Orelia nodded. ‘Where are we going exactly?’
‘The Merceria, Venice’s famous shopping street,’ replied Angelique, in a voice one would use to read a sonnet. ‘We need to buy you a mask for tonight. It’s unthinkable to go to a ball without a mask.’
The gondola stopped beside a bank of water steps a short distance from the foot of the Ponte dei Bareteri. The bridge was busy with shoppers crossing it. Angelique alighted first. She watched Orelia try to get out of the felze, stumble and almost land face first on the bow. Angelique would have to instruct her on the finer points of exiting a gondola.
While Veronica finished her whispered conversation with Antonio, Angelique waited at the foot of the bridge with Orelia. Her eyes looked at the shops lining the street as if she were seeing the street for the first time. Here a person could buy absolutely anything – perfume, jewelry, masks, leather goods, candles, hats, ribbons, shoes, silk and all other luxuries imaginable.
‘This is my favorite place in all of Venice. When we have more time, I’ll take you to all the best shops,’ said Angelique, looping her arm through Orelia’s. They walked down the street, following its weaving design. Angelique whispered to Orelia the names of the nobles they passed. Interspersed with the people she recognized were those already sporting the complete Carnival costume – mask, cloak and tricorne hat – meaning the person beneath the costume could be absolutely anyone. It was one of the things that made Carnival so exciting.
A few minutes later, they stopped outside a shop. Unlike the other shops on either side of it that displayed their goods in their windows, the windows of this particular place were covered by dark green shutters with the slats open a fraction, allowing passers-by only a peek at the secrets within.
‘Signor Zafoni is the most skilled mask maker in all of Venice,’ said Angelique.
‘She is right,’ said Veronica, nodding. ‘Have fun, both of you.’
‘You’re not coming in with us?’
Veronica shook her head. ‘I will meet you back at Ponte dei Bareteri in one hour. I have something I need to attend to.’
‘Very well, but don’t be late. We have to collect Aunt Portia and we need time to prepare for the ball tonight.’
Veronica rolled her eyes. ‘I know, I know.’
Angelique sighed and watched Veronica disappear into the crowd of shoppers. ‘My sister is always sneaking off to attend to things.’
‘Where does she go?’
‘I don’t know. If she was anyone else, I’d suspect she had a secret lover. But this is Veronica we’re talking about. I even tried following her once, but I got lost.’ She had, in fact, got so lost that she ended up at the Ghetto, but she didn’t tell Orelia this.
‘I don’t think she likes me very much,’ said Orelia.
‘It takes Veronica a while to warm up to someone. She really does have the biggest heart though. Come, let’s not waste any more time.’ Angelique reached for the door handle just as the door opened in front of them. A man in a richly embroidered dress-coat stepped out, knocking into Angelique.
‘I’m sorry, miss,’ he said quickly.
‘It is quite all right,’ said Angelique. She looked up at his face and realized that she knew him. He was Cristoforo Mocenigo, the Great Councilor’s son, which made him of the citizen class, though very wealthy. Angelique had danced and flirted with him on a few occasions last year. They’d had great fun together, until he had asked her to run away with him to be married in secret, since a match between someone of the citizen class and the noble class was outlawed. Angelique had been avoiding Cristoforo ever since.
‘How nice to see you, Angelique,’ he said, suddenly recognizing her. ‘Will you be at the ball at the D’Este residence tonight?’
Angelique forced a smile and repositioned the white veil trimmed with Burano lace that had slipped away from her face in the collision. ‘Won’t everyone?’
Cristoforo held the door open for them. ‘I hope you’ll save a dance for me.’ As she passed, Angelique looked down into the bag he was carrying and saw a colorful, chequered harlequin mask. Now she would have to avoid all harlequins tonight.
Inside, the small shop was lit with candles, transforming the space into a cave of treasures. And what treasures! Lining the walls were hundreds of masks, each richly painted and decorated with sequins, feathers and anything imaginable that glittered. Angelique heard Orelia gasp in delight.
They made their way to the back of the shop where Signor Zafoni was sitting behind a table with a paintbrush in his hand. He was a small man with wispy grey hair that surrounded his head. Despite the fragility of his aging body, there was a youthful light in his eyes.
Angelique removed her veil. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘Miss Contarini, just the young lady I wanted to see. It is finished, and it looks magnificent.’
Angelique clapped her hands excitedly. ‘First, let me introduce you to Orelia, the newest member of our household,’ she said, grabbing Orelia’s arm and pulling her forward. ‘She is my father’s goddaughter. She has just arrived in Venice and so she needs masks, lots of them.’
‘One will do, really,’ Orelia insisted.
Signor Zafoni clicked his tongue disapprovingly. ‘One mask is never enough. Where are you from, miss?’
Orelia froze.
Angelique nudged her. Maybe she misunderstood the question.
‘Rome,’ Orelia answered, eventually.
‘And what brings you to Venice?’
Orelia looked around. ‘I guess I’m here to find myself, in the city of masks.’
Signor Zafoni nodded approvingly and spread his arms wide. ‘You’ve come to the right place. Take a look around and let the masks choose you.’
‘I don’t have much money.’
Angelique tapped Orelia lightly on the arm. ‘We have an account with Signor Zafoni. You don’t need to worry about paying for a thing.’
Orelia looked like she was going to protest but Angelique pushed her in the direction of the masks. ‘Go, pick something dazzling.’
When Orelia had disappeared among the masks, Angelique turned back to Signor Zafoni.
‘Are you ready to see it?’ he asked.
Angelique nodded eagerly. He turned around and took a mask off the shelf behind him. The style was known as the columbina, a half-mask that covered the eyes, the nose and upper cheeks. This creation was painted a shimmering white overlaid with swirls and flourishes of sequins. The right side was adorned with a cluster of feathers fanning out above the mask. Small crystals were arranged around the eyeholes, making the mask appear as if it were winking.
Angelique picked it up gently. It was more beautiful than she had imagined, and it would match her costume perfectly. She leaned forward across the table and whispered, ‘Did you use the same paintbrush for the mask you made for Bastian Donato?’
‘Of course. Two masks painted from the same paintbrush, destined to find each other.’
‘And have you destroyed the paintbrush?’
Signor Zafoni picked up a glass filled with ash. ‘Do you want to keep the . . . remains?’
‘Yes,’ said Angelique, plucking the glass from his fingers. ‘I’ll keep it for good luck.
Veronica Contarini carried herself in a manner that made people move out of her way, rather than the other way around. She hurried down the street past idle shoppers, hawkers crying out on behalf of the chair mender, and puppeteers enacting the latest gossip upon their strings. None of it attracted her attention. She kept her eyes looking forward and her feet moving quickly, leaving the mask maker’s shop far behind her.
She found Antonio standing beneath the sheltered walkway leading down to the water steps near Ponte dei Bareteri. Her family gondola was tied to a mooring pole, but Antonio could not draw it in until the two waiting gondolas unloaded their passengers and moved off
.
Veronica sighed impatiently. She could not afford this delay. She needed every minute. For a moment, she considered waiting until she had another opportunity when she had more time, but then the sickening thought of Signor Aldoldo entered her mind and she knew that this could not wait.
Finally, her gondola drew up alongside the water steps. As she stepped into the felze, she gave Antonio the name of a canal near to her destination in the neighborhood, Cannaregio. She went by a different canal every time, in case Antonio was ever questioned about her activities.
The gondola passed through narrow canals and beneath low bridges, moving away from the neighborhood of San Marco. Veronica looked out the window and smiled at the beauty of the darker, dirtier parts of the city: the brown water streaked with gold, the graceful swaying of the washing suspended above the canals, the moss growing on the walls that was brighter than emerald, the silent movement of a rat on the street running alongside the canal, the faint smell of cinnamon that cut through the odor of decay.
A few minutes later, the gondola came to a complete stop alongside the street. Veronica wasted no time disembarking.
‘Shall I wait here for you, miss?’ asked Antonio.
‘No, I’ll meet you back at Ponte dei Bareteri with my sister in one hour.’
Veronica pulled down her veil and walked a route she knew well until she came to a narrow building with bright yellow shutters. An apartment on the third floor was rented by the esteemed artist, Alessandro Segredo, who allowed Veronica to use the space whenever she pleased. Veronica let herself in and climbed the stairs with the usual sense of excitement that accompanied these visits.
Passing closed doors that no doubt guarded other secrets, Veronica walked down a hallway until she came to the last door on the left. As she unlocked the door and pushed it open, the familiar smell of paint and turpentine met her nostrils. She breathed in deeply. There was no smell she loved more. The room was small, most of it taken up by Segredo’s work but, there was an area just beneath the window that was all hers.
Veronica walked across the room and sat down upon a wooden stool. She lifted her hand and pulled away the white sheet draped over the frame in front of her. The painting that lay beneath brought a mischievous smile to Veronica’s face, not only because of what it depicted but also because, in that moment, Veronica realized just how good she had become. She had been painting since she was a child, after her father had brought home a selection of paints that were a gift from an African ambassador. Immediately, Veronica fell in love with the rich colors and their earthy smells. At home, under the constant praise of her father, she had painted landscapes and portraits, but recently her art had taken on a completely different nature. Alessandro, who painted the city in all its beauty, thought that her paintings spoke of the nuances of Venetian life, but in truth it was much more than that.
It had begun a number of months ago when the marriage proposals began to gain in frequency. Her father was a kind man, respectful of his daughter’s wishes, but there were only so many times Veronica could refuse on the grounds of vileness. Desperate, she had taken matters into her own hands. Quite literally, she mused, twirling a paintbrush between her fingers.
Everyone had a secret and Veronica was most expert in uncovering even the most deeply hidden secrets. And as soon as she uncovered the secret, she painted it. Unlike a woman’s words, there was an unquestionable truth in the combination of oil and pigment. Veronica had learnt that a man would do anything to keep his secret hidden, even withdraw a marriage proposal.
Veronica put the brush down alongside the others in a neat line. Her fingers begged to take it back up and paint, but that was not what she’d come here for today. Instead, she pressed her fingertips delicately on the canvas, checking that the highlights she had painted only a few days ago had completely dried. Satisfied, Veronica leaned back and surveyed her work. She was pleased to see how those final touches had lifted the images from the canvas and brought them to life.
Her eyes travelled over the painting from the items of clothing discarded on the floor, to the crumpled white bed sheet and the men’s legs entwined around each other, and finally to the two unshaven faces, red from exhaustion. If the message wasn’t clear enough already, a gnaga mask, with its upturned nose, painted cheeks and arched eyebrows, hung from the bedpost. She cast her eyes to her initials VC in the bottom corner in her signature color, vermilion.
After three weeks, at last the painting was complete. It was a lot of work just to send a message, but it was the time-consuming detail that made the message speak the loudest. And this was one message she wanted Bertuccio Aldoldo, with his swelling stomach, oily skin and condescending voice, to hear loud and clear.
A noise brought Veronica out of her thoughts. She turned to see the door open and Alessandro walk in. He was fifteen years older than her and always looked as though he’d been swept in by the wind even when it was as still as glass outside. It was the thing she found most attractive about him. And there was also the fact that unlike the men she’d been with closer to her age, he knew how to please a woman. He was of the citizen class so there was no risk that he would ask for her hand, since a marriage between different classes was outlawed. Not that he ever expressed interest in marrying her anyway. He never spoke about love or the future. They both got from each other exactly what they wanted.
‘My enchantress,’ he said, laying eyes on Veronica. ‘I was hoping you would be here.’ He took off his black cloak and tricorne hat and set them on a stand near the door. His mess of black hair fell over his shoulders. He smiled at her in the very same way he had when they first met almost a year ago at a wedding, that roughish irresistible smile. She had been admiring a painting hanging in the ballroom and had learned that he was the artist. He invited her to his apartment to see his newest work, which was just the beginning of many meetings they would have there. On one of those occasions, she had picked up a paintbrush and recalled her love for painting as a child. Without hesitation, Alessandro had invited her to use his apartment to paint as often as she wished. He said he liked knowing it was being used by her when he wasn’t there.
‘What is it that you are working on?’ Alessandro asked as he crossed the room. He stopped behind her, surveying her painting.
‘You mean to say you do not peek behind the sheet when I’m not here?’ said Veronica with a wink over shoulder.
‘No, never. You know that. It is an artist’s right to keep their work secret.’ That’s another thing Veronica found irresistible about Alessandro, the way he spoke about art as if it were sacred and if she were a real artist like Tiepolo that Alessandro often had coffee with.
Veronica shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, really. Just practicing my technique.’ She suspected that one day Alessandro would figure out the true purpose of her paintings but she wasn’t too concerned about that.
‘Were you inspired by the item in the Gazetta Veneta about the Turkish ambassador who made his way across the city from one nobleman’s bed to another?’
That was the one thing that Veronica couldn’t stand about Alessandro. For someone so talented and intellectual, he was obsessed with gossip. ‘Yes, that’s it.’ she answered.
Alessandro brushed a strand of hair away from her face. ‘You are a curious creature. If only there were more artists like you who painted for paintings sake rather than for profit or praise.’
Veronica spun around on the stool to face him. ‘I’m satisfied with your praise alone, Signor Segredo.’
‘Well then,’ he said, grazing his full lips his against her neck. ‘Your brushwork is superb and... your composition is most flattering.’ He ran his hands up either side of her body. ‘Your layers, they are perhaps too numerous,’ he whispered into her ear while his fingers worked to unfasten the front of her gown.
Veronica closed her eyes and let out her breath. If she let this go any further she would be late and Angel
ique would be furious, especially when there was a ball to prepare for. But then Veronica was only attending the ball because their father insisted she go and keep an eye on Angelique. Aunt Portia alone could not be trusted with the task. So, yes, Angelique could wait for her. Besides, she had Orelia for company. And with a soft moan, Veronica gave herself over to Alessandro.
After Alessandro had left, Veronica quickly got to work wrapping her painting in a large sheet of brown paper. Where the ends of the paper met, she sealed them together with a pool of red wax. It was most important that only Signor Aldoldo saw her artwork. It wasn’t her intention to reveal his secret, only to threaten to do so.
Now all that was left to do was to disguise herself. She secured a black cloak around her neck, then pulled a short lace hood over her head and affixed a white bauta mask to cover her entire face. It had a prominent nose, projecting chin and no mouth, allowing the wearer to talk, drink and eat freely. Finally, she topped her head with a black tricorne hat, completing the traditional costume. Veronica had chosen this costume because of its commonness and the simple fact that it hid all difference.
Veronica gently picked up the package and held it under her arm. She descended the stairs and let herself out of the building. Immediately, she turned left and crossed the canal, taking care on the slippery stones of the bridges.
She avoided the busy streets, taking the back routes she knew so well. As she hurried along, she thought how great a shame it was that her art was never appreciated by more people. She did not know the fate of her paintings, but she suspected they were burnt or locked away where they would never be seen. Regardless, the paintings had always achieved their purpose. Always.
Veronica recounted how many similar messages she had sent. First, there was Frangibus Rizo. He only ever spoke about his horses on the mainland. Veronica had stumbled upon his secret by accident when she overheard him boasting to his reflection that he had poisoned his rival’s horses.
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