The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “Damn it, stop telling me what to do,” he snapped. “I don’t take orders from anybody, especially not a whore and a spy.”

  An angry flush mounted to her cheeks. “You’ll never forgive me for deceiving you, will you?” she said in a low voice. “And you’ll never let me forget that I paid for your freedom tonight with my own body. You think I liked it, letting those two pigs paw me and slobber over me? It was disgusting, horrible! You think your fine lady would have done that for you? Not in a hundred years! She hasn’t got the guts. I’m a whore, am I? Well, she left her husband and ran away with you. What does that make her, a saint?”

  Raf stood up quickly, as if ready to strike out at her. The two glared at each other. Lia’s eyes were bright with angry tears. Her fists were clenched at her sides.

  “I wish,” she said in a voice that was choked with fury, “I wish that I could hate you!”

  She ran out of the room, slamming the door loudly behind her. In her own room, she threw herself face down on her bed and sobbed until she was empty of tears. Then she lay for a long time in a brightening trapezoid of sunlight. She became aware of the dry scum on her thighs, of the stink of prison and sweating men that clung to her. With a sigh she got up and stripped off her clothes, pinned up her hair, and slopped some water from the pitcher into the basin on the washstand. She dipped a cloth in to the water and scrubbed herself vigorously, until she glowed.

  The door creaked on its hinges. She turned quickly and saw Raf watching her from the doorway. She froze, one hand with its dripping cloth pressed against her breast.

  Raf approached her slowly. She didn’t move, did not even breathe. He took off his robe and let it fall to the floor. He was naked, and ready. She swallowed and closed her eyes. He took the pins out of her hair and it cascaded down to her waist. He put his hands on her shoulders and ran them lightly down her arms. She made a sound like a sob and let her head fall forward onto his chest.

  Raf drew her close and buried his face in the curve where her neck and shoulders joined. She smelled clean, like the wild woods after a rain, like autumn leaves. She was hard and lean from dancing, but still womanly. She was no child. The pale images of Fosca Loredan that he had nurtured in his heart for months deserted him. He was aware only of Lia, in his arms. Lia, beautiful and dark and womanly. Lia, who loved him. Lia.

  He put his thumbs under her cheekbones and lifted her face gently. Her eyes were dark and knowing. She pulled his head down and their lips met. He groaned and dragged her down to the floor. When he entered her, she shuddered and gripped him tightly. He responded to the trembling of her body immediately. It was over very quickly, in less time than it takes to sigh deeply.

  He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her. He seemed to see her for the first time. “Lia,” he said, “I’m sorry I—”

  She pressed her fingertips over his lips. “No. No more words.”

  They stood up, and she took his hand and led him to her bed.

  A week passed, full of perfect pleasures and the dreams of late summer. One night a man rode up to the villa. He was leading another horse, a magnificent animal that was saddled and equipped for a long journey. Their time together was over.

  Raf prepared to leave. Their messenger departed. A bright moon was rising. Lia followed him outside.

  “You won’t take me with you,” she said softly. It was a simple statement, not a question.

  He didn’t look at her, but tightened the girth on the saddle and grunted, “I can’t, Lia. You know that. Look, I’ll try to send for you when I know—”

  “No,” she shook her head. “Don’t make any promises. Just come back to me if you can, someday.”

  “I will. You’ll be all right?” He hefted the purse the messenger had left. “There’s plenty of money in here.”

  “No, you’ll need it all. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” She breathed deeply. “You’ll see, Raf, when you come back, I’ll be quite famous. The greatest dancer in Venice! With a house and a gondola all my own, and only rich and handsome men for lovers.”

  “You’re too good for a life like that,” he growled.

  “I’m suited to it. It’s all I know. Dancing. Loving. Don’t think about it, Raf. You don’t love me, not yet.” Tears started to slide down her cheeks and she was grateful for the darkness. “You needed a woman and I was here. I’m not sorry. I’ll love you until I die.”

  “You freed me,” he said. “You—”

  “You don’t owe me anything for that. I had to do it, so that I could live with myself. Go now, please,” She stepped back and watched while he mounted the horse and picked up the reins. He didn’t know what to say to her. He kicked the horse and started to ride away, then wheeled around sharply and came back. Lia came forward to see what had happened, and he leaned over, caught her around the waist and lifted her up. He kissed her deeply, crushingly, then set her down and galloped off, the wind drying the wetness of her tears on his cheeks.

  PART II

  XI

  THE OUTCASTS

  Fosca pulled her hood up over her head and drew her cloak more snugly around her shoulders. She glided swiftly through the halls of Ca’ Loredan. She had a rendezvous with her lover, and she was late.

  Outside, the rain teemed down, as it had all winter, except for the period of deep freeze at the end of January, when the lagoon and all the canals were roads of ice, and the Venetians walked from island to island and even rode horses to and from the mainland.

  Just as she entered the vast ballroom, the sound of happy laughter made her halt abruptly. She saw them coming towards her through the gloom, Alessandro and her son, Paolo. Paolo’s tutor, Fra Roberto, cherubic and rotund, trailed along behind in his usual preoccupied daze. A footman walked solemnly around the circumference of the room, lighting candles.

  When Paolo caught sight of her he gave a happy shout and raced up to her. She crouched down so that their faces would be on the same level.

  “Look, Mama!” he exclaimed happily, holding out a small replica of a sailing ship. “Isn’t it wonderful? Papa just gave it to me. We’re going to sail it in the fishpond when the rain stops.”

  “It’s lovely, darling. Perfectly beautiful! And you will take good care of it, I know, and not let it sink.”

  She was aware of Alessandro standing not ten feet away from them, suddenly engrossed in a philosophical discussion with the priest. She gave Paolo a swift hug and kiss, and stood up.

  “I must go now, Paolo,” she said softly, brushing her hand lightly over his hair to smooth it. “Be a good boy.”

  His doubtful expression tore at her heart. He was rather serious and thoughtful for a small boy. She knew he didn’t understand why his parents ignored each other, even when they happened to be in the same room, like today.

  She swept past Alessandro and the priest. Alessandro looked right through her, as though she were a wisp of smoke, or a ghostly apparition. Fra Roberto bowed deferentially and she favored him with a small nod.

  As she neared the great doors on the other side of the room, she heard Paolo say in his shrill, child’s voice, “Papa, why don’t you ever talk to Mama?”

  Alessandro murmured soothingly, lying to the boy, telling him it really didn’t mean anything. They had nothing to say to each other. It had all been said six years ago, and since that time they hadn’t spoken a word to each other in private, and only exchanged stiff pleasantries in public, when it couldn’t be avoided because the world was watching.

  A footman jumped in front of her to open the doors and to close them behind her when she left. She stood alone at the top of the broad marble staircase and pressed her gloved hand tightly to her lips. Hatred raged up in her like a flash of fire and subsided again, leaving her feeling faint and dizzy. The gusting wind brought the smell of the sea and rain to her nostrils. She descended slowly. The wetness of the misting rain and fog in her face felt good, cool and soothing.

  Her vision was blurred and she stumbled getting into th
e waiting gondola. The liveried gondolier put his arm firmly around her waist to steady her. She looked around to thank him. His handsome face was impassive. His eyes were deep-set under heavy lids, and his lower lip had a sensuous thrust, like a lover’s pout.

  “Thank you,” she murmured. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Donna Fosca. My name is Guido.” He held the doors of the felze open and after she was comfortably seated inside tucked a warm robe around her legs. Their faces were only inches apart, and before he withdrew their eyes met and held for a moment. His look told her that he thought her beautiful, and that he wanted to go to bed with her.

  Fosca’s face remained expressionless. Yes, he was quite handsome, and yes, the idea of sleeping with him appealed to her. But an affair with one of the household servants was much too dangerous. She would continue to choose her lovers carefully, because any breath of scandal would mean that she would lose her son completely to Alessandro and never see him again.

  “Where would you like to go, Donna Fosca?”

  His voice had startled her. “Oh. To the Molo, I suppose.”

  “You don’t want to have to walk far, in this rain,” he said meaningfully. “I can take you closer, perhaps, to where you want to go.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t care if he knew her destination. He wouldn’t talk. Gondoliers were obsessively loyal, even to the strangers they ferried. They could be relied upon to keep secret the things they heard and saw; every once in a while one would be found floating in a canal, drowned by the others because he had betrayed their code.

  “To the Roman embassy, then,” she said. “On the Rio Osmarin.”

  “Yes, Donna Fosca.”

  He pushed the boat away from the dock with his oar. Fosca closed her eyes and leaned her head back. How much longer? she wondered. How much longer could she endure what Loredan was doing to her?

  Fosca gave birth to her child at their villa in the country, in the spring of 1790. She had hardly set eyes on her husband since he moved her there. She wondered what his plans for her were, and decided that he was just waiting for her to recover from her long illness and the strain of childbirth before he initiated divorce proceedings and threw her out.

  One day, a month after the baby was born, he came to her room while she was nursing the child. Many noble mothers had returned to breastfeeding their children after Rousseau advocated the practice in his writings. For some, it was the chic thing to do, the vogue. Fosca did it for Raf s son.

  Loredan stood at the foot of the bed, and gazed at her and the baby at her breast. She felt a shiver of apprehension and held the child tighter. He began to whimper.

  . Alessandro said to Emilia, “Take the boy now. Leave us.”

  Something in Emilia’s face as she took the child made Fosca afraid. “Where are you taking him?” she asked. “Why—?”

  The baby began to squall and Emilia lifted him onto her shoulder and patted his back. Fosca watched anxiously as they left the room.

  “We have found a wet nurse for the child,” Alessandro said.

  “But I am nursing him myself,” she protested, drawing her nightgown over her breast. “You had no right—”

  “The doctor says you don’t have enough milk. He isn’t gaining weight fast enough.” He hesitated and said slowly, “I don’t want my son to be a sickly child.”

  She stared. A minute dragged by. “Your—son!” she burst out. “Have you lost your mind? He is my son, mine and Raf’s! How dare you come in here and dictate to me.”

  “He is my son,” Alessandro repeated strongly. “The world will recognize him as such, if I do.”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “I am not your wife any longer, Alessandro. I belong to Raf Leopardi, and so does the child. I will divorce you. I don’t care what they say about me. I won’t live with you any longer.”

  “If you divorce me, you will never see the child again,” Loredan said evenly. “He is my son now.”

  “You—you’re absurd!” she gasped. “I cannot believe that you’re doing this! It’s ridiculous. You can’t expect Venice to swallow this lie. Do you think they won’t know he’s Raf’s son? Of course they’ll know! He is our child, Rafaello’s and mine!”

  “His name will be Paolo, for my father,” he said, ignoring her rising passion. “His christening will take place next month, in San Marco. The Doge himself has promised to be his godfather.”

  She sat up and threw back the covers. “You can’t get away with this,” she said in a shaking voice. “I won’t let you! I’ll tell the world that he’s Raf’s bastard! You’ll be a laughing stock!”

  “You will tell no one.” He never raised his voice above a genteel purr. “As far as the rest of the world is concerned, for the past year you have been confined to your rooms with a very serious illness. Let them whisper all they like. Let them laugh and sneer and conjecture. They will never know the truth.”

  “I will tell them! You won’t be able to stop me!”

  He shook his head. “You will tell no one, Fosca. If you do, if you spread slander—”

  “Not, slander, truth!”

  “—or try to humiliate me publicly, I shall have a dozen doctors declare that you are insane. You will spend the rest of your life on the island of San Servolo, in the madhouse.”

  She made a high-pitched sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You are mad! You should be in the madhouse, not I!” She tried to stand but her weak legs would not support her. She gripped the bedsheets in her shaking hands and glared at him.

  Alessandro said, “Listen to me, Fosca. The boy will be raised as a Loredan, as my only son. He will have every advantage, especially that of legitimacy. Have you thought about how important that will be to him later in life? And you—you will not interfere in any way with his upbringing or his education.” His voice softened a little. “I am not a monster. I don’t want to separate you from your child. You may visit with him every day, for as long as you like. But if you try and turn him against me, or to tell him the truth about his parentage, or to influence his thinking in any way, I will prevent you from seeing him at all.”

  She moaned and threw herself face down on the bed. Her frail body shook convulsively. Alessandro watched her, his lean face creased with sorrow. He knew he had beaten her, but there was no trace of victory in his attitude. The contest had been uneven, and unfair. She had no weapons; he had them all.

  “You would do it, wouldn’t you?” she said without looking up. “You would take my child away from me and lock me up in the madhouse, where I couldn’t trouble you anymore.” She rolled onto her back and swept her hair back with her arm. “It wasn’t enough for you to whip me like a dog, to degrade and defile and humiliate me. No, that wasn’t enough for you! You’re going to make me pay for what I did, for the rest of my life. Threats. Just the kind of torture I should have known you would devise. Threats, hanging over my head like a sword!”

  “It won’t be so dreadful as all that,” Alessandro said wearily. “You will continue to pose as my wife, as you did in the past.”

  “So long as I comport myself with dignity and restraint,” she added dully.

  “That is correct. I will not patrol your actions, or confine you to the house, or restrict your movements in any way. You will have a generous allowance to spend—more generous than before. You may choose your friends, and companions; pursue your own interests and occupations. But you will not give rise to any breath of scandal.”

  “Ah, you’re giving me permission to take lovers! What an extraordinary man you are, Alessandro. Not a breath of scandal! And I suppose I must submit to your own attentions as well?”

  Alessandro stiffened. “No. I will never force myself on you again. I,” he drew in a long breath and said haltingly, “I want you to know—I deeply and profoundly regret what happened that night. You have not condemned me for that more than I have condemned myself. It was brutal, unforgivable—. I promise you this, Fosca: I will never again infli
ct my desires on you in that fashion. In any fashion. I will not interfere in your life in any way, unless you make it necessary. I will not even speak to you unnecessarily. You are free to live as you did before all this happened. Just observe my warnings.” He added, “You should be grateful to me. I have been more than generous with you.”

  She lifted her head and looked at him. What unbelievable self-righteousness. What—arrogance!

  “Generous!” she repeated in a harsh whisper. “Generous!”

  She began to laugh shrilly. The sound grew louder, a crescendo of hysteria, until she began to scream. Alessandro fled before her screams became sobs.

  They stuck to the bargain. Fosca’s friends were finally given permission to see her. They told her about their bafflement and concern, and asked for details of what had happened to her. She stubbornly told them all that she really had been ill for over a year, and that she had even suffered a brief loss of memory. Was it true—had she perhaps gone to Paris in that time? No, certainly not. She had never left Venice. The onset of her illness just happened to coincide with the departure of the renegade Jew, that’s all. One of those peculiar tricks of fate that gives rise to so much troublesome gossip.

  All Venice knew it was a lie, but with typical Venetian grace and politeness, no one ever referred to the affair in her presence, and eventually the thrill of this scandal was supplanted by newer and fresher concerns. These were perilous times, and Venetians turned worried eyes to France, where the people had risen up and slaughtered their King and Queen. This was a scandal greater than any other, and every noble felt the whisper of the blade on his own neck.

  Fosca heard the details of Raf’s escape: how a darkhaired girl had seduced and drugged the guards of the prison and freed him; how soldiers and police had scoured the countryside and followed ships on which he was reported to have sailed, all without result. He had been seen in Rome, in Geneva, in London. No one knew who the girl was. The guards knew her only as Rosina. No one knew where she came from, where she went. She seemed to have come out of nowhere, and then disappeared again.