Lucy Gordon - The Venetian Playboy’s Bride

In her mind she could still see his face, transported with joy yet with a strange look of peace, like a man who’d come home and found it a blissful place. She wanted to close her eyes against that look, and she wanted to see it all her life.

‘What is it?’ he asked, looking back at her. ‘You’re lagging behind. Are you tired?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘I’ve kept you out too long.’ He slipped an arm about her shoulders. The smile he gave her was almost like those she’d seen before, just friendly. But behind it she could see the shadow of the other look. She slipped an arm about his waist and let him guide her home through streets of gold.

HE ORDERED her to rest in front of the television while he unpacked the food in his tiny kitchen, and made her a cup of tea. Remembering his strictures about English coffee she was half looking forward to returning the compliment, but the tea was excellent.

She spent the afternoon at work in the kitchen while he helped with the ‘menial tasks’, fetched and carried and generally did as he was told, but with an air of meekness that belied the wicked glint in his eyes.

Several times she glanced at him, wondering if she would catch the intense look that had seemed to suggest so much, but he had himself under command now. Except that often she sensed him watching her too.

But he had his timetable, she knew that now. While she was officially an invalid he would act like her brother. And after that she would be gone, she remembered with a little ache.

In the early evening they sat down to eat and her meal was a triumph. He approached it cautiously, as if to say that he’d heard about English cooking but was prepared to be kind. He ended up scraping the plate and asking for more.

Afterwards he settled her on the sofa with a glass of prosecco, while he prepared the coffee. When he returned she was reclining peacefully on the sofa, admiring the masks on his wall.

‘Ah, you’re looking at my zanni,’ he said, setting the cups on a low table.

‘Zanni?’

‘It means clowns. In English you would say they are “zany”. Most of the masks there are clowns, Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot, Pierrette, but there are others too because masks have always been so important in Venice, right back to the thirteenth century. Ladies of the night would offer themselves in a variety of “faces”, aristocrats who wanted to indulge themselves anonymously. And sometimes the “ladies of pleasure” and the “great ladies” were the same. There were couples who grew very amorous-then removed the masks and discovered they’d been married for years.’

‘All very disreputable,’ she said.

‘A lot of it was, which was why at different times in Venice’s history masks have been banned. They concealed a little too much.’

‘You make it sound as though masks were Venice’s exclusive preserve, but surely every civilisation has appreciated them.’

He shrugged. ‘Certainly, you’ll find them in other countries, but it was the Venetians who turned them into an art form.’

‘But why? Why you and not the others?’ she asked, genuinely interested.

‘Perhaps it’s something to do with the Venetian character, a certain fluidity.’

‘What exactly do you mean, fluidity?’

He grinned. ‘Unkind people have called it unscrupulous. We are not a solid, respectable race. How can we be?’ He indicated the canal beneath the window. ‘We don’t live on solid foundations. We travel through streets that move beneath us. Our city is sinking into the lagoon, and it has changed hands so often through the centuries that life itself isn’t solid. We live on our wits, and we’ve learned a certain-let’s say-adaptability. And the best way to be adaptable, is to keep a variety of masks available.’

‘A variety?’

‘One is never enough. Over the centuries we’ve played so many roles. We’ve conquered the surrounding areas, and in our turn we’ve been conquered. Venetians have been both masters and servants, and we know that each is just a role to be played, with its proper mask. Come and look more closely.’

She did so, wondering at the variety of expressions that could be encompassed by a little painted cardboard.

‘There are so many. It’s incredible.’

‘There are as many as there are expressions on the human face, or types of the human heart.’

‘Then how is anyone to know who you really are?’

‘Because sooner or later each person dons the mask that reveals the truth.’

‘But which truth?’ she asked quickly, ‘when the truth itself is always shifting?’

He made a sudden alert movement. ‘You understand. Something told me that you would. Of course, you’re right. I can only say that when people’s faces are hidden they are free to become their true selves.’

‘Then their selves shift also, and they become another self,’ she pressed him. It was somehow important.

‘Of course they do,’ he countered. ‘Because people turn into different people all the time. Are you the same person you were last year, last week, the day before you came to Venice?’

‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘Not at all.’

He took down a mask with a very long nose and held it before his face. ‘Pantalone, the merchant, greedy for profit.’ He changed the mask for one with a shorter nose, but ugly. ‘Pulcinella, he’s a bit of a thug. In England you call him Mr Punch.’ Another change to a broad, plump mask. ‘The doctor, spouts yards of pseudo science.’

He whisked another mask off the wall and held it up so that his eyes looked through the slits. It was uncannily like his own face.

‘Harlequin,’ he said. ‘His name derives from Hellecchino, which means “little devil”. He’s like a rubber ball, always bouncing back: cunning and inventive, but not as clever as he thinks he is, and his mistakes always bring him to the edge of disaster. He wears a multi-coloured costume because his kind friends have given him their old cast-offs to sew together.’

‘Poor fellow,’ she said laughing. ‘And are you like him?’

‘What makes you say that?’ he asked quickly.

‘You say more about him than the others.’

‘True. Yes, I suppose I do. I hadn’t realised. But that’s my point. A man may be Harlequin today and Pantalone tomorrow.’

‘You, the greedy merchant?’

‘Well, a merchant anyway.’ Almost to himself, he added, ‘With a pipe and slippers.’

He saw her puzzled look and hastened to change the subject. ‘Anyway, it’s good to see you laugh. You don’t laugh enough.’

‘I laugh a lot with you.’

‘But not at other times. I wonder why.’

‘You don’t know what I’m like at other times.’

‘I think I do. Something tells me that you’re a too-serious person.’ He touched her arm lightly. ‘You let yourself get burned because you’re not used to spending time in the sun. That’s not just true of your body. Your mind and spirit aren’t used to the sunshine.’

She was about to tell him that this was nonsense, when she was overwhelmed by the sense of its truth. Watching her, he saw the dawning of comprehension in her face.

‘Why?’ he said. ‘It’s not just because of the man who broke your heart.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she said slowly.

Her mind was ranging back over a sea of memories. How old had she been when she’d sensed that her family lived on a knife-edge? When had she started doing the sums for her father? He’d never been able to add, perhaps because the truth was too frightening to know.

She’d been fifteen when she’d cried- ‘Dad, you can’t afford it. You’re in so much debt already.’

‘Then a little more can’t hurt, can it? C’mon sweetie, don’t pull a long face.’

A charmer, her father. But a selfish charmer who’d taught her the meaning of fear without ever knowing it. She’d built her own defences, working hard at school, promising herself a brilliant career. But it hadn’t happened. She’d ended up without a single exam pass, because a run of ill luck had convinced her father of the need for a long stay abroad. When they returned a year later her chance had passed. So she’d found a job where she could live on her wits, because in the end, they were all she had.

‘Tell me,’ he begged, his eyes on her face.

‘No,’ she said quickly. This tale of poverty wasn’t for him. ‘You’re right, I’ve been too serious.’

‘Maybe it’s time to put on another mask. Perhaps you should be Columbine. She’s a sensible person, but she’s also sharp and witty, and can see life’s funny side.’

‘Which one is she?’

The mask he took down was painted silver, adorned with sequins and tiny coloured feathers. He fitted it gently over her face and tied the satin ribbons behind.

‘What do you think?’ she asked, regarding herself in the mirror. Almost all her face was covered, with only her mouth showing.

To her surprise he shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Why? I like it. Shall I try another?’

‘No. Somehow I don’t think masks are right for you. Not you. Well, not this one. She’s charming, but she’s also a deceiver, and you could never be that. Look at the sequins, how they flash and catch a different light every time. That’s Columbine, but it’s not you.’

She looked at him, wondering if she’d understood his meaning, and feeling uneasy.

The telephone shrilled.

It took her a moment to realise that it was her own mobile phone, ringing from her bag on the floor. She’d been too poorly to think of switching it off. Frantically she dived for it.

‘Why haven’t you called me?’ Roscoe’s voice rasped.

‘It’s been difficult the last few days,’ she said in a low, hurried voice. ‘I can’t talk now.’

‘Why not? Are you with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Going great then?’

‘Yes. Fine. Wonderful. I’ll call you later. Goodbye.’

She hung up and switched the phone off. Her heart was beating hard. Roscoe was a terrible intrusion from the outside world, one she would have given anything to avoid. But it was too late now.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked.

‘Of course. Everything’s fine,’ she said brightly.

But it wasn’t. Nothing was fine.

She realised that she was still wearing the mask and hastily pulled it off.

‘Must you really go so soon?’ he begged her the next morning. ‘Stay another day.’

‘No,’ Dulcie said hurriedly. ‘I can’t take up any more of your time. After all, that gondola is your living, and you’ve already lost several days’ work because of me.’

He hesitated, then plunged on. ‘Actually, I don’t rely on the gondola to live. There’s something about myself I have to tell you-’

Suddenly she was filled with dread. It was coming, the pretence of being a Calvani. And only now did she understand how much she’d relied on him not making any such claims. Without that she could still see him as an honest man, and if she lost that belief it would hurt almost as much as saying goodbye to him.

‘Dulcie-’

‘Not now,’ she said quickly. ‘I have to get back. I have things to do-’ She knew she wasn’t making sense but she was desperate to stop him.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘This isn’t the moment. Will you meet me tonight?’

‘All right.’

He went down to the water with her and hailed a motor taxi. She kept her eyes on him as it drew away, feeling heavy hearted. Whatever happened tonight the magic that had encompassed her for the last few days was over. If he started spinning tales about being a Calvani he would confirm her worst fears. If not, he was an honest man, and belonged to Jenny.

Casting her mind back over the last few days she was unable to recall anything that could be read as the behaviour of a lover. Even that searing moment in the square might have been her imagination, although her heart told her it wasn’t. Apart from that there had been the odd semi-flirtatious remark. If she hadn’t become ill and dumped herself on him, it would all have been over after the day on the beach.

And if her own heart had somehow become entangled she could only blame herself for being unprofessional, and sort it out as best she could. Alone. Away from here. One way or another, tonight would mark the end.

As she entered the Empress Suite her phone was already ringing.

‘It took me time enough to get through to you,’ Roscoe grumbled.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Harrison, I’ve been very occupied.’

‘With this Fede character?’

‘Yes.’

‘Has he given you his Calvani story?’

‘Not exactly-’

‘Aha! You mean he’s laying the ground. That’s how he dazzled Jenny. Now, you check that out. This Calvani character must have an heir. Find him. See what he looks like. Call me back when you’ve done that.’

He hung up.

Dulcie glared at the dead phone, at the world in general. ‘So how am I going to-’