“Where have you guys been?” asked Lukas, his tone casual despite the strain around his lips.
“We were lost,” answered Filip with a satisfied smile. “But now we have been found again.”
We headed over to the Ponte di Rialto to do some shopping at the little stands and boutiques on both sides of the Grand Canal. My legs ached by the time we arrived. I had not realized that all of the charming arched bridges in Venice were composed of steps, like staircases. Tourists everywhere huffed and puffed to haul their heavy luggage to their hotels.
Estelle and I wandered arm in arm through the elaborate crowded market, licking our dripping gelati. I noticed a shop window near us was filled with masks and carnival costumes. Inside, artisans were hard at work.
“A real mask maker,” I said. “We could all find something.”
“It is hard to catch hares with unwilling dogs,” Filip said.
Estelle grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into the store. Lukas followed meekly. We watched an artist paint details on a full-faced harlequin before Estelle and I started trying on eye masks. She bought one made of velour and embroidered with swirls of green and silver flowers. Mine was covered in gold leaf and macramé lace; a plume of black feathers embellished the forehead. For Amy, I purchased a delicate laser-cut black metal filigree decorated with crystals. Meanwhile Filip and Lukas were laughing their heads off, trying on different looks. Finally, Filip chose a half face in silver leaf and Lukas a full face red-and-black Japanese-style Kabuki mask.
In a boutique selling authentic Murano glass, I purchased a bright green watch for Ma—its large round face edged in tiny beads—and, for Grandma, found a white-gold keychain with a dangling Sommerso key. Streams of amber blue flowed through the glass. I was at a loss to find a present for Pa but then Lukas showed me a Solingen pocketknife with an engraving of the Venetian winged lion. I could not wait to give my family their gifts.
That evening at the masquerade dinner, a white-faced mime drifted from table to table, resorting to speaking when he failed to sell his roses through gesture alone. The flowers were everywhere, on the tables, braided into the canopy, their heady sweet scent filling the air. The music from the live band drifted over the cobblestones as masked couples, drunk on wine and anonymity, fondled each other in dark corners. At the table next to ours, a man in a white diamond skull mask dipped his fingers in red wine and let his female companion wearing a bronze Egyptian cat face lick them off, one by one. A woman in a glittering ball gown and elaborate sun-goddess headdress twirled around the dance floor with a man in a plague-doctor mask, his long beaklike nose buried in the feathers of her hair.
When Estelle asked me to dance, I shook my head. She seemed to remember the last time, giggled, and tried to pull Lukas to his feet instead. He too refused, leaving Filip, who gave me a lingering glance as he and Estelle left the table, his eyes gleaming behind the silver mask, his sensual mouth quirked in a half smile.
Without a word, Lukas’s hand found mine underneath the table. He stood and led me to the shadowy area behind the musician’s stand, and pulled me close. As I swayed in his arms, the night seemed to be a hallucination: the masked dancers, the eerie labyrinth of streets that led away from the small square, the soft glow of lamps creating our own universe. I could not see his face through his mask and knew mine was hidden as well. Glimpses of flesh served as my guide: a flash of his eyes, the underside of his jaw, the column of his neck. As I turned beneath his arm, the feathers on my mask brushed against his sleeve. Then he was leading me into a darkened alleyway—and my back was against the brick wall, his hands cupped around my head, his fingers caressing the hollows of my neck. I was breathing quickly. He towered over me. His mask hid him from my sight.
“Sylvie,” he breathed. His voice was filled with heat and sweetness. “This is making me insane.”
He pushed his mask to the top of his head and then he was kissing me, his lips warm, demanding. I entwined my fingers in the silky mass of his hair as I had wanted to for so long. My mouth opened to his, and he half lifted me off the ground, pressing me against his supple body. The kiss felt like an edge we had tumbled off and we were falling, falling. His hands, callused and long-fingered, caressed my skin, pushed the straps of my top off my shoulders. His eyes were dark with desire, urgency, and claimed my own. I still wore my mask and felt like I was swimming in honey; there was nothing but feeling. I was drowning in it, with my last chance, my only one.
“Buy a rose for beautiful lady?”
I jumped, and we sprang apart, both gasping for air as if we’d run a marathon. It was the incompetent mime.
“Tomorrow is Festival San Marco. Tradition is man gives woman he loves a rose,” the mime continued.
“No!” Lukas barked, then we both burst out laughing as the mime held up his hands and left on exaggerated tiptoe.
“Is he not supposed to stay silent?” Lukas growled.
“‘Talking mime.’ That tells you enough.” I smoothed my hair with my fingers. They were still trembling. “We had better get back.”
He reached out and helped me straighten my mask and clothing, and murmured into my hair, “Tell me before we go—Filip?”
I pressed a final, gentle kiss to the back of his hand. “Only a game.”
We tried to compose ourselves on the way, but when we reached the others, their glittering eyes and set mouths told us they were not fooled at all.
I did not hear a note of that concert. I sat trembling, reliving every moment of our kiss while the ensemble in period costume played Vivaldi. Everyone had removed their masks and I knew my face was flushed, my eyes wild. Lukas sat beside me. I felt the heat emanating from him. I was aware of every flex of his arms, the tilt of his head, the way his fingers drummed on the armrest that separated us.
As we were leaving, most of the audience put on their masks again. I assumed they were going on to other festivities. I was shrugging on my wrap in the doorway when I stopped, frozen by the sight of a blond man in a full-face bauta mask with a jutting chin and no mouth. The way he moved, the set of his shoulders, the line of his neck: it was Jim. I was sure of it. Our eyes met.
What was he doing here? Was he spying on me? I began to squeeze through the crowd in his direction but he had turned away. Then a laughing group blocked my view, a woman in a tight black cocktail dress cackling.
“Pardon me,” I said, pushing my way past a man in a red-and-white harlequin mask. “Please let me through, it is very important.”
But Jim was already gone.
I gasped as someone grabbed my wrist from behind and spun me around. It was Lukas.
“What is wrong?” he asked.
I let the crowd press me up against his hard chest. I rubbed my cheek against his shirt and said, “I thought I saw someone I knew.”
His arm crept around my waist. “Your ex-husband?”
I stiffened as I pulled away. My life was such a mess, and now I was jumping at shadows. Was what I felt for Lukas even real? “Actually, we are still married. Come on, it could not have been him.”
On our way back to the hotel, Estelle and I walked ahead as the men lingered behind. Their voices drifted to us on the night breeze. They were arguing about the concert.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Estelle asked in a low voice. I stared at the ground and shook my head. She placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. “It is okay, Sylvie. I am not upset.”