THERE WAS A PAUSE. It was a long one. Emilia looked away. I felt myself first blush, and then turn pale. I could read nothing of her expression from around the edges of the mask, nor from her body language.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered. “That was a ridiculous proposition. I would try to pass it off as a jest, but that would be insulting to you, and we both know I meant it honestly.”
“My parents will be looking for me,” she said softly. “They are expecting me to meet them by the door. I hope”—now she looked back at me—“in all sincerity, sir, I hope our paths cross again soon, and perhaps at greater leisure.”
“Please forgive my—”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “You have given me something to think about. Unlike you, I do not blurt out whatever comes into my mind. Women are not allowed such behavior.”
“So you are not rejecting my proposal?” I pressed, wishing I was not saying the words even as I heard myself say them.
“For your own sake, I am going to forget you made it,” she said. “If, having overcome your impulse to be somebody’s paladin, and if having gotten to know me with any kind of depth—having a passing acquaintance with my face, for example—you still feel compelled to make such a suggestion . . . proposition me then.”
IT TOOK ME until noon the next day to get dressed. I lay in bed, disgusted with myself for behaving precisely the way a spoiled young Venetian gentleman would behave if he were mooning over a lady he desired. But I could not stop thinking of her. I did not know her well enough to obsess about anything in particular; I did not even have a face to dwell moodily upon—and yet I could not stop thinking of her. Her voice, her hair, the shape of her body, and her words. Her words, her words, her words. I could not get them from my mind. I lay on my feather mattress beneath silk drapes and stared out at the transom window of my rose-painted room. The sky mocked me with its brilliance. I parsed and reparsed each sentence I could remember with all the skills I’d ever learned as a battlefield tactician. I could not decide what she thought of me.
I must have looked so hideously ugly, compared to all the others in the room. My face is nothing handsome to begin with, plus between soldiering and neglecting my cosmetic toilette, I am weathered and darkened beyond my age, and I stand out even on the streets in daytime for having not the slightest styled coiffure to my battle-ready hair. Dust-colored curls surround my face, hardly darker than the face itself. I must have looked horrendously unkempt. How ridiculous to imagine that she fancied me. She did not. So there was absolutely no reason to get out of bed.
On the other hand, she spoke with me more willingly than she had with anyone at the first evening’s party. So perhaps she fancied me a little. But that had been before my mask came off. The night I did not wear the mask, that night she rejected my proposal and did not even allow me the dance I felt I was owed. Given her class, she had far more men to choose from than patrician daughters, who were limited to marrying among those families with the right pedigrees. She could have anyone. Just because two nights in a row there was no man she fancied more than me did not mean she fancied me at all. Nor did it mean she wouldn’t find, before the end of Carnival, some handsome man to fancy. So there was absolutely no reason to get out of bed.
And even if she fancied me, what then? I could not deserve to keep her interest. When I thought she was a prostitute, it had been easy to banter with her; even when I realized she wasn’t, that breezy beginning to our discourse had allowed me to continue the playful chatter. But the moment I realized my heart was thudding for her, I’d become irritable and clumsy with words, and remained so all the next day until I saw her again—at which point, despite a few rounds of decent repartee (which I recounted to myself ad nauseam to reassure myself that yes, I had been charming for a moment), I was so unbalanced that I demanded that she marry me without my having even seen her face. Extended time in her company would render me ridiculous and speechless, and she would grow disappointed with me, and I would lose her love. So there was absolutely no reason to get out of bed.
I WAS FINALLY roused for dinner by a servant. We ate with Mother and my silent sister-in-law as Rizardo informed me there was another masque to attend that evening.
“Really?” I said. “Another one? I cannot believe the accursed superciliousness of this city!”
“You don’t need to believe it, but you do need to attend,” my brother said curtly. “Especially this one, as it is at the Confraternity. I would appreciate it if you could keep your mask on, or at least not throw it in the punch bowl when you decide to take it off.”
“I need to get out of this city,” I said. “I need to get back to a posting and play cards with people who get dirt under their fingernails.”
“I do not disagree,” Rizardo said humorlessly, “but you won’t be doing that before nightfall, so please cooperate with the servants this time and allow them to find you something decent to wear.”
I did so, but on principle I kept my dagger, sheathed, at my belt.
THIS MASQUE WAS at the Confraternity of San Rocco, of which my brother and Roderigo were both members. The wealthiest of all Venetian confraternities (or poorest, depending on who was describing it), San Rocco featured two halls large enough for balls; tonight we were to entertain ourselves in the upper hall, which was hung with decorative tapestries that hid, among other things, a wooden altar and several recent painting by Tintoretto (although his better work was in another room—Flight into Egypt, the title of which struck me as an excellent undertaking). The gala was attended by more youths and maidens than I’d ever seen assembled outside a Grecian fresco. I fretted about this because the flirtation levels promised to be astronomical.
She was there, of course.
THIS TIME SHE was surrounded by a conspiracy of young men. And she seemed to be engaging, willingly, in conversation with them. That was disastrous. She was the only female in their troop, which was not true of most other troops of young people scattered around the room. I suddenly could not breathe well. My aging mother had an aging lapdog, who when asleep sometimes would yap helplessly from a dream it could not escape. I felt like that lapdog now. The most I would possibly be able to manage, if I could even get near Emilia, was a yap.
This was jealousy, and it was new to me. Resentment I was used to, having been weaned on it within the family, but not jealousy. While I had often been unhappy with my lot, I had never actually coveted what somebody else had—until right now, when I was jealous of every man in that group for having her attention. It was the most atrocious sensation I had ever felt, as if some tiny monster were crawling around within my guts while somehow sending spasms of shock through my limbs, my throat, making everything inside me tighten, tight as a drum, twisting everything inside me into a knot.
Ignoring the screeching actors in an offensive comedy about a Nubian and his albino bride, I forced myself to walk calmly in her direction. The other men sensed but pointedly ignored the presence of a new rival; Emilia herself, though, did look up at me, and stopped in the middle of whatever she was saying.
“Good evening, Iago,” she said neutrally. “Do you have the pleasure of these other gentlemen’s acquaintances?”
“If their presence interferes with my having a dance with you, my lady, I can’t say it would be a pleasure to be acquainted with any of them,” I said, the words sounding echoing and far away from my own ears. Stop being an ass, I ordered myself. You sound petulant.
The men in their slashed and puffed velvet all exchanged glances behind their masks. They knew who I was; I had a reputation now, inflated or otherwise; they had not known I fancied Emilia, but they must know that I was a wild and unpredictable rascal, based on my behavior at the senator’s ball the night before. Or so I assumed.
But to my surprise, each nodded, as if sharing an unspoken thought, and each took a step back from Emilia, giving me space to approach closer to her.
“If the lady is spoken for by a gentleman of your standing, we yield the floor, of course,” one of them said, speaking for all. With delicate bows and gentle kissing of her hand, the men all quickly excused themselves, leaving Emilia and myself alone. I was astonished.
She looked up at me, her eyes glittering sharply behind the mask. “That is an efficient way of getting rid of your competition.”
“Are they my competition?” I demanded.
“They had all hoped to dance with me, if that is what you mean.”
That’s not what I mean, I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue, not wanting to add petulance upon petulance. I heard my own breath inside my skull, quick and shallow; I felt unwell, and if it were not for fear of losing her company, I’d have sought an empty room somewhere to lie down. I managed to pull my wits about me and said, holding out my hand, “Allow me to make it up to you by dancing with you now.”
She thought about it for a moment. Then she held out her gloved hand and laid it gently on my ungloved one. The pressure of her fingers touching me was the most remarkable sensation of my entire life. She rose from the bench at which she had been seated. We walked together past several Persian tapestries onto the polished dance floor, where a chiaranzana was just beginning. We did not speak; it was as if we had tumbled forward through time and were already a married couple in a pother at each other.
Two dozen other couples joined us, all masked and gloved, which created the eerie effect of phantoms congregating. All I could remember of this dance was that the first verse was exclusively with one’s partner, but then it became an ensemble affair, in which each refrain briefly separated the partners to dance with others. “You may need to remind me of the steps,” I said grudgingly under my breath. “While all your other wooers have been practicing this vanity, I have been defending our borders in the wilds of Terraferma where we have no such niceties as ballrooms.”
She turned her head to look at me directly, and I could see her gaze soften. “That’s very brave of you, Iago,” she said. “To step out on the dance floor knowing you might blunder. That takes courage.”
“Do you think after five years of military duty, a blundered dance step will really try my courage?”
She drew her chin back, chastened. “I suppose not,” she said. Then, in a slightly archer tone, “In that case, I suppose you shall not need my assistance after all, for what’s a few fumbled dance steps among friends?”
“For the sake of the other dancers, who will be inconvenienced by my blundering, I beseech you to assist me,” I said.
“Of course I will,” she said, in a tone of casual affection. I melted for her all over again.
We began the dance; the steps returned to me more readily than I’d expected from my awkward adolescent years, despite the sackbut being piercingly too sharp.
“You’re doing very well,” she said after a while. My pulse quickened.
“As well as your other suitors?”
“Absolutely. No difference.”
“Am I like them in other ways as well?” I pressed. “Am I just another possibility who has not yet retreated or been turned away by you?”
“That is a conversation for after the dance, I think,” she said.
“Oh, no, lady,” I said. “I will not survive this dance if I must worry both about my footing on the dance floor and also my footing with you.”
“Fair enough,” she said. She took a slow breath in. “You want to feel special,” she began. “You want to know that I like you above all others.”
“I know what I want,” I said churlishly as we pressed our raised palms together and pivoted around them. “I want to know what you want.”
“The others are attractive,” she said thoughtfully. We turned away from each other and then back again, to the music. “Some of them have handsomer features than you do, and most of them have better fortunes.”
“I know that too,” I huffed. “That is not what I asked you.”
At that moment in the dance, we had to turn away from each other to dance with someone else. It was torment.
“And?” I said, as soon as we were back together.
“And none of them have disappointed me.”
I felt a sick feeling in my stomach. “How have I disappointed you?” I asked; it came out as a strangled whisper.
“I expect nothing from these other men,” she said as we once again pivoted around kissing palms. “But I thought I could rely on you to always show me your true face, and here you are tonight wearing a mask.”
“I will remove it as soon as I find a punch bowl in which to deposit it.”
I could see her smile behind her mask again. “I heard about that,” she said. “You certainly do know how to get your name around.” We turned away and then back toward each other, hands still touching.
“I do nothing in order to get my name around,” I said, on the return.
“I know,” she said consolingly, which made me feel again that I’d been petulant. “I’ll see you in a moment.”
Again we turned away from each other, again I somehow survived the turns and footfalls of the dance with some woman I did not know and could barely manage to exchange pleasantries with. And then I was back with my raised palm pressing Emilia’s.
“I do like you, Iago,” she said quietly. “I like the way I feel in your company. I can imagine sitting down to dinner every day with you for the rest of my life and never wishing I were somewhere else. I have never felt that about another human being, including my own parents.”
I was so thrilled, it frightened me. I could not speak.
“Have I answered your question, sir?” she asked at last.
“It is a sufficient answer for now,” I was able to say. I heard her chuckle affectionately behind her mask. Oh, my Lord, if only I could see what was behind that mask.
SOMEHOW WE GOT through the rest of the chiaranzana. I did not trust myself to speak again; she seemed content with silence when we danced together. I noticed a few times that in her turnabouts with other partners, they would say something to her, and she’d tilt her head back with laughter. That monstrous feeling of jealousy snapped my guts each time she did so.
The dance finally completed, she invited me with a glance to step through some heavy woolen tapestries out to the balcony with her, to avoid another pantomime. We overlooked a moonlit alleyway, and nobody else was out here. It was brisk, but the cold was a welcome change. The tapestries hushed the noise of the crowd within; we were thrillingly alone. In the moonlight. Alone. On a balcony. Alone. “Your servant ever,” I said, and untied my mask, letting it hang loose from its lanyard around my neck.
“I should return the favor, so you know whom you serve,” she said. “But my hair and the ribbon are all entwined. If you have any steel on you, perhaps you can simply cut the ribbon for me.”
Is it some perversion in me to have found this request erotic? I pulled my dagger from its sheath, which was tucked into my belt. I saw her eyes study the metal as I held it up before her.
“Do you trust me with it?” I asked.
Her eyes moved toward mine. “Entirely,” she said.
Trembling, I reached toward her temple and took hold of the ribbon near the mask. I pulled it away from her temple, which pressed the mask closer against her face. Very carefully, trying not to be distracted by feeling her breath on my neck, I placed the point of the dagger against the ribbon, and snapped the ribbon with my blade. Her hand flew up to the mask to hold it steady in place, and she turned her head to expose the other side to me. I cut this side as well, then sheathed my dagger. With the ribbon still entangled in her hair, she lowered the mask and looked at me.
Hers was the loveliest face I had ever seen in my life. It was quietly perfect—nothing unusual, nothing startling, simply right, everywhere, every angle, every pore, every eyelash. Her eyes were hazel, placed just right, just the right size and just the right distance apart. It was so thrilling to see her face, the effect on me was as if she’d just disrobed.
“My God you’re beautiful,” I said breathily.
She smiled and looked down. “Thank you,” she said. “I believe I am quite average.”
“Nothing about you is average, it is all superlative,” I said.
She looked back up at me. “I think I have to say the same of you.”
“Have you ever considered the life of a soldier’s wife?” I asked.
She laughed. “Only since I met you.”
“And what are your considerations?”
“It would have to be the right soldier.”
“I just made officer last month.”
“I didn’t say the right rank, I said the right soldier.”
I wanted her so badly that I could not bear it. Abruptly, suddenly, in a rush, it seemed to be much easier to scare her off than to pursue this and risk my entire well-being. “It is a hard life,” I warned, “Nothing like living in Venice. Everything is very rough and primitive. I am very rough and primitive.”
“If you, in your person, reflect the life you offer, I find it attractive.”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” I said, blushing, stumbling over my words. “I meant . . . I don’t know what I meant. My lady, you have robbed me of my wit. I can’t speak in your presence.”
She smiled, looking genuinely puzzled by this. “Why?” she asked.
I had never had fewer coherent thoughts available to me. “I am used to wanting something and not having it. My career has been negotiated entirely by my father, for example, regardless of my wishes. But I have never in my life wanted anything so deeply, as what I crave right now, which is your company, forever, every day for the rest of my life. I believe that you are on the edge of offering it to me, that it might happen. That might undoes me. Denied this, I would feel so deeply robbed, the pain would warp my character and turn my regard for you to violent fury.”
She considered this a moment, as if she found it droll. “Are you saying you’d want to kill me if I did not cleave to you?”
“Of course not,” I stammered. “I mean . . . if you are merely being playful with me, tell me now. I cannot keep this light between us.”
“That’s good, for I am not a light woman, regardless of what you first thought of me.” She smiled.
“If there is any part of you that thinks you might find a lover elsewhere, leave this balcony right now and go to find him,” I ordered in a choked voice. “In fact, do me a favor and do that anyhow. Spare me from the dizziness your presence causes. You should marry somebody who does not have such monstrous capacity for passion.” I closed my eyes and made myself continue speaking, feeling as if I might retch. “My friend Roderigo is looking for a wife, you know, and he is very wealthy.”
“The only thing your friend Roderigo has going for him is that he is your friend,” Emilia said pertly.
“There are others I could introduce you to,” I managed to choke out. “Even some of my fellow soldiers are Venetian, if you are inclined that way.”
She gave me a troubled, confused look. “I thought you wanted me,” she said. “You just said you wanted me.”
“But I can’t stand the thought you might not want me too,” I said, and wished I could have died on the spot.
“Have I said anything to imply that?” she demanded. “Have I not rather said just the opposite? While we were dancing? Was I not clear?”
“Did you mean it?” I demanded, grabbing her slender arms. A callus on my thumb caught on her silk sleeve; I noticed it more than she did.
“Why would I say it if I didn’t mean it?” she demanded in exasperation.
“Because since you said it, you have surely changed your mind, as I am proving to be such an awkward jealous blunderer,” I said.
She smiled at once and laughed gently. “I would not trust any man who could stand before me now and speak his feelings honestly, as you have, without blundering at least a little. I would not trust you if you did not blunder. Thank you, Iago, for blundering. It reassures me of your sincerity, and I find you all the more attractive for it.”
So there was nothing that I had to prove to her. She knew me already better than I could have described myself—better than I would have described myself. I was imperfect, and it did not trouble her. Had anyone, ever, in the history of my life, been so indulgent?
“You are a perfect human being,” I gushed.
Her eyes widened in alarm. “No, I’m not, Iago, do not saddle me with such an impossible responsibility!”
“May I enjoy the illusion of your perfection at least for this evening?”
“Only if you promise not to punish me when you realize I’m not.”
“Do you think I would do that?” I protested.
She gave me a long, appraising look. I felt as if I’d known this woman all my life, and more than that: I felt as if she knew me. Better than any other person ever had.
“Yes, I think it is a possibility in you,” she said frankly. “Just as you were punishing yourself for not being my perfect wooer, and just as you punish others with harsh words when they displease you—I think you have the capacity to be harsh to me when I fall off the pedestal you’re trying very hard to put me on.”
I grabbed her hands—her mask clattered to the balcony floor—and held them in both of mine. “I promise not to put you on a pedestal,” I said.
“Iago, you already have,” she said patiently.
“Then let’s tear down that pedestal together,” I urged, having no idea what practical application could be had from that. A woman who truly did not want to be placed on a pedestal! All the more reason to adore her!
I WAS A man of action, a man of study, a man of purpose and ambition. I needed to have things to do all day—lying about and sighing for a woman was utterly unlike me, utterly unlike the image I had of myself. But there I was the next day and the next, lying about and sighing. Books were unread, blades unsheathed, chess pieces unmoved. I did not like who I was becoming, how my time in Venice was softening me, making me prone—literally—with ridiculous preoccupations. That was not the kind of man I had grown to become.
AND THEN AN invitation arrived. It was delivered by a boy in livery, addressed to me care of my brother. It was from Emilia’s father.
He was inviting me to dine with the family the following evening, at their home in Cannaregio. This meant I had to live through an entire day, an evening, and then a second day before I could see her again. What can I really offer her? I whined to myself, staring out the window like the clichéd Venetian youth in love. Although I was a petty officer, I had no posting, I was not currently employed, so my rank was abstract, conceptual. But it was also all I had for social equity. I went to my brother, who sat working in what I still thought of as Father’s office. I told him about Emilia, and my intentions.
To my surprise, Rizardo was pleased for me. I think all he wanted for his truculent younger brother was that I prosper. Career satisfaction and a wife both seemed un-Iago-like attainments, so surely (he must have thought) I was evolving into somebody better than myself—somebody more like him. So it was easy for him to be pleased.
THE DAY PASSED somehow, the evening too, and even the next day. When finally the shadows lengthened, I dressed in my red-and-white-striped jerkin and combed my short hair. I walked, carrying a lamp, the half mile of the journey. I kept my boots clean, and the exercise of it was good for me. Up through San Rocco and San Croce, crossing the westernmost bridge of the Grand Canal, then doubling back east and north, to Calle Riello, through alleyways and across campi, on the coldest evening we had had all year. Everyone in the streets was heading in the opposite direction, toward the Rialto or San Marco square, for more Carnival spectacles. As I walked on, every conceivable thought went through my head, and every conceivable emotion clutched my stomach.
EMILIA’S PARENTS WERE almost aggressively bland. Both of them were ginger-haired and hazel-eyed, which explained her coloring; her slenderness came from her father and her curves from her mother. Our introductions in the antechamber of the modest great-room were unremarkable. Emilia, dressed in dark blue wool, watched with smiling eyes and a very composed face as I bowed to her father and kissed her mother’s hand. They welcomed me to their humble home (it’s true, it was quite humble—and made of wood), and invited me upstairs to hall for dinner. I had never been invited to a home in Venice to have a private dinner with another family.
The staircase was polished inlaid wood—attractive, but still wood. In our house, nothing but furniture and occasionally wall panels was made of wood. The hall here lacked the lofty ceilings I was used to; the tapestries were mostly flax, attractive but unoriginal. I smiled politely, aware that Emilia was waiting to see if I would judge her for her family’s modest means. I had always known myself to be an intellectual snob; this was the first time I’d ever faced the possibility I was perhaps a social snob as well. I was too ashamed to admit to myself that I might be.
The table was set and waiting for us. From the aromas rising from the kitchen, I could tell the main course would be fish. The room was lit entirely with candles—that was an expense for them, surely, but the effect was beautiful and softly romantic.
Her parents’ attitude toward me, from the moment we sat down, bespoke a pragmatism tinged with either curiosity or impatience—as if the unspoken message of the evening was: “Are you sure you want to marry her? If so, let’s get on with it.” I sensed they wanted to know by the end of the evening if I would be The One, because if not, they wanted to get a jump on making other plans. Whether I was well suited for her, or would make a loving husband, or even if she cared enough for me—these details were never probed.
This distressed me, for it reminded me of my father trying to arrange my life without regard for what would make me happy; my life was a business transaction and was to be handled efficiently. These people treated Emilia in the same manner, and so I felt protective toward her. She radiated pleasure and contentment during dinner, however; if that is indeed how her parents managed her life, she either did not mind it as I did, or hid her resentment much better than I could. I doubted it was the latter. She was simply more at peace in the world than I was. Inspired, I smiled at her often rather than growling at her father, as I wanted to.
After dinner, we gentlemen retired to her father’s study, which adjoined the great room. It was unremarkable and dominated by a wooden desk. He encourage me to sit, and then with a preparatory intake of breath, he began:
“Emilia is a decent cook, and I think she’d make any man a good wife, although she is better at cleaning than at tidying. From what we can tell she would be an excellent hostess of parties and events, which is why, although we have a decent enough dowry to offer, we are not adverse to her being taken on as a mistress, for in many ways she’d make a better mistress than a wife, given that she can throw a party better than she can clean it up. So if you’re already promised to somebody, or your brother has a profitable match in store for you, but you are interested in Emilia, she may still be available, provided you can offer assurance that you would not return her to us if your wife insisted on it. But I’d need to know your intentions quickly, because there are a number of gentlemen, including a patrician’s son, who have expressed an interest in her as a mistress if you don’t want her. She’s rejected all of them so far, but that just makes their friends and associates more intrigued, so I expect they will be presenting themselves to me soon. It’s a relief to have her actually interested in somebody, and my strong preference is for you to have her, but again, sir, it would be very inconvenient for us if you cannot make your mind up quickly.”
He finally paused.
I blinked. My head was spinning like a whirligig. I had only reentered into Venetian society four days ago, and already I was exposed to outright madness. On the one hand, it was certainly as blunt and honest as anything I’d ever said, but it absolutely lacked humanity. Were all discussions of marriage like this? I suddenly wished I’d asked my brother for advice. “Don’t you want to know what kind of life I’d offer her?” I said.
He shrugged. “She knows you’re a soldier, does she not? If she’s not bothered by it, I am not either.”
I blinked, incredulous at his offhandedness. “She is a young woman, caught up in her emotions, and perhaps misjudges what is best for her. Is it not your business as her father to look at what I offer with objective, weighty measuring?”
Again he shrugged. “I’m responsible to get her married, she’s responsible for what she makes of it,” he said agreeably.
I felt hugely indignant on Emilia’s behalf. “You know I have received my officer’s commission,” I announced. “That greatly improves my living conditions wherever I am posted, so she need not be discomfited by her surroundings.”
“That’s good,” he said indulgently. “Then you’ve just proved I don’t need to worry about her making the wrong choice. She’s yours if she’ll have you, sir, and I’d be very pleased about it. Truly her mother and I thought we would never get her to agree to anyone.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said uncertainly.
“Oh, no, thank you, sir,” he replied heartily, and shook my hand.
Unsettled by this encounter, I left him in the study and went back to Emilia and her mother in the great-room. “May I have the honor of a word alone with your daughter?” I asked my future mother. The lady said of course, and happily humming to herself, she scurried back toward the kitchen.
I stood by the open window and pushed the tapestry away, needing air. I gestured Emilia to come near to me. Smiling, she rose from the table and did so. She looked so lovely in the candlelight.
“I have had a very strange conversation with your father,” I began. She laughed.
“I’m sure you did,” she said. “He seldom has any other kind.”
“Among other things I was not expecting to hear, he offered you up as my mistress. In case I wanted to marry somebody richer later on. He is fine with that, so long as I’d still keep you as my mistress.”
“How very considerate of him,” she said with her sweet small laugh. “I’d rather be your mistress, Iago, than anybody else’s wife.”
After taking a moment to steady myself from that declaration, I said, “I cannot afford to keep a mistress.”
She leaned in toward me so that our faces were nearly touching. “Well, in that case, you’d better marry me, do not you think?” she whispered.
I finally dared to kiss her. It was delicious. She kissed me back, and when I wrapped my arms around her she pressed into me so hard she nearly backed me against the wall. A week ago, I had not known of her existence; now I could not imagine life without it.
THE WORST THING about being married is that one must have a wedding first. We were all in agreement that we wanted to keep it small and simple, but small and simple in Venetian terms is still Venetian. Both houses obligingly hung tapestries in all the windows. At the church overlooking Emilia’s campo, I went to meet her, with her gorgeous auburn mane hanging loose over a white dress; she was surrounded by female friends and relatives I’d never met and hardly ever saw again, none of them anything close to her in beauty or wit. Roderigo and my family were all the witnesses I brought. After we exchanged vows, we repaired to her parents’ home for a reception, which consisted mostly of everyone getting drunk on Lagryme di Christo (a Venetian specialty). This was on the second day of February, Candlemas, the day on which—it is said, at least in Venice—you can begin to tell the days are growing longer in anticipating spring. She chose this day specifically, she told me, “Because you have brought the sunlight to my life.”
IF THE LORD gave me the chance to freeze time, I would freeze it there, the moment after she made that declaration. Even if it meant there never was a wedding and I never had the chance to know her as a wife, even if it meant I never had a chance to prove myself as a commissioned officer. She was the best soul I had ever known, and it was I who brought the sunlight to her life. What higher peak is there to ascend to?