undici
It was Friday the 13th, the evening of the masquerade ball.
Francesco and Lucia had decided to coordinate their costumes, drawing on two of the iconic servant characters of the sixteenth-century Commedia dell’Arte theatre tradition. It was spritely Arlecchino for Francesco, and the clever and savvy Colombina for Lucia. Francesco, dressed in his multicoloured patchwork onesie, was hard to miss. His face was half covered by a simple black leather mask, fastened securely under his white felt hat.
On his arm was Lucia, oozing femininity. Her slender long-legged frame was given generous curves thanks to the tailored red waistcoat which cinched in at the waist. From her middle billowed a full blue satin skirt, and she’d completed the look with fishnet stockings and black ballet flats. Her glossy dark hair was bundled into a low, braided knot. Accented with feathers and blue and red detailing, Lucia’s half-mask provided her the anonymity to be herself and enjoy the ball, without all the prying eyes and public interest.
As much as her own pride would allow her, that was.
The pair stood at the opulent internal double doors to the palazzo facing Piazza San Marco.
Francesco squeezed her arm. ‘ Grazie for coming, Lucia.’ He smiled. ‘If we get separated I have the spare key to the school and my phone.’ He gave his zipped pocket a tap. ‘ Sei pronta ?’
She nodded, her rouge-tinted lips curling. ‘I’m ready. Grazie a te for the invitation. And for helping me out of my slump. Tonight . . .’ She paused, inhaling deeply. ‘I surrender myself to the universe. Whatever comes my way . . .’
Francesco turned, eyebrows raised. ‘ Allora , let’s hope the universe is listening.’
The doors opened, and the thump and beat of the music rushed at them. It was loud, much louder than Lucia thought it needed to be, but what did it matter? She wasn’t there for conversation. Tonight was about distraction. About letting go and having some fun. The mask allowed her to simply blend into the wash of colours of the ball. She could be comfortably insignificant.
Stepping through the doors, Lucia saw her black ballerina slippers peeking out from under the full-length hem of her skirt. The floor beneath her feet transitioned from terracotta tile to polished hardwood, centuries old. It felt like stepping back in time. Looking up, she took in the opulent seventeenth-century ballroom, which had been decorated with elegant Valentine’s Day décor. In fact, it was the most elegant Lucia had ever seen the ball, having attended a number of times in the past.
This must be what Tiziano was talking about . . . This year’s new changes . . .
White satin ribbon garlands were suspended from the twinkling chandeliers; the railings which cordoned off the intricately carved wooden reliefs rising halfway up the walls had been looped with sparkling fairy lights; and the vaulted wooden ceiling space was dotted with red ribbon tails. There were two roped-off sections on either side of the ballroom, both marked VIP and overseen by a number of waiters dressed in tuxedos.
Something in Lucia’s middle effervesced with excitement, and she thought of Tiziano’s promise.
Surely, all this glam and show is a good sign of potentially higher profits . . . Just breathe and relax.
She turned and followed Francesco to a sign-in desk, where a large red heart dangled over the ma?tre d’. Seeing it, despite her excitement and good intentions, a lump formed in her throat. While the decorations were beautiful and set the scene for Valentine’s Day, for Lucia they could only ever be a reminder of the most painful anniversary her heart marked each and every year.
And this year was the twentieth.
Even as the memory of her parents’ lifeless faces returned, she knew she needn’t feel guilty for a night of distracted indulgence. People had been reminding her for decades that her life had to go on. She didn’t need to hold back on enjoying a full life just because her parents had lost theirs. In fact, she was finally starting to accept, after so many years, that this was what they would have wanted for her.
A life.
And so she and Francesco joined the crowd, and within minutes, Francesco seemed to have become the life of the party, and was dancing with whoever would hold his hand or gaze long enough.
Watching on, stifling her giggles, Lucia had just ordered a second drink at the bar when a man approached, well disguised by an ornate black leather half-mask and flowing black satin cape. His eyes followed the direction of hers, and he too laughed as Francesco somehow managed to dance himself into the centre of a circle of onlookers while the DJ mashed up Umberto Tozzi’s ‘Gloria’, with a new bass-heavy house track.
‘Your friend?’ the man yelled over the music.
Lucia laughed. ‘Only on the good days.’
The man gestured to the bartender for a glass of water, setting down his empty wineglass on the polished wood bar. ‘And . . . does today constitute a good day?’ His voice strained over the waves of bass.
Watching Francesco attempt to slow-grind the air, she chuckled fondly. Leaning closer to the masked man, she said, ‘Yes. I guess it does.’
The bartender set down a white wine for Lucia and the man’s water. Both turned to retrieve their glasses.
‘Apart from Arlecchino,’ he gestured to the dancefloor, ‘who else are you here with?’
‘No one. Just him.’ She took a sip of the sweeter than expected white. ‘You?’
‘No one.’ He looked back over the swelling crowd on the dancefloor, then leaned closer to Lucia and said, ‘I tend to keep to myself.’
‘Why come to a party like this, then?’
She watched as his teeth caught his lower lip. ‘For . . . work.’
His somewhat evasive response seemed to close the door on further questions, but it certainly piqued Lucia’s stubbornly curious nature. She turned to press her back against the bar, resting on her elbows. Looking back out at the crowd, she broke eye contact with the stranger for a moment. That was until he appeared in front of her.
Hand proffered, he said, ‘Dance with me.’
Lucia tilted her head thoughtfully. ‘Why should I?’
‘Then we can be melancholic together over there .’ He gestured to the dancefloor with a flick of his head. ‘And not here keeping the bar warm.’
The music, if it were even possible, seemed to grow louder, much to the delight and joy of the crowd.
What have you got to lose? Lucia asked herself. So she nodded hesitantly, and slipped her right hand into his. It was warm, but far from soft. In the few moments it took him to lead her to the dancefloor, she could feel the rough calloused skin of his palms and the splintery webbing between his fingers. It was the kind of dry, abraded skin one might expect on the hands of someone who performed tireless manual labour.
With a gentle twist, he spun her around, and her skirt flared then settled again. Lucia smiled. Nice move .
They danced together for a handful of songs. Across the dancefloor, lost in his own reverie, Francesco was none the wiser. All the while, Lucia and her dance partner made no further contact after that initial guiding hand. Something about it seemed a little odd to Lucia, but there was also something comfortable about this stranger’s company. She didn’t even know his name, and yet, he seemed quite happy just to dance by her side. Not pressing any point. Not trying any sleek moves to advance their contact.
Then, suddenly, his hand caught hers.
It was still warm, but this time Lucia caught a whiff of synthetic fibres and face paint . . . That warmth. And those rough hands.
He dipped close to her right ear, and breathed past the corner of her mask. ‘Outside? Want to talk?’
The thought of escaping the noise and the whirl and rush of colours and sequins was tempting. While the idea of following a complete stranger outside was perhaps foolish and a little dangerous, she had committed herself to the spirit of the evening and to whatever came her way. Besides, what harm could befall her in the busy Piazza San Marco?
She thought on it for a moment, noting how her heart flickered in her chest. She felt alive, empowered and, above all else, safe, behind her mask.
Lucia held up a tentative finger as she scanned the tops of heads in search of Francesco. He was locked in a dance duel with another, significantly rounder, Arlecchino, and she figured trying to gain his attention was of little use.
She threw caution to the wind, nodded to her companion, and pointed towards the double doors.
The thump of the music remained until they were outside under the portico of Piazza San Marco. Despite the late hour, there were still people there.
The masked man guided her across the square, past the stage and catwalk and temporary seating that had been arranged for the Carnevale festivities in a fortnight’s time, then further along under the portico in the direction of the Palazzo Ducale, where there were fewer people. At the Piazzetta San Marco he guided them to the right, and there was the sight of Lido, gently illuminated across the water.
A light mist had settled over Venice, and it caused the grey and white pavers of the piazzetta to glisten under the lights of the encircling buildings.
Casting her eyes to the sky, Lucia spread her hands wide and felt the now heavier raindrops on her palms. Typical , she thought. To her left, stretching across the facade of the basilica, the acqua alta raised footpaths had been erected.
‘The rain is setting in,’ she said, turning to her companion.
The man’s gaze was fixed on Lucia, and as she watched, his eyes seemed to darken behind the holes of his mask. She felt the energy between them tighten, sharpen; it was as if all her senses had been heightened. The skin down her naked arms suddenly craved the warmth of his touch; the harsh bitterness of the winter night air and the damp of the rain stung like an electric shock.
Lucia didn’t know if he could perhaps read her mind, but his hands – those rough, worn hands – came to rest on her shoulders. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he ran them down the length of her arms until meeting together in a knotted ball around her fingers.
Lucia was too scared to breathe, feeling as if any movement might break this inexplicable spell. All she could do was look back into his eyes, perfectly framed by the black leather half-mask. It was unlike any she had seen before – and she had seen thousands across her Venetian lifetime. There was something different about this mask. She saw now that the leather had been worked by a master craftsman. Moulded. Shaped as if to emulate a gust of wind. It was slick and glossy and had clearly been made to measure. It fitted him like a second skin.
Just as the force of the rain increased, Lucia said, ‘Your mask—’ But he silenced her with a finger across her lips.
Immersed in her eyes, which had lost their trademark green to the darkness of the night, he gave a subtle shake of the head. In time, his hands pulled hers towards his chest, and his head dipped so that his lips hovered a centimetre or two above hers.
Lucia’s heart lurched in a frantic rhythm, and before she knew it, she had surrendered her mouth to his. While she remained firmly planted to the pavers of the piazzetta, the man’s strength and the hunger of his kiss lifted her spirit and cast it to the starry night sky. Lucia let him command the kiss, and his insatiable passion and want for her turned even the most cynical shred of trepidation and uncertainty to dust. His right hand reached to cradle her turned head, while his left pulled her closer.
It felt to Lucia as if Venice had been caught in a glitch in the universe, as time paused to give them a moment together.
The man’s hold on Lucia was firm and reassuring. She wondered if he could feel her heartbeat, pulsating through his grip.
Just then, the Campanile di San Marco began to toll the arrival of midnight, startling them both. Lucia couldn’t help it; in her mind, she counted the bells.
Uno . . . due . . .
Perhaps it was because her conscience was seeking a counterpoint to truth, a touchstone, a tether to reality.
Cinque . . . sei . . .
His breath fluttered against her lips, and she inhaled, trying to catch her own.
Otto . . . nove . . .
She reached for reason and logic, but they eluded her. Nothing could possibly endure in this space except the two of them.
Undici . . . dodici . . .
Then, silence.
The vacuum which had enveloped them seemed to blow wide open, and the real world rushed back in. There they were, existing together. The breeze that rattled the piazzetta changed direction, and manoeuvred between them as the rain fell more heavily. A spark of lightning across the water to Lucia’s left illuminated the square, and Lucia felt herself flinch under the arrival of the thunder that followed.
Noting this, the man reached again for her hands, and this time the sensation of his toughened skin was familiar and comfortable. He pulled her close once more and his lips parted as if to speak. He lingered there a moment, and just as he made to break the silence the piercing cry of the acqua alta siren, alerting Venetians to the arrival of rising flood waters, began to ring out over the city.
The man’s masked gaze pivoted to the sky. Through his hands Lucia could feel his heartbeat race and his skin grow hot. Without conscious thought, she gripped his hands tighter, but he pulled them from her grasp. Again, his eyes grazed the ebony dome above, blanketed now with the shadowed haze of rain clouds.
Turning to the edge of the fondamenta , the pair suddenly noticed the high tide lapping across the piazzetta. They saw the water pool and gather, and within seconds it was snaking menacingly along the pavers. To their left, water began to seep in from the pressure valves dotting the centre line of Piazza San Marco.
The acqua alta was on its way.
Lucia watched as the man’s eyes darted from the sky to the water, then returned to her. He shook his head, and Lucia couldn’t read if the gesture communicated confusion or fear. But suddenly it didn’t matter.
A warning cry from someone behind her, further along the fondamenta , caused Lucia to turn and squint into the dark. When she looked back, all that remained of the masked man was the sight of his cape dancing behind him as he darted away through Piazza San Marco.
‘ Aspetta !’ she wailed into the wind. ‘Come back! I don’t even know your name!’ She groaned in frustration, then cast her gaze to her feet, noting the inch of water she was now standing in. And so, twenty years on and in the very same spot as the night of the accident, Lucia found herself succumbing to the rain once again.
The recoiling echoes of the siren drowned out her cries, heard only by the lingering gulls who were busy scurrying under the porticos of San Marco, seeking refuge from the impending deluge.