The Italian’s Cinderella Bride

by Lucy Gordon

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Mario said, crestfallen.

  ‘But in every other way you’re an excellent manager, so let this matter go. How’s business apart from ill-tempered ladies?’

  ‘Doing well,’ Mario hastened to tell him. ‘There’s hardly a hotel room left.’

  ‘I thought everything was empty in January,’ Ruth said.

  ‘It’s empty now, but in four weeks we start Carnival,’ Pietro told her. ‘And nobody wants to miss that. For eleven days the city will be packed. Everyone will eat too much, drink too much, and enjoy themselves in any way they please-also too much. But that’s all right, they wear masks, so they get away with it.’

  The rear of the shop was taken up with the hire department. There were printed catalogues, and large screens on which costumes could be projected.

  But the real thing was also there, masks and outrageous costumes, all glowing with life and colour; brilliant reds and blues, vibrant greens and yellows, glittering with sequins and tinsel.

  Mario, who had followed her while Pietro glanced through the books, began to show them off.

  ‘These will be hired for the street parties,’ he explained. ‘For the big indoor occasions everyone will be much grander.’

  He held one of the masks before his face. It was fierce and sexy in a slightly satanic way, and it transformed him into a man many women would find intriguing. Then he removed it and became gentle, sweet-natured Mario again.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he sighed. ‘I can dream, can’t I? That’s what Carnival is for.’

  ‘Perhaps your dream will come true,’ she said, liking him.

  ‘No, signorina. I dream of the lady who won’t be disappointed when she sees the real me. If only I could keep this mask on for ever.’

  ‘You might not like that as much as you think,’ she mused. ‘In the long run it’s best to be yourself-whoever that is.’

  ‘But to be a stranger, even to yourself, can be such a pleasure, especially when you can choose which stranger to be.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true,’ she murmured, looking through some of the female masks. ‘Being able to choose would make all the difference.’

  She began to try them on, starting with one that was made like a cat, and that covered her face completely.

  ‘This might be a good one to hide behind,’ she mused.

  ‘But a mask isn’t always to hide behind,’ Pietro said, coming to join them. ‘Sometimes it can reveal what you never knew before about yourself.’

  ‘That would be the time to beware,’ Ruth said. ‘You wouldn’t know what you were also revealing to other people. They might see you in a way you never dreamed of, and then where would you be?’

  ‘Among friends,’ Pietro told her softly. ‘And it might be their insight that sets you free.’

  Poor Mario looked blankly from one to the other, until rescue came in the form of a customer. Mario hastened to his assistance, but found himself in trouble again. The newcomer was German, speaking no Italian and very little English. Soon there was chaos. Pietro groaned.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Ruth told him. ‘This is your lucky day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you have me,’ she said, and walked away before he could reply.

  It took her only a few minutes to sort things out, translating the visitor’s enquiry, then Mario’s response, to the desperate relief of both.

  When the satisfied customer had departed, her two companions were loud in their praise.

  ‘My lucky day indeed!’ Pietro said. ‘Now I remember you said you were a language teacher. And you sold him our most expensive package.’

  ‘Mario did that. I was just the conduit.’

  ‘Thank heavens for conduits,’ Mario said fervently, and they all laughed.

  ‘We do have an assistant who speaks German,’ Mario added, ‘but she’s only part-time, and not here yet.’

  ‘I think that’s worth a coffee and cream cake,’ Pietro said. ‘Come on.’

  They went along the covered passage to the Café Florian, its elegant interior still reflecting the style of the eighteenth century, when it had first opened.

  ‘Did Gino ever bring you here?’ Pietro asked.

  ‘Oh, yes, he told me about Casanova coming here.’

  Pietro suppressed the wry comment that this was just what he would have expected. Casanova, the infamous eighteenth-century lover of a thousand women, a man who’d flirted with the church as a career but also flirted with witchcraft. Imprisoned for debt and devil worship, he’d escaped and travelled Europe, pursued by scandal, finally ending his days as a respectable librarian in an obscure castle in Bohemia.

  Like many other young men Gino had passed over the respectable part, and used the rest to his advantage.

  ‘He said Casanova came to Florian’s because it was the only café in Venice that allowed women inside,’ Ruth remembered now.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  She nodded. ‘Lots of things. Some of them were just to make me laugh. Some of them-’ She shrugged, with a little sad smile. Then she tensed suddenly. ‘No! No!’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.

  She was pressing her hands to her forehead, whispering desperately, ‘No!’ while Pietro watched her in concern.

  Suddenly she gave an exasperated sigh, and dropped her hands.

  ‘It’s no good. It’s gone. That happens all the time.’

  ‘But it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody remembers every detail.’

  ‘I know. I try to tell myself that everyone goes blank sometimes, even normal people.’

  ‘Ruth, you’re perfectly normal.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Normal people don’t go do-lally in the middle of a conversation.’

  ‘I forbid you to talk like that,’ he said in a tight voice.

  ‘All right, not another word, I promise.’

  But her easy compliance made him rightly suspicious.

  ‘And I forbid you to think it either,’ he snapped. ‘That’s an order.’

  ‘Hey, you’re really used to being obeyed, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, and I expect to be obeyed this time. Don’t you ever dare call yourself abnormal again.’

  Ruth suddenly understood that he was really angry, not just with the exasperated indignation of the day before, but in a mysterious, inexplicable rage.

  ‘Don’t you understand why you mustn’t think in such a way?’ he demanded in a calmer voice.

  ‘I suppose so. But after a while it’s natural.’

  ‘Then you’ve got to stop. I’m going to make you stop.’

  ‘Pietro, it’s not the same as ordinary forgetfulness. One minute the memories are running through my head, the next-darkness descends. If only I-’ She made a helpless gesture.

  ‘Don’t try to force it,’ he advised her.

  ‘But I’m so close-if I can just-’

  ‘No,’ he said, taking her hands in his. ‘Let it go. If you fight, it’ll fight back. Think of something else-anything else. Find something good and hang on to it.’

  There was only him to hang on to, she thought, feeling the warmth of his hands clasping hers. She closed her eyes, willing him to keep her safe, as he was doing now.

  ‘All right?’ he asked when she finally looked up.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right now.’

  ‘Did you find something?’

  She smiled. ‘Yes, I found just what I needed.’

  Suddenly her face brightened and she cried, ‘Giovanni Soranzo!’ in such a voice of triumph that people stared at her.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Pietro said.

  ‘You must have heard of him-Doge of Venice, early fourteenth century.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. I’m descended from him.’

  ‘And so is Gino. He told me all about it. That’s what I was trying to remember. You were right. When I stopped thinking about it, it came back.’

  ‘Then we’ve made progress already. Can you remember anything else he sai
d?’

  ‘The Doges ruled Venice for twelve centuries, and were immensely powerful. Gino was so proud of being descended from one of them. He showed me the portrait you keep in the palazzo.’

  ‘We’ll have another look at it some time.’

  ‘When we’ve finished lunch I’d like to wander around a bit on my own.’

  ‘No,’ he said at once.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied firmly. ‘I’m not going to run away again, I promise.’

  ‘You might get lost.’

  ‘You can’t get lost in Venice. If you take a wrong turn you just come to the edge and fall into the water. You climb out, soaking wet and cursing horribly, and retrace your steps. You must teach me some of those fine Venetian curses. Gino said they’re the best in the world.’

  He was forced to laugh at her determined humour.

  ‘I’m safe now, honestly,’ she continued. ‘I’ll come back to the shop later, and if you’re not there I’ll make my own way home.’

  He agreed but reluctantly, and when they left Florian’s his eyes followed her across St Mark’s Piazza until she vanished.

  It was as well that he returned to the shop, for his part-time assistant didn’t show up, and it was a busy afternoon. Late in the day Ruth slipped quietly inside. To his relief she looked calm and cheerful.

  He called the palazzo, giving Minna the night off preparing his meal, and on the way home he stopped in several food shops buying fresh meat and vegetables.

  ‘Tonight I do the cooking,’ he told Ruth. ‘And if that doesn’t scare you, nothing will.’

  ‘But Gino said you were a wonderful cook.’

  ‘Compared to him, I was. I enjoy it. And I enjoy surprising people who don’t expect me to be able to do it.’

  Toni came to meet them as soon as they entered, paying particular attention to Ruth, whom he seemed to consider his particular concern after having guarded her on the first night.

  There was a note from Minna on the table, to say that she had taken Toni for a walk and seen him settled before going out for the evening.

  ‘I’d better give him his medication before I start cooking,’ Pietro said. ‘Can you hand me the little brown bottle on that shelf behind you?’

  Ruth glanced at the label before handing over the bottle, and without thinking, she said, ‘Good stuff.’

  ‘You’ve come across these pills before?’ Pietro said quickly. ‘When?’

  ‘I-don’t know. I just know them. You give them to a dog who has petit mal, mild epilepsy.’

  ‘That’s right. Perhaps you had a dog of your own?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. My aunt didn’t like animals. How often does he have these?’

  ‘Just one a day. Perhaps you can give it to him while I start the food.’

  He retreated to the kitchen, but lingered in the doorway, watching as Toni nestled against her, clearly content to trust her. In a few seconds the pill was down.

  Her offer to help with the meal was met with lofty dismissal. Women, Pietro gave her to understand, did not belong in the kitchen. While she was still trying to puzzle this out he indicated the china and gave her permission to lay the table.

  ‘Cheek!’ she said amiably, and got to work.

  Ruth had to admit that he served up a fabulous meal, starting with risi e bisi, rice with peas, assuring her that it had been a big favourite with Giovanni Soranzo.

  ‘Oh, yeah!’ she said sceptically.

  ‘Listen, you’re not talking to Gino now. If I say it, it’s true. Well, sort of. Traditionally it was the starter on the Doge’s lunch menu every year, during the feast of St Mark.’

  ‘Ah,’ Ruth said cunningly, ‘but is there any evidence that he actually liked it?’

  ‘He ate it, and it never killed him,’ Pietro hedged. ‘Why don’t you open the wine?’

  Although she’d known him such a short time Ruth was coming to treasure these moments of bantering, which took her mind away from problems. She wondered if it did the same for him.

  The meal continued with pasta in olive oil, followed by cream cod mousse and sweet biscuits, washed down with light, delicious wines.

  Suddenly she said, ‘I was going to ask if you’ve been in touch with Gino since I arrived. But you must have been, and, since you haven’t mentioned it, I guess he doesn’t want to know.’

  Pietro was taken by surprise, but realised that he shouldn’t have been. He was getting used to her sharp wits.

  ‘It’s not quite like that,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Which means it’s exactly like that.’

  ‘He doesn’t remember the last evening exactly as you do. He thought you wanted to break up.’

  ‘But how could he?’

  ‘I don’t know, but he says you broke up with him.’

  She stared, clearly thunderstruck.

  ‘But-but I didn’t,’ she stammered. ‘We had a lovely evening-he said he loved me.’ But then her shoulders sagged. ‘At least, that’s what I remember. But maybe I’m wrong.’

  ‘Maybe you’d had enough of his silly face and wanted something better,’ Pietro said kindly, trying to make light of it.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ she said firmly. ‘If I’d changed my mind about him why didn’t I tell him on the phone before he ever came to England? Why wait until then?’

  ‘Perhaps you needed to see him to be sure?’ Pietro suggested.

  ‘And when I saw him in the restaurant that night I decided against him? But instead I remember how close we were. So I’m imagining that? I’m delusional? Well, there you are. I must be madder than I thought.’

  ‘I told you not to call yourself mad.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell me! If I want to abuse myself, I will. Who has a better right?’

  He didn’t make the mistake of answering, but looked at her wryly until she calmed down and gave a little laugh, aimed at herself.

  ‘I warned you it would be tough,’ she said.

  ‘I can take it,’ he assured her.

  ‘Which version do you believe?’ she challenged. ‘His or mine?’

  ‘We both know he didn’t always stick to the truth. Look at this.’

  He took out the photo albums and went through pages until he found the picture he wanted her to see. It showed Gino with a middle-aged woman. She was wearing an apron, and was busy in a kitchen.

  ‘That was his mother,’ Pietro said.

  Ruth said nothing for a moment, then, ‘Did she work here?’

  ‘Yes, she was our cook for several years. That’s how it happened that he grew up here.’

  ‘So he’s not your cousin, not a Bagnelli?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid that was one of his fantasies.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. I thought you were both descended from the same Doge.’

  ‘That’s true, but Doges were elected. It wasn’t a hereditary position. There were over a hundred of them, from different families. Almost every true Venetian is descended from one Doge or another.’

  ‘But being a Bagnelli was another of his “fantasies”. Or shall we call them lies? When was he going to tell me the truth-if ever? Perhaps Gino himself was an illusion.’ She gave a laugh that was almost bitter. ‘Maybe he was just a hologram, and if I stretched out my hand it might have gone right through him.’

  ‘I think you’ve summed him up fairly well,’ Pietro said grimly. ‘Perhaps it’s useful that you’re beginning to see him more clearly.’

  ‘But it doesn’t change anything. I still need his help, even if I don’t-’

  ‘Don’t what?’ he asked. When she didn’t reply he said tensely, ‘Do you still love him? Ruth, try to tell me.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘T ELL me,’ Pietro urged again. ‘I know you’re trying to be very realistic about everything, but sometimes feelings aren’t realistic. After all that’s happened-is it possible that you still love him?’

  He checked himself, sensing that his voice sounded too intent. Emotional pressure was bad for Ruth. H
e must try to remember.

  ‘Can you still love a man who’s treated you in such a way?’ he continued more calmly.

  ‘Treated me how? That’s what I don’t know.’

  ‘He didn’t stick around, you know that.’

  ‘But maybe I told him not to, like he said.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘But what do you feel now?’

  She shook her head helplessly.

  ‘How can I tell “then” and “now” apart? I remember how totally I loved him then.’

  ‘And you feel that love now?’

  ‘Yes-no-maybe, but it’s really just another hologram. Press a switch and it would probably vanish. Oh, hell! What’s the point of talking? I’ve got to discover the reality and look it in the eye.’ She smiled with a hint of mischief that disturbed his heart. ‘Maybe then I’ll spit in its eye.’

  ‘Reality may hit you harder than you imagine.’

  ‘Then I’ll hit back harder still. You don’t think I’m going to be beaten by a bit of reality, do you? That to it!’ She snapped her fingers.

  ‘Have you ever let anything get the better of you?’ he asked, honestly curious.

  Making a face full of wicked glee, she replied, ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember.’

  She gave a crow of amusement and he joined in, regarding her with admiration. But as his laughter faded hers went on, and there was a note in it that alarmed him.

  ‘Ruth, it’s not that funny,’ he said gently.

  ‘Yes, it is, it’s hilarious. It’s the funniest thing that ever happened. Can’t you see that?’

  ‘No,’ he said, gathering her shaking body into his arms. ‘I can see a great many things. You’d be surprised how much I can see. But I can’t see that.’

  He held her tight, feeling her shaking intensify until he thought her laughter would change into tears. But something else happened. Suddenly she stopped shaking and he felt her shoulders stiffen. Gently but firmly she drew away and disengaged herself, saying in a changed voice, ‘OK, I’ve decided.’

  ‘Why does that scare me?’ he asked, trying to make light of it.

  ‘I’m not going to go on like this, living off your charity and wondering if Gino’s going to come home, and if he does, will he help me. That’s just leaving your fate in someone else’s hands, and nuts to it.’