Chapter 4 #2
And, because I don’t drink often, the champagne has already gone to my head, making me all light and giddy inside.
I start taking a short video for Miss T.
“Aren’t these simply stunning?” I pan the shot towards the chandeliers. It’s not easy holding my mask up while trying to film.
“So magnificent,” I murmur, lowering my voice. “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to film people, but they’re mostly covered up so it’s not like I’m breaking any privacy laws.”
I discreetly film the crowd. “Aren’t they stunning?” I turn the camera to me. “I feel like plain Jane in my ordinary yellow dress. Just as well I picked yellow and not boring black.”
I stop filming and stand there watching everybody else, letting everything sink in and imprint itself on my mind.
This is how rich people live.
A young waitress walks by carrying a tray of food.
I got here late last night and this morning I had a cup of coffee at the hotel.
The owners are so lovely, we ended up talking for an hour.
They recommended a few places and told me I couldn’t leave Venice without trying cicchetti, so that’s what I had for lunch—little pieces of bread topped with things like creamy salt cod, cheese, cured meats and vegetables.
Some were even decorated with tiny edible flowers.
I had six, but that was hours ago, and now I’m starving again.
The canapés on the waitress’s tray look mouthwatering.
Pretty little bites that are colorful and look delectable.
But as the waitress swans past me, I can’t do anything.
My hands are full; I've got my phone in one hand, along with my little clutch bag and I’m still holding the mask up with the other.
How do I eat these?
Clearly, I need to be an octopus.
I wish I hadn't brought the clutch bag, because it effectively hinders me, but my stomach rumbles again. I need to eat and I wouldn’t mind another glass of champagne, but I can’t do both.
I need a strategy.
It would help if I wasn’t by myself. I’d have more hands. I can’t help but notice that the people around me are mostly in couples. They’re laughing together and sharing the experience. Not only am I hungry, but I’m starting to feel a little isolated.
Mingle. Network.
Kiki’s advice is good, but I don’t feel right going up to people who are in groups or in couples, and imposing myself on them.
My gaze goes to the reception area. It has tall, narrow tables set around. It’s exactly what I need. I make my way to one near the staircase, find an empty table, and set everything down on it, freeing my hands. I sigh with relief.
I can eat.
So I do, once I’ve grabbed a few bites from a passing server. I attack my trio of canapés with gusto.
Oh my days.
These taste so heavenly. I’m floating in culinary heaven. I devour them quickly, letting out a loud sigh of contentment. I didn’t realize it was loud, until the people around me turn and gawk at me.
I shrug, not caring, because this was yummy.
I could do with another plate, and I now need something to wash it down with.
As if by magic, a server appears before me.
I hope I'm not giving out hungry vibes, because alongside her, another server with a tray of champagne flutes arrives.
I grab a napkin, and this time select six more and take a glass of champagne.
“I haven't eaten,” I explain, but they both nod and smile at me.
How amazing is this?
I'd probably get bored if I did this regularly, but for tonight, this is spectacular, beyond my imagination.
I feel like the luckiest woman on the planet.
I close my eyes, lost in my own personal paradise, feasting on these delicacies and sipping what is probably the most expensive champagne I'll ever taste in my lifetime.
I open my eyes and find a masked man staring at me as he walks past. His mask is decorated with tiny black beads.
It looks like he smiled. I saw his lips curl up, but I'm not sure.
I couldn't see his face, because his mask covered most of it, leaving only his mouth and a part of his left cheek bare.
He slips away before I even blink.
I set my glass down and decide to start filming again. I might as well, seeing that I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m wary of intruding on people’s personal space, and I don’t want to film anyone close up.
I want to capture the ambiance of the evening, and the spectacle before me, so I walk around, filming little snippets of everything, slowly taking in the architecture, the decorations, the food, the music, the masks, the people.
I do a little commentary as I film.
“Look at this! How spectacular is this?”
I hope Miss T will appreciate these little vignettes. I turn around, to get another angle, and that’s when I see a man standing alone near the foot of an enormous gilded staircase.
Looking like he'd rather not be here.
I peer closer. I think it's him. The man wearing the mask that had tiny black beads. The one who smiled at me as he walked past.
Everyone else is laughing, drinking and talking. They're all caught up in the fantasy of the masked ball. But this guy is standing alone, watching everyone else.
I watch him closely. He's smartly dressed, but not in an opulent costume. He's in a tux, but there's something about him. In a place filled with sparkle and pomp, this man in his dark tux, wearing a beaded black face mask, looks alone.
Like me.
I'm happy to be here, even though I don't belong here.
But he looks like he belongs here yet doesn't want to be here.
I walk towards him.
“He looks sad,” I murmur as my camera pans to him.
He's watching everyone, just like I was. But I'm not sad. “Awww, look at this poor guy,” I comment. “He looks like he'd rather be marking homework. Okay, mysterious man. You look like you don’t bite. I shall approach you.”
As I get nearer, I sense something about him. Or maybe the champagne begins to cloud my judgment.
“I’ve found the saddest person in Venice,” I murmur, and look at him, not through the phone, but properly, feeling a sting of sadness.
Then I realize I've just recorded that, so I quickly stop filming.