by Sara Downing
‘I will send for my mascheraro first thing in the morning. He is the maker of the finest masks in all of Venice and will no doubt have a workshop full of the most splendid masks from which we can choose. What shall you be? A beautiful swan, a dazzling princess, a mysterious mythical creature?’
There is no chance of further sleep as we excitedly discuss our plans for the morrow. I pull Tito from the bed and he joins me as we cavort around the chamber like a pair of marionettes. I cannot believe it; finally I am to go outside with my love! At long last, even if I am masked from view, I will be able to promenade with him at my side! This means so much to me, and the excitement is overwhelming. And then of course, after the day’s festivities, we will be able to return together to my casa and be together for the entire night, such as we have not been since we came together to this city. My delight is so intense, I can barely contain myself!
I do not recognise myself as I stand before the mirror, and that is the desired effect, seeing as Tito has procured the finest, most expensive robes and masks for us both. My new gown is made from golden taffeta, embroidered with the most delicate beads and gems, and my mask appears to have been hewn from the same fabric, although in fact it is crafted from gilded glass, made by one of the much fêted glassmakers of Murano, its colour exactly replicating the tones of my robe.
The mask covers my entire face, and I have to confess it is far from comfortable, tied firmly behind my head as it is and only allowing two small pairs of holes by means of which I am able to see and to breathe. To speak or to eat will no doubt prove problematic, but I do not care, as I look beautiful – not in my usual natural and unfettered way, but as though I am a statue carved from a piece of the finest and most priceless golden marble.
Huge swirls of fabric cascade around my head, interleafed with golden flowers, covering my hair entirely and giving me great height beyond my normal stature. I am like a giant, golden, goddess, and I clasp my hands together with delight, my whoops of joy muffled by the enclosure of the mask. My hands too are encased in golden filigree gloves, with painted golden glassy nails where my own nails should be.
‘Tito, you are so clever to find these costumes so quickly!’ I gasp. ‘And such a perfect fit, too! As though it were made just for me.’ Not even my voice sounds like my own; that too is in disguise. Not a soul in this city shall know who I am.
Tito’s costume is very similar to my own, only masculine where mine is very, very feminine. How he was able to obtain such magnificent outfits at such speed I do not know, but my lover is a man of great means and of fortunate acquaintance, used to procuring what he wants, and for that I am grateful. This mask is my entry point into Venetian society, albeit incognito, so I do not intend to trouble myself too much with the finer details of its source. My intention today is simply to enjoy myself.
Venice is alive! I cannot believe the sights and sounds before me. In the end, it is early evening when we finally leave my casa, such is our joy to be together again, and our desire to make the most of Tito’s snatched hours. The sun is starting to set, the waters across the lagoon as still as a mirror crafted by the maestros of Murano themselves.
A gondola awaits us at the dock in the Piazza San Marco, and Tito holds tightly to me as I climb aboard, the waters of the lagoon slapping gently against the quayside. Today the gondolas are bedecked to reflect the mood of the city, the ferri, the high, curved and carved bows of the vessels, decorated with bright garlands, ribbons and flowers, so very contrasting to their usual sombre blackness as they slice through the water. The canal is a sea of colour and light from these barques and their occupants, and the whiteness of the vast Palazzo Ducale and its brilliant, carved stonework is thrown into stark contrast by the vibrant hues which mill around it.
As we begin our journey and glide past the Piazza San Marco I see the swarms of costumed revellers filling the lighted square, parading in their finery, and I gasp again at the spectrum of colours and shapes before me. I have never before seen such a sight. They look almost other-worldly, no longer human, with their carved, smooth and gilded faces, outwardly expressionless whilst beneath the masks great excitement must surely bubble forth, just as it does for me.
‘Facciamo una passeggiata?’ Tito asks, after we have travelled only a short distance in the gondola. He explains how much more exciting it will be for us to walk amongst the crowds, instead of gliding past them, and beckons to the gondolier to pull alongside at the next fondamenta so that we might alight. He is right. Holding tightly onto his arm, we tiptoe through two or three darkened calles, the narrow, identical-looking alleys and passageways that network through the city, away from the Canal Grande, to emerge in a piazza just in front of the Campo Santo Stefano. Here we are overwhelmed with vibrancy and opulence once more. Huge sconces light the piazza as brightly as if the sun itself were high overhead. Music and dance, theatre and comedy are taking place in abundance around us, antithetical to the unadorned serenity of the church before us. Small crowds gather to watch as these masked artists perform their trickery. Beguiled by the mastery of a juggler I have spied, I wish Tito could see the delight on my face, but it is enough to be here with him, and I only hope his joy at this day is as great as my own; I cannot believe it could be otherwise. As darkness falls completely, there is a tremendous crash and a flash of bright lights as fuochi d’artificio shoot up into the sky and fall to earth like a thousand shooting stars. We pause to gaze up at them in sheer wonder. I have never before seen fireworks.
We promenade a little further along, past the fire eaters and stilt walkers, taking in the sights and sounds around us when suddenly a man steps out of nowhere and places his hands over my masked eyes……….
‘Stefano! What are you doing here?’ The shock of being woken abruptly from my dream leaves me disorientated, gasping for air as though I am having a panic attack, and when I realise I’m safe and not actually being assaulted, mugged, or whatever fate Maria thought awaited her, certainly less than pleased. Stefano had obviously hoped to surprise me, and he’s certainly done that, but it’s far from the sort of surprise I like.
I’ve never been woken unnaturally from a Maria dream before, and I’m not sure I like the feeling of total bewilderment that being dragged from the sixteenth to the twenty-first century within the space of a millisecond has produced. I feel like I’ve been whisked forwards through some sort of time-travelling vortex, and my head is spinning. Usually I wake up in my own good time and the transition is a gentle one, leaving me to sort my memories and catalogue the dream in my brain before having to go back and face the real world. Right now I feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of a swimming pool whilst asleep, fully clothed, and with bricks strapped to my ankles; shocked, scared and pretty traumatised.
What had Tito and Maria been about to do at the Carnevale? Was Maria really about to be attacked, or was it simply Stefano’s invasion that entered my dream state? I might never find out now. No dream ever seems to pick up exactly where the last one left off; they are all snippets, snapshots of a moment in time, and like a child woken from a fantastical dream of being a prince or princess, a dragon or a magical fairy, only to find they are a mere mortal with no super-powers, my disappointment is overwhelming. I might now never find out if something momentous was going to happen to my sixteenth century friends, or whether this was just a scene-setting moment from their lives.
I get up from my bench, hurriedly gather my things and leave the room, Stefano trailing behind me with protestations, but still no apology. I’m not sure he quite realises what he has done.
‘You shouldn’t have woken me,’ I shout at him over my shoulder as I stomp angrily along the corridor towards the terrazzo café. Right now I need a large cappuccino to sort me out, and today I don’t care that it’s the typical Brits-on-tour beverage, I just need the reassurance of its milky frothiness and the hit of the underlying espresso to sort me out.
‘Lydia, I’m sorry,’ Stefano says, finally apologising as he pulls
on my arm and tries to turn me towards him. I stand resolute in the queue, still giving him the cold shoulder and turning my back on him as I place my order with the barista. But I’m no good at keeping up a temper and soften just a little as I glance behind me, catch his eye and clock his crestfallen expression. ‘I was worried about you and these dreams, that’s all. I wanted to come over here and see you, make sure you were OK, take you for coffee……. Tell you what a lovely Christmas night I had…..’ This last sentence he whispers in my ear, scooping my hair from the nape of my neck and placing the most fleeting of kisses there as he tries to make me recall the night we had just spent together.
How could I forget; it had been gorgeous. We’d rolled drunkenly into bed some time around two in the morning – again – and made soft and gentle love for what seemed like hours. Then whilst we lay there entwined he had told me he loved me. It wasn’t just drunken ramblings or the effect of the endorphins from our love-making; he’d said it with the utmost sincerity. The trouble was, I didn’t, or couldn’t at that particular moment, say it back to him. But he was very sweet and didn’t push me to return the endearment; he just looked me in the eye and said simply, ‘Soon?’
I suppose I do love him in my own little way, but I don’t know what it is, maybe after Ed I’m just not ready to proclaim this as a serious relationship just yet. Maybe I still nurture that fear of trusting someone too much and then being hurt again.
Stefano is a good man, and I know I’d feel pretty silly if things had been the other way round last night. I realise I have to tread carefully here, so I decide to stop my sulking, forgive Stefano for disturbing me, and get on and enjoy the rest of the day. Finally I turn round to face him, give him a huge smile which melts his worried frown, his eyes lighting up once more, and plant a massive kiss on his lips. The barista coughs politely as she tries to draw my attention back to the two coffees steaming on the counter, and the fact that they are as yet unpaid-for. I prize myself off him and do what I need to do.
‘I’m sorry Stefano,’ I say as we park ourselves at a table by the window in today’s near-deserted café. ‘I suppose I overreacted, but it was all a bit of a shock being woken up so suddenly. I felt like I was abandoning Maria and I was worried I might not be able to get back to her again. You understand that, don’t you?’
Stefano nods and enquires: ‘So what was today’s instalment?’ As I talk him through the Carnevale and all its glory I realise that I have remembered quite a lot of the dream, despite being snatched back to the current day so quickly. I’m glad at least that my time spent snoozing wasn’t lost, even if it would have been nice to stay in the sixteenth century just a little longer.
I can still recall so vividly the sheer splendour of that Carnevale; all I’ve seen before now are pictures of it from recent years. I can’t help thinking that in its basic format it probably hasn’t changed too much over the centuries; it’s one of these major historical happenings which have weathered the passing of time.
Venice is somewhere I’ve never been to even on an ordinary day, and my experience in that dream is enough to make me realise that the tourist brochures don’t do justice to the splendour of it all. And I don’t mean just to the Carnevale in all its colour and glory, but to the fabric of Venice itself, all those unbelievably beautiful buildings, rising up from the lagoon as though dropped into the blue waters by the hand of God. And I have been fortunate enough to vicariously experience Venice in its prime through Maria, not visit it in its twenty-first century state as it crumbles into the waters, shrouded in graffiti and shored up with vast buttresses. How privileged I am to have witnessed so much that in theory no one of our day should ever have seen.
‘So, what next?’ I ask Stefano, once we’re back on solid ground and he knows he has been fully forgiven. For a split second he looks confused, presumably thinking I am referring to the next development in our relationship, not our plans for the rest of the day.
‘How about a bit more culture? Shops are shut, so that’s a no-go, or there’s always back to your place…..plenty to do there….’ he proposes, with more than a little twinkle in his eye, his eyebrows whizzing up and down suggestively.
‘Culture first, I think,’ I reply. ‘Give a girl a chance to recover, won’t you?’ I joke, although actually I can’t think of anything nicer than holing up with him in my room for the rest of the day, only emerging for refreshments. But I know the others will all be there, so it wouldn’t afford us a huge amount of privacy, and I would actually like to stay out and about for a bit longer first. It’s my place or nothing for later though, as Stefano flat-shares with three other lads, so the chances of finding his house empty are even less likely; in fact it’s just not worth even bothering to try.
We leave the gallery hand in hand, back out into the winter sunshine, and although there is a decidedly more of a nip in the air now, I am as warm as toast, safe in the knowledge that I have a man who adores me and would do anything for me. As I gaze up at him I know there is something I want to say to him.
‘I love you too,’ I reply finally. It’s several hours late, but actually now I think I mean it.
Sixteen
‘So how many are coming?’ I ask Sophia. She and Leonora have decided we need a New Year’s Eve party. Our apartment is probably the largest out of all the friends’, and the most central, so, with one day to go, bravely we decide to go ahead with it, contacting everyone via the networking sites we all use, and texting those we know are still out of town to see if they can get back in time to join us. Thank heavens for technology – within half an hour it’s confirmed that we have enough would-be partygoers to make it worth the effort.
‘Last count, forty-two,’ Sophia replies. ‘Plus us lot, of course. More than enough to make a party, and there are bound to be loads more that just show up. Everyone is going to bring food and booze – we said we were happy to provide the venue if they could do that, so there you go, looks like we are having a party!’
Leonora, who has been head-down, quietly doing the sums, suddenly shrieks: ‘Let’s make it fancy dress, a masked party! Like the Venetians, all those mysterious masks and painted faces! Everyone can get their hands on a mask, can’t they, it’s not like they need to get a whole costume or anything? I’ll send another message round again now – No Mask, No Admittance!’ She’s off on a roll now, in full-on party-planner mode. She is doing so well, she has really come through this miscarriage episode brilliantly, and having a project like this to focus on is perfect for someone who, when in good health, is the world’s biggest party animal.
It’s weird seeing all these people in their masks, right here in our flat, so soon after dreaming about the Carnevale. I almost feel as though the dream has come to revisit me in my twenty-first century life. Of course not everyone has a fabulous glass (or even fake plastic) Venetian mask to hand which they can produce in time for a party with just a day’s notice, but there are a fair few nonetheless, dragged out from the backs of cupboards, or brought back from the family home in time to wear tonight.
Some people are wearing those little half-face black eye masks – my Gran used to wear something similar when she had her daytime naps – only with holes for their eyes, obviously, but most have gone in for the full-face version, so it is actually quite difficult to work out who’s who. And I don’t know all of them, which adds to the air of mystery and general excitement for me.
The party is just about in full swing when Leonora emerges from her room, quite unintentionally making a very dramatic entrance. She was so busy getting everything ready earlier that she simply didn’t have time to change, instead disappearing into her room as soon as the first guests arrived, to make her transformation.
Wow, I cannot imagine where she pulled a costume like that from at such short notice. As she stands in the doorway to her bedroom, back-lit in a golden ball-gown of epic proportions, I do a double-take as I realise how similar she looks to Maria in my Carnevale dream. I’m glad no one can see my face u
nder my own mask as I’m sure I must have turned bright white. Her long, dark hair has vanished, swept up into the twisted organza back of the golden mask, and her face is completely hidden behind the gold-painted façade of the frontispiece. I only know for sure that it’s her from her body language and the fact that I recognise the shoes she’s wearing.
I wander over to her to compliment her on her costume. ‘No wonder you wanted to have a masked party,’ I joke, trying to calm myself down after the shock of seeing her. ‘If I had a costume like that stashed away I might have come up with that idea too!’
‘I went to the Carnevale with my parents a couple of years ago, and for some reason the dress ended up here, in a box at the back of my wardrobe,’ she explains. ‘Truthfully I’d forgotten about it – I knew I had the mask here but finding the dress was an added bonus.’
‘You look fabulous,’ I say. ‘Amazing.’ I still feel a bit like I’ve been transported back five centuries, and also wish just a little bit that I had a costume like that to wear too, instead of just a cheap mask from a costume shop. But the jeans and casual clothes sported by the bottom halves of most of the other partygoers prove that she’s in a minority, dressed like she is; it’s just a bizarre coincidence that she chose this theme and looks so like Maria. I’m not caught up in some kind of strange cross-century conspiracy after all.
Stefano hasn’t arrived yet and I’m starting to wonder where he has got to; I need him here to get me into the party spirit. I’ve never been a great one for New Year’s parties. I can appreciate that they are the perfect distraction from either the fact that another year is over, during which time we may or may not have achieved what we set out to do – with all the resulting emotions stemming from that – and a new one, full of hopes and dreams and as yet unfulfilled ambitions, is about to begin. But for me the festive season has always been about Christmas and nothing else, so New Year might just as well be any other day. I’m glad we are having a party, but if the girls hadn’t suggested it first, then I wouldn’t have gone out of my way to propose it. As New Year’s parties go though, it looks like it has all the promise of being a good one, as the atmosphere is buzzing already – but I need my man in tow before I can really start to enjoy myself.
