Transition (13 page)

I had been invited to the city and the carnival as a reward for my services, which had lately been energetic if not onerous.
There were no other transitionaries present, though there was a gaggle of Concern apparatchiks and officials, all of whom
were polite to me. Despite the rather generous amount of blood I had on my hands even then, I was still not yet used to the
idea that people who knew of my role within l’Expédience might find my presence intimidating, alarming or even frightening.

Professore Loscelles is a modest figure of a man, verging on short, though with a stately bearing which belies this. He is
one of those who grow in isolation. Alone, one might swear he is as tall as oneself; in a small group he seems to shrink by
comparison and in a crowd he disappears entirely. He was balding then, losing thin brown hair like seaweed dropping back from
a rock with a receding tide. He has a splendid hook of a nose, prominent teeth and eyes of a frosty-looking blue. His wife
was dramatically taller than him, a statuesque Calabrian blonde with a large, honest-looking face and a ready laugh. It was
she, Giacinta, who taught me the dances which would be required at the series of balls to which we had been invited. Happily
I am a quick learner and apparently I move well.

The palace contained a ballroom where one of the great masked balls of that year’s carnival was to be held. This took place
the day after I arrived. I was appropriately entranced by the fabulous masks and costumes and by the sumptuous decor of the
ballroom itself; a hymn of ancient, polished woods, glossy marble and extravagantly gilt-framed mirrors, all lit entirely
with candles, imparting a distinct mellowness to the light and a smoky scent to the air, like incense. It mingled with the
odour of perfumes and the smoke from cigarettes and cigars. The men were peacocks, the women whirling, dazzling belles in
glittering gowns. A small orchestra in antique dress filled the space with melody. Three enormous chandeliers of red glass
oversaw it all – great swirling, abstract shapes looking like vast surges of glistening blood caught in the act of spinning
within an unseen whirlpool – but were reduced to mere pendulous sculptures reflecting candle flames, their bulbs unnecessary
and unlit.

Breathless, gripping a glass of Tokaj, I stepped out onto a little terrace bounded by fat white marble balustrades shaped
like tears. A small crowd of partygoers stood quietly watching snow descend against the lights of the few passing boats and
the light-flecked buildings on the canal’s far side. The spiralling chaos of flakes appeared from the darkness overhead as
though created by the lanterns of the palazzo and disappeared silently into the oily blackness of the gently moving waters
before it.

I went out early the next morning into that cold, encasing whiteness, my breath spreading into the dark narrow spaces in front
of me, and found some untrodden stretches on the Sestiere Dorsoduro. I strolled the ancient, hidden stones, breathing in the
cool, clear salty scent of the place and soaking up the world’s fragre. It tasted, of course, of all the things that all the
other worlds taste of, but the identifying highlights spoke of a kind of seductive cruelty, an orchidaceous venality, so infinitely
sweet it could only be redolent of corruption and decay. Here, in the eternally sinking city, with that odour of glamourous
savagery filtering through my mind like mist off the lagoon into a room, it all felt spent here but only paused elsewhere,
like something waiting to resume.

The snow lay across the city for the next few days, creating a starkness beneath those sea-wide skies, draining colour from
the passing clouds, water and buildings and promoting the views of that city of Canaletto and fractious colour to a ravishing
monochrome.

The final ball was held in the Doge’s Palace in a vast and splendid room built half a millennium ago to house two thousand
milling princes, merchants, ambassadors, captains and dignitaries. An airstream originating in Africa had pushed up over the
heel of Italy and the Adriatic, melting the snow and bringing mists and fog as it collided with and was slowed by contesting
winds spilling down from the mountains to the north. The city seemed to submerge beneath the resulting vapours, cloaking itself
in veils and shrouds of moisture.

I met my Masked Woman there, then.

I wore the costume of a medieval Orthodox priest, topped with a mirror mask. I had danced some dances, sat at the Loscelles’
table and taken part in some slightly stilted conversations with my fellow house guests and the Professore, who was too interested
in the details of my assignments for the health of either of us, had I answered him honestly. One of the non-Concern guests
of the Loscelles – a tall, pretty brunette who was a distant relation of the Professore and whose lissom form had been squeezed
most attractively into the garb of a renaissance lady – had rather taken my eye that evening. However, she seemed to be equally
captivated with a dashing cavaliere and so I had put any thoughts involving her to one side.

I took a break from the eating and drinking and dancing and talking and sought to explore what I could of the palace, strolling
through some of the lesser chambers, being shooed out of others and finally ending up back in the Hall of the Great Council
while a dance processed like a gaudy vortex in the centre of the vast room. I stood staring up at the frieze of paintings
depicting the sequence of Doges, my gaze eventually fastening on one which appeared to be missing, or at least covered by
a black veil. I wondered if this was some tradition of the carnival, or just of this particular masked ball.

“His name was Doge Marino Faliero,” a female voice announced at my side, in lightly accented English. I looked round to discover
that I was being addressed by a pirate captain. Chunkily high-heeled boots brought her almost to my height. Her jacket hung,
attached like a hussar’s, from one shoulder. The rest of her uniform appeared motley, arranged to look thrown together: baggy
breeches, brass-buttoned, an extravagantly frilled blouse, a half-undone waistcoat worn like a bodice, a tricolour sash plus
beads and various chains and some sort of brass plate like a half-moon slung around her neck, which looked pale and slender.
Her mask was black velvet, misted with what looked like tiny pearls set out in spirals. Beneath the mask her mouth looked
roseate, amused. A few locks of black hair escaped a crumpled cap of navy blue surmounted by a cocky burst of gaudy feathers.

I glanced back up at the veiled space in the succession of Doges. “Is it now?”

“He was Doge for a year in the mid thirteen hundreds,” my informant told me. Her voice sounded young, melodious, confident.
“He’s covered up because he’s in eternal disgrace. He tried to make a coup to sweep away the republic and have himself declared
prince.”

“But he was already Doge,” I said.

She shrugged. “A prince or a king would have had more power. Doges were elected. For life, but with many restrictions. They
were not allowed to open their own mail. It had first to be read by the censor. Too, they were not allowed to conduct discussions
with foreign diplomats alone. A committee was required. They had much power but they were also just figureheads.” She gestured
with one hand (black-gloved, silver rings over leather). Her sword – or at least a scabbard for a sword – swung at her left hip.

“I thought perhaps he was only veiled for the ball,” I said.

She shook her head. “In perpetuity. He was condemned to Damnatio Memoriae. And mutilated, and beheaded, of course.”

“Of course.” I nodded gravely.

She might have stiffened a little. Was I talking to a local? “The republic took such threats to its existence seriously,”
she said.

I executed a fraction of a bow, smiling and tipping my head. “You would appear to be an authority, ma’am.”

“Hardly. Merely not ignorant.”

“I thank you for relieving me of some measure of my own ignorance.”

“You are welcome.”

I nodded to the swirl of people. “Care to dance?”

She moved her head back a fraction, as though appraising me, then bowed a little further than I had. “Why not?” she said.

And so we danced. She moved with a lithe grace. I sweated beneath my mask and robes, and understood the wisdom of having masked
balls in winter. We talked over the music in the rhythm imposed by the dance.

“May I ask your name?”

“You may.” She smiled slightly, fell silent.

“I see. Well, what is your name?”

She shook her head. “It is not always the done thing to ask someone’s name at a masked ball.”

“Is it not?”

“I feel the spirit of the late Doge looks down upon us and demands due reticence, don’t you?”

I shook my head. “Probably not even if I knew what you were talking about.”

This appeared to amuse her, as the soft lips parted in a smile before she said, “Alora.” For a moment I thought she was telling
me her name, but of course it is simply an Italian word, nearly identical to the French “alors.” I found her accent impossible
to place. “Perhaps we come to names later,” she said as we danced around each other. “Otherwise, ask what you will.”

“I insist; ladies first.”

“Well then, what do you do, sir?”

“I am a traveller. And you?”

“The same.”

“Indeed. You travel widely?”

“Very. You?”

“Oh, extraordinarily.”

“Do you travel to a purpose?”

“A series of purposes. Yourself?”

“Always only with one.”

“And what would that be?”

“Well, you must guess.”

“Must I?”

“Oh yes.”

“Let me see then. Your pleasure?”

“I am not,” she said, “so shallow.”

“Is it shallow to seek pleasure?”

“Exclusively, yes.”

“I know people who would disagree.”

“So do I. May I ask what you’re smiling at?”

“The scorn in your voice when you mention those people.”

“Well, they are shallow,” she said. “This proves my point, no?”

“It certainly proves something.”

“You are smiling again.”

“I am aware that my mouth is almost all you can see.”

“Do you think it is all I need to see of you?”

“I would hope not.”

She tipped her head to one side. “Are you flirting with me, sir?” she asked curtly.

“I’m fairly sure I’m trying to,” I said. “How am I doing?”

She appeared to think, then moved her head side-to-side, like a nod rotated ninety degrees. “It is too early to tell yet.”

Later – the music echoing down stairwells and through chambers and corridors – we stood in front of a great wall-wide map of the
world. It looked reasonably accurate and therefore late, though of course in some ways I would be the last to be able to judge.
We stood close, both a little breathless after the last dance. We still wore our masks and I still did not know her name.

“Does it all look present and correct to you, sir?” she asked as I gazed up at the configured continents and cities.

“We return to my ignorance,” I confessed. “Geography is not my strongest subject.”

“Or does it then look wrong to you?” she asked, then seemed to drop her voice a little. “Or too limited?”

“Too limited?” I asked.

“It is, after all, just the one world,” she said calmly.

I looked at her, startled. She returned her gaze to the map. I recovered my composure. I laughed, gestured. “Indeed. A starry
vault or two would not go amiss.”

She stood still, looked at the map, said no more.

For some time I divided my attention between her and the map while various individuals, couples and groups of people passed
to and fro, chattering and laughing. Then, in a lull, I reached out to take her gloved hand. She moved away and swivelled.
“Walk with me, would you?” she asked.

“Where to?”

“Must it be to anywhere? Might we not just walk?”

“I think you’ll find that when you stop walking you’ll have arrived somewhere.”

She fixed me with a stare. “I thought geography wasn’t your strong point.”

We collected our cloaks. Outside, in the Piazzetta and then the Piazza, a misty rain was falling, blurring the lines of lights
set high on the great square’s walls between the lines of dark windows.

She led me north through a succession of narrow, twisting calles and across small bowed bridges over dark narrow canals, quickly
leaving behind the scatter of people in and around San Marco, our steps echoing from overhanging buildings, our shadows – unbearably
dramatic in our out-belling cloaks – dancing around us like ghostly partners, sometimes ahead of us, sometimes behind, to one
side, or just a pool of darkness at our feet.

She found a tiny bar off an ill-lit calle which would have been too narrow for us to walk down side by side. The establishment
was shady, almost empty save for a couple of workmen sitting near the back nursing beers – we were given slightly contemptuous
glances – and a diminutive blonde bar girl in jeans and a baggy jumper. My companion ordered a spritz and a bottle of still
water. I accepted a spritz as well.

Our hostess disappeared into a storeroom, clutching a clipboard and pen. We remained standing at the bar. I took off my mask,
faced my pirate captain and smiled expectantly. “There,” I said.

She merely nodded, made no move to remove her own mask. She did take off her hat. The moment might have called for a shake
of the head, coquettish or not, but she just let her long black curled hair fall about her shoulders without ceremony. The
workman facing us glanced up, nodded to his fellow, who turned. Both eyed her for a few moments. She put her head back and
glugged half the bottle of water in one go, exposed throat moving. She wiped her mouth with a couple of fingers, then sipped
delicately on her spritz, back to ladylike. Dim though the bar was, the angle of a light above the gallery of bottles gave
me the best view I’d had so far of her eyes behind the almond-shaped piercings in the black mask. They glittered, hinting
at lightness; pale blue or green or a delicate hazel.