But now I believe it’s a gift.’
‘From God?’ she asked.
‘Or from my father.’
‘Aren’t we lucky, you and I?’
‘We are indeed, signora .’
‘You are to call me Valentina, remember?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Valentina.’
‘So now,’ she said, ‘it is time for us to take on the world.’
We heard afterwards that Signora Contarini’s masquerade ball was a triumph. The women were beautiful, and so were many of the men. The fruit ices and frozen wine were a tremendous success, and at the height of festivities Pietro announced his betrothal to the granddaughter of the Doge. Nobody recognised anyone else under their masks, which led to all kinds of embarrassment, intrigue and even entanglements, which is just how a party should be in Venice. Everyone toasted Signora Contarini’s good health and virtue, and danced until it was time to watch the fireworks.
That’s what we heard. We were nowhere near the palazzo . It was Maria, masked and dressed in Valentina’s new ballgown, who danced with dukes and ambassadors, while the real Signora Contarini strode down back alleys and over bridges as if she’d worn breeches and riding boots her whole life. She led us on a twisting and circuitous route deep into the city and then doubled back towards San Marco when she was sure nobody was shadowing us. Willem, Luis, Al-Qasim and I floundered along in her wake, each of us in a Carnevale mask and long cape. Luis and I were in black and gold to match the signora , Al-Qasim was in peacock blue, and even Willem had been forced out of his distinctive Dutch clothes and into dark green velvet. He looked quite handsome. We all did.
That night, it was as if every single person in Venice — perhaps in all of Europe — had decided to don a mask and feathers and dance in the piazza. In each corner, orchestras played, and a gypsy band weaved through the crowd, so that the different notes of dozens of violins clashed and soared above our heads. People danced, bowed, whispered and laughed, and everyone seemed tobe gazing at each other and at the same time striking a pose in the hope that someone was looking at them.
‘If Fra Clement or Brother Andreas are here,’ said Luis, ‘they’ll be too busy praying for deliverance from this pit of sin to bother about us.’
‘They won’t be anywhere near the piazza, not tonight,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s the idea.’
Al-Qasim took my arm. ‘It’s time.’
Behind her mask, Valentina sniffed away a few tears. ‘To think I might never again be part of Carnevale.’
‘You will, one day,’ I whispered. ‘I swear.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Luis. He glanced around quickly. ‘We’ll split up in the crowd and reassemble next to the gondola pontoon when the midnight bell sounds. Paco will meet us there with the boat. Take your time, wander about, mix in with everyone else. That should shake off anyone who’s following us.’
Al-Qasim nodded, his peacock feathers shimmering in the light of a thousand lanterns. ‘I may even dance,’ he said.
Luis grinned, his teeth white below the black mask. ‘Why not?’
‘Is this really the time for it?’ said Willem.
‘The whole city is dancing,’ said Valentina. ‘It’s the best way to blend in.’
‘Try it, Will,’ I said. ‘You might even enjoy it.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said, and moved off into the throng.
‘Sometimes he is so very …’ said Valentina.
‘Come,’ said Al-Qasim, offering me his hand. ‘Let us dance our way to Constantinople.’
That’s exactly what we did, swaying and weaving our way through the piazza, just like everyone else. There were men in velvet capes, women disguised beneath silver masks and black lacefans, children giggling and singing and racing through the crowd, jugglers and acrobats and musicians everywhere.
One woman wore a high yellow wig with a pet monkey sitting on top. Another was wrapped up in yards of inky blue satin embroidered with minuscule silver stars. Two lute
‘From God?’ she asked.
‘Or from my father.’
‘Aren’t we lucky, you and I?’
‘We are indeed, signora .’
‘You are to call me Valentina, remember?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Valentina.’
‘So now,’ she said, ‘it is time for us to take on the world.’
We heard afterwards that Signora Contarini’s masquerade ball was a triumph. The women were beautiful, and so were many of the men. The fruit ices and frozen wine were a tremendous success, and at the height of festivities Pietro announced his betrothal to the granddaughter of the Doge. Nobody recognised anyone else under their masks, which led to all kinds of embarrassment, intrigue and even entanglements, which is just how a party should be in Venice. Everyone toasted Signora Contarini’s good health and virtue, and danced until it was time to watch the fireworks.
That’s what we heard. We were nowhere near the palazzo . It was Maria, masked and dressed in Valentina’s new ballgown, who danced with dukes and ambassadors, while the real Signora Contarini strode down back alleys and over bridges as if she’d worn breeches and riding boots her whole life. She led us on a twisting and circuitous route deep into the city and then doubled back towards San Marco when she was sure nobody was shadowing us. Willem, Luis, Al-Qasim and I floundered along in her wake, each of us in a Carnevale mask and long cape. Luis and I were in black and gold to match the signora , Al-Qasim was in peacock blue, and even Willem had been forced out of his distinctive Dutch clothes and into dark green velvet. He looked quite handsome. We all did.
That night, it was as if every single person in Venice — perhaps in all of Europe — had decided to don a mask and feathers and dance in the piazza. In each corner, orchestras played, and a gypsy band weaved through the crowd, so that the different notes of dozens of violins clashed and soared above our heads. People danced, bowed, whispered and laughed, and everyone seemed tobe gazing at each other and at the same time striking a pose in the hope that someone was looking at them.
‘If Fra Clement or Brother Andreas are here,’ said Luis, ‘they’ll be too busy praying for deliverance from this pit of sin to bother about us.’
‘They won’t be anywhere near the piazza, not tonight,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s the idea.’
Al-Qasim took my arm. ‘It’s time.’
Behind her mask, Valentina sniffed away a few tears. ‘To think I might never again be part of Carnevale.’
‘You will, one day,’ I whispered. ‘I swear.’
‘Let’s go,’ said Luis. He glanced around quickly. ‘We’ll split up in the crowd and reassemble next to the gondola pontoon when the midnight bell sounds. Paco will meet us there with the boat. Take your time, wander about, mix in with everyone else. That should shake off anyone who’s following us.’
Al-Qasim nodded, his peacock feathers shimmering in the light of a thousand lanterns. ‘I may even dance,’ he said.
Luis grinned, his teeth white below the black mask. ‘Why not?’
‘Is this really the time for it?’ said Willem.
‘The whole city is dancing,’ said Valentina. ‘It’s the best way to blend in.’
‘Try it, Will,’ I said. ‘You might even enjoy it.’
‘I doubt it,’ he said, and moved off into the throng.
‘Sometimes he is so very …’ said Valentina.
‘Come,’ said Al-Qasim, offering me his hand. ‘Let us dance our way to Constantinople.’
That’s exactly what we did, swaying and weaving our way through the piazza, just like everyone else. There were men in velvet capes, women disguised beneath silver masks and black lacefans, children giggling and singing and racing through the crowd, jugglers and acrobats and musicians everywhere.
One woman wore a high yellow wig with a pet monkey sitting on top. Another was wrapped up in yards of inky blue satin embroidered with minuscule silver stars. Two lute
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