“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said.
They had been shopping in Mestre. In Venice, the prices were much too unaffordable. She had found him a sleek black silk suit made in Thailand, which Geoff wore with a black shirt and a scarlet bow tie.
“My prince of darkness!” Emma laughed. As if he now reminded her of a vampire.
In contrast, the dress they had acquired for tonight’s event for her was white and made from thick linen, falling from her bare shoulders to her ankles with ornate elegance, thin, almost invisible straps holding the dress up above her small, delicate breasts, unveiling just a discreet if appetizing hint of gentle cleavage. Underneath she wore just dark hold-up stockings reaching to mid-thigh, their black veil as sharp as her luxuriant pubic hair. A perfect conjugation of nights, when she cheekily raised the dress to her midriff, exposing herself to him.
God, she was stunning! Her lipstick was fiery red and she had surrounded her eyes with a grey circle of kohl.
In the end they had gone shopping for masks together at Mondonovo, on Rio Terra Canal, near the Campo Santa Margherita, where masks could still be found that were replicas of the old historical, traditional models, and were different from the traditional fare on offer to gullible tourists in search of local colour.
For Geoff, in his black outfit, they had chosen a larva, also called a volto. It was white, made of fine wax and should have typically been worn with a tricorn and cloak, which he had of course absolutely no intention of doing. After all, this was the twenty-first century! The shape of the mask would allow him to breathe and drink easily, and so there was no need to take it off, thus preserving anonymity.
Emma, on the other hand, had been coaxed by the old wrinkled lady at the store to select a moretta instead of the more traditional bauta. It was an oval mask of black velvet that was usually worn by women visiting convents. Invented in France, it had rapidly become popular in ancient Venice as it brought out the beauty of feminine features. The mask was finished off with a veil, and was normally secured in place by a small bit in the wearer’s mouth. As this was not appropriate to participate in a modern party, Emma’s model had been modified so it was held by a clip at its apex that was attached to her mountain of curls.
“Bella,” the old woman had said when Emma had tried the mask on.
“Bellissima,” Geoff said in turn, with a painful stab of fear coursing through his stomach, as Emma stood, fully attired in dress and mask, and the jungle of her curls peering impudently above the formal mask.
“Grazie mille,” she laughed.
There was so much more he wanted to say to her. Like “Do you really want to go?” or “What will you do if another man proposes to you?” or “Do you still love me?” but the gondola they had booked had just arrived. They walked down to the waterside entrance of the building. The night air was cold and the sky full of scattered stars whose reflection glistened over the waters of the small canal like a million phosphorescent fish.
Geoff read the address out to the gondolier in his French-accented Italian.
“It’s party time,” Emma said.
The half-abandoned palazzo dominated the Grand Canal halfway between the Ponte del Rialto and the Ponte dell’Accademia, with the Campo San Polo visible from the ornate balconies on the landside of the building.
The tall man who wore the white mask with the elongated beak, similar to the head attire medics had worn in the years of the plague, when pepper had been lodged into the furthest reaches of the bird of prey-like beak to shield its wearers from the illness, had been hovering near them most of the evening. They had briefly been introduced by Jacopo, earlier on in the festivities. Occasionally the man would approach them with new glasses of champagne and would whisper in Emma’s ear, or casually allow his leather-gloved hands to brush against her bare shoulders. His English was nigh perfect, albeit with West Coast American inflections. Geoff couldn’t remember his name. Real or otherwise. They had been introduced as Byron and Ariadne.
As neither Emma’s nor Geoff’s Italian was fluent enough, they had been isolated in the margins of the party and its flowing conversations. They had both drunk too much by now. Which meant Geoff was retreating, as he did, into longer and longer silences, whereas her demeanour was becoming looser, more joyful by the minute. How many times now had she wondered at the sheer elegance of the evening and its incomparable setting, the candles illuminating the cavernous, marble-floored rooms, the gold dishes laden with fruit, the never-ending flow of booze. She was intoxicated by both the alcohol and the sense of occasion. Was this the adventure she always claimed she was seeking when he would raise any questions about the future?
A hand took hold of his. Geoff turned round. A woman in a red velvet dress and a white powdered wig pulled him a metre or two towards her. He looked up at her. She had endless legs enhanced by thin six-inch heels. Behind her mask, he could see her eyes were the colour of coal.
“You are English, no?”
“Indeed,” he answered.
Her scent was sweet, cloying almost.
“So you like our Carnevale?”
“Absolutely,” he responded, ever polite.
Her purple lipsticked lips moved into the shape of a kiss. “Is it your first time in Venice?” she asked.
“Not quite,” he answered. “But the first time I’ve been here at Carnival time, though.”
“Ah. .” She moved nearer to him.
He realized they were now alone in the large room; the woman with purple lips, Emma, the tall guy and him. Somehow all the nearby partygoers had drifted out silently into the other neighbouring rooms, leaving faint echoes of conversations and the tinkling of crystal glasses sort of suspended in the tobacco smoke-infested air.
He took a step back.
“Oh. . Shy?”
“No,” he muttered.
“So?” She extended her left arm and her fingers swept across his dry lips.
“Your woman isn’t as shy, I see,” she remarked.
Geoff’s heart dropped all the way down to his stomach as he glanced round. Emma was now being embraced by the tall stranger, who held her tight against the far wall of the room, his hand burrowing under her dress, his face muzzled into hers. Her eyes were closed.
“Come,” the woman with the white powdered wig said, taking him by the hand and leading him to a low couch at the opposite end of the room.
He followed, as if in a trance. Time slowed down to a crawl.
Her cunt tasted of exotic spices. Pungent, strong, savage. His tongue lapped her generous juices with quiet and studied abandon.
She spread her legs wider apart and pressed his head down firmer against her. Geoff gasped momentarily for breath.
“Lick me harder,” she ordered him.
Once she had tired of his worshipping the thick folds of her labia and the invisible radiating heat pulsing through her opening all the way from her innards, she pulled him on to the worn-out couch and slipped his trousers downwards and began sucking him off.
Somehow, even though she was talented and imaginative, he failed to get totally hard, and she gave up within a few minutes.
“No worry,” she said. “It happens.”
Red-faced, he looked her in the eyes, attempting to find out how old she might be behind that mask. Her skin was spotless and taut and her unending legs were those of an athlete at the peak of her form. He gulped and recalled instantly the taste of her and its striking flavours. She had been on her knees and rose to her feet. He just stood there, his black silk trousers bunched around his ankles.
“Undress,” she said. It was more of an order than a suggestion.