by David Hewson
His cousin Arturo, a sickly man from across the river, limped over to join him, moaning about everything, the heat, the food, the state of the world.
‘I’m past my dancing days, Luca,’ he grumbled, falling into a chair. ‘And so are you.’
‘True,’ Capulet agreed and took the seat by his side. ‘I hope to God no woman takes up that stupid offer. It’s too damned hot and I’m too ancient. Perhaps the remark about the corns will deter–’
‘How long is it since we wore masks together?’ Arturo wondered, gazing at the line of girls, all, except Juliet, chattering excitedly, eyes flashing towards the young men arriving through the mirrored double doors.
‘How long is it since we looked at pretty fillies and felt a certain spring in the heel?’
His cousin chuckled. ‘I think that’s even more distant than the masks. Don’t you?’
Lives had mid-points. Pivots upon which they turned. The cruellest aspect of them all was… a man never noticed. One moment he looked forward. Then came marriage, family and toil. And then, so soon it seemed, there was an instant when a sudden harsh epiphany would break upon him. The realisation that the time to look forward was past. Only a diminishing period remained in which to glance regretfully back.
This was why family mattered. In the act of passing life from one generation to the next there lay the smallest intimation of immortality. It was all an old man had.
‘We danced last at Lucentio’s wedding,’ Luca Capulet said very gently, watching the young men begin to gather across the hall, masks roaming over the ladies, each of them wondering… which one of them might, if my luck holds, be mine?
‘Ah. Your brother. That was thirty years ago!’
‘No. Twenty-five. I remember it well. Six more years and he was dead. The only brother I had. Two years younger than me. Sick from dysentery in that stupid little war we had with Milan.’
A thought came to Arturo, half a memory. ‘Whatever happened to that widow of his? I know you ended up with the boy Tybalt.’ He took a long swig of his wine. ’Good vintage last year by the way. I congratulate you.’
Capulet could lie easily when he wished. ‘I don’t recall.’
‘She came…’ Arturo scratched his bald head. ‘From Turin or somewhere.’
Lucentio’s wife was a shy, simple woman. Not long after his death, with an awkward child in need of a father, she threw herself into the Adige. The cormorant fishermen retrieved her body two days later. It wasn’t a pretty sight. The family kept the matter secret. She was as good as a foreigner. It wasn’t difficult.
‘Does it matter?’
There was a flurry of activity at the door. Paris appeared, no mask above his ginger beard. Perhaps he’d steal Juliet back to Florence where she’d be an unloved stranger, too.
‘Considering this is your party, Cousin, you’re looking bloody miserable,’ Arturo told him. ‘I know you’re old but perhaps you’d best find yourself a mask. Be sorrowful to yourself alone.’
That was as good as a kick up the arse.
‘No need,’ Capulet announced getting to his feet. ‘There’s business to be done. Boy?’ A servant raced up quickly. ‘See to it that my cousin’s cup is never empty. He’s always been fond of wine, especially when it comes for free.’
* * *
Masked, to all the world anonymous they hoped, Romeo and Benvolio waited by the stable while Mercutio knocked on the kitchen door. A woman answered. She was holding a skinned rabbit, head up, dark eyes staring. One question only: are you Pietro’s mates? A nod. Then, feeling a little like naughty children, they stole up the servant stairs and emerged by the doors to the great hall, struggling to stifle their giggles.
‘This is fun,’ Mercutio whispered, as they hovered by the door. ‘If you two get away with it I reckon it’ll be an escapade we’ll be laughing about in our dotage. Excuse me, sir!’
He tapped the arm of a uniformed servant striding between the guests, a tray of drinks in his hands. ‘My friends and I require wine. And an assurance there are no blackguard Montagues here. We are afflicted by the most delicate noses and could not bear the smell.’
The youth turned and looked at him askance. Behind his mask Benvolio took a deep breath. It was Samson from the market that morning, eyeing them up and down. ‘If your noses are so sensitive I’d have thought you’d know the answer to that yourself.’
‘Got a bit of a cold,’ Mercutio said quickly.
‘All three of you?’
‘It’s catching. A-tish-OO!’
Samson didn’t smile for a second, just held out the drinks. Each took a cup. ‘I doubt you’ll find a Montague here. And if you did I doubt even more he’d make it home alive.’ He nodded at the tables. ‘Food’s over there. Dance floor’s free. Ladies are waiting for gentlemen to ask them. Fine ladies. Nice ladies. We want no trouble. But if we get it, friends, we’ll deal with it. Like we did in the market this morning. You weren’t there, were you?’
‘Church,’ Mercutio replied, singing a snatch of a hymn. ‘Choir practice. Two baritones and a countertenor. Won’t ask you to guess which is which.’
Samson stared at them for a long moment then moved on. Benvolio mentioned something about how Mercutio loved living dangerously.
‘Is there any other way?’ he replied. ‘At least you feel… alive. Ah, ladies! Romeo. Romeo!Christ… look at that lot. Oh…’ He wiped his brow with a theatrical sweep. ‘I feel quite faint.’
Across the room the women were ranged in a line next to the musicians. Two or three were on the arms of gentlemen already. One was Rosaline, smiling more sweetly, more openly than Romeo had ever seen. The object of her affection was a tall long-haired youth who’d removed his mask and almost swept the floor with his arm as he invited her to dance.
Mercutio sighed as they watched the delicate, fawn-like girl step onto the floor. ‘Rosaline looks as if she’s gagging for it. You’re not going to go all jealous on us, are you?’
‘No. I’m not. Who’s that?’
He wasn’t listening. Mercutio’s eyes had locked on a miserable creature trying to hide away from sight of everyone at the back of the line. She had mousy short hair, a sad, round face and an ill-fitting purple dress that might have been borrowed or even made at home.
‘Personally,’ he declared with a judicious nod, ‘I prefer to go for plain girls. Gratitude’s a more enduring emotion than love. A rather more honest one if you think about it, too. Ciao, Ciao!’
Without another word he was off. Benvolio saw one of the musicians take a break from his duties and announced he wished to talk to the man about the work they were playing. Romeo was suddenly on his own.
A different servant went past carrying food. Romeo stopped him and pointed to the girl across the room. The one with the long, unadorned blonde hair and the blue dress. A delightful face, young and innocent, yet knowing and intelligent. More than anything, he thought, she possessed an air of apartness. As if she didn’t belong in this ornate and ridiculous evening any more than he.
‘I need to know who that young lady is. Please.’
The servant uttered a pained groan then looked. ‘I’m a hired hand for the night. Which one?’
‘The beautiful one.’
The waiter laughed. ‘They all look rather beautiful to me, mate.’
‘The girl at the end whose… whose star shines brighter than the rest. Who looks like a dove out trooping with crows. Oh, for pity’s sake… Isn’t it obvious? It is to me.’
The waiter stared at him rather coldly. ‘Must be love then. If we may cut the poetry for a moment… am I to take it you mean the blonde lass at the end in blue? White pearl necklace, hasn’t spent hours faffing with her hair like all the rest of them? Very fetching but looks dead bored as if she might hop it any moment given half the chance?’
It was hard to see clearly through those tiny eyeholes. Romeo dragged off his mask. She seemed even lovelier. Then he remembered where he was and quickly put the thing back in place. ‘Yes. H
er.’
‘Haven’t got… a single clue.’ He held out his silver tray. ‘May I interest you in a sausage?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’ll excuse me.’
She wasn’t just bored. She’d spotted someone across the room. Perhaps the tall, older chap eyeing her as if interested. A man with a beard, ginger and full, clothes that spoke of money and influence. The girl was scuttling out behind the others with a sly and worried glance, heading for the open windows through which a soft and fragrant breeze was wafting.
The bearded fellow watched, unhappy, and didn’t move. Romeo politely made his excuses as he worked his way through the crowd to follow her. Not noticing that, across the room, someone had spotted him the moment he’d removed the awkward, deathly white volto.
* * *
The flowing blue gown she’d chosen was as close as Juliet could manage to the one worn by the fictional Ursula in the paintings of Carpaccio. She’d thought of trying to recreate exactly the dress she had worn in her martyrdom but there was nothing similar in her wardrobe, nor a scarlet cape. Besides she hated black and her parents were, in any case, beyond such ironic gestures.
So she sat alone on a bench in the garden, beneath the apple trees, sipping at her cup of fresh pomegranate juice squeezed by one of the boys from the kitchen. It was her favourite and making it was a strenuous job she could manage quite adequately herself, though her father yelled if he saw her doing it.
He’d be mad she’d slunk out of the banquet without so much as a word. Her mother would be scouring the palazzo quarters trying to find her. The garden was almost dark now, barely lit by the few torches. The music, the food and the drink were the magnets for the evening. No one but a fool would wish to abandon all that frivolity for a solitary moment among the flowers and trees and vegetable beds that ran from the mansion to the wall by the Adige.
Then, to her displeasure, someone sat down on the bench by her side.
‘I do not wish to speak, Count Paris. Another time…’
‘Sorry. You mistake me.’
He had a nice voice. Calm, quiet. Perhaps a little tremulous.
‘Oh. I thought you were someone else.’
‘If you were expecting…’
‘No, no. I wasn’t. I just… wished for some quiet.’
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
She pointed towards the river wall. ‘It’s a big garden. Over there… can you see? There are apricot trees. The scent from them is delightful. The same goes for some of the artichokes funnily enough. Though in truth they’re just thistles. Apples. Oranges. Pears and cherries. I imagine we’ve more variety here than they ever had in Eden. I do hope that’s not heresy. Why not go and take a look?’
‘May I… sit with you instead?’
‘If you must. At the very least take off your mask.’
Immediately he obeyed.
‘I hate balls,’ she muttered.
‘Me too.’
‘You’re just saying that.’
‘Well, I am. But I mean it.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. So many people in the world. Most of them quite decent, I imagine. But…’
When he wouldn’t go on she asked, ‘But what?’
‘You only need one special person. One. That’s all. You don’t find them in a crowd, I suppose. I’m not exactly an expert.’
‘You’re a man. A least you get to choose.
He hesitated then said, ‘Normally at a ball I’d… kiss your hand by way of welcome. May I–?’
‘No. You may leave my hand alone. I don’t even know your name.’
He was handsome though, not swarthy, not pock-marked, not… bearded. His eyes seemed soft and thoughtful and it occurred to her that perhaps he was quite sensitive. Not a manly characteristic but one she found quite fetching.
In turn, he felt lost for words on two counts. This close she was far more beautiful than she’d ever appeared at a distance next to the line of pretties arranged for all-comers at the dance. And he was in a quandary for what to say. A wrong word uttered. A stupid comment. Momentous acts sometimes failed on something as quick and simple as the beat of a sparrow’s wing.
‘Romeo,’ he managed finally. ‘And you are?’
‘Juliet, as it happens. I live here.’
He hesitated then asked, ‘Here?’
She turned and pointed at the palazzo. ‘Here.’
‘Ah,’ he replied, and something crossed his face.
‘What do you mean “ah”? You’re not a Montague, are you? I heard they had a son of that name.’ She laughed. ‘No. Sorry. You can’t be. They’re all…’ She pulled an ugly face. ‘Piggy eyed with big fat tummies.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘I don’t know. My father probably. He hates their guts. Every last one of them.’
He waited, silent. She looked at him again.
‘Oh my goodness. You are a Montague. What on earth are you doing here? My cousin Tybalt will carve you into little pieces given half a chance. Even if someone else doesn’t. We’re deadly enemies. Didn’t you know?’
‘I’m no man’s enemy.’
‘Makes no difference to Tybalt. He’ll kill you all the same. I first saw him pulling the wings off a butterfly when I was…’ She made a sign with her delicate fingers: something tiny. ‘This old. Why are you here?’
‘I followed you.’
‘Because…?’
‘Because you looked like me. As if you didn’t really fit.’
‘I live here. I have to fit. I was born to it. Or so I’m told.’
‘You’re very beautiful.’
She sighed. ‘God in a privy… if someone tells me that again…’
‘Sorry. Well, I mean I’m not sorry. Because you are. Beautiful, that is. I meant…’
‘You’re not terribly good at this, are you?’
He laughed. ‘No…’
‘Do you always laugh when someone’s rude to you?’
‘No. I get mad sometimes.’
‘Then… why laugh now?’
‘Because you made me!’
She shook her head. ‘By being rude?’
‘By being… honest. I’ve been fooling myself I’m a poet. I’m a fraud really. Next week my parents send me off to Bologna. To become a lawyer. To spend my life in writs and torts and endless litigation. Nice work for frauds.’
‘Say no.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You’re a man!’
He breathed a long, pained sigh. ‘It makes no difference. They think they own us.’
‘Then perhaps,’ she said, ‘they do. My father believes me to be his goods and chattels. I’m to be sold off to a man who wants me for his own. A bearded man. Vile and–’
‘What would you rather do?’
‘Ha!’ Her laugh was bold and loud enough to scare a blackbird out of the apricot tree across the way. ‘Anything. Everything. Do you know there’s a new world to the west? The Spaniards found it. Full of gold and wonders none of us has ever seen.’ She tapped his knee. He didn’t seem to mind. ‘A book I read said there are people there with heads situated beneath their arms.’ Juliet placed a thoughtful finger against her full, pink lips. He watched, rapt, lost. ‘Though I think it’s best to accept that just because something’s down on paper… it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.’
‘I like it when you laugh.’
She found herself smiling. ‘So do I.’
‘I’d like to hear more of it. Tomorrow. The day after. The day after that…’
Her smile vanished. ‘Why? Next week you’re dispatched to Bologna, to become that driest of dry things. A lawyer. While I… am spoken for. By others, not myself. A captive. A tiny bird in a tiny cage my father and the rest have made for me.’
He shook his head. ‘Not tiny. Never tiny. Not you.’
Juliet stared at the dry, hard ground. ‘We’re what they make of us. Never what we dream ourselves to be.’
‘It doesn’t matter. They do.’ She lifted her head and looked at him. ‘You’re very odd, you know.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I didn’t mean to be nasty. Perhaps I like odd.’ She blinked. ‘That’s my hand you’re holding.’
‘Sorry,’ he whispered again as his fingers crept away. ‘I… I… It just… God, you’re right. I’m terrible at this.’
‘Lack of practice, I imagine.’
‘You imagine right. Completely. Should I go?’
‘Yes. I’m bored with pomegranate. Were you to fetch me half a glass of wine it’s possible that, in addition to allowing you to hold my hand, I’ll let you kiss me. Mark that word “possible” now. No promises.’
He was up in an instant. ‘I’ll get some drinks.’
‘Romeo!’
Juliet was pointing at his face with a long, slender finger. ‘The mask. You must wear the mask. Tybalt. Remember?’
‘The mask. Got it.’ He smiled. The dead white porcelain went back over his fetching features. She thought she heard her mother’s voice calling from somewhere.
‘Be quick,’ she said then followed his every step as Romeo wandered through the twilight and the trees, past the roses, back into the palazzo.
* * *
Luca Capulet was halfway across the hall intent on mollifying a stony-faced Paris when his nephew Tybalt, no mask, no smile, took his elbow and dragged him into the shadows of a corridor.
‘Have you seen my daughter?’
Tybalt tugged on the old man’s emerald jerkin. ‘No, but I’ve–’
‘Take your damned hands off me! What’s the matter with you? I throw a party that costs a king’s ransom and all you can do is skulk around grim-faced like an angry mourner at a poor funeral.’
Capulet had been trying to help the youth ever since his younger brother had died and the mother killed herself. It was never easy. He was too argumentative and violent for the household, so most of his time was spent out on the estates, with unfortunate governesses and servants mandated to take care of him. School had come to an end after a succession of fights. The universities had all roundly rejected him, however much was offered by way of a bribe. He seemed happy – or at least as happy as he could ever be – acting as an enforcer for the business, harrying debtors, sometimes in ways the old man regretted when he heard of them.