Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  She had sat up in bed. “Who are those women in your room?”

  He had not answered her, but had turned back the bedclothes and pulled her from the bed. “Do as I say! Take a warm cape. You’ll need it.”

  She had dressed swiftly, putting on the gown with the papers sewn in the hem. He was taking her somewhere and she was at a loss to know where that might be. She was allowed no time to dress her hair so she put a comb into her pocket. Lastly she snatched up her purse, in which she had placed some of her most costly jewelry, for it was her intention never to return to this palace once the papers were safely in Marietta’s hands.

  “Not in that direction,” he said when she moved toward the door into her anteroom. “Leave your purse. You’ll not be needing that.”

  Nervously she obeyed him and he had opened the communicating door again. In seconds Elena took in the two women staring at her with blatant curiosity. One had hair as golden as her own and eyes almost as blue, although there the resemblance ended. But Elena also observed the cupboard that had caused her such trouble. It had been swung forward like a huge door to reveal a narrow lobby beyond with an ancient door standing wide. She realized instantly that although Filippo had returned home by the usual water entrance, he had fetched these two women by this secret way. As Filippo began propelling her toward this opening, total panic seized her. She began to scream and cry to the women for help, but Filippo clapped his hand over her mouth and hauled her, kicking and struggling, into the lobby and through the door beyond. She glimpsed a large salon far below in the light of a three-branched candelabrum on a table. The chill of this secret place rose up to meet her. Filippo forced her down into a sitting position to prevent her from losing her balance on a steep flight of stairs. Then he slammed the door shut after her and turned the key. She heard the cupboard close back into place.

  All that was several months ago. Restlessly Elena stirred on the broad couch that was her bed and opened her eyes to the room, which was illumined by the candelabrum and diffused moonlight. At first she was terrified there would be rats, but there were none. Neither had a mouse ever found its way into these quarters, although sometimes she could hear them scampering somewhere above the ceiling, and she liked their company so long as they remained at a distance.

  She had no idea how long she had screamed and cried and given way to despair in the early days of her imprisonment, for she had never liked to be alone, always loving to be with people and never happier than in a crowd. Her shrieking torment had been even worse by night, until she had forced herself under control in order not to be insane when finally Filippo relented and set her free again. Whereupon, since most of her creature comforts were provided by a female warden, she had asked the woman for cleaning materials and had washed and scrubbed and polished, ridding the room of dust and spiders as if she were back at the Pietà again and doing penance for some misdeed.

  When the manic mood had passed she settled into a calmer routine even though bouts of panic had plagued her periodically. She had sung every song she could remember, read the book of devotions and prayers she had requested, all other reading matter being denied her, and had drawn on an inner resilience she never before recognized in herself. She had come to realize it was what had enabled her spirits to revive constantly throughout her dreadful marriage, which had been a prison of another kind. But with her ration of food getting sparser and her physical strength evaporating, hope of ever getting out of this place had faded into preparation for death.

  Once this salon must have been very elegant. By day the light came through a solitary little gothic window set high in the wall and fitted with curiously strong opaque glass protected by an intricate inner grille that made it impossible to break. She had tried to break it many times by climbing precariously onto the top of a cupboard. Sunshine had revealed there was a similar outer grille the depth of a wall away.

  Yet it was by candlelight that the full splendor of the salon came to light, and that had been by design. Its pilastered walls and its floor were of rose marble deepening to crimson while the ornamentation of the ceiling still retained some gleam of its gold, though it had been darkened by time. It was the same with the gold frame of an elaborate mirror, whose looking-glass—like the panels of such glass set into the ceiling—had become so spotted with damp that it gave back almost no reflection. The handsome furniture had also suffered deterioration and the chairs at the table were rickety, the gilt tassels of their velvet cushions black as night.

  The precipitous staircase, leading sharply down from the door through which Filippo had thrust her, was built against the wall and flanked on its open side by a floor-to-ceiling curtain of such richness and quality that only in parts had it rotted from its rings. It had a double purpose, for it also concealed the entrance to an ornate alcove that was a latrine with an outlet to the water beneath the palace. When new, the curtain must have given exotic color to the well-proportioned and elegant room that had undoubtedly once been a place of passionate liaisons. Several paintings on the walls were darkened by time, but enough of their subject matter was discernible to show that each depicted a highly erotic scene.

  There was only one other door out of the salon. She had run to it that first night, thinking she might get out, but it was locked. There were two small flaps that had opened to reveal what appeared to be a black hole beyond, but which she now knew to be a narrow flight of stairs down to an iron-studded door that opened to the side canal. Once, when a high tide had made the waters of Venice rise, the hallway and lower steps had been flooded and for four days her female warden, who came to her by way of the canal and the outside door, had been unable to reach her. She had been without food or drinking water during that time and thought she was going to die more quickly than by Filippo’s method, which was to have her meager rations systematically reduced to ensure a slow death. The woman never entered the rose marble room, but handed her food and water and everything else through the small opening in the door. Laundry had to come through in a long thin bundle.

  Elena knew now that this was the secret room Marco had told her about when they went on their tour of the palace, stopping to kiss and embrace frequently along the way. He said it had been shut up since a murder was committed there; remembering his words, she tried not to let herself dwell on what act of lust or jealousy had resulted in that awful crime. At least her own death seemed destined to be without violence.

  Hearing a sharp knock at the outer door, Elena lifted her head wearily. Her warden, bauta-masked and hooded, always came by night, entering from a gondola drawn up alongside the iron-studded door. Once only lovers, courtesans, and maybe debauched rakes and their women came by that route, up the narrow marble stairs and through the second door into this room of liaisons, to join the signor of the palace in sexual pleasures.

  The knock came again. With an effort Elena pushed back the bedclothes and put her feet into slippers. Holding on to the wall, scarcely able to drag herself across the room, she made her way slowly to the door. Through the small aperture she saw the bauta-masked face. The woman spoke only when necessary.

  “I bid you good evening,” Elena said as she always did, for although this deliverer of food and water was strict and hostile, she was Elena’s last contact with the outside world. Elena took the covered bowl of food handed to her, and although it was not heavy her legs gave way as she set it on the side table she had long ago moved closer to the door to save time at these deliveries. Her fear had always been that if she took too long, she might not get all she had been brought. Then she took up an emptied container and passed it through the aperture in exchange.

  “Judging by the moonlight it must be a wonderful night,” Elena remarked, eager for speech. “I should like to be lingering on the Rialto to watch the candlelit gondolas passing to and fro and listen to the music and the songs.” Whenever she conjured up one of these familiar scenes, the woman showed only impatience. Despite this indifference, however, Elena persisted. “We would stand t
here sometimes, my friends and I, when we were on our way to dance or play cards.”

  “Make haste,” the woman snapped, handing through a squat flagon of water, but Elena had doubled up in such a paroxysm of coughing that she was helpless. The woman sighed with impatience and rested her arm with the flagon on the rim of the aperture. When Elena was finally able to take it from her with shaking hands the woman spoke roughly.

  “Make this last. In future I’ll be looking in at you every day, but bringing food and water only once a week instead of twice.” She was unmoved by the quick glitter of tears in the prisoner’s tragic eyes.

  “So I’m overstaying my time,” Elena said croakingly. Then her strength failed, and the bundle of clean laundry being passed to her fell through her arms to the floor. She often wondered why Filippo was so determined that she die with clean sheets and the other conveniences suited to her fastidious nature. As the woman turned away Elena called after her, “Good night. Sleep well.”

  She watched through the aperture as the woman silently went down the narrow flight by the glow of a lantern. A lovely glimmer of moonlight fell like cobwebs over her as she opened the outer door and went out. Then it closed with a thud and was locked.

  Elena stood for a while by the opening. A grille somewhere out of her range of vision gave fresh air through to the stairs, although there was also a vent in the room. She often thought of Domenico, who was also shut away from all he loved. He was the cause of her being here, although maybe Filippo had simply used her search of his cupboard as a final excuse to get rid of her. She would like to tell him with her dying breath that she had had a child and it was his seed that had no life-giving power. Yet it would not be out of revenge, only a wish to spare some other woman from having to endure his goading and bullying and hateful sexual demands.

  Marietta had told her how Domenico walked around his cell and did exercises to keep fit. Until her health had begun to fail Elena had followed his example and she believed it was why she had survived as long as she had. But now she was too sick to fight any longer and spent most of her time lying on her bed.

  Another bout of coughing racked her through and when it was over she sank down into a chair to rest for a few minutes, leaning her head back against the top rail. She wondered what Filippo would do when the warden reported her death. He would no longer have any need of the golden-haired woman who had clearly arrived that night to take her place. And what of her companion with black curls? Thinking back, Elena remembered that the darker woman had been wearing a plain grey silk gown. The logical conclusion was that she had replaced Maria as lady’s maid.

  Elena found it hard to understand how two women could watch cold-bloodedly while one of their own sex was committed to unlawful incarceration and eventual death. How could any amount of gold appease their consciences? Perhaps they had none. But maybe that was not surprising in Venice with its secret police, its spies, its feared Council of Three and its torture chambers, a city where anyone could pay to have an enemy knifed or drowned in a canal.

  Earlier on, Elena had tried to work out how Filippo would manage to pass off the impostor as his wife. Eventually she concluded that he must be keeping her in total seclusion. What could be easier than saying a sick woman must not be disturbed? It would then seem natural when a doctor was called in to confirm her demise, for no woman recently seen in public as healthy could change overnight into the thin and wasted creature Elena knew herself to be. She thought bitterly that the usurper and the maid were like ghouls sitting out the long hours of isolation as they awaited news of her death. She could visualize them in her apartment, yawning, playing games of chance, and wishing her life away.

  Elena rose slightly, supporting herself on the arms of the chair. Before going back to bed, she lifted the lid of the food container. Two slices of bread, a peach, and three plums were all she had been given. It was well that she was past having an appetite. Then she frowned, realizing there were no candles this time. Were they to be reduced too? Something of her old panic seized her and she stumbled across to the table where she snuffed out two of the three flames of the candelabrum. Perhaps she should rely on the moonlight this night and snuff out the third. Suppose she got no more candles! Steeling herself to this frightening possibility, she snuffed out the third flame and began to tremble. It had to be done. She did not want to die in the dark!

  MARIETTA PONDERED HOW she might get into the Palazzo Celano to search for Elena. Every kind of wild scheme was considered and rejected. Should she go with a book for Sister Giaccomina when she and Bianca resumed their library cataloguing? Or would it be better to appear with some lengths of silk from her own workshop and say she was to measure a sofa for new upholstery? Could she get temporary work in the kitchen? But none of these plans would work. She was too well known for the Celano servants not to recognize her. Neither would they admit a masked stranger arriving on some flimsy pretext. Even if she did gain admittance somehow, the likelihood of discovery by a vigilant steward was immense. And Filippo would not hesitate to have her arrested for unlawful trespass. Yet she could not give up the idea of trying to find Elena.

  It helped her to have other things to think about. The rejection of the petition for Domenico’s release had been devastating, even though she had tried not to raise false hopes. Her letters to her husband continued to be encouraging and loving, but she could guess how downcast he must be. At least she could be sure he would not break under the duress of his imprisonment, but Elena did not have his stamina. It was to Elena’s credit that Filippo had had to continue his play-acting so long, but she could not hold on to life indefinitely, and every day that passed brought her that much closer to death.

  Marietta also had Danilo to think about. She had not intended him to go to his foster parents until later in the year, but his bellow at eight months was so much louder and stronger than Melina’s gentle cry that she feared her deception would soon be discovered. So far the assistants in the shop had made no comment, but it would take only one to ask a question, and then speculation would be rife among staff and customers alike. If only Domenico could have seen their son once more before she had to send him away. Adrianna had promised to take Danilo to Iseppo’s house next time Francesca came to visit. Marietta knew she could not bring herself to hand him over to another’s care.

  Every day she was preparing Lucretia for her first public performance. It was to be at a charity concert and the audience would be distinguished. No professional singers or musicians were taking part, and a responsive audience would give Lucretia the confidence she presently lacked. There was plenty of employment for individual singers in Venice, at social evenings and other occasions. It was to this end that Marietta was training her pupil.

  On the morning of the concert Marietta went into the workshop. Leonardo had agreed to her making the masks that Filippo claimed were for Elena. The basic work had been done by others, but she had added the trimming and lined the masks herself. She had no idea if Elena would ever see them, but she had slipped a note behind the lining-silk of one. Her final task was to embroider a symbol on it that would make Elena search for the note concealed within. As she stitched, it came to her exactly how she could get into the Palazzo Celano without causing suspicion. But she would need to know her way about.

  That afternoon Marietta heard Lucretia sing her solo through twice. Then she made a special visit to the Pietà to see Bianca. She found her in a rehearsal room. With a smile, Bianca set aside her flute and folded the music on the stand.

  “You’ve come at the right time, Marietta. My practice hour is over.”

  “Good. What is the latest news?”

  “I’m to play at a quintet concert next month.”

  “That’s splendid.” Then, as they sat down on a bench, Marietta added, “I’ve come to ask a favor. Would you draw a plan for me showing the rooms known to you at the Palazzo Celano and where Elena’s apartments are to be found?”

  “Why should you want that?” Bianca aske
d suspiciously. “You know you’d be the last person Filippo would ever allow at Elena’s bedside.”

  “If you help me get into the palace without Filippo’s knowledge next time you are there, I might be able to reach her.”

  Bianca’s expression became mulish. “You always seem to suppose that you can be successful against odds that defeat everyone else. Well, you can’t. Filippo has done everything in his power for Elena. The nuns have spoken to her many times through her closed door without an answer, and prayed continually for her, but in vain. I’ve spent my time equally futilely playing my flute and begging admittance.” She drew a deep breath in defiance. “I won’t offend against Filippo’s generous hospitality by going behind his back for you or anyone else!”

  Marietta seized her by the shoulders and shook her in exasperation. “You foolish girl! Wake up! Filippo is a lecher and a libertine! He doesn’t care what happens to Elena!”

  “He does!” Bianca gave back, trying to wrench herself free. “He told me how he has always cherished her!”

  “What else did he tell you?” Marietta’s grip tightened as she saw the guilty blush rise in the girl’s cheeks. “That you are beautiful? Desirable? Can’t you see that he is trying to seduce you?”

  “He is too honorable a man for that!” Bianca shrieked, her face racked by anguish. “But I wish he would! It could make no difference to Elena since she never cared for him!”

  Marietta released her only to strike her furiously across the face. “Never again dare to lay blame on Elena in my hearing. How could she care for a husband who used her brutally and beat her black and blue!”

  “Lies! All lies!” Bianca leapt to her feet, cupping her reddened cheek, her eyes blazing. “You’re jealous because I have a Celano in love with me while your Torrisi husband is locked up in prison. You’ll never poison me against Filippo! You think I don’t grieve for Elena’s condition. I do. I love her as if she were my own kin, but I can’t help it that she is never going to get better. I’ve done what I could to help her and I’m still trying. I’ll never give up so long as there’s a chance of doing some good. But I see no harm in showing friendship—and only friendship—to a sad man who sorrows for Elena as I do!”