Soft.
Soft hands!
Lucia lurched from his arms just as their lips were about to touch. She fumbled for his hands and turned them over in her own.
‘What’s wrong? What are you doing?’
She pulled him a few paces from the shadows to steal some of the moonlight. Nicolò’s hands were indeed soft. Plump and full, with not so much as a graze on them, let alone the rough, weathered skin she had felt the night of the ball.That skinwas the kind that wouldn’t heal over a few weeks. It had been pummelled and damaged from decades of work. Thickened to the deepest layers of soft tissue,that skinwould never again know the fullness and suppleness of Nicolò’s hands.
‘You’re not him,’ she said in a defeated whisper, and suddenly dropped his hands, taking a step back.
‘What are you talking about?’ He moved forward to catch her in his grip, but Lucia darted to the side.
‘You’re not the man I kissed. Your hands . . .’ Then her demeanour tightened with the rising anger in her voice. ‘Whoareyou?’
At that moment Francesco ran from the shadows to her side. ‘Lucia, what’s going on?’
Nicolò was thrown by the arrival of company. ‘Who’s this guy?’
‘You’re a fraud, aren’t you?’ Bolstered by frustration and embarrassment, Lucia lunged at Nicolò. ‘Chi cazzo sei?’ She pulled at his clothing, and he attempted to swat her away. ‘Where did you come from? How did you know about the mask?’ Finally, finding what she wanted in his coat pocket, she tore the black satin pouch containing the mask from him. ‘What the fuck was this about?’
Francesco had surmised enough of what was going on to understand that Lucia had been taken advantage of. He thrust himself against Nicolò and pushed him back against the glass window. ‘Where did you get that mask?’
Nicolò was grasping for words, his dignity in shreds. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
Lucia’s ego was bruised, and she was angry, having allowed herself to feel vulnerable with this fraud. She saw red. ‘Where did you get that mask?!’ She joined Francesco and the two formed a blockade. Nicolò wouldn’t be passing until they said so.
‘I bought it from an artisan here in Venice, ok?’
‘Chi? Which artisan?’ Francesco asked.
Attempting to wriggle free, Nicolò growled, ‘I can’t remember his name. He has a workshop in Dorsoduro.’
‘Where in Dorsoduro?’ Lucia pressed.
‘I don’t remember the number. But . . . it’s the only workshop along the backwater line where thefondamenteBonlini and Ognisanti meet.’
‘How did you knowthatwas the mask?’ Lucia’s eyes darted frantically across his face.
‘I . . . I didn’t. I had purchased that one a month earlier. I took a punt and sent the DM. For a joke. You never denied it wasn’t the one.’
Hearing this, Francesco loosened his grip a little. Nicolò wrenched himself free and bolted as fast as his legs would carry him back towards Cannaregio.
Lucia dropped to the pavers, doubling over herself with exasperation, the black satin pouch still in her hand. Her nerve had been shattered.
Again, you opened yourself up and again you have been run over! Why do you keep doing this to yourself? Why, Lucia! Just. Stop. Love isn’t worth it!
Francesco took a moment to catch his breath, hands on hips, looking up at the night sky.
With more questions than answers, the two locked eyes and conceded the evening’s defeat.
trentatré
The leather of the mask had warmed in Lucia’s hand. It was a slightly unsettling sensation; it felt as if it were alive, ready to breathe and blink, and contort its pleats and folds into a smile or frown on cue.
‘I’ve seen so many masks in my lifetime. Literally thousands. But this is just so different,’ she said, passing it to Francesco, who was cuddled up next to her in bed.
He turned it over in his hand and allowed his fingertips to trace the underside of the raw leather. ‘This isnext-level craftmanship. This leather has been worked by a proper old-school artisan.’ He held it up to his own face and was oddly comforted by the way the leather formed a second skin – tight and form-fitting – against his own.
