They danced together for a handful of songs. Across the dancefloor, lost in his own reverie, Francesco was none the wiser. All the while, Lucia and her dance partner made no further contact after that initial guiding hand. Something about it seemed a little odd to Lucia, but there was also something comfortable about this stranger’s company. She didn’t even know his name, and yet, he seemed quite happy just to dance by her side. Not pressing any point. Not trying any sleek moves to advance their contact.
Then, suddenly, his hand caught hers.
It was still warm, but this time Lucia caught a whiff of synthetic fibres and face paint . . . That warmth. And those rough hands.
He dipped close to her right ear, and breathed past the corner of her mask. ‘Outside? Want to talk?’
The thought of escaping the noise and the whirl and rush of colours and sequins was tempting. While the idea of following a complete stranger outside was perhaps foolish and a little dangerous, shehadcommitted herself to the spirit of the evening and to whatever came her way. Besides, what harm could befall her in the busy Piazza San Marco?
She thought on it for a moment, noting how her heart flickered in her chest. She felt alive, empowered and, above all else, safe, behind her mask.
Lucia held up a tentative finger as she scanned the tops of heads in search of Francesco. He was locked in a dance duel with another, significantly rounder, Arlecchino, and she figured trying to gain his attention was of little use.
She threw caution to the wind, nodded to her companion, and pointed towards the double doors.
The thump of the music remained until they were outside under the portico of Piazza San Marco. Despite the late hour, there were still people there.
The masked man guided her across the square, past the stage and catwalk and temporary seating that had been arranged for the Carnevale festivities in a fortnight’s time, then further along under the portico in the direction of the Palazzo Ducale, where there were fewer people. At the Piazzetta San Marco he guided them to the right, and there was the sight of Lido, gently illuminated across the water.
A light mist had settled over Venice, and it caused the grey and white pavers of the piazzetta to glisten under the lights of the encircling buildings.
Casting her eyes to the sky, Lucia spread her hands wide and felt the now heavier raindrops on her palms.Typical, she thought. To her left, stretching across the façade of the basilica, theacqua altaraised footpaths had been erected.
‘The rain is setting in,’ she said, turning to her companion.
The man’s gaze was fixed on Lucia, and as she watched, his eyes seemed to darken behind the holes of his mask. She felt the energy between them tighten, sharpen; it was as if all her senses had been heightened. The skin down her naked arms suddenly craved the warmth of his touch; the harsh bitterness of the winter night air and the damp of the rain stung like an electric shock.
Lucia didn’t know if he could perhaps read her mind, but his hands – those rough, worn hands – came to rest on her shoulders. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact, he ran them down the length of her arms until meeting together in a knotted ball around her fingers.
Lucia was too scared to breathe, feeling as if any movement might break this inexplicable spell. All she could do was look back into his eyes, perfectly framed by the black leather half-mask. It was unlike any she had seen before – and she had seen thousands across her Venetian lifetime. There was something different about this mask. She saw now that the leather had been worked by a master craftsman. Moulded. Shaped as if to emulate a gust of wind. It was slick and glossy and had clearly been made to measure. It fitted him like a second skin.
Just as the force of the rain increased, Lucia said, ‘Your mask—’ But he silenced her with a finger across her lips.
Immersed in her eyes, which had lost their trademark green to the darkness of the night, he gave a subtle shake of the head. In time, his hands pulled hers towards his chest, and his head dipped so that his lips hovered a centimetre or two above hers.
Lucia’s heart lurched in a frantic rhythm, and before she knew it, she had surrendered her mouth to his. While she remained firmly planted to the pavers of the piazzetta, the man’s strength and the hunger of his kiss lifted her spirit and cast it to the starry night sky. Lucia let him command the kiss, and his insatiable passion and want for her turned even the most cynical shred of trepidation and uncertainty to dust. His right hand reached to cradle her turned head, while his left pulled her closer.
It felt to Lucia as if Venice had been caught in a glitch in the universe, as time paused to give them a moment together.
The man’s hold on Lucia was firm and reassuring. She wondered if he could feel her heartbeat, pulsating through his grip.
Just then, the Campanile di San Marco began to toll the arrival of midnight, startling them both. Lucia couldn’t help it; in her mind, she counted the bells.
Uno . . . due . . .
Perhaps it was because her conscience was seeking a counterpoint to truth, a touchstone, a tether to reality.
Cinque . . . sei . . .
His breath fluttered against her lips, and she inhaled, trying to catch her own.
Otto. . . nove . . .
She reached for reason and logic, but they eluded her. Nothing could possibly endure in this space except the two of them.
Undici . . . dodici . . .
Then, silence.
