The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “And if I get arrested it won’t decimate your numbers,” Raf said dryly. “I think not. Signor.”

  “Arrested? But they can’t arrest you. That’s the glory of it. Arrest the man they’ve just laden with high honors? They’d be a laughing stock. That gives us time. It doesn’t mean you’ll be rash—we’ll go slowly, meeting with a few of them at a time, talking to them, gaining their support.”

  “I’ll need to think it over,” Raf said slowly.

  “No, there’s no more time for thinking. It’s time to act. You can’t carry on your crusade in the ghetto. You’ll never get anybody to listen to you, anybody who matters. But there are a lot of men in the Signoria who agree with you—not all of them Barnabotti. Men who are ready for a change. We can put together an army if we go about it the right way. Now I’m not trying to flatter you, but I’ve never seen an effect like the one you made on the Senate. You woke up a lot of people. A lot of them agree with you, but they can’t admit publicly while Loredan and the conservatives are in the majority. Listen, there’s a meeting tonight, in a café right off the Campo San Barnaba. Come and listen, that’s all I ask. Will you?”

  “What about my shadows?” Raf cocked his head at the door.

  “Go to the whorehouse at 117 Calle Balastro at ten o’clock and ask for Flora. I’ll meet you there and take you the rest of the way.”

  “Through the courtyard at the back?” Raf asked with a sudden smile.

  “No, over the roofs. It will be perfectly safe. You see, you need someone like me, someone to look after you. I know how their minds work. I’m one of them, remember?”

  Tomasso slipped away, smiling to himself. He didn’t mention Fosca again. He had planted the seed in the Jew’s brain and now he had to let it germinate. He had no doubt that he would soon be called upon to arrange a meeting. The man wasn’t a saint. And Fosca really was a very beautiful woman.

  Late that night Raf looked through one of his grand-father’s meticulously kept ledgers. He remembered when the painting came into the house—sometime between 1779 and 1780. He carefully checked each item until he found what he was looking for: Titian, Venus and Mars, Orio Dolfin, One thousand ducats.”

  She had recognized the painting. It had belonged to her father. In the morning he would have it crated and delivered to her, by a circuitous route, of course. No one would ever know where it came from, except her.

  Raf walked into his bedroom and looked at the painting for a long time. He had hung it there because it had caught his fancy, because it was beautiful and erotic, and because it had shocked Aunt Rebecca. She, at least, would be happy to see it gone.

  Yes, best be rid of it and forget Fosca Loredan.

  “But where did it come from? Who sent it?” Emilia wondered. Two servants finished uncrating the painting and propped it against a wall. “It’s the same one, isn’t it? The one your father had in his library. Oh, isn’t it naughty!”

  Fosca’s heart pounded, but she said lightly, “From Antonio, of course. He found out who owned it and bought it for me, for my nameday.” She would arrange with Antonio to support her story. He would not fail her.

  Emilia looked doubtful. “But your nameday isn’t until May.”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t wait. He knew how much I loved it, and he noticed how unhappy I’ve been lately.”

  Emilia, who had noticed just the opposite, sniffed. “It must have cost him plenty. I didn’t know Signor Valier was so well-fixed.”

  “Well, he is,” Fosca snapped. “Really, anyone would think I’d told you a lie! I think I’ll have it hung in my room, over the fireplace, where I can see it from my bed-”

  The Jew knew that she was Loredan’s wife. Now he was sending gifts. Why?To infuriate her husband, or to please her? Oh, why couldn’t he have left her alone

  But the painting was so beautiful. Such a thoughtful thing to do.

  If anyone found out about that night, her friends or Loredan—.Oh,God, what a scandal! Her lover, a Jew! She’d be a laughing stock. No one must ever know where the painting came from. No one must suspect. Loredan would have them both thrown into the Tombs. She must never see him again. It would be madness.

  Yes, he had been kind enough. He had eased that awful ache. Ridiculous, to think that what she needed all along was a man. But there it was. Now she must find another lover and forget the Jew. Forget his tenderness and his strength; forget those knowing hands and those searing lips.

  Fosca closed her eyes and steeled herself. Stop it! Stop behaving like a schoolgirl! One man was just like another.

  Just then Alessandro Loredan and Pietro Salvino came into the drawing room where the workmen had uncrated the painting. Fosca watched the secretary carefully, but he gave no sign that he knew her as the woman who had left Rafaello Leopardi’s house.

  “What’s this?” Alessandro asked. “I haven’t bought any paintings lately, have I?”

  Fosca came forward to greet him. “It’s mine, Signor.”

  Alessandro kissed her hand and turned his attention again to the picture. “Titian, eh? Not his best Venus, but a very charming work. The middle period, I believe.”

  “Yes, Excellency,” Pietro murmured. “He painted a series of Venuses in the 1550’s, as I recall.”

  “Perhaps you recognize it, Signor,” Fosca said. “It used to belong to my father.”

  “Indeed?” Alessandro frowned. “I don’t recall seeing it.”

  “He sold it, when he needed money,” she explained. “As he was forced to sell everything he loved. My dear friend, Antonio Valier, was kind enough to locate it for me and to ransom it back. Of course I am delighted.”

  “Of course,” Alessandro nodded. Pietro, a visible echo, did likewise.

  “I have already ordered it to be hung in my room. If you have no objection, that is?”

  “No, why should I object? I am delighted for you to have something from your old home, Fosca.”

  “You may consider it part of my dowery, Signor,” she said softly as he bowed over her fingers. His mouth tightened. He gave her a cool smile, and left the room, Pietro trailing spaniel-like at his heels.

  When they had gone, Emilia hissed, “You’re hiding something. You can’t fool me. And don’t think he didn’t know it!”

  “Is there something so dreadful about accepting a gift from an admirer?” Fosca demanded. “It’s none of my husband’s business!”

  “He doesn’t believe that Signor Valier gave it to you and neither do I. You had better be careful, Donna Fosca. Your husband won’t take kindly to being cuckolded!”

  “My husband, my husband!” Fosca said furiously. “Why doesn’t anyone ever think about myhappiness?”

  “Because you think enough about it yourself!” Emilia said tartly.

  Fosca’s eyes flashed. “The trouble with this Republic is that servants don’t know their place anymore!”

  Emilia bristled and her immense bosom swelled. “I only speak because someone ought to give you a warning before you make a complete fool of yourself! You know very well that no one cares as much about you as I do, Donna Fosca. I just don’t want you to be hurt!”

  “I have been hurt quite enough already in my life,” Fosca said. “It’s time for restitution. I deserve some happiness, Emilia, you know I do. Oh, why is everyone so horrid! And I’ve even decided that I would never see him again! I hate you all!”

  She stormed out of the room. Emilia shook her head.

  “Trouble,” she said darkly. “Men are nothing but trouble.”

  Lia handed Raf a plate of food and slid into her seat. She didn’t speak to him. Neither did his aunt. But he ate heartily and pretended not to notice the coolness that had pervaded the air ever since the night he brought Fosca to the house.

  “You’re both so quiet this evening,” Raf observed. “Really, you ought to try this stew, Lia. It’s delicious.”

  “Yes, I know.” Lia toyed with her food and didn’t even sipher wine. She couldn’t raise her eyes to meet his. />
  “Tired of ghetto life already, eh?” he said. “Well, I don’t blame you. You’re not used to living like this, penned up like an animal when you could be out—”

  Lia stood up so quickly that her chair toppled over with a crash. She ran out of the room. Raf stared after her.

  Aunt Rebecca said, “If you weren’t my own flesh and blood, I’d smash this crockery over your thick head. Isn’t it enough that you have brought shame and sorrow upon us all by lording it over everybody else and flaunting the laws and sneering at the good advice of your elders and the Rabbi—a wise man! A learned scholar! No, it’s not enough for you that you’re the first man in the ghetto to be excommunicated in a hundred years! You have to go and bring a whore into this house, among respectable women! And a Christian whore, at that!”

  “Yes, she was Christian,” Raf said quietly. “A noblewoman.”

  “Oh, my God! I knew it! I could smell the stink of her perfume in every crack and corner after she left. It’s disgusting! I don’t blame the child for being upset. What kind of an example is this? She was gone all day yesterday, and if she hadn’t come back, I wouldn’t have blamed her one bit!”

  “This has nothing to do with either of you,” Raf said levelly. “Or have you forgotten who is master of this house now?”

  “Master!” Aunt Rebecca sniffed. “Have you forgotten who washed you and fed you and cleaned up after you and raised you from a baby? I have lived in this house for fifty-five years, and this is the greatest unhappiness I have known! You have broken my heart. And what about the girl?”

  “Well, what about her? You can’t blame me—”

  “You’re a big fool. Can’t you see that she’s in love with you?”

  “What? That’s ridiculous,” Raf snorted.

  “You think so? She is. And you go and do this to her! Rafaello, it doesn’t matter what you do outside the home—I know all about men and their needs—but to bring a harlot—”

  “She wasn’t a harlot, damn it!” Raf shouted, slamming the palms of his hands down on the table.

  “Don’t you curse at me, boy! I swear, I think you have a crazy streak in you! Your poor mother, Heaven bless her, was always wild. Never happy with anything. Oh, God, the scandal and the heartbreak she brought upon us! And for all we know, your father could have been a madman as well.”

  Raf glowered at the old woman but said nothing.

  She sighed deeply. “Will you never learn? Are you determined to bring the wrath of the State down upon us all? Whoever this woman is, she’s not for you. A noble! Dear God, aren’t there twenty unmarried girls right here in the ghetto who would give anything just to have you lode their way—even now? Why can’t you be satisfied with what you have? Why do you always have to go reaching for the impossible? Why can’t you conform?”

  “Because I don’t want to!” Raf bellowed, rising out of his chair. “I won’t be bound by any laws that I’ve had no part in making! And I won’t be preached to by any woman, is that clear?”

  His aunt pressed her lips together and stared straight ahead.

  Raf blew out his breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to hurt you, or Lia. But it’s my life and I’ll live it my own way.”

  He threw on his cloak and started to leave the house, then he remembered Lia. He’d better talk to her, too. These women had to learn that he wouldn’t be ruled by their moods.

  She was sitting on a chair in front of her window, her arms wrapped around her updrawn knees. The cat Jacob and the kitten dozed on the windowsill. She didn’t look around when Raf came in and stood behind her.

  “You’re angry with me, too, I see.”

  She shrugged a little and continued to stare out at the blackened rooftops and the small patch of darkening sky that showed between the high buildings.

  “I can’t expect you to understand, Lia,” he said gruffly. “You’re still young, and even though you’ve seen a lot more of life than most girls your age—”

  She lifted her face. The look in her eyes was surprisingly mature. Old eyes in a young face. Raf found himself floundering in the middle of his speech. He stopped and cleared his throat.

  “I understand what you’re feeling,” he said firmly.

  “Do you?” She turned her face away again. She was remarkably self-possessed for one so young.

  “Yes. You have persuaded yourself that you’re in love with me. It’s not surprising. I’m probably the only man who has ever shown you kindness, and naturally—”

  “You’re the only one who didn’t rape me,” she said. “You don’t need to treat me like a child, Signor Raf. I haven’t been a virgin since I was nine years old. I know all about men and what they need. Nero used to let strange men sleep with me, because they paid him.”

  “Oh.” Raf frowned. “I didn’t realize—”

  “You don’t need to explain anything to me. I was a stranger and you took me in. You welcome me, as though I really were your cousin. You don’t owe me anything, Signor Raf. It’s none of my business what you do.”

  She seemed so frail and young, yet wiser than a woman three times her age. Raf put his hand on her shoulder and felt her quiver.

  “I’m sorry, Lia.”

  “It’s all right. I’m not angry with you,” she said. “Only with myself. Will you leave me now?”

  When he was gone, she pulled the cat into her lap and buried her face in his soft fur.

  “Oh, Jacob, if only I didn’t love him so much! I hat; her. I hate her!”

  “I just don’t know what’s come over you, Fosca. Antonio Valier said worriedly. “Starting that fiction about the painting. I hardly knew what to say when your husband thanked me for finding it for you. Did you know that Salvino has been sniffing around my house, quizzing my servants? What are you trying to do to me?”

  “Has he? Oh, poor Tonino,” Fosca murmured sympathetically, “I’m sorry to have put you in such an awkward position. I know I seem cruel. I’ve never kept anything from you before, have I? Please be patient and try not to be angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry. I just don’t understand. If you don't want to see me again—”

  “Nothing of the sort, my dearest friend!” Fosca assured him. They strolled arm in arm along the Liston, in the direction of the Cathedral. “You will always be first in my heart, you know that. But don’t ask questions. I’m sorry about Loredan—but I had to tell him something! Salvino—I wonder, has he set spies on me, too?”

  “Spies? Spies?” Antonio yelped. “Why should he spy on you?” He looked around anxiously. The Piazza was filled with masked figures, all looking equally inscrutable and threatening. They could have been surrounded by fifty spies. “Who are you seeing, Fosca? Who did you run off with that night? Do you know how worried we were when we arrived at the Molo and discovered that you weren’t in either of our boats? I almost went to Loredan to tell him that you had disappeared! That would have been a fine mess, wouldn’t it?”

  They went into Florian’s and settled themselves at a table near the front. Fosca ordered hot chocolate. Antonio bought her a bunch of violets from a flower-seller. The day was fairly warm and the air was filled with exotic smells and the babble of voices. Antonio’s voice buzzed insect-like in Fosca’s ear. She made soothing sounds and light conversation, but all the while she thought about Raf. She wondered if by any chance he were in the Piazza. How would she know him? She had been to the Ridotto several times, and he hadn’t been in evidence. Not that she wanted to see him again, of course!

  Lately she almost hated her simpering admirers. Their hollow phrases drove her to distraction. She felt impatient and irritated at their fatuous attentions and the glib flattery that used to please her so. They were all such effeminate dandies, powdered and perfumed, as well-trained as little dancing dogs. So unlike Rafaello.

  One day, about a week later, she received a note from her brother: “Dear Sister, am in dire straits but unfortunately have suffered a slight mishap and cannot, alas, call upon you. Must see you
most urgently. But come alone, I beseech you! Must avoid embarrassment at all costs. You remember the address—274 Campo San Barnaba, above the shoemaker’s shop. Come in all haste at once, alone! T.”

  Fosca was irritated, and intrigued. She wondered what her brother was up to now. This was some novel scheme for squeezing her for more money, she had no doubt.

  San Barnaba wasn’t far from Ca’ Loredan, just a few minutes. She put on her mask and cloak, and slipped out of the house without being seen.

  She took a winding, indirect route to Tomasso’s house. She kept looking over her shoulder to make sure that she wasn’t being followed. She even went into the Church of San Barnaba and sat for several minutes in the cool, dark interior before leaving through a side door. It was two in the afternoon by the time she arrived at Tomasso’s door. Most of the city was enjoying its lunchtime respite. The square was empty.

  She had been to the attic apartment only once before, and she hated it. It was rank and dark and hideous, and it seemed to epitomize the fall of the Dolfin family. Her father a suicide, dead of heartbreak. Their palazzo emptied by creditors and sold to a nouveau riche businessman whose name wasn’t even in the Golden Book. She, unhappily married to a man she loathed. Tomasso—poor Tomasso!—a scrounger, a liar, an indigent who dreamed idly of revolution.

  The door was slightly ajar. Calling her brother’s name softly, Fosca pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was as she remembered: ill-lit, shabby, suffocatingly close, its spaces distorted by the angular planes of the roof overhead.

  “Tomasso, are you here?” She pushed back her hood and took off her mask.

  Suddenly she felt she couldn’t breathe and she crossed the room to the windows and threw them open. A gust of wind blew the door shut.

  “Fosca.”

  She whirled around. A man was standing in the darkened corner behind the door. He stepped forward into the light. It was Raf Leopardi.

  “You! But where is Tomasso? What have you done with him? I thought—”

  “Tomasso is quite all right. I asked him to arrange a meeting, to lure you up here. Now like a good go-between, he’s disappeared.”