Masquerade

by Kylie Fornasier

  After that, there was Jacomelo Stornado. He had seemed harmless enough until she had encountered him at a literary salon where he cornered her in an empty room and tried to force himself on her. Veronica had searched for his secret like a woman possessed and had eventually discovered that he was involved with the occult, an offence punishable by death in Venice. She had enjoyed creating that painting immensely.

  The third suitor was Mafeo Foscari who was rarely sober, although that was no secret. How his family’s newfound wealth had been acquired was a secret, however; one that Veronica had discovered and exploited. Piracy was a fun subject to paint.

  Veronica couldn’t even recall the name of the fourth suitor. He had been as dull as a piece of dry bread and his secret had been just as dull, too. Nevertheless, he had withdrawn his marriage proposal. Perhaps this had less to do with what the painting depicted and more to do with his concern for the mental state of a woman who would go to such lengths to avoid being married to him.

  The fifth suitor, Leonardo Enzignerio was the youngest of them all. He was nineteen like her. He was one of those merry revelers who plagued the streets day and night playing pranks and engaging with the lower class. He was just as unhappy about the prospect of their marriage as she was, but his high-ranking parents were insistent on the match. Veronica had followed Leonardo one night and saw him lighting small fires in squares of poor neighborhoods. They had caused no serious damage, but arson was taken very seriously in Venice, especially in light of the two great fires in the 1570s that had partially destroyed the Doge’s Palace. Veronica had sent this painting to Leonardo’s parents.

  That made Signor Aldoldo the sixth suitor. Her younger sister Angelique often said that Veronica would die old and alone in a convent, since that was where unmarried women ended up. That was fine with Veronica. She did not believe in love. ‘I would rather hear a monkey screech all day, than hear a man profess his love for me,’ she always said to Angelique. To which her sister would reply that few marriages had anything to do with love. It was true that married men and women were rarely faithful and it was perfectly acceptable, but Veronica had no intention of becoming a part of such an elaborate performance all for the sake of money and rank.

  Passing a familiar looking house, Veronica stopped. It took her a moment to realize why this place felt familiar with its closed shutters and dead pot plants on the balconies. This was where she had discovered Bertuccio’s secret.

  She had followed him here one evening several weeks ago, after he had dined with them as a guest of her father. She had seen him go into the house and come out an hour later. She had not known what had gone on inside until a neighbor, a middle-aged woman who had been banging the life out of a carpet with a stick, had told Veronica what she needed to hear.

  Veronica smiled smugly. Some secrets were easier to discover than others, especially in Venice where gossip was the native language.

  Veronica reached the land entrance of Bertuccio’s house and pulled the bell cord. A few minutes passed and no one answered. Veronica raised her hand again when the door opened. A young servant girl in a blue dress stood on the other side of the door. Veronica sighed with relief. The girl would do exactly as she was asked. The older servants, like Maria, were often less compliant and more suspicious.

  With a smile concealed by her mask, Veronica handed the parcel to the girl. ‘Please give this directly to Signor Aldoldo. It is a special gift.’

  Darkness had come early that night, as if nature herself were conspiring with the Venetians to usher in the first night of Carnival as quickly as possible.

  Anna looked out over the Grand Canal where a great number of gondolas were coming and going from the residences. The black vessels would not have been visible if it were not for the orange glow of their lanterns. That was not all the gondolas carried. Their cargo were the rich and richer, the young and old, the moral and immoral, all heading towards a night of masked fun and frivolity.

  It was this scene Anna viewed from the window of her fifth-storey bedroom that evening. Every part of her body ached to be a part of it; to be surrounded by glittering silk and jewels; to be ferried like someone important.

  Closing her eyes, she released this ache in the only way she knew how – by opening her mouth and singing. Her voice started out low and began to rise, gaining greater intensity until she felt as though she could lift off the ground and float out the window into the life she knew she was made for.

  Few people had ever heard her sing, but those who had said her voice was as clear and faultless as Murano glass.

  It made perfect sense to Anna that someone with a voice like hers should enjoy a lofty position in society, such as on a grand stage in front of a crowd of hundreds all there to see and hear her. Her voice dropped to a low hum, as she realized that this would never happen. She would always be a servant. She would always be invisible.

  From behind the soft sounds of her voice, there came another sound. Anna stopped singing and turned away from the window. A small body was curled up in the bed, which filled up most of the cramped bedroom. Two brown eyes looked at her though the darkness.

  ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you?’ said Anna, moving across the room and sitting down upon the edge of the bed.

  ‘No,’ whispered Emilia. ‘I love to hear you sing.’

  Anna smiled down at her sister. It was like looking into a mirror. They shared the same high forehead, small round mouth, big eyes, wispy brown hair and the same birthday. But there was one big difference between the two. Most days, Emilia did not get out of bed.

  It had been a month since Anna had discovered her sister outside the land entrance of the Contarini residence, tearful and confused. Somehow, on that autumn afternoon, Anna had managed to get Emilia inside the palace and up to her bedroom without being seen. There had been no other option; they couldn’t go to their father, not that beast. Nor could she have taken her back to the noble family whom her sister had served at the Basilio residence, for Emilia was in no state to work. There was no one else, nowhere else.

  If anyone in the household discovered that Anna was hiding her sister in the palace, she would lose her job. They would both be out on the street. Word travelled quickly in Venice and transformed as it travelled. The story of a devoted sister hiding her sick twin would morph into the story of two spies going by one identity. No family would hire her. Anna shivered just thinking about it.

  Emilia believed that she had been cursed. She said that a witch had stolen her soul and left her empty. Anna did not believe in witches and curses. In her opinion, Emilia was sick. The problem was that she could not bring a doctor in the house, nor could she take Emilia to a doctor, since she could not be coaxed out of bed. Either way she did not have the money to pay for a doctor’s services. Anna had spent most of her savings on a dose of Teriaca, a medicine for all sicknesses, which she had obtained from a barber. But even this Venetian specialty made up of over seventy ingredients, including a root from Zanzibar and snake flesh, had not altered her sister’s condition. And so they lived hiding a terrible secret. Anna knew one thing about secrets: they didn’t stay hidden forever.

  ‘There’s a new girl who came to live in the palace. Her name is Orelia. She is Signor Contarini’s goddaughter from Rome. You would like her, she’s sweet,’ said Anna, keeping her voice low in case Maria had come up to her own room, which was separated from Anna’s by a thin wall. ‘She’s beautiful, too. I’ve never seen hair so vibrant as hers. Or eyes so bright without the aid of belladonna drops.’

  It was like most of their conversations, one-sided. But Anna didn’t mind, she loved having someone to talk to. Some days, Anna found herself hoping that Emilia would never recover. She hated herself for thinking this. Their father had always said that Anna was born with a black heart. She had come to believe it herself. How else could she explain her thoughts, however rare, wishing her sister sick, their father dead and a dif
ferent life for herself?

  Bending forward, Anna kissed her sister’s forehead. Then she quickly looked away, ashamed of how she overcompensated for the darkness within her.

  After a few minutes of silence, Anna could hold back no longer and she began to tell Emilia everything about Orelia and the costumes the girls were wearing. On this night, Emilia spoke back. ‘It is the first night of the Carnival, isn’t it?’ Her voice was weak.

  Anna nodded.

  ‘Go out. Please don’t let me stop you.’

  ‘It’s not you that’s stopping me,’ replied Anna with a feeble laugh.

  ‘Wear a mask; no one will know who you are.’

  Anna sighed. Many servants and other members of the lower class were able to put on a mask and go out as if ranks did not exist, and in many ways during the Carnival it didn’t. But Anna wanted more than just a night of being someone else. ‘I don’t need a mask. No one knows who I am. That’s the problem.’

  ‘They will. One day.’ The corner of Emilia’s mouth flickered for a moment, but there was no smile.

  ‘You are the only person who believes in me.’

  ‘Can you do something for me?’

  ‘Anything,’ said Anna, stroking her sister’s forehead.

  ‘I need you to find a way to remove the curse. I don’t know how much longer I can live this way.’ Tears streamed down Emilia’s face.

  ‘I’ll find a way,’ said Anna, her own tears mingling with her sister’s. ‘I promise.’ She curled up against Emilia in the small bed, thinking about her promise and how only someone with a black heart would make a promise they were unable to keep.

  Her last thought before falling asleep was not about her promise or the darkness that threatened to consume her, but rather about how she and her sister were like two pieces of broken glass that somehow, when they came together, made something whole.

  Orelia breathed in the salty air that wafted up to the balcony and she felt her body relax. It had been a busy afternoon. When they arrived back from the mask maker’s shop, Angelique had insisted on teaching Orelia the basic steps of the minuet, even though Orelia had been equally insistent that she would not be dancing at the ball. Angelique had won, and two hours later Orelia had sunk into a bath scented with musk and myrrh to soak her weary body. Her enjoyment of the warm water had come to an early end when Maria had appeared, armed with hairpins and face powder.

  Orelia’s only comfort had been that Anna, the lady’s maid, had helped her to dress. She could only imagine how much she would have suffered if Maria had been the one to lace up her stays.

  When Angelique had said ‘costume ball’, Orelia had thought their only costume would be a mask. She soon learnt that masks were not all that went into creating their costumes. Angelique had suggested Orelia go as a courtesan, since that would be the costume of choice for most women, young and old, because it gave them license to wear all their finest things without any fear of the sumptuary laws. But Orelia refused, even though Angelique tried to explain that courtesans were not common prostitutes, but intelligent and influential members of Venetian society.

  Veronica had then suggested that Orelia go as the seventeenth-century French female pirate, Jacquotte Delahaye. According to Veronica, Jacquotte had become a pirate when her father had been killed. Later, she faked her own death to escape her pursuers and took on an alias for many years. When she returned to piracy, she became known as ‘back from the dead red’ because of her vibrant red hair. Angelique had clapped her hands in agreement, saying Orelia’s hair was the perfect color for such a disguise.

  Before Orelia could protest, Veronica, who considered herself quite the artist, had quickly put together a ‘Jacquotte’ costume, which consisted of a burgundy gown, black tricorne hat and a black, sequined columbina mask. Angelique, who considered herself quite the fashion expert, had swapped the gown Veronica had selected for a ruby one, refusing to allow Orelia to be seen in a ‘last season’ color. The gown, known as a robe à l’anglaise because of its fitted back and closed bodice, belonged to Angelique. It was slightly too big for Orelia, but Anna had fixed that with a few pins.

  Orelia looked down at her dress then up at the sky. How would she ever get used to a life where ‘seasons’ were not defined by the color of the leaves, but by the colors of gowns? Even the stars, though fewer, seemed to shine brighter in Venice than back in her quiet home town.

  In truth, there was very little that was pirate-like about her costume, but that was fine with Orelia. Apart from being unsettled by the similarities between Jacquotte’s life and her own, it felt strange to her to wear a costume of the sea when her heart was with the land. Until a few days ago, she had not even seen the sea.

  And until today, she had not worn face powder or had her torso cinched by stays. The whole ordeal had left Orelia feeling like a handful of sand that had been heated, twisted and shaped into something that bore no resemblance to its former state, as only the Venetian glassblowers knew how.

  The only part of her left vaguely recognizable was her hair, twisted into a chignon and pinned at the nape of her neck to accommodate the hat. Perhaps the fact that she did not look like herself was a good thing, maybe that would make it easier to be Orelia Rossetti. She looked out across the canal, busier now than it was during the day. It seemed there was not a single Venetian who was not excited about Carnival. Even Veronica, despite what she said, had a glint of excitement in her eye when they had arrived home from shopping. Orelia had only dreamed of what life in Venice could be like, but now that she was here she feared it was all too much for a girl like her. Orelia ran her finger over the small stone lion sitting on top of the balustrade. She felt like a mouse in a city of lions.

  ‘Orelia,’ called Angelique from inside her bedroom.

  Taking one last look at the endless sky, Orelia turned around and walked back inside.

  ‘You’d gone so quiet, I thought you had fallen over the balcony,’ said Angelique. She stood in front of a gold-framed mirror and bent forward as if she was about to kiss her reflection.

  She was wearing a style of dress called a robe à la Françoise made of white silk taffeta with rows of neatly arranged bows called échelle on the stomacher. The box pleats that flowed from the shoulders to the floor created a slight train and gave Angelique a soft, light quality.

  On her face, she wore a white columbina mask that turned up suggestively at the sides like a wink. A plume of white feathers added such height to Angelique that there was no way she could go unnoticed, if that was ever a possibility. Angelique had explained that the swan was the epitome of elegance and beauty.

  ‘I need your opinion.’ Angelique pointed to a small black beauty spot at the side of her nose. ‘This position is called sfrontata to convey boldness,’ she said before peeling off the felt patch and placing it in the corner of her eye. ‘This is appassionata, meaning passionate, of course, or . . .’ she moved the spot to above her lip, ‘there is coquette for flirtatious. Which do you think?’

  Orelia blinked. ‘Um . . . where you have it now.’

  Angelique inspected her reflection. ‘You’re right. We’re going to have so much fun tonight.’

  ‘Are you sure I won’t be an imposition? I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘Of course not, you’re a part of our family. If we’re invited, you’re invited. Now where is Veronica? Claudia will get the first dance with Bastian if we don’t leave soon.’

  ‘Who is Claudia?’

  ‘She is the most detestable creature. Somehow she always gets the first dance with Bastian. But not this time.’

  Orelia opened her mouth, but Angelique spoke first. ‘Bastian is the Doge’s son. The Doge is the highest elected leader in the city. Bastian is the most handsome man in all of Venice. Everyone wants him. Well, everyone except my sister whose desire for love is as deep as a puddle.’

  ‘Why is the first dance s
o important?’

  ‘It shows whom Bastian’s heart sings to.’

  Veronica arrived in the doorway and scoffed. ‘Bastian Donato does not have a heart and if he did, it certainly would not sing.’

  Orelia’s eyes grew wide and Angelique was unusually silent as they stared at Veronica. She wore a burnt yellow gown with a low neckline exceeded only in magnificence by her elaborate headdress, with strings of red, green, blue, pink and turquoise beads streaming down the length of her face. She looked like a princess of the East.

  ‘Of course. Cleopatra,’ said Angelique in an unimpressed voice. ‘You’re becoming rather predictable, dear sister. But I am glad you’re not dressed in gold again. You almost got sent to prison last year.’ Angelique turned to face Orelia. ‘Gold is the Doge’s color; no one else is allowed to wear it.’

  Veronica smiled mischievously.

  Angelique walked over to the mirror and moved the beauty spot to the side of her nose. Coquette? Or was it sfrontata? Orelia couldn’t remember.

  ‘Father and Aunt Portia are waiting downstairs,’ said Veronica, tapping her fan.

  Still looking into the mirror, Angelique said, ‘Please tell me he is not dressed as Pantalone.’

  ‘He is.’

  Angelique groaned. ‘Another reason to put as much distance between he and us when we enter the ballroom.’

  ‘Who’s Pantalone?’ asked Orelia.

  ‘A character from the Commedia dell’Arte, an old man in every detail. You’ll see,’ answered Angelique. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  When Orelia stepped into the ballroom of the D’Este residence, she began to see the truth in her uncle’s words. It was very much like a stage. The ballroom was immense, or at least it seemed that way with its soaring ceilings and the large gilt mirrors that multiplied the number of people in the room. The walls were frescoed with Roman scenes, the perfect imitation of a stage backdrop. Numerous doors lined the walls, as if made for performers’ entrances and exits.