‘I won it off a nobleman playing cards. It’s not the most impressive place to take women but it’s better than not having one at all. I’m going to make Salvador think he lives there.’
‘You’re always full of surprises.’
‘Let’s swap positions. I’m tired of walking backwards.’
‘You’re so weak,’ said Bastian with a laugh as he stepped around Marco. ‘How much further?’
‘It’s not far. How is our other bet going, by the way? Is Orelia falling in love with you yet?’
Bastian grinned. Marco had been so involved in his card game at the street party that he hadn’t even realized that Orelia was there. Bastian decided to keep it that way. ‘I’m taking things slowly with this girl. I think I might invite her to the opera again. It didn’t go so well last week, as you might remember.’
‘Of course, I remember,’ said Marco, almost letting go of Salvador. ‘I had to throw my stockings out after that incident!’
‘That was unfortunate. They were a fetching pair of stockings.’ said Bastian, with a laugh. ‘Anyway, this time, I will request her company and her company alone.’
Marco nodded. ‘There’s nothing like the privacy of an opera box to get a girl to drop her guard.’
‘I’ll need to get this girl to drop her guard and then get that guard to drop its guard.’
‘If you want to admit defeat already, I’ll accept.’
They came to a bridge, which was not easy to cross when carrying a body.
‘Absolutely not. I’m going to win this bet like I win all our bets,’ said Bastian when they reached the other side. He thought he saw a dark flash pass over Marco’s eyes and for a second was worried that Marco might lose his grip on Salvador. The moment passed and Marco smiled. ‘It’s just around the corner.’
They came to Marco’s apartment, but the hard work was not over yet. There was still the matter of the narrow stairs. In the end, Marco pulled Salvador up by his arms, while his feet dragged behind his limp body.
With all that Salvador’s body had endured, Bastian was surprised that he had not once awakened from his unconscious state, begging the question of how much alcohol he had consumed.
‘Lay Salvador on the bed,’ said Marco. Together, they let Salvador’s body drop onto the mattress. ‘Now take off his clothes,’ said Marco. ‘Just leave his undershirt and breeches.’
‘You take them off. I don’t undress men. This is your bet to win.’ Bastian walked away from the bed before Marco could protest. Bastian looked around the room. It wouldn’t be too hard to imagine that someone who lived here was poor. There were only a few pieces of furniture: the bed with plain white sheets, a table and chairs, a worn rug, and a screen to dress behind.
When he turned to face the bed again, Salvador was lying in his soiled white undershirt. Marco had done away with Salvador’s periwig and his fair hair was messy and matted. He could quite easily pass for being poor. Maybe Marco would win this bet.
Bastian walked over to the window and opened the shutter. The view was of the wall of a neighboring building and a line of washing spanning the street beneath. On the end of the line connected to Marco’s apartment was a dress and bed linen. The dress looked like it had once been purple, but it was now so faded that it was closer to grey. Bastian reached out the window and grabbed it. ‘I bet you can’t also convince Salvador that you are his wife.’
Marco paused midway between picking up a vase. His arms were filled with other items of small value, probably to put them out of sight. ‘You’re on.’
Bastian tossed him the dress. ‘You’ll need a wig, as well. Though, I don’t know where we’d find a woman’s wig at this hour.’
‘I have one right here.’ Marco walked over to a chest alongside the wall and pulled out a white wig done up in a coiffeur.
‘I’m going to assume a woman left that behind and it’s not yours.’
‘Of course,’ said Marco over the top of the screen, as he began undressing.
Bastian laughed. ‘I’ll be happy when wigs go out of fashion. Wig theft is all those silly pantaloons on the Great Council seem to be concerned with.’
‘Don’t tell me the Doge’s son worries about what the Great Council concerns themselves with.’
‘I don’t. Politics bore me. The last thing I want to do is become my father. Now come out, don’t be shy.’
Marco waddled out from behind the screen. The dress was far too short. The seams were strained and material stretched to breaking point. The wig sat atop his head more like a hat than a hairpiece.
‘You look hideous. Poor Salvador. Does he really deserve this torture?’
Marco huffed and smoothed out the front of the dress. ‘He should be lucky to have me as his wife,’ he said with mock defensiveness.
They burst out laughing. Bastian didn’t know what he would do without his best friend. Marco was the only reason he didn’t lose his mind on a daily basis.
The two of them took a seat at the table and sat there talking for the next few hours as they waited for Salvador to sleep off the intoxication.
The sun had just begun to rise when Salvador began to stir. At the sound of a groan, Bastian dived out of sight behind the screen, while Marco rose on the spot. Bastian moved around until he found a gap between the panels of the screen through which to watch the performance.
‘Where is my cup of hot chocolate? My washbasin of distilled water? Where are my servants?’ cried Salvador, looking around with a confused expression.
‘Cup of chocolate! Washbasin! Servants!’ cried Marco in a shrill voice, arms flying through the air. ‘Who do you think you are?’
Salvador touched his head and grimaced in pain, then gazed around the room again. ‘I am Salvador Oro, son of Bortolo Oro, owner of thirty printing presses. I live in a palace on the Grand Canal with a staff of thirty-six servants and even more rooms. Where am I? This is not my house.’
Bastian smiled. Salvador was so pompous; he would never believe himself to be anything less than great.
‘Ha! And I bet you bathe in diamonds too!’ said Marco, with his hands on his hips. ‘Here is some news for you. Your name is Salvador Oro, son of Rocco Oro, pedlar in all six neighborhoods. This is your home. You have no more hats than heads! No more gloves than hands,’ said Marco.
‘This is outrageous! I know who I am!’ cried Salvador.
‘Such lunacy! This life of luxury you speak of is all but a dream. This is your real home. I am your wife, I should know.’ Marco thumped his flat chest with a fist.
Bastian stuffed his felt hat into his mouth to muffle his laughter. If Marco was trying to assert his femininity, it wasn’t working. Or was it?
A strange look passed over Salvador’s face. ‘Come lay with me, dear wife, prove you are real, that this is not a dream, too.’ He spoke slowly and deliberately.
Marco’s cheeks reddened and his eyes appeared to double in size. Bastian’s eyes filled with tears of laughter. Even if he did lose the bet, it was entirely worth seeing the look on Marco’s face.
‘I will not lay with you. You reek of alcohol and bile!’
‘Then I shall have a bath.’
‘No! We don’t have enough water and I’m not going to the well for you.’
‘Then a kiss is all the proof I ask and your Salvador I shall be.’
Marco’s face contorted. ‘Fine, one kiss.’
You’ve kissed worse, Bastian thought, remembering the incident last year involving a street party and a pig.
Marco bent down, lowering his face towards Salvador in readiness. Marco’s lips were pressed together in an exaggerated pout in a bid to create distance between them. Moments before their lips touched, Salvador’s hand grabbed hold of a loose curl dangling over Marco’s shoulder and pulled the wig clean off his head.
‘Oh dear!’ cried Marco, his hands
flying to his short black hair.
Salvador slammed the wig down on the bed. ‘I knew it! I knew it!’
‘You savage man!’ cried Marco shrilly, playfully tapping Salvador with his fan, continuing with the silly charade.
‘I’m going to ruin you, Marco D’Este!’ cried Salvador, lunging at Marco and knocking him to the floor. The man in his underclothes straddled the man in women’s clothes and began punching him repeatedly.
Bastian stood up to help Marco, but he couldn’t stop grinning. He had won the bet and he would be laughing for days.
Could life get any better?
‘Good morning,’ sang Angelique, from the end of Orelia’s bed. She blinked her eyes, bringing her bedroom into focus as the remnants of her dream floated away. Veronica was standing at the entrance to the bed alcove, admiring the stucco decoration. Behind her, stood Anna holding a silver tray with a teacup and a pile of donuts on it. Orelia had heard about the doughy delights, but she had never tasted them before.
‘We thought we would treat you to breakfast in bed,’ said Angelique. ‘Try the hot chocolate. It’s heavenly!’
Orelia didn’t know what to say, so she pulled the blanket up to her chin to hide her indecency, even though she was wearing a modest nightdress, and took the teacup. The sweet liquid filled her entire body with warmth. She looked around at the smiling faces and let her grip on the blanket relax.
Anna walked up to the side of her bed and held out the tray. Orelia picked up a donut and bit into the soft dough, enjoying the burst of the plump raisins. She licked off the sugar dusting her lips.
‘Do you like it?’ asked Angelique. Her golden hair was pinned into a loose chignon and she looked as fresh and untouched as a wildflower. ‘They’re the best doughnuts in Venice. Anna bought them fresh this morning.’
Orelia nodded with her mouth full. She didn’t know what time it was, but judging by the warmth of the sun pouring through the windows, it was almost noon. She never used to sleep past sunrise, and now she was sleeping half of the day away. In her defense, they had been out until the early hours of the morning at another masked ball.
‘So, tell us, what were you dreaming about?’
‘My dream?’
Angelique nodded eagerly.
Orelia tried to recall the dream she had been having when she was woken up. Bastian was in it. They had been at a café and each time Orelia had sat down at a table, Bastian was seated there, in front of her. She’d get up and move to another table but he would be there too.
‘I was not dreaming,’ answered Orelia finally. ‘I was too deeply asleep.’
Angelique pouted. ‘I dream every night, the most spectacular dreams.’
‘A piece of advice,’ said Veronica taking a doughnut off the tray Anna held. ‘If you are ever asked about your dreams again, make something up, anything. It is considered ill-mannered and uncharitable not to share what you dreamt with others. It’s ridiculous, I know, but that is the way.’
‘Thank you,’ said Orelia. ‘I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Father is throwing a banquet in your honor next Saturday night!’ exclaimed Angelique as if she could not hold back the news any longer. ‘He wants to formally introduce you to the most important members of society. You’ve been with us almost a month. We should’ve done this weeks ago!’
Orelia almost choked on the lump of dough in her mouth. ‘This was your father’s idea?’
‘I talked him into it, but you don’t need to thank me. Now finish your hot chocolate, so you can get dressed and we can go out,’ said Angelique with mock authority, shaking her finger. ‘I’m taking you to a tailor in the Rialto to have a gown made for the occasion. Anna is chaperoning us since Aunt Portia is expecting a visitor and Maria is working with the clerks on an inventory, which is wonderful because Anna has great taste in fabrics.’
Angelique turned to Veronica. ‘Are you coming with us?’
Veronica shrugged her shoulders. ‘Perhaps.’
‘You should. You need some new gowns. Father said he is inviting Luca Boccassio to the banquet. Apparently, he has been asking about you a great deal lately. He would make a fine husband. Father is very fond of him, too.’
Veronica slammed her teacup down on the windowsill. ‘I would rather drown in a putrid canal than marry that fool!’ With that, she stormed out of the room.
As Orelia sat in the gondola, it occurred to her that travelling by gondola was not that much different than travelling by horse. Both were a bit unsteady and if you weren’t careful you could easily embarrass yourself or worse.
Overall, Orelia was impressed with how she was now handling herself in a gondola. Today she had boarded elegantly without any mishap, but the real test would be in the exit.
Inside the small, shadowed space of the felze, she sat opposite Angelique who had changed clothes since breakfast and was wearing a cream colored pet-en-l’air jacket, a shorter version of the robe à la française dress she had worn on the first night of the Carnival. She wore this over a quilted skirt of pink satin patterned with strawberries and strawberry leaves. Orelia was learning more about fashion than she had ever wanted to know from Angelique.
Anna sat beside Orelia. She was smiling and softly humming a melody, without appearing to realize she was even doing it. Her voice was beautiful, like a songbird. Veronica had stayed behind. After the scene at breakfast, she had shut herself away in her room and had not wanted to open the door since. Angelique had said that these outbursts were as certain as the coming of a full moon and, just like the full moon, they would pass.
Orelia leaned back against the wall of the felze, nervously excited about the banquet. No one had ever thrown anything in her honor before. She wanted to press Angelique for details, or at least one detail: would Bastian be there? It did not seem like the sort of thing she should ask Angelique, even if it were only because she wanted, needed, to hear that he would not be there.
She had not seen Bastian since the street party a week ago, but that did not mean he had left her alone. The first gift he had sent were several bunches of blue roses. The next gift was a musical composition dedicated to her. Orelia did not know what the other gifts had been, as she had asked the servants to dispose of anything addressed to her from Bastian. Orelia could not understand how Angelique could be in love with such an arrogant, self-obsessed fool, even if he were annoyingly handsome.
It was early afternoon and the Grand Canal was buzzing with activity. As Orelia watched the crisscrossing paths of the many gondolas oared by singing gondoliers, she realized that it was impossible to stay inside your head when there was so much outside demanding your attention.
‘Signor Memo is the best tailor in all Venice,’ said Angelique, who was less interested in enjoying the view. ‘He has fabrics from every corner of the world. And there is nothing more delightful than looking through his selection.’
Anna rapidly nodded her agreement.
The gondola began to slow. Orelia turned her eyes to the front and saw the Rialto Bridge looming before them. She remembered seeing it from the terrace of her new home, but her appreciation of it then was nothing compared to the sight of it up close.
The base of the bridge spanned the canal on a single arch while the top was made up of many more arches. Orelia counted them; one in the middle and six on either side. When she looked closer, she saw that beneath the arches were shops. The bridge was filled with people, some shopping, others stopping for a chat and others just passing over the impossible span.
For a moment, Orelia thought they were going to pass beneath the bridge, but the gondola veered to the left and pulled up beside a length of water steps covered in algae.
Orelia rose and stepped out of the gondola without a single wobble. She had taken a few steps away when she realized that neither Angelique nor Anna were beside her. She turned around and saw Angelique still spea
king with the gondolier, while Anna hovered between the two of them
They walked alongside the Grand Canal, before making a quick turn down a street and emerging into the Campo Rialto Novo. The square was filled with wooden stalls selling rich- smelling spices, fragrant flowers of every color, decorative boxes, and so much more. It was like the bazaars of the East that Orelia had heard stories about.
‘Isn’t this place wonderful?’ exclaimed Angelique.
Orelia looked around with wide eyes. ‘It is!’
Angelique pointed to a church behind them in the square, which was distinguished by a large clock in the center of its facade. ‘That is San Giacomo di Rialto,’ said Angelique. ‘That’s how you know you’re at the heart of the Rialto.’
Orelia nodded, realizing she should probably be taking note of these things, but she knew that even if she did take note, she would probably forget before dinner. There were so many churches and squares.
‘Come on,’ said Angelique, pulling Orelia and Anna along. ‘The tailor is this way.’
Orelia let herself be led as she listened to the sounds of people haggling and the tunes of street musicians. Amidst all this noise, Orelia heard something shrill and pure, something she had not heard since arriving in Venice. She slipped her hand out of Angelique’s and followed the sound as if she were possessed, pushing her way through the crowd and weaving down streets until she found herself alongside the Grand Canal in an area filled with stalls selling fruit and vegetables. The sound was so close she could almost feel the vibrations in the air. It was the call of a songbird; she knew it.
She looked from stall to stall until she caught sight of the yellow breast of a canary shining as brightly as the sun. She moved closer and her happiness dissipated when she saw that the small creature was trapped within a cage hanging from an awning. More cages, each containing a single canary, sat on the ground around the stall. The only canary that sang was the one in the cage hanging from the awning, perhaps because his lofty position offered a greater promise of freedom than the canaries down below.
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