by Sasha Gould
I stumble after him, trying to keep up. “I’ve never danced,” I tell him.
“Never danced? Where have you been all these years? In a convent?”
“Actually—yes.”
Pietro laughs—I don’t think he believes me. “Anyone can dance. Even a clumsy, awkward fellow like me. Let me show you how.”
He’s right. He spends a few minutes slowly taking me through steps that seemed so intricate when I was watching, helping me to learn the simple rhythm that lies underneath. Pietro grips my waist and my left hand, and as we speed around the floor I see our laughing faces reflected in one of the gold-encrusted mirrors. I, Laura della Scala, am dancing—with a man I’ve only just met!
A firm grip clutches my arm and we halt. It’s my father.
“Excuse me, Pietro. I need my daughter.”
“Yes, of course,” Pietro says graciously. He bows to me. “A pleasure, Laura, an absolute pleasure.”
My father smiles tightly and steers me across the room.
“It strikes me that you need a chaperone,” he says. “To teach you the way things are done.”
“Father, do you remember Paulina? I’ve just met her—”
“Yes, yes.” He isn’t looking at me anymore, but waves to someone in the crowd. “There’s so much you still need to learn.”
“Paulina can teach me,” I say.
My father smiles indulgently. “Paulina in many ways is more immature than you. It comes from having no father in her life.”
The person he was waving to comes through the throng towards us. It’s a young woman. Her face is very pale. She has red-gold hair and aquamarine eyes fringed with dark lashes. Her looks are striking. I recognize her as one of my sister’s old friends.
“Is that—”
“Carina!” finishes my father, opening his arms wide.
Carina kisses him on both cheeks, then turns her lovely gaze to me. She gives a sharp cry, raising a hand to her red lips, then sighs.
“I’m sorry,” she says, fanning her face with delicate fingers. “For a moment I thought … You remind me of her so much, Laura.”
Her words make tears start to my eyes. I take her hands and kiss her. “Thank you,” I say.
“Well, I shall leave you two to reacquaint yourselves,” says my father. “Laura, be advised in all matters by Carina. She’s the perfect guide for a young lady of Venice.”
If Paulina was my best friend, Carina was my sister’s, one of the many radiant girls who always seemed so aloof when I was little. When she reminds me of her name from those days—de Ferrara—I realize her parents are Julius and Grazia, the black-clad couple thrown out of the party.
“Oh, don’t worry!” she says. “When I married I escaped the talk of vendettas and that nonsense.” She smooths the white silk of her gown. “And I cast off my mourning garb long ago.”
She tells me that last month she married Count Raffaello—she’s a contessa now. She points Raffaello out through the crowd. A fine figure, not tall but with shapely legs and a fierce shock of black hair over a soldier’s face—chiseled and broad. He raises a glass at us. Carina blows him a kiss.
I understand why my father wants me to learn from her. Carina’s what he aspires for me to become. Perhaps there was a measure of kindness in my father’s choice too; he must have known that sharing my grief for Beatrice would make it less burdensome. I imagine Carina and Raffaello calling on Vincenzo and me, sitting with us in our courtyard, laughing and sipping wine.
She hooks her alabaster arm through mine. “Let’s sit and talk,” she says. “How proud your father must be that you’re ready to take Beatrice’s place.”
I shake my head. “No one could possibly do that. But I want to honor her memory in whatever way I can.”
“She adored you, Laura. I’m sure you know how much.”
We join Paulina and Pietro, who are resting between dances with a crowd of other young men and girls. Their faces glow.
Carina points to Pietro. “Young man,” she says playfully, “take your pack away for a moment. Let the ladies catch their breaths.”
“My pack?” he says, eyes widening in mock innocence. “You malign us!”
“Hmm,” says Carina. She claps her hands. “Privacy, please, gentlemen.”
The young men scatter. Carina perches on a cushioned bench, pulling me down beside her. Paulina sits on my other side and the girls gather around us.
“So now,” Carina says, “lessons for a girl new to society. Let me think—where do I begin? Ah, first we must start with the essential accessory of the Venetian lady.”
She draws a fan from her dress like a weapon: it depicts swallows fluttering in the branches of a cypress tree. Her eyes sparkle.
“Wonderful for staying cool on heated evenings,” says Carina. “Perfect for secret conversations—especially those about love.”
She holds it in front of her face to reveal only her eyes, batting her lashes coquettishly. Paulina and the other girls giggle.
“The fan,” Carina continues. “A simple thing, inexpensive and easy to find, but worth a fortune. Make sure you have one for every outfit. But never black and gold. Remember that.”
“Why not black and gold?” I ask her, feeling there are at least a million things I have to learn.
“Because,” Paulina says, “black and gold are the colors of the Duchess’s fan. No matter what she wears, her fan is always black and gold.”
Carina nods. “The Doge and his wife make all the rules of Venice—as my poor parents will tell you at every opportunity.”
The musicians begin another song and the girls rush to join Pietro and his friends. They seize each other’s hands and whirl away in an elaborate dance. Carina, Paulina and I remain seated. They open their spectacular fans wide.
Behind the screen of bone and silk, I learn about the people who pass in front of us. One woman is well known for having affairs with men below her station. Carina says that everyone calls her palazzo “the boat house,” as she entertains so many gondoliers there while her husband is away. There is a man on the verge of financial ruin, desperately trying to call in favors tonight before his entire fortune sinks. His face wears a hunted look. It feels cruel to be speaking of people like this, but I find myself swept along on a tide of gossip and scandal.
I start as Carina and Paulina suddenly snap their fans shut. They stand up, their shoulders draw back. Their features freeze.
An old man walks towards us—older than my father, stooped and thin. I too stand, more slowly. The man grins. Wisps of hair hang like white threads around his ears. Brown age spots are sprinkled over his hands and his face, like blotches of wet rust. Apart from his narrow eyes, which blink and water, the rest of his body seems locked in some sort of paralysis. When he finally speaks, bubbles of spit gather at the corners of his mouth.
“Good evening, Laura,” he says. “It is I, Vincenzo.”
My stomach constricts and I think I might be sick. Father is watching the scene from across the ballroom, and I sense others are too. I grip the red folds of my dress to stop the trembling in my hands. But I have six years of duty to draw upon, and the lessons of the convent serve me well. I curl my lips into a smile and wear my face like a mask.
“Signor,” I say.
Vincenzo grins at me. His mouth is a dark hole. I can see his broken teeth crowded unevenly inside. He bows without taking his eyes away from my face, and then he holds out his arms. “My dear, won’t you join me in this dance?”
Carina and Paulina stare at me.
“Very well,” I reply. I can’t see that there’s anything else to be done.
We move around the room together. The hands of my last dance partner were gentle and kind, but Vincenzo’s feel like monstrous insects crawling around my waist. He’s bumping his body up against mine: by accident, perhaps, but maybe not. Three times he steps on my feet and my pale satin slippers become stained by the soles of his black-buckled shoes.
His breath is bitter. I turn my fa
ce away.
“Ah,” he rasps, “you’re as shy as your sister was!”
Poor Beatrice. I couldn’t blame her for letting me believe she was happy and in love. I imagine what awful things she had kept to herself about this man—this man who holds my future in his disgusting old hands.
Vincenzo tightens his arm around my waist and clutches my hand as though he suspects I might try to escape. Over his bony shoulder I see the partygoers staring at us. Some clap and laugh. Others whisper behind their fans. My father nods approvingly as Vincenzo drags me past him, the crevices of his face seeming deeper and harder than ever.
Vincenzo inches his hand farther up my back, and I wince.
“Oh, you think I’m too ugly, too old. Is that it, young Laura?”
“No, no,” I say quickly. “I have a sore foot.”
“Did I stand on your toe, my poor girl? No matter—I shall kiss it better soon.” He stops smiling and sneers, “Tell me, have you any further complaints about the man who will save your father from penury and shame? The color of my robes, perhaps, or the speed of my dancing? Come on, little girl, you can tell me.”
I don’t say anything. All I can think is that I would gladly become a Bride of Christ right now, and spend the rest of my days polishing altar rails on my knees.
For a moment he stalls in the dance at the edge of the room. “Good,” he continues. “My turn, then. First: there are to be no glances, sideways, or any-other-ways, for that matter, towards the stupid young boys who’d all like a taste of your soft young skin. Let them long for you.” With a bony finger, he draws an invisible line from my shoulder to the tip of my middle finger. I shudder. “Second, all you need to worry about is doing what you’re told. Obedience is the most attractive feature of the good wife. And I know,” he says, taking my chin in his hand and pinching it until it hurts, “that you’ll make a very good wife.”
I pull away from him. A sour retch rises in my throat. I have to get out. I need some air. As I push through the crowd, running towards the double doors, I hear him call after me. “Make sure you come back, my dear!”
I run through the marble hallway, past the melancholy statue and startled footmen. I see the masts of boats in the harbor through a door at the end of a long corridor and rush towards them. I step onto a long balcony, pressing my hot hands against the stone balustrades. Deep breaths. I lean over the inky water and let the breeze cool my flushed face.
“Somebody help me,” I whisper. It’s an empty prayer because no one can answer it—not Faustina or Bianca, Paulina or even Carina. I’m alone.
I shiver in the night air, but I’m not ready to go back to the ballroom yet. There’s a door at the far end of the balcony, set into the wall of the palace. I walk up to it, turn the heavy metal handle and step through.
Staring down at me, from the top of a wooden scaffold, is the handsomest man I have ever seen.
He wears a white paint-splattered shirt that billows at the sleeves. It hangs loose around his neck, revealing the olive skin of his chest. His hair and eyes are almost black, his cheekbones sharp in the lamplight. He looks like an angel.
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer, still flustered from the shock of Vincenzo. “I’ll leave.”
“No,” he says quickly, then bows his head. “I mean, my lady, there’s no need.”
On his arm is an oval palette spread with magical colors, and in his hand a long black paintbrush. The scaffold he stands on is next to a wall decorated with a half-finished fresco. It shows the three Magi visiting the Holy Family; the Christ Child’s halo is picked out in gold leaf, and in the background I recognize the domes and towers of Venice. The room is spacious and grand, but the furniture is covered with sheets and the other walls are stripped to bare plaster. A fire burns fiercely in a marble grate. It lights the man’s face as he climbs down the scaffolding towards me.
“You’re an artist,” I say, and immediately feel foolish.
But he nods and smiles. “An artist-in-training. I started by painting portraits for the Doge and his family, and now he’s given me other commissions. Like this room.”
His voice is low and gentle. Vincenzo, my father and the ball all seem very far away.
“It must be wonderful to have a talent like that,” I say. “Have you studied for a long time?”
“Less than some,” he says. “I used to want to be a mathematician. Although art and logic are just different ways of doing the same things.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Oh, you know, uncovering beautiful patterns, making sense of the world, shining light on important moments.”
He stands at a wooden trestle table crowded with pots of paint, powdered pigment and brushes. Carefully, he adds a pinch of yellow pigment to blue and brown, making a smooth olive green. It’s so peaceful in here; I don’t want to go back just yet.
“Do you mind if I watch you work?” I ask.
“I’d like that,” he says.
He pulls one of the sheets away to reveal a wooden chair, its seat upholstered with leather and its feet molded into lion’s claws. I sink into it and he daubs the olive paint on to his palette.
“Too much dancing?” he asks.
“I’m not very good,” I answer.
He nods sympathetically and continues to apply his paint to the palette. The silence swells, and I can’t help but tap my toes together like a little girl.
“Have you always lived in Venice?” I ask him.
“Well, I lived in the city as a child, but I’ve been away for some years. I’ve only recently returned.”
“Me too,” I tell him. “I’m learning my way around again. It’s all a mystery to me at the moment.”
He climbs up the scaffolding and sits on the platform at the top. Dipping his brush into the paint, he outlines the foliage at the edge of the fresco with delicate strokes.
“Venice is a city of secrets,” he says. “Everyone seems to have one.”
I think of my father’s dwindling estate, Beatrice’s pretense about Vincenzo, the Doge’s sickness.
He leans back to look at the finished leaf. “But what would I know of secrets? I’m just a painter.”
“You don’t have any?” I ask.
His gentle eyes settle on mine. He pauses for a moment, but then grins and points to the center of the fresco, where the Virgin Mary stands. The Christ Child is in her arms; her eyes are turned up to heaven. She wears an intensely blue robe—bluer than the midday sky or the brightest of sapphires. “I’m the only painter in Venice who knows how to make that color. It’s why the Doge likes my work.”
“How do you make it?” I ask.
He rests his chin in his hand, his dancing eyes narrowed as he pretends to consider my question.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I insist. “I swear.”
“Well, then …” He gestures to me to come closer. I stand on the bottom rung of the scaffolding and he whispers down to me. “First you must strain water through the finest muslin, until it’s perfectly pure. Gently crush lapis lazuli, and mix it with walnut oil. Pour the water over them, and leave the mixture to mingle overnight.”
I shake my head. “No wonder none of the other painters have discovered it.”
He looks at me for a little while. “Oh no!” he says, almost under his breath, though a smile plays at the corners of his red lips.
“What?” I ask.
“I’ve put myself in your power now. Can I trust you?” His eyes hold me.
“Of course—”
The door swings open and we both turn at the same time. It’s Carina.
“Laura! I’ve been searching all over the palazzo for you. The footmen saw you come this way.…” She glances up at the painter, who stands quickly, moving away from me. “I was starting to worry. Come back to the ball. There are still so many people I want you to meet!”
She takes me by the hand, pulls me through the door. When I look back at him, he’s watching me, his hands on his hips.
&n
bsp; Carina hurries me along the corridor. She murmurs, “One moment you’re in a convent, the next you’re consorting with servants in back rooms! Goodness, what would your father say?”
I know she’s only teasing me, but I think I hear a hiss of disapproval in her words.
I was sure it would rain on the morning of my sister’s funeral. I was sure that the birds would fall silent and that the flowers would turn their gaudy faces away.
But everything is resplendent—the sky is the same blue I saw in the half-painted fresco. Turtledoves sing in the trees. Huge peonies show themselves off like the wanton women who stalk the lanes behind St. Mark’s Square.
As often as I try to close my thoughts off to Vincenzo, he sneaks back in. I feel guilty for dwelling on my own predicament on such a sorrowful day as today. Though I hate to think it, there’s even a tiny part of me that feels anger towards my dead sister for leaving me to this fate. Not that I could wish it on any other.
I escape to the courtyard. Faustina and Bianca have put me in a long, wide-skirted black taffeta dress. It rustles and swishes like trees in a storm. I want to be calm and quiet on my own, but the ripple of voices reaches me from the other side of the wall Beatrice and I used to play on. One of them is Bianca’s, and the other sounds like that of a little girl. They laugh quietly. I move towards them, leaves and twigs catching on my dress.
“Look,” says Bianca. “A few stitches here and there and it really will look like no one’s worn it. I’ll be able to walk down to the Lido and people will think I’m a real Venetian lady!”
I step up on the bench and peer over the wall. Bianca is holding a gown of yellow silk that pours over her knees like melted gold—the dress Beatrice drowned in. A sob escapes from me. Bianca looks up as a small child jumps from her side.
“Signorina della Scala. Good afternoon—I mean, I’m sorry.” The little girl scampers off and Bianca squashes the dress into her sewing basket. “I didn’t mean you to see.… Your father said I could have it. Shouldn’t you be at the graveside?”
I look away from the gaudy silk. “The funeral hasn’t started yet,” I say, and I turn away.