Masquerade (19 page)

‘Is that the best you can do?’ said Bastian, raising himself back to his full height after ducking out of the way of Marco’s sword.

‘I have not even begun to show you what I’m capable of,’ said Marco, beginning to circle Bastian.

They were alone in the large open courtyard of the Palazzo Ducale, a perfect sparring ground with its two bronze wellheads making useful obstacles.

With the meeting of the Great Council in the Sala del Maggior Consiglio, the palazzo’s upper loggias were empty. For many hours to come, every patrician male over twenty-five would be trapped in the grand hall, or at least that’s how Bastian perceived it.

The Palazzo Ducale with all its grandeur was nothing more than a gilded prison. This was especially true here in the courtyard where the palazzo surrounded them on all sides, even with its airy archways and graceful columns.

Bastian’s future had been planned for him like a council meeting. First university, then the Great Council, then one day be elected Doge. That was his father’s plan for him. At least on quiet days like this, Bastian could forget about his bleak future for a short while.

He lunged forward. The blade of the sword caught the sunlight and blazed golden. It was a Spanish small-sword with a silver hilt and gold wire plaited around the handle. Figures of bare-chested mermaids were engraved on the guard and down the triangular blade, which happened to be Bastian’s favourite part of the sword. It was an image that reflected his two loves: beautiful women and the sea.

Marco’s sword was far less ornate and expensive than Bastian’s, but what the sword lacked in appearance, Marco made up for in skill. He moved the sword through the air swiftly, precisely, smoothly, as if it were made of quicksilver.

The two swords clashed, creating a sharp ‘x’ between the two men. Sometimes, Bastian felt as close to Marco as if they were brothers, but other times he felt as though there was something between them.

Marco pushed forward, forcing Bastian backwards. ‘How are things going with our latest bet? Has Orelia fallen in love with you yet?’ he asked.

‘Things are going according to plan,’ Bastian answered just as he felt himself back into the wellhead. Without flinching, he rolled his body to the side. The swift motion surprised Marco and he let his sword arm drop.

Bastian used the wellhead to push himself away.

‘Really?’ said Marco, with more than a hint of irritation. ‘Because I haven’t seen you two together at any social gatherings.’

‘I’ll tell you this much. She is falling in love with me quicker than you do your morning toilet.’

Marco’s face darkened. Clearly, he did not find Bastian’s joke about his beauty regime funny. ‘If you’re so confident that she is falling in love with you, why don’t we up the stakes of the bet by involving money?’

Bastian raised his eyebrows in interest. ‘How much do you suggest?’

‘What do you say to 50,000 ducats?’

‘50,000 ducats?’ said Bastian, incredulously. ‘Our bets have never involved more than 50 ducats and you want to bet 50,000?’

‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t use that much money?’

Of course Bastian wanted, nay needed, 50,000 ducats. The thought of leaving Venice and escaping his expected future visited him every day, but there was always the problem of money. The poverty that would go with leaving his family was as palatable as seawater. He knew no life other than one of luxury and privilege. With 50,000 ducats he could leave Venice and start a conformable life somewhere else, Spain perhaps. ‘I’m sure I would find a use for it.’

‘Then is it a deal?’ asked Marco, clashing his sword against Bastian’s, forcing Bastian backwards.

It was too good to be true. As confident that he was that he would win the bet, if by some chance he lost, he didn’t have 50,000 ducats to pay Marco. He didn’t have even 50 ducats to pay Marco. His father gave him a small weekly allowance in silver, any more he had to beg for. He was surprised Marco had 50,000 ducats, but then his friend had been spending a lot of time at the casinos lately.

As if reading Bastian’s mind, Marco said, ‘If you lose, there is something you can give me
worth
50,000 ducats.’

The two men circled each other. ‘What?’ said Bastian.

‘My family’s entry into the Golden Book.’

‘I couldn’t give you that,’ said Bastian, using all his force to push Marco’s sword away.

‘No, but your father could and you could convince him to.’

Bastian needed to sit down and digest Marco’s proposal, but since that was not an option, he paced around the courtyard with his sword held up in defence. Convincing his father to allow the D’Este’s name into the Golden Book would be almost as difficult as finding 50,000 ducats, one coin at a time.

‘If it were even possible, I would have to sell my soul to my father. Why is the Golden Book so important to you?’

‘Because, unlike you, I want to make something of myself. I want to join the Great Council when I turn twenty-five and work my way up the ranks of government. But none of that can happen unless my family becomes part of the aristocracy. My mother has been trying for many years, and though she puts on an extravagant display, she does not have the means.’

Bastian unconsciously dropped his sword, realising that they would both be much happier if they could swap lives, permanently, not just for the sake of banquets. Bastian’s thoughts were interrupted when Marco’s sword slashed the air in front of his body. Bastian jumped back and lifted his weapon.

‘What do you say? If you win the bet by getting Orelia to fall in love with you and delivering her chemise as proof, I’ll pay you 50,000 ducats. But if you lose, you convince your father to admit my family into the Golden Book.’

Blocking Marco’s attacks, Bastian thought about Orelia. Without trying too hard, he had managed to get her to kiss him within the first two months of Carnevale. With three months of Carnevale left, he was certain to get her to fall in love with him.

With the surge of determination, Bastian lunged forward, the tip of his sword narrowly missing the bare skin on the back of Marco’s hand. They played till first blood.

Marco’s raised his eyebrows and he nodded in approval. Then he countered with an offensive move. Bastian dodged the attack and ran towards the Giant’s Staircase, flanked by two colossal statues of Mars and Neptune. When he reached the top of the staircase, Marco was only steps behind. Bastian swung around, sword raised. ‘You have yourself a bet.’

As he said these words, Marco lunged forward, striking the tip of his sword against Bastian’s wrist. Pricks of blood immediately appeared and quickly accumulated into a trickle that ran off the side of his arm.

‘I win,’ said Marco, breathing heavily, a triumphant smile on his face.

Veronica Contarini was not often baffled. She had always understood exactly what was going on around her, right down to the coming of her monthly flow when she was twelve, and even the death of her mother when she was four. And yet, when an invitation arrived to an evening at Ca’ Boccassio ‘to mark a significant occasion’, Veronica found herself completely baffled.

Almost a month had passed since she had delivered her finished painting, carefully wrapped in brown paper, to Ca’ Boccassio. She had entrusted it with an unquestioning and cooperative servant who had assured Veronica that it would reach Luca that very day.

Something must have gone wrong, thought Veronica with a sick feeling in no way caused by the motion of the gondola. If Luca had indeed received her painting, she would certainly not be on her way to spend the evening in his company.

‘Are you feeling all right, mi cara?’ asked her father, sitting on the left side of the gondola’s felze. He tipped his head to the side, a curl of his periwig coming dangerously close to the candle in the sconce on the wall. ‘You look pale.’

After nodding her response, Veronica’s thoughts immediately returned to Luca and the painting. Doubts entered her mind, like the fog that crept over Venice.

Perhaps the servant did not give the painting to Luca.

Or perhaps Luca had received the package, but had not yet opened it.

Veronica clasped her hands in her lap, amongst the smoke-coloured satin of her gown. This was just a small setback. She could suffer through another evening with Luca, knowing that it was only a matter of time before her plan took effect. And when that time came, Luca’s social circle would be as closed to her as the lips of a priest. This brought a smile to Veronica’s face for the first time that evening, but as soon as she thought the matter was settled, another thought surfaced like a dead fish on the waters of the canal. What was this occasion the invitation mentioned?

‘You must make a good impression on Signor Boccassio and his parents tonight,’ said her father, interrupting her thoughts.

Veronica threw her gloved hands in the air. ‘But I cannot bear to spend more than one minute in the same room as Luca!’

‘It is not him that you hate, but the idea of him,’ said her father, speaking calmly. ‘When you stop and see Luca without your prejudices, you will see that he is an admirable, young man. He is well-mannered, well-educated and from a highly respected family. You will not find a better match.’

‘What about love?’

‘Love is learnt. It is not caught like some disease.’

Veronica felt a slight jolt as the gondola hit the water steps of Ca’ Boccassio. Her father gave her an encouraging smile as they stepped into the andron from the water entrance. Veronica lingered in the arched doorway, pretending to notice the ebony sculptures that lined the walls and the hanging lanterns in wrought-iron foliage, when in fact she was simply stalling. Her father headed straight for the servant waiting at the foot of the grand staircase to take their cloaks and direct them to the piano nobile.

‘Shouldn’t we wait for Aunt Portia, Angelique and Orelia?’ said Veronica.

‘No, they might not arrive for a while, what with the way Angelique was fussing about some silly lace gown she could not find, as if she doesn’t have enough gowns for every day of Carnevale.’

With a sigh, Veronica followed her father up the staircase and into the portego. Around the long room, guests mingled with glasses of wine. It was a small gathering, so far around thirteen. Veronica found that small gatherings were the worst kind.

She recognised many of the guests – inhabitants of the great palazzi on the Canal Grande – but there were some she did not recognise and among this group there was something not quite so made-of-money about them. The handles of the men’s walking sticks were not so shiny and there were even some older gentlemen sporting their own hair! Their partner’s necks did not gleam so brightly with jewels, which Veronica suspected had nothing to do with obeying sumptuary laws.

Veronica felt she would have happily walked up to any one of them and swapped positions, for they looked far happier than their richer counterparts. But before she could even strike up a conversation, the door at the end of the portego opened to reveal Luca standing between his mother and father.

‘Grazie mille for the pleasure of your company this evening. The most important part of the evening is yet to come, but before we come to that, dinner is served,’ said Luca’s father, his voice filling the hushed room.

The guests filed into the dining room, which as it turned out, was to be the first of three dining rooms the guests rotated through. In the first room, they were served soups and boiled meats, including Veronica’s least favourite dish, sopa de coa, oxtail soup.

When the guests passed into the next room for roasted and cooked meats, Veronica saw Angelique, Orelia and her aunt arrive. Angelique gave her a comforting smile as she sat down beside her. She looked as radiant as always in deep pink silk adorned with crystals. Veronica noticed that more than one pair of eyes watched her younger sister take a seat.

Orelia sat down at the next seat along, drawing as much, if not more attention. She had that raw beauty that Orelia herself was blind too, making her even more alluring. There was something different about her, Veronica noticed. She looked far less afraid that she might break something tonight.

The last dining room, cast in semi-darkness, was spectacularly decorated with ice-sculptures illuminated by candles nearby whose gentle heat gave the frozen works of art a glossy surface. Also laid out on table was an abundant spread of desserts, fruit and ice cream.

The hour that passed here was tolerable. Veronica sat next to one of the wigless gentlemen who turned out to be a playwright recently returned from a trip to England. He kept Veronica entertained with his sharp wit and humorous observations about the English. Veronica had begun to think that the evening would pass without disaster until Signor Boccassio stood and tapped the top of his glass with a fork. ‘I hope you all enjoyed dinner. If you will follow us into the sitting room, my son, Luca, has a very exciting announcement to make.’

Veronica was last to file into the sitting room. Her eyes went straight to the walls of the spacious room, believing that you could tell a lot about a family from the paintings they hung in their casa. The lower half of the walls was covered in white marble, while the upper half was covered in vermilion damask. On the wall opposite her, hung a single painting.

When Veronica looked upon the painting, her heart stopped and her fingers released their grip on her slender bell-shaped glass, letting it crash to the floor. The guests turned in her direction with various gasps. Veronica’s eyes remained fixed on
her
painting of Luca, hanging right there for everyone to see.

Luca’s mother rushed over to Veronica, the layers of her gown swishing in the quiet of the room. ‘You must be unwell, dear. Come and sit down.’ She led Veronica over to the settee.

By the time Veronica was seated, her sister and father were on either side on her, saying things in soothing distant voices. A servant was in the doorway, clearing away the broken glass and spilt wine. Another servant had arrived with a cloth soaked in cold rosewater for Veronica’s forehead. And there, amongst all this activity, was Luca was crouched in front of her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

Her head was spinning in confusion, but she nodded. Luca remained there for another moment before standing and walking over to the wall where the painting hung. When he turned around to face the gathering, all conversation stopped.

‘We all have secrets and tonight I will tell you my secret.’ Luca paused. ‘For the past two years, I have been writing a book.’

Veronica listened with the cloth pressed to her forehead, completely confused.

Luca cleared his throat and continued, ‘Over the last couple of months, I have tried to find a publisher for it, but not a single one would accept it. They said they couldn’t see the story. Then, a few weeks ago, a mysterious package arrived. There was no name of the artist or the sender and my servant tells me that the messenger was masked. This is what was beneath the wrapping.’

Luca stepped aside and motioned to the painting. Veronica groaned, but no one took any notice given her recent behaviour. Realisation dawned on Veronica. She no longer felt confused; she felt like a fool. It was just a story, a product of a spoilt boy’s imagination. How could she have believed that he had helped someone escape the Piombi? Veronica looked longingly at the door, her own escape. She had to leave before anyone could realise her connection to the painting, but before she could excuse herself, someone spoke.

‘It’s a fine painting, but what does this have to do with your book?’ said a voice from somewhere behind Veronica.

‘You see, this painting is my book on canvas,’ said Luca. ‘The title of my book is
The Tortured Mind
. When I showed this painting to the publisher who had most recently rejected my manuscript, he immediately agreed to publish my book.’

The room erupted in applause. Veronica noticed that the loudest applause came from Luca’s mother who was glowing with pride for her son. For a moment, her thoughts turned to her own mother and what Veronica had been missing over the past fifteen years since she’d been gone. Veronica only had one faded memory of her mother from just before her death. It was the day of the Festa Della Sensa and Veronica had wanted to stay home by her mother’s bedside rather than go to watch the Marriage of the Sea ceremony, in which the Doge tossed a gold ring into the ocean to symbolise the city’s intimacy and dominance of the sea. Her mother had taken her hand, placed a gold ring in it and told Veronica that sometimes we must do things we don’t want to do, but that there was always sunshine after the rain. Veronica still had that ring and perhaps if she still had her mother, she could talk to her about her problems, such as the one she had right now.

Brushing a tear away from her eye, Veronica turned her attention back to her current situation. The applause died down and one of the women with the lesser jewelled necks asked, ‘Who is the painter?’

‘That is what I would like to know,’ said Luca. ‘I have never once let anyone read my manuscript, other than the publishers who rejected it, and I carry my notebook on me at all times. It is quite a mystery as to how someone knew of my story and why they would do something like this without even signing the painting.’

This caused a flurry of whispering throughout the sitting room. The only person who had nothing to say was Veronica. She leaned forward and stared at the bottom corner of the painting, barely believing her own eyes. There was only the blue-black paint of the water.

How had she forgotten her initials, the most important part of the painting? She was feeling more foolish by the minute. She felt heat rising to her face. But then she realised what a fortunate mistake it had been. Without her initials, there was nothing connecting her to the painting that was so clearly
not
serving the purpose she had intended. Relief washed over her and she lowered the rosewater-soaked cloth from her forehead. Her ears tuned into the conversation that had moved on without her. ‘The detail of the painting is remarkable,’ Luca was saying. ‘The only inaccuracy I can see is that the height of the bridge has been exaggerated.’

‘It has not,’ cried Veronica, standing abruptly. ‘The bridge connects the Palazzo Ducale and the Piombi at that exact height, ask any architect.’

‘Mi dispiace,’ interrupted her father loudly, rising to his feet. ‘My daughter must have a fever. I will take her home at once.’

Veronica let her arms drop to her sides, or as close to her sides as her pannier would allow. Why fight to stay when she was only likely to incriminate herself?

‘I will walk you both to the water entrance,’ said Luca, handing his wine glass to his father. He walked over to Veronica and offered his arm.

‘Go ahead,’ said her father. ‘I will catch up when I find my walking stick. I also must check that Aunt Portia will stay with Angelique and Orelia.’

Luca led Veronica out of the sitting room into the portego.

‘What is your book about?’ asked Veronica, trying to keep her voice light.

‘The story begins with the protagonist helping his friend to escape the Piombi, but the escape itself is not what the book is about. That is why the painting is so perfect. It doesn’t tell the story of my book; it introduces it like a superb orchestra. What my book is really about is what happens to a man’s mind after the crime has been committed; the lengths to which one goes to keep a secret. The paranoia, the fear.’

Veronica laughed uncomfortably. ‘It sounds riveting. I can’t wait to read it.’

Luca turned his face to look at her as they descended the staircase. ‘You’ll be the first to read it, I assure you.’

‘Why do I always get the feeling there is more than one meaning to your words?’

Luca just smiled, that unreadable smile. When they reached the water entrance, the crisp night air filled Veronica’s lungs and began to clear her head enough to remind her to let go of Luca’s arm. ‘Buonanotte,’ she said, hurriedly. ‘Congratulations on your success.’