The Mascherari: A Novel of Venice (5 page)

He emerged from the kitchens and strode toward my mother, sniffing her with inflated nostrils.

“Signora, what a lovely hint of damask rose.
Si, si
, I noticed it. Is it new? So lovely on you, Signora,” he said with a wink as he kissed her hand once more. She seemed to welcome his attention but I wanted to retch.  As though Ubertino knew of anything else but to load his plate.

Guido did not say anything.  He had a gruesome wound on his knuckles and did not look to have slept at all. My father greeted Rolandino and the two left to talk affairs in the adjacent room where we stock the merchandise. 

At this, Balsamo flicked his hair and pointed out with his customary lazy nonchalance that there was a courier downstairs from the
compagnia dei corrieri
.  I said, no, that it was not from the
compagnia
. I said that it looked to be a gondolier carrying a set of cases. My father, in his usual irritable humor, shouted at me to go to the water door and ask him what he wanted. So I did that, even though I resented him for indulging Balsamo’s superior manners. I placed the cases in the lounge for us to open later.

At this, Ubertino rubbed his hands together and said, ‘let’s eat’.

I believe we all ate the same fare.  I can testify that my mother’s cooking cannot be blamed for the illness any of us may have suffered in the later hours.  But I will leave nothing out. Let’s see if I remember.

It began with a garlic and bean soup.

When everyone had finished, the servants brought along an assortment of little pies. There was, I think, baby eel pie, squid pie and even pork in lemon juice. Ubertino said that eel made him ill and he abstained from it. This was then followed by the main dish, my mother’s
Sarde in Saor
which I cannot praise enough. The sardines were large and fleshy and looked appetizing under their bed of onions. There was also plenty of raisins and pine nuts in the sauce, the way I like it.  Call me precious but I believe the sauce should neither be too sweet nor too sour otherwise the sardines do not taste the same way. But my mother’s varying mood seems to render her heavy-handed with the vinegar and I usually find her
Sarde in Saor
too sour.

And that completes our early meal. All this was served with delicious breads from our ovens and a soft cheese delicacy from Candia. I forget the name. I can attest that the meal was fresh and none of us were ill afterwards.

Again there was nothing exceptional about the morning or early afternoon. In the later hours, we spoke of this and that. The ailing Doge was a favorite. My father said that he could not wait to see Francesco Foscari’s face minted on Venezia’s coins. At this, Balsamo said he would miss Tommaso Mocenigo’s generous ways when this one was gone.

“Generous? More like a foolish old admiral,” replied my father.

“He is a good man,” retorted my mother. “He was the only one willing to pay up the thousand ducats and he did it for the good of the Republic, the good of Venezia!”

“He ought to have given those ducats to the poor,” spoke Ubertino. I remember rolling my eyes to the ceiling. I am certain Ubertino would squash a mendicant under his boot if he could.

“Our most honorable Doge behaved righteously!” continued my mother.

“He seeks the glory. All of it is pride,” said my father.

“Glory, indeed. When has Doge Mocenigo ever done anything for his own ambitions? He is a man of honor.”

“Honor, you say? Women are so naïve. He remains a merchant, like all of us. Long before he was procurator, he traded in wine and fabrics with Damascus.”

“And who was it, Giacomo, who led eight galleys into the Bosphorus to rescue the King of Hungary from the Saracens? It was Admiral Mocenigo! There is none as noble as he is and you ought not to speak of him in this manner.”

“I’ll welcome the day I no longer have to see his old face on my
gazzetta
!” said my father. 

And so it went on.  I wondered if he might be vexed at my mother’s adoration for the Doge.

The famous one thousand ducats. For years there was a decree imposing a penalty of a thousand ducats on anyone who dared speak of rebuilding the Ziani Palace. But a few months ago, Tommaso Mocenigo spoke up before the patricians and the Council. He offered to pay the sum in full and said that we should and ought to rebuild the Ziani Palace; that surely it was a sign of God’s displeasure that the Ducal edifice had been devastated by fire and that better construction was demanded by God to befit the state and glory of the Venetian dominions.

It was the talk of the city for weeks. The old Mocenigo, it was said, was rebuilding the palace for his successors! He had prophesied that his own death would come before he could benefit from the reconstruction. But that did not stop him from presenting the state with ducats from his own fortune.  Hence my mother’s loyalty to a dying man…

In the thick of this conversation, Rolandino meandered upstairs and endeavored to catch Zanetta’s attention, but she protested that she would not come down until she had finished dressing. My mother scorned her for spending too long on the balcony catching the sun’s rays. I heard Zanetta protest that her hair looked too dark and my mother sighed.

There is only one thing I remember, now, Signore. It is the moment after Rolandino had brought in the delivered coffers, when my father and he exchanged muted glances.  I saw my father frown.

Guido sat up, hardly breathing.  And I know, that when he saw the cases, he covered his mouth with his hand.  He had not eaten anything. I thought perhaps he was ill. 

At this, my father lifted the puppy terrier to his lap and began to pamper it.  All along, I saw him eye the sealed coffers. There were five. Each of the same size, and each signed with an artisan’s seal.

Someone gave a happy squeal.

“Masks!”

It was sweet Zanetta. She was tottering about on her cork platforms. Such a fool, I was. I laughed because they were the steepest velvet-covered wedges I had ever seen. Still, they were pretty and very up-to-date with purple lace frills and beaded silk. One of our maids held Zanetta’s hand as she walked proudly toward us. It was mid-afternoon and my sister had finally chosen to make an appearance. She looked lovely. Rolandino sat up and meekly offered his arm. I know he was very proud.

“Oh, you look precious as a blossom, Giovanna!” said Ubertino. Rolandino gave him a warning glare.

My mother began to tie Giovanna’s silk ribboned sleeves, all the while chiding her for being so late. When I remember how fondly she gazed at Giovanna’s blue velvet gown, and the pride on her face, it stings at my heart.

“What will you wear, mamma?” asked our Zanetta. To which my mother replied that she was not feeling well and would rather sleep early. Ubertino gave a dramatic cry in protest, and even Guido attempted to dissuade her from remaining alone at the
casa
, but she laughed and said that my father would enjoy himself for both of them.

During all that time, my father had not said a word. He eyed the sealed cases, and then Giovanna. I knew he was deciding on whether to open them or not, seeing all of us already owned a mask for the evening.

I stepped up to the task. I lifted the first coffer and opened it.

“
Bellisimo
!” cried Zanetta.

I beheld a white and gold
bauta
mask of infinite beauty. The center of its forehead was adorned with a spray of gold and silver reeds. Large white feathers were arranged along the top of the mask to crown the wearer’s head.  Above the cutout mouth piece was an almost sinister detail. It was a row of dentiles. Teardrop shaped pearls, gilded to resemble gold teeth. 

I quietly noted the seal on the packaging. I had not seen the artisan’s name before.

My mother brushed past me and lifted the second coffer. This time it was a mask crowned by garlands of fruit and leaves to evoke autumn hues. There were mock grapes sewn in purple and green.  It seemed to have been fashioned to honor the God Bacchus.

“Giacomo,” she said, in wonder, “you did not tell me that you had ordered these. Look at this one! Beautiful work.”

My father did not reply. Again, I witnessed his muted exchanges with Rolandino and I wondered what the two plotted.

Zanetta proceeded to open the other three cases. I was not the only one curious. We all noted the craftsmanship of each mask.

“How much did you spend on these, Giacomo?” asked Rolandino. He looked to my father and I could not read whether his expression was that of concern or reproach.  I do not recall the response my father gave, but he had a calculating glimmer in his eye, one I know well.

Giovanna lifted the sinister
dottore della peste
mask. The hooked beak, where real physicians blend herbs, was gilded. The mask itself was red and white with gold inlets. My sister was now the only one of us absorbed by the artwork on the table. The rest of us eyed my father. After a moment, he let out a roar of laughter and slapped his thigh.

“Who does not like surprises!” he cheered.  “It is Carnivale!”

“But Papá, it is not till days away!” protested Giovanna.

“We can have fun now, can’t we,
carina
?”

All the while my father smiled, but I could see that he was not happy. I understood that he had never ordered the masks.

Still, it was decided that they were too precious to not be revealed at the banquet.

Ubertino had soon chosen a plain leather
bauta
in flaming red. He said the mouth cutout would allow him to stuff his face all night, with minimum hindrance. Given Guido’s love of good wine, no question was made as to who should honor Bacchus. Pouting to himself, Balsamo happily placed his
dottore della peste
mask upon his face and Giovanna laughed because she whispered to me later that he looked like a girl for doing so.

My father, at first, did not want to exchange his old mask for a new one.  But Giovanna insisted. So he kissed her hand and held up the first white feathered mask to examine it.  Then he held up a card from the case and read it out loud.

“
Il Mascherari.
You have heard of that
compagnia
, Lorenzo?”

I replied that I had not.

“Did the gondolier say anything?” asked my father.

I explained that I had tried to engage the gondolier but that he might as well have lost his tongue.  Either way, it did not matter.  We agreed that my father would wear the mask as it was too good to leave behind.

That left Rolandino.  Giovanna’s betrothed was in no mood for feasting. As we looked on, he made a sour face and reached for the black velvet
volto
.

With the exception of Balsamo who wished to make an eye-catching late appearance in his outlandish gondola, we departed by carriage. In one carriage sat my father, Guido and Rolandino and in the other, myself, Giovanna and Ubertino.   I had brought with me a costume which my father had never seen, and it was my intention to mask myself as soon as we arrived at the marquis’ mansion, at which time I would be planning an escape to Daniela’s home without, or so I hoped, my absence being noticed. I was tense with anticipation. I admit that I was secretly worried the effects of my cinnamon mouthwash would wane before I could kiss her.

Moments before we arrived in the San Marco nation, Ubertino pasted his mask upon his bloated face and declared right then and there, that he was famished. Giovanna laughed. As the horses pulled up by the side of the marquis’
casa
, I glimpsed the flambeaux and the insipid crowd outside and announced that I was not feeling well and that I would join them later–a simple ploy to don my costume in private. I left them at the marble steps, at which my father waved at me until Giovanna whispered something into his ear.  He gave me a stern nod before following the odiously dressed marquis inside. That was my last encounter with him.

Did I ever believe that I would never see him alive again? I never reflected on that last moment. I was much relieved to see him up those steps and I thought only of Daniela. My sole regret is not to have held my sister to my heart before I left.

If you had seen how beautiful she looked on that night! Fair browed to the tips of her golden hair, bright eyed with life, her sweet lips tinted pink and her cheeks all crimson. Like an angel, she was. Her satin skin shimmered beneath the blue velvet of her high-waisted dress. I still remember the way I smiled in the darkness of our carriage when I spotted her little nails gilded to the tips.  I should have held her one last time. I ought to have inhaled the innocence of orange blossoms and rose petals before the very flower of our
casa
had withered. My heart is broken, for she was an angel. An angel, Antonio.  

But men of the law oft do not believe in angels. Perhaps then, you are the sort of person who only sees demons in the faces of men.  That is another thing I see in your eyes, Signor da Parma.  I fear you will not believe the true reason for my happiness. I fear you will look elsewhere where simple answers lie before you.

But I have told you all I know and hid nothing of my anger toward my father because I am innocent.