What do you think?
Rate this book


475 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 1, 1978
Alessandro walked to the open windows and looked out over the rooftops. He lifted his face to the sky. His eyes were bright. “She’s like the wind, like the air I breathe. Elusive. Essential. Impossible to define, or capture. I’d be lost without her. I have been abominably cruel to her, and all for love. It’s absurd. She loathes me, more than ever. I don’t stand a chance of winning her, but I’ll never let her go.”
“Honor is just another mask they wear, love is just a word. Marriage is a game."
Theirs was a typical Venetian marriage. Fosca and Alessandro Loredan revolved around the planet Venice, two moons whose orbits crossed only on rare occasions, and then with unpleasant results...Her taunts, her jabs ignited the sparks of a rage that only manifested itself when he left her. He avoided her, because when he was with her he lost his composure, yet he frequently found himself wondering what she was doing and who she was with.
But it never occurred to him, until he stood pinned by the master’s sword to the wall of the fencing academy, that he was in love with her. The gleaming shaft of the rapier was like Jove’s thunderbolt, a brilliant flash that illuminated everything that he had been feeling. He knew that the man’s words were true.
This was Cupid’s revenge on Alessandro Loredan. He had committed the unspeakable folly of falling in love with his own wife.
Alessandro watched her, his lean face creased with sorrow. He knew he had beaten her, but there was no trace of victory in his attitude. The contest had been uneven, and unfair. She had no weapons; he had them all."
“Oh, my God, Fosca,” he said hoarsely, “what a mess we’ve made of our lives.”
She loved the Alessandro she knew, the handsome gallant, the courtly and urbane lover. He was every schoolgirl’s dream: a rich and worthy prince who came out of nowhere, saw, and loved. He won her heart easily. He knew all the tricks, she knew none. He knew how to create magic with a word, a glance, or a quiet moment. A sophisticated woman would have recognized his passionate avowals for what they were: beautiful lies. But Fosca believed them.
She challenged him with what she had overheard. Was it true?
“True?” He raised his brows. “Of course it’s true. I won’t bother to deny it. I suppose it’s time you were learning about such things, Fosca. You’re not a child anymore. Throw out all that romantic stuff you’ve been filling your head with. Marriage is business, Fosca. You mustn’t be selfish and make unreasonable demands of me. I have my own life to live. I won’t dance attendance on you.”
She extended her circle of friends. She began to live her own life.
As a study of human nature and a reading of Aesop will attest, the moment an object is removed from reach, it attains a desirability that it previously lacked.
Alessandro Loredan began to notice, when he was able to observe his wife in the company of others, how attentive men were to her—and not only her cicisbei. She received fervent professions of adoration and praise, and turned them aside with a laugh. With the help of her two well-informed friends, her beauty blossomed and she recovered from her sadness and disillusionment.
"That is what Venetian ladies of rank do. They promise everything and give nothing. I have learned how to give my heart to everyone—and no one.”
“You have grown cynical, Madame,” Alessandro said grimly. “It does not become you.”
“You think not? Then it does not become anyone in Venice, and yet everyone behaves this way. I think it is not cynicism at all, but realism. We have no more illusions, therefore no more disillusionment. No more trust, therefore no more betrayals. People of fashion, I have observed, pretend that nothing is so important as to cause unhappiness. For them—and for me— unhappiness does not exist.”
He retreated. She had bested him at every turn with the wit and wiles of a practiced charmer. She had indeed learned quickly, and well. He hadn’t been able to penetrate her hard veneer of sophistication at all. She was brittle, gay, impervious to insult. There wasn’t a sign of the trembling child he had married. She was all woman. She had discovered that she was beautiful, and she knew how to use her powers.
"Who was the man in the myth, Tomasso?” she asked. “The one who was condemned by the gods to lie chained to a mountainside while an eagle devoured his entrails, into eternity?”
Tomasso frowned. “You mean Prometheus?”
“Yes. That’s me, Tomasso. I’m chained to a mountainside and an eagle is eating away at my heart. The wound will never heal, because the wounding never stops.”
Now Loredan the Jew-hater had become Loredan, Commissioner of the Seas. In Raf’s mind, he epitomized the true shame of Venice: greatness fallen to weakness and impotence. The entire noble class was corrupt. The stink of their decay hung around them like a plague-sickness, infecting every place they frequented, everything they touched. They were a dying race & hadn’t sense enough to know it. But a new day was coming.
"This Leopardi is illegitimate, Excellency. Rather unusual for Jews, I understand. They are careful of their daughters. His father is unknown. His mother died after he was born and he was raised by his grandfather, a merchant in the ghetto."
"You offer me a commission in your navy. I decline. I am a Jew, but even a Jew has pride. I will not serve the grotesque whore Venice has become, because I loved too well the beauty she was long ago.”
.She stood poised for flight and looked down at him, lying on the grass, dark and mysterious like a messenger from Satan himself.
“Will you come, Fosca" he urged her.
"-Fosca. It’s wrong for you. It means shadow, dusk. But you are light. Well, Fosca, will you let me bask again in your light? Will you meet me tomorrow night, in the Ridotto?”
Fosca - He remembered her eyes, her lips, her lovely breasts, her welcoming smile. The moment when her fear turned to trust, when she bared her soul to him and all pretenses and play-acting were thrown aside. She had shown herself to him then, beautiful and lonely and starved for love. Real love, not the love of poetry and gossip. No, it was impossible. It was dangerous, for both of them. He would leave her alone.
Later she stroked his dark head and said,“We’ll never be as happy as we are right now.”
“You’re a coward, Fosca,” he muttered sleepily. “Don’t set limits on your happiness. There are no limits.”
That night she dreamed about Raf and Alessandro and her father, all circling like doomed moths around an incandescent Lia, who smiled triumphantly and smugly.
Yes. I know very well that they don’t love me for myself, but because I amuse them. When I am too old to dance, they will forget me. But right now, while they adore me, I will take their money and their gifts and smile at their praises. I’ll have rich men for lovers, men who would never have looked at me before I became famous. I’ll use them as they use me. And when we’re tired of each other. I’ll turn my back on them, go to my little house, and tell them all to go to the devil.
"You still know how to tell a charming lie, I trust?” she asked Fosca.
“I’m not sorry to be staying! I am rather interested in this new era we seem to be entering. As you know I am not opposed to new ideas. I can’t think how you came to be such a prig, dear. Your father’s legacy, I suppose. The Loredans always were rather stuffy."
“Don’t be a fool, boy! Fosca is a good girl. She was as faithful to you as you deserved. But the heart has a long memory, as you will learn. Don’t be an idiot. Forget your pride. Don’t let happiness slip away from you again. Forgive, and live.”
“You mean—your mother—?”
“Concocted the whole fairy tale,” he nodded. “She was brilliant, wasn’t she? By God, she should have been a lawyer herself: ‘You heard my son admit—!’ Oh, she was splendid. A true Venetian noblewoman to the very end, spinning her fantastic lies so charmingly that everyone believed them. I nearly believed her myself!”