The Masquers

by Natasha Peters

  At the first clash of metal against metal, Fosca winced. They started slowly, circling each other like cats, taking each other’s measure, dabbing and feinting to test quickness and direction and force. Raf saw immediately that he would be at a disadvantage because Loredan was left-handed. It would be very easy to leave himself exposed to a thrust from an unaccustomed direction. But he also saw that the other man was already wearied from battling his way out of the Tombs, and that he was limping slightly from a wound on the thigh.

  Fosca saw the wound at the same instant. “Alessandro, you’re hurt!”

  Loredan ignored her. She crouched next to Paolo, holding her son’s head against her breast so that he wouldn’t see the duel. But the sounds of rattling swords brought him fully awake, and he squirmed and twisted in her arms so that he could see clearly. He stood on the seat of his chair. Fosca stood behind him, her arms around his shoulders.

  “It’s Papa!” he cried excitedly. “Papa! Papa!”

  “Hush, darling, don’t distract them,” Fosca warned. “You must try to be very quiet.”

  Alessandro lunged at Raf and caught the tip of his sword in Raf’s shirt. Fosca heard the tear. Raf brought his own sword down on the other blade to turn it away. He was a careful fighter, Fosca noted. Not hasty and impetuous, like her husband, she saw with surprise. Then suddenly Alessandro produced a lightning-quick series of thrusts, giving his opponent little time to think, or even breathe. His sword seemed to be everywhere. Raf was on the defensive. He moved backwards, working feverishly to keep that flashing blade at a safe distance, and also watching the dagger that Loredan held in his right hand. They circled the table. Fosca picked up Paolo and removed him to a safer corner of the room.

  She saw what Raf was doing: letting Alessandro tire himself out in the attack. She knew that when Raf felt her husband begin to weaken, he would press his own offensive.

  Alessandro swung his sword, trying to find the chink in the younger man’s protection. Raf, rested and fresh, successfully kept him at bay, although with considerable effort. Soon he noticed that Alessandro’s thrusts were coming more slowly. He parried one blow by a strong sweep of his own sword that nearly disarmed the ragged-looking older man. Then he lunged forward, his weapon singing. Alessandro needed both his weapons to fend off the attack. He was weakening rapidly. The throbbing pain in his wounded leg distracted him. he tried to ignore it and to favor his good leg. He decided that his only chance would be to duck in under their crossed swords and plunge his knife into Raf with his right hand.

  He neatly parried a thrust and dove at Raf with his knife aimed at his heart. The unexpected move caught Raf off guard. He felt the blade graze his side as he twisted away. Loredan, thrown off balance by the other’s sudden move, stumbled a little. Raf's sword caught him in the thigh, opening his wound still wider. Alessandro fell heavily, dropping his sword.

  Raf kicked the sword away and pinned Alessandro’s arm to the floor with his booted foot so that he could remove the knife from his hand. Then he stood over the fallen noble and pricked the hollow of Loredan’s throat with the point of his sword.

  “And now you damned aristocrat,” he panted, “I’m going to—”

  “Dear me, such goings on at Ca’ Loredan tonight!” a new voice clucked. Rosalba Loredan stood just inside the doors, a curious smile fixed on her face. “Well, Signor Leopardi, would you kill your own father?”

  Without moving his sword a fraction of an inch, Raf looked up angrily.

  “Mother!” Fosca breathed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Someone has to persuade these foolish warriors to listen to reason,” she said cheerfully. “I do occasionally leave my bed, when circumstances deem it necessary, as they do now. Well, I asked you boy,” she said to Raf, “would you kill your own father?”

  “You’re raving, old woman,” Raf puffed. “He’s no more my father—”

  “You think not? My dear young man, I don’t have to remind you that your parentage is dubious, do I? The identity of your true father has always been a mystery, at least to you. But not to your grandfather, and not to me. I know for a fact that you are the product of a youthful dalliance between the Jewess, Daniella Leopardi, and my son, Alessandro, who lies before you now in such an undignified state. What a rebellious young thing she was! They met secretly, of course. She slipped out of the ghetto after the gates were closed, and the moonlight and nature worked their incomparable magic. The poor boy came to me and announced his intention of marrying the girl. I certainly couldn’t permit that—one must occasionally think of family, after all—and so his father and I sent him off to sea. I promised him that I would look after her, though, and I did. She had the best doctors in Venice, although her pregnancy was a difficult one and her delivery fatal. She died giving birth to you, Rafaello. Your grandfather assumed your care, with some financial assistance from me.”

  “I don’t believe you. Lies. Lies!” He pressed the tip of his sword deeper into Alessandro’s neck. “Is it true, damn you? Is it?”

  “I knew nothing about any pregnancy,” Alessandro rasped. “No one told me—”

  “We wanted you to forget the unfortunate affair and get on with your growing up,” his mother said tartly. “Does a mother have to tell her child everything? Certainly not, if it’s not good for him to know. You will recall, boy,” she said to Raf, “that your grandfather attained riches with remarkable rapidity. From a pushcart he graduated to a shop, and from there to money-lending. He accumulated a very tidy fortune, didn’t he? Now, it wasn’t only his sharp business acumen that won this wealth for him, but a very nice sum of money from the Loredan coffers. Loredan money helped him prosper. Loredan money bought you the finest tutors, a place in the University, a ship of your own. You know, you might have had a very nice career in law, if you had stuck with it. Your professors at Padua certainly spoke highly of you. I received reports from the old man, you see. One likes to look after one’s investments.”

  “You’re fabricating this whole thing!” Raf snarled. “It’s all a damned lie! You can’t prove a word of it!” Nevertheless he stepped back a pace from Alessandro and lowered his sword.

  At once Fosca was on her knees beside her husband. She tied a linen napkin around his bleeding leg. He tried to push her hands away, weakly, but she was insistent. He looked dazed and exhausted, like Raf.

  Rosalba Loredan moved to the table and sloshed some wine into a glass. She drank it down, poured another glassful and took it to Alessandro. “Take a swallow of this, son,” she advised. “You’ll live, if the seed of your youthful indiscretion will let you.”

  Fosca supported Alessandro’s shoulders and helped him drink. When he had drained the glass he said thickly, “Get away from me, damn you.”

  “I won’t,” she murmured. “I won’t leave you.”

  Rosalba lowered herself into a chair and sighed deeply. “Well, Signor Rafaello, I’ve dumped a very pretty dilemma into your lap, haven’t I? You can either accept what I have told you, or you can reject it. If you believe me, but persist in murdering my son, you will be haunted for the rest of your life by the knowledge that you slaughtered your own father. Such crimes, at least in legend, have a way of earning their own special punishments. But you will also be tortured by doubts if you reject my tale and carry out your execution. You will think you know the truth, but you will never be certain. You’ll never know, will you? So what to do? If you like, I can take you upstairs and show you the portrait of Alessandro’s grandfather, whom I told you you resembled strongly. I think even you will see the likeness.”

  “It’s—it’s insane!” Raf sputtered angrily. “Impossible! This is just a damned trick!”

  “You heard my son admit that he knew your mother, Daniella!” Rosalba said imperiously. “To assume that still another man impregnated her would be to impute certain qualities to her character that would do her memory a grave injustice. Would you call your own mother a whore? No, boy. You are rough-hewn and crude, but you have th
e seeds of a gentleman in you.”

  “It’s a lot of damned nonsense,” he muttered. “Gentleman. I’m not a gentleman!”

  “I cannot argue with that, as far as your behavior goes,” the old woman said with a shudder. “But you see what must be done, don’t you? You must let my son go free. Let him leave Venice. You know very well that if that Captain Laugier was killed it was only because he was stupid. When he saw that his ship was overrun and the battle lost, he should have surrendered his weapons. Alessandro would never had killed an unarmed man. In a similar situation, you yourself would have done the same, and you know it. No, you cannot justly sentence Alessandro to death for that. Then what is your quarrel with him? Is it Fosca? You must leave that to her, and not try to dictate the conditions for happiness. She must choose, and not you. Or perhaps you want my son dead because he is a Loredan, a nobleman. But if what I say is true—and it is—so are you a Loredan. Fully one-half.”

  “No, damn you!” Raf shouted.

  “Yes, I say! It is the truth! What are you going to do about it, commit suicide because the thought of being noble repulses you? That’s ridiculous, unthinkable. You have a future ahead of you, a fine future. Venice needs you. Spare Alessandro and Venice will thank you. Kill him and they will never forgive you. And you will never forgive yourself. You are smart enough to connive at his escape without incriminating yourself. So far no one knows he is here. No one will ever know. Let him live, Rafaello Loredan.”

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “You are Rafaello Loredan!” she said vehemently. “You are his son and my grandson! And I will thank you to remember your manners when you speak to me, boy. Let him go. Help him escape. You will never regret it, I promise you. But kill him and you will pay the rest of your life.”

  “Please, Raf,” Fosca said softly but urgently, “please let us go. For my sake. Because you love me.”

  “Let us go?” he echoed bitterly. “So you want to go with him, do you? No, Fosca, he doesn’t want you anymore. And I do. I do! Stay. Stay with me and I’ll let him go free.”

  “I know what he thinks about me,” said Fosca, not moving from her husband’s side. Alessandro against her, his eyes closed. She didn’t know if he could hear her or not. He had lost a lot of blood and was very weak. “But I still want to be with him, now more than ever. He and I don’t belong in Venice anymore. But you do. It’s your city now, not ours. Your world. Let us go away. Forget about us. We’ll never return, I swear it.”

  The room grew silent. The women watched Raf’s face for signs that he would relent. Finally he tossed his sword onto the dining table and said, “All right, go. Both of you. But the boy stays with me.”

  Paolo looked startled. Fosca gave a little cry. Alessandro, fully alert now, struggled to rise. Fosca left him and went to Raf s side. She held his hands and looked deeply into his eyes. Life had come surging back into her along with her hope. She was a different woman from the distant goddess who had faced him across the table.

  His mouth felt dry. “Fosca, please—”

  “Would you take a child away from his mother?” she asked in a low voice. “No, Raf, I know you too well—you couldn’t do it. You’re not cruel. But you’re hurt. I understand. Forgive me. But don’t break my heart just when you’ve given it back to me again. You know we will bring him up properly, a son for you to be proud of. And we’ll tell him the truth someday, I promise. Please, let us all go. Now. Tonight.”

  “I’ll have nothing left,” he said, shaking his head. “I can’t!”

  “You will have all of this,” Fosca looked around the elegant room. “It’s yours now, by right of birth. You will have Venice, and liberty, and great, important work to do.”

  “And you’ll have me,” Rosalba informed him.

  “I’m too old to leave this house now. I’ve stayed in that bed for twenty years, waiting for death. I’m not about to leave it.”

  “No, Mother!” said Alessandro hoarsely. “I forbid it!”

  “Do be quiet,” the old woman said crossly. “At my age I’ve earned the right to make my own decisions. I’m not feeble-minded, am I? I know what I’m doing. Paolo, dear, please bring your father a chair. Quickly now, before he falls down. Fosca, run upstairs and fetch some cloaks and hats. Then go to my room. Under my pillow is a sackful of ducats. Money I’ve won playing bezique with Carlo. I don’t need it, but it was fun to gloat over. Naturally, if you meet anyone—soldiers, servants—you must make up some excuse. You still know how to tell a charming lie, I trust?” she asked Fosca.

  “Yes, Mother,” she said obediently. She pressed Raf’s hand and then went to the door and peeked out into the hallway. It was empty. The French soldiers had searched the house, and finding nothing, had left to search the neighborhood.

  “Now you, Rafaello,” said Rosalba when Fosca had gone, “write some safe conduct passes so that my children can get through the French lines. There are pen and ink on that table over there.”

  Raf hesitated just a moment, then moved to obey. Sighing, Rosalba stood and went over to Alessandro, sitting slumped in his chair, his face drained of all color. Standing beside him, Paolo watched the goings-on through wide eyes. The old woman put her hand on her son’s shoulder and looked down at him.

  “We won’t see each other again,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve seen far too much of me these past few years. I should have died long ago.” 1

  “Mother—”

  “I’m not sorry to be staying! I am rather interested in this new era we seem to be entering. As you know I am not opposed to new ideas . I can’t think how you came to be such a prig, dear. Your father’s legacy, I suppose. The Loredans always were rather stuffy. Now, listen carefully, Alessandro. You have a chance that not many men get: to begin your life over again, with a woman who loves you.” She saw that he was about to argue with her and she said sharply, “Don’t be a fool, boy! Fosca is a good girl. She was as faithful to you as you deserved. But the heart has a long memory, as you will learn. She couldn’t stop loving him, even though she might have wanted to. The important thing is that you have won her heart. Don’t be an idiot. Forget your pride. Don’t let happiness slip away from you again. Forgive, and live.” She patted his head. He covered his eyes with his hand and shuddered.

  Rosalba stooped to kiss his forehead. “I’ll go back to my room now. Good-bye, my son.” He grasped her withered hand and pressed it to his lips. Then with her thumb she traced a cross on his brow, embraced and blessed Paolo, and walked slowly toward the door.

  “I am a very demanding grandmother, Rafaello,” she said over her shoulder. “One visit a day, without fail!”

  At that moment Fosca returned, cloaks flung over her arm, a three-cornered hat in her hand.

  “Hurry and embrace me, Fosca,” the old woman said, opening her arms. “I’ve done enough mischief for one night. Bless you, child.”

  “Thank you,” Fosca whispered tearfully. “Thank you, forever!”

  “Stuff,” the old woman sniffed, and added softly, “Don’t wait too long to speak. Get it out in the open. Get it over with quickly.”

  Fosca nodded and Donna Rosalba left the room. Raf came over with the safe conduct passed in his hand. He said, “Take my gondola. I imagine Guido’s around someplace—he’s never far from where you are. They shouldn’t challenge you, but if they do, show them these.”

  She took the papers. “Paolo, do you know Guido?” she asked, turning to her son. The boy nodded eagerly. “Run and tell him to make the large gondola ready. But don’t mention your papa to anyone else, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mama.” He looked at Raf curiously, and than at his mother. “Am I going, too?”

  “Yes, darling. Wait with Guido until we come.”

  He started to go, then remembered his manners. He said to Raf, “Good-bye, Signor,” and raced out of the room.

  Raf’s eyes were suspiciously bright. He turned away from Fosca abruptly and stalked over to the windows. He stood
there, his back towards them, while Fosca helped Alessandro to stand and draped a cloak around his shoulders. The cloak shrouded him almost to his knees. Then she swung another cloak around her own shoulders and put her arms around his waist.

  He said gruffly, “I don’t need help.”

  She said nothing, but did not remove her support. He leaned heavily on her. He had to. They moved slowly towards the door.

  “Just a minute.” Raf s voice was sharp. They halted and looked at him. He walked to a table that stood against the wall and unlocked a wooden case. “You’d better take these. They’re primed and ready.” He lifted a pair of duelling pistols out of the case and brought them to Fosca, who recoiled. But Alessandro nodded and took them both, tucking them into his waistband. Raf looked at Fosca intently. “Good-bye, Fosca. God go with you.”

  Her eyes filled. “And with you, Rafaello. Thank you.”

  She and Alessandro went out into the darkened hallway. Raf closed the door behind them. He stood motionless for a long moment, then went out onto the balcony over the Grand Canal. In a few minutes he saw a gondola glide out of the small artery to the right of the palazzo and turn left into the main waterway. A tricolor French flag fluttered on the bow. He could see two cloaked figures seated in the center, but he knew that a third, a smaller one, was with them, too. He watched until they turned south towards the Giudecca Canal and terrafirma and vanished. Then he came back into the room.

  He stood over the remains of their feast. He picked up Fosca’s wineglass. He stared at it for a moment, then hurled it violently into a darkened corner. Fury possessed him. Cursing loudly, he swept his arm over the end of the table. Crystal and china shattered on the marble floor. He fell heavily into a chair and slumped forward, resting his head on his arms.

  That was how Lia found him half an hour later when she burst into the room. She had come directly from the theater and was wearing the costume of Eurydice in Orfeo: a short Grecian tunic that left one shoulder bared, little kid slippers, a light stole. Her hair was laced with ribbons.