beaming at him, her blond hair a mass of thick and perfectly formed little curls, her heavy bosom adorned with diamonds.
She had a painterly blush to her cheeks which made the ideal beauties of paintings seem real to him suddenly; she was overblown, glorious.
Alessandro meantime was so at ease; he cut the meat on Marianna’s plate, moved the candles when they blinded her, never turning completely away from her. Perfect cavalier servente, Tonio was thinking.
But watching him, Tonio felt the old mystery of eunuchs return. He hadn’t thought of it in years. What did Alessandro feel? What was it like to be him? And even as he felt himself magnetized by Alessandro’s languid hands and half-mast lids, that miraculous grace with which he managed the smallest gesture, he felt an involuntary shudder. Does he never hate it? Is he never consumed with bitterness?
The violins had started again. A great roar of laughter had broken out at the head table. Signore Lemo passed, nodding quickly.
The carnival was beginning. Everyone was rising to go into the piazza.
Magnificent paintings were mounted for all to see, the wares of the goldsmiths and glassblowers flashed and glittered in the light that flooded from the open cafés where people crowded to take chocolate, wine, ices. The shops were aglow with frothy chandeliers and splendid fabric exhibited for sale as the people themselves made up a gleaming mass of the most dazzling satin, silk, and damask.
The giant piazza stretched into infinity. The light glared as if it were high noon, and over all, the round arched mosaics of San Marco gave off a dim sparkle as if they were alive and bearing witness.
Alessandro kept his charges close and it was he who led Marianna and Tonio into the small shop where they were at once outfitted with their bautas and dominoes.
Tonio had never actually worn the bauta, the birdlike mask of chalk-white cloth that covered not only the face, but the head as well in its black mantle. It smelled strange to him, closing over his eyes and nose; he gave a little start to see himself a stranger in the mirror. But it was the domino, the long black garment that hung to the ground, that made them all truly anonymous. You could not tell who was man or woman now; nothing of Marianna’s dress showed beneath; she was a little gnome giving off a sweet, mercurial laughter.
Alessandro appeared a specter beside her.
And emerging into the blinding light again, they were but one trio now among hundreds of such nameless and faceless ones, lost in the press, holding tight to one another as music and shouts filled the air, and others appeared in wild and fantastical costumes.
The giant figures of the commedia dell’arte rose above the crowd. It was like seeing puppets overblown with monstrous life; painted faces flashed grotesqely under torches. Tonio realized suddenly Marianna was all but doubled over with laughter. Alessandro had whispered something in her ear as he supported her on his arm. She clung to Tonio with the other hand.
Someone shouted to them: “Tonio, Marianna.”
“Shhh, how do you know who we are!” Marianna said. But Tonio had already recognized his cousin Catrina. She wore but a half mask and her mouth was a little crescent of red beneath, naked and delicious looking. He felt an embarrassing rush of passion. Bettina, the little serving girl, came to mind; was it possible for him to find Bettina? “My darling!” Catrina drew him close. “That is you, isn’t it?” She gave him such a kiss that he felt almost dizzy.
He stepped back. The sudden hardness between his legs was maddening him; he would rather die than have her know it, but when her hand slipped about his neck, finding the one place that was not draped, he felt himself on the verge of some humiliating shock he couldn’t conceal. She was pressed against him; the friction was defeating him.
“What’s come over your father that he let you out, both of you?” Catrina said. And now, thank God, she turned her rich affection on Marianna.
Tonio suddenly saw the house; the dark rooms, the shadowy passages; he saw his father standing alone in the center of that dimly lit study as the morning sun made solid objects of the candle flames, his skeletal frame bearing the weight of history.
He flung open the windows. The rain was coming in fragrant gusts, nothing strong enough to clear the piazza. It had been packed still when they finally slipped