Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  Letting the curtain drop softly back into place, she moved swiftly away with the intention of fetching Domenico, but before she could reach the door she saw through another window that the Celano had gone. She slowed to a standstill. Her hands were clenched and her heart was beating fast. There had been aggression in the man’s whole stance.

  When she told Domenico about the incident, he put an arm about her shoulders and walked her slowly out of the villa. “I think you will have to prepare yourself for the unexpected in that way. Don’t let it frighten you.”

  “I wasn’t frightened. I was angry.”

  He laughed quietly. “That is the right attitude, Marietta. I have always known you had courage.”

  When eventually they arrived at the water gate of the Torrisi palace, Marietta thought to herself that Domenico had no idea of the kind of courage she needed to enter this house. It was as she feared. As soon as she crossed the threshold she was instantly aware of the influence of the much loved woman who had left the country villa well alone. Then in the same instant it came to her that it was in the villa Antonio now occupied that Domenico and his first wife had spent their summers.

  A stack of invitations awaited Marietta’s attention and yet another was delivered as she left the house next morning to go to the Pietà where nine-year-old Bianca would be between lessons. They greeted each other joyfully. Bianca had grown a lot recently and was proud to demonstrate how she had progressed on her flute. It also pleased her that she was allowed to call Marietta by her Christian name, now that the title of ‘Maestra’ no longer applied. Elena had granted her the same privilege.

  “Have you seen Elena?” Marietta asked.

  Bianca shook her head. “Not since she went away to the country about the same time as you. She promised to come and see me as soon as she returned.”

  “That should be any day.” Although it would have been easy for Marietta to leave a letter for Elena with Bianca, they had both agreed not to involve the child in any way. As Marietta went from the Pietà out of the parade door, she did not know that she had just missed Elena, who was alighting from her gondola at the water entrance in the side canal.

  Marietta’s next appointment was to visit the best dressmaker in Venice. With a full social calendar ahead of her she would need the right things to wear. It was a few days later, when she was coming from a milliner’s in the colonnaded arcades of St. Mark’s Square, that she saw Elena; she was the epitome of elegance in a large plumed hat and sprigged silk gown, strolling with two equally well-dressed women and several noblemen. They were crossing the square through a veil of fluttering pigeons, which rose from the stones at their leisurely approach. Filippo was not with them. Marietta moved to stand by one of the columns where she knew Elena must see her. No glance of recognition was forthcoming. Then Elena flicked her hands gracefully as she talked, spelling out a time and date. Marietta already knew the venue and continued on her way.

  One of the noblemen had followed Marietta with his eyes. “That was the Flame of the Pietà. You must have known her well, Elena.”

  “I did,” Elena replied casually. “Since then we have both changed our surnames.”

  WHEN MARIETTA ARRIVED at Adrianna’s house at the appointed time, Elena came rushing to throw her arms around her friend.

  “How are you? You look wonderful! What an eye-catching hat you were wearing that day in the square. Did you enjoy the summer? What is your villa like?” They were asking more or less the same questions of each other at the same time.

  Adrianna let her three little children receive the gifts that Marietta and Elena had brought them. Then she shepherded her offspring into the care of a nursemaid before returning to pour hot coffee and serve freshly baked sweet cakes to the visitors. She was very pleased that from now on they would be meeting regularly under her roof. Leonardo, being older, had so many middle-aged acquaintances with dull wives that it was refreshing to be with old friends closer to her own age.

  Elena burst out the secret she had shared with Sister Giaccomina and kept from all except Adrianna. “I sang at your marriage, Marietta!”

  Marietta, who had been on the point of asking her, threw back her head in delight. “So it was you! Tell me how you managed it.”

  They chatted over their cups, wanting news from Adrianna as well as from each other. Adrianna, who kept in close touch with her Pietà godchildren as they did with Bianca, was able to relate news about them and many other snippets of information. When it became apparent to her that neither Marietta nor Elena was going to disclose a pregnancy, Adrianna had misgivings about telling them that she herself was going to have a fourth child. Marietta was still little more than a bride, but it was a different case with Elena, who had expressed anxiety many times about her failure to conceive. Understandably, it was becoming an obsession with her. The importance of an heir to a patrician family came before all else, and Elena had to endure her mother-in-law’s hurtful and cutting remarks.

  Just as Adrianna had made up her mind to wait until another time with her news, Elena, who had been studying her keenly, asked her a direct question. “Are you expecting another baby?”

  Adrianna could not hold back the happiness in her eyes. “You have guessed correctly.”

  Elena, unselfish as ever, congratulated her warmly. “How proud Leonardo must be!”

  Marietta, after giving her good wishes, turned to Elena. “How did you know about Adrianna? Her figure is not giving her away in those full skirts.”

  “There is something in the face,” Elena explained. “Since we never saw it at the Pietà it is not surprising you have not learned to spot it yet. It is a slight change. A kind of bloom sometimes. I can see it instantly in other women now. I search for it in my own mirror every morning.” She smoothed her fingertips back over her cheek. “It so often comes before there is any other definite certainty.” Then her voice changed to a desperate note of appeal that startled both her listeners as she flung out her hands to them. “Promise to tell me instantly if either of you ever see it in my face! I shall want to know at once and I may not be able to see it myself through too much looking!”

  “We will,” Adrianna said compassionately, taking one of Elena’s hands and patting it as if comforting one of her own children.

  “May it be soon,” Marietta added gently.

  Both she and Adrianna knew that Elena still feared the Signora as much as ever. They pointed out to her that Lavinia’s constant presence was a protection, for she had proved a good friend to Elena during the four years and four months of her marriage to date. Yet, when they were on their own, Marietta confided to Adrianna that knowing the ruthlessness of the Celanos, she could believe they would not hesitate to get rid of a barren and encumbering wife. Fortunately, according to what Elena had told them, Filippo, for all his harsh ways, had not tired of her, although it was well known that he spent time with a notorious courtesan. In a way his cruel obsession with Elena was in itself a guard against her enemies. Nevertheless Marietta and Adrianna were determined to see Elena as often as possible in order to keep a check on her well-being.

  MARIETTA HAD TAKEN to the social whirl of Venice with enthusiasm. Trying to find some way to mend the vendetta between the Torissis and the Celanos, and also an aim to help Domenico in his secret work, had given purpose to her marriage and alleviated any doubts she might have had about coping with this new life. Domenico, unlike Leonardo with Adrianna, did not resent the attention his wife received as the former prima donna of the Pietà. Rather, he enjoyed entering a room and seeing all heads turn toward her. She wore her fine new clothes with a dash, and her instinctive choice of colors not normally worn by those with Titian hair gave her a jewel-like beauty. Even when masked she was recognized by her graceful carriage and her hair, which she dressed high according to fashion but never powdered.

  The Carnival of that first winter of their marriage set a precedent for those to follow. It was a time of lavish masked balls and extravagant suppers eaten by th
e tinted glow of candle-lamps on private gondolas, while the gondoliers in their liveries sang with voices that would have done credit to the stage of La Scala. Sometimes a whole orchestra played, hired to provide accompanying music on vessels alongside a fleet of merrymakers. There were gala occasions at the opera houses and the theaters, elaborately staged masques at the palaces in which all the guests took part, and always grand banquets hosted by the Doge in the gilded Hall of the Great Council.

  Marietta had a variety of flattering Carnival costumes. Some of the hoods of her dominoes were supported by stiffening in the traditional style to frame her face with filmy lace frills and ruffles or with satin camellias. Many of her masks were studded with jewels, but she still kept the moretta mask her mother had made in its own velvet box among the rest.

  No evening was ever without some entertainment and the days were always busy. Marietta still paid regular visits to the Pietà to see Bianca and attended many a Pietà performance. Whenever she and Elena happened to see each other in any public place other than the Pietà they conversed as much as they could in their sign language. If sometimes other people wondered why one or the other would suddenly smile or look amused, nobody suspected their secret.

  By chance they met unexpectedly one evening at a Pietà reception after a concert in the church. Both Domenico and Filippo were sitting late at different meetings of the Senate and the two young wives were jubilant at having an unhampered evening together with the added enjoyment of seeing other old friends. As always on these occasions there were foreign guests, a few brought by the Venetian hosts with whom they were staying. Elena, engaged in conversation with the Maestro, became aware of a young man’s eyes on her. It was a common enough occurrence, but in spite of herself she was unable to resist a quick little glance in his direction, for his gaze seemed to be boring into her.

  It was one of those moments when a man and woman experience the sensation of rebirth and the past fades away as, for a few wonderful moments, each beholds a new world in the other. He was fair-haired and of average height, not particularly handsome but with an engaging, energetic face, a thin, chiseled nose, and a wide mouth. Yet it was his eyes, somewhere between amber and brown, kind and admiring and smiling all at once, that made her forget completely what she had been saying to the Maestro.

  “Well, Elena? You mentioned Bianca, didn’t you?” the Maestro prompted her.

  “Yes.” She was flustered. “I was about to ask how she is progressing.”

  But she did not hear a word of what he said in reply. Every nerve in her body was attuned to the stranger on the other side of the room. It was as if she could hear the soft whisper of his lace cuffs, the velvet sigh of his coat, and even his breathing. She sensed rather than saw him approaching her, and for a few wild seconds she thought her legs would give way. Then he was close by, presenting himself to the Maestro, who in turn presented him to her and left them together. His name was Nicolò Contarini. Had it been set to music by Vivaldi it could not have sounded more beautiful to her ears.

  “So you were a former Pietà singer, Signora Celano,” he said. “I wish you had been singing this evening in the church. This is my first visit to Venice and naturally I wanted to hear the Pietà angels for myself.”

  “Where are you from?” she asked, praying it was not from far away.

  “Florence. Have you been there?”

  “No, but I’ve always heard it is a beautiful city. Tell me about it.”

  He gave her a good description. It turned out he was visiting an uncle on his mother’s side among the Celano barnabotti, which meant she could not invite him to her home. Filippo never willingly associated with his poorer relatives and saw them only when commanding their assistance in the vendetta. Although Nicolò himself was clearly in comfortable circumstances, his association with the barnabotti kinsman would blacklist him immediately in Filippo’s eyes. But it really didn’t matter, since she had no wish to share Nicolò’s company with anyone, least of all with the man who made her days a trial and her nights a misery.

  She and Nicolò were saying more to each other with their eyes and their smiles than their conversation expressed. It was for them both as if they were alone in the room. Neither knew exactly when they drew into a corner on their own while everybody else moved about them. Marietta saw what was happening but did not intrude. It did not matter that Elena had forgotten all about her. To see her friend looking so happy was enough in itself. As for the Florentine, an educated gentleman of leisure who she had met earlier herself, he was obviously enthralled.

  The other guests were beginning to leave. Nicolò noticed and spoke urgently to Elena. “When may I see you again?”

  “I dare not, Nicolò. I’m married,” she explained unnecessarily.

  He smiled regretfully. “To my sorrow you are. But let us meet again. Tomorrow!”

  She hesitated only briefly, lost to the plea in his eyes. “Florian’s at four o’clock. I shall be masked.”

  He watched as she darted away to slip an arm through that of the red-haired young woman, Signora Torrisi, as they left the room together. Elena had failed to say how he might recognize her, and to have chosen a place as popular as Florian’s betrayed her inexperience in secret arrangements. But he would discover her. Never in all his twenty-seven years had any woman awakened such a response in him. He knew himself to be head over heels in love with her.

  There began for Elena the most deliriously happy time she had ever known. Bauta-masked in a black silk mantilla and cape, she was totally anonymous among others similarly clad, as he was, when they met. She taught him the same signal of greeting that she and Marietta used in their code, and in this way they found each other immediately in places where people were similarly disguised. As they were passionately in love, it was a short step for them to a house of assignation, where they made love in a room of discreet and elegant splendor. For Elena it was an entirely new experience to be loved with tenderness and adoring passion. At times the tears ran from her eyes in the intense joy of their coming together and at the words of love he spoke to her.

  They never wanted to be apart from one another, and Elena bitterly resented the time she spent with friends who might otherwise have wondered what had become of her. Although Filippo’s nights out on his own followed a regular pattern, and she always knew when he would be late at the Senate, she was still taking enormous risks in meeting Nicolò, but she did not care. If Filippo should discover her secret affair he could kill her if he wished, for her life would be nothing without Nicolò.

  “I love you,” they said to each other over and over again. Whenever they were in a gondola or strolling hand in hand by night along the Grand Canal, or anywhere else they were unlikely to be noticed, they would lift their bauta masks slightly to kiss and to speak their love once more. Several times they went to the opera, taking a box in a tier above the Celanos’, and inevitably desire overcame them. Nicolò would draw the shutters closed, and with the door locked they would strip off their clothes and make love on a satin couch to the sound of some of the most beautiful music ever written.

  Their agonized parting took place in the same elegant room in the house of assignation where they had first made love. Elena was absolutely distraught.

  “I can’t bear it!” she wept.

  “My dearest love, try to be brave.” He had postponed his departure far longer than he should have done, but now family obligations forced him to leave. “We shall meet again, I swear it! Somehow and somewhere it will happen. You are in my heart forever. If there should ever be a time when you are in danger, you have my address and can send for me. Oh, my darling, don’t cry so. You are and always will be everything to me.”

  From the time of their first meeting, Elena had always insisted on going home by herself. So, for the last time, they kissed on the steps of the Molo before she tore herself from his arms and stepped into a gondola. He remained where he was, watching it until it was lost from sight. This love affair, he believed, w
ould last the rest of their lives. Venice would always draw him back again to her, however many years might pass between their meetings.

  THROUGHOUT THE WINTER the vendetta kept flaring up in minor incidents. Sometimes it was a skirmish between Torrisi and Celano barnabotti. Then there was a clash between the young men of both families. Inexplicably, since none of them ever went without a sword, it had become instantaneously a whirlwind of fisticuffs and lunging kicks. It was as if only by inflicting damage on an even more personal level than by the point of a blade could there be any outlet for the poisonous hatred that had been boiling up. Later, there was a far more serious incident when a Torrisi was found dying of stab wounds on the Rialto Bridge. Nobody knew who the murderer was, but all were certain it was a Celano.

  Domenico held a conference with his brother and their other male relatives. None had any doubt that Filippo was at the root of the recurring incidents.

  “I never thought I would ever have cause to regret the absence from Venice of Alessandro Celano,” Domenico remarked wryly, “but when he was still a priest at the San Zaccaria he kept the more dangerous elements of his family in check. As for us, we will not retaliate for the stabbing.” There were murmurs of dissent, but he emphasized his order with a thump of his fist on the table. “That is just what Filippo Celano and his confederates want from us. It could be like setting a flame to gunpowder since he would say there was no proof as to the identity of the murderer. Justice will take its course eventually. In the meantime every Torrisi blade is to remain sheathed unless our own lives are threatened.”

  Some sighed pointedly, but all would obey him. No nobleman went against the head of his house except in the case of extreme provocation. Domenico’s word was law.