The Girl Behind the Mask (7 page)

I did not know what to do. My first thought – the thought my father would have liked me to stick with – was that I should tell the gondolier to take the letter back. How insulting to be passed a note in such a manner! But my second thought was that I was desperate to know who had written it. Until that moment, I had not even known whether the mysterious occupant of the
felce
was a man or a woman. I guessed now, from the size of the hand in the frilly white cuff, it was a man. Though having said that, Maria does have rather large knuckles.

So, what did I do? Well, I nodded to the gondolier. Curtly, as befits my status compared to his. I wanted him to know it was inappropriate of him to smirk at me as if we were equals. Then I snatched the letter from the end of his pole and retired to my room, slamming the shutters behind me.

And here I am. Though I am happy that the gondolier can report back to his master that I accepted the letter quite coolly, I cannot tell you how excited it has made me. This is the first letter I have received in years. The last was from my grandmother, writing to console me after the death of my mother, her only daughter. I treasure that letter and read it often, but how I have longed for some lighter correspondence. There’s not much joy to be had in reading when the only reading matter available to a girl is a letter of condolence or the Bible. The Bible lately is a lot more boring, since Maria has taken a sharp knife and cut out all those pages that make reference to breasts or emissions. The book is a good third less thick.

Well, I have something much more interesting to read now. The letter is addressed to ‘The Nocturnal Madonna of the Open Window’. The seal bears a monkey’s head. It is not a crest I recognise, as I surely would had I seen it before. A shiver goes through me as I slide my thumb under it. It seems to be the emblem of a great man.

The handwriting is impressive too, with grand sweeping strokes and luxurious curlicues. And the words . . .

To the Nocturnal Madonna of the Open Window. For the past four weeks, I have had the pleasure of seeing your face as I make my leisurely way to the Rialto. At first, I felt sure I would have the greater delight of making your acquaintance on dry land, but my inquiries led me no closer to knowing who you are and why you sit at your window night after night when a beauty of your tender years should be dancing. Please, forgive my impertinence, but I find I can stay away from you no longer. The sight of your shining hair tumbling through the window is the only sight Venezia has worth seeing. Tell me, fair maiden, how I may know you better, or otherwise tell me to forget you and I will have my gondolier choose another route to my house. You may return correspondence by the same manner tomorrow night. GC.

Oh. I have read the letter a dozen times or more. He has noticed me. And I thought I had been so discreet. But, how wonderful! His language is both eloquent and daring. I feel my heartbeat grow faster as I press his words against my breast. He has inquired after me. I have to know more about him too.
G
C
? What does that
GC
represent?

I must write my reply, of course, and then the only thing to do is make sure Maria doesn’t find it before I have a chance to pass it to his gondolier tomorrow night. That hateful woman is like a dog in search of a rat when it comes to secrets. I am amazed she has not already found this diary, as she found the small bottle of perfume I secreted under the mattress last year. I will tuck the letter inside these pages. May there be many more to come.

Chapter 10

I glanced up at the clock and did a double take. It seemed as though I had entered the library only minutes earlier, but now the clock was telling me I had just two minutes left until the old retainer would return to escort me from the premises again. What a disaster. Even with my enormous Italian–English dictionary alongside me, I had only managed to read four pages of Luciana’s scrappy diary. Her handwriting had been difficult to decipher at first. So much so that I began to wonder if she was writing in code. Then there was the complication that Luciana’s Italian was quite unlike the modern Italian I had studied at school. Or even the Latin. And she used plenty of Venetian slang. I had no hope whatsoever of translating
that
in a hurry. The Venetian dialect was as foreign to me as the Arabic from which much of it derived.

I stared at the clock as though willing the hands to travel backwards. I felt as though I had only just started to hear Luciana’s voice, but at midday on the dot, the door to the library swung open and the old retainer waited impatiently while I gathered my notes and my dictionary. Please God, I muttered to myself, don’t let this be the last time I am here.

I expected the old man to accompany me all the way back to the waterside, or to the street, but instead when we got to the courtyard, he merely asked me whether I would be going back by boat or on foot.

‘On foot,’ I replied.

‘Then you need that door there,’ he said. ‘Go straight down the passage and you will emerge on to the Calle Squero. I trust you’ll find your own way. I have work to do.’

Then he turned, leaving me quite alone in the hall.

Obviously, I could not have failed to notice that my presence at the house was not entirely welcome, but with the old man gone, I couldn’t resist taking a longer look at the courtyard garden and the surrounding galleries as I passed through. The fountain still wasn’t playing, but a leaking washer somewhere in its plumbing meant that every so often a drop splashed from the fountainhead into the surrounding stone bowl, where years of such innocuous drops had eroded a little dent. Two sparrows were taking it in turns to wait for a glittering drop to fall, taking a sparrow-sized shower before they dried themselves off in the sunlight. It was magical.

Though it was still only January, there was life in this sheltered garden. London’s greenery was still deep in hibernation, but the first signs of spring were already in evidence on the edge of the Adriatic. I ran my fingers along the sharp edge of a box leaf. There was even a flower: a single winter rose, proud and beautiful and brave. I don’t know what possessed me in that moment, but suddenly, without thinking about the consequences – like Beauty’s father in ‘Beauty and the Beast’, always my favourite fairytale – I reached out and plucked the trembling white flower from its stem. I was immediately ashamed. Hiding it inside my cupped hand, I quickly headed for the door the old man had pointed out to me, my heart quickening from the excitement of my petty theft. Nobody stopped me of course but, just as when I first crossed the courtyard, I had the distinct impression that I was being watched.

Back at the university I drafted an email to Donato, thanking him for allowing me to use his library. However, I suddenly decided that it was important to make a better impression. An email would have been easy but I had actually started our correspondence with a proper, handwritten letter and perhaps that was what had made the difference. So I got out the fountain pen that my grandfather had given me on my eighteenth birthday. My lucky pen. I hardly ever used it, not least because after years of working on keyboards, I found it difficult to write more than a few paragraphs without getting cramp. But when I wanted to make a real impression, to convey to the person receiving my words that they were truly heartfelt, I brought out the pen.

Dear Mr Donato,

I want to thank you for your kindness in allowing me to visit your library this morning. I cannot tell you how much it meant to me to be able to see Luciana Giordano’s correspondence. Reading her letters, holding them in my hands, made me feel as though Luciana and I were actually talking to one another across the centuries. How wonderful it was to read a page from her diary, so vibrant and funny. It was as though she had written it yesterday. I can’t thank you enough for that experience.

I know it was no small matter for you to let a stranger into your house and for that reason I hesitate to beg your further indulgence, but I must tell you that Luciana’s writings are extremely important to my research and possibly to the wider academic community. If you were to see your way to allowing me access to those letters even one more time, it would make an enormous difference.

Though I wrote the letter in English, I signed off with a florid Italian turn of phrase, courtesy of Bea. At five o’clock, the post-boy popped his head round the office door to see if anyone had any mail to send. I picked up my letter and almost handed it over, but then decided against it. Donato’s house was just a twenty-minute walk away, assuming I didn’t get lost. It seemed ridiculous to let the post-boy take it only for it to travel to the outskirts of town to the sorting office and perhaps spend three or four days languishing there before it reached its target.

So I delivered the letter on my walk home that evening. Though I was starting to be able to orient myself I still managed to take a couple of wrong turns. Not that wrong turns in Venice are ever such a disaster, since they almost always turn up something beautiful or interesting. I felt I could wander the
calli
of Venice for a thousand years and never get bored. Eventually, however, I came to the street entrance of the palazzo – the one through which I had left at midday. There was no letterbox that I could see, so I rang the bell. It was at least five minutes before the old retainer appeared. He didn’t exactly exude warmth as I greeted him and showed him the letter.

‘It’s important he gets it quickly,’ I tried to explain in my faulty Italian. ‘Is he here in Venice at the moment? Because if he isn’t, then I’ll email him too. I don’t want him to think I’m not grateful for being allowed in the library this morning.’

‘He’s here,’ the old man said, nodding. ‘He is always here.’

‘Oh.’ I was surprised and, if I’m honest, a little offended then that he had not made the effort to meet me. ‘OK . . . I’ll just leave this with you.’

The old man took the letter, closing the door simultaneously, leaving me on the street wondering whether he would really pass on the letter or use it as kindling.

I waited for a moment or two, toying with the idea of knocking on the door again and asking, since Mr Donato was in, whether his servant wouldn’t mind if I delivered my thank-you note in person. But my bravado soon deserted me. If Donato hadn’t wanted to see me that morning, why would he want to see me now? Or perhaps he had seen me. Perhaps his was the shadow that had lurked in the gallery bordering the garden. Yes, that was it. He had seen me all dolled up in my very best pencil skirt and decided I wasn’t worth getting to know, unlike the long-legged, large-breasted supermodels of St Moritz and Saint Tropez. I felt myself growing hunched at the comparison.

My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket.

It was Nick.

‘
Aperitivo?
’ he suggested, in an exaggerated Italian accent. ‘Look for the Ponte dei Pugni. There’s a bar right at the foot of it. You can’t miss it. Everyone spills out onto the bridge.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Why not?’

I needed company again. I felt oddly downcast by Donato’s decision not to make my acquaintance that morning and that small rejection somehow amplified the much larger hurt I was already feeling with regard to Steven. Plus, there was something about the Donato house. It seemed to have thrown a shadow that remained with me as I walked away. There was sadness there, most definitely. But why? I glanced up at its shuttered windows one last time as I got to the end of the street. Perhaps I was going bonkers, but I was sure someone was watching me again.

Chapter 11

12th November, 1752

Night could not come quickly enough. Even though it is November and the days are supposed to be short, I felt as though darkness would never fall. The hours I spent sewing in front of the fire seemed like a year. And then, even when it was dark, I had to wait longer. Maria normally sends me up to bed at the earliest possible opportunity, but tonight of all nights she was not in any hurry. I asked if the priest was coming to take her confession. She bristled and told me the priest has gone to visit an elderly relative in Padua. Besides, she added when she realised her answer might have told me too much, she had no reason to confess. Unlike some. She nodded her head towards the windows and the darkness beyond. I knew she wanted to gossip about the people in the house across the canal but of course, she couldn’t gossip with me. More’s the pity for her. I could have added some real colour to her hearsay.

Instead we had to sit in silence, both of us frustrated. Her without the prospect of divine intervention. Me just waiting for the end of this interminable day. If only I felt Maria could be trusted. If I could have told her exactly what happened on the canal beneath my window last night, how quickly our evening together might have passed.

Anyway, I digress. At last, at last, the time came when Maria suggested I go to my bed. I had been hinting for several hours already. Yawning and sighing, complaining of dropped stitches. But I know Maria dislikes being alone in the darkened rooms of the palazzo. My father is away on business. My brother has accompanied him this time. There remains only me to keep her company. Both Maria and I knew that Fabio, my father’s boatman and general factotum, would have taken advantage of the absence of the master of the house and gone to visit his sweetheart. Lucky Fabio, having a sweetheart whose parents don’t care about her reputation at all.