Book Read Free

Masquerade

Page 19

by Kylie Fornasier


  ‘I want to sing but what I need is money. One hundred ducats.’

  ‘I don’t deal in money. Ever. If you are successful on stage, you’ll have more ducats than you’ve ever seen.’ Signora D’Este had timed her speech perfectly for at that moment the gondola stopped at the water entrance of the Contarini’s palace.

  ‘I need time to think about it,’ said Anna hearing the sounds of all her sins, those she had committed and those she would still commit, in her own voice. ‘My deepest thanks for returning me home.’

  Signora D’Este leaned back with a calculating smile. ‘You could have your own fleet of gondolas one day. Just report to me with the information I want and I will make you into Giselle da Quaterno.’

  ‘Is that the best you can do?’ said Bastian, raising himself back to his full height after ducking out of the way of Marco’s sword.

  ‘I have not even begun to show you what I’m capable of,’ said Marco, beginning to circle Bastian.

  They were alone in the large open courtyard of the Doge’s Palace, a perfect sparring ground with its two bronze wellheads making useful obstacles. Since the meeting of the Great Council was happening, the upper arcades were empty. For many hours to come, every nobleman over twenty-five would be trapped in the grand hall, or at least that’s how Bastian perceived it. The Doge’s Palace with all its grandeur was nothing more than a gilded prison. This was especially true here in the courtyard where the palace surrounded them on all sides, even with its airy archways and graceful columns.

  Even though he still had a few years before he turned twenty-five, Bastian was a prisoner already. He spent a good portion of his days stuck in the library with tutors or being lectured by his father about his behavior and responsibilities. At least on quiet days like this, Bastian could forget about his bleak future for a short while.

  He lunged forward. The blade of the sword caught the sunlight and blazed golden. It was a Spanish small-sword with a silver hilt and gold wire plaited around the handle. Figures of bare-chested mermaids were engraved on the guard and down the triangular blade, which happened to be Bastian’s favorite part of the sword. It was an image that reflected his two loves: beautiful women and the sea.

  Marco’s sword was far less ornate and expensive than Bastian’s, but what the sword lacked in appearance, Marco made up for in skill. He moved the sword through the air swiftly, precisely, smoothly, as if it were made of quicksilver.

  The two swords clashed, creating a sharp ‘x’ between the two men. Sometimes, Bastian felt as close to Marco as if they were brothers, but other times he felt as though there was something between them.

  Marco pushed forward, forcing Bastian backwards. ‘How are things going with our latest bet? Has Orelia fallen in love with you yet?’ he asked.

  ‘Things are going according to plan,’ Bastian answered just as he felt himself back into the wellhead. Without flinching, he rolled his body to the side. The swift motion surprised Marco and he let his sword arm drop.

  Bastian used the wellhead to push himself away.

  ‘Really?’ said Marco, with more than a hint of irritation. ‘Because I haven’t seen you two together anywhere.’

  ‘I’ll tell you this much. She is falling in love with me quicker than you do your morning toilet.’

  Marco’s face darkened. Clearly, he did not find Bastian’s joke about his beauty regime funny. ‘If you’re so confident that she is falling in love with you, why don’t we up the stakes of the bet by involving money?’

  Bastian raised his eyebrows in interest. ‘How much do you suggest?’

  ‘What do you say to 50,000 ducats?’

  ‘50,000 ducats?’ said Bastian, incredulously. ‘Our bets have never involved more than 50 ducats and you want to bet 50,000?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you couldn’t use that much money?’

  Of course Bastian could use 50,000 ducats. He thought about leaving Venice almost every day, but there was always the problem of money. The poverty that would go with leaving his family was as palatable as seawater. With 50,000 ducats he could leave Venice and start a comfortable life somewhere else, Spain perhaps. ‘I’m sure I would find a use for it.’

  ‘Then it’s a deal?’ asked Marco, clashing his sword against Bastian’s, forcing him backwards.

  It was too good to be true. Even as confident that he was that he would win the bet, if by some chance he lost, he didn’t have 50,000 ducats to pay Marco. He didn’t have even 50 ducats to pay Marco. His father gave him a small weekly allowance in silver, any more he had to beg for. He was surprised Marco had 50,000 ducats, but then his friend had been spending a lot of time at the casinos lately.

  As if reading Bastian’s mind, Marco said, ‘If you lose, there is something else you could give me.’

  The two men circled each other. ‘What?’ said Bastian.

  ‘My family’s entry into the Golden Book.’

  ‘I can’t give you that,’ said Bastian, using all his force to push Marco’s sword away.

  ‘No, but your father could and you could convince him to.’

  Bastian needed to sit down and digest Marco’s proposal, but since that was not an option, he paced around the courtyard with his sword held up in defense. Convincing his father to allow the D’Este’s name into the Golden Book would be almost as difficult as finding 50,000 ducats, one coin at a time. ‘If it were even possible, I would have to sell my soul to my father. Why is the Golden Book so important to you?’

  ‘Because I want to make something of myself. I want to join the Great Council when I turn twenty-five and work my way up the ranks of government. But none of that can happen unless my family becomes part of the noble class. My mother has been trying for many years. She puts on an extravagant display but it’s all acquired through bribes and favors. She does not even have close to the amount of money needed to buy our name into the Golden Book. I have 50,000 ducats I’ve acquired through gambling but it’s still not enough.’

  Bastian unconsciously dropped his sword, realizing that they would both be much happier if they could swap lives, permanently, not just for the sake of banquets. Bastian’s thoughts were interrupted when Marco’s sword slashed the air in front of his body. Bastian jumped back and lifted his weapon.

  ‘What do you say? If you win the bet by getting Orelia to fall in love with you and delivering her chemise as proof, I’ll give you my 50,000 ducats. But if you lose, you convince your father to admit my family into the Golden Book by whatever means necessary.’

  Blocking Marco’s attacks, Bastian thought about Orelia. Without trying too hard, he had managed to get her to kiss him within the first two months of Carnival. With three months of Carnival left, he was certain to get her to fall in love with him.

  With the surge of determination, Bastian lunged forward, the tip of his sword narrowly missing the bare skin on the back of Marco’s hand. They played till first blood.

  Marco raised his eyebrows and he nodded in approval. Then he countered with an offensive move. Bastian dodged the attack and ran towards the Giant’s Staircase, flanked by two colossal statues of Mars and Neptune. When he reached the top of the staircase, Marco was only steps behind. Bastian swung around, sword raised. ‘You have yourself a bet.’

  As he said these words, Marco lunged forward, striking the tip of his sword against Bastian’s wrist. Pricks of blood immediately appeared and quickly accumulated into a trickle that ran off the side of his arm.

  ‘I win,’ said Marco, breathing heavily, a triumphant smile on his face.

  Veronica Contarini was not often speechless and yet, when an invitation arrived to attend a dinner party at Luca’s house to celebrate some mysterious announcement, Veronica found herself completely lost for words.

  Almost a month had passed since she had delivered her finished painting. She had entrusted it with an unquestioning and cooperative servant who had
assured Veronica that it would reach Luca that very day.

  Something must have gone wrong, thought Veronica with a sick feeling in no way caused by the motion of the gondola. If Luca had indeed received her painting, she would certainly not be on her way to spend the evening in his company.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked her father, sitting on the left side of the gondola’s felze. He tipped his head to the side, a curl of his periwig coming dangerously close to the candle in the sconce on the wall. ‘You look pale.’

  After nodding her response, Veronica’s thoughts immediately returned to Luca and the painting. Doubts entered her mind, like the fog that crept over Venice. Perhaps the servant did not give the painting to Luca. Or perhaps he had received the package, but had not yet opened it.

  Veronica clasped her hands in her lap, amongst the smoke-colored satin of her gown. This was just a small setback. She could suffer through another evening with Luca, knowing that it was only a matter of time before her plan took effect. This brought a smile to Veronica’s face for the first time that evening, but as soon as she thought the matter was settled, another thought surfaced like a dead fish on the waters of the canal. Would Alessandro be there? Veronica still couldn’t believe that he and Luca had become friends. Things were simple with Alessandro before Luca came along. Why did Luca have to ruin everything? What was the likelihood that the mysterious announcement that the invitation mentioned was news that he was moving to England?

  ‘You must make a good impression on Luca and his parents tonight,’ said her father, interrupting her thoughts.

  Veronica threw her gloved hands in the air, suddenly finding her ability to speak again. ‘I cannot bear to spend more than one minute in the same room with Luca! I’m sorry to disappoint you father.’

  ‘It is not him that you hate, but the idea of him,’ said her father, speaking calmly. ‘When you stop and see Luca without your prejudices, you will see that he is an admirable, young man. He is well-mannered, well-educated and from a highly respected family. You can not make a better marriage.’

  Veronica felt a slight jolt as the gondola hit the water steps of the centuries old palace that belonged to the Boccassio family. Her father gave her an encouraging smile as they stepped into the passageway from the water entrance. Veronica lingered in the arched doorway, pretending to notice the ebony sculptures that lined the walls and the hanging lanterns in wrought-iron foliage, when in fact she was simply stalling. Her father headed straight for the servant waiting at the foot of the grand staircase to take their cloaks and direct them to the main floor.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for the others?’ said Veronica.

  ‘No, they might not arrive for a while, with the way Angelique was fussing about some silly lace gown she could not find, as if she doesn’t have enough gowns for every day of Carnival.’

  With a sigh, Veronica followed her father up the staircase and into the central hall. Around the vast room, guests mingled with glasses of wine. It was a small gathering, so far around thirteen. Veronica found that small gatherings were the worst kind.

  She recognized many of the guests as inhabitants of the great palaces on the Grand Canal. It didn’t take her long to spot Alessandro among them. He was engaged in a lively conversation with an older gentleman who was gesturing to the stucco work around one of the doorways. Veronica let out an audible groan.

  ‘Is everything alright, Veronica?’ asked her father.

  Veronica nodded feebly. ‘Let’s find something to drink.’

  They had only taken a few steps when a door opened and Luca entered the hall accompanied by his parents. Signor Boccassio cleared his throat causing everyone in the hall to fall quiet. ‘Our deepest thanks for the pleasure of your company this evening. My son, Luca has an exciting announcement to share with you, but before we get to that, dinner is served.’

  The guests filed into the dining room, which as it turned out, was to be the first of three dining rooms the guests rotated through. In the first room, they were served soups and boiled meats, including Veronica’s least favorite dish, oxtail soup.

  When the guests passed into the next room for roasted and cooked meats, Veronica saw Angelique, Orelia and her aunt arrive. Angelique gave her a comforting smile as she sat down beside her. She looked as radiant as always in deep pink silk adorned with crystals. Veronica noticed that more than one pair of eyes watched her younger sister take a seat.

  Orelia sat down at the next seat along, drawing as much, if not more attention. She had that raw beauty that Orelia herself was blind to making her even more alluring. There was something different about her, Veronica noticed. She looked far less afraid that she might break something tonight.

  The last dining room, cast in semi-darkness, was spectacularly decorated with ice-sculptures illuminated by candles nearby whose gentle heat gave the frozen works of art a glossy surface. Also laid out on the table was an abundant spread of desserts, fruit and ice cream.

  The hour that passed in the final dining room was tolerable. Veronica chatted to a wigless gentlemen who turned out to be a playwright recently returned from a trip to England. He kept Veronica entertained with his sharp wit and humorous observations about the English. Alessandro was at the other end of the table too far for conversation to reach. Aside from brushing his hand against hers as the guests had moved from one dining room to another, Veronica had almost forgotten Alessandro was there. Luca was at the opposite end of the table with his parents. He had greeted her as they had entered the first dining room and suggested she try the oxtail soup. Veronica had begun to think that the evening would pass without disaster until Signor Boccassio stood and tapped the top of his glass with a fork. ‘I hope you all enjoyed dinner. If you will follow us into the sitting room, my son, Luca, has a very exciting announcement to make.’

  Veronica was last to file into the sitting room. Her eyes went straight to the walls of the spacious room, believing that you could tell a lot about a family from the paintings they hung in their house. The lower half of the walls was covered in white marble, while the upper half was covered in vermilion damask. On the wall opposite her, hung a single painting. When Veronica looked upon the painting, her heart stopped and her fingers released their grip on her slender bell-shaped glass, letting it crash to the floor. The guests turned in her direction with various gasps. Veronica’s eyes remained fixed on her painting of Luca, hanging right there for everyone to see.

  Luca’s mother rushed over to Veronica, the layers of her gown swishing in the quiet of the room. ‘You must be unwell, dear. Come and sit down.’ She led Veronica over to the settee.

  By the time Veronica was seated, her sister and father were on either side of her saying things in soothing distant voices. A servant was in the doorway, clearing away the broken glass and spilt wine. Another servant had arrived with a cloth soaked in cold rosewater for Veronica’s forehead. And there, amongst all this activity, was Luca crouched in front of her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  Her head was spinning in confusion, but she nodded. Luca remained there for another moment before standing and walking over to the wall where the painting hung. When he turned around to face the gathering, all conversation stopped. ‘We all have secrets and tonight I will tell you mine.’ Luca paused, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. ‘For the past two years, I have been writing a book.’

  Veronica listened with the cloth pressed to her forehead, completely confused.

  Luca continued, ‘I kept my notebook with me at all times and I didn’t show it to anyone. No one knew anything about it. Then, a few weeks ago, a mysterious package arrived. There was no name of the sender and my servant tells me that the messenger was masked. This is what was beneath the wrapping.’ Luca stepped aside and motioned to the painting. Veronica groaned, but no one took any notice given her recent behavior. Realization dawned on her. She no longer felt confused; she felt like a fool. It was just
a story, a product of a spoilt boy’s imagination. How could she have believed that he had helped someone escape from prison? Veronica looked longingly at the door, her own escape. ‘It’s a fine painting, but what does this have to do with your book?’ said the voice from somewhere behind Veronica.

  ‘You see, this painting is my book on canvas,’ said Luca. ‘My story was about a man who helps his friend escape from the Leads. It’s actually a terrible book, but a writer never sees that when they are writing it.’

  A few people laughed.

  ‘But then this painting arrived, without an name on it and with no clue as to how the artist knew about my story when not another soul had read it. This gave me an idea for a new book about a man who is haunted by mysterious paintings that arrive on his birthday every year. It only took me two weeks to write it. I barely ate, slept, or left the house, except on one occasion to attend church. It was there that I got to talk to a publisher who commented on the bags under my eyes and I told him about the book I was writing. He wanted to read it and well, to skip ahead, he has made me an offer to publish it.’

  The room erupted in applause. When the noise died down someone asked, ‘Have you discovered who the painter is?’

  ‘No,’ answered Luca.

  This caused a flurry of whispering throughout the sitting room. The only person who had nothing to say was Veronica. She leaned forward and stared at the bottom corner of the painting, barely believing her own eyes. There was only the blue-black paint of the water.

  How had she forgotten her initials, the most important part of the painting? She was feeling more foolish by the minute. She felt heat rising to her face. But then she realized what a fortunate mistake it had been. Without her initials, there was nothing connecting her to the painting that was so clearly not serving the purpose she had intended. Relief washed over her and she lowered the rosewater-soaked cloth from her forehead. But her relief was short lived for only a few moments later she remembered Alessandro. In her shock and confusion, she’d forgotten all about him. Did he recognize her painting? Even if he was true to his word and didn’t peek at her work, would he recognize her style? And if he did, would he give her away? Her eyes frantically searched the room and found him standing by himself along the back wall. He was sipping his drink quite calmly, unbothered. Veronica had to know for sure. ‘I think I’m going to get some air,’ Veronica whispered to her father, rising off the settee.

 

‹ Prev