Masquerade (3 page)

Feeling as light as spun sugar, Angelique took hold of Antonio’s arm as he assisted her into the gondola. She winked at him before he released her arm to help Orelia.

The carved black door of the felze was open. Angelique went in first, entering backwards since there was little room to turn around inside the small space. Orelia awkwardly followed her example, with a little help from Veronica, who took her hand. Aunt Portia squeezed in last.

‘When are you going to stop torturing that poor man?’ whispered Veronica when the gondola began to move.

‘I don’t torture him,’ hissed Angelique.

‘You do. He’s in love with you. If father finds out, he will dismiss poor Antonio. He is supporting his sick mother; he can’t afford to lose his job because of your immature behaviour.’

‘I am not immature!’

The gondola came to a stop at the water steps of Ca’ Benzon.

‘Stop fighting you two,’ said Aunt Portia in a tired voice. ‘Angelique you
are
immature, but make it a virtue, not a flaw. And Veronica, do you think it wise to advise your sister when you know yourself how much
you
torture all men?’ She gathered up the bottom of her gown and climbed out of the felze. Before stepping off the gondola, she turned around and poked her head back into the small cabin. ‘Come by and collect me when you’re finished shopping. Keep your veils on so word doesn’t get back to your father about you being unaccompanied.’

Silence settled upon the felze as the gondola left Ca’ Benzon behind. Angelique rested her head against the cushioned leather wall, listened to the lapping water and Antonio singing out greetings to other gondoliers.

‘Why is everyone staring at me?’ said Orelia.

Angelique looked out the window. It was true; eyes peered at them from every gondola they passed. Already Orelia was turning heads. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just the city’s gossips wondering who you are.’

‘But there are so many people in this city. Does everyone know everyone?’

Angelique laughed. ‘Everyone knows everyone
worth
knowing. Believe me; everyone will know who you are soon enough.’ She winked at Orelia.

‘I’d prefer not to attract attention,’ said Orelia, pulling across the black blind.

‘Sensible girl,’ said Veronica with a curt nod.

Veronica sat opposite Angelique and Orelia. She had a perpetual look of boredom on her face.

‘It’s impossible not to attract attention. In this city, everyone is always watching. The Lion’s Mouth receives hundreds of reports a week,’ said Angelique.

‘The Lion’s Mouth?’ questioned Orelia.

‘It’s like a post box for accusations against any Venetian,’ answered Veronica. ‘You can report anything from financial extravagance to licentiousness or the identity of a spy. You are meant to sign your accusation and include the signature of two witnesses, but that’s not always the case.’ Veronica paused. ‘Don’t look so concerned. You have nothing to worry about . . . unless you’re hiding something.’

‘Of course not,’ said Orelia with a nervous laugh. ‘Where do you find these Lion’s Mouths?’

‘They are all around the city,’ replied Angelique, before her sister could take over the conversation. ‘They actually don’t look like a lion at all; they are usually a grotesque face carved in stone. We’ll pass one later.’

Orelia nodded. ‘Where are we going exactly?’

‘The Merceria, Venice’s famous shopping calle,’ replied Angelique, in a voice one would use to read a sonnet. ‘We need to buy you a mask for tonight. It’s unthinkable to go to a masquerade ball without a mask.’

The gondola stopped beside a bank of water steps a short distance from the foot of the bridge, Ponte dei Bareteri.

Angelique alighted first. She watched Orelia try to get out of the felze, stumble and almost land face first on the bow. Angelique would have to instruct her on the finer points of exiting a gondola.

While Veronica finished her whispered conversation with Antonio, Angelique waited at the foot of the ponte with Orelia. Her eyes looked at the shops lining the calle as if she were seeing the street for the first time. Here a person could buy absolutely anything – perfume, jewellery, masks, leather goods, candles, hats, ribbons, shoes, silk and all other luxuries imaginable.

Looping her arm through Orelia’s, she said. ‘This is my favourite place in all of Venice. When we have more time, I’ll take you to all the best shops.’

They walked down the calle, following its weaving design. Angelique whispered to Orelia the names of the nobles they passed. Interspersed with the people she recognised were those already sporting the complete Carnevale costume – mask, cloak and tricorne hat – meaning the person beneath the costume could be absolutely anyone. It was one of the things that made Carnevale so exciting.

A few minutes later, they stopped outside a shop. Unlike the other shops on either side of it that displayed their goods in their windows, the windows of this particular place were covered by dark green shutters with the slats open a fraction, allowing passers-by only a peek at the secrets within.

‘Signor Zafoni is the most skilled mascherari in all of Venice,’ said Angelique.

‘She is right,’ said Veronica, nodding. ‘Have fun, both of you.’

‘You’re not coming in with us?’

Veronica shook her head. ‘I will meet up with you at Ponte dei Bareteri in one hour. I have something I need to attend to.’

‘Very well, but don’t be late. We have to collect Aunt Portia and we need time to prepare for the ball tonight.’

Veronica rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know.’

Angelique sighed and watched Veronica disappear into the crowd of shoppers. ‘My sister is always sneaking off to attend to
things
.’

‘Where does she go?’

‘I don’t know. If she were anyone else, I’d suspect she had a secret lover. But this is Veronica we’re talking about. I tried following her once, but I got lost.’

She had, in fact, got so lost that she ended up at the Gheto Novo, but she didn’t tell Orelia this.

‘I don’t think she likes me very much,’ said Orelia.

‘It takes Veronica a while to warm to someone. She really does have the biggest heart. Come, let’s not waste time.’

Angelique reached for the door handle just as the door opened in front of them. A man in a richly embroidered dress-coat stepped out, knocking into Angelique.

‘Mi dispiace, bella,’ he said quickly.

‘It is quite all right,’ said Angelique. She looked up at his face and realised that she knew him. He was Cristofo Mocenigo, the Great Councillor’s son, which made him of the citizen class, though very wealthy. Angelique had danced with him – and more – on a few occasions last year. They’d had great fun together, until he had asked her to run away with him to be married in secret, since a match between someone of the citizen class and the aristocracy was outlawed. Angelique had been avoiding Cristofo ever since.

‘How nice to see you, Angelique,’ he said, suddenly recognising her. ‘Will you be at the ball at Ca’ D’Este tonight?’

Angelique forced a smile and repositioned the white veil trimmed with Burano lace that had slipped away from her face in the collision. ‘Won’t everyone?’

Cristofo held the door open for them. ‘I hope you’ll save a dance for me.’

As she passed, Angelique looked down into the bag he was carrying and saw a colourful, chequered harlequin mask. Now she would have to avoid all harlequins tonight.

Inside, the small shop was lit with candles, transforming the space into a cave of treasures. And what treasures! Lining the walls were hundreds of masks, each richly painted and decorated with sequins, feathers and anything imaginable that glittered. Angelique heard Orelia gasp in delight.

They made their way to the back of the shop where Signor Zafoni was sitting behind a table with a paintbrush in his hand. He was a small man with wispy grey hair that surrounded his head. Despite the fragility of his aging body, there was a youthful light in his eyes.

Angelique removed her veil. ‘Buongiorno, Signor.’

‘Signorina Contarini, just the young lady I wanted to see. It is finished, and it looks magnificent, if I do say so myself.’

Angelique clapped her hands excitedly. ‘First, let me introduce you to Orelia, the newest member of our household,’ she said, grabbing Orelia’s arm and pulling her forward. ‘She is my father’s goddaughter. She has just arrived in Venice and so she needs masks, lots of them.’

‘One will do, really,’ Orelia insisted.

Signor Zafoni clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘One mask is never enough. Where are you from, Signorina?’

Orelia froze. Angelique nudged her. Maybe she misunderstood the question.

‘Rome,’ Orelia answered, eventually.

‘And what brings you to Venice?’

Orelia looked around. ‘I’m here to find myself in the city of masks.’

Signor Zafoni nodded approvingly and spread his arms wide. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Take a look around and let the masks choose you.’

‘I don’t have much money.’

Angelique tapped Orelia lightly on the arm. ‘We have an account with Signor Zafoni. You don’t need to worry about paying for a thing.’

Orelia looked like she was going to protest but Angelique pushed her in the direction of the masks. ‘Go, pick something dazzling.’

When Orelia had disappeared among the masks, Angelique turned back to Signor Zafoni.

‘Are you ready to see it?’ he asked.

Angelique nodded eagerly. He turned around and took a mask off the shelf behind him. The style was known as the columbina, a half-mask that covered the eyes, the nose and upper cheeks.

This creation was painted a shimmering white overlaid with swirls and flourishes of sequins. The right side was adorned with a cluster of feathers fanning out above the mask. Small crystals were arranged around the eyeholes, making the mask appear as if it were winking.

Angelique picked it up gently. It was more beautiful than she had imagined, and it would match her costume perfectly. She leaned forward across the table and whispered, ‘Did you use the same paintbrush for the mask you made for Bastian Donato?’

‘Of course. Two masks painted from the same paintbrush, destined to find each other.’

‘And have you destroyed the paintbrush?’

Signor Zafoni picked up a glass filled with ash. ‘Do you want to keep the . . . remains?’

‘Si,’ said Angelique, plucking the glass from his fingers. ‘I’ll keep it for good luck.’

Veronica Contarini carried herself in a manner that made people move out of her way, rather than the other way around. She hurried down the calle past idle shoppers, hawkers crying out on behalf of the chair mender, and puppeteers enacting the latest gossip upon their strings. None of it attracted her attention. She kept her eyes looking forward and her feet moving quickly, leaving the mascherari’s shop far behind her.

She found Antonio standing beneath the sheltered walkway leading down to the water steps near Ponte dei Bareteri. Her family gondola was tied to a mooring pole, but Antonio could not draw it in until the two waiting gondolas unloaded their passengers and moved off.

Veronica sighed impatiently. She could not afford this delay. She needed every minute if she were going to get back in time. For a moment, she considered waiting until she had another opportunity with greater time, but then the sickening thought of Signor Aldoldo entered her mind and she knew she could not wait for another opportunity – she had to finish this now.

Finally, her gondola drew up alongside the water steps. As she lowered herself into the felze, she gave Antonio the name of a canal near to her destination in the sestiere, Cannaregio. She went by a different canal every time, in case Antonio was ever questioned about her activities.

The gondola passed through narrow canals and beneath low ponti, moving away from the sestiere of San Marco. Veronica looked out the window and smiled at the beauty of the darker, dirtier parts of the city: the brown water streaked with gold, the graceful swaying of the washing suspended above the canals, the moss growing on the walls that was brighter than emerald, the silent movement of a rat on the fondamenta, the faint smell cinnamon that cut through the odour of decay.

A few minutes later, the gondola came to a complete stop alongside the fondamenta, the calle running alongside the canal. Veronica wasted no time disembarking.

‘Shall I wait here for you, Signorina?’ asked Antonio.

‘No, I’ll meet you back at Ponte dei Bareteri with my sister in one hour.’

Veronica pulled down her veil and walked a route she knew well until she came to a narrow casa with bright yellow shutters. Her casini, a room she secretly rented, was on the third floor of the building. Veronica let herself in and climbed the stairs with the usual sense of excitement that accompanied these visits.

Passing closed doors that no doubt guarded other secret goings-on, Veronica walked down a narrow portego until she came to the last door on the left. As she unlocked the door and pushed it open, the familiar smell of paint and turpentine met her nostrils. She breathed in deeply. There was no smell she loved more. The room was small, but it had just the right amount of light, air and privacy.

Locking the door behind her, Veronica walked to the middle of the room and sat down upon a wooden stool. She lifted her hand and pulled away the white sheet draped over the frame in front of her. The painting that lay beneath brought a mischievous smile to Veronica’s face, not only because of what it depicted but also because, in that moment, Veronica realised just how good she had become.

She had been painting since she was a child, after her father had brought home a selection of paints that were a gift from an African ambassador. Immediately, Veronica fell in love with the rich colours and their earthy smells. At home, under the constant praise of her father, she had painted landscapes and portraits, but recently her art had taken on a completely different nature.

It had started a year ago when the marriage proposals began to gain in frequency. Her father was a kind man, respectful of his daughter’s wishes, but there were only so many times Veronica could refuse on the grounds of vileness. Desperate, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quite literally, she mused, twirling a paintbrush between her fingers.

Everyone had a secret and Veronica was most expert in uncovering even the most deeply hidden secrets. And as soon as she uncovered the secret, she painted it. Unlike a woman’s words, there was an unquestionable truth in the combination of oil and pigment. Veronica had learnt that a man would do anything to keep his secret hidden, even withdraw a marriage proposal.

Veronica put the brush down alongside the others in a neat line. Her fingers begged to take it back up and paint, but that was not what she’d come here for today. Instead, she pressed her fingertips delicately on the canvas, checking that the highlights she had painted only a few days ago had completely dried. Satisfied, Veronica leaned back and surveyed her work. She was pleased to see how those final touches had lifted the images from the canvas and brought them to life.

Her eyes travelled over the painting from the items of clothing discarded on the floor, to the crumpled white bed sheet and the men’s legs entwined around each other, and finally to the two unshaven faces, red from exhaustion. If the message wasn’t clear enough already, a gnaga mask, with its upturned nose, painted cheeks and arched eyebrows, hung from the bedpost. She cast her eyes to her initials VC in the bottom corner in her signature colour, vermilion.

After three weeks, at last the painting was complete. It was a lot of work just to send a message, but it was the time-consuming detail that made the message speak the loudest. And this was one message she wanted Bertuccio Aldoldo, with his swelling stomach, oily skin and condescending voice, to hear loud and clear.

Carefully, she lifted the canvas off the frame and placed it on the floor on top of a wide sheet of brown paper, which she had acquired from Signor Zafoni when she had first taken up this pursuit. She wrapped the painting tightly. Where the ends of the paper met, she sealed them together with a pool of red wax. It was most important that only Signor Aldoldo saw her artwork. It wasn’t her intention to reveal his secret, only to threaten to do so.

Now all she needed to do was to disguise herself. Crossing the room, she picked up the black cloak hanging over the back of a chaise lounge. She secured it around her neck. Then she picked up a short lace hood and pulled it over her head. The mask came next, a white bauta mask that covered the entire face. It had a prominent nose, projecting chin and no mouth, allowing the wearer to talk, drink and eat freely. Finally, she topped her head with a black tricorne hat, completing the traditional Carnevale costume. Veronica had chosen this costume because of its commonness and the simple fact that it hid all difference.

Veronica gently picked up the package and held it under her arm. It fitted perfectly in the space from her armpit to her fingertip. She descended the stairs and let herself out of the casa. Immediately, she turned left and crossed the canal, taking care on the slippery stones of the ponti.

She avoided the busy calli, taking the back routes she knew so well. As she hurried along, she thought how great a shame it was that her art was never appreciated by more people. She did not know the fate of her paintings, but she suspected they were burnt or locked away where they would never be seen. Regardless, the paintings always achieved their purpose. Always.

Veronica counted how many similar messages she had sent. First, there was Frangibus Rizo who was twenty years older than her. He spoke to himself far more than was normal and only ever spoke about his horses on the mainland. Veronica had stumbled upon his secret by accident when she overheard him boasting to his reflection that he had poisoned his rival’s horses.

After that, there was Jacomelo Stornado. He was only a few years older than Veronica. He had seemed harmless enough until she had encountered him at a literary salon and he drew her aside into an empty room and tried to lay his repulsive hands on her. Veronica had searched for his secret like a woman possessed and had eventually discovered that he was involved with the occult, an offence punishable in Venice by death. She had enjoyed creating that painting immensely.

The third suitor was Mafeo Foscari who was rarely sober, although that was no secret. How his family’s newfound wealth had been acquired was a secret, however; one that Veronica had discovered and exploited. Piracy was a fun subject to paint.

Veronica couldn’t even recall the name of the fourth suitor. He had been as dull as a piece of dry bread and his secret had been just as dull, too. Nevertheless, he had withdrawn his marriage proposal. Perhaps this had less to do with what the painting depicted and more to do with his concern for the mental state of a woman who would go to such lengths to avoid being married to him.

The fifth suitor, Leonardo Enzignerio was the youngest of them all. He was nineteen like her. He was one of those merry revellers who measured his own worth by the number of women he had laid with. His parents were responsible for his wedding proposal, hoping it would instil some maturity in their son. Veronica had followed Leonardo one night and saw him lighting small fires in campi of poor sestiere. They had caused no serious damage, but arson was taken very seriously in Venice, especially in light of the two great fires in the 1570s that had partially destroyed the Palazzo Ducale. Veronica had sent this painting to Leonardo’s parents.

That made Signor Aldoldo the sixth suitor. Her younger sister Angelique, who was obsessed with love, often said that Veronica would die old and alone, most probably in a convent, since that was where unmarried women ended up. That was fine with Veronica.

Certainly, she was attracted to men and had experienced pleasures of the flesh. But she did not believe in romantic love. ‘I would rather hear a monkey screech all day, than hear a man profess his love for me,’ she always said to Angelique. To which her sister would reply that few marriages had anything to do with love. It was true that married men and women were rarely faithful and it was perfectly acceptable, but Veronica had no intention of becoming a part of such an elaborate performance.

Passing a familiar looking casa, Veronica stopped. It took her a moment to realise why this place felt familiar with its closed shutters and dead pot plants on the balconies. This was where she had discovered Bertuccio’s secret.

She had followed him here one evening several weeks ago, after he had dined with them as a guest of her father. She had seen him go into the casa and come out an hour later. She had not known what had gone on inside until a neighbour, a middle-aged woman who had been banging the life out of a carpet with a stick, had told Veronica what she needed to hear.

Veronica smiled smugly. Some secrets were easier to discover than others, especially in Venice where gossip was the native language.

When she had almost reached Bertuccio’s palazzo, she stopped beside a wellhead in the centre of a nearby campo to collect herself. It was always an emotional moment when she was about to part with a painting, never to see it again. She couldn’t even take one last look, since it was wrapped so tightly.

Squaring her shoulders, Veronica walked over to the palazzo’s land entrance and pulled the bell cord. A few minutes passed and no one answered. Veronica raised her hand again when the door opened. A young servant girl in a blue dress stood on the other side of the door. Veronica sighed with relief. The girl would do exactly as she was asked. The older servants, like Maria, were often less compliant and more suspicious.

With a smile concealed by her mask, Veronica handed the parcel to the girl. ‘Please give this
directly
to Signor Aldoldo. It is a special gift.’