At the end of the concert, after both conductor and musicians had departed, we trooped towards the door. Delapole then took Rousseau to one side, led him into a dark corner, and told him the good news.
“Sir,” he says (I imagine this, but it must have been along these lines). “I have received a message and a token for you from one who would renew an acquaintance.”
“Mr. Delapole,” Rousseau pipes nervously. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“The ladies who played for us on our most pleasant excursion to Torcello. One of them has communicated to me that she thought your face, your form, your learning, all much to her taste, and would be honoured if you might wait here for her arrival. She finds, I gather, the notion of your presence beyond the cruel screen which keeps her out of view most… stimulating.”
The Frenchman pants. His eyes roll upwards to the dusty ceiling. “Can this be true? Which one?”
“I do not know,” says Delapole with a shrug. “No name came with the letter. Only this…”
At which point he reaches into his pocket and extracts a single silk garter perfumed with some exquisite Oriental fragrance. Rousseau almost faints upon the spot.
“Come, come, sir,” Delapole says with a pat on the shoulder. “You recognise a lady in the very heat of passion. Nothing new for you Parisians, of course.”
“Well, yes,” Rousseau stutters. “Of course, of course.”
“More rumpy-pumpy in a week than most of us achieve in a lifetime, I’ll warrant. I wonder you do not populate the entire world with the o fspring of your munificent seed.”
“Oh!” I think at this point the full import of Delapole’s words finally dawned upon Rousseau. This was to be no pretty little flirtation over the co fee table.
“You mean here?” Rousseau exclaims. “In the church?”
“Good a place as any. An act of love is an act of God, is it not? And if God sees everything, he’ll spot you at it whether it’s on his doorstep or in a bawdy house. Besides, in my limited experience of the female — you may, of course, wish to correct me on this — I do find the use of an unusual location may provoke in them extremities of desire which are simply not attained under familiar sheets. I may be wrong, of course… ”
“Oh, no,” Rousseau assures him. “Spot on, dear chap.”
“In that case you are the luckiest man alive, surely. For if this lady is so taken of your person in the public hubbub of a lagoon ski f, why — she’ll positively rip the clothes off you in God’s house, just a few yards away from the hordes of promenaders out for their evening strolls.”
If you may imagine a dormouse squeaking as a naughty child tweaks its tail, you will hear the very sound M. Rousseau emits at this moment.
“Good luck,” says Delapole, and pumps his hand in a comradely fashion.
“You are leaving?”
Delapole laughs. “What kind of chap do you take me for? I believe I hear a noise from behind that rood screen over there.”
Briskly he walks to the door of the church — in darkness now, thanks to the mean windows set in the roof — slams the ancient wood loudly, then tiptoes to join the rest of us, who have hidden in the shadow beneath the great pulpit that juts out into the nave like a ship’s prow.
We try very hard not to giggle. Rousseau stands in the faint circle cast by the light from the dingy rose window, trembling with each sound that comes from behind the screen.
“Mon-sewer!” cries a gentle falsetto voice, and I stuff my fist in my mouth to kill the titters. A shape is emerging from the darkness. It is dressed in what appears to be shiny, cheap silk, just about discernible as blue. A veil covers its head. I can recognise Gobbo’s disguised form immediately. But the lad is slim enough from the front; with his face and nascent hump hidden, he might have been one of the plainer players from the boat if you didn’t share the secret.
“Mademoiselle,” twitters Rousseau. “I have only just learned of your message to me. I do not know what to say.”
The figure in the silk dress takes one step forward, extends an arm (covered by a silk sleeve, thank God, since Gobbo is a hairy chap), and gestured to Rousseau, indicating that he should approach. “What makes you think I invited you here to say anything, sir? Words are fine, but deeds are better. I had heard that when I plucked my little strings, you found yourself transported to some sweet place of fond imaginings. Perhaps I was misinformed. Perhaps you do not find me attractive?”
He took three strides to face her. “Oh, no. Your talent, your presence, they conspire to make me burst with near ecstasy.”
At this point I believe my fist was somewhere deep within my rib cage, and the others weren’t doing much better, either. Even Uncle Leo’s eyes were filled with tears, and there was such a jogging of elbows, snorting, hiccoughs, and general mayhem I wonder Rousseau didn’t rumble us in an instant. Still, his mind was on other matters.
“ ‘Near’ ecstasy, did you say, sir? I would that it were complete before we’re done. I’ve heard you French have tricks that could make us Venetian girls think we are in Heaven itself. Not the ‘leap on, leap o f, ducat by the pillow’ stuff you get from the locals.”
His head lolled from side to side and a breathy sigh issued from his throat. Then he said, “I would adore nothing more than to see your face, my sweetness. The thought of the loveliness that veil must conceal tears my heart apart.”
“Sir!” hissed Gobbo. “You have your customs. We have ours. In Venice it is unknown for a girl to offer herself thus to a man and reveal her identity before the union is complete. What if we find our coupling is not to our tastes? This way we may make a mistake and leave it behind after.”
“I understand.” Rousseau nodded.
“Then come here and pay me honour.”
We held our breath as the two of them approached each other, Gobbo thoughtfully standing in a shaft of light that gave us an excellent view of proceedings while maintaining his head in shadow.
Rousseau knelt upon the floor. “What would you have me do, lady?” he asked.
“Why, kiss me, sir. What else?”
He rose, lips puckered like a clown, and tried to throw his arms around his silk-clad darling.
“Mon-sewer!” Gobbo screeched. “Where are your manners? In Venice a man may never kiss a lady upon the lips until their union has been sealed by the physical pact. Are these your Parisian games? If so, I find them pretty disgusting, to be frank. Perhaps I have judged you wrong here.”
“No, no, no. I am merely unused to your customs, lady. What would you have me do?”
Gobbo drew himself up with a harrumph. “What any fine Venetian gentleman would under the circumstances. Make your way beneath my skirts and find that place where the two of us shall shortly be enjoined. Then plant your lips upon it as a token of your devotion.”