by Sasha Gould
“Not so tense,” he says gently. “Not so rigid, Laura.” I laugh at myself too, and then he points and says, “Look!”
I see the palace like something rising out of the water. White and gold. Arches on arches, all flickering with the lights of the party. Other boats are converging, drifting near the jetty to deposit their flamboyant cargo. Already I hear a hum of conversation coming from within the walls. And there’s music. Lutes, bells, flutes and harpsichord all tangled together. Nothing like the solemn purity of our songs inside the convent. Our turn arrives and the bargeman steers us expertly alongside the alighting point. The music makes my body move. I’m intoxicated already.
“It’s beautiful!” I say.
“Yes, it is,” my father replies.
A lush crowd throngs at the entrance to the palace. People dart jovial hellos and how-are-yous at each other. Just like the palace, the guests are shimmering too. Beautiful, colored, bejeweled. Footmen and maids weave between them, carrying scarves and capes and veils.
As I step onto solid ground and up the steps, my silken petticoats rustle along the stone. I shiver slightly as we pass into the shadow of the entrance.
Two footmen open the vast double doors for us and we walk into a great hallway. The walls are glowing marble and the ceiling is frescoed with laughing cherubs. In the center of the hall is a statue of a nymph, her hands clasped to her breast. I whirl around, seeing myself in every polished surface. Except it’s not me. I’m tall and poised and graceful. When I see my reflection on the wall my dress seems to be a ruby jewel, as bright as the missing gems of my mother. Other people are looking at me in a way that makes me want to smile. Their eyes rest a fraction too long, or their brows shift upwards as though I’m a long-forgotten friend now returned.
There’s a rumble of voices ahead and we walk through a sparkling encrusted doorway into the ballroom. Gilded mirrors and candelabras hang from the walls, the hundreds of candles sparking pins of light that dance and tumble around like fireworks. A lute quartet plays a lively dance, the notes hanging among the chatter. I hold my father’s hand tightly as we move through the other guests. Glorious-looking women and handsome men enter the ballroom together and then slowly drift apart. The men smile at me with eyes as sharp as arrows. I let my own eyes meet some of the more brazen stares, and I see that these people aren’t all as beautiful as distance makes them. Complexions are powdered; flesh shows crinkles of laughter around the eyes and lips. Men with broad shoulders and red cheeks stand in leather shoes that shine so brightly they look wet. Gleaming buckles flash in the light. The women tilt their lace fans, silken gowns shimmering. Perfume hangs heavy in the air. But among the joyful crowd are those who seem apart from the scene; they chatter and flirt, but their eyes are hollow with hunger and desperation.
“I refuse to pay a gondolier ever again,” a woman in a blue dress complains. “I prefer to walk until the soles of my shoes wear out.”
“You need to be a criminal to survive,” says her companion, flicking her fan in annoyance. “Those wretched Turkish wars have ruined everything for the honest businessman.”
Great bursts of laughter ring out from time to time, as if they have been planned ahead—as if there’s some hidden conductor of mirth directing these eruptions of studied delight. I’ve heard these sounds before. They’re the echoes of my childhood—the noise of the glamorous, the privileged, the powerful—the tinkle and the clash of the rich.
My father nudges me towards the two women. “Say hello. Head up. Smile.” When I do, they dip their heads and curtsy. My father bows to them and we move on to the next cluster of guests. “You’re causing quite a stir! Keep it up,” he says.
I’m not exactly sure what he’s praising, but somehow I don’t even have to try to be sociable. There is a festive air that makes me want to smile and nod and greet people. Some of the men run their eyes down me as though there’s a message scrawled from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes and they’re trying to read it. I imagine the Abbess’s disapproving stare and tingle with pleasure.
A tall woman in a silvery dress stands talking to a large group. Her hair is coiled around her head, its gray streaks gleaming like the steely fabric of her gown. The skin on her face and neck is etched with delicate lines, but it’s as clear and soft as a young girl’s. And although she laughs and chatters with her companions, her green eyes are fixed on me.
I dip my head in greeting and she smiles, a mixture of bemusement and approval. I smile back, and she takes this as a signal, excusing herself and moving through the other guests towards me. My composure leaves me at once. I look to my father, but suddenly he is no longer at my side and I turn to see him with a group of men. What should I do? I’m not ready to—
“Hello, Laura,” says the woman, her voice clear and deep. She takes my hand, her movements graceful. I wonder how she knows my name.
“I’m Allegreza di Rocco. And you, Laura, are a della Scala, are you not? Poor Beatrice’s sister.”
“Yes,” I say. “I am—I mean—I was. I mean—I always will be.” A surge of blood sets fire to my cheek.
“You’re quite right.” Allegreza’s elegant face softens. “Alive or dead, once a sister, always a sister.”
An old woman steps close to her, her face pinched with worry. She mutters quietly to Allegreza, who nods.
“Excuse me, Laura. We will talk again—soon,” she says. She puts her arm around the old woman and gently maneuvers her away.
I stand alone for a moment. This woman, Allegreza; she knew me. Or of me, at least. But what does she wish to speak to me about? Surely a girl just released from a convent couldn’t be of interest to her.
“Signorina?” A servant with a tray of glasses appears at my side.
I take one, cradling it carefully so as not to spill the clear golden liquid. I hear my father shout with laughter. He’s still huddled with other men at the far side of the ballroom, and the task of reaching him, of negotiating the other guests without being detained, seems as impossible as crossing the Hellespont on foot; I might be caught up in the undercurrents of innuendo, or dashed on the rocks of jokes I can’t understand. So I stay where I am, and take a sip of wine. It tastes of syrup and summer, and, after the plain water of the convent, like ambrosia slipping down my throat. Almost immediately, the sweetness seems to rush to my head. Annalena once told me the Abbess kept a bottle of wine, fermented by the monks on the island of San Michele, in her chamber; she’d disturbed her once and heard the bottle clinking as the Abbess hurriedly hid it away. I can’t believe it was true, for how could her face always have been so sour?
The musicians lower their instruments and the room hushes. One by one, I notice the heads of the guests turning in the direction of the main doors, their faces concerned. A couple around the same age as my father stand there—both handsome, upright, solemn. Their clothes are black, and, among the gaudy costumes and luxurious materials of the revelers, seem like some sort of reproach. The man looks straight ahead while holding his wife’s arm firmly, like someone holding a tiller to steer a boat. Her eyes are on the floor, and she’s rubbing the beads of a black rosary between her long white fingers. They walk slowly but deliberately through the guests.
“Is that who I think it is?” I hear a man hiss behind me.
“They shouldn’t have come,” says a rotund woman in a green silk gown.
The crowd parts at the far side of the ballroom and I see another figure making his way towards the new arrivals. I only glimpse his profile and then his back. His doublet is purple and edged with gold, and the ruff around his neck is very white. Two guards follow close behind, swords hanging at their sides.
“The Doge is going to speak to them!” says the woman.
The Doge? I remember Bianca’s excitement. Now that I’m in the same room as the most powerful man in Venice, curiosity burns inside me. The other guests move towards him, jostling to see what will happen next. This room of well-heeled socialites exchanging pleasantries
is undergoing a strange metamorphosis, and the transformation is an unpleasant one. Or perhaps it was always like this—not a group of civilized citizens, but a reeking mob. It makes my blood quicken.
I slide as close to the front as I can, standing on tiptoes to see over the wigs and headdresses, my balance supported by the press of the crowd.
The Doge stops in front of the black-clad couple. They face him with hard, sad faces. Who are they? Why would they challenge the most powerful man in Venice? The Doge shakes his head, then turns to the guards behind him.
It cannot be.
With that first view of his face comes the realization that I’ve seen this man, the Doge, before. I want to hide, but there’s nowhere to go. I’ve felt breath from his nostrils on my skin. I’ve held his arms and struggled with him like we were wrestlers, or animals.
The Doge of Venice is the crazed man from the convent. And, in this room, only I know his secret.
The Doge beckons his guards towards the couple.
“Turn around and leave by the doors through which you’ve entered,” he orders.
If his words are meant to intimidate, they only half succeed. The woman’s face trembles, but the man stands straighter still.
“We have as much a right to be here as any of the families of the province,” he says. “Asserting that right is what we have come to do.”
A gasp ripples across the room.
“You have no rights to be asserted,” says the Doge. “This is a private gathering and you have not been invited. How dare you come here?”
They don’t have the chance to answer him. He raises his arm, strong and firm—that very same arm that I held to stop it thrashing and flailing. The guards seize the couple, dragging them towards the door. The woman screams and the man bellows, “You will not insult the name of my family. The de Ferraras will not be humiliated.”
“Stop. Enough, Julius,” his wife says. Her face twists with some inner pain.
The guards release them and they walk together towards the door. The woman tries to take her husband by the arm but he shrugs her off.
The doors clang shut. The moment is over, and the music begins once more. The Doge moves back among the crowd, his power exercised, and a retinue of male guests follow, their faces grim. I pray he won’t come this way. I was wearing my habit the last time we met, and he was in a daze when we spoke, but still, he looked right at me. “I’m a weak man. Weak and yielding. No one in Venice can find out what I suffer.” His words that day in the convent make a new kind of sense to me. If Venice knew what I know, would its people still grant him such loyalty?
My thoughts must be playing across my face, as the woman with the green dress I saw earlier takes my arm and pulls me into her circle.
“Oh, my dear, don’t look so startled!” she says.
I smile gratefully.
“Do you know what that was about?” a woman with feathers in her hair asks, her eyebrows raised.
“No,” I say, “I’ve no idea.”
The women laugh, delighted, I guess, to have an ingénue to tutor.
“That was the de Ferraras—Julius and Grazia,” says the woman in green. “They have a feud with the Doge and his family.” She pats my arm playfully. “How could you live in Venice and not know that?”
“I’ve been … absent,” I say.
“Perhaps you were too young when it all started. It must have been ten years ago now. The Doge executed the de Ferraras’ only son, Carlo, when he was just a young lawyer,” she continues. “On charges of conspiracy, apparently.” She stops to cross herself, her plump hand moving rapidly across her bosom.
The woman wearing the feathers continues. “Julius took the only revenge he could. His men killed Roberto—the Doge’s son. So tall and handsome that boy was. Only eleven.”
Her eyes glisten as she speaks, but not with tears. They brim with histories, backgrounds, stories, reasons, accounts of old scores.
“Oh yes, such an awful business that was!” exclaims the woman in the green gown. “The noblest among us are always those in most danger, isn’t that what they say?” The women nod, and she sighs. “But young men are such a worry. So full of passion and principle.”
“I always advise my boy not to take life so seriously,” says another. “Take things with a pinch of salt, that’s what I say. I mean, goodness, we have quite enough to worry about, what with the Turks and pirates ruining my husband’s business. Honestly, I can’t keep my daughters in silk these days.”
They laugh. The big woman drips with gold, her green dress stretched over her vast bosom like a yawn of satin. I wish that Annalena could see, or that I could tell her everything. I want to sit in the window of our cell with the white curtain dancing in the breeze and see her eyes widen.
Their laughter fades as they stare behind me. I turn to a handsome equerry, dressed in a livery of gray and red. Beside him is the Doge and a finely dressed woman I guess must be the Doge’s wife. Jewels glitter from her ears and about her neck.
The equerry indicates me with a flourish and I step forward. “Your Grace,” he says to the Doge, “may I present Laura, Antonio della Scala’s youngest.”
“Ah yes,” the Doge says. He looks straight at me.
My breathing has lost its rhythm, and I stammer as I drop into a clumsy curtsy. “Your Grace.”
There isn’t the slightest glimmer of recognition in his eyes. His wife regards me with a quizzical smile.
“Make sure Vincenzo treats you properly,” she says to me.
They move on past to other people, all hungry for a kiss of the Doge’s ring, a shake of his hand or a single word from the most powerful man in Venice.
I step out of the path of a dancing couple, who are too wrapped up in each other’s gazes to notice me. The girl’s skirts brush mine as they whip past. Across the ballroom couples spiral and turn in time to the music. I’m amazed by the way hands openly rest upon bodies, cheeks press against cheeks.
A young woman with a bright face rushes across the room, skipping through the dancers. There’s something familiar about her: very pretty, high cheekbones, a slender neck. Her dress is cream, dotted with crystals, and her shoulders bare but for her tumbling black curls. The remembered taste of meringues sits on my tongue. I do know her—and her grandmama, with her sospiri di monaca. The last time I saw Paulina she was softer and rounder. An apple-cheeked little girl has been replaced by this grownup and willowy woman.
“Hello, hello, sweet Laura!” she says, kissing me quickly, once on each cheek. She hugs me close and I want to laugh and then I want to cry. Because she was, she is, my friend.
“How many years?” she asks. “How many since I last saw you? Four?”
“Six,” I say. “You look beautiful!”
“Not as beautiful as you!” she says. “You know that all the men are talking about you already. Have you been flirting?”
I blush. “I …”
“I see,” laughs Paulina, and she wags a finger playfully at my cheeks. “You can even bring rose blossoms to your face at will. Just like your sister.” The words fall from her mouth, and seem to drop to the ground as heavily as the statue in the hallway. Her smile vanishes. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right,” I say quickly, desperately wanting to change the subject. “How are you? How’s your grandmama?”
“Oh, she died three years ago!” says Paulina. “I wrote to tell you, but you never replied. We all thought that you’d turned to God, after all.”
I remember the Abbess, holding sheets of parchment over a candle. Paulina’s letter would have been among them.
“I wrote to you all the time,” I say. “For the first couple of years. Sometimes every day. The censors were strict, though.”
Paulina squeezes my hand.
“Are you married?” I ask.
Paulina gives me a sly grin. “Not yet.” She lowers her voice. “I can’t tell you about it here—but I will. Now, what was it like in the convent? I’ve
heard they have decadent parties and that men visit, and mad nuns stick their bottoms out of the windows at passersby.”
Her laughter scatters across the room, drawing attention, but I don’t care and laugh too.
“Not the one I was in.” I smile.
“I see,” says Paulina seriously, but her eyes dance impishly. “Is it true that they torture you with instruments if you do something sinful? And you have to make necklaces out of children’s teeth?”
“No,” I say, laughing as I shake my head. “Nothing like that. It was mainly very, very boring. Anyway, I want to hear about Venice, and parties, and dresses, and—well, everything.”
She smiles and draws a deep breath. I guess she doesn’t know where to start.
People who have been friends as children always find a thousand things to say to each other, no matter how long they have been parted. For the rest of the evening Paulina is there, if not right beside me, then hovering nearby. Now that I’ve found her, it seems that my new life is going to get easier. One day I’ll become as confident and self-possessed as she.
“Come.” Paulina beckons, putting out her hands to me. “Come and dance.”
But a man in a silver-threaded jacket steps between us and puts his hands around my waist. “I’ve been trying to summon the courage to talk to this lovely stranger all night.”
His eyes are kind. My heart flutters as I wonder for a moment if he is Vincenzo.
“I don’t imagine you’re ever short of courage, Pietro,” teases Paulina.
“Oh, but I am,” he replies. “Every time I ask a lovely girl to dance.”
No, he’s not my intended. But the way he smiles down at me makes my cheeks flush.
“So,” says Pietro, “I must know, this instant, who in heaven’s name is this wonderful woman?”
“I’m Laura della Scala.”
“Well, Laura della Scala, I’m Pietro Castellano, and I’ve discovered my purpose in coming tonight. It’s to dance with you.”
He leads me out onto the floor.