Copyright © Kylie Fornasier 2018
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means including printing, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior permission from the copyright owner.
First published by Penguin Books in 2014
ISBN: 978-0-6484447-0-1
Cover and text design by Keisha Galbraith © Kylie Fornasier
Cover and internal image Carnival Mask © Nejron Photo/Adobe Stock
www.kyliefornasier.com
To all the visitors to our city, on this the day before Carnival begins:
Sleep. It will be the last good sleep you will get in months.
Sit with your brothers, sisters, friends and neighbors. They may soon be your rivals.
Look in the mirror. Then forget who you are.
You have been warned. This is Carnival.
- Gazzetta Veneta. Saturday 3 October, 1750
In a city shrouded in secrets, it was only fitting that Orelia’s first view of Venice was shrouded in fog. Standing pressed against the boat’s railing, Orelia narrowed her eyes in an attempt to peer beyond the grey haze. If she looked hard enough, she could just make out the faint outlines of domes and columns, or perhaps her mind, drunk on sea air, was playing tricks on her. A bell tolled, making her jump.
‘Are you waiting for someone?’ asked the young English poet, whose attention she had not welcomed but had nonetheless endured throughout the journey.
Orelia looked around and realized they were the only passengers who hadn’t disembarked. Her other travelling companions had seemed as displaced as she was and yet they had stepped ashore onto the floating city without hesitation. Aside from the English poet on his Grand Tour, there had been a dethroned prince from the East and a young girl who had escaped from a convent in the Dolomites. What made them so brave? And so open?
When questioned, Orelia had told them she was the secret muse of a famous Venetian artist and that she was returning from a trip to Paris. At first, she had felt guilty for lying, but then suspected she wasn’t the only one. There was nothing poetic about the Englishman.
In truth, all anyone really wanted to talk about was the Carnival. Each traveler had their own wild version of what would go on in Venice over the next five months: endless masked balls in palaces of glass and gold, lovers reaching the height of pleasure on gondolas beneath the moon, dancing in every street and square, men dressed as women, women dressed as men, nobles who consumed nothing but hot chocolate for days. There were even rumors of a live rhinoceros on display and a flying angel who showered passersby with flowers. It sounded thrilling and terrifying.
Pushing a lock of hair away from her face, Orelia looked over her shoulder at the dense fog behind the boat, reassuring herself that there was nothing to go back to. There was only a path laid ahead for her in the city that would, for a moment, reveal itself through the fog, only to disappear again.
‘If you need somewhere to stay, my friend owns a hostelry in San Marco,’ said the Englishman in his rather stilted Italian. ‘It is quite clean and comfortable. I am sure I can persuade him to offer you a room for a good price.’
‘Thank you,’ said Orelia softly, ‘but I have arrangements.’ Another lie.
He nodded. ‘I hope you enjoy the Carnival.’ With a final smile over his shoulder, he disappeared down the gangplank.
Orelia took in a deep breath, picked up her bag, and then followed. The moment her foot touched land, the fog appeared to lift like a curtain, revealing the famous St Mark’s Square.
Disturbing a group of pigeons, Orelia walked forward, her eyes trying to see everything at once: the great height of the bell tower, the gold domes of the famous church, the merchant stalls, the crowds of people in colorful clothing, the gondolas. There was one building that captured her attention more than any other: the Doge’s Palace. Its two stories of rose-colored marble were a carnival of arches, colonnades and balconies. There was an incredible lightness to the enormous rectangular building that made it seem as if it might float away with the slightest gust of wind, like dandelion seeds.
‘Are you lost, miss?’ called a voice.
A grey-haired man stepped off a gondola and walked down a short jetty towards her. He was wearing a loose, white shirt and a red cap, identical to those worn by the men commanding other gondolas that were coming and going.
‘I suppose I am,’ she said.
The gondolier looked at her face quizzically, as if he saw something familiar. After a moment, the man shook his head. ‘What is your destination?
Taking an envelope out of her pocket, Orelia read the name and address for the hundredth time. The aged letter inside began with Dear brother. Her mother had never spoken about her brother in Venice nor had she ever mentioned that she herself was Venetian. Orelia had found the letter after her mother’s death in one of her books. A single letter was not much to cross Italy for but it was all she had.
‘Do you have a destination, miss?’ asked the gondolier, speaking slower.
Orelia blinked several times, then nodded. ‘The Contarini residence on the Grand Canal,’ she answered, her voice betraying her uncertainty. It had occurred to Orelia during her journey that her uncle may not know who she is. The letter she held announced Orelia’s birth but it was never sent. Had there been other letters? What if her uncle would not take her in? Where would she go? Perhaps she should have taken the poet up on his offer.
It was too late now.
Orelia tried to fight the familiar sensation of panic that rippled through her. ‘How much?’ she asked, withdrawing her pitifully light coin purse.
The gondolier waved his hand. ‘No charge. It’s not far and you remind me of someone who once showed me kindness.’
Orelia smiled thankfully and followed the gondolier down the short jetty. He extended his elbow to help her into the gondola. She noticed that, unlike many of the other gondolas, this one did not have one of those unusual black wooden cabins in the middle of the long boat that reminded her of a carriage you’d find on land. Orelia had nowhere to hide.
The gondola began to move and Orelia gripped the edge of the seat even though the rocking was slight. When she was sure she would not be tipped into the Grand Canal, she hazarded a glance over her shoulder. A winged lion atop a tall granite column in the square caught her eye and she imagined herself drawing courage from the majestic stone creature.
Turning around, Orelia felt somewhat calmer. Remnants of fog floated on the canal. Through it, Orelia could see tall, colorful palaces standing shoulder to shoulder along both sides of the wide waterway.
Just as the gondola rounded the bend, it began to move towards the right-hand bank, before pulling up alongside a large five-storey building. Tilting her head back, Orelia took in the sight of the colorful frescoed facade, the numerous gothic windows framed with marble, the ornate balconies overflowing with white flowers, and finally, the two arched doorways in front of her. Orelia’s heart beat quickly. This had to be a mistake. This couldn’t be where her uncle lived. It was too magnificent. She had never imagined he was a wealthy noble.
‘The Contarini residence,’ said the gondolier, drawing the vessel impossibly close to the water steps until the only thing left to do was disembark. Orelia stood up slowly, reluctantly, and somehow still lost her footing. A moment before meeting a watery end to her journey, the gondolier caught her arm and steadied her.
‘Thank you,’ said Orelia breathlessly, when she was safely on land, ‘you are very kind and generous.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said the gondolier. ‘It was my pleasure. Ma
y I ask where you are from?’
‘Montepulciano. It’s a small village in Tuscany,’ Orelia answered, feeling that she owed this kind man something, if nothing else the truth, for the free passage.
‘Ah, a very beautiful place.’
‘It is,’ Orelia agreed. If she closed her eyes and ignored the smell of salt in the air and the constant cries of the gondoliers, she was back in their garden amongst the primroses and poppies. Hardly a few weeks had passed after her mother’s death that the owner of the cottage they rented asked Orelia to leave. She couldn’t pay the rent. That was just how things worked. Her mother’s notebooks, detailing plants and their many uses, were one of the few things Orelia had not sold to buy her passage to Venice. Although Orelia doubted she would ever have use for them, she’d kept them anyway. It was the only piece of her mother she had left.
‘I hope you can find yourself in the city of masks, miss.’
Orelia thought about these words while she waited for the gondola to move off. How could you find yourself in a city of masks? Wasn’t the point of a mask to hide who you truly were from yourself and the world?
Overhead a seagull screeched, bringing Orelia out of her thoughts. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she stepped up to the imposing wooden doors, reached for the bell cord and curled her fingers around the rope. She had no idea what she would say when the door was opened, or if she’d even get past the servant to see Signor Contarini and state her case.
‘Wait,’ she called, turning around only to see that the gondola had already disappeared among the traffic on the Grand Canal.
It was too late to turn back.
She closed her eyes and pulled the cord. A few minutes later, or maybe it was less, one of the doors opened to reveal an older woman in a plain grey dress. ‘Can I help you?’ she said in a sharp voice.
‘Good afternoon, I wish to speak to Signor Contarini,’ said Orelia, attempting to sound confident.
The woman looked down at Orelia’s bag. ‘Concerning?’
‘My name is Orelia Contarini. I am . . . his niece.’
The woman gripped the edge of the door. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘Can I talk to him, please?’
The woman did not answer but stepped aside to let Orelia pass, glancing out to the canal as if to check if anyone had seen her enter. Orelia followed the woman through a passageway flanked by storage rooms out to a courtyard. She expected to see some greenery, a tree even, but there was just stone and more stone. The woman began to climb a staircase that wrapped around the courtyard. Orelia hurried after her, finding it difficult to keep up. They stopped beneath a covered landing outside a door.
‘If this is a trick or a plot of blackmail, you will regret it,’ said the woman.
Orelia clasped her hands together tightly to stop them from shaking.
‘It’s not, I promise,’ she said.
The woman gave her a skeptical look before opening the door.
‘Wait here.’ She crossed the wide hall that seemed big enough to be a ballroom and then disappeared through one of the many doors at the other end.
Only when she was gone did Orelia feel comfortable enough to look around her. If she had thought the exterior of the palace was magnificent, it was nothing compared to the interior.
Every piece of furniture was gilded (whether with real gold, she could not guess) and appeared as if it had descended from the heavens. These imaginings seemed brought to life when Orelia looked up at the ceiling, elaborately painted with biblical scenes amongst clouds. Glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling and the walls were rich with stucco decoration. Most dazzling of all was the effect of the sunlight that spilled in through a row of tall, narrow windows and sparkled upon the glass-smooth terrazzo floor embedded with mother-of-pearl.
Orelia tried to smooth the front of her olive-green dress, but it made little improvement. She had never paid much attention to her appearance, but in this palace where the upholstered furniture made her dress look like rags, she wished she had worn something nicer. What was she doing here? This was no place for a girl like her.
‘Signor Contarini will see you,’ said the woman, appearing again.
With uncertain steps, Orelia crossed the hall and stopped outside the doorway framed in red marble. The woman gave Orelia one last disapproving look before leading her into the room.
‘Here she is.’
Signor Contarini was sitting behind a desk but stood up immediately when Orelia entered the room. He wore a purple brocade dress-coat and matching breeches. A white periwig covered his head and cascaded over his shoulders. Orelia could only guess at the real color of his hair, though she had wondered if it would be red like her mother’s, and her own.
His eyes fixed upon Orelia, as if he could not look away. ‘Thank you, Maria. That will be all,’ he said.
For a number of seconds, Maria did not move. Then, with an exasperated sigh, she walked to the door. ‘Do not let your eyes fool you, Signor Contarini,’ she said, before finally leaving.
When the door closed, silence settled over the room. Signor Contarini continued to stare at Orelia, his gaze shocked and disbelieving. She dropped her eyes to the floor, searching for the words she had practiced. Those words now seemed as far away as her home town. Remembering the envelope in her pocket, she stepped forward and handed Signor Contarini the letter that had led her to him.
For several agonizing minutes, he examined the paper and then laid it down on his desk. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, leading Orelia over to a cluster of red armchairs with gilt legs shaped like lion’s feet.
‘What is your name?’ he asked.
‘Orelia Contarini,’ she answered, perched on the edge of the chair.
‘How old are you?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘Seventeen. . .’ He seemed to be considering this for a moment. ‘Where is your mother?’
Orelia reached her hand into her pocket and felt around until her fingers found the small glass flower she carried everywhere. Her mother had given it to her for her tenth birthday. It was the most delicate thing but so very strong, just like her mother. ‘She died in a fire.’
Signor Contarini sighed. ‘I am sorry.’ For a moment, neither of them said a word. ‘You have her hair,’ he said at last.
Orelia reached a hand to her hair and tried to smooth it. The curls had been impossible to tame since she’d boarded the ferry. ‘It’s a curse most of the time,’ she said with a laugh.
Her uncle did not appear to find this funny. The muscles in his neck visually tensed. ‘What about your father?’
‘He died when I was very young. I never knew him,’ said Orelia, instinctively biting her lip that were so unlike her mother’s. ‘My mother never spoke of him . . . One of the many things she never spoke of.’
‘Where have you been living this whole time?’
‘In Montepulciano, a small village in Tuscany.’
‘I always thought she would’ve gone somewhere like Rome... How did you get by?’
‘My mother was a healer. She was quite well-regarded. I’m afraid I don’t share her talents.’
‘A healer? The sister I remember could not brew tea,’ said Signor Contarini without a hint of humour in his voice.
Orelia laughed nervously, feeling as though her answers to all his questions, though the few truths she’d spoken recently, were somehow wrong. ‘I suppose you haven’t seen her in many years.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I miss her.’ said Orelia, not knowing what else to say.
Signor Contarini fixed his eyes on the door behind her. ‘Why are you here, Orelia?’
‘I have nowhere else to go.’ Orelia leaned forward in her chair. ‘I’ll be no trouble,’ she added eagerly. ‘If you let me stay, I can help around the house and – ’
Signor Contarini cut he
r off with a raised hand. ‘You have no knowledge of why your mother left Venice, do you?’
‘No.’ She didn’t think it was necessary to add that until she’d found the letter a few weeks ago she had not even known that her mother was from Venice. The question of why her mother had never told her had been on her mind a lot. Orelia could only assume that her mother had kept it a secret in fear that she might leave the small village one day, as many young women did, looking for a more exciting life somewhere else. Or maybe that’s just what Orelia wanted to believe.
She glanced at her uncle. He looked as distracted as she was. A moment later, he sighed heavily. ‘You can stay on one condition. You must never tell anyone that you are the daughter of Isabelle Contarini under any circumstance. You will say that you are my goddaughter and that your parents were Romans who died from smallpox when abroad.’
‘Why?’
Her uncle picked up the letter she had given him and tore it in half and in half again without meeting her eyes. ‘There are people still living here who your mother wronged. No one can know you are her daughter. It is for your own safety and my family’s reputation.
‘You must also promise not to mention your mother’s name to anyone and you must not go asking about her.’
‘Why?’ asked Orelia, standing up ‘My mother would never have wronged anyone,’ she said softly. ‘She never even picked berries from the neighbor’s tree despite the fact they hung over the fence.’
‘These are my conditions. Can you promise me all of this or not?’ Her uncle’s voice hit her from behind like the swell of water that had thrown her off balance more than once on her journey here.
When she turned around to face him, there were tears in her eyes.
‘Venice is a stage, Orelia,’ he added, his voice a touch gentler. ‘Everybody is putting on a act here.’
Right there, looking out of the window, past this estranged man who knew more about her mother than she ever did, Orelia realized she had no choice. There really was nowhere else for her to go. And maybe, if the stories she had heard about Carnival on the ferry were true, it wouldn’t be too hard to loose herself in the city of masks.
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