She drew the sword and handed it over, attaching the Venetian dagger the man had wordlessly handed over to her to a link of the golden belt she was wearing. “It’s almost dawn,” she said in a voice as clear as glass. “I must go. Don’t see me out, Giacomo. If I could find my way here by myself I can find my way back, too, to life, to my home. How quiet it is…. The wind has died down. And the fire, too, has gone out, you see, as if speaking its own language, which tells us that every passion, all that passes, must eventually turn to ashes. But that is not something I want to believe. Because this night has, after all, provided us with an encounter and a chance of deepening our acquaintance, even if not quite as the duke of Parma imagined or the Bible describes. Now you have a seal on your agreement, Giacomo, that seal being your consciousness of all I have told you. It is the seal of revenge, a powerful seal, as strong as love or life or death. You can tell the duke of Parma that you were true to your agreement, that you did not cheat him, my love, nor did you fail, but have earned your fee and merit your reward. By the end of the night everything had happened as you had agreed, and now that I have got to know you I am returning to the man who loves me and is waiting for me to ease his departure from life. Travel well, Giacomo, trip through the world on light steps. Your art remains infallible and the task you took on is accomplished, not quite as you imagined, you two clever men between you, but it’s the result that matters, and the result is that I know you, that I know I have no real hold on your heart, and can therefore only resign myself to my fate, the only power remaining to me being revenge. Take this confession, this promise with you as you go, for your road will be long and certain to be fascinating and full of variety. But I want something from you, too, by way of farewell. Rather unusually for me, I wrote a letter: if ever you feel that you have understood my letter and wish to answer, don’t be lazy or cowardly: answer as is fit, with pen and ink, like the well-versed literary man you are. Do you promise?…”
And when the man did not answer, she continued, “Why will you not answer? Can the answer be so terrifying, Giacomo?”
“You know very well,” the man replied, slowly and somewhat hoarsely, “that if I were ever to answer you in this life, the answer would not be given in pen and ink.”
The woman shrugged and responded calmly, almost indifferently, with the trace of a smile in her voice. “Yes, I know. But what can I do?… I will live and wait for you to answer my letter, my love.”
And she set out toward the door. But halfway there she turned to him in a gentle, friendly manner.
“The game and the performance are over, Giacomo. Let us return to our lives, taking off our masks and costumes. Everything has turned out as you wanted. I am sure that everything that has happened has happened according to some unwritten law. But you should know that it has happened as I, too, wanted it: I saw you, I was tender to you, and I hurt you.”
She stood on tiptoe, looked briefly into the mirror, and with an easy movement placed the three-cornered hat over her wig. Having adjusted it, she added solicitously: “I hope I did not hurt you too much.”
But she did not wait for an answer. She left the room without looking back, her feet swift and firm, and silently closed the door behind her.
The Answer
The room had chilled down and the candles had guttered but were still smoking with a bitter stench. The man stepped out of the skirt, released himself from the bodice, tore off his mask, and threw away the wig. He entered the bedchamber, stepped over to the washbasin, poured icy water from the jug over his palm, and with slow deliberate movements began to wash.
He washed the paint and rice powder off his face, rubbed the scarlet from his lips, peeled the beauty patch from his cheek, and wiped the soot from his eyebrows. He splashed the water on, its icy touch burning and scratching his face: it stung him like a blow. He ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed his face raw with the towel, then lit fresh candles, and in the light they gave, leaned toward the mirror to check that he had removed every trace of paint from his face. His brow was furrowed and pale, his chin needed a shave, and there were dark shadows under his eyes as if he had just returned from an orgy that had gone on all night. Then he threw away everything associated with the mask, and with quick, certain movements, began to dress.
Somewhere, bells were ringing. He put on traveling clothes, a warm shirt and stockings, and drew his cloak about his shoulders before looking around the room. The food and drink lay untouched on the damask tablecloth with its silver cutlery, only the snow in the dish had melted and futile little islands of butter were swimming about in the remaining pool like peculiarly swollen Oriental flowers on a tiny, ornamental pond. He picked up the chicken, tore it into two, and with fierce greedy movements nervously began to gnaw it. Having finished it he threw the bones into a corner, wiped his greasy fingers on the tablecloth, raised the crystal wineglass full of viscous golden fluid, and filled his mouth with it. He held his head back and watched as it went down in slow gulps, his enormous Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in the mirror. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and threw away the glass, which struck the ground with a light chink and broke into pieces. His voice hoarse with wine, he called for Balbi.