A Venetian Reunion

It was chilly in the lounge. Her arms were a field of goosebumps; bubbles of iced skin. She shivered as she sat on the taupe cabriole sofa. The luxury apartment was a perfect romantic setting to cosy up in, drink an aged Brunello and make love in front of the fire. She planned to do all three after the ball, but only after. The ball was everything. The faintest whine of a violin-led concerto drifted over the balcony and in through the open glass doors which provided a wonderful, night landscape of Venice from the east side of the Grand Canal looking west.

On the opposite matching cabriole, Iain sat wedged between two gold cushions with his arms outstretched on both sides. He was dressed in a burgundy and black tuxedo and bowtie. One leg was crossed over the other, with the elevated shoe tapping in mid-air to an inaudible beat. He was pondering cavernous thoughts that wrinkled the skin around his sharp, grey eyes.

The woman looked down at her crimson ball gown and began to smooth out the creases with the palms of her matching opera gloves. The straps fell off her smooth, tanned shoulders perfectly, so much so that when she brought her hands together in the middle of her lap she resembled an hourglass with its sand dyed in ink. Despite this elegance, the dress was surpassed by the addition of the most beautiful Venetian mask. The snow-white underlayer of the volto covered her chin and lower face to the tip of the nose. The curved imitation lips painted maroon glinted in the chandelier light. An overlayer of gold fabric with elongated, silver teardrops at the cheekbones disguised the remaining upper part of the face, and a narrow trim of gold lace bordered the eye holes. To conceal her hair, a fading red to black mane of feathers was attached, fanned and ruffled out wildly to reach down to her shoulders. Finally, the eye holes were covered with a thick, black mesh, served to hide its mistress’ eyes from the outside world.

Iain observed her closely, unsure whether she was watching him beneath the mask. His foot began to numb, necessitating the need for him to stand up. His right leg tingled and prickled with pins and needles as the blood suddenly rushed back into the recirculated limb.

“Where is she then, darling? We need to be at the Palazzo — ” he began, about to check his watch.

She brought an authoritative, rigid finger to the maroon lips to bring silence once more and then returned her hand to her lap. He set off across the marble floor, crossing the mosaic tiles between the two sofas with light taps of his shoes, and stopped beside the balcony doors. The open mouth of the cabinet displayed a collection of glass bottles filled with dark alcohol. The ice cubes jingled as they congregated inside the tumbler and were drowned with a large measurement of whiskey. The cork was replaced in the bottle with a squeak, before he glugged at the honey coloured drink, feeling the burn at the back of his throat. A peaty taste settled on his tongue shortly after. Half down, a rattle of ice indicated a pause for breath.

“Slowly, Iain, slowly,” she said. “I need you on form, darling… close the window. It’s chilly.”

Silence resumed. He ducked beneath the flapping voile curtains where the wind ruffled his mousy, blond hair. He pushed the doors to and patted his hair back into place. When he re-emerged, he swirled the remaining whiskey in the glass gently before draining it. Then he switched his attention to an ivory framed changing screen in the nearest corner. He began collapsing and re-extending the three panelled concertina for a time, until the game became tiresome and he moved along to the mantlepiece where a collection of books caught his attention. They were propped up against bronze cherub bookends, the spines faded and withered, with the stench of old attics, tobacco and coffee clinging to them. The gold letters above the first sewing support were worn away but still legible; Homer, Aristotle, Manzoni, Calvino.

Beneath the mask, the woman was becoming irritated. Her eyes moved where her head did not and as he rounded the sofa and sat down again, she was certain she had no second thoughts about the plan.

“It’s lovely here. I can certainly see why they — “

Before he could finish, there was a rush of activity coming through from the room next door. The adjoining dining room was long with a grand table and chairs inside it. A rush of water flowed down a pipe somewhere beyond that, then the clinking and clicking of pumps and pipes worked away to produce the loud gurgling, like a motorcycle struggling to start.

Iain’s eyebrows had risen on his forehead, and his eyes seemed to come alive. The veins near his temple pulsed and became more prominent. The unexpected interruption was their cue. It was time to commence with her plan. Iain brought his eyes to focus on the black circles of her mask.

“That was — “

“The bath,” she whispered with real excitement in her voice.

Iain glanced at his watch, which caused a panic. They were going to miss out on their evening plans that he’d paid hundreds of pounds to secure because of this elaborate surprise. He still didn’t understand why it had to be done this way. Or why she wouldn’t remove the mask. But they were old friends and she wanted to surprise her with this reunion. Who was he to argue? He knew how lucky he was to be with someone as beautiful and as strong as her; spoiling her and agreeing to her wishes, whatever the terms, was good enough for him.

The masked woman rose, almost ceremoniously.

“It’s time.”

*

Maria stepped out of the giant, ceramic tub onto the marble flooring. Her naked, wet body glistened for the candlelight audience that lined the edge of the bath. Water dripped down her back like raindrops on a window pane, prompting her to wrap her hair up with a nearby towel. The plug hole was topped with a huge mound of white foam which was progressively melting away down the drain.

It was colder than it had been when she ran the bath. Her nipples hardened slightly with the muscles in her back and legs, her shivers were proliferating. But it was February, so to be expected. She took another towel and wrapped it around her slim torso before eventually tightening it and tucking the loose corner in amongst her cleavage.

Maria came out through the doorway of the grand ensuite into the master bedroom and searched for underwear. The suitcases were on a beautiful, solid oak, four poster bed with paisley, silk hangings in bottle green. The whole room was suspended on a mezzanine floor, twenty feet above the dining room below.

“Mike?”

Mike had left just before she took a bath but she’d expected him back by now. He’d had a phone call from the holiday representative who asked to meet him at the box office to sign for the opera tickets. Knowing Mike and knowing Venice’s labyrinth of passageways, streets and alcoves, he was probably lost. Or enjoying a beer. Either was highly likely. She didn’t really care that much though. She was in Venice. Mike would be back soon and then they would begin their first evening exploring the majestic Italian city.

Soon after, she became aware of an oddity. The light over the stairs that led down to the dining room was switched off. She was almost positive she’d left it on after kissing Mike goodbye at the front door before heading back up to take a bath. She walked to the end of the room to the glass partition and banister, in place to stop anyone falling the twenty feet to the open dining room below. It was in complete darkness too, along with the lounge beyond it. The whole downstairs was under blackness. Definitely not how she’d left it.

“Mike?”

Still, no answer came. Just the same unsettling nothingness and shadowy rooms that worried her. She’d never liked the dark. It always gave her the sensation that something beyond the shadows was lurking sinisterly, watching her closely. Phantom eyes of long-dead spirits she didn’t know scheming. That was a frightening prospect.

Gently, she moved down the stairs to the dining room. The outline of the long, oak table and ten matching chairs were just visible. She flicked the light switches but nothing happened. It couldn’t be a total power cut; the upstairs was still on.

The doorway to the lounge started to get steadily brighter suddenly. Her breath snatched back into the furthest recess of her uvula as she stood in darkness watching on. She felt vulnerable and needed light. Softly, she tiptoed to the blinds on her right-hand side. They were shuttered earlier to keep the blinding setting sunlight out. Maria felt for the wand and then twisted it to open the thick slats. White lights from buildings over the canal shone through the openings and left grilles on the floor which chopped up her feet into segments. She felt more secure now in the light. Enough so to call out to Mike again.

The crash from the lounge startled her. It sounded like the doors to the balcony were hitting the frame. The long shriek of the creaky doors afterwards forced a whimper. Images of danger and death rushed through her head and fear brushed its cold finger from her tailbone rapidly up to her neck. Her voice quivered with each letter of ‘M-I-K-E’ as she called out distraughtly to him, longing for his deep voice to reply. But nothing. It was just her and that silence. A continuous union. Her heart raced in her chest. She could feel the relentless thump of the life support pumping blood around her body at an inconceivable speed. Her hands trembled. Terror gripped her like a wood mouse in kestrel talons. There was a dull ache of tightness in her shoulders, a long churn of soreness in her stomach. A heaviness on her knees and calves. It was almost as if the silence was goading her to make the first sound.

Minutes passed, but it remained a stalemate. The silence became impatient and played its hand. Vivaldi’s ‘Allegro’ from ‘L’Estro Armonico — Concerto №1’, quietly rose to prominence from the lounge. Her heart was flooded with the rush of adrenaline to the point she thought it might burst out her chest. Violins and cellos played in harmony, violas and a harpsichord drifted in seamlessly like the canal waves below the apartment, and then out again. Eloquent and gentle. At the conclusion of the piece, there was a brief paused and then it started again. Maria knew it would do so endlessly until she confronted it.

Gradually, Maria edged her way over the threshold into the lounge. It was empty. Just an empty room with a backing track from a music player in the corner. The balcony doors were ajar. The soft glow came from a lamp beside the cabriole to the left. The cold floor broke her concentration again. Her toes felt detached, forcing her to wiggle them back to life before refocusing. Her eyes darted around the room on a search mission. Her mouth was dry with a rough tongue. She looked at the drinks cabinet longingly.

The voile curtains whipped up with the breeze. The sight of a figure wandering on the balcony close to the open doors stiffened her whole body and made her throat close. It was dark out there so she had to squint. It didn’t look like Mike, but she wasn’t completely sure.

Maria approached despite her instincts telling her to escape. The figure sensed her presence and turned to face her. It wasn’t Mike at all, but it was a man. They repelled each other as she backtracked slowly and he moved inside the balcony doors. He was handsomely dressed in a burgundy tuxedo. He was tall and slim. She was drawn to his eyes and their cold, steel greyness. Bizarrely, he took one hand in the other, calmly and composed, like a host greeting a guest. He smiled at her like everything was normal.

“Maria?”

Whether it was shock or intrigue, Maria adjourned between the two sofas with a safe distance between them. She wanted to know how he came to be in the apartment with her and how he knew her name.

“I’m Iain Braithwaite,” he began, extending his hand in greeting. She didn’t offer hers. “Fantastic place here.”

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Iain’s friendly smile was genuine and without further word, he turned to look back over his shoulder towards the ivory changing screen. A figure emerged, dressed in a stunning crimson ball gown and a grand Venetian mask. She was slow and deliberate, enjoying the moment. Beneath the mask, there was a parting of the lips and then a pause for breath. She’d waited for this moment for so long. Her hands quivered with the excitement. The promise she’d made to herself after all these years was finally going to be fulfilled.

“Is it really you?”

There was a dramatic change to the music which heightened Maria’s tension. What was this surreal scenario? A man in a flamboyant tuxedo and a woman in a ball gown and Venetian mask. It reminded her of her school prom. The first time she and Mike had kissed. It was a Venetian ball theme.

“Who are you? Where’s Mike?”

“Mike is fine. He’s at the Pont du Rialto about now,” the masked woman assured her.

Iain’s expression had changed. He looked lost. His eyes were sympathetically looking at the confusion on Maria’s face. This was not how the plan was supposed to unfold. Something was wrong. The woman had told him they were surprising an old school best friend and that her boyfriend was in on it, hence why they had access to the apartment. Maria looked frightened. As he tried to interject, the masked woman put the same commanding gloved finger up to him as she’d done earlier. Her fantasy had become reality finally. And Iain, stupid Iain, wasn’t going to ruin it.

“Maria. You must remember me?”

The voice had a niggling familiarity yet Maria could not identify its owner. Whilst she dug deeper into her mind, retracing memories of who it might be, the woman began to bring the mask up over her head. It was dramatic, with the music pitching in to enhance the slow, grand reveal. Maria’s skin began crawling and turning white like porcelain as the face became recognisable the instant the mask was gone. She placed the head mask on the sofa like a royal crown on a ceremonial cushion. The pretty face with movie star blue eyes and smooth, ageless skin had only a fraction of the wrinkles Maria had. Her curled, raven hair fell either side of her face like theatre curtains. The smile, smug and proud, was projected on thick, red lips. The more she stood there, the more it manifested into a smirk with a serpent’s tongue emerging, poised to attack. Her moment was now. She stretched her arms wide and opened her palms.

“Ta-dah.”

“Nicola?”

“I said we should’ve had a night to remember in Venice. Now’s our chance.”

Maria’s momentary dissociation detached her away from Venice and took her back to the years at senior school. Nicola had begun as a mild inconvenience. It started with her following Maria around, trying to make conversation with her, leaving presents and notes inside her bag and then becoming more invasive. Maria had been polite as was ingrained in her by her parents and eventually decided to befriend Nicola to gain some control of the situation. Maria actually came to like her company, with the two sharing many common interests in books, films and music. The friendship was flourishing until an incident occurred after a party at the age of fifteen. Maria passed out, drunk on cheap vodka from the off licence. When she came round, she felt heat and pressure on her lips. Nicola was lifting her face away guiltily. Despite denying anything happened, Maria knew what had transpired and why. Nicola became increasingly fragile and had domineering outbursts, telling Maria who she could be friends with, where she should go. She’d quickly apologise and Maria forgave her to avoid any unpleasantness, but it wasn’t long before the abuse started again.

The turning point was when the prom was announced. The theme of the evening was a grand Venetian ball, complete with evening gown and tuxedo dress code and the all-important Venetian masks. In running with the theme, everyone was supposed to go as an individual and arrive wearing their masks. They would then interact and dance with different partners until they found ‘the one’. Until then they were not supposed to unmask. Of course, some people had boyfriends and girlfriends so it was never going to happen, but it was intended to help the people who didn’t have enough courage to ask someone to be their date. Maria and Nicola both knew it was their last school night together before they went off to university. Nicola bought the most extravagant mask she could find, stealing from her mum’s purse. The columbina half mask was a divide of red and gold; Maria’s favourite colours.

On the morning of the big day, Maria sent Nicola a deliriously happy text message to tell her that Mike Lewis had asked her to the prom. She’d always fancied Mike and was so excited that he had asked her out. Nicola was livid. She told Maria that the rules were clear. Everyone was supposed to go individually and without dates. She threw down an ultimatum: either they went together as originally planned, as individuals, or she wouldn’t be going at all. Maria chose Mike.

The prom was perfect, held at a fancy hotel in the city. Maria was having the time of her life. Then Nicola turned up. It was late in the evening and she reeked of alcohol. Maria took her aside into one of the spare conference rooms and tried to calm her down. Nicola pinned her to the wall, kissing her hard on the lips, refusing to release her. It was the first time Maria had genuinely felt frightened of her. Eventually, Maria freed herself and told Nicola that they could never have a relationship like that. Nicola claimed it should’ve been their night, a night to remember in Venice. Just them, no-one else. Maria lost her usual composure and told her she was selfish for trying to ruin her night. Nicola rushed out of the room in tears. That was the last time she saw her. School finished and they went separate ways.

Nicola’s voice, calling her name, broke Maria’s thoughts. A decade later, Nicola had somehow managed to intrude on her trip with Mike in Venice. As she pondered how she had masterminded it, the luxurious lounge of her Venice holiday apartment reappeared. Along with the infuriatingly, repetitive classical score.

“Maria…are you OK, darling?”

“How?”

“Does it really matter? I’m here, we’re together and that’s the important thing.”

Maria’s salvia glands felt dry as she struggled to gulp whilst processing the absurdity of the whole situation. The pieces of the puzzle were only showing a half-finished picture, if even that. Mike said he had won a long weekend trip to Venice through his bank as a Gold account holder. It was some sort of automatic entry into a yearly prize draw. He’d received a congratulatory telephone call, discussed a suitable date and time and then had the holiday details emailed to him. It was an amazing trip itinerary and sounded too good to be true. Entry to all art galleries and museums, the St Mark’s Campanile and Doge’s Palace. It was dazzling. All the flight tickets, the 500 Euro spending money and apartment reservation had been posted to them a week or so ago by recorded delivery. Mike had a point of contact who he was now meeting, to collect the opera tickets. They also had a night picnic on a gondola departing from the Piazza San Marco to redeem. It was just a dream offer.

So how was all that connected to Nicola and this man? Had they won the same competition, were they another set of winners? Or was this just a one-in-million coincidence? More questions arose. If it was coincidence, why were they now in the apartment? How had they got in? Did they get given the code accidentally instead of their own? Every question was followed, not with an answer, but with another, more complex question. All she wanted was the answers.

“Are you…OK?” Iain asked, his voice now spiked with anxiety.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

Iain turned to Nicola, panic setting in that this situation was getting out of control.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Nicola. Maybe he didn’t tell her.”

Tears formed on Maria’s eyelids as the realisation was setting in. This was not a coincidence or a misunderstanding. Mike hadn’t forgotten to tell her anything because Mike didn’t know about this surprise. Just as she didn’t. And in part, Iain didn’t either. They were all puppets under Nicola’s control.

Nicola bestowed no smile on Iain. Her lips had thinned and straightened out. Her eyes didn’t blink as she appeared to be thinking. How would she explain this to him? He obviously had no idea about their past. What lies had she told him? Finally, her eyes blinked and signalled a change. She gave him the smile he so desired; the promise of clarification. Maria noted the devious look that reminded her of school age Nicola again.

“Oh dear, what a mess.”

Iain looked embarrassed. He took a step towards Maria, who did the opposite, taking a large step back. He put his hands up to show he meant her no harm. Behind him, Nicola was adjusting her dress.

“I’m really sorry, Maria, I –”

Iain shrieked, his teeth gritted together and his eyes scrunched up as his body spasmed. He threw his arms up into the air and then behind his back as if to scratch an enormous, aggravating itch. He whimpered, his fingers desperately trying to grip a hold of something, but it was no use. The wet, squashing sound of wounded flesh made him yell out in pain. A second similar, more violent sound followed. This time he emitted more of a cry which echoed across the room with the music as its partner in a duet. He fell to his knees in front of Maria who was shocked into stillness. Nicola, who look unperturbed by his theatrics, rounded him. Her crimson, gloved fingers were gripped around a black-handled spear blade which was covered in blood. He looked up into the black, soulless pupils which had consumed the blue irises.

“And I’m sorry too, Iain. But you’ve played your part.”

Iain’s face turned red. His eyes were bloodshot and watery. The shock of Nicola’s betrayal was etched all over his face. His final breaths were laboured. He glanced at Maria who had her hands in front of her mouth, her own eyes streaming tears, watching him die. Then his eyes rolled conclusively upwards and he tumbled over onto the floor, hitting the mosaic surface face first with a sickening crack.

Nicola knelt beside him and ran her gloved fingers through the mousy, blond fibres of his hair to the beat of the music. Maria could see the resurfacing of the cold, vindictive sixteen-year-old who had manipulated her all those years ago. That attack was premeditated; months, perhaps years in the making. What had Iain really done to deserve that double-cross? What lies had she told to get him to Venice to carry out a deluded plan willingly that had instead cost him his life? His life? It suddenly dawned on her that she was a witness to a murder. How could she have just stood there and watched as Nicola had ended his life so callously? Now he was out the way and Mike was God knows where, what was next? What did she have planned for Maria? As if sensing she was being watched, Nicola’s eyes locked on to her.

“I did it for us. All of this.”

Maria acted on impulse. She fled rapidly, turning and making a dash for the doorway. She heard some commotion behind her which she assumed was Nicola getting to her feet. She didn’t look back but ran on through the dining room, past the grand oak table and towards the front door. It was locked and bolted, top and bottom. Nicola’s footsteps tapped quickly across the floor.

“Maria!”

Maria set off again, this time heading around the table and towards the stairs. As she ascended them, two at a time, she felt the towel slipping. She heard Nicola’s feet thud against the bottom stair. Then she too climbed them, like a hunter stalking its prey.

From the bedroom, Maria looked to retreat to the bathroom, grabbing her phone on the way. In the rush, she missed the dangling wire of her phone charger which was plugged in on the bedside table. As she caught it, she stumbled forward and her knees crashed into the floor. The phone clipped the interior doorframe and disappeared into the bathroom. Nicola’s presence was overwhelming, the strong, gloved hands grabbed her and turned her over. They were breathless from the chase.

“Why did you run?”

Maria couldn’t catch her breath to answer. Nicola was holding her wrists close to her body so she couldn’t move freely.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you, darling. I love you.”

“How did you find me?” Maria mumbled, starting to cry with fear.

Nicola kissed her on the head, softly. “I thought I’d lost you all the years ago, but a few months back I spotted you in the city and I knew I needed to take the chance. I knew.”

Maria shook her head, not wanting to believe the horror of this revelation. This was a nightmare, surely. No-one could be so twisted to conjure up a plan like this without anyone suspecting anything. It was a wickedly, ingenious illusion that had deceived all of them.

“I thought about the last time we saw each other. How we left things. I wanted to erase that. Start again and make it right. I did all this, all of it, for us.”

“By luring me here? By stealing money and…” Maria was hyperventilating. “…murdering an innocent man?”

Nicola placed her silk gloves on Maria’s face, stroking up and down desperately. She felt like she was losing her all over again.

“I had too, darling. I needed Iain’s inheritance money. To get you here. To make the plan work.” Her rationale was insane. “I paid for grand ball tickets too. I bought you a beautiful dress and a mask. Now we can finally go to the Venetian ball together. Make new, beautiful memories together.”

Maria felt a relax on her face and sensed the opportunity of freedom. Without thinking, she threw her fist forward, connecting with Nicola’s right cheek. Nicola tumbled back in shock, giving Maria the chance to get up.

Maria jumped over her, heading for the stairs again but Nicola caught her ankle. As she struggled, Nicola’s grip strengthened and she regained her footing to grab Maria again. Maria yelled as she drove her backwards, off balance, towards the glass partition, ramming her into the banister. Nicola cried out with the sting of the impact.

“Mike never would’ve done this for you. This is all because of me. I’d do anything for you.” Nicola was crying.

The struggle went on against the banister as Maria and Nicola fought and shook each other in their battle for survival. Nicola had the power, reminiscent of the hold she had over her on prom night.

“I’m not yours to have,” Maria shouted. “This is over!”

Nicola thrashed madly, frantically trying to gain the advantage over Maria. Her eyes were wild and she was now fighting an enemy rather than a potential lover. As they writhed, locked in a ferocious scuffle, they both hit the banister sideways on, sending their bodies hurling over the edge and plummeting the long, twenty feet down.

*

Mike cut a frustrated figure as he slipped between people on his march up the narrow street. Nobody had turned up at the Pont du Rialto and his attempts to call the number were blocked. But he could still salvage the night. Although the opera would have been perfect, any nice place with a view in Venice would be just as special. He dove into his jean pocket and felt around for the tiny, black box. There was no better time to propose to Maria. He smiled at the thought of her laughing as she accepted the ring.

He rounded the corner quickly, almost knocking someone over. When he took a step back to apologise, he was shocked to see a woman dressed in a full evening ball gown of crimson red, with matching gloves and the most audacious Venetian mask. The black eyes were disturbing. She was crying hysterically.

His attempts to apologise were futile as the woman screamed intensely and started to run. Mike stood for a few seconds longer with bystanders, watching her disappear into the distance.

Nicola’s life was meaningless now. Over. The night would never take place as she planned. The waltz at the grand ball would never be danced with Maria. The Palazzo Pisani Moretta would forever be a fantasy now. Her dreams destroyed in seconds.

The reunion was over.