“Why should they be different?”
“Because when your heart is full of love, there is no room for anything else,” she said. A church bell tolled the hour: one o’clock. “So late,” she said, drawing her shawl up around her shoulders. “I must go.”
“May I escort you?” Alessandro asked.
She shook her head. “I think not, Signor Loredan. The story of our love affair would be all over Venice by morning.”
“They would find me unworthy of you,” he said gallantly. “It’s true, I am.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said sharply. Even in the semi-darkness he thought he could detect a blush on her cheeks.
“I’m glad we met,” he said. “Perhaps we shall see each other again?”
“I think not. Good-night, Signor.” She went away without offering her hand.
He felt somewhat annoyed and disappointed. A few minutes later he winnowed a protesting Laura away from the merry crowd. In their gondola, on their way back to his casino, she chattered brightly at his side. Irritated, he told her to cease her incessant noise. She burst into tears.
“I don’t know why you’re being so cruel to me!” she sniffed. “I don’t know why I bother to see you at all. You don’t know how to be kind to women.”
“Then find yourself another lover, if you don’t like the way I behave towards you,” he growled.
He dropped her at her home, told her curtly that he would send her things in the morning, and told his gondolier to take him back to Ca’ Loredan.
Two nights later he attended the ballet alone, masked. Lia and Vestris were dancing La Fille Mal Gardée again. He watched her intently, and was relieved to see that her eulogizers didn’t exaggerate; she approached perfection. Her portrayal of the village maiden was touching and believable, and when she and the muscular Vestris danced together, it was a memorable and breathtaking experience.
Alessandro listened to the buzz of gossip that swirled around him during the performance and especially at intermission. According to the whisperers, Lia was sleeping with a Procurator of San Marco, an Inquisitor, several ambassadors, and a handful of lesser men, including her partner, Gaetano Vestris, a strapping, handsome man who looked at her, on the stage at least, with eyes of love.
Afterwards Alessandro went backstage to congratulate her, but she was mobbed by the usual well-wishers and parasites and moths that swarm around fame’s candle. He glimpsed her briefly, smiling coolly at her admirers and thanking them for their gifts and compliments. Her glance swept over him without stopping. For a moment he felt irritated, until he remembered that he was masked. He went away feeling foolish.
“I don’t belong here,” he muttered to himself. He resolved to forget her.
The next night he accompanied another woman to the Ridotto. He saw Lia, masked but unmistakable, on the arm of Carlo Bernini, his leading liberal opponent in the Senate and now, it seemed, a rival of a different sort. He attended the ballet alone a few nights later, when Lia and Vestris performed to the music of Gluck’s Orfeo and Eurydice. Lia made a pathetic and heartbreaking Eurydice. She was dressed in a classically-draped tunic that left one shoulder and arm exposed. Her hair was loose, held away from her face by a glittering band. When she moved it swirled around her like a veil, as disciplined and controlled as any other part of her body.
Alessandro sent a note with a small gift the next day. The gift was returned, and she didn’t answer the note.
The harder he tried to forget her, the more intrusive thoughts of her became. He found himself thinking about her-at odd times during the day: when he was supposed to be preparing an argument for the Senate; when he was in conference with the Doge and other advisers; sitting at his desk at home; playing with his son. He made inquiries and learned, to his surprise, that she did not live in the theater district, but that she owned a small house on the other side of the Canal Regio, by the gates of the Old Ghetto.
He went there at midday one day in late April. An outer gate opened into a small courtyard with a round fishpond in the center. It was flanked by two twisted olive trees and a lemon tree. He rapped on the door to the house. It was opened by a slack-jawed woman of indeterminate years who took his card and motioned him with her head into the drawing room off to the side of the foyer.
The room was a pleasant surprise. It was large and white and airy, uncluttered, furnished with some very valuable antique pieces. There were a couple of Renaissance chairs from Florence, cushioned in embossed leather; a tall chest of drawers against one wall and a fine desk against another. The center of the room was dominated by a broad table with gilt legs. The top was decorated in a flower and bird design, made of thousands of chips of semi-precious stones.
“Signor Loredan.”
She had obviously been practicing. Her feet were slippered in kid—dancers weren’t yet rising completely on their toes. She wore a peasant skirt that came to the middle of her calves and a short-sleeved chemise. She carried a shawl, which she threw around her shoulders. Her face was gleaming with perspiration.
“Why have you come here?” she demanded in a hostile tone.
“I wanted to talk to you, Signorina,” he said. “Forgive me if I arrived at an inconvenient time.”
“You can’t imagine why I don’t want you here, can you? You think that a lowly dancer ought to be flattered by the attentions of the great Loredan. But instead she returns your gifts and doesn’t answer your notes and refuses to see you. You think you have offended her in some way and that you can rectify the misunderstanding by plaguing her in her home.”
He flushed angrily. “I didn’t realize that your antipathy was so strong. I have indeed misunderstood—something. Forgive me.”
He bowed stiffly and started towards the door. She stepped aside to let him pass. At that moment an old woman came into the room. She was dressed all in black, even to the black shawl draped over her head and shoulders. Her pale wrinkled hands trembled in front of her like white birds fluttering against the night sky.
“Lia,” her voice quavered, “Lia, have you seen my knitting? I’ve looked and looked and I can’t find it anywhere.” The old face was creased with worry. “Do you think it’s lost? I was knitting for Rafaello. Socks. It will be winter soon and he will need them.”
With a gasp of horror Lia went to her side and put her arms around the old woman’s shoulders. She tried to lead the woman away, but the old one saw Alessandro and stood firm.
“Oh, you have a visitor. I’m so sorry, Lia. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“Oh, no, it’s all right, Aunt,” Lia said soothingly. “This is Signor Montini—you remember, the manager?—and he wants me to dance in his theater sometime soon. I’ve been telling him he should talk it over with Gaetano, who handles all my engagements now.”
“Oh, she is a wonderful dancer,” the woman told Alessandro proudly. “Ever since she was a child—she always loved to dance. Such happy times—”
“Come along, Aunt Rebecca,” Lia said, urging her gently towards the door. “I think Nina can help find your knitting. But you must go upstairs and rest now, all right?” She looked over her shoulder at Alessandro. “Signor Montini will wait for me in the garden.” Alessandro took the hint. He sat on a stone bench under the olive trees and watched the goldfish swimming idly under the flat leaves of the water lilies. A few minutes later Lia, carrying a tray with two glasses, emerged from the house.
“I am sorry, Signor. I was rude—perhaps I shouldn’t have been. But I’m very concerned about Aunt Rebecca. She is old, and she has been ill. Her mind is clouded by sorry and worry.”
“I understand,” Alessandro said, taking a cool glass from the tray.
“No, you don’t.” Lia sat next to him and sipped her lemonade. “Sometimes I think it was a mistake to bring her here. I wanted her to be free, but she doesn’t know how.” She faced him squarely. “I didn’t tell her your real name. She would have been upset and frightened. She still has dreams about agents of the Inquisitors co
ming to her house. She is a Jew, Signor. She should be living behind those gates, with the rest. But she became ill—and I didn’t want her to die in the ghetto.” Alessandro was silent. “Well, what have you to say? Are you going to report us, Signor Loredan?”
He frowned deeply. “No, of course not. I wouldn’t think of it.”
“But you helped make the laws that would put her back there. Every Jew in the ghetto knows your name, and hates it.”
“Yes, I suppose they do,” he said softly. “A long time ago, twenty years or so, when I was younger and ambitious, I used them ruthlessly and coldly, without calculating the human cost of what I was doing. They were ideal scapegoats for the woes of the Republic: too many Jews, not enough jobs for Gentiles. Blame the Jews because the economy is rotten, don’t blame the government, the real culprits. It was very convenient, and at the time, very helpful to my career. Of course they hate me. I never regretted it before. I never regretted it—until now.” He stood up and bowed a little from the waist. “Again, please forgive me for disturbing you. It was inexcusable, and I promise I will not plague you again with my attentions. You and your aunt have nothing to fear from me, or anyone else.”
“We have your protection, then?”
“Yes, Signorina. It’s all I have to give. Good day.” He nodded politely and started down the path towards the gate.
“Signor.”
He turned. Her face was in shadow.
“We need to talk. I never see my lovers here—it would upset her. If we could meet—”
“I have a casino, on the Calle Cristo.” He gave her the number.
“Good. I will come tonight. After the performance.”
He nodded, and left the courtyard.
Alessandro paced the floor of his sitting room and cursed himself for feeling as nervous as a lady of twenty. It was well past midnight. He decided she wasn’t coming. Well, what did he care? He’d been a fool to hope—
Her knock sounded on the door. She was masked and cloaked.
“I know I’m late. It’s so hard to get away—all those people.” She let Alessandro take her cloak and she removed her mask and tossed it aside. “Phew. I hate these things.”
“Why did you wear it?” he asked.
“To save you embarrassment,” she said. “Why else?”
“To spare yourself. Your Jewish friends wouldn’t approve of your coming to see me.”
She gave a little laugh. “I have no friends, Signor, Jewish or otherwise. No one to approve or disapprove of what I do. Only one, and he is far away from here.” She came farther into the room. “Oh, what a perfectly beautiful place! So elegant!”
“Some women like this sort of thing,” he shrugged.
“I like it very much,” she confessed with a smile. “I just can’t afford it for myself.”
“You have some very beautiful pieces of your own, Signorina.”
“They’re not really mine. I’m just buying them back, for a friend of mine.”
“You’re very kind. He’s fortunate,” Alessandro said.
“No. I’m not kind. I’m the biggest schemer that ever lived. If 1 can’t win his heart. I’ll buy it. By collecting the things he loved and gave up. By making a home for him when he returns—if he ever does. By taking care of his aunt. Not that I don’t love her—I do. But everything I do is calculated to make him want me someday. Even my dancing. I wanted to make him proud of me, to impress him. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t just another slut from the streets, that I was somebody.” She cocked her head and gave him an inquiring look. “Do you think I’m terrible?”
“Not at all. I repeat, he’s a fortunate man. But I’m being a poor host. Do you care for some wine?”
“No, not right now.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re wondering where you fit into my calculations?”
“I can’t imagine. Perhaps the Jews have selected you to be their Judith, and sent you here for my head.”
“No, I have brought no weapons, as you can see.” She smiled.
“At least none of iron and steel,” he corrected her.
“I confess to feeling some surprise that you wanted to see me again. I thought you detested me.”
“I did, before I met you. Then we met at the theater that night, and I liked you very much. But that was before I knew who you were, and I tried to hate you again, but I found that rather difficult. And now, I feel very confused and disturbed, Signor. I suspect that you are not the man you were twenty years ago, or even,” she added with a strange emphasis, “seven years ago.”
“We all change,” Alessandro remarked, watching her carefully. “Surely even you are not the same as you were—seven years ago.”
“That’s true. I was ignorant, untrained, a nobody. Signor Loredan,” she approached him and faced him boldly, “I don’t like fencing. I’m not witty and brilliant like the women of your class. I’m not clever. I came here tonight because I wanted to find out what kind of man you were. I’ve heard about you since I came to Venice. I have heard that you are brilliant and cold and cruel, that you love no one, that your wife ran away with a Jew because she wanted to spite you. ‘Loredan,’ they say, ‘can disarm with a glance, flay with a word, and kill with an epigram.’ But that’s not the Loredan I see. I see a lonely man who tries to hide his loneliness because he’s ashamed of it. Doesn’t he know that everyone is lonely? I see a man who wastes his time on lovely feather-heads like Laura. I see a man who wants not power and fame but love, which is what we all want. A man who has been humbled by life, but who has learned from his mistakes. No, this is not the Loredan they talk about in the ghetto, the monster who has ice in his veins. May I bore you further with a little story?”
“If you wish.” His eyes never left her face. “You’re a very perceptive young lady.”
“No, I studied men before I studied anything else. I know them. But to get on with my story: seven years ago the Inquisitors imprisoned a man in the Tombs. He was the Jew, Leopardi. I loved him. I will always love him. I felt some responsibility towards him, and great guilt, because I had spied on him and deceived him and betrayed him. I was jealous of the woman he loved. I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. Then a man came forward to help me. We always met at night, and he always wore a mask. He was careful never to reveal himself in any way. I suppose he would recognize me after seven years, but he wouldn’t expect me to know him. He wore no jewelry, no rings, but his right hand was oddly scarred, as yours is.” She grasped his hand and turned it over, palm down. “There was a scar on the back, very small, like a coin.” She looked up into his eyes. “Why did you do it, Signor Loredan? Why did you help him escape, the man who had stolen your wife?”
He didn’t betray himself with the flicker of an eyelid. He was a consummate politician and therefore an accomplished actor, and he knew how to control his features.
He said, withdrawing his hand. “My dear child, you must be daydreaming. I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“What about this?” She gestured towards his hand.
“A rapier, when I was a boy. A foolish error—a false step—the other fellow’s blade pierced my hand. There must be several men in Venice with such a scar. ”
“On their right hands?” she frowned. “Surely most men are right-handed, and would have been holding the rapier with that hand. But you are left-handed, and your right hand was free and unprotected. No, Signor, I know the truth. I would have known it anyway, from your voice and way of speaking, from your bearing. When we met—I was so happy to have found you again. I owe you so much. But when Flabonico said your name—. I didn’t know what to think. I was very confused. And I was frightened. But then I saw that I had nothing to fear.” She straightened up. “I swear to you: no one will ever know this secret but the two of us. I cannot use my knowledge without incriminating myself, can I? After all, I helped in the escape, too. I wouldn’t admit that to you now if I weren’t sure that you were my associate. But I
must know why you did it. Won’t you trust me?”
Alessandro shrugged and moved away from her. “I saw him in his cell. He suggested that he was not there because of treason, but because he had seduced my wife, and eloped with her. It was true, of course. After they ran away together, the Inquisitors called me in and quizzed me carefully about what had happened. They were happy enough to be rid of him, but the fact that he had absconded with the wife of one of their nobles was no small matter. They asked me if I wanted them brought back, in secret, before anyone found out, and they helped me invent the excuse of illness for her absence.” He clenched his fists. “Yes, I wanted her back. And yes, I wanted him dead. I knew about his association with the Jacobins, and I told myself that he would have deserved to be hung anyway. Then I saw him in his cell. He goaded me into attacking him. For the second time in my life, I lost control. I would have murdered him with my bare hands if they hadn’t pulled me off. He was going to be put to death because I had failed to keep my wife’s love. He knew it. She knew it. And I knew it. I wanted her back. If he lived, she could never accuse me of murdering her lover. That was a crime she would never forgive. Never. And so I decided that he must go free. I heard about de Planchet’s inquiries, and I sought you out. I knew you at the theater, but I never dreamed that you would know me. I was entranced: you were beautiful and talented, and you had risen so far, on the strength of your indomitable will. I liked that. I was—proud of you. And I wanted to know you better.”
“You love her still?” Lia asked softly.
Alessandro walked to the open windows and looked out over the rooftops. Then he lifted his face to the sky. His eyes were bright.
“She’s like the wind, like the air I breathe. Elusive. Essential. Impossible to define, or capture. I’d be lost without her. I have been abominably cruel to her, and all for love. It’s absurd. She loathes me, more than ever. I don’t stand a chance of winning her, but I’ll never let her go.”
The Masquers Page 27