The excitement of Carnival started to mount right after Twelfth Night, and it would continue to build until Shrove Tuesday, which fell that year at the end of February. Every day it seemed to Raf that there were larger crowds in the streets, more clowns and adventurers, more costumed Pantaloons and Harlequins and Zerbinettas and Scapinos. Pulchinellos,' dressed alike in loose white pajamas, tall brimless hats, and grotesque masks with long phallic noses, roamed the streets in packs, making mischief, seizing pretty girls and whisking them away to isolated spots and taking turns making love to them.
Even though it was late January and often uncomfortably cold and damp, the fun did not slow for a moment. The streets were never empty, cafés and restaurants never closed. Everyone was masked: doge and dodderer, bishop and beggar, nun and nondescript. Dogs were masked, and monkeys, and fish sellers and flower vendors. Raf even saw a masked woman giving suck to a masked baby.
Watching and listening, he moved silently through the city. Everywhere he went he heard the name of Fosca Loredan. The Commissioner’s wife had never looked so beautiful or seemed so merry, they said. Her witticisms were repeated and stories of her clever pranks were retold again and again. Like the time Count Carlo Gozzi, the playwright, returned home from an evening at the theater to find his house ablaze with lights and a brilliant ball in progress. His footman would not admit him without an invitation, and he stood under his own balcony shouting, “Fosca, I beg you, let me in!”
Or the night that the string of pearls she was wearing broke while she was dancing with the Grand Duke of Russia. Exquisite pearls, all perfectly matched and beyond cost, scattered and rolled to all corners of the room. La Loredan went on dancing, without breaking her step or taking any notice of the happening at all. This gay carelessness became the symbol that season for frivolity: let nothing interfere with pleasure.
This same lady, it was said, had two different dresses for every day of the year, one for morning and one for evening. Her lovers were legion and often bizarre, like the dwarf Count Flabonico, who stood no higher than her waist, and who wrote her a new love sonnet every day. Or the hapless Duke of Savoy, who had tried to kill himself because of her.
Raf decided that it sounded as though Alessandro Loredan had the kind of wife he deserved.
One night, in a fit of restlessness, Raf went to the Ridotto, the gambling house near the Church of San Moise, not far from the Piazza San Marco. The gamblers were masked, as they were all year round and not just at Carnival, so that they might remain anonymous when they ruined themselves. Women played as recklessly and enthusiastically as the men.
Raf played for a while and won consistently. He had just decided to leave and was gathering up his winnings when he heard a sound that made him stop cold. A woman’s laughter. High-pitched, bright and clear, it carried like birdsong over the hum in the salon. He looked around. Surrounded by a clutch of laughing admirers, she was playing at the table next to his. She bet foolishly and irrationally, and lost on play after play.
“I want to try just once more!” she cried. “Ah, my poor purse has given its all!”
The masquers around her begged to be allowed the privilege of lending her their coins, and as she considered whose money she should take, Raf stepped toward and bowed deeply.
“Lady, I ask you to accept this humble offering from a stranger.” He drew a sequin out of his pocket. “My luck this evening has been good, but my heart is broken.”
She turned her dazzling smile on him. He caught his breath. Even masked she was a glorious sight, dressed as a shepherdess in a gown of white satin embroidered with pink rosebuds. The neckline was daringly low but veiled modestly with a filmy white fichu. The waist was rather high, in the new style, and banded by a pink sash. One of her lackeys carried a black cloak lined with white fur. On her head she wore a broad-brimmed hat of white straw with a wide pink ribbon around the crown. Her mask was a small white satin oval.
“Indeed?” she said curiously. “And tell me, Signor, why should your heart be broken? Surely good luck at the tables would please anyone. It would certainly please me!”
“They say, Lady, that one who is lucky at cards may be unlucky at love. Therefore, I offer this winning coin, for play, for if you lost it, my good fortune would change to ill, and I might yet find true happiness in love.”
She tossed her head back and laughed delightedly at his clumsy offer. Yes, he was certain that this was the same woman who had mocked him in the Senate Hall that day. He had wanted to strangle her then.
“I accept your coin, Signor Mask,” she said, using the traditional form of address at Carnival, “and I can almost certainly promise you that I will lose it!”
She played, and lost, to the great amusement of her companions.
“There, what did I tell you? But at least your fortune in cards has changed for the worse.” She offered her slender white hand to be kissed. He took it and was astonished at how soft and small it felt. Her gray eyes shone brightly behind the slits in her mask. “Perhaps tonight,” she said softly so that no one else could hear, "you will find the love you seek. Signor Mask. I shall feel happy, knowing that I have helped you.”
He kissed her fingertips. She drew her hand away and announced to her friends that she was bored with gaming and that they simply had to find her something really amusing to do. They moved off towards the doors. Raf approached one man who remained behind at the tables.
“I beseech you. Signor,” he said, “if you know her name, tell me.”
“What? Her?” The masquer was so intent on play that he hardly heard the question. “Oh, that’s Fosca, La Loredan, of course.”
“Loredan?” Raf frowned behind his mask. “You mean, Loredan’s daughter?”
“Daughter?” The man gave a sharp laugh. “No, Signor, I mean his wife.”
“His wife,” Raf murmured. “You’re certain? You’re not mistaken?”
“How could I be mistaken? I am her brother. Listen, my dear fellow, if you have a couple of sequins to spare—”
Raf gave the man a handful of coins and hurried out of the Ridotto.
V
THE LIDO
Raf followed Fosca and her party along the narrow alley that ran alongside the Ridotto and ended abruptly at the, edge of the Grand Canal. He kept far behind, in the shadows, and their voices floated back to him.
“Yes, the Lido! A moonlight picnic on the Lido!”
“No, it’s not a bit too cold, not when one is warmed by the fire of love.”
They laughed and hailed a couple of gondolas. Raf waited until they were well away, then hired another gondola and followed them.
The Lido was the long strip of grass and sand dunes that protected the lagoons of Venice from the force of the Adriatic Sea. It was barren and beautiful, unspoiled by buildings except for a couple of military installations and some fishermen’s cottages, and a monastery or two. The Jewish cemetary was located at the northern end. In warmer weather the beaches attracted the poorer class of prostitute and their clients. But now, at the end of winter, the island was cold and desolate.
The little group consisted of Fosca, her two cicisbei, Antonio and Giacomo, the castrated singer Benelli, the dwarf Flabonico, and two other swains, the Tradonico brothers. When they reached the island they ordered their gondoliers to wait and they set off across the sand, over the dunes and through the tall, waving grasses.
The moon was full and bright, and with its twin in the sea cast a silvery glow everywhere. Fosca’s white hat was a beacon; Raf found her easy to follow.
A soft wind blew from the southeast and everyone remarked that it was really rather warm for this time of year. Fosca sat on a tussock and removed her shoes and stockings. The dwarf danced around her and clapped his hands, and made up a sonnet about her lovely feet. She pointed her toe and permitted him to kiss the object of his admiration. He chortled and feigned a paroxysm of joy when the deed was done.
She took off her hat and mask and ran along the shore. Raf, c
oncealed by a dune, took off his mask so that he could better observe the wife of the man he despised. She was younger than he expected, hardly older than Lia.
“We came for a picnic but we neglected to provide food and drink,” Fosca announced breathlessly when she rejoined her friends. “Must we sup on moonbeams and imbibe the sighs of the sea?”
“Oh, Lady,” cried Flabonio rapturously, “just to gaze upon your beautiful face in the moonlight satisfies my every craving!”
The others agreed. The singer Benelli, who was gentle and slightly dull-witted, suggested somewhat shyly that the occasion called for music. Accompanied by the muffled drum of the waves, he sang an aria praising his lady’s unearthly beauty. He was an ugly man, tall and fleshy, broad in the waist and hips and narrow through the shoulders, but he was a fine artist. His epicene voice was eerie, high yet full, and throbbing with emotion. His song cast a spell over his listeners, who were silent for a full minute after he finished, and then burst into loud applause. Fosca rewarded him with a kiss, and he blubbered ecstatically.
They set about building a fire on the sand, to warm their goddess after she tripped down to the water’s edge, tested it with her toe, and pronounced it much too frigid for bathing.
They sat around the feeble blaze and fed it with bits of dried grass and flotsam. They joked and gossiped and flattered Fosca. Boredom began to creep over them, and someone suggested that they play games. Games? Yes, like footraces. The dwarf laughingly excused himself from competition. Well, what, then? Charades? No, too dark. Hide and Seek? Yes, a wonderful idea!
Fosca pulled her cloak tightly around her shoulders and bounced expectantly on her toes, ready to run as soon as Benelli, who had been elected to take the first turn, began to count. The game started and everyone dove for the shadows outside the fire.
Raf saw her running towards him. He put on his mask again and called softly to her when she came abreast of him.
“Donna Fosca, over here, quickly!” he waved to her from the pool of shadow behind a grassy dune. She, thinking he was one of the others, obeyed, and crouched laughing beside him.
“Poor Benelli will never find us here,” she giggled. “He’s too afraid of getting his shoes dirty.”
“My fortune in love is beginning to improve already,” Raf said. “As you promised.”
She started and stared at him. “But you’re not—oh! The man from the Ridotto! Did you follow us here?”
“I followed you here,” he corrected her. “You were—my guiding star!”
He uttered the silly phrase with difficulty. He didn’t have the flair for flattery that her cicisbei had developed over years of doing nothing else. He gazed at her face, which was brilliantly illuminated by the moonlight. Yes, she was a real aristocrat, he thought. Thin and haughty. Nose too big, eyes set too deep. How did she manage to seem beautiful?
He said, “With your mask on, you were life. Without it—you are a goddess!”
“You are very kind, Signor,” she said, amused. “But you have an advantage over me. You have seen my face, now will you show me yours?”
He shook his head. “No, Lady. It’s just a face, not a jewel, like yours. I can promise you that I have no disfigurement, no deep scars or pox marks. But neither am I as handsome as a god. I am only an ordinary man.”
“A very extraordinary man, to want to sit shivering on a sand dune while you spy on a woman you don’t even know!” she observed.
“But I do know you,” he began.
“Oh, listen, they’re calling me!” Fosca sat up straight and peered over the dune. “Benelli has tagged the Count—dear little angel!”
She jumped up and brushed the sand out of her skirts. Raf remained in a crouch but grasped her hand lightly as she started to move away. She gave him an imperious and amused look.
“Come back to me,” he begged. “Next time.”
She smiled coolly. “Well, I don’t think—”
“Please, Lady,” he pressed her. “Promise me.”
“We shall see.” She slipped her hand out of his and raced away.
The players assembled on the beach again, and this time the dwarf was the seeker. Fosca was glad. He would never find her hiding place, and she would have a few extra minutes with her new admirer. Who was he? He wasn’t well-spoken. Not, she decided, a nobleman. Nor an actor. A peasant, then? Or—the thought nearly made her laugh aloud—perhaps he was a priest! It was Carnival, after all, when everyone was in hiding from real life.
Flabonico began to count and the players quickly dispersed. Fosca pulled her skirts up to her knees and ran swiftly over the sand.
“There, you see, I have returned to you,” she gasped, falling down beside the stranger. “You have whetted my curiosity, Signor Mask, and I could not, in good faith, abandon you yet.”
“You’re kind, Lady. I am in your debt.”
“You are. Show me your face,” she commanded promptly.
Obediently, Raf removed his hat and mask. Fosca studied him carefully.
“You were right,” she said. “You did not exaggerate and you did not lie. You are not handsome, but you’re not repulsive, either. But—there is something rather familiar about you. And yet I am certain we have never met before this evening.” She had a sudden disturbing mental picture of this man sitting on the other side of the confessional screen from her, his head inclined as she poured out her heart to him. “You’re not a priest, are you?” she demanded.
He gave a soft bark of laughter. “No, Lady, I swear to you, I am no priest. I’m not even Christian. Don’t you know me? But of course, the last time you looked upon my face it was covered with a beard.” When he saw the spark of recognition in her eyes he said, “That’s right, I’m the Jew, Leopardi. You laughed at me not so long ago, remember? In the Senate Hall.”
Fosca’s heart thumped fearfully, but she kept her smile bright and her tone light. ‘So, you have followed me to this deserted place to take revenge for that humiliation, have you? Well, what do you intend to do with me now? I have only to cry out, you know, and my friends will come rushing to save me.”
“I doubt that your friends would be able to prevent my doing anything that I wanted to do,” he said darkly. “You’re afraid of me, aren’t you? You must have a guilty conscience.”
“I have no such thing!” she retorted. “You deserved to be laughed at that day. You were ridiculous!”
“Yes, I suppose it is ridiculous and unfashionable to care about something and to say what’s really in your heart. But that’s my way and always has been. Oh, I confess, I was angry enough with you at the time. But not now, Lady. Not since I’ve seen you. I understand you and I pity you. You have an empty heart, and the head to go with it.”
“Touché!” She smiled broadly. “Now we are even, Signor Jew. Insult for insult, eh? But I warn you, I have no intention of apologizing for mine.”
“Nor have I. But I’ll still take my revenge.” He pulled her close and kissed her. She didn’t resist him, but lay limply in his arms, not responding, until he gave up with a disgusted snort. He released her.
She wiped her mouth delicately with her fingers and said, “As I thought. Your lovemaking is as bad as your manners.”
He leaned back indolently, propping himself up on his elbows, and grinned at her. “I was wrong. Your heart’s not empty. You have no heart.”
“I don’t leave it lying out in plain sight, where it can be plundered by any low thief,” she said tartly.
“Fosca! Fosca!” Worried voices rose above the sounds of the sea.
“Ah, my friends.” She stood up and shook out her cloak. “Well, I’m afraid I must leave you, Signor Jew. I sincerely trust that we shall not meet again.”
“Why?” he wondered innocently. “Surely you’re not angry with me!”
“Angry?” Of course not. Would I be angry at a monkey because he didn’t know how to dance the gavotte? I observed your lack of breeding in the Senate that day. After that appalling exhibition, nothing yo
u did could surprise me.”
He clucked sorrowfully. “So you’re bored with me before you even get to know me.”
“But I don’t want to know you.”
“Fosca!” The search party was coming closer. “Fosca, where are you?”
“Why not come back to me on the next round?” Raf suggested. “Perhaps I can persuade you that you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Fear? From you!”
“Yes, you’re afraid of me. Or you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to run away.”
“What nonsense. I’m afraid of nothing!” she said stoutly.
“Then meet me again, here.”
“I think not,” she said. ‘They would suspect—”
“Then tomorrow night. At the Ridotto.”
She stood poised for flight and looked down at him, lying on the grass, dark and mysterious like a messenger from Satan himself. The sea murmured behind the dunes. Once again she had the peculiar feeling that they were alone, all alone.
“Will you come, Fosca?” he urged her, and savored the sound of her name. “Fosca. It’s wrong for you. It means shadow, dusk. But you are light. Well, Fosca, will you let me bask again in your light? Will you meet me tomorrow night, in the Ridotto?”
He spoke lightly, mocking the fawning manner of her cicisbei.
“Yes, I will come.” Her answer came as softly as a sigh. Then with a swirl of her dark cloak she was gone.
Raf settled back and grinned. So this was La Loredan, the Commissioner’s wife. She was everything he had expected: wanton, shameless, and completely immoral .
Fosca told her friends that she had fallen asleep, out in the dark all alone, and that she was bored to distraction with their game and wanted to go back to town at once. They helped her gather her possessions, except her hat, which the wind had carried out to sea. They clustered around her while she put on her shoes and stockings. She awarded the favor of shoeing her small feet to the Tradonico brothers, who knelt side by side in front of her.
The Masquers Page 10