City of Masks (3 page)

He turned the other way and looked out over the water; this was the most beautiful place he had ever been in. But more beautiful still was being able to walk about in it. Lucien had almost forgotten what it was like to do that.

But a moment later, the dream changed completely. Someone came up on him from behind and grabbed his arm, dragging him back into the cool shadows of the colonnade. A fierce boy, about his own age, whispered in his ear, ‘Are you mad? You’ll be killed!’

Lucien looked at him in astonishment. His arm really hurt, where the boy was pinching it. In his real life Lucien couldn’t have borne such a touch; it would have made him cry out in pain. But the point was, he could feel it. This wasn’t a dream at all.

Chapter 2

The Scuola Mandoliera

The night had been just as uncomfortable as Arianna expected. Up on the rams’ gallery it was freezing cold, in spite of the warm cloak she had brought with her. She had changed into her boy’s clothes as soon as she had slipped out on to the loggia, taking cover in the dark and the knowledge that everyone’s eyes were turned towards the fireworks still exploding out over the lagoon.

At midnight, the bells rang the hour from the campanile, nearly deafening Arianna, but she pulled her woollen fisherman’s hat further down over her ears and shrank back against the bulk of the cathedral. When they stopped, she stepped forward and leaned over the marble balustrade, watching the crowd streaming towards the water and the waiting boats. Somewhere among them, tagging reluctantly at the end, would be her two brothers, going home without her.

Arianna pulled further into the shadows when she heard the old monk who looked after the museum going on his rounds. Her main fear now was that he would lock her out with the bronze rams until late the next morning. She had slipped a piece of wood in the jamb of the door out on to the loggia, just in case, but she needn’t have worried. The old man lifted a blazing torch just high enough to see the balcony was empty, pushed the door to and shuffled on his way.

Arianna breathed out loudly and settled down to the long night between the two pairs of rams. They felt like some sort of protection, standing on either side of her, the left pair with their left forelegs raised, the right pair mirroring them, even though they were not exactly company.

‘Good night, rams,’ said Arianna, making the sign of the hand of fortune and covering herself with her cloak.

*

She was woken early, by the shouts of the people who had come to clear up the Piazza after yesterday’s revels. She stretched her cold, cramped limbs and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She walked stiffly to the balustrade and looked down over the square to the colonnade behind the bell-tower. And froze.

There was a stranger there, a boy about her own age, risking death. He was obviously not Bellezzan, not even Talian by his clothing. Arianna had never seen anything so outlandish as what he was wearing. He was as out of place as a dog in the Council chamber. And yet he seemed totally oblivious of danger, warming himself in the sunshine and wearing an idiotic expression like a sleepwalker. Perhaps he was touched in the head?

Arianna didn’t hesitate. She picked up her bag and slipped off the loggia, past the sickening drop to the floor of the great cathedral, and flew down the museum steps and across the Piazza.

*

‘What do you mean, killed?’ said the boy, stupidly. ‘Who are you? And where is this?’ He gestured helplessly at the glittering sea, the silver domes of the cathedral and the bustling square.

‘You
are
mad,’ said Arianna with satisfaction. ‘How can you be in Bellezza on the Giornata Vietata, the one day of the year forbidden to all except natives, and not know where you are? You haven’t been kidnapped, have you?’

The boy shook his black curls but said nothing. Arianna saw at a glance what she was going to have to do, though she hated him for it. She dragged him back into the shadow of the bell-tower and started yanking off her boy’s clothes, unaware of the effect she was creating.

The boy watched in astonishment as her brown hair tumbled out of the fisherman’s hat and she stood in her feminine if rather old-fashioned underwear, pulling a skirt out of her bag.

‘Quick, stop gaping like a fish and put on my boy’s clothes, over those weird ones of yours. You’ve only got minutes before someone spots you and hauls you up before the Bellezzan Council.’

The boy, moving as if in a dream, obediently pulled the rough woollen trousers and jerkin on, still warm from the body of the extraordinary girl, while she dressed herself in more clothes from the bag, talking all the time. She seemed absolutely furious with him.

‘Almost a year it’s taken me,’ she fumed, ‘to get this disguise together and now you’ve ruined everything. I’ll have to wait another year. And all to save the life of some half-crazed stranger – what’s your name, by the way?’

‘Lucien,’ he said, grasping the one remark he understood.

‘Luciano,’ said the girl, making his name as different in her mouth as his whole life seemed to be in this place, this ‘Bellezza’ as she called it.

Lucien was sure that wasn’t the real name of this city, just as he knew his real name wasn’t Luciano, but he decided to accept the girl’s version. Nothing made sense here anyway.

‘What’s yours?’ he asked, clinging on to the little ritual of meeting that was common to ordinary life and this place.

‘Arianna,’ said the girl, tying her loose hair back with a lacy scarf. She looked at him critically. ‘At least you won’t attract so much attention now. Good job we’re the same size. But you’re done for the minute someone questions you. You’ll have to stay with me.’

‘Why were you pretending to be a boy anyway?’ Lucien asked.

Arianna heaved a big sigh. ‘It’s a long story. Come on. We’d better get away from the Piazza and I’ll tell you. Then you can tell me how you got here on this day of all days. I’d have sworn I was the only non-Bellezzan in the city.’

She led him through a passage under a big clock and then along a maze of narrow streets, up and down little bridges, across narrow waterways and through small deserted squares. It seemed as if most of the city were still asleep. Lucien followed her, silently enjoying walking without feeling breathless, being able to keep up with this incomprehensible energetic girl, aware of the sun warming his shoulders through the coarse jerkin and being happier than he could remember for a long time.

They came to a square with a small closed-up theatre in it, where sleepy-eyed stallholders were setting out vegetables and a man was opening up a café. Arianna checked her purposeful stride and eyed the man for a long time before diving into the café. Lucien went in after her.

Inside there were delicious smells, sweet and acrid mixed together. Workmen stood at the bar drinking small cups of black coffee. Arianna gestured Lucien to sit at a table, then brought over two mugs of chocolate and some crumbly pastries.

‘So,’ said Arianna. ‘What’s your story?’

‘Tell me yours first,’ said Lucien. ‘Why are you so angry?’

‘I suppose it’s not your fault,’ said Arianna, relaxing a bit for the first time since he’d met her. ‘You didn’t mean to mess everything up for me. It’s just that I’ve been planning today for a long time. If you really don’t know anything about Bellezza,’ here she lowered her voice to a whisper, ‘then you don’t know that today is the one day in the year when all visitors are banned, on pain of death. It’s the Giornata Vietata – the day after the Marriage with the Sea.’

Then, as Lucien showed no sign of recognition, ‘You
do
know about the Marriage with the Sea, don’t you?’

‘Just assume I know nothing about anything,’ said Lucien. ‘It will be easier that way.’ He wanted time to see what made things tick here, or at least what made Arianna tick.

‘On that day,’ she explained, ‘every May, the Duchessa has a wedding ceremony with the sea. She’s lowered into the water and when the water has reached her middle, the marriage counts as having taken place and the city’s prosperity is guaranteed for another year. I know, it’s crazy, but that’s what lagooners believe. The next day, in accordance with tradition, anyone who wants to train as a mandolier can put himself forward to the Scuola.’

‘Hang on,’ said Lucien. ‘What’s a mandolier?’

‘Someone in charge of a mandola, of course,’ said the girl impatiently. ‘The Duchessa chooses the best-looking ones and then their fortune is made. And everyone knows what she does with the very handsomest.’

She was looking at him expectantly. Lucien felt, as he had ever since he met her, that he had no idea what she wanted him to say.

‘How does that involve you?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Put
him
self forward,’ she stressed. ‘All mandoliers are male. Don’t you think that’s wrong? I am just as tall and strong as a boy my age, stronger if they’re like you (with a contemptuous glance at Lucien’s build), and good to look at, if that’s what matters.’

She paused again and this time he was not at a loss. ‘You are good to look at,’ he said.

Arianna hurtled on, not acknowledging the compliment she had asked for; it was just a fact she had wanted to establish. ‘I mean, this city is ruled by a woman.’

‘The Duchessa,’ said Lucien, glad to have understood something.

‘Of course la Duchessa,’ said Arianna impatiently. ‘The trouble is, she makes all the rules, so if she wants handsome male mandoliers she’ll have them.’

‘But what would happen to you if they found out?’ asked Lucien.

‘You mean what
would
have happened,’ said Arianna bitterly, mangling her pastry to crumbs. ‘I can’t put myself forward now, dressed as a girl, can I? I’ll be lucky not to be caught and executed. And so will you. We just have to hope no one here knows we’re not Bellezzans,’ she added in a whisper.

Lucien concentrated on eating his cake, which was something he could understand. He closed his eyes and let the almonds and sugar melt on his tongue. Nothing had tasted so delicious for a long time.

‘Have mine too, if you’re so hungry,’ said Arianna, pushing her plate over.

‘Thanks. Look, I’m sorry for messing up your plan. As you said, I didn’t know. And thanks for saving me, if that’s what you’ve done.’

‘There’s no “if” about it. Now tell me what you’re doing here, so I can see if it was worth it.’

It was a long time before Lucien answered. He had no explanation to offer. Everything around him was strange – the people, the language they were speaking, which he was pretty sure was Italian and yet he understood it. The fierce, beautiful girl sitting opposite him, who also seemed to be Italian, and yet could understand him. The women coming into the café, who were wearing masks. It was bizarre.

Yet nothing equalled the strangeness of how he felt inside. He was well, strong, in spite of what Arianna thought of him. He felt he could run up mountainsides, swim across the lagoon, and yet – he couldn’t explain why he was here in this beautiful, odd city and not lying in his bed in London.

If he were in a dream, it wouldn’t matter what he said. But no dream had ever been like this. In the end he just told her the truth.

‘I can’t explain how I got here but I’m from somewhere else. From London. In England. When I’m there, I’m very ill. In fact, I think I’m probably dying. I have cancer and I’m having chemotherapy. My hair has all dropped out. I’m tired all the time. I fell asleep thinking about a city floating on the water and when I woke up, I was where you found me and my hair was back.’

Arianna reached out and tugged his curls. Feeling the resistance she gave a little gasp and made a sign with her right hand, holding her thumb against her little finger and touching her forehead and chest.

‘
Dia
,’ she whispered. ‘It is true. I don’t understand all those words you told me but I believe you. You come from a great city a long way from here, where you are very ill, and now you are suddenly here and are well. What does it mean?’

They stared at each other. Then Arianna glanced uneasily around the café. The barman seemed to be looking quite interestedly in their direction. ‘There are too many people in here. Someone might recognize me. Let’s go.’

‘Why are all the women wearing masks?’ asked Lucien. ‘Is it for another festival?’

‘Not all of them are,’ said Arianna. ‘Only the unmarried ones. I am supposed to start wearing one as soon as I’m sixteen, in a few months. It’s another of the Duchessa’s rules. Not this one’s though. It’s been going on for years. She has to wear one herself.’

‘She’s not married then?’ asked Lucien, but Arianna only snorted in reply.

She was leading him away from the square and to a quiet backwater of the city. The houses were washed in pink and sand and ochre and little gardens sprouted from some of the roofs or from terraces halfway up. The sky was very blue and between houses he sometimes glimpsed more bell-towers with birds wheeling round them. Little canals crossed their path so often that they had to zigzag and use the bridges; there was no walking in a straight line.