Authors: Sara Downing
Maria is waiting for me in her usual place – well, where else would she be? – but the surprise is that I arrive to find room twenty-eight uncharacteristically quiet. Despite the milling crowds outside, not many have yet made it this far.
There seems to be just one guard for this set of rooms; she is sharing herself between the Titian room and Parmigianino next door, so hopefully she will park herself down on the comfier of the two guards’ chairs in that room and leave me to it in here. I’ve seen her before and she knows I’m no art vandal. She nods in acknowledgement as I take up my place on the usual bench. I’m genuinely surprised that no one has ever bothered me on the multiple occasions when I’ve snoozed away in the gallery; no official has ever questioned what I do here so frequently and why I always fall asleep. So I have to presume it’s not uncommon for people to pay their fee just to come in and seek respite from either cold or heat, spending a few quiet moments catching up with a bit of rest in a tranquil spot. I suppose that when the crowds are milling around I’m less conspicuous, although that might be different today when there are fewer visitors passing through….
Fifteen
‘
Carissima Maria, sono ritornato!’
Tito whispers softly in my ear. It can only be another dream; since he went from me I find I dream of him nightly. It is of such comfort and for those few brief moments I can imagine he is by my side again. Only when day breaks does my heart break too as the reality dawns once more that he is still far from me…
I turn drowsily towards the voice to find that I am not dreaming: my lover has indeed returned to me! He is here in the flesh, already divested of his clothing, and in the bed beside me. Despite my drowsiness I am surprised and delighted to have him with me once again, where he belongs.
‘
Oh, I have missed you so,’ I say, waking a little more and shuffling across the wide expanse of starched linen to be closer to him. He pulls me into his arms and our bodies desperately cleave together in their longing for one another. Our parting was so distressing, but now those depths of despair are forgotten as we are together once more.
We lie there silently, our bodies joined; no words are needed to communicate as we rediscover our love and our passion for one another. When we are both sated at last, he props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me as he plays with a loose strand of my hair, twisting it around his fingers, then letting it go and watching it spring back like a piece of coiled twine. Only then, when he has absorbed my face entirely, as though a forgotten image which he needs to imprint in his mind once more, does he speak:
‘
My family do not anticipate my return for another two days; I travelled with the advance party and many of the others are still on the road. So I am a free man for the moment, which means I may remain here with you, my dear. We can go into hiding, lock ourselves away from the world and catch up on all the time we have missed.’
I pull him back into my arms and our re-acquaintance begins once more. Bella, who’s furry form had hitherto had been curled up in a tight ball at the foot of the bed, as she does nightly, suddenly finds her sleeping quarters too unsteady. With a little grunt of dissatisfaction she jumps down, yawns and stretches first her front legs, then hind, and trots off to the fireplace where she resettles herself in front of the still smouldering embers and is soon asleep once more.
‘
We can go to the Carnevale!’ I shriek, with the realisation that Tito is in fact invisible for the next few days. And how invisible he really will be, both of us shall be, behind our masks! ‘We can go to the Carnevale!’ I shout again, and seeing the look of acceptance and approval of my plan slowly dawning on his face, I leap from the bed and begin dancing around the room, humming a little tune of pure joy to myself, holding my nightgown as I sway from side to side. Bella, whose patience is wearing thin with this uncharacteristic nocturnal behaviour, looks up at me and growls gently before resuming her slumber.
Tito roars with laughter. ‘We shall go to the Carnevale, my dear one, of course we shall! We shall have the finest masks Venice has to offer, and parade and dance, be seen by society, and no one will know who we are!’
Finally, a means for us to go out into this city together! And with no risk of us being seen by a family member or some important acquaintance of Tito’s. Not a soul will expect him to be here, least of all his own flesh and blood, so no one will be looking for him.
Why did we not think of it sooner? But then I had expected my dear Tito to be away from me for much longer, and by that time the opportunity for making merry at the Carnevale would be past. Besides which, were he officially known to be here, society would dictate that he attend with his wife, not with me. I would have been able to enjoy certain parts of the festivities with Clara, but two women out on their own are likely to attract a good deal more attention than a man and a woman together, even with their faces hidden from view as they would be. She and I could not risk being mistaken for a pair of courtesans, and falling into bad society.
‘
I will send for my
mascheraro
first thing in the morning. He is the maker of the finest masks in all of Venice and will no doubt have a workshop full of the most splendid masks from which we can choose. What shall you be? A beautiful swan, a dazzling princess, a mysterious mythical creature?’
There is no chance of further sleep as we excitedly discuss our plans for the morrow. I pull Tito from the bed and he joins me as we cavort around the chamber like a pair of marionettes. I cannot believe it; finally I am to go outside with my love! At long last, even if I am masked from view, I will be able to promenade with him at my side! This means so much to me, and the excitement is overwhelming. And then of course, after the day’s festivities, we will be able to return together to my
casa
and be together for the entire night, such as we have not been since we came together to this city. My delight is so intense, I can barely contain myself!
I do not recognise myself as I stand before the mirror, and that is the desired effect, seeing as Tito has procured the finest, most expensive robes and masks for us both. My new gown is made from golden taffeta, embroidered with the most delicate beads and gems, and my mask appears to have been hewn from the same fabric, although in fact it is crafted from gilded glass, made by one of the much fêted glassmakers of Murano, its colour exactly replicating the tones of my robe.
The mask covers my entire face, and I have to confess it is far from comfortable, tied firmly behind my head as it is and only allowing two small pairs of holes by means of which I am able to see and to breathe. To speak or to eat will no doubt prove problematic, but I do not care, as I look beautiful – not in my usual natural and unfettered way, but as though I am a statue carved from a piece of the finest and most priceless golden marble.
Huge swirls of fabric cascade around my head, interleafed with golden flowers, covering my hair entirely and giving me great height beyond my normal stature. I am like a giant, golden, goddess, and I clasp my hands together with delight, my whoops of joy muffled by the enclosure of the mask. My hands too are encased in golden filigree gloves, with painted golden glassy nails where my own nails should be.
‘
Tito, you are so clever to find these costumes so quickly!’ I gasp. ‘And such a perfect fit, too! As though it were made just for me.’ Not even my voice sounds like my own; that too is in disguise. Not a soul in this city shall know who I am.
Tito’s costume is very similar to my own, only masculine where mine is very, very feminine. How he was able to obtain such magnificent outfits at such speed I do not know, but my lover is a man of great means and of fortunate acquaintance, used to procuring what he wants, and for that I am grateful. This mask is my entry point into Venetian society, albeit incognito, so I do not intend to trouble myself too much with the finer details of its source. My intention today is simply to enjoy myself.
Venice is alive! I cannot believe the sights and sounds before me. In the end, it is early evening when we finally leave my
casa
, such is our joy to be together again, and our desire to make the most of Tito’s snatched hours. The sun is starting to set, the waters across the lagoon as still as a mirror crafted by the maestros of Murano themselves.
A gondola awaits us at the dock in the Piazza San Marco, and Tito holds tightly to me as I climb aboard, the waters of the lagoon slapping gently against the quayside. Today the gondolas are bedecked to reflect the mood of the city, the
ferri,
the high, curved and carved bows of the vessels, decorated with bright garlands, ribbons and flowers, so very contrasting to their usual sombre blackness as they slice through the water. The canal is a sea of colour and light from these barques and their occupants, and the whiteness of the vast Palazzo Ducale and its brilliant, carved stonework is thrown into stark contrast by the vibrant hues which mill around it.
As we begin our journey and glide past the Piazza San Marco I see the swarms of costumed revellers filling the lighted square, parading in their finery, and I gasp again at the spectrum of colours and shapes before me. I have never before seen such a sight. They look almost other-worldly, no longer human, with their carved, smooth and gilded faces, outwardly expressionless whilst beneath the masks great excitement must surely bubble forth, just as it does for me.
‘
Facciamo una passeggiata?’
Tito asks, after we have travelled only a short distance in the gondola. He explains how much more exciting it will be for us to walk amongst the crowds, instead of gliding past them, and beckons to the gondolier to pull alongside at the next
fondamenta
so that we might alight. He is right. Holding tightly onto his arm, we tiptoe through two or three darkened
calles
, the narrow, identical-looking alleys and passageways that network through the city, away from the Canal Grande, to emerge in a piazza just in front of the Campo Santo Stefano. Here we are overwhelmed with vibrancy and opulence once more. Huge sconces light the piazza as brightly as if the sun itself were high overhead. Music and dance, theatre and comedy are taking place in abundance around us, antithetical to the unadorned serenity of the church before us. Small crowds gather to watch as these masked artists perform their trickery. Beguiled by the mastery of a juggler I have spied, I wish Tito could see the delight on my face, but it is enough to be here with him, and I only hope his joy at this day is as great as my own; I cannot believe it could be otherwise. As darkness falls completely, there is a tremendous crash and a flash of bright lights as
fuochi d’artificio
shoot up into the sky and fall to earth like a thousand shooting stars. We pause to gaze up at them in sheer wonder. I have never before seen fireworks.
We promenade a little further along, past the fire eaters and stilt walkers, taking in the sights and sounds around us when suddenly a man steps out of nowhere and places his hands over my masked eyes……….
‘
Stefano! What are you doing here?’ The shock of being woken abruptly from my dream leaves me disorientated, gasping for air as though I am having a panic attack, and when I realise I’m safe and not actually being assaulted, mugged, or whatever fate Maria thought awaited her, certainly less than pleased. Stefano had obviously hoped to surprise me, and he’s certainly done that, but it’s far from the sort of surprise I like.
I’ve never been woken unnaturally from a Maria dream before, and I’m not sure I like the feeling of total bewilderment that being dragged from the sixteenth to the twenty-first century within the space of a millisecond has produced. I feel like I’ve been whisked forwards through some sort of time-travelling vortex, and my head is spinning. Usually I wake up in my own good time and the transition is a gentle one, leaving me to sort my memories and catalogue the dream in my brain before having to go back and face the real world. Right now I feel like I’ve been thrown into the deep end of a swimming pool whilst asleep, fully clothed, and with bricks strapped to my ankles; shocked, scared and pretty traumatised.
What had Tito and Maria been about to do at the
Carnevale
? Was Maria really about to be attacked, or was it simply Stefano’s invasion that entered my dream state? I might never find out now. No dream ever seems to pick up exactly where the last one left off; they are all snippets, snapshots of a moment in time, and like a child woken from a fantastical dream of being a prince or princess, a dragon or a magical fairy, only to find they are a mere mortal with no super-powers, my disappointment is overwhelming. I might now never find out if something momentous was going to happen to my sixteenth century friends, or whether this was just a scene-setting moment from their lives.
I get up from my bench, hurriedly gather my things and leave the room, Stefano trailing behind me with protestations, but still no apology. I’m not sure he quite realises what he has done.
‘
You shouldn’t have woken me,’ I shout at him over my shoulder as I stomp angrily along the corridor towards the terrazzo café. Right now I need a large cappuccino to sort me out, and today I don’t care that it’s the typical Brits-on-tour beverage, I just need the reassurance of its milky frothiness and the hit of the underlying espresso to sort me out.