A letter written, but never sent. Tucked instead inside a box, nimble fingers leafing through old pages to find the appropriate place in the pile - no, not here, but here, yes, after the book of memories for Genevra's first tooth, first step, first birthday, yes, and then the letter is slid into place at the bottom. Cosimina steps back, looks at the box and nods, satisfied.

"I do not need to read it again," she says aloud. "I know my own words by heart. But you will never know them. And, after all, why should you? You should not; your fate is secure." A faint, bittersweet smile tugs up the edges of her mouth, neither happily nor unhappily, and then she turns to move to her window, open to the twinkling lights of Venice's night skyline, to the rippling of the water in the canal below.

The stars are very beautiful tonight, Paolo. Thank you for giving them to me. Do you realize that this is the three hundredth letter that I have written you? Of course you do not, for I have never told you of them. It is not for you to know; but in these silent pages I may write the contents of my heart and know that they will never tell you.

Again I am with child - twins, this time. No, noone was more surprised than me, Paolo. How could they be? I did not intend to receive your seed that night. I did not intend to see you at all. I thought that you would be at your other home, with your other wife. My dear, I do not know what possessed you to come and see me. Was it Signora Donetti again, claiming where you would hear that I would be receiving a wealthy visitor that night? But you arrived and found me alone. Even Genevra was not at home.

You were very jealous, my lion of the waters, and very angry. I took such delight in your anger, though never where you might see. And I goaded you, in the hopes that your anger and your hatred at least might mean that you feel something for me. I would wish that you loved me, but I know that is impossible. And how could you?

I am the evil one, as I know your other wife must whisper in your ear waking and sleeping, dripping her honeyed complaints into the shell of your being whenever she might. I drive you to such lengths; I give you nothing, but take, take, always I take. Really, Paolo, she does not see what it is that compels you so about me, for I am nothing but a carnivorous beast - beautiful perhaps, though she does not comprehend what is so particular to my appearance, when I so plainly make no effort save to clothe myself in other men's money. And you, you have dipped yourself in blood and gone to my lair, and here I do nothing but suck you dry.

Is that what you believe, my dark prince? You were so very angry, and you so very nearly did not get out of the way when I threw that pitcher at your head. I saw the fine tracing of a thread of your blood, like cobweb silk, fly from by your ear; but you never noticed. You threw me down on the bed and our passions rose to cover us.

I threw you out of my bed afterwards. 'Go away, Paolo,' I told you. 'I must sleep, I have no time for your snoring and your elbows.' And you went, and my heart went out to you, you muttering as you took a blanket and left my arms. I wished that I could hold you, cradle your black waves to my breast as we drifted away to nothing. But we cannot have that, can we? It must always be that I hide myself from you. I cannot tell you. You must discover that window without my guidance.

And then I woke, and you had gone, and I thought of you constantly but told you, told myself that I thought nothing of it. Genevra came home with a pound of sweet shrimps, and we had that with the carbonara and fresh tomato. And the next morning, I thought that my world was ending.

I thought that I would die there, Paolo, so undignified! I thought that my life would end, ebbing out through my mouth with the lining of my stomach. And my thoughts were selfish, I admit. I pitied that Genevra would be all that was left of me, I pitied that you would not miss me. I wished that you were there to hold my head, and I feared that you would find relief in my passing, that you would insist that your other wife would have the raising of my daughter, and that even my memory would be poisoned in her heart. I am selfish, I know.

And then as time went on, I realized the truth, gondolier. That in our passion, you had given me your seed and it had taken hold. Again under my heart I carry your children, not one this time but two. Will you faint when I tell you? I very nearly did myself, though never would you believe it. Cosimina does not faint. Cosimina is strong, and proud, and cruel, and heartless. She does not ask. She demands. I wonder if you will believe how much I adore you, now more than ever? When I carry your children, I can pretend for just a little while that you love me, and not just our commingled purpose.

But you will never read this, my heart's darling, and that is the only reason that I may put these words to paper. If I thought that you ever would read these, I would burn them so that the words would glitter upon the air as they vanished. Cosimina may not be weak. She may not give in to a man who does not love her. Love will forever remain my closed book, and I do not wish to love you, my angel of the canals. But I do, and so it is fated to be, until Venice has sunk to the silent depths forever. And that is what we must work to avoid, and so I must love you, forever and until time itself ends us. My darling, my love, I pour all of my words onto these pages so that they will not pass my lips! Perhaps in the next life my lips may part as they cannot in this. But the children will make you smile, as I cannot.

My chest will forever have an empty hole, and how right they are to call me heartless. For my heart, it goes with you...

Cosimina smiles bitterly, looking up at the stars. "Such nonsense," she speaks aloud, knowing that there is noone there to hear her. "But you will never know, Paolo. Even the waters cannot tell you what they have not seen. And tonight, when you roll over into your Rosalie's arms, I wonder, will it be her arms you think of?" Shaking her head, she retreats again from the window with the quiet rustle of silk, and behind her the panes of glass close to reflect the detached light of the distant and uncaring stars.

Posted by Maire at January 19, 2005 09:23 PM