The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  “You would be the first to know if I were anticipating motherhood, dearest heart,” Fosca replied, shading her eyes with her hand. “You know that I have no secrets from you.”

  “What a lie,” he said in a bored tone. He fanned himself lazily. “You have some new admirer. A new lover. I am never wrong.”

  “Dear me, am I so easy to read?” Fosca clucked. “So, I seem like a woman in love, do I?”

  “If not in, then on the verge. I’ve seen the signs before.”

  “You sound just like Loredan’s mother,” Fosca observed with a yawn. “Is that what you want to be, darling, a nosy old woman? You’d better watch out, Antonio. Time is passing. Why, you’re even showing a little gray! Antonio,” she said, reaching over and grasping his hand, “why don’t you get married? You really should, you know. You’re well-off, and handsome, and I know a dozen girls who would be delighted with the prospect!”

  “It is not the girls but their parents who need to be delighted,” Antonio reminded her, “and I can’t be bothered courting the favors of the elderly. Besides, I have never noticed that marriage has ever brought any special happiness to anyone. My married friends might as well be unmarried, for all they care about their spouses.” He gave Fosca a long, sharp look and muttered, “No, it can’t be. The summer sun must have baked my brains.”

  She gave him a strange smile, enigmatic and a little smug.

  The weeks passed quickly, giving the impression that even though the days were long, there were not enough hours to do all the delightful things that needed to be done. At the end of September the Loredans traditionally gave a costume ball. Guests came to stay from villas as far as thirty miles away, and the party lasted a night and a day and into another night. Barrels of wine were drunk, dozens of fowl slaughtered to feed the crowd, and the kitchens kept busy night and day.

  Fosca dressed for the ball as a Spanish lady, in a tight-fitting gown that flared away below the hips into acres of flounces. She posed for her mirror and waggled her black lace fan under her nose. Yes, it was very nice, very mysterious. On her head she wore the traditional high comb and black lace mantilla. Drawing the mantilla over the lower half of her face, she wondered if she should slip into Alessandro’s room that night. It was very tempting, and it would be fun to pretend that the Masked Lady had come unrecognized to the ball.

  Everyone agreed that the ball was the best the Loredans had ever given. The more astute and perceptive gossips in the crowd, like Donna Rosalba’s cicisbeo Carlo, remarked on Alessandro’s unusual good humor, and on the fact that he danced not once but twice with his wife. They danced a waltz together, and although many thought the new dance scandalous, all agreed that the Loredans performed it gracefully. They were a beautiful couple. It was a shame they weren’t happier.

  At midnight, supper was served on the north terrace, and then a treasure hunt was announced: something very precious had been placed in the center of the boxwood maze. The first couple who discovered it could share it.

  Fosca and Giacomo Selvo were among the last to enter the maze. All around, on the other side of the impenetrable hedges, they could hear the delighted but frustrated squeals of contestants who had lost their way.

  “I don’t see how you can thread your way through this thing every year for thirteen years and not remember your way to the center,” Giacomo grumbled.

  “But I do remember,” Fosca said. “This is a false trail. The way to the center is this way.” She waved her gloved arm. “Come along.”

  “It’s the other way, I tell you,” Giacomo insisted.

  “You know very well that you can’t even find your way to the Piazza San Marco without the help of a guide. You can’t possibly remember this thing.”

  “I most certainly can remember it, and I can too find my way to the Piazza. Now, are you coming or not?”

  “I am going this way,” Giacomo said firmly. “Oh, bloody hell!” he squeaked as a boxwood twig snagged the lace on his cuff.

  “And I am going this way,” Fosca said with equal firmness. “I shall win the prize alone and I won’t share it with you!”

  “That’s not fair. It’s your maze!”

  They separated huffily and Fosca found herself alone in a dark alley between high hedges. The moon was full and brilliant but still low enough in the sky to cast long shadows across the paths, and even though lanterns had been placed at certain intersections, the place was ghostly and mysterious. Giacomo called out to demand if she had reached the center yet, and she laughingly admitted that she hadn’t. She plunged resolutely down a likely-looking avenue and suddenly perceived that she had followed a dead end.

  A man, masked and cloaked, appeared beside her, almost as if he had materialized out of the shadows.

  “Ah, another victim!” Fosca cried merrily. “Well, Signor, which way shall we go now?”

  “Fosca.”

  She felt the blood drain out of her face. The strength left her legs and she swayed. He put his arm around her shoulders.

  “No,” she whispered. “Oh, no.”

  “Yes, Fosca.” He turned her around slightly so that she faced the moon. “It’s really you. Still beautiful. Oh, Fosca, are you frightened of me? Didn’t you know that I would come back to you?”

  “Yes,” she said softly when she found her voice. “Oh, Rafaello!” She touched his mask. He took it off and they gazed at each other.

  “Well, Fosca, do you still love me?” he asked at length. “Did you think about me?”

  “How can you ask that?” Tears sprang to her eyes.

  “There hasn’t been a day when I haven’t thought about you, every waking hour, even in my dreams.” She leaned into the sheltering curve of his arms.

  “And I have dreamed about you,” he said, stroking her cheek.

  Just then a couple of players appeared at the end of the alley and asked if they were on the right track. Raf turned, holding Fosca in front of him to shield him, and told them it was just another cul-de-sac. Laughing, they went away again.

  He said, “So many people. It’s not safe here. Is there some place we can go, to be alone?”

  “There are hundreds of guests,” she said. “Everywhere. But later—”

  “No, I can’t stay. I have to get to Venice right away. But I thought you might be here—I took a chance on seeing you. Funny, I knew you right away, even in this costume.” He lifted the edge of her mantilla. “Listen, Fosca, I’ve come to prepare Venice for Bonaparte’s takeover. I don’t know where I’ll be from one day to the next, but I’ll try to leave word with Tomasso. You can always get in touch with me through him, all right?”

  Two more searchers came into sight and he called to them, “Whatever you’re looking for, it’s not here.”

  The man shouted back, “No, but what you’re looking for is!” They went away.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Bonaparte, in Venice? But it can’t happen. Everyone says that we’re safe—he’ll never come here.”

  “They’re fooling themselves,” Raf said. “Nothing can stop him. I know. Part of my job is to see that he succeeds.”

  They heard Giacomo calling Fosca’s name. Raf kissed her quickly and stepped away from her, into the shadows.

  “Raf,” she whispered.

  “In Venice,” he said in an almost inaudible voice. “Ask Tomasso.” Then he was gone.

  “So there you are!” said an exasperated Giacomo.

  “You see, you got lost after all. Well, what’s the matter with you, Fosca? Did you see a ghost? For Heaven’s sake, let’s get out of here. Aren’t you bored by this game?”

  “Yes,” Fosca replied faintly, “I am.” She could still taste Raf’s kiss. “Quite bored.”

  Complaining of headache, Fosca went to her room immediately and dismissed her servants as soon as they undressed her. Her brain was whirling. She needed to be alone.

  He had come back. He had risked his life to see her for a brief moment. He still wanted her. And in that instant when
his arms closed around her, she knew that she still wanted him.

  Since commencing her strange affair with Alessandro, she had begun to realize that she could live contentedly without the one man whom she thought could make her happy. She hadn’t stopped loving Raf. She would always love him. But she saw that she could learn to accept her life for what it was. She could stop longing for the impossible, and making herself wretched because life had cheated her of true happiness. She could be content, loving her child, honoring her husband, growing in wisdom, truly earning the love and respect of those around her. She could forgive old wrongs and live without regret and shame.

  But Raf had swept back into her life like a hurricane, uprooting the tender shoots of her new found serenity, twisting the fragile structure of her existence, turning her life upside down—again.

  She paced the floor for hours. The house grew quiet. The guests who lived close by went home. Those who were staying finally adjourned to their beds. The clatter of music and conversation and laughter stopped at last, and she could hear the little songs of the crickets and the other creatures of the night.

  She didn’t even try to sleep. She knew it would be impossible. He had been in such a hurry to leave her. The Revolution was calling. Or was it? There was a woman waiting for him in Venice, a small, dark-eyed dancer. Fosca clenched her teeth. How dare he upset her like this, and leave her with just a quick kiss and a few words of instruction! How dare he run to that girl and leave her behind, to wait for his love just a little longer.

  “Damn him!” she muttered angrily. “Damn them both to hell!”

  Her room felt hot, stifling, suffocating. She threw her windows open. A rumble of thunder sounded beyond the horizon, but it was far away yet. The storm might never reach them.

  She couldn’t bear the confinement of the small space. She pulled a thin wrapper on over her nightgown, grabbed a candle in a holder, and left the room. She went down the stairs, through the drawing room in the south wing, and out onto the terrace. A breath of wind blew from the east, from the sea. It extinguished her candle. She lifted her face to the sky. That was better. She felt cooler, freer, less encumbered by worry. Clouds were gathering, moving swiftly across the sky, obscuring the sprinkling of stars. Yes, it would surely rain soon.

  She began to pace again. He had come back. But not to see her. She was just a little detour. He had come to work for the French, for Bonaparte. She smiled grimly to herself. That little dancing harlot would soon find that Raf Leopardi had a mistress that he loved more than either of them: Revolution.

  The French were approaching. Everyone said that Venice would never fall because it had never fallen to an enemy in the past. But Raf said it would. He knew Bonaparte’s strengths, and Bonaparte’s ambitions, which clearly included Venice.

  She had a sudden sickening recollection of what she had seen in Paris. Revolution meant delirious, uncontrollable crowds, angry shouts, marching, violence. She remembered the head of the Governor of the Bastille, stuck up on a pike for all to see. Bloody, nauseating, unforgettable. She closed her eyes and shuddered. That’s what Raf's return would mean to Venice.

  But it also meant that they would be together again, and forever. She could divorce Alessandro and marry Raf—. She stopped short. And what about Paolo?-

  Alessandro was so fond of the boy. It would break his heart to lose him, and her, too. He would never give them up without a fight. She knew that she should stop thinking about him as a lover and let their relationship return to its old pattern of separation and hostility. It would be cruel to let him think that there was hope. Now those frigid silences as they passed each other in the halls were just part of the game of flirtation. But to go back to the times when they were real, cold and deep and lined with hatred—no, she didn’t want that, either.

  She realized with a start that she wasn’t alone on the terrace. Another night walker was pacing farther down He approached and she saw that it was her husband. He wore no coat or neckcloth and his shirt was open at the throat.

  He looked up and their eyes met. He paused and seemed about to speak, but then his face assumed its accustomed blank expression and he started to walk past without acknowledging her.

  Without thinking she cried, “Alessandro, no more, I beg you.”

  He turned slowly. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and he saw her clearly. Her hair was loose and her flimsy gown caught the wind and billowed around her. She seemed distraught.

  “Fosca.”

  She turned away and braced her hands against the balustrade.

  “What are you doing up at this hour?” he asked, coming up behind her. He wanted to touch her but restrained himself. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m perfectly well,” she answered unconvincingly. “I—I couldn’t sleep. Or perhaps I did sleep. I dreamed—I was lost in the maze. And when I woke—the room felt like it was closing in on me Horrible. I couldn’t breathe.” She put her hands to her throat and lifted her chin. She closed her eyes.

  “Yes, I feel it, too,” he said. “It’s the storm. There’s a tension in the air, an electricity. Which reminds me, Paolo will be angry with me for not waking him. I promised him that the next time there was a lightning storm we would try Dr. Franklin’s experiment with the kite and the key. I’ve been regretting the offer ever since. I’m quite sure that I’ll get myself killed. I suppose I must lie and tell him I slept through it.” He saw that his talk soothed her a little, and he kept up for a few minutes, knowing that she wasn’t really listening but that the sound of his voice comforted her.

  Finally he asked, “What is it, Fosca? What’s troubling you? Can you tell me what it is? I want to help you, if I can.”

  She shook her head. “No, no. I’m fine, really. I don’t know what’s the matter with me tonight. I feel nervous and upset and all out of sorts.”

  He said sympathetically, “Poor child, have you quarrelled with one of your summer lovers?”

  To his surprise and pleasure, she whirled and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Alessandro, I’m so confused! I don’t know what to do!”

  He held her close and breathed a prayer of thanks. After a few minutes he smoothed the damp hair, away from her face and said, “Do you want to talk about your troubles?”

  But she pulled away from him and said angrily, “Why haven’t you come to me! Why have you been so cold, so distant this summer? I’ve waited and waited— I don’t believe you love me at all!”

  “Ah, so that’s it,” he smiled. “I couldn’t speak to you, my dearest, can’t you see that? I had to wait for you to make the first move. If I had approached you, you would have shied away from me. You had to be ready in your own time. I’m sorry. I know it hurt you. But I had no choice. I was willing to wait.”

  “You were cruel! It was torture for me!” she cried. “I didn’t know whether you really loved me or not. I even thought—that you didn’t know that I was the Masked Lady and that you loved her instead of me!”

  He laughed. “Oh, you’re marvelous, Fosca! I knew it was you from the first. Masked or unmasked you are the loveliest woman in Venice. You walked into that room and my heart stopped. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was in agony the whole time, terrified that I’d spoil the magic.”

  “You didn’t look terrified,” she said crossly. “You were extremely artful and convincing.”

  “I had to be. I didn’t want to frighten you away, and I had to insure that you would come back to me. It wasn’t easy.” He grinned. “I thought I managed it all rather well.”

  “You were horrid,” she sniffed.

  He put his hands on her shoulders. “I know that when a woman is pursued, her first impulse is to flee. If I had played the ardent lover, you would have been frightened. We needed the pretense, you and I, until you learned that you could trust me, and until you knew me better for the frightened, wretched fool that I am.”

  She said in a softer tone, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to scold. I should have known that you
had your reasons. You’re very wise. You see, you know me better than I know myself.”

  “You have been the subject of many years of observation and study,” he said. “I know that this is only a beginning for us. The walls between us are down, and at least we can talk without bitterness. But we can’t go back—you know that. No more Masked Lady, Fosca.”

  “I don’t want to go back,” she said seriously. “I’m tired of her, tired of the game. I had to speak to you tonight—I needed to know that you still love me.”

  “I understand. I do love you,Fosca. You don’t love me, not yet, and perhaps you never will. You loved me once, in your heart’s sweet innocence. It may be too much to hope that someday you will love me again. But I’m willing to wait and to hope. Can you tell me—am I being a fool? May I hope?”

  But she evaded the question, and said, “I want to ask your forgiveness, Alessandro, for the things I have done. I have wronged you.”

  “No, Fosca, you don’t need to—”

  “I must. You’re right. I don’t love you yet. Not the way I loved Raf Leopardi.” She saw him stiffen. “I have to speak of him now, and I’11 never mention him again. I loved him deeply, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love that way again. I was younger—you had hurt me—I was frightened of love—and he taught me to trust, and to believe in it again.” She sighed and turned away from him a little, but he continued to hold her hand lightly. “It’s taken me a long time to grow up, to learn that you can’t always have everything you want, and that the things you want aren’t always good for you. There are many, many people in Venice who look up to you and respect you, Alessandro. You have always stood fast for the things you believed in. I feel shamed because I never bothered to look past our relationship at your good qualities. I was selfish—I never really thought of what I was doing to you.”