quaranta
After what had been a busy Wednesday of lessons, Lucia stood at the front door of La Scuola Rosa and waved Francesco down the calle .
‘ Grazie e buonasera ,’ she called, and he returned this sentiment with a kiss blown to the night sky. She reached across and her fingers played with the increasingly denser green foliage of the bougainvillea framing the building’s facade. She longed for the glorious pink blooms of spring to return. And soon.
‘Lucia . . .’ came Alex’s voice from across the calle .
With her back to him, she closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she said, and turned to close the door.
But Alex was already darting across the calle . ‘You want the truth. This is the truth.’
He had come to stand between her and the door. His scent assailed her, and she remembered how it had felt to sleep cocooned by their shared nakedness, that all-enveloping warmth that radiated from his skin right through to her core. The way his rough, worn hands had gripped her fiercely, turning, guiding, coaxing her as needed.
Steeling herself, she said, ‘Alex, please . . .’
Propping his hands on her shoulders he guided her back into the school and closed the door behind them. ‘You want the truth, Lucia? Well, here it is. After the funeral for my parents and brother I chose to live with my nonni . To stay with them, abandon my life in Perth, and live permanently in Dorsoduro. That’s how I came to live in Venice.’ Lucia’s mind grabbed at the name of the sestiere . Dorsoduro. Perhaps that abandoned building she’d found was Alex’s? ‘I couldn’t leave my parents and brother behind. The idea of them being here forever, with no one to visit them . . . Because the sickest twist of fate was that I lost my nonna a year after the accident, so my nonno – he was eighty-something at the time – raised me. He died a week after my eighteenth birthday. And that was it. I was left to fend for myself in this city, all alone.’ His hands came to rest on the outside of Lucia’s upper arms, holding her steady, as if fearing she might disappear, too. ‘My nonni were wealthy. Very wealthy. I got it all. As well as my parents’ estate. But all I wanted was them .’ He braced himself for the next breath. ‘What happened to us out there on the piazzetta, their bodies, that water, deeply and truly affected me, Lucia. I am tormented by fears. Irrational, so many people would say, but very real to me.’ His eyes scanned hers, and she returned his gaze. ‘I’m terrified of the water. The acqua alta . When that siren rings, I seize up. The lights and sounds of that night return and it’s debilitating. I just freeze to the spot. My blood turns to ice in my veins. Then I panic and break down.’ His hands dropped by his sides and Lucia could see how they had begun to tremble. ‘A grown man – a Venetian now, no less – terrified of the high water. The most ridiculous thing.’ He reached into his jeans pocket and withdrew something, masked by his closed fist. ‘These save me.’ He unfurled his fingers, revealing a small pair of yellow foam earplugs. ‘They help to drown out some of the noise.’ He half smiled. ‘The water can’t swallow me if I have these.’
Lucia listened as respectfully as she could. She recognised a desperation in Alex’s demeanour; his desire to be understood, his vulnerability at letting her in. She couldn’t help but soften. ‘I’m sorry to hear this, Alex.’
He shook his head. ‘You’ve mocked me for my nocturnal habits. But I can’t exist any other way.’
Lucia swallowed. ‘I . . .’
‘The accident flipped my life, Lucia. The call to the house in the middle of the night. That eruption of adrenaline. I vomited in my bed, all through my linen. They had gone to Mestre for the evening to see friends. I had a fever so stayed behind. My mother . . .’ His breath hitched. ‘She wanted to stay with me, to look after me . . . but I pushed her away. I said she should go.’ Lucia’s heart cracked wide open upon seeing Alex succumb to tears. ‘Since then I’ve never been able to sleep at night. Only during the day. As if I have to live the conditions of that night over and over again. That unforgiving endless darkness across to Lido. That’s why I hide myself away. No social media. No television. The bare minimum of press. And next to no technology. Since the day of the accident.’ His chest deflated a little as he added, ‘I had to block it all out. I wanted no part of it in my life. The box of articles and clippings I showed you – my nonna collected those. When I moved from Dorsoduro to here two and a half months ago, I brought it with me out of respect to her. But Lucia, genuinely, I didn’t know who you were before that night I stayed over. Seeing your photos on the fridge is what triggered me. Your beautiful young face had been imprinted in my mind for twenty years. So, that morning, when it was light, I ducked home to open the box and check. And there you were. We both were.’
‘Alex . . .’ She reached across and her hands found his forearms. ‘I’m . . .’
‘There’s no greater guilt than being the one who the universe chooses to let live.’
And in that moment Alex had articulated all her worries, the core of her anxiety and trauma, in one perfect sentence. She nodded, and she finally allowed the tears brimming in her eyes to spill over. ‘I know. It’s torture.’
‘I got to suffer in private, though, Lucia. I am so sorry you had to suffer so publicly.’
With tears trickling down her cheeks, she took his hand. ‘I’m sorry for both of us.’
‘Lucia . . . The day after our dinner-breakfast . . . That’s when I realised it was you I had kissed the night of the ball. I heard you and Francesco talking on my stoop . . .’
Lucia’s eyes widened. ‘You heard that?’
He nodded. ‘I need to show you something. I hope it will help things make sense. Come.’ He pulled her gently back out the front door. ‘You need to see this.’
She locked the school behind them and they crossed the calle together. And for the first time, Alex opened the front door of La Commedia wide on its hinges. He reached inside and with the flick of a switch, the bottom floor of the building was gently illuminated.
Lucia’s eyes widened with shock. ‘Oh my God . . .’ She turned to face Alex, who walked over to stand by the large table in the middle of what she now saw was a studio.
Suddenly, all the pieces fell into place.
The walls and ceiling were covered almost entirely by suspended masks. Some were ornate, decorated with feathers and jewels, while others were simpler, featuring papier-maché and bold colour blocking. Then, there were statement masks. Those brandished peacock feathers, decoupage and gold leaf embellishments. Some had handles for the wearer to hold them in place, others were suspended from clips caught in the eye sockets. Velvets of red and purple punctuated the low light, which caught on the natural nap of the fabric. It was magical. It was overwhelming. And it all made sense.
‘My nonno was a master mask maker, un mascarero . One of the last true bloodline artisans of the lagoon. He learned his craft from his father, who learned from his father. And so on for at least six generations. He taught me all I know. This is all I know.’
Lucia’s eyes came to rest on two identical black leather masks on the tabletop, right by where Alex was standing. She walked over and assessed them. They were identical to the one ‘Nicolò’ had left behind, and to the one Alex had worn during their kiss in the piazzetta.
‘You made these?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Yes.’
She took a closer look, but was unable to distinguish one from the other. Alex’s level of craftsmanship was far superior to anything Lucia had seen in Venice for a long time. Each fold and pleat of the leather was identical in both masks. To the naked eye, it seemed millimetre perfect. ‘Is one of them mine? The one I left behind after we . . .?’ she asked.
‘Yes. But can you guess which?’ He tilted his head and gave a gentle nod to welcome her to inspect them.
Lucia picked up the masks, one in each hand. She studied the fronts, but was unable to discern any difference. Then she turned the masks over, and saw it. The outline of the face pressed into the raw leather. ‘This one was mine,’ she said confidently.
His expression prompted her to double-check. ‘Are you sure?’
Moving closer to one of the lights, Lucia caught herself and drew her eyebrows together quizzically. ‘An A? Where’s the M?’
Alex’s eyes flicked to the other mask. ‘Look.’
Sure enough, the face imprinted on the second mask featured the M under the chin. ‘What do M and A stand for?’ she asked.
‘Alessandro and Massimiliano. Me and my brother. No one ever called us by those names back in Perth. We were always “Alex and Max”. Like two Italian-Australian superheroes.’ He bent down to retrieve two wooden-handled stamps from a drawer by his side and held them out so Lucia could see them. ‘A and M. Whenever I make a mask I always make two. Identical. I stamp one with A and it joins my permanent collection here, and on the other I stamp M, in my brother’s memory. And I send it out into the world, in place of him. This world is my work, and this is why I was at the ball that night.’
Lucia’s eyes traced the hundreds of masks encircling them. There were so many that she couldn’t tell what colour the walls were underneath. ‘They are amazing, Alex. Bellissime, tutte !’
‘This is the A collection. Every single one of them is an A.’ He took the M mask from her hand. ‘There were less than twelve months between us, and many people said we looked like twins.’ His voice caught for a moment. ‘There’s something existential about seeing a dead face that looks exactly like your own,’ he went on. ‘Like watching your own death in slow motion. And there you are, lifeless. It’s like an out-of-body experience.’ Setting down the mask on the table, he sighed. ‘So much of me died that night.’
Lucia nodded. ‘We all died that night.’
‘It’s . . . nice . . . to be able to talk about it.’
‘I prefer to avoid it.’ Her lips drew into a contemplative straight line.
‘We all have our ways of coping.’
Lucia let out a stubborn little sigh. ‘Or not coping.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve really struggled these past few months.’
‘Can I help?’ He came to her side, his magnetically understanding eyes catching hers. Her feet felt glued to the floorboards. If anyone could help her, she thought, it was Alex, with his entirely unique brand of empathy.
Lucia smiled gratefully. ‘Maybe someday.’
In that moment, buoyed by the possibility of some kind of future trust, of sharing and bonding, and mutual support, the distance between them began to shrink.
And not just metaphorically.
Alex turned and pulled Lucia to his chest. There she nestled without reluctance, without restraint. She just melted into the safe space Alex made for her. Resting his chin on the top of her crown he turned them both so that he could lean back against the desk, then reached to stroke her cheek. ‘We have survived thus far, you know. We can get through the rest.’
His hand felt rough and dry, and the expectation of this sensation brought Lucia a tremendous sense of comfort. She knew how he would feel. And now she knew why.
Over his shoulder she noticed a vast array of tools and machines, all set out in meticulous order by his workstation. She could just picture him sitting at the desk by night, sleeves rolled to his elbows, locking out the world and the noise, losing himself to the faces he created. The masks used to divide and separate, to conceal, to embolden, to free.
Alex cupped her cheeks in his hands and tilted his head, sending a very clear invitation for Lucia to join him. And she did. Her lips met his and the warmth and taste of Alex set her core alight. It was the same chemical rush of adrenaline and oxytocin that the kiss in the piazzetta had inspired, and now as then, it flooded her bloodstream, stockpiling between her legs.
Her hands grabbed at his shirt, and she couldn’t pull him close enough. It made Alex break from their kiss and stifle a laugh. ‘Go easy! There’s skin under there,’ he joked, and Lucia laughed into his shoulder from embarrassment.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled into the cotton.
‘Don’t be,’ he said, turning her around and propping her on the edge of the worktable. She shimmied back a few inches and within seconds Alex was there, his kisses frantic, passionate. Lucia matched him, and without a thought she pulled off her top and threw it to the floor. She sat a little straighter, her shoulders pinned back, drawing attention to her near-naked torso, watching Alex take her in.
Alex moved closer to the edge of the table, and Lucia wrapped her legs around his middle. Her hands fumbled to make sense of the tiny buttons of his shirt, but after a few moments it was off.
In the seductive low light of his studio, Alex’s skin glowed. Each line of intricately toned sinew and muscle in his arms and shoulders rippled, falling away into delicious valleys. Lucia ran her fingers slowly across his chest, wanting to see how he would react. Pressing himself harder against the table, she could read what he wanted.
What they both wanted.
‘How’s this?’ she asked, her fingers now trickling down his torso.
He gave a low growl. ‘You know it’s good.’
She smiled and her green eyes darkened as she undid his pants, allowing them to collect at his feet. ‘ Allora . . . let’s see what else these hands can do . . .’
As she leaned back and Alex climbed onto the table, the matching leather masks were accidentally kicked to the floor.
Neither Lucia nor Alex heard them fall. All that mattered was that now, their invisible armour had also joined the pile, and the night was still young.
‘Shouldn’t you be working?’ Lucia felt they had shifted to a place where she could use this playfully against him. She leaned back against his kitchen bench and smiled.
Checking the time on the oven, he said, ‘Technically, yes. But I think I would rather spend the time with you. If that’s ok.’
Lucia’s cheeks warmed a little, despite her half-dressed state. ‘It’s ok with me.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ he asked. ‘Some water, at least?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Grazie .’
He poured them each a glass and Lucia studied him over the rim of hers while he drank. He was so classically and ruggedly handsome. His mid-length hair, which he usually hid under his flat cap, framed his face so perfectly. And only tonight had she noticed his most endearing feature: buried under that sexy layer of well-manicured stubble, when smiling, Alex’s cheeks featured the gentlest dimples. Right by the corners of his mouth. This revelation upset Lucia. They had shared many interactions over the past few months, and yet not one of them had warranted a dimple-drawing joyous smile.
As Alex guzzled a second glass of water, Lucia padded to the window by Alex’s bed and looked across to her own apartment. She wondered if Foscari was pining for her. She pressed her ear to the glass but couldn’t hear any yapping.
‘If you’re worried about your little man, you can go. If you need to.’
‘He’d be at the window if he needed me.’ She looked and checked again. No Foscari.
Alex came up close behind her, and wrapped his arms around her. Lucia wondered how things had shifted so quickly. They had now slept together twice, yet this tender move, his gentle, reassuring yet unassuming embrace, seemed to be more intimate than what they had already shared. Was it because it wasn’t leading to anything? It was just a gesture from the heart? Or was it because it unlocked something new? A space neither had allowed themselves to venture into before? She turned her head and his lips found a warm nook between a lock of her long dark hair and her cheek. Lucia felt him inhale and hold his breath, as if trying to imprint her scent on his memory.
She pivoted in his hold and leaned back a little so their eyes could lock. ‘Can I stay here tonight?’ Her gaze must have held some of her fatigue, because the pad of his thumb brushed just underneath her right eye, acknowledging where it was darker than usual.
‘Of course.’
‘You can work if you like.’ She looked across to his bed – simply made with a plain dove-grey cover and two pillows – and suddenly craved sleep.
‘We’ll see,’ he said, gesturing for her to hop in. He turned off all the lights, and slid in beside her. Resting her long limbs between the cotton sheets was the most reassuring sensation. Her hands sought his under the covers, and within moments, she had slipped into sleep.
Knowing he wouldn’t be alone brought Alex the most intoxicating sense of relief. Lucia was facing him, and Alex watched her in the low light which filtered in from his window. He hadn’t closed the external shutters, and the voile curtains masked very little of the moonlight. But in the moment he was thankful for that kiss of light in the vastness of the night. It silhouetted her beautiful figure beside him. The drop and rise of her waist to her hips, the gentle slope of her legs and toes; he felt he could look at her forever.
It was there that something returned to his memory: a promise he had made to himself. A vow of sorts. In this moment, he acknowledged what he had felt all those years ago in the piazzetta. The promise still stood, and it caused him to hold Lucia a little tighter.
As the minutes passed, Alex listened as her breathing caught a new, deeper rhythm. He could also hear the rustle of wind down the calle , tickling some of the unlatched shutters, as well as the distant honk of a water vessel out on the Grand Canal.
And it was in that precise moment that Alex realised he was without his earplugs. He felt a sick wave of dread prickle its way along his spine, through his chest, eventually spreading to the tips of his fingers. But the warm, steadfast hold that Lucia had on his hands helped it all seep away. He wouldn’t risk getting up now and waking her. And besides, without the earbuds he could continue to listen to her beside him.
As the thought affixed itself to his heart, Lucia stirred, and in her sleep she pulled him closer. Alex somehow knew that with Lucia’s touch he would be ok. Eventually, the desire for rest overcame him like a gentle rising tide on the backwaters of the lagoon. Peaceful and humble, he let himself succumb to it.
And so, for the first night since the accident, Alex slept, allowing the sounds of the night to knit themselves together as the backing track for his slumber.