sitting behind her in the second row, came forward. “How can we be certain, Mother, that the young woman will agree to marry Marco? I have always heard that those holding senior positions in the choir have their wishes consulted.”

  Signora Celano’s eyes snapped impatiently. She had always been tyrannical toward her daughters and although the other two were out of her reach in their convent Lavinia was a daily victim of her biting tongue. “Only you would ask such a stupid question! Just when we have settled the future of our family’s wealth and power! There is no door that money cannot open, no path it cannot smooth. All the Pietà girls hope for good marriages. Not one with any sense would refuse this chance, and what could be better for us than a young virgin without blemish? If there should be any hesitation, which I doubt, Alessandro will offer on my authority such a large donation to the Pietà that the governors will be certain to sign the marriage contract whatever the girl might say.”

  Lavinia, suitably crushed, nodded meekly. Few marriageable women had control over their own fate. She had been the only one among her sisters with a true spiritual vocation and had been looking forward longingly to taking the veil with a closed order far from Venice, but then an old and lustful widower had wanted her for his fourth wife. Since he had enormous wealth her pleas and protests had gone unheeded by her parents. Yet when he died five years ago she had found herself penniless, everything going to the son of his first marriage—and she, only twenty-five, had once more come under the control of her family, who had condemned her to be her irascible mother’s companion. She hoped Marco would be kind to Elena, whom she hoped to befriend, but kindness was not a noticeable virtue in the Celano family.

  NOT FAR AWAY in the Palazzo Cuccino Louise was again seated on the yellow sofa.

  “What is it this time?” she asked smilingly. When Alix gave her no answering smile, having instead a deep frown on his countenance, she felt a warning pang, every instinct telling her that events must have taken an extremely serious turn.

  He sat down on the sofa beside her. “I have another favor to ask of you. Far greater than before.”

  “Tell me what it is, Alix.”

  She did not refuse the help he then requested. Her friendship with him was too important to be endangered now, but she despaired at his folly. All along she had been sure he should be seeing Marietta as much as possible in order to give the flame of love the chance to flare up and die down again. Then he would be able to leave Venice without any pain in the parting. Now she wondered if she had done right in the first place by making that inquiry on his behalf, encouraging an
infatuation that might otherwise have died, although, as his friend, she could not see that it would have been possible to do otherwise. Now she dreaded her twentieth birthday celebration still more, for another cloud had formed to darken it.

  When Louise set off for the Pietà again Alix accompanied her as far as the bridge on the Riva degli Schiavoni where he had first met the marquis. There he handed over to her the box he had been carrying. It was lightweight and she suspended it by its ribbons over her arm.

  “Good luck,” he said.

  She smiled indulgently at him. If she was successful the benefit would be entirely his, something he seemed to have overlooked. “I shall do my best.”

  Alessandro arrived at the entrance to the Pietà at the same time as Louise. He bowed slightly to her as they waited to be admitted, but neither spoke. She thought him a man of immense presence, but he had cold eyes and a thin line of a mouth that did not suggest much tolerance or forgiveness. There was conceit in him too, for his flowing cape was thrown back on his shoulders to display his rich robes and large jeweled cross, even though Venetian law forbade priests any outward show of splendor except for ecclesiastical processions. The door opened and Louise preceded him into the Pietà. They were received by Sister Sylvia, whom Louise had spoken to on her previous visit.

  “Has Governor Tradonico arrived?” Alessandro asked haughtily. “He was to meet me here on the hour.”

  Louise summed him up still further: no humility either. She knew that the head of the governors was a nobleman and a close political associate of the Doge, not an inferior to come running when called. How different was this cardinal from the good monk who had founded this very ospedale and lived like a beggar to finance his charitable work. She noted the cardinal’s displeased expression upon hearing that the governor had not arrived, and his stiff silk robes rustled as if echoing his annoyance as he was shown through an anteroom into a salon to wait.