The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “What happened then?” Fosca asked coldly. “Did Cupid’s arrow pierce your stony heart?”

  He grimaced. “You see, even you, a kind-hearted stranger, are revolted by my callousness. Yes, my heart was touched, and my love for her grew in proportion to her blossoming hatred for me. Poets will have you believe that love is a beautiful and thrilling experience. But for me it was hellish. I saw myself through her eyes, and what I saw sickened me. I couldn’t blame her for loathing me. I loathed myself.”

  Fosca was silent, remembering. Oddly, the memories his words evoked didn’t seem nearly so painful and terrible as they once had. Either the years had softened the harshness of recollection and healed her rounds, or her heart was anesthetized by too much champagne.

  Night was falling. The shadows in the courtyard below lengthened and then softened into darkness. Alessandro lit a candle on the table. A gentle wind made the flame dance and spark, but did not extinguish

  He watched the flame as he talked.

  “What I should have done right away, of course, was humble myself, apologize, beg her forgiveness. I—couldn’t. I still had a vastly inflated opinion of myself in those days, and in that instance my arrogance was exceeded only by my stubbornness and stupidity. She may have been the object of my desire, but she was still only my wife, and a snip of a girl at that. How could I possibly go down on my knees in front of her without looking and feeling ridiculous? So I said nothing. The chasm between us widened. How could it have been otherwise? The years passed. We lived apart, coming together, it seemed, only to hurt and wound each other. I drove her into the arms of another man, and hated them both because he had won the precious gift that I once spurned. I was guilty of the most abominable cruelties towards her. I have no defense, no excuse, except I loved her. I loved her and I wanted her love, and even though I knew that she would never give it, I couldn’t bring myself to let her go.” He toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “God, the sins, the follies we commit, all in the name of love.”

  “But you should have spoken truthfully to her about your feelings,” Fosca said. “She would have understood.”

  “No,” he shook his head morosely. “No. Apologies are like open bottles of wine: the longer you wait to serve them, the flatter and more sour they become. I found myself paralyzed when I was with her. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even think clearly. As the catalogue of my offenses against her grew, it became unthinkable that I should beg her pardon. I would have earned not forgiveness, but scorn, and incredulity, and mocking laughter. All of which I richly deserved, of course. But I couldn’t—I could not bring myself—.” He broke off and looked away.

  “You are too proud,” she said softly but not severely.

  “Yes. I have always been proud. Pride, I found very early in life, is a fine mask for uncertainty and fear.”

  “In love there is no room for pride,” She found to her surprise that her eyes were filled with tears.

  “In love,” he said, “there is no room for anything—but love. Women seem to know that instinctively. Men have to be taught, or they must learn it themselves, through scarring experience.” He sighed deeply and sat up straighter in his chair. Then he said in a lighter tone, “I must beg your forgiveness for boring you with that dismal confession, Signora. I merely offer it as proof of my base ignorance in matters romantic. Never in your life will you meet a greater fool than the man who sits before you now.”

  They sat silently for several minutes, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but strangely companionable.

  “You are very hard on yourself,” Fosca finally spoke. “Everyone behaves foolishly from time to time. Possibly your wife has done some foolish things for which she is sorry. It seems to me that the ones who are most hurt by foolish acts are the ones who perpetrate them. Even if a man kills another in anger, it is not the victim who suffers—except for a short time—but the one who has done the crime. I think that forgiveness can happen without a word ever being spoken. It comes with time, and wisdom, and self-understanding. When you find that you yourself are capable of doing the very things you hate in others, you cannot hate them without also hating yourself. Someday, when you have the courage to speak to your wife, you may find that she has already forgiven you in her heart, as you seem to have forgiven her.”

  “I have forgiven her, a hundred times over. And will she ever love me, do you think?”

  “I cannot say, Signor. Love is harder to earn than forgiveness.”

  “You are very kind, Lady,” he smiled. “Your husband is a most fortunate man.”

  Fosca said, “He would not agree with you.”

  “Then he is a blind fool,” Alessandro said vehemently. “A moron! Why, it would not surprise me to earn that he is in government!”

  “Yes, he is,” Fosca laughed.

  “Ah, a dolt, as I thought! One of the ironies of civilization is that those who have the energy and vision a become fine rulers rarely achieve power until they become old and lethargic and near-sighted. Sometimes I think I should have stayed a simple sailor. The sea is a smaller kingdom, and one in which all the citizens are dedicated to preserving order so that they may also preserve their lives.”

  “You were a sailor?” Fosca asked brightly, relieved that they had changed conversational directions.

  Alessandro nodded. “For a few years, as part of my apprenticeship in life. My father raised me in the old-fashioned way—which may explain a deplorable tendency on my part to behave in an old-fashioned manner. I was sent to the University at Padua when I was fourteen. At seventeen I entered the Navy as a sub-lieutenant on a warship.”

  “So young!” Fosca exclaimed. “Were your parents trying to hasten your maturity?”

  He laughed. “No, I think they were trying to slow it down. I had become involved with a girl of unacceptable parentage.”

  “Your first love!”

  “Yes. I resented my father’s interference in my life, but fortunately one has very little time to brood when one is battling Turks. I recovered quickly from heartbreak.”

  “Did they make you an admiral within the week?” Fosca wondered. “No, it took four years, and even then I only achieved a captaincy.”

  “Oh, I’m impressed!”

  “Don’t be. I was lucky enough to have among my subordinates knowledgeable men whose competence compensated for my ignorance.”

  “I think you are being overly modest,” Fosca chided him gently.

  “I deny it!” Alessandro said with a laugh. “The distance of a quarter of a century enables me to see myself as I was then with some degree of objectivity. I was as crass and callow as any young man of twenty. I am being not harsh, but honest.”

  “Well, what did you do after you conquered the Navy?” Fosca asked. Incredibly, she knew virtually nothing about her husband’s early career.

  “After the military,” Alessandro said, “the young Venetian gentleman is assigned to one of our many embassies in Europe. He is secretary, or minion, to a dodderer to whom he must appear respectful and subservient, all the while detesting him. The dodderer—the ambassador, that is—knows full well that his country carries little weight and importance in the world and that his mission on foreign soil is merely to enjoy himself and to stay out of trouble. The secretary’s job is to help him in this task by smoothing ruffled feathers, appeasing outraged mistresses, and occasionally carrying his employer home from a function at which he has had too much too drink. I was fortunate enough to be assigned first to the London embassy, and then to Paris.”

  “Fortunate, indeed!” Fosca marvelled. “Your father helped you?”

  Alessandro nodded. “Yes, he used his influence in my behalf—what are fathers for? It is to him that I owe my knowledge of the English language and my love of all things French.”

  “Dear me, you must have cut quite a figure among the Parisian ladies,” Fosca clucked.

  “I was irresistible! Young, vigorous, arrogant—”

  “Handsome and wealthy,�
�� Fosca added gleefully.

  “A real swaggerer! I broke a thousand hearts, and had my own broken an equal number of times.”

  Was La Pompadour one of your conquests?” Fosca asked slyly.

  “Now you’re teasing me,” Alessandro said sternly. “I’m not that old!”

  “Then you mustn’t talk like one of your dodderers,” Fosca said crisply.

  “You mean you don’t find my great age repulsive?” Alessandro asked incredulously.

  “Great age?” She studied him. Yes, his hair showed a little gray, but it was rather becoming. It softened the harsh lines of his lean face. Nice, the way it curled a little around his face. When he smiled, the creases at the corners of his eyes seemed to extend down to his chin. That was something you don’t see in a young man. It gave his face character. “From your appearance,” she said coolly, “I wouldn’t have guessed that you were older than forty.”

  “You do know how to flatter,” he said with a grin. “I could have deceived you!”

  “Easily. Let me give you some advice, Signor. When you’re trying to attract a younger woman, one who might be put off by your real age, don’t mention years at all. You will only make her think that age is important, and of course it isn’t.”

  “Thank you,” he said humbly. “I shall remember that.”

  “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous for advising you.”

  “Not at all! I welcome your suggestions, Signora. You are my superior in all matters—except in age,” he amended hastily.

  They laughed together. He reached across the table for her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met. Fosca felt a rush of warmth to her face and a peculiar tightening in her middle. She reminded herself that this was no ordinary flatterer; this was her husband, whom she loathed.

  “I find you quite perfect, in every way,” Alessandro said softly, planting a kiss on her palm.

  If this were a play, Fosca thought, I would jump to my feet and remove my mask and show him that he is making love to his own wife. He would cringe with embarrassment and shame for revealing himself as a craven philanderer. How dare he try to seduce me!

  She withdrew her hand and said firmly, “I really must leave. It is very late—”

  He stood up and came around behind her chair. “Of course, Signora, you don’t want to make your husband suspicious.”

  “No.”

  He bent over and kissed the back of her neck. She shuddered.

  “Please don’t do that!” she said. “I don’t like it!”

  “Forgive me,” he murmured. “You made me forget myself.” But he didn’t stop. He put his hands on her shoulders and inched the sleeves of her gown down her arms so that the top of her bodice gapped away from her breasts. He cupped them in his hands and felt her nipples harden.

  “Stop it, I beg you!” She jumped up and whirled around, and he caught her in his arms and kissed her. She was momentarily overcome by anger and as his mouth moved on hers her brain silently accused him of the most flagrant treachery. Her body was the real traitor: relaxed and rendered somewhat helpless by the wine and food, it surrendered happily to the kiss. Alessandro reached up to take away her mask. She caught his hand. “No, please, I want to keep it on!”

  He leaned over the table and blew out the candle. “Darkness is mask enough for lovers,” he said. He removed the pins that anchored the mask, and while he was at it pulled out the pins that held her hair up off her neck. She tried to wriggle away from him, but he held her firmly. “Don’t run away yet,” he whispered, encircling her mouth with soft, small kisses.

  “But my husband,” she said weakly, “what if he—”

  “Bother your husband,” Alessandro growled. “If he’s fool enough to let you out of his sight for a minute, he deserves to be cuckolded. He doesn’t want you but I do. I do.”

  He slid his hands into her loose hair and cradled her head while he kissed her deeply and languorously. She felt herself slipping into the sweet oblivion of Desire. Her brain said, “This can’t be Alessandro. I loathe him. I hate him. I can’t bear his touch. This must be someone else. I am drunk. I am mad. I am dreaming!” She let her head fall back and she laughed throatily. “I’m having the most absurd dream,” she said, “and I can’t wake myself up. Wake me up, please.”

  “I won’t. If it’s a pleasant dream, you must yield to it. Give yourself up to it. Enjoy it.”

  “But you don’t understand,” she gasped. “I am not—what you think. My mask deceived you!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with a little deception,” he assured her. “As long as it furthers the course of true love.”

  She felt his fingers move along her spine. “What are you doing now?”

  “Undressing you.”

  “Oh. You’re very good at this, you know.”

  “Better since fashions changed and stays disappeared. I always managed to knot the strings and thereby defeat the whole purpose of the exercise.”

  She laughed softly. “I don’t believe you. You were born knowing how to seduce a woman.”

  “Yes, it’s done like this.” He lowered his head a little and covered the tip of her breast with his mouth. She caught her breath and raked her fingers through his hair. Her eyes were closed. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the sitting room.

  “You’re very strong, for an old man,” she joked, kicking off the dress that had fallen to her knees.

  “I have to keep in shape. I find that young ladies like being borne off to bed.”

  “Ah. Is that where you’re taking me?”

  “Yes. Do you mind?” They passed through the darkened sitting room, into the small bedroom. He deposited her gently on the bed and finished undressing her.

  “It’s very odd,” she said, stretching lazily while he undressed himself. “I ought to mind, but I don’t. It was a delicious dinner—”

  “Oh, please don’t feel that you owe me anything for that.” He eased himself down beside her and ran his hands over her body.

  “Oh, but I do. I am yours for the price of a strawberry.”

  “They were very expensive strawberries,” he told her. “It’s a good thing you’re not my mistress. You have an enormous appetite.” He kissed her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her belly, the insides of her thighs. “I suppose you are just as greedy when it comes to love?”

  “Worse,” she sighed. “You’ll never be able to satisfy—.” She moaned softly as he slid his hands under her hips.

  “I’d be a very poor host if I permitted my guests to go hungry,” she heard him say.

  She felt the searing heat of his mouth on the fountainhead of her desire and she gave a convulsive shudder. “Now, please. Take me now,” she sighed. But he withheld his prize until he could feel tremors begin, then he covered her with his body and a violent quake shook them both.

  “I must apologize,” she said a few minutes later. “I underestimated your abilities. You must permit me to entertain you sometime, in similar fashion.”

  “I accept your invitation,” he said. “If you can wait a few minutes.”

  She awoke just before dawn and slipped out of bed. He was still sleeping, with one arm thrown over his head and one knee hitched up. He was a restless sleeper, and he muttered a little as he dreamed, but he hadn’t kept her awake. She hadn’t slept so well in years.

  She gazed at him thoughtfully in the pale light, and shook her head a little. Such a strange dream. And it wasn’t over yet.

  Her clothes were scattered all over the little apartment. She gathered them up and dressed quickly. She was just pinning the ribbons of her mask to her hair when he appeared naked in the bedroom door.

  “You’re leaving,” he grunted, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “I must. I make it a point to leave my lovers before dawn. I always look so wretched in the morning.”

  “You don’t. You look beautiful.” He crossed his arms. “Will you come again?”

  She felt suddenly tired, and sa
id, “I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”

  He approached her then and took her in his arms. He touched her chin and said, “It’s a beautiful dream, Lady. Don’t let it get away. Come to me again, tonight. Say you will. I won’t try to unmask you, I swear it.” She took his hand and held it for a moment, then left the casino without giving him an answer.

  Later that day Fosca was leaving Paolo’s schoolroom in Ca’ Loredan when she encountered Alessandro in the hall. She felt her pulse quicken, and she opened her mouth to speak.

  He passed without seeming to see her, and without saying a word.

  XIV

  THE MAZE

  “We won’t see each other again, ever,” Lia said. She and Loredan strolled across the Rialto Bridge. They were engrossed in conversation and hardly saw the profusion of goods on either side, nor hear the shouts of merchants and hawkers.

  “I’m not surprised,” she went on. “I knew it wouldn’t last. But it still hurts a little. Like going to the surgeon to have a tooth pulled. I guess. Bracing yourself for pain doesn’t lessen it.”

  Alessandro guided her away from a ratcatcher’s pole with its row of unsavory trophies and pushed away a beggar’s grasping hands.

  “I'm sorry,Lia,” he said. “I just thought it best—”

  “It’s all right, I understand.” Her hand tightened on his arm. “I knew I could never compete with her. Because you’ve always loved her, and you never really loved me. I’m not angry, Alessandro. In a way. I’m even glad. Are you sure of her?”

  “Sure? Of Fosca?” He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “No, I’m not sure of her. We’ve been playing a game for the past couple of weeks. Or at least it’s a game to her. I’m now one of her legion of lovers, and she is life itself to me. She’s the only woman I want. What we share now is so fragile as to be almost non-existent. But I don’t want to spoil it. She’s rather irrational in her attitude toward you, you know. I couldn’t go on seeing you and deceiving her. My only regret is that I’ve hurt you.”

  “I’m not made of glass,” Lia smiled bravely. “I don’t break. I only bruise a little. I hope for both our sakes that you win her. I want to tell you, I came very close to loving you, closer than I’ve ever come to loving any man except one. But that shouldn’t surprise me. You’re very like him.”