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each other. If their correspondence ever fell into the wrong hands, there would be an explosion “that would reduce everything to a pile of rubble.” Still he deluged Giustiniana with letters and notes, often filling them with practical advice and detailed descriptions of his frantic chases around town. “We are completely mad. . . . If only you knew how afraid I am that your mother might find out we are seeing each other again.”
    It was a glorious adventure. There were times when they managed to get close enough to steal a quick embrace in an alcove at the Ridotto or in the dark streets near the theaters at San Moisè, and the thrill was always powerful. “Last night, I swear,” Andrea wrote to his beloved the morning after one of these rare encounters, “you were so heated up, oh so heated up, such a beautiful girl, and I was on fire.” But in the beginning they tended to hold back. They made their moves with deliberation. They kept each other at a safe distance: lovemaking was mostly limited to what their eyes could see and what their eyes could say.
    It is easy to imagine how, in a city where both men and women wore masks during a good portion of the year, the language of the eyes would become all-important. And what was true in general was especially true for Andrea and Giustiniana on account of the rigid restrictions that had been imposed on them. Andrea was being very literal when he asked anxiously, “Today my lips will not be able to tell you how much I love you. . . . But there will be other ways. . . . Will you understand what my eyes will be saying to you?” What their eyes said was not always sweet and not always clear. With such strong emotions at play, it could take days to clear up a misunderstanding precipitated by a wrong look or an averted gaze. One night, Andrea returned to Ca’ Memmo after a particularly frustrating attempt to make contact with Giustiniana. It had taken him all evening and a great deal of effort and ingenuity to find her at one of the theaters. Yet in the end she had displayed none of the usual complicity that made even the briefest encounter a moment of joy. In fact, she had been so annoying as to make him wish he had not seen her at all:
    Yesterday I tried desperately to see you. Before lunch the gondoliers could not serve me. After lunch I went looking for you
in Campo Santo Stefano. Nothing. So I walked toward Piazza
San Marco, and when I arrived at the bridge of San Moisè I ran
into Lucrezia Pisani! 4 I gave her my hand on the bridge, and
then I saw you. I left her immediately and went looking for you
everywhere. Finally I found you in the piazza. I sent Alvisetto
ahead to find out whether you were on your way to the opera or to
the new play at the Teatro Sant’Angelo, so that I could rush over
to get a box in time. Then I forged ahead and waited for you,
filled with desire. Finally you arrived and I went up to my box so
that I could contemplate you—not only for the sheer pleasure I
take in admiring you but also in the hope of receiving a sign of
acknowledgment as a form of consolation. But you did nothing of
the sort. Instead you laughed continuously, made loud noises
until the end of the show, for which I was both sorry and angry—
as you can well imagine.
    A few days later Andrea tracked her down after yet another chase along crowded streets and across canals. This time the reward was well worth the pursuit:
    I caught sight of your mother and hoped you would be with her.
I looked for you left and right. Nothing. Your mother left, I followed. She went to San Moisè, I went to San Moisè. In fact, I got
so close to her that we would have bumped into each other at the
entrance of a
bottega
if I had not been so quick. . . . [Later] I
waited in vain for Alvisetto, whom I had instructed to follow your
mother. . . . Then I got your letter telling me that you would be
going to San Benetto, so I rushed over only to realize with regret
that you had already arrived and that