Lucia could see him properly for the first time. With no shadow of night-time, or a window ledge to hide behind, neither had any way to hide.
Despite the length of his thick coat, she could still make out his broad shoulders and long torso. A dark round-collared knit met equally dark slacks, which gave way to black leather boots. But it was his now familiar brown eyes that trapped Lucia. Although this morning, they were lined with fatigue. A few chestnut locks escaped his flat cap, falling by the sides of his forehead. His complexion was fair, but Lucia could make out a pink tinge to the skin above his stubble, brought on by the sudden assault of the cold winter air. In his left hand he held the ornate door key, and in the other, a bunch of flowers.
There was something timeless about Alex. As if he belonged to – or perhaps had been plucked from – another moment in history. He was classically rugged, but also gentlemanly.
The way Alex’s stare fixed on Lucia was all-consuming. He stood there and observed her, either ignoring or not having noticed the movie poster.
Lucia watched as something seemed to tick over in his mind, as evidenced by the way his brow drew together momentarily, then flattened once again. He tucked his bottom lip behind his top teeth, then opened his mouth as if wanting to say something, but eventually, either from insecurity or uncertainty, he closed it again.
He gave Lucia a gentle nod of acknowledgement. A little white flag, perhaps. But it was too late for that. White flag or not, Lucia had made her stance clear.
Alex’s attention dropped to the flowers in his hand, and he tucked them inside his coat to protect them from the breeze whistling down thecalle. Then, striding away on his long legs, Alex was gone.
Lucia wanted to move, but she couldn’t. Something about Alex had unsettled her. Those soft cheeks and melancholic, tired eyes. The thought of his lips, poised as they had been to say something, stirred an unwelcome curiosity in her.
What did he want to say to me? And why was he carrying flowers?
Lucia had holed up in her apartment during the recess break to call Tiziano. It had taken several steeling laps of the kitchen before she could muster the nerve to dial. Foscari watched intently from the foot of Lucia’s bed, his little head tracking her as she paced.
‘Pronto, Tiziano? It’s Lucia. Trevisan.’ They exchanged the necessary pleasantries. ‘I was calling to arrange that meeting we had agreed on. To discuss the outcome of the ball and formalise any—’ She stopped pacing to listen. ‘Yes, of course. Saturday morning. I’ll be there.Buona giornata, Tiziano.A presto. And thank you.’
She exhaled as she returned the phone to her pocket, and Foscari yapped up at her.
‘I think we will be ok,’ she said, reaching across to cup his chin in her palm. ‘I think he’ll pull through for us.’
Lucia darted to the top of the stairs and poked her head down to the second floor, spotting Francesco by the window, consumed by something on his phone.
‘Psst,’ she whispered, and he pivoted to face her.
‘Che mi dici?’
‘Tiziano. Booked for nine o’clock Saturday morning.’
He sat a little taller. ‘What did he say?’
‘Not much. But also nothing contrary to what we had discussed.’
Francesco grinned. ‘Brava, Lucia!’
She exhaled a little sigh, and her eyes drew to the ceiling with hope. ‘Speriamo bene! Seventy days to lock in the balance of the cost,’ she said, knocking on the wrought-iron staircase. ‘Are you still ok to come film this afternoon’s culture walk forVenezia, Ovunque?!’
‘I’m your man.’
She blew him a kiss before returning to collect her lesson notes from her desk. The afternoon session on the conditional tense would wait for no one.
‘And can you imagine living with that kind of fear? As if anything you might do or say could be misinterpreted, or retold in such a way as to tarnish your reputation? The Republic knew no mercy. Especially the Doge. So that is whyle mascherewere worn.’ Lucia held a vintage leather Arlecchino mask of the Commedia dell’Arte theatre tradition aloft. ‘See how the mask has been designed with exaggerated facial features? The large nose and disproportionate cheeks.’ A sea of bobbing heads danced before her, the backs of which Francesco caught in the bottom of the GoPro frame. ‘There were two reasons for this. The first was practical. With so much theatre happening in the open and in front of large crowds, the larger-than-life masks ensured that the characters were easily distinguishable and visible to the audience. Some people may have been very far from the stage, so any facial expressions from the actors might have been missed.’ She clicked her spare hand and waved the mask through the air. The tension was palpable. Lucia had the group of twelve students completely transfixed. ‘The second reason, however, is far more interesting.’ She lowered her voice and leaned in, coaxing the students to do the same. ‘Actors could hide behind these masks.’ She let the statement linger on the wind which was blowing under the portico. ‘L’anonimato assoluto. Absolute anonymity. Therightmask could hide you from the world.’
Francesco caught her gaze for a moment, and they shared a loaded look between them. She appreciated his kind, reassuring smile and encouraging nod to keep going.
‘Ok,pensateci bene,’ she said, raising the index finger of her free hand to the sky. ‘What, in the life and times of the Venetian Republic, would anonymity mean?’
An eager hand was raised at the rear of the group. ‘Protection? Security?’
‘Esatto. You could say and do just about anything behind a mask. You could blaspheme. You could be a heretic. You could express your disagreement with social norms, or even with the powers that be.’ She gestured to the Palazzo Ducale over her shoulder. ‘A mask was a shield of sorts. Without it, you risked your name ending up in here.’ Lucia stepped to the side to reveal a ghastly looking human face carved into the palazzo’s marble façade. ‘La Boca de Leon,’ she said with her best Venetian intonation. ‘A letterbox. A direct line between the people of Venice and the mean guys upstairs. Anyone, from anywhere, could leaveun biglietto, a note, in these, accusing someone of an offence in the city.’
A few students gasped while others craned their necks for a better view.
‘Like a confessional?’ asked one.
