The Girl Behind the Mask (34 page)

‘But my father must have paid you?’

‘You may be with us for a very long time.’

So here I am. In a convent. And this is not like the convent I heard of from Giacomo. The nuns in this convent actually seem to believe in God and religion and the Pope as someone other than a man they are ambitious to sleep with. My days pass in prayer. And it’s true that I do pray, after a fashion. But I never pray to wake up with a soul as clean as the day I was born. I pray only for liberty from this place. I pray that someone will open the doors to my cell and take me far away from here.

What is my sin? That I loved too much and too freely? Had I been a man, my father would have patted me on the back. But I am a daughter. A chattel. By allowing myself to be used, I have diminished my value. I’m like a broken cup. But there is so much more to me than this stupid feeble body. If I were allowed to be free, what a contribution I could make! I believe I could be as good a philosopher or scientist as any man before me. I could create machines and discover planets. I could broker peace between the warring nations of the world. I have the wit and intelligence of any man. If only my father would believe it.

I cannot stay here. I shall leave this place even if I have to die in order to do so. But however long I am cloistered here, my mind will forever be free.

Chapter 50

When I got back from the ball, of course the first thing I did was go online. The entire gondola ride home, I had been composing an email to Marco in my head, explaining why I hadn’t worn the dress and how awful I felt that he’d had such an awkward encounter with Bea. It was him in the library. I was sure of that. I didn’t mention my suspicions to Nick and Bea, however. Especially not to Bea. I didn’t want her to feel worse than she already did. Besides, I wanted to think the ramifications through before I discussed the situation with anyone. How would I have reacted had I been in Bea’s place? The burnt hand she described was very different to the hands that caressed me in my dreams. Could I honestly say I would have taken it in my stride? These were the questions that occupied me until I got to my laptop and, cursing the patchy connection, finally opened my email.

Marco had already written.

Dear Sarah,

I hope you enjoyed yourself this evening. Silvio reports that the ball was well-attended and that my guests drank enough prosecco to fill a swimming pool. Did you like the band? They have an excellent reputation for helping a party go with a swing.

What was this? I read on.

I am only sorry that I was unable to be there. I cannot tell you how much I had been looking forward to seeing you in that dress. Was the colour right? And the size? You have Silvio to blame if it didn’t fit you.

And now I expect you want to know my excuse. Where was I when I should have been wowing you with my prowess on the dancefloor? I’m afraid the reason, as always, is work. A Hong Kong company in which I am heavily invested has been going through some difficulties. Last week, we had to sack half the management. I decided there was nothing for me to do but fly out and take the helm for myself until a suitable replacement can be found. So, while you were dancing, I was flying and now I’m here. This is my view.

Attached to the email was a view of Hong Kong in the early-morning sunshine, taken through a window from a high floor in an office block, or perhaps a hotel. I stared at it. I peered closely to see if I could see the reflection of the photographer in the glass. I could not. I was confused. Why hadn’t he emailed me before he left? That way I wouldn’t have spent the whole evening searching for him. I might have been able to have the good time he claimed he wanted me to have.

Of course, I wrote back. At the very least I had to thank him for his hospitality. However disappointed I felt that the ball had not marked our actual meeting, it was an experience that I would never forget. It was unlikely that I would ever attend such an extravagant party in my lifetime again. So I thanked him for the dress and for the opportunity to dance at a Martedì Grasso ball. I asked, in as casual a manner as I was able, when Marco was coming back to Italy. My email was met with silence. Marco did not seem to want to write to me any more.

Not so Steven. Almost three weeks after he sent his email asking me to reconsider our break-up, I heard from him again.

Dear Sarah,

Did you get my last email? I have to admit I’ve been checking my inbox every ten minutes for a reply. I sent you that email against my better judgment. Perhaps I should have kept my thoughts to myself. But if you didn’t get it – and assuming you want to know what it said! – write back to me, please, my darling. I’m going to Paris in just over two weeks. I miss you terribly. It would be wonderful if you could meet me there.

What surprises life was throwing at me. Surprises and confusion. I continued to hold off on writing back to Steven. It felt like that could only make things worse.

There was no doubt, however, that I didn’t want to hang around in Italy. Not anymore. Three days after the ball, with still no news from Marco beyond his frankly unconvincing apology for missing the party, I booked my flight back to London. When making my arrangements for my stay in Venice, I had bought a one-way fare. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. I wasn’t sure how long I would want to stay in the city. It might have been a week, it might have been a year. A lot depended on how my research went. There had been moments in the past few weeks when I thought it might even have been for ever.

I snorted at that idea now. The narrow streets that had once seemed so interesting were frustratingly dingy. The quiet canals seemed sinister. The gondoliers were too knowing and familiar. I thought I would cry if I saw another couple celebrate their engagement on the Rialto bridge. So I clicked ‘buy’ on a one-way ticket to Heathrow. I inputted my credit-card details and officially ended the dream.

Chapter 51

30th August, 1753

Last night, I dreamed a monkey came to the window of my cell. It was a little monkey, just like Ernesta’s. It chattered at the bars to gain my attention. I don’t know how long it had been there before I noticed. When I finally did hear the chattering, I obviously didn’t respond quickly enough because the little beast picked up a stone from the garden and threw it at my head with astonishing accuracy.

I soon leapt up then and went to the window with the intention of grabbing the wretched thing through the bars and strangling it with my bare hands. How it mocked me in my tiny cage, as it must once have been mocked itself.

As I drew closer, however, I no longer felt like throttling the gentle creature. It tipped its head to one side in a parody of human pity and observed me with such empathy in its brown eyes.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I know how you must have felt now. But what are you doing here, my hairy friend? Why are you here in my dreams?’ I stood on tiptoes to get a little closer, just as I had stood on tiptoes to see even a sliver of cloud on my long lonely nights since arriving here. When I was close enough, since it was obvious the very real stone had not properly woken me up, the monkey reached through the bars of my window and grabbed me by what remained of my hair.

‘You beast! I’ll have you!’

The monkey let my hair go. I stumbled back into the room, red-faced with fury. But I realised as I ranted that this was no dream. There really was a monkey at my window. It was Ernesta’s monkey. Umberto.

Now I noticed that there was a silver cylinder on the collar round Umberto’s neck. Ernesta had told me before about such things. How a monkey could gain access where a man couldn’t and, like a bird, could thus be the perfect messenger. Umberto, seemingly knowing his purpose, sat very still while I reached up and unscrewed the cylinder’s cap.

There was a tiny roll of paper inside. Eagerly, I unravelled it. My room was dark. Once the stub of candle burned down, the idea was I should have no more light until dawn, lest light in the darkness encouraged me to stay awake and think too much about my fate or, God forbid, how I might escape it.

So again, I had to stretch to my very fullest height and hold the paper at the bars to get a little help from the moon. As luck would have it, the moon was almost full and when the monkey helpfully retired to a tree opposite, I was able to read the note quite well.

Some water must have got into the cylinder, so some of the writing was smudged, but I could see at once that Ernesta had sent Umberto as Giacomo’s messenger. I could make out Giacomo’s fondest wishes for me. He loved me as strongly as ever. I must be in misery, as he was without me. And since we couldn’t be together, if I sent word by this monkey, then he would send me . . . a phial of poison? So that this agony might be ended once and for all?

Chapter 52

3rd September, 1753

The Mother Superior pulled back the blanket to gaze on Luciana’s face one final time. There was no doubt Luciana had been one of her more challenging novitiates. It seemed she would never accept her fate, but lately she had been an exemplary member of the convent. She was kind and cheerful. She was helpful. She had a wit about her. The Mother Superior should not have laughed at Luciana’s jokes, but even now, as she gazed upon the child’s cold white face, she felt a smile play across her lips at the memory of the time she had served a live squirrel for lunch.

‘Oh Luciana,’ the Mother Superior breathed as she lifted the blanket to cover the dead girl’s face once again. ‘You are with God now and he shall be very lucky to have you.’

The other nuns, who had stepped back from the body so the Mother Superior could say a few last words, gave up a chorus of wails. Everyone had loved the dead girl, no matter how bad an influence she might have been. How cruel that she had fallen ill before her nineteenth birthday. She had been snatched from the world by the very peril her father had tried to defend her from when he sent her out in a plague mask as a child.

‘She is with our Father now,’ the Mother Superior reminded her charges. ‘There is no need for tears. She has ascended to Heaven.’ She tipped her head to one side at the memory of another misdemeanour. ‘I hope.’

And so Luciana Giordano left the convent exactly as she had threatened: feet first. Four men came from the nearby island to take her back to Venice. Luciana’s uncle, who had visited so recently, confirmed that Luciana must not be buried in the convent’s own cemetery but taken to the chapel on San Michele to join her mother there. Luciana’s father was too overcome with grief to make arrangements. Her brother was in South America. The uncle managed all.

The four men who carried the stretcher down to the funeral gondola were long-faced and solemn. They stepped slowly in synchrony, down the path to the landing-raft. Luciana’s uncle was there to accompany his niece on her final journey. He was dressed all in black except for the brilliant white lace of his cuffs. As was the custom of noblemen of his rank, he wore a half-face mask.

The pallbearers gently lifted Luciana onto the funeral gondola. The nuns formed a strange guard of sorts as the gondolier pushed off from the shore. The pallbearers stood upright, working hard to keep their balance as the gondola moved away. As befitted her status in life – at least, before she disgraced herself – Luciana would be borne to San Michele with the full and proper ceremony.

The progress across the lagoon was slow. It seemed the whole of Venice loved a funeral. Fishermen gawped and let their catches get away. It was obvious from the beauty of the gondola that the deceased within must have been important.

How they would have loved to see Luciana’s cold dead beauty. In death her face was even more arresting than it had been in life.

At San Michele, the priest was waiting. The pallbearers carefully lifted Luciana onto the dockside. What a sad procession made its way through the cypress trees to the Giordano vault. The door to the tomb was already open. A small table beside the door held the sacrament. It was a parody of a country home laid open for a treasured guest.

Poor dead Luciana took her place on the stone ledge above her mother’s casket. The dank smell of the tiny stone room made her uncle cover his nose with one of his lace cuffs, as though he might otherwise breathe in contagion.

‘Leave me here with her,’ he said. ‘And with my sister.’ He gestured towards the casket that had been interred in the tomb some eight years earlier. ‘I was not able to be by her side when she died. I want to ask her forgiveness for having allowed her daughter to go so badly astray.’

The priest nodded. He agreed it was a terrible thing to bear such guilt. He understood entirely why the uncle would want to beg his sister’s forgiveness. He assured the grieving man that God’s forgiveness was already guaranteed whenever he decided to ask for it.

The pallbearers left too, with instructions that they should take the funeral gondola back to Venice and ask the uncle’s personal gondolier to return to fetch him at sunset.

It was September. When the pallbearers and the priest left the uncle to grieve, sunset was still some eight long hours away. No one expected the man to remain on his knees inside the tomb for that long. Not even for a niece and a sister. But when the priest passed by later that afternoon, the uncle was still there.

‘Sir,’ said the priest. ‘You are most devout. But I must go inside for my dinner.’