on which costumes could be projected.
But the real thing was also there, masks and outrageous costumes, all glowing with life and colour; brilliant reds and blues, vibrant greens and yellows, glittering with sequins and tinsel.
Mario, who had followed her while Pietro glanced through the books, began to show them off.
‘These will be hired for the street parties,’ he explained. ‘For the big indoor occasions everyone will be much grander.’
He held one of the masks before his face. It was fierce and sexy in a slightly satanic way, and it transformed him into a man many women would find intriguing. Then he removed it and became gentle, sweet-natured Mario again.
‘Ah, well,’ he sighed. ‘I can dream, can’t I? That’s what Carnival is for.’
‘Perhaps your dream will come true,’ she said, liking him.
‘No, signorina. I dream of the lady who won’t be disappointed when she sees the real me. If only I could keep this mask on for ever.’
‘You might not like that as much as you think,’ she mused. ‘In the long run it’s best to be yourself—whoever that is.’
‘But to be a stranger, even to yourself, can be such a pleasure, especially when you can choose which stranger to be.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ she murmured, looking through some of the female masks. ‘Being able to choose would make all the difference.’
She began to try them on, starting with one that was made like a cat, and that covered her face completely.
‘This might be a good one to hide behind,’ she mused.
‘But a mask isn’t always to hide behind,’ Pietro said, coming to join them. ‘Sometimes it can reveal what you never knew before about yourself.’
‘That would be the time to beware,’ Ruth said. ‘You wouldn’t know what you were also revealing to other people. They might see you in a way you never dreamed of, and then where would you be?’
‘Among friends,’ Pietro told her softly. ‘And it might be their insight that sets you free.’
Poor Mario looked blankly from one to the other, until rescue came in the form of a customer. Mario hastened to his assistance, but found himself in trouble again. The newcomer was German, speaking no Italian and very little English. Soon there was chaos. Pietro groaned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Ruth told him. ‘This is your lucky day.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you have me,’ she said, and walked away before he could reply.
It took her only a few minutes to sort things out, translating the visitor’s enquiry, then Mario’s response, to the desperate relief of both.
When the satisfied customer had departed, her two companions were loud in their praise.
‘My lucky day indeed!’ Pietro said. ‘Now I remember you said you were a language teacher. And you sold him our most expensive package.’
‘Mario did that. I was just the conduit.’
‘Thank heavens for conduits,’ Mario said fervently, and they all laughed.
‘We do have an assistant who speaks German,’ Mario added, ‘but she’s only part-time, and not here yet.’
‘I think that’s worth a coffee and cream cake,’ Pietro said. ‘Come on.’
They went along the covered passage to the Café Florian, its elegant interior still reflecting the style of the eighteenth century, when it had first opened.
‘Did Gino ever bring you here?’ Pietro asked.
‘Oh, yes, he told me about Casanova coming here.’
Pietro suppressed the wry comment that this was just what he would have expected. Casanova, the infamous eighteenth-century lover of a thousand women, a man who’d flirted with the church as a career but also flirted with witchcraft. Imprisoned for debt and devil worship, he’d escaped and travelled Europe, pursued by scandal, finally ending his days as a respectable librarian in an obscure castle in Bohemia.
Like many other young men Gino had passed over the respectable part, and used the rest to his advantage.
‘He said Casanova came to Florian’s because it was the only café in Venice that allowed women inside,’ Ruth remembered now.
‘Did he say anything else?’
She nodded. ‘Lots of things. Some of them were just to make me laugh. Some of them—’ She shrugged, with a little sad smile. Then she tensed suddenly. ‘No! No!’
‘What is it?’ he asked urgently.
She was pressing her hands to her forehead, whispering desperately, ‘No!’ while Pietro watched her in concern.
Suddenly she gave an exasperated sigh, and dropped her hands.
‘It’s no good. It’s gone. That happens all the time.’
‘But it doesn’t mean anything. Nobody remembers every detail.’
‘I know. I try to tell myself that everyone goes blank sometimes, even normal people.’
‘Ruth, you’re perfectly normal.’
‘No, I’m not. Normal people don’t go do-lally in the middle of a conversation.’
‘I forbid you to talk like that,’ he said in a tight voice.
‘All right, not another word, I promise.’
But her easy compliance made him rightly suspicious.
‘And I forbid you to think it either,’ he snapped. ‘That’s an order.’
‘Hey, you’re really used to being obeyed, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, and I expect to be obeyed this time. Don’t you ever dare call yourself abnormal again.’
Ruth suddenly understood that he was really angry, not just with the exasperated indignation of the day before, but in a mysterious, inexplicable rage.
‘Don’t you understand why you mustn’t think in such a way?’ he demanded in a calmer voice.
‘I suppose so. But after a while it’s natural.’
‘Then you’ve got to stop. I’m going to make you stop.’
‘Pietro, it’s not the same as ordinary forgetfulness. One minute the memories are running through my head, the next—darkness descends. If only I—’ She made a helpless gesture.
‘Don’t try to force it,’ he advised her.
‘But
