by Sasha Gould
The hour that I wait is a torment unlike any I’ve suffered. I imagine him dragged away, or worse, bleeding by the side of a street with my name on his lips. But soon I hear his feet pounding up the stairs and he bursts into the room with a smile on his face, holding a bottle by the neck. We embrace, and he twirls me round.
“It’s done,” he says. “She’ll have the note by now.”
He tips the wine, and we drink from the same glass. The taste is sweet and rich, and it blunts the sense of dread. Perhaps every day will be like this soon.
“I’ll go and see your father tomorrow,” Roberto announces.
“What on earth for?” I ask.
His face is suddenly solemn. “Well … to tell him of my intentions. Unless …”
I put a finger to his lips, laughing. “I’m joking, silly.”
He smiles too, and tries to bite at my finger, then plants soft kisses along the inside of my arm that set me giggling because they tickle.
This thing that is happening to us, so deep and precious, is seeping into my bones. And I already feel I’m going to lose it, and that there’ll be no way, then, to get it back.
“Do you think he’ll give his permission?” asks Roberto.
I can’t imagine my father’s face when he discovers that the insolent painter boy is the Doge’s son. I wonder what he will do. Bow and scrape? Fall to his knees?
“Once he’s picked himself off the floor!” I reply. “The rest of the Grand Council will have been informed before sunset, if I know my father.”
His lips taste of the sweet wine. As we break apart, his eyes are grave.
“Beatrice missed you a great deal,” he said. “She would be happy for us.”
Coming from his mouth, my sister’s name sounds like a secret wish. Roberto dries my eyes with his lips. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’ve made you sad.”
“No, it’s not that,” I say. “I think you were the only thing that made her happy, near to the end.”
It’s not the time to talk to him about the certainty that festers within me, about the violence of her death. I look away. He sees too much when he looks at me.
It’s getting dark and there’s a thudding at the door once more. Even without seeing the visitor, I know it’s a man.
“Mathieu!” Roberto says.
“I’ll go,” I say, and before he can stop me, I rush down the stairs in my bare feet and unlatch the door. Standing there is a grim, thick-browed, gray-faced man, who is definitely not Mathieu. He asks for Roberto in a mumble, his mouth hidden behind a filthy scarf. There’s something about him that makes me shudder. I know him from somewhere and a flicker of instinct sharpens me.
“Roberto’s not here,” I lie.
“Then give him this,” the man says, and he holds out a small box the size of my hand. “It’s from Carina de Ferrara.”
I have questions for Carina, but I will keep them to myself. The gray face seems, in any case, to be closed to interrogation.
I carry the box back upstairs and put it on the table. Roberto, seeing my expression, is quickly at my side. He slides his arm around me.
“What is it?” he asks.
“From Carina.”
I open the box, and there’s a piece of muslin cloth inside, tied with knotted string. Roberto goes to a drawer and comes back with a knife. I notice there’s a red stain seeping through the muslin.
Roberto takes it out, and slices through the string. He pulls the sides apart slowly. His face darkens.
“What is it?”
“Look away,” he says.
The air sweeps in and out of his mouth. Something scares him now and his fear touches me also, because up until this moment, he’s just laughed in the face of danger, and his laughter was like a rock to which I’ve been clinging.
“What has she sent you?” I ask him, but he says nothing, instead replacing the muslin package in the box and taking a folded piece of paper from within. A note.
“Roberto?”
His silence is terrifying. He reads the missive to himself.
“No!” he moans. “No, no.”
“My darling?” I ask. “What is it?”
With both hands balled into fists on the table, he hangs his head. I’m shocked when a tear splashes on the stained wood.
I don’t want to touch the box, so I walk around the table to stand beside him, and peer inside. Inside the cloth lies a flaccid piece of bloodied meat, pink at the tip and discolored at the thick root. It takes hardly any time at all to realize that it’s a human tongue.
I slam closed the box and take Roberto in my arms. Horror holds us in a wider embrace.
“Mathieu?” I ask.
“Read the note,” says Roberto. I take it from his loose grasp. Blood smears the bottom edge of the page.
Dear Roberto,
You sent me a poisoned message, so I cut out the poisoned flesh. I hope you will find it a mercy that your friend feels pain no longer, resting as he does at the bottom of the lagoon.
To spare any further agony for either of us, grant me your presence at the engagement of your brother and Paulina. There we shall announce our love to all.
In eternity,
Yours, Carina
“I’ll pursue her,” he says, bowed and broken. “I’ll have justice!”
I cradle his head. “No, please. Look what she’s capable of. Look what she’s just done.”
“She’s killed Mathieu.”
“I know,” I say. “All the more reason why we have to keep you safe.”
My instincts have been right. His choices sharpen in front of me: to get out of Venice now, and hope that this vicious evil won’t pursue him. Or to stay. Stay and marry Carina to end the vendetta and save his life.
He holds me as if he’s never going to let me go.
The evening chill enters the room, and our conversation is like a siege, albeit with two lovers facing each other unwillingly. As many times as I advance with the same cold logic—that he must do as Carina says—so many times he resists. He responds with kisses, but his defenses and his reasoning are weakening. The frailty of their foundations is exposed. Love is not enough, and we both see it. And now, with each kiss, I can feel the acceptance of his heart as it retreats farther inside its walls. The closer we come to the inevitable conclusion, the farther we are pushing each other away.
“Your life is in her hands,” I say, not for the first time. “She can crush it with a word.”
That’s the power of a secret, I almost add.
“I’d rather die than marry her,” he says.
That makes me sit up, if not in anger, then in angry love. “Don’t speak like that! Don’t you dare. You have no right.”
He thumbs the tears from my eyes. “Forgive me.”
“You wouldn’t only be marrying her for yourself,” I say. “But for me too.”
The perversity of my words doesn’t escape me.
“If I do … if I marry her …,” he says, “then I will still see you.”
I nod, trying not to cry again. I know he’s lying, and I love him wretchedly for it. Carina won’t let us near each other.
“We must be strong,” I say.
“And you must go now,” he says, “before you are missed.”
All my limbs are heavy as I take my leave. There are no more decisions to be made. When I reach the door, I look back up. He presses two fingers to his lips. Before stepping out into the street, I gather my grief around me like a shroud.
The feeling of his lips against mine stays with me on the walk home. Long after I’ve left his studio; long after I’ve arrived back to my father’s crumbling house; long after I’ve peeled off my clothes and slipped into my bed. After all of this, I dream of his lips on mine.
For the next two days, I rarely come out of my room. Faustina’s footsteps get faster up and down the corridors. Her feet have always absorbed her anxiety, while the rest of her body behaves as though it’s business as usual. I smell breakfast, and dinner, and supper as t
he hours pass. I hear her answering the door. I hear her shouting at Bianca. But her feet give her away. She’s worrying about me. There’s nothing she can do for her Laura now. And though she can irritate like the nettles of Hell, as people you love sometimes do, she’s been a mother and a friend to me. Under Faustina’s stern mask is an ocean of kindness. I believe in her.
Who else can I believe in? Paulina—she’s worn a mask since the moment we met. The Segreta? I nearly believed in those women too, but not anymore. And Carina. How could I have looked into her face so many times and not have seen the dreadful evil lurking there?
I take out the carved bird Roberto made for me. It’s something from another age, a time before my eyes were opened.
Faustina brings a note and she’s full of hope. “Perhaps it’s something good,” she suggests, and hovers as I pull it open.
Laura,
You are no longer welcome at the wedding party of Paulina and Nicolo. Do not shame yourself by attempting to come. I trust this is clear.
Carina
My laughter is bitter.
“What is it, what does it say?” asks Faustina.
I throw it on the chair, grateful that Faustina can’t read. I think of the other note with Mathieu’s blood smeared across it.
“It’s not important,” I say. “But I feel ready for some food.”
“Thank goodness,” says Faustina, bustling out of the room. To make Faustina happy, all you have to do is tell her you’re hungry.
After she’s gone, I retrieve the letter and read it again. Until that moment I hadn’t been planning to attend: I couldn’t think of facing the world and its painted faces, the constructed jollity of a wedding. But this note, with its terse presumption, makes something else rise within me. One way or another, Carina’s told me what to do since I met her that night at the Doge’s party. Well, I was a different person then, and I won’t be told what to do anymore.
Faustina arrives with a plate of bread, cold meats, pickles and cheese. There are figs and dates, and an orange in slices. It’s enough to feed a household and the sight of it makes me laugh.
“What is it?” she asks, affronted.
“Nothing. I’m just wondering what on earth I shall wear to Nicolo and Paulina’s wedding.”
“You’re going, then?” She frowns.
“Of course I am.”
I wear a simple silk dress of cream and green. Ceremonial enough to fit in at a gathering like this, but not so spectacular that I’ll draw unwanted attention. I need to stay in the background. The party is at a mansion on the north shore that belongs to the Doge and will now pass to his son. I see the same pageant of bedecked nobles as before: women with faces so white they might be alabaster come to life; men full to the brim with self-satisfaction. Most step out of their own boats. Others trot from the horse carriages, tossing instructions at their long-suffering drivers. The familiar noises and shouts of a party like this are an assault. Guests are welcomed by lute and harpsichord. I see Carina, but only the flash of her face and her red-gold hair through the crowd. I raise my fan and duck out of sight. Of Giacomo … of Roberto, rather, there is no sign.
A lush carpet of deep red stretches from the great stone archway through which the guests pour, chattering, to the inside of Nicolo’s majestic home. Men greet each other with hearty handshakes. Women cluster in prim little groups, chirping and squeaking at one another.
A gong sounds, and the guests are led down a gallery lined with stained glass, and into an adjoining chapel that’s attached to Nicolo’s grand house. I see Paulina in the distance, with a colorful gaggle of girls and women flapping around her. Her maid of honor carries the jeweled bridal chalice.
There was a time, not so long ago, when I would have been thrilled by the sights and sounds of such a gathering. Today I feel nothing but the bitter turning of my stomach. I stand behind a pillar, staying back. Even my father doesn’t know I’ve come.
Nicolo and Paulina are led onto a ribboned platform by the stooped old bishop, a cousin of the Doge himself. Paulina’s beautiful in pearly white and a sparkling veil. Nicolo smiles solemnly in a heavy silk suit of indigo. Each of them is kissed by the Duchess and the Doge. Paulina’s uncle looks on, dabbing his eyes from time to time and nodding at the well-wishers.
The music stops, and the mitred bishop begins with a Latin benediction. He follows with the sacred words on the dissolubility of the marriage bonds, on fidelity. He speaks of conforming the church’s laws, and finally, if a little stuffily, on the subject of love. Paulina and Nicolo cannot take their eyes off each other, and for a moment, even my own cares seem a little lighter.
With the ceremony completed, the promises given, the party swells with anticipation. Just as the guests begin to break up for the banquet in the main hall, the gong chimes once more.
The surprised crowd watches as Carina steps out onto the platform. The bishop himself is goggle-eyed. Her gown is white and gold, with skirts more voluminous and luxurious than Paulina’s. An extravagant collar of diamonds lies against her throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Venice,” she says. “Welcome to this wonderful day.” The crowd murmurs, partly in agreement and partly in confusion, but they let her continue as she congratulates the bride and groom. Momentarily, she looks unsure of herself, and says quietly, “I have another announcement.”
Heads in the crowd move closer together, the better to exchange their hushed exclamations of uncertainty.
“What’s she on about?” I hear a man whisper to his wife.
Carina claps her hands together to beckon a fresh silence and raises her voice.
“For many years, two of the leading families of this city have suffered under a pall of mourning. One of those families is my own. I don’t have to speak of what has come before—it saddens me, as it should sadden all who value innocent life.”
Julius, standing close to the center of the chapel, has turned crimson. Grazia holds on to her husband’s arm and I see she’s working hard to contain what boils inside him, patting his arm, hushing him. I wonder what, if anything, she knew of her daughter’s plan. I can’t see the Doge and the Duchess Besina, but I see other heads turned towards them, watching for their reactions too.
Carina looks sideways. “In the name of love, and forgiveness, I introduce you to my future husband.” Some of the onlookers try to initiate a ripple of applause, but it doesn’t catch on. “Come out, Roberto.”
The murmurs in the crowd grow louder and I see him. He walks stiffly from the side of the altar, his face pale and serious. Carina holds her hand out to him.
I can’t look, but I must. I thought that I could cope with seeing this, that my love was strong enough.
“Roberto?” says a voice in the crowd. “What are you doing?”
It’s the Doge.
Roberto’s name is suddenly on everyone’s lips. There are gasps, cries of disbelief. Carina’s face widens in ostentatious pleasure. I watch Roberto take her hand. He who has kissed me, stroked my hair, touched my face. Her face looks hard even when she’s smiling and so does her hand, laden as it is with rings. It must be a cold thing for him to hold.
A terrible commotion ensues. I see the Duchess run towards her son, terrified now that he’s been revealed. She stands in front of him, her eyes burning, as if ready to protect him from attack.
The crowd frays around the edges. “The Doge’s son lives!”
The stooped bishop ineffectually tries to encourage people to take their seats again. The sea of people has parted, and on one side the Duchess stands with Roberto, Carina and the Doge. On the other Julius and Grazia glower, flanked by those loyal to them. It’s a dangerous sight, and there is anger in the room that can be measured by the heat that rises from both sides.
Carina steps in front of Roberto. “There’s no need for confusion or chaos,” she says.
“Do you think, child,” Julius spits in a low growl, “that I will stand for this marriage after all that has happened to our fami
ly?”
“Father, please,” Carina responds. “There’s no sense in this. We love one another.”
It looks as though Julius is too angry to speak. His chest rises and falls.
“Would you kill my husband?” Carina presses.
“He’s not your husband yet,” her father replies.
“But we are promised to each other,” says Carina. “Tell them, Roberto. Tell them all.”
Julius shakes his head, but the crowd looks on hungrily.
Roberto steps forward, so handsome, so strangely calm. He has to go through with this charade that will last a lifetime. We agreed it was the safest thing to do, that it was for the best. I close my eyes because even though I want to hear, I can’t watch him as he declares his love for Carina. I won’t look at his mouth as it announces something that will tear us apart forever.
“I am grateful for my chance to speak,” he says. Now, hearing his words, his breeding is so evident, that I can’t believe I never noticed it before. “For many years, I stayed away from this place, afraid for my life. When I was young, I barely understood why I had been sent away from my family, from my city, from my friends, but a faithful servant explained to me the cause. Carina has offered a salve that will heal this festering wound between our families, and spare my life. For that I am grateful.” He pauses and draws a breath. “But I am also ashamed, because I cannot accept.”
I open my eyes. Did I say what I think he did?
Carina tries to smile still, but her face has become flushed. “Roberto …”
“To marry you would be the easy path,” he says, “but I will not do so for reasons you know well. If my exile for all these years has not placated your father’s anger, then I will happily do all in my power to seek reconciliation. But I will not run away any longer.”
She’s shaking her head. “This is a mistake. A mistake …”
He’s stopped listening to her. “Laura, where are you?” he shouts, like a man in the dark.
“Who’s Laura?” someone says above the silence.
“I’m here,” I whisper, stepping out. One or two faces turn to me. “I’m here,” I say more loudly.