A Summer In Europe (24 page)

Oh, she hadn’t thought of that. Paris! Just a week away. This trip was zipping by, almost too fast for her to assimilate it. She needed more time for reflection. Time to process everything she was seeing, hearing, feeling. But this was the thing about the tour that made it so very odd for her. That caused that parallel-universe sensation. Because she
didn’t
get a break from the constant activity and new sites, she was as overstimulated as a toddler during the first week of preschool. And if it wasn’t Hans-Josef introducing her to some new place or new cultural item, it was Emerson.

They dashed up the stairs on their side of the Rialto and began inspecting the vendors crammed onto the bridge. Much like their bazaarlike experience on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, there were simply too many objects to focus on at once—a cacophony of colors, if she could hear them rather than see them. Nevertheless, she tried to direct her attention to one single thing at a time and found herself drawn to a particular piece.

“Is that a
Phantom of the Opera
mask?” she asked, pointing toward a collection of Venetian masks hanging askew on a jaunty display pole. She walked over to it and picked it up. It reminded her of a mask she’d caught a brief glimpse of back in Florence and, of course, the most famous costume relic from her favorite musical.

“Looks quite a bit like it, but that’s a very traditional style,” he commented. “This one is a popular shape and it seems to cover a little more of the face than the one the Phantom wears in the play. But it’s been a long while since I’ve seen the production. Why? Do you wish to purchase it? Take it home, hang it on your wall and pretend you’re Christine?”

She laughed, far too embarrassed to admit how close to the truth he was, but she didn’t answer him of course. Instead, she fingered the black laces that were meant to tie the mask in place and ran her thumb across its white lacquered cheek. She noticed several masks in front of her that were similar. In peering at a competing mask vendor a few spaces down, she saw even more of them, along with others that were painted to look like suns, moons, leaves, jesters. The one she was holding felt very commonplace all of a sudden.

She slid it back on the hook. “Are there any mask shops anywhere nearby? Ones that might have a larger selection or, perhaps, some truly original designs?”

His eyebrows rose and the corners of his lips curled into a mocking grin. “My, haven’t you become quite the avid shopper? And so discriminating as well.”

She shot him an annoyed look.

“Gwen, this is
Venice
. There are masks and mask shops
everywhere
.” He paused and scanned the buildings along the canal. “I’ll take you to my favorite.”

She followed him through a series of more twisty walkways and bridges, quickly losing all sense of direction herself, until they reached a little hole-in-the-wall place with a brightly painted wooden sign above the entrance. Upon it, in heavily slanted calligraphy, were the words
Il Carnevale
.

“The Carnival,” Emerson translated unnecessarily. “Pronounced ‘eel car-nee-vall-ay’ in Italian. There’s a huge Mardi Gras celebration every year in the city. It’s crammed with people. About a hundred thousand tourists show up. And it lasts for a couple of weeks. Never had the daring to try to come down here then, though.” He waved her through the door and into the shop. “Come. Take a look around.”

Gwen entered what appeared at first glance to be some kind of artisan’s workshop rather than the store she was expecting. She realized quickly that was precisely what this place was: a workshop. This wasn’t merely a spot to exhibit masks—although there was an entire wall filled with them and a window display, too. No. This was where they were created.

Emerson, chattering at her as always, was attempting to explain the different types of masks that were made there. There were the oval
moretta
masks with black velvet and veils, the very simple
volto
masks and the
bauta
masks, which were the kind historically linked to Venice ever since the Middle Ages. Many of these masks covered the entire face with just eye slots, no mouth, and lots of gilding, while others concealed only the upper part of the face from the forehead to the nose, but allowed the wearer to talk, eat or drink as desired.

“They’re useful for a number of purposes,” he said, picking up a striking, one-of-a-kind catlike mask and holding it up to his face so that he resembled a somewhat deranged lion. “Especially illicit romantic encounters.”

She shook her head at his choice of
bauta
and pointed to this harlequinesque character mask that she’d seen depicted in a number of places around the city. “This seems to be a popular design. What is it?”

Emerson set down his leonine selection. “You mean
who
is it, don’t you?” Emerson said, a split second before an older lady, who had to be one of the artists, walked in.

She saw Gwen pointing and said, “That is Arlecchino. Do you know the opera?”

Gwen shook her head.

“It is a one-act opera. German,” the Venetian woman said in heavily accented English. “But the roles—the characters—they come from the Italian
commedia dell’arte
. It’s a funny story. A—” She paused, searching for the exact word. “A parody, yes?”

Emerson nodded at her. “Yes. The main character, Arlecchino, has little faith in marriage and fidelity. He’s married to Colombina, but he wants to be with the tailor’s wife, the lovely Annunziata. It’s rather like a comedy of errors and a game of masks and disguises but, instead of everyone ending up with their spouses, the players get switched around. Arlecchino is united with Annunziata as his lover. Colombina gets a different guy for herself—”

“Leandro,” the Italian woman interjected with a grin. “And Dottore and Abbate become lovers, too. But the poor tailor, Matteo. . .” She sighed.

“Matteo, who is Annunziata’s husband, ends up alone,” Emerson explained. “And in the finale, as all the new couples form a procession onto the stage, Arlecchino removes his mask at last and addresses the audience. He explains the new arrangement of the couples.”

“And he says they will last ‘until something new happens,’ ” added the woman. “So there is no promise of fidelity at the end, even among the new lovers.”

“Huh,” Gwen managed. It figured Emerson would like a play like that. “I’m sure it’s hilarious,” she said wryly. “You probably just have to be there to appreciate it.”

Emerson’s grin broadened and the Italian artist lady smiled gently. “You are just recently married?” she asked.

“What? No!” Gwen cried. “We ... um, we’re—”

“Friends,” Emerson supplied. He cleared his throat. His grin remained unchanged.

“Ah, friends.
Amici. Si ... forse.
You will tell me if you need my help, yes?”

“Molto grazie,”
Emerson replied with a nod. When the woman had busied herself in the corner of the room, he pointed at the rows of unusual masks. “Well? Any you wish to take home with you?”

She ran the pad of her thumb over the gold Mouth of Truth that she’d been wearing around her neck since Florence and said, “I tend to spend quite a bit of money when I’m with you, don’t I?”

“Perhaps. But you’re purchasing quality items.”

She agreed, even though she suspected Richard would consider just about everything she’d bought on the tour so far an extravagance. She picked up a mask that was perched on a stick. No ribbons to tie. The wearer had to hold it up to her face. The design was a beautiful combination of celestial bodies. Suns, moons, stars and comets were all represented. And the colors! Rich shades of navy, teal and purple accented with silver and gold. It was like peering into the Milky Way.

“This one is gorgeous, but I don’t want to get it now,” she said decisively. “I’d have to carry it all through the Doge’s Palace this afternoon. Maybe I’ll come back tonight or tomorrow before we leave Venice.”

“As you like,” he said with a shrug. He took a closer look at the mask and laughed.

“What?”

“It’s just ... you know what? Never mind. You won’t enjoy it.” He bit back a smirk and took a few steps toward the door. “Let’s go.”

“No,” she said, feeling a bolt of stubbornness rooting her feet to the floor. “I want to know.”

“Fine, but no mocking me later.” He inhaled deeply and squinted into the distance
. “ ‘Nun glüht mein Stern! Die Welt ist offen!’ ”
he recited enthusiastically.
“ ‘Die Erde ist jung! Die Liebe is frei! Ihr Halekins!’ ”

“Let me guess,” she said, unable to hide her sarcasm. “String theory in German?”

“I said no mocking. And, no. It’s from the opera
Arlecchino
. Loosely translated it means, ‘Now shines my star! The world is open! The Earth is young! Love is free! You Harlequins!”

She squinted at him. “How many languages do you speak?”

“Just one. The language of love,” he said, as overly dramatic as he’d been at that
ristorante
in Sorrento.

She groaned. “Oh, please. Save the acting for when you’re putting on another show with your brother.”

He feigned a stab to the heart. “I am struck.”

“No, you are insane,” she shot back. It was impossible to take
anything
that man said about emotion seriously. She glanced at her watch and carefully hung up the celestial mask she liked. “We have less than an hour before we need to meet the tour, so we probably should get something to eat now.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “So be it. I know where to go for that as well.” He tossed her a playful look. “You would be quite lost without me. Admit it.”

“I’d get by,” she said, the bolt of stubbornness strengthening.

He shrugged. “It’s possible. But you would scarcely see as much and you would have far less fun.”

She refused to admit this was 200 percent true.

They stopped for lunch at a little café with a daily special that included linguini in a choice of meat sauce or a white sauce with something called
calamaretto
. A kind of cheese, maybe? There were samples of them behind the counter, and they both looked tasty. She wasn’t sure which one to order, so Emerson said, “You’re not allergic to seafood, are you?”

She shook her head. Before she could ask where on Earth he saw seafood, he said, “Good. We’ll get one of each and share.”

When the plates came they were heaped with pasta. Gwen stared at them both, trying to figure out a way to split the meal into two so they could share without noodles spilling over onto the table. She was just about to ask their server for a couple of additional plates when Emerson stuck his fork right into the center of his pasta mountain—the one in front of him had the meat sauce—and swirled.

But, instead of devouring this forkful, he lifted it to her lips and said, “I would like you to take the first bite.” And when she didn’t immediately open her mouth because she was staring at him in
shock,
he added, “Really, Gwen. Taste it. You should savor it, like a fine Tuscan wine.”

So she opened for him ... and let him feed her.

She chewed slowly, dutifully at first, but then she pulled her eyes away from him and let herself actually relish the combination of flavors, textures and scents. “Mmm,” she murmured as she swallowed.

“Good. Now take a sip of this to clear the palate.” He poured her a glass of sparkling water with a hint of lemon. She followed directions, curious to see what he’d do next. He reached across the table, swirled his fork in the white-sauce linguini and brought this to her lips, too. “All right. Time for the second act.”

She let him feed her that forkful of pasta as well. She chewed. Savored. Swallowed. And thought about how very, very ... intimate it was to share a meal like this with someone. Especially with someone like Emerson.

It was, in fact, a novelty. Not so much the meal, though it was very well prepared, but the
being fed
aspect. By a man. Richard might order fine food on occasion, but he had never—not in the entirety of their two years together—
ever
fed her so much as a morsel of anything from his plate.

Emerson was watching her, tilting his head. Clearly, he was musing over something, too, but she wasn’t sure what. “Which do you like best?” he asked, still not having taken a bite of either type of linguini himself. His careful attention to her reactions was unsettling, but in a heightened-awareness sense rather than in an awkward one.

“I—I’m not sure,” she mumbled, trying to blink away this new odd vibe between them. She needed to take some immediate action, so she plunged her fork into the pasta closest to her and swirled it just the way he had done. Then, when she was sure there would be no dripping sauces, she reached across the table and presented it to him in the same manner that he’d given it to her. “Your turn,” she said, trying to sound bold. “Taste this.”

He opened his mouth—his expression serious, sincere—and took it from her.

Gwen learned something new, swiftly and powerfully: If being fed by a man created the sensation of intimacy, feeding him in return exponentially increased that emotion. Not only was Emerson crossing all of her borders, invading her personal space and treating her with unprecedented familiarity, but he was letting her traipse into his private world, too. And there was something almost intoxicating in that gesture.

She fed him from the second plate as well. “Which is
your
favorite?” she asked, after he’d had a chance to swallow.

He wrinkled his forehead as he stared between the two heaping dishes. “I’m not certain either. Probably means we need to try both of them again, yes?”

He didn’t smirk when he said this. He looked at her with the earnestness of a teen boy waiting for permission to make the next move. To put his arm around her, perhaps.

She nodded and, in response, he fed her a forkful of each type of pasta all over again. Then she did the same for him. And they repeated this—feeding one another and watching as the other one savored each bite—for so many times that Gwen lost count. She didn’t even freak out (too much) when he finally confessed what
calamaretto
meant.