Hi all!
I have been travelling again and missed the December IWSG. I think it's only about the second time I haven't posted in all the years! Forgive me Alex.
By popular demand, WEP is having an unstructured challenge this December. For those who'd already prepared an entry for UNMASKED or who burned to write one, we have opened it up to whoever so desires and posting our link to the WEP website.
My story is adapted from one of the very first stories I wrote for Romantic Friday Writers. I'd worked on it since and it was over 2,000 words. For this challenge, I've edited it down to 1,200+ words. So sorry it's a bit over.
During the pandemic, Australians don't travel internationally. So I'm reliving a trip to Venice. But I assure you, I'm not Anouk, my heroine. It's a bit of a black fairy tale. With this retelling I can see another direction I could go with the story, but seriously, this will have to do for now or I'll never get it posted...enjoy.
Pierrot,
the Fool.
Anouk surveyed the
glistening city from the balcony of Hotel Cipriani, feasting her eyes upon
Venice. Darkness floated over the ethereal city, a black cape, its edges
reflecting the glint of the moon. The
light
was a mosaic of shimmering mirrors. Gondolas floated in a fantasy world,
dipping above the water like slick black swans. On the frigid night air, the
gondoliers’ serenade drifted across the water like a ghostly siren call,
filling Anouk’s heart with delicious anticipation.
Sipping
her wine, she listened to the vaporettis' hum as they navigated the icy waters
of the Grand Canal, disembodied voices of the passengers bouncing atop the
waves. The baroque palaces along the canal dazzled, grand residences of past
glory, now inhabited by revelers whose dancing threatened to sink them into the
murky water.
Anouk
was intent on enjoying this night and all the excitement that tantalized her
soul with infinite possibilities. Carnevale. Hiding behind a mask, she was ready to lose herself in this ritual
where the power of the mask lured revelers into lurid rites of celebration.
She
lifted her crystal glass. Swirled the rich burgundy. ‘Salut!’ She toasted the
heavenly hosts.
Her
dream was about to unfold.
~*~
Anouk
drifted outside into a frosty, starry world, a different person behind her
Pierrot mask. She was tugged into a band of masked
and costumed figures running through the cobbled streets, alongside the Grand
Canal, past candle-lit icing-cake palazzos dusted with snow, slithering over
arched bridges, heading deeper into mysterious caverns and back alleyways.
In an opulent baroque
apartment, she danced with gloriously attired masked men who pressed her close
to their bodies, their breath hot on her naked neck, before passing her to the
next caped stranger with a flourish and an extravagant kiss to her gloved hand.
Leaving the hot apartment,
she ran with the party goers down slippery, dimly-lit streets, going deeper and
deeper into unknown Venice, terrifying in its other-worldly quality. She
slipped and slithered at the end of the long line, her dress tugging at her
ankles as if telling her to stop.
She was about to turn back
when out of the foggy darkness came a man who clasped her hand. She stood, unsure
whether to rip her hand from his grasp, but the crowd moved on, leaving her
alone in the stranger’s grip. She recognized the perfume he wore. Creed Aventus. Her husband’s favorite. It comforted her. Was she a fool to go
with this stranger in his lacquered mask of ebony? She shrugged. This was what
adventure was all about, wasn’t it?
The stranger led her
upstairs to an apartment where they joined a new group of dancers in a room
warmed by spluttering fires, the air blue with cigarette smoke. The women were
ethereal beauties in rustling silk while men dazzled in capes, tight trousers,
shiny thigh-high boots and magnificent wigs of black ringlets. His curls
whispering against her neck, she and the stranger swayed in a sideways rhythm
to the heavenly music of a stringed quartet.
She closed her eyes and
imagined the stranger unmasked. The way he ran his hands over her forehead,
lifting her hair, told her he was doing the same.
So this is Carnevale! Oh, what have I been missing?
The stranger snatched a
glass of wine from a passing waiter. He entwined his arm with hers and poured
wine down her throat.
She spluttered as rich
liquor dripped down her chin and between her breasts.
He dipped his head; licked
the red trail. Her delighted shivers brought fire to his eyes.
He spoke his first words to
her, his Italian rich and smooth as the wine. ‘Signorina, I’m Count de
Rozario.’
‘Vrai? Truly?’
‘Si. All men are
counts at Carnevale.’
She bowed, not doubting his
claim. ‘I am Anouk Abbe. From Paris.’
‘My servant.’ He touched
her shoulder with his hand.
Her heart fluttered with
desire. She looked up. He had melted into the night. How rude! Was that what Carnevale was about? Dancing? Drinking? Touching? Teasing? Then … pouf?
She pushed her way outside,
trudging north through freshly fallen snow.
Men lounged against
alleyway walls; smoke blended with foggy curls. Shiny black opal eyes studied her
from behind black masks.
She stepped sideways,
desperate to find the Grand Canal.
One of the men strode
forward just as another appeared from out of the mist.
Again the comforting smell
of Creed Aventus.
He covered her shivering
body with his black velvet cloak trimmed with red fur, revealing a black woolen
suit. With gloved fingers, he scratched away tears that had iced her cheeks below
her mask.
‘My count?’ Her teeth
chattered.
An imperceptible jerk of
his head. ‘Come. We steal a little time.’
Through passages, beneath
arches, they came upon a magnificent doorway. In the hazy light of the street
lamps it appeared burnished in gold.
He brushed snow from their clothing
before he led her up a flight of stairs into a luxurious apartment. With urgent
strides he tugged her into a warm sitting room with log fire blazing,
comfortable couches, an aura of expectation in the atmosphere. Two crystal wine
glasses and a silver platter of antipasto beckoned. How sweet! Mesmerized
by the warmth of the flames, she took a step toward the fire.
‘Fretta! Hurry!’ He
snatched her around the waist and pulled her into a huge bedroom dazzled by moonlight,
a lush Renaissance painting of red silk wallpaper, brocade and golden trims.
He unbuttoned her cape. Her
dress rustled to the floor. He dealt swiftly with her undergarments but left
her mask intact.
Even so, she felt unmasked.
He pushed her backwards onto
the brocade spread, covering her nakedness with his.
As they surrendered
themselves to the madness of the night, the mouth that plundered hers tasted
like the wine they’d shared, enhanced by sea and smoke.
He tensed, lifted his head.
She heard nothing but her
own whimpering.
Then …
Slipping and sliding on the
varnished wood stairs. Curse words, ‘Merda.
Merda. Basta.’
His feet landed on the
floor. ‘My blonde beauty.’ He tugged her arm. ‘My Contessa approaches. Presto!’
He snatched clothes from
the carpet, thrust them into her arms and pushed her naked onto the balcony
then quietly closed the door.
Shivering with cold and
shock, she huddled. The lapping water against the pylons was slaps to her
freezing stupid face. The fog’s tendrils reached up and whirled around her
misery.
Fool! Fool! Is this the
adventure you imagined?
The Contessa’s Borsalino fragrance hung, trapped, in
the freezing air. My perfume. Is that why he chose me?
‘Ah, Contessa, come.’ His
seductive voice slid under the bedroom door onto the balcony. ‘I’m ready for
you. Desolate we lost each other in the frenzy.’
‘I, too, Count.’ Her voice
sounded a little self-satisfied. ‘Come.’
Had the Contessa been naked
with a stranger in another bed? While the Count cavorted here with her? Was it a
game they played on this one night of the year when there were no rules?
Tears pooling on her frozen
cheeks, she struggled down the murky outdoor stairs, slipping and sliding on
the ice, gripping the ornate balustrade. She entered the apartment foyer and
trembled in the darkest corner. Her frozen hands fumbled with intricate clasps
and zips as she dressed herself with agonizing slowness.
As she dressed, she
pictured her husband back in Paris, sipping his aperitif in his
favorite leather chair by the fire, wearing his three-piece charcoal bespoke
suit, his crisp white Dior shirt, his Louis Vuitton tie. He’d warned her not to
come. Now she knew why.
Tossing her Pierrot mask
into a dirty pile of slush, she tread into the frozen wilderness. Lost in
Venice's black cape.
She was Pierrot, the fool.
~*~
Currently up on the WEP website is Yolanda's post outlining the magnificent arty challenges for 2021. Please take a look. I'm sure you'll be inspired to join us even if you've never written for us. This is an example:
Gorgeous, innit?
Happy holidays! See you next year!
