They returned to their boats. Just as they arrived on the beach a great cloud obscured the moon. There were lanterns on the prows of the gondolas, but they cast only a dim, dancing light. The scene was confused as they discussed how the party should be divided for the ride back, and none of the men noticed at first that Fosca had disappeared from their midst.
A masked stranger led her to a darkened gondola a little farther down the beach. He said to the gondolier, “Ten sequins extra if you beat them back to the Molo!”
They settled themselves inside the felze, the square cabin that fit over the seats in the center of the gondola. The craft began to sway gently as they were carried over the water to the city.
“You are very impatient, Signor,” Fosca said disapprovingly. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow night?”
“No. Because I didn’t really believe that you would come. You didn’t intend to, did you?”
She shrugged. Why should she bother to lie to this Jew? “No.”
‘Then I was right to be impatient. I have found that life is too short to sit and wait for what you want to fall into your lap. You have to go out and get it.”
“Ah, that is where we differ. I find waiting very pleasurable indeed. I like to savor the delights of anticipation over a long period of time.”
Raf said, “After all that waiting and delighting, you must find the event itself, when it does occur, to be somewhat disappointing.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Has that been your experience in love?” Raf wondered.
“Oh, yes, especially in love!” Fosca laughed.
The water lapped against the black hull of the boat. The gondolier began to sing softly to himself, a popular melancholy tune: “Unhappy lady, weary of love.” The sky cleared and the moonlight pierced through the shutters on the side of the felze and threw little bars of light across Fosca’s lap. She wondered if the Jew would try and kiss her again.
He was like an exotic animal to her, a foreigner, even though they spoke the same language and had been born in the same city. She didn’t know quite how to treat him. Like a servant? He wasn’t a bit servile. The Republic had bestowed high honors on him, and a commission. This gave him a certain importance. He was no man’s servant, and no woman’s either, if Fosca was any judge.
Neither could she treat him as an equal. He was not a nobleman. He was a Jew, a sailor and a merchant. Worse, he didn’t even try to emulate the easy grace and exquisite good manners that came so effortlessly to her friends. Lovely phrases fell so naturally from their lips; she knew without thinking just how to respond to their praises. She felt comfortable with them, and safe.
But this man was unlike anyone she had ever met. His flattery was clumsy. And insincere. She suspected that, unlike all the other men of her acquaintance, this one didn’t believe that women were goddesses.
He was dangerous and unpredictable. She knew that she could escape him as soon as they reached the Molo. But meanwhile, this was adventure. She would have some wonderfully amusing things to tell her friends when it was over.
She said, making conversation, “So you’re interested in gambling?”
“No. I take too many risks in business every day. I don’t find gaming much of a diversion.”
“Then why did you go to the Ridotto?”
“Because the way you nobles throw away your money on nothing intrigues me. I’ve seen men lose more in an evening’s play than it would take to feed a large family for a month.”
“You disapprove of gamblers. Then you must disapprove of me?”
Any civilized man would have denied such an accusation with his last breath, but the Jew said, “That’s right. I do.”
“Well!” Fosca sat up straighter. “If that’s the case, why did you pursue me?”
She could feel his mocking grin rather than see it. “Maybe I was bored,” he said. He laughed loudly. “Bored! I’ve never been bored in my life. You don’t get bored when all your time is devoted to flaunting the law and trying not to get caught.”
“Ah, so you’re a criminal!” she said lightly.
“Yes, indeed. You realize that I’m breaking about fifteen laws, just by being here with you now?”
“What do you mean?” Fosca sniffed. “Surely there’s no law against taking a gondola ride with a woman on a beautiful moonlit night.”
“You forget. I’m a Jew,” he reminded her. “There are lots of laws that apply to Jews, which no Christian would tolerate. For one thing, I’m absent from the ghetto after hours. Consorting with a Christian woman. Employing a Christian gondolier. I’m breaking the Sabbath—it’s Friday night. Plus a host of divine commands!”
“Such as—”
“ ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife,’ ” he answered promptly, without thinking. “But that’s only an offense against God, mind. It wouldn’t earn me a space in the Leads. So far as I know, the Venetian government hasn’t passed any laws against desire.”
Fosca felt a nervous flutter under her ribs. “The Leads?” she said quickly. “What nonsense. They wouldn’t put you there, just for this.”
Every Venetian knew about the horrible Leads, the unbearably hot cells under the lead-lined roofs of the Doge’s Palace. The Tombs, the cells for condemned men in the prisons of San Marco, were supposed to be even worse.
“They can do anything they want,” he said softly. “They can be as harsh or lenient as they wish.”
“But what about me?” she demanded. “Am I committing a crime, too?”
“I don’t know. I can’t read your mind.” He paused, and again Fosca experienced that irritating flutter. “But you mean a crime against the State. Well, you’re no ordinary harlot. They’ll just give you a stern lecture on how a Venetian lady should behave and send you home. You’re one of them, remember?”
“Sometimes they confine errant wives to their houses for three weeks,” Fosca said. “How horrible! I think I’d hate that even more than prison. What is there to do at home?”
“Look after your husband. Take care of your children,” Raf suggested.
“I have none,” she said crisply. They rode in silence. The gondola rocked a little and their shoulders touched. He seemed enormous to her, much bigger than any of her other swains, and greedier for space.
“We’re nearly at the Molo,” he said. “I’m sure your friends will be along any minute. Unless you’d like to see the ghetto?”
“The ghetto?” Fosca pictured it as a single immense building, like a monastery, only filled with funny looking Jews instead of monks.
“Where I live. You might find it interesting to see how other people get along, when they haven’t been fortunate enough to have been born in one of the palazzos. There’s nothing to be afraid of. We Jews gave up blood sacrifices long ago. But I wouldn’t blame you if—”
“Afraid? I’m not afraid.”
“No, it was a bad idea, Lady. Christians are forbidden to go there except during the day, when they have business to transact. I’ll drop you at the Molo. You don’t want to be confined for three weeks.”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Fosca said with spirit. “I think I would like to see this ghetto of yours. Signor. I am rather curious. I knew a Jew once. A tailor. He was sent into exile because he fitted me. Can you imagine?” She gave a bitter little laugh.
“Yes,” Raf rumbled grimly, “I can imagine.” Their gondolier dropped them at the end of the Canal Regio. Motioning Fosca to be silent, Raf pointed out the great barred gates and the sleeping sentry, then he led her around the twisting walls to his secret entrance at the rear of the whore’s courtyard.
They passed underneath his own house and went out to the square at the center of the Old Ghetto. It was deserted now, except for a dog sniffing at the well in the middle. Refuse was piled against the walls. Some slits of light showed behind closed shutters, but Fosca heard no sounds of life.
The atmosphere oppressed her. When the Jews were prohibited from expanding outward
s, beyond the walls of the ghetto, they adopted the only other alternative and built upwards, piling story upon story. Now these structures hung precariously over the square, blotting out the moonlight. Sagging lines of laundry seemed about to pull it all down, right on top of their heads.
“But it’s just houses!” Fosca exclaimed
“What did you expect, a high-walled prison? It’s that, too. This one’s mine.” Raf pointed at the house through which they had come. Fosca felt embarrassed for him. It was a hovel, even worse than the rest, tall and narrow and evil-looking, built of rotten wood and crumbling stucco. “In the old days this place housed ten families, packed together like rabbits in a hutch,” Raf told her. “Then times got hard, The population of the ghetto decreased. After my grandfather died, I acquired the rights to the whole thing. I didn’t buy it. I can’t. But I can pay exorbitant rents to my Christian landlord.”
He put his hand under her elbow and propelled her towards the tiny staircase that led to the upper stories. Fosca hung back. The area underneath the house reeked of filth and she thought she heard rats scratching in the shadows. She wanted to get away from this horrid place and this man. He was worse than common; he was low and dirty.
“I can’t stay,” she said. “It’s so late—I must get back. They’ll wonder what happened—it’s not safe.”
“The lady’s scared that the big, bad Jew is going to eat her,” he taunted lightly. “Come on, don’t be frightened. You don’t want to miss the best part.” She permitted him to lead her by the hand up the dank and winding staircase. The walls around her seemed to ooze despair and dampness. The stink of poverty and sorrow was everywhere.
Raf pushed open the door at the top and ushered her inside. There were still a few hot coals in the fireplace. He took a candle from the candelabrum on the table, lit it, and then lit several more. The room was bathed in a warm light. Fosca gaped in amazement.
Unlike Lia, she recognized the value of what she saw. Candelabra of French crystal and a chandelier of fine, delicately-tinted Murano glass. Curtains of lush velvet. Thin-legged chairs with backs and seats covered in exquisite petit-point. A thick oriental rug. Matching inlaid commodes. An enormous gilded table with a green marble top. Fine paintings on the walls.
“But how—how can you live like this?” she asked.
“The outside—”
“It wouldn’t do for a Jew to flaunt his wealth,” Raf told her. “You Christians might start looking too closely at the sources of his income.”
“But where did all this come from?”
“Half the palazzos along the Grand Canal. A lot of Jews have grown rich, thanks to noblemen who had to pawn their possessions to support their vices: women, gambling.”
Fosca nodded weakly and thought of her father. She let Raf take her cloak and mask.
“Would you like to see more?”
They went through a comfortable sitting room into a book-lined study, as well-equipped as Loredan’s own. An enormous globe stood in one corner. On a table under the small window lay a pile of scrolls. Fosca bent over them and tried to decipher the meaningless squibbles she saw.
“Hebrew,” Raf explained. “The same language Christ read and wrote. He might even have handled these same scrolls. They’re quite ancient.”
“Can you read them?’
“Oh, yes. And Latin and Greek. These belonged to my grandfather. He was very proud of them. I don’t spend as much time in this room as I’d like. Jews take scholarship very seriously. Many dedicate their whole lives to reading and trying to understand scripture.”
Fosca tried unsuccessfully to imagine any of her friends dedicating their lives to the pursuit of obscure knowledge. “You do your business here?”
“Some. No money-lending. Not risky enough. I do most of my business in a little tavern near the docks. Or on board La Maga.”
Fosca followed him out into the corridor and up a short flight of stairs. At the top they met a young girl. Raf lifted the candelabrum he carried and Fosca saw her face clearly. She was thin and dark. She wore a white nightgown and her hair hung around her shoulders.
“Ah, Lia. It’s all right, it’s only me. You can go back to bed.”
The women stared at each other. Lia said slowly, “I’m sorry, Signor Raf. I thought—”
“Go to bed, Lia,” he said again, a little sharply. She hesitated and then disappeared up yet another flight of stairs.
“Your sister?” Fosca asked. “She’s charming. She’ll be a beauty someday.”
“You think so?” Raf sounded surprised. “No, she’s not my sister. A cousin. From Verona. We’re very fond of Lia.”
“We? Ah, then you have a wife.”
“I have an Aunt Rebecca, who keeps house for me.” He led the way into a low-ceilinged bed-sitting room. It was more simply furnished than the others, with a plain looking bed, a tall chest of drawers, a small desk near the door.
Fosca’s attention was drawn to a large painting hanging over the bed. It depicted a fleshy, naked Venus in a pastoral setting. She was half-reclining on a listing olive tree. Ropes of pearls bound her red-gold hair. Mars, dark and bearded and armored for war, stood behind her. His arm was passed over her shoulder and he cupped a meaty breast in his hand. Pearly drops of milk oozed over his fingers. At their feet a roly-poly Cupid desported himself gleefully.
Fosca walked over and examined it closely. Raf followed with the candelabrum and held it high.
“It’s by Titian,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she said softly. “I mean, I recognized his style. It’s lovely, isn’t it? And look at the way it’s framed.” She stretched out her hand. “Olive wood, like the tree in the picture. And these carvings of grapes—like the clusters on that vine, there.”
“So they are. I never noticed.”
“No, you wouldn’t.” Her voice was hard. She turned away and the light from the candles caught her full in the face. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. “You use it as an aid to seduction, I suppose.”
Raf grinned. “Actually, I hung it here to scandalize Aunt Rebecca. I found it among my grandfather’s things, after he died. I’m not surprised he didn’t display it. He was a bit of a prude. I’m not.”
He set the candelabrum down on the desk and opened a decanter. “Will you have some wine?” He filled two glasses and brought one over to Fosca. The glasses were tall and fluted, so delicate that she thought that merely touching her lips to the rim would shatter it “Welcome to my house, Donna Fosca,” Raf said “Do you approve?”
She sipped. “Yes, it’s quite a pleasant surprise. I’m happy to see that Jews aren’t savages after all.”
He dipped his head. “I’m delighted that I’ve managed to demonstrate that to your satisfaction, Lady.”
She hastily corrected herself. “I mean, at least you don’t live like a savage. Your behavior is quite another matter.”
“Oh, is it?” He looked interested. “How would you like me to behave?”
“Like a gentleman, of course!”
“But I’m not a gentleman. Why should I behave like one? I won’t act like a trained dog for any woman. I won’t bark on command or jump through hoops. And I certainly won’t make pretty speeches to a woman I despise.”
“Oh, that’s very charming! So you despise me as well as disapprove of me!”
“Strictly as a representative of your class,” he assured her. “As an individual, I find you not unattractive.”
“Dear me, you really are trying very hard not to make pretty speeches. But tell me, Jew,” she said airily, “why did you follow me and contrive to bring me to your home if you find me so loathsome?”
“To prove to myself that you’re like all the rest, I suppose,” he shrugged. He set down his glass and leaned back against the desk. “I’ve known a hundred women like you, Lady. Money means nothing to you. You throw away hundreds of ducats at the gaming tables and never feel a pang. You never think what money like that could mean to someone who
really needed it. The most important part of your day is the visit of your hairdresser, or your dressmaker. You never read anything more challenging or stimulating than the Gazzettino or the stupid little odes your lovers write to your earlobes or your toenails. You never discuss anything more serious than the weather or Paris fashions or somebody else’s love affairs. You are silly, vain, and idle. And you’re so bored with your empty lives that you’d do anything for excitement. Even visit the ghetto in the middle of the night with a man whom you ordinarily wouldn’t permit to carry your fan.”
She gave him a long, hard stare. Then she put down her wineglass with deliberate care and moved swiftly past him. He intercepted her.
“Please excuse me,” she said with icy politeness. “But I dislike being preached to.”
He held her upper arms firmly. “Especially by a monkey, eh? What’s the matter, Lady? Don’t you find monkeys amusing when they’ve been trained?”
“I wouldn’t find you amusing under any circumstances,” she informed him tartly. “Please remove your hands at once. How dare you touch me!”
“Why shouldn’t I touch you?” he demanded, drawing her closer to him. “You let other men touch you—some not even men: a dwarf, a eunuch. Why not let a Jew worship at your shrine as well?”
She tried to twist away from him. “Let me go at once! You’re filthy, horrid! You disgust me!”
He laughed. “You’re annoyed because I won’t follow the rules, the prescribed path to lovemaking. Why should I? We both know why you came.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She squirmed in his arms, which felt as hard and unyielding as iron straps. “Let me go!”
“I’m impatient, remember? I don’t like to wait.”
He plunged his fingers into her hair. Russet ringlets tumbled to her shoulders. He kissed her, long and hard, bearing down until he felt her resistance weakening. Then he moved his lips over the smooth place behind her ears and down the long line of her neck to her shoulders.
The Masquers Page 11