Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

“The need for this veil is over. I shall take you with me now into the next room and announce to the company that we are to be married in a week’s time.”

  Her eyes were enormous as she stared silently at him. As he bent to kiss her she did an extraordinary thing. She bared her teeth at him like a cornered animal. He took her hand again and crushed it painfully as a warning while he opened the door into the next room.

  ELENA WAS BEING dressed for her marriage. Never once since waking that morning had she spoken. The hairdresser had spent over an hour brushing and combing her hair to hang virginally down her back, and the front curls had been coaxed flatteringly across her brow. Now, perfumed and painted, she stood in the middle of the bedchamber while half a dozen women, including Lavinia, arranged and smoothed the treasured gown.

  “Now for the final touch,” Lavinia said as she turned to take the jeweled bridal coronet from its velvet cushion in the casket that had been brought from the treasure room only that morning. Just then the door opened and Signora Celano entered. Like the women attending the bride she was in black, for all except the bride and groom were in deep mourning. Only kinsfolk, similarly clad, would be at the marriage, including quite a number who had come for the funeral and were remaining for the wedding.

  “Wait, Lavinia,” the Signora ordered her daughter, who stood holding the glittering coronet in mid-air. “Since Elena has no mother to be with her today, it is my privilege to crown the bride.”

  Her thin beringed fingers took the coronet from her daughter. It had been given to a Celano bride in the fifteenth century by the Venetian noblewoman, Caterina Cornaro, who became Queen of Cyprus, and had been worn by family brides ever since. A single magnificent ruby, suspended from the front of it, hung in the middle of the brow. Elena, remembering when Marco had placed it on her head with love in his smiling eyes, held on mentally to that memory to give her the strength she needed. In a cruel whim, the Signora’s sharp fingernails dug deliberately into the bride’s skull as she set the coronet straight. Elena did not wince. She was beyond physical pain.

  Signora Celano drew away as did the rest of the women to view the splendor of the bride. There was no denying Elena’s beauty in a gown that was stiff with gold and a network of jewels. The substitution of delicate black Burano lace for cream at the low neckline and cuffs was to indicate that a state of family bereavement was being observed. Filippo would have a black cravat and cuffs as the same token. Elena, regarding herself in a mirror that was being held for her, saw only an unrecognizable figure in glorious array.

  “That is enough self-admiration even for a bride,” the Signora said sharply. “Time is pressing on.”

  Only Lavinia remained with Elena when Signora Celano and the others had gone from the palace to the church. In order to relieve the tension of these last few minutes, Lavinia made conversation, talking of anything that came to mind. Finally she went to the window.

  “I can see it’s time for you to leave.” She turned back to kiss Elena’s cheek and give the greeting customary at this time. In emotional tones, for she was full of pity for this girl now committed to a brother who she knew to be merciless, she said, “I wish you joy.”

  “I have lost joy forever,” Elena answered tonelessly. Lavinia burst into tears and Elena had to help her to control herself before they could go from the room. One of the governors of the Pietà was waiting to escort Elena to the church, as was the custom when one of the musical elite made an exceptional match.

  “My felicitations on your wedding day, Elena,” he greeted her.

  “I thank you, signore,” she replied, as was expected of her.

  He led her downstairs to the water gate where she saw that a fleet of gondolas occupied by Celano kin had gathered to accompany her to the waiting bridegroom. Although she could not tell who was among these people to whom she would soon be related in marriage, Lavinia had said that more than enough barnabotti had turned up. By right of kinship they never let slip an opportunity to join in the festivities of their richer relatives, which usually included a feast. It was a burden many noble families had to bear.

  Elena’s jeweled gown flashed fire back at the sun as she stepped into the bridal gondola, which was completely draped in flowers. As soon as she was settled, with Lavinia in attendance, the governor also took his place on board and the procession set off along the Grand Canal. It made a charming sight, petals drifting from the many blossoms to rise lightly in the air and dance on the water. People on the flanking parades and in other boats applauded and waved as the bride passed by. With the shutters of the felze slid well back, she could be seen by all in her Renaissance finery. Elena, pale and withdrawn, made automatic acknowledgement, lifting her hand or inclining her head. Her birthplace, which she had always loved, was paying her homage on what should have been the happiest day of her life.

  The water traffic drew aside to let the wedding party have unhindered passage. It was an unlucky chance that a Torrisi gondolier, recognizing the Celano colors, was deliberately slow in crossing the bows of the bridal gondola, judging with skill the time needed to avoid a collision. The Celano gondolier shook his fist, prevented by the occasion from voicing the expletives he wanted to let fly. Enmity between the male servants of the two families was as fierce as that of their masters.

  Although the incident went unmarked by most, it had been glimpsed by seven fiery young barnabotti, who were riding together in a hired gondola at the rear of the procession.

  “Did you see that piece of Torrisi insolence?” one demanded heatedly. “This water needs clearing of certain unwanted flotsam!”

  The rest agreed enthusiastically, already well-laced with cheap wine in honor of the day and as ever spoiling for a fight. There was no felze to their vessel and when one of their number stood to demand the oar, there was no protest from the gondolier, for rapiers had been drawn by those still seated and all were pointed in his direction.

  The barnabotti in two other vessels spotted one of their number with an oar and demanded to know what was up. Within minutes their gondolas too were in their own charge, one gondolier cooperating at pistol point. Hastily the barnabotti took bauta masks from their pockets and donned them.

  In the Torrisi gondola Domenico was reading through a document he had collected at the Doge’s Palace and at his side Angela was watching through the open window of the felze as the Celano bride and her retinue went by.

  “The Pietà girl looked serious and sad,” she said compassionately, turning back to her husband, “but so composed and dignified.”

  “Did she?” Domenico asked absently.

  “More than that. In that gown she could have been on her way to be painted by Titian.”

  He looked at her then. “But Maestra Marietta is the red-head.”

  “I meant that the style of her gown and the virginal flow of her hair put the bride back in time.”

  “Is that so?” He returned his attention to the document. “I wish her well.”

  She gave his arm a little shake. “It would have done no harm to show it as she went by. I waved to her and she waved back most graciously.”

  “Obviously she did not notice the Torrisi colors.” He was still reading.

  “Maybe she does not care for the vendetta any more than I do. Would it not be wonderful if the women of both families could force it to a conclusion?”

  But he was not listening, absorbed again in what he was reading. Angela sighed. The vendetta had become too much a way of life for either of the families to consider ending it. She believed that the men on either side thrived on the danger and that it gave a constant spice and excitement to their lives. If only the marriage of the Pietà girl could be turned into an olive branch in some way. “Domenico,” she said persuasively, “don’t you think—”

  She was interrupted by a warning shout from their gondolier. Her eyes widened in terror as she saw the gleaming prongs of three gondolas bearing down on them at speed. At her side Domenico leapt forward, drawing his rapier, b
ut the impact on their vessel threw him off balance. She heard the sound of splintering wood, and the whole scene before her—jeering bauta-masked men, palace roof tops, and the sky—seemed to turn upside-down. The cold dark water closed over her head and she was floundering, trapped within the felze.

  The wedding party had alighted at the steps of the Molo. People gathered immediately to watch and others came to the arches of the loggia of the Doge’s Palace to see the bride go by. All the way along the Riva degli Schiavoni, more people came to windows and out of doorways. All of Venice was accustomed to processions and spectacular sights, but those who saw Elena that day considered themselves fortunate. In such a gown she was a reminder of Venetian glory at its height.

  At the governor’s side, Elena ascended the steps of Santa Maria della Pietà, its doors open wide to her. The thundering organ, played by one of her fellow musicians, greeted her and from the gilded galleries the voices of the Pietà choir burst forth. It was comforting and familiar until she saw Filippo waiting for her where Marco should have stood and she jerked to an abrupt halt. Then, as if sleep-walking, she let the governor lead her up the aisle.

  Owing to the family’s state of mourning, the wedding breakfast afterward in the Palazzo Celano was a restrained occasion. Marietta and Sisters Sylvia and Giaccomina were the only representatives, with the governor, of the Pietà. When it was over the nuns wanted to leave immediately, but Marietta managed a final word with the bride.

  “I’m so glad you were permitted to come,” Elena said emotionally. “Soon there will be your marriage to Alix.”

  The two friends hugged each other. “It can’t be very soon,” Marietta corrected, made anxious by Elena’s distracted air.

  “But the time will come. Then I shall be able to rejoice in your happiness on your wedding day as I cannot on mine.”

  As if in a daze Elena turned away and drifted like a magnificently gowned doll back to the celebrations. Sadly Marietta watched her for a few moments and then joined her companions. Two noblemen passing on the stairs were talking of an accident linked to the name of Domenico Torrisi. Ignoring Sister Sylvia’s tug on her sleeve, Marietta turned to them.

  “Your pardon, gentlemen. I could not help overhearing what you said about an accident.”

  “Maestra Marietta!” They had recognized her. “I know you well by sight and by your remarkable singing voice,” one said.

  “Surely you are not departing already?” protested the other, ready to escort her back up the stairs.

  “Please tell me about Signor Torrisi. Was he seriously injured?”

  “No, not at all,” replied the first man. “There was a collision on the Grand Canal. Nobody seems to know exactly how it happened, but three gondolas drove the prow of the Torrisi gondola against the parade wall, throwing him and his wife and gondolier into the water. Signora Torrisi was trapped in the felze and would have drowned if her husband had not dived to save her. So there was no fatal outcome as might easily have happened.”

  “Is it known who is responsible for the accident?”

  The two men exchanged glances before replying. “Nobody can be sure. All except the gondoliers were masked. Suspicion has fallen on certain of the wedding guests, but since the bridal procession was far ahead when the collision took place it must have been sheer unfortunate chance.”

  She could tell that they were unconvinced by that theory, but since they were kinfolk under the Celano roof she suspected they were keeping their true opinion to themselves. After thanking them for their information she rejoined the waiting nuns, relieved to know that Domenico and his wife were safe. He had kept his vow made at the ridotto not to betray her nocturnal outings from the Pietà and she would always be grateful.

  THAT NIGHT WHEN Filippo went to his bride he found her cowering in a corner, her eyes wide with fear. When he reached for her, she darted under his arm and ran screaming for the door. He grabbed a handful of her nightshift and it tore as she was jerked off her feet. Before she could regain her balance he had gathered her up in his arms. He had heard of other men having this sort of scene with virgins on their wedding nights, but he had never expected to experience it himself. He tossed her onto the bed, intent on subduing her. She screamed again when he plowed into her, and he clapped a hand over her mouth. He was vaguely aware of trying to drive Marco out of her heart and mind with all the powerful violence of his virility.

  Afterward she lay still, thinking he would sleep until morning. But she was mistaken. Her innocent belief that there would be no more that night was soon dispersed. The wanderings of his hot fleshy mouth sickened her.

  AT THE PALAZZO Torrisi Angela was making a good recovery from her near-drowning in the waters of the Grand Canal. Since she was pregnant there had been concern that she would miscarry, which was why she was spending some hours every day on a couch. She had never been robust in health, always dreading the winters and thriving in warm weather. It was Domenico’s concern for how she would be in his absence, as well as her own love of travel, that had caused him to take her with him so often on his diplomatic journeys. Several times she had sailed with him to Eastern Mediterranean ports of call and once as far as India.

  “Here is the new book you were searching for,” Domenico said one morning. “I found it on my desk.”

  “So that is where it was!” She took the book from him and nestled comfortably against her cushions. She had made up her mind not to take any stairs that day, for she was feeling particularly tired. The book was welcome. It was small and easy to hold, a collection of recipes for beauty aids, which she liked to mix herself.

  “Is there anything else you need?”

  She shook her head smilingly. “No. Go back to your work now.”

  He bent down to kiss her and on impulse she caught at his sleeve, keeping him for a second kiss before he straightened up again. “What was that for?” he asked her with a grin.

  “For everything.”

  His smile still lingered as he went from the room. They had everything except an heir, but since she was well past the period when previously she had always miscarried, he was as hopeful as she was that this time all would be well.

  He remembered clearly the first time he had seen her. She had been laughing down at him from a tapestry-hung balcony as he competed in the annual September regatta. The whole of the Grand Canal was full of vividly colored racing vessels, the law of all black relaxed on this occasion, and vast crowds of spectators watched from the parades, in boats and from every window, balcony, and loggia. Such cheering! Such spectacle! He had been twenty-one and as wild for women and wine as his three brothers who were manning the oars with him. Antonio, the youngest, was seated at the tiller. The race had been going well, the Torrisi boat well in the lead, when he had looked up from his car and seen the girl in whom all his desires were then immediately concentrated.

  When the race had been won he took a small boat and rowed back on his own to call up to her. There was someone he knew among those on the balcony, and so he had been invited to join the gathering. Angela had tried to avoid him, flitting to and fro, fluttering her fan, flirting with others, but her eyes gave her away and he knew he would have her, not for one night but forever. He had left the palace only to go half a mile along the Grand Canal to his own home where he went down on his knee before his invalid father and requested that he be the son allowed to marry.

  “You were always my heir,” his father had answered, “but I chose to wait before announcing it until you had sown enough wild oats to be ready to accept the role as my successor.”

  Domenico recalled his elation and how he had returned to Angela immediately. She no longer attempted to keep him at a distance, admitting long afterward that she had sensed instinctively that the path between them was cleared. Late that night, when the party was in full swing, they had slipped away on their own to her bedchamber. There she had surrendered to him and within a month they were wed. He had given her jewels as a marriage gift, and hers to him ha
d been a gilded mask for which he had to sit for a mask-maker’s sculptor to fashion his likeness for the mold.

  “There are so many occasions in Venice that call for a mask,” she had said, “and I do not want your beloved features hidden from me.”

  There were times when she wanted him to wear the gilded mask while they made love and then she rode him ecstatically, calling him her golden steed. More than once he had snatched the mask off and hurled it away in his final passion, once causing it to crack against a wall. She had wept over the damage, clutching the mask and curled up in her nakedness, until he had coaxed it from her and spread her out to make love to her in another way.

  Now, back at his desk, he attended to the papers and correspondence that his clerk had brought in during his short absence downstairs. A report from one of his spies, listing information gathered from gondoliers and other witnesses, left no doubt it was the barnabotti of the Celanos who had instigated the accident on the Grand Canal. Hot rage flooded through him. He could easily have had them killed, but that kind of action was not in keeping with the code of honor that both his family and the Celanos observed, whatever the behavior of those on the fringe of their respective circles. Deeds were paid in kind: duel matched against duel, ambush against ambush, battle against battle. The barnabotti, already on the outside, were a law unto themselves. It should be the duty of those among them who were his distant kin to equalize the affair.

  There was another spy’s report on Marietta, for it had been Angela’s idea to discover how and why the girl had broken all the rules of the Pietà. Why Angela had taken such a notion he did not know, for she was not normally inquisitive. But over the past weeks she had taken a special interest in the Pietà, making generous donations and attending receptions, almost as if she wanted to find out more about Marietta from a personal viewpoint. He could only assume that the clandestine meetings between Marietta and her Frenchman had held some romantic appeal for his wife. He placed the report in a leather file without reading it. Angela could do so if she wished when she was well again.