Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  “I thank you for that, Sebastiano.” She was moved, for the statement was the highest praise that could have been given to Domenico. Her memory stirred and a long-ago prediction that she would marry a doge returned to her. Maybe, although said in jest, it had foretold that she would have a husband with the qualities of judgement such a position required. If the tide turned for Domenico, who could predict his future? Perhaps the very foresight he had shown would win him the golden corno one day.

  The shop did well. During Carnival it became the place to visit for masks of unusual design and beauty. There were a few slack periods during which Marietta took a turn in the workshop, molding or painting masks or attaching some of the new gloriously shaded plumes that had been her idea. The success of these masks had been phenomenal. St. Mark’s Square, during that Carnival of 1790, was a multicolored forest of Savoni plumes.

  When the intense heat of summer arrived, Marietta thought back to the cool, sweet days at the villa and could scarcely begin to imagine the conditions endured by Domenico, high under the roof of the Ducal Palace. She sent him one of the plainer fans made for men and some freshening essences that could be added to his bathing water. Memories flooded back of times when they had bathed together. She hugged her arms, bowed over by the yearning ache within. So many months had passed since she had felt his embrace or experienced the total ecstasy with which his passionate body had filled hers. She felt as if she were withering up inside, becoming only half a woman instead of a whole one.

  ANOTHER EIGHTEEN MONTHS passed. It was a dramatic and upsetting period, for an abortive attempt was made to rescue Domenico through the roof of the Ducal Palace itself. Nobody knew how long the unknown conspirators had been working night after night to open a way down through the lead roof and the obstructive timber and brickwork beneath to reach his cell. He would have gotten away without a trace if a piece of brick had not fallen onto the cell floor, alerting the guards on patrol in the corridor. They had burst into the cell even as Domenico was being hoisted into mid-air by those hauling him up from above. The guards hurled themselves at him and their combined weight tore the rope from the grasp of his rescuers, bringing one of them down with it. The unfortunate man broke his neck upon impact, while his confederates took flight, escaping over the roofs in the darkness.

  The identity of the dead man was never discovered and there was nothing in his pockets or on his person to give a clue. Domenico was questioned closely by the Chief Inquisitor, but he steadfastly refused to say who he believed his would-be rescuers to be and he answered truthfully that the man who had died was a stranger to him. Since this Inquisitor was more merciful than his predecessors Domenico was not taken to torture, but a number of privileges were withdrawn, including the receipt of letters.

  “I’m also having you removed from the leads,” the Inquisitor concluded, “to the greater security of the Wells.”

  It was a terrible blow for Domenico. The prison on the opposite side of the canal from the Ducal Palace had gotten its name from the narrowness of its cells, the lack of ventilation, and the humidity created by the stone walls. There he would be shut away from sunlight and the sight of gulls and other birds skimming across the sky. Above all else, he would be denied his link with Marietta through her letters and the written messages from Elizabetta, who had drawn pictures for his wall even before she could read and write.

  Black despair settled on him as he was escorted from his cell by the guards who would take him to the dungeon. Yet he moved lithely, the result of the number of paces he took each day around his cell to keep himself fit. An archway opened to the stone steps that led to the bridge, which was like an enclosed narrow corridor spanning the canal some depth below. Mercifully the wall on the south side had two apertures set with ornamental stonework in a design he had always found pleasing when he viewed this arched bridge from a distance. Now the openings brought clean fresh air that fanned his face, and he realized that he must be following the behavior pattern of all prisoners who passed this way when he rushed to the first aperture to press his hands flat against the stonework and gaze at the outside world, perhaps for the last time. A gondola was just passing out of the canal under the humpbacked Paglia Bridge, and in the Basin beyond he could see many ships and a thousand blues and greens all blended together in the silken ripples of the water. On the far side of the Basin lay the island of San Giorgio where the pearl-like dome of Palladio’s church was cradled in a faint mist. He knew he would remember this perfect vista from this dreadful viewpoint until his dying day.

  A guard spoke. “That’s long enough.”

  With a deep sigh Domenico released his hold on the stonework. Foreign visitors to the city leaned their arms on the balustrade of the Paglia as they gazed in morbid interest at the notorious bridge that he was slowly crossing. The design of the stonework prevented him and his escort from being seen, but he wondered if by some trick of sound his sigh had reached them. Maybe it had echoed in the breeze through the stonework, taking up the countless sighs of others condemned to a living death in the Wells before him. As if his musing thoughts were right, he saw one of those bystanders turn up his coat collar as if suddenly chilled, and a woman drew her velvet domino more closely about her.

  Domenico threw a last lingering look over his shoulder through the second aperture and then the gloom of the prison swallowed him up.

  WHEN SEBASTIANO BROKE the news to Marietta, she turned ashen and sank down into a chair, her head bowed.

  “Is there to be no end to this cruel punishment of an innocent man?”

  He took the chair beside her. “I wish I could have brought you the tidings for which I had hoped.”

  She looked up at him through her tears. “You were among those who tried to free him! I’ll always appreciate that you tried. It is no fault of yours that things went so disastrously wrong. Neither could you have foreseen the outcome.”

  “When you first spoke to me about a possible escape, I gave you no encouragement because I didn’t want to raise your hopes about what several of us already had in mind. But now it is with great regret I have to tell you there is no more hope along those lines. Further attempts are out of the question. The prison is far too secure and the guards will be alerted from now on.”

  She was desolated.

  Elizabetta had to be told that she could no longer send drawings or letters to Domenico. In the early days of his incarceration she had cried for him, unable to understand why he was suddenly missing from her life, but she had gradually adjusted to his absence. There was a portrait of him in the salon of the apartment that Marietta had brought from the Palazzo Torrisi, so Elizabetta did not forget how he looked even if memories of her times with him faded away.

  “Your papa has gone a little farther away from us,” Marietta explained. “We must wait until he can receive our letters again.”

  “Has he left Venice?” Elizabetta asked, puzzled. At first she had not been able to understand why her father should live high up in the Doge’s Palace and never come to see them. Later it was explained to her that he was having to stay where he was through no choice of his own until an important matter was cleared up. A young assistant in the mask-shop had once jeered that he was a traitor in prison. But the girl was instantly dismissed and Elizabetta was assured that her father had done no wrong.

  “No, he hasn’t left the city,” Marietta replied, “but he has been moved to another building where it is more difficult for us to keep contact with him.”

  “I’ll go on drawing pictures for Papa, Mama. He can have them when he comes home again.”

  Marietta hugged the child to her.

  FILIPPO ROARED WITH laughter when he heard of the further misfortune that had befallen his old enemy. He and Vitale had been told about it on the Rialto Bridge where all local news flowed amid the shops and along the walkways. They immediately set off on a celebratory tour of the wineshops in the city and it was late when they staggered back to the Palazzo Celano, having gathered Alv
ise along the way. Elena had just returned from a Pietà concert and Filippo drunkenly bawled out the story to her.

  “What a bunch of bungling fools the Torrisi had to help him! Did you ever hear the like? Now he’ll rot of lung disease in the Wells and be dead sooner than later. Come and drink a toast to those who nipped his escape in the bud!”

  He caught her roughly by the arm and thrust her down in a chair at the table where his brothers were already sprawled, decanters and glasses having been placed before them by hurrying servants.

  Elena, who had heard about Domenico during an interval at the concert, was full of sorrow and she eyed the brothers with disgust. She could tell this was one of those occasions when they would drink themselves into a stupor, and they were well on the way already.

  “Drink up!” Filippo filled her glass. When she did not immediately lift it, he snatched it up himself and rammed it against her lips, spilling the contents down her cleavage and soaking her bodice. “That’s it! You should drink more wine!” His glowering, reddened face was close to hers. “It might make you fertile!”

  He never lost any opportunity to taunt her. In public, he would make a great fuss over other people’s offspring, although privately he disliked the company of children. He would flirt outrageously with any pregnant woman, praising her bloom, her beauty, and the sweet duty she was fulfilling for her fortunate husband. Like Marco he had a certain dangerous charm that attracted many women, and men liked the careless generosity and bonhomie that he showed when it suited him; but to Elena his false ways were transparent.

  She managed to drink more wine to please him and then his attention swung away from her as Alvise, who had sent for a lute, began to sing a bawdy song. When sober, Alvise played and sang well; even in his present state he had not lost his talent, and his voice rang out as Filippo’s deep baritone joined in lustily. Vitale soon followed suit. Elena seized the chance to slip away from the table to her own room upstairs. Her personal maid was waiting for her, but she did not exclaim at the sight of the wine-stained gown. Better that than more bruises on the signora’s face and body.

  ALTHOUGH AT FIRST Elena had kept resolutely to her vow not to see Elizabetta or talk about her beyond being told all was well, it had proved impossible to maintain. Elizabetta would come running into the shop when Elena happened to call, or else the child would be playing with Adrianna’s children when Elena visited there. In spite of herself Elena looked forward more and more to seeing her daughter, building up a relationship like that of an aunt to a niece.

  Elizabetta missed the walks she had taken with Marietta to deliver the letters and drawings to her papa. Now when they went out, it was mostly to the market to buy food. She liked to skip along and whenever they came to one of the little bridges that spanned the canals she would run up the steps on one side and hop down the steps on the other.

  If it had not been for her work, Marietta did not know how she would have faced each day. When she could not sleep at night for anxiety about Domenico, she put on a robe and went downstairs to the workshop where she occupied herself until dawn by making masks. It relaxed her, restoring the peace she had always known with her mother in the workshop of their village home. She gained the strength through these quiet dark hours that enabled her to carry on with her life as Domenico would wish.

  Something else came out of those nightly sessions. For a surprise she had made Elizabetta a carnival half-mask out of scraps of silk with tiny handmade flowers. It was much admired generally and so she made others for sale. The demand increased and she began to produce a whole range of children’s masks. There were plenty of children’s masks to be had at any mask-shop in Venice, but her designs were original and before long she had the two women in the workshop concentrating only on these smaller products. Then she began to design adult masks as well along more dramatic lines and these also created a demand. Leonardo was immensely pleased and trebled her bonus, for before the year was out the new shop had become established as the place to go for especially original and splendid masks for all ages. In his own establishment Leonardo soon displayed only Marietta’s designs, together with samples of fabrics and trimmings, whenever a customer wanted to commission a mask that would be different from all the rest.

  Marietta always found it relaxing to take walks with Elena and stop for refreshment and conversation at Florian’s. They continued to go masked on these outings, for although the vendetta was virtually at an end, Filippo would never have allowed Elena to meet the wife of his vanquished enemy.

  Individually, they each enjoyed visits with Bianca whenever Sisters Sylvia and Giaccomina brought her to their homes. In her own way the young girl brought comfort to her godmothers, each of whom was weighed down with troubles that her gentle company could sometimes ease.

  DOMENICO SPENT ALMOST a year in a dungeon before he fell ill and was transferred to a cell on a higher floor in another part of the prison. Sebastiano, who heard the news by chance, spoke to Marietta of what he had learned.

  “First of all I will tell you that Domenico has been ill, but he has fully recovered,” he began.

  She did not pester him with all the anxious questions she longed to ask. “Please tell me what you know.”

  He gave her the facts as he had heard them. The doctor, concerned only with the health of his patient, had insisted on Domenico’s being moved immediately and had attended him daily until the danger was past. But the treatment had not ended there. The doctor, being a conscientious man, had insisted to the authorities that the full rights of a political prisoner be restored to Domenico Torrisi, and that, for his health’s sake, he was never to be returned to the dungeons. This was agreed on in principle, although for security reasons he could not be put back in the palace cells and visitors were still banned. At least he could again receive news-sheets and writing materials, order what he wished from outside, and enjoy other such minor benefits.

  “What of letters?” Marietta asked eagerly.

  Sebastiano shook his head regretfully. “The right to send or receive letters is still denied him.”

  It was a bitter disappointment to bear.

  Marietta continued to have a basket of food delivered regularly to the prison for Domenico as she had done all the time, including wines she knew he liked. It was a familiar routine as one year gave way to the next and yet another followed.

  With New Year’s Eve being at the height of Carnival, Marietta always kept the shop open until the early hours. When the bells and merrymaking welcomed in 1794 she took stock as she never failed to do of the time that had elapsed since Domenico’s conviction. Leaving the shop to her assistants, she went upstairs to see if Elizabetta had been awakened by the fireworks, but the child slept peacefully.

  Marietta went to the bedchamber window and held back the curtain to look up at the colored stars filling the sky above the calle. She hoped that Domenico could see them and take heart. A new year was a new beginning and perhaps this one would bring his release. Unfortunately this Doge was proving to be a weak leader. As Domenico had predicted, he was easily swayed by others and unlikely to take up any cause in the face of opposition. It was said that he had wept with despair upon being informed of his esteemed appointment. Marietta found it hard to sustain hope, but she would never give up. Even a feeble doge would have to accept proof of a man’s innocence if ever it could be found.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WHENEVER MARIETTA WENT TO THE PIETÀ SHE HAD TO PASS by the prison with its arches and white stone walls. It was five years now since Domenico had been shut away from her and she saw it as a test of her faith in him that she should face up to the sight of his place of incarceration. She always paused on the Paglia Bridge to rest her hands on the balustrade and look deliberately at that other dreadful bridge that so elegantly linked the Wells with the Doge’s Palace. Always her thoughts went to the day when Domenico had crossed it. Had she known in time that it was to happen, she would have stood on this spot day and night in order that he see
her. She might even have caught the flicker of his hand behind the ornamental stonework.

  If only Domenico could have had a son through whom the House of Torrisi would live on. It would have given him some consolation. She did not understand why she had not conceived again after his return from St. Petersburg. Had her body needed time to heal and readjust itself after failing to bear a living child? Then, when the time was ripe again, it had been too late, Domenico already a prisoner.

  She was descending the steps of the Paglia Bridge to continue along the Riva degli Schiavoni to the Pietà when she saw Captain Zeno of the prison guard. He had come into her shop a few weeks before to buy masks for his three young daughters.

  “Good day, signora.” The captain recognized her now and saluted smartly. Had she not been a beautiful woman elegantly dressed, he might not have noticed her in the flow of passers-by.

  Marietta acknowledged his greeting and would have walked on, but instead she stopped, realizing that he might give her some news of Domenico. “Have your little girls made good use of their masks, Captain?”

  “Indeed they have. The youngest of the three has been less kind to hers and I must soon buy a replacement.”

  She smiled. “We have a new selection. Bring the old one back and I’ll exchange it free of charge. Savoni masks are well made and shouldn’t surrender even to hard handling in such a short while.”

  “I’ll bring my daughter to your shop tomorrow, Signora Torrisi.”

  “You know my name? You didn’t reveal that when you purchased those masks.”

  “I thought you might ask me for news of your husband. I try to avoid such questions.”

  Disappointed, she smiled ruefully. “That was my intention in speaking to you now.”