The Lover’s Path

by Waldherr, Kris

  “Another poem,” she murmured, tracing the words with a fingertip. “His riches do not buy him the muse’s favor. This time he writes that since I would not see him last night, he will not wear this mask to protect himself from illness. He would tempt death for a glimpse of my golden hair and silver eyes....” She laughed, a bell-like sound. “Poor man! He could be writing of anyone resembling me. For example, my sister—she looks like me. Wouldn’t you agree, noble signore?”

  She arched a delicate eyebrow at Angelo.

  I strained my ears to hear his low words. “Many things look the same but are different. Water looks like spirits. Wine looks like blood.... You are different from your sister.”

  Then he rose and bowed stiffly to Tullia. As he left, his eyes did not even slide my way.

  Once the door closed behind Angelo, Caterina asked, “What did he want?”

  “To offer his father’s compliments.” Tullia waved a hand dismissively. “I know his father frequents another courtesan, so it’s not what you think, Caterina. Frankly, I was surprised to see the son last night here. No doubt he’s returned to Venice because of his mother’s death. I’ve heard they were very close.” She smiled to herself. “Perhaps he seeks to soothe his grief.”

  “I would not recommend he soothe his grief with you.” Caterina frowned. “He is full of righteous anger. Such men are dangerous. You’d be better accepting Signore Matteo, even if he is a fool.”

  “I suppose you’re correct,” Tullia answered thoughtfully. “I will refuse Signore Angelo’s overtures if the time comes. But I do sympathize with his plight. After all, consider his birth—children of his rank are only brought into the world to advance their parents’ fortunes. This winter, he will marry, whether he likes it or not.” And here Tullia mentioned Angelo’s betrothed, the youngest daughter of a family known for their immense political power. “If he does not wed her,” my sister continued, “his father will lose whatever influence he has gained in Rome.”

  As I listened, I averted my eyes from Tullia’s. At that time of my life, my face revealed every thought that coursed through me, like currents disturbing a pond’s calm surface. Despite my efforts, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I thought of Angelo’s book, remembering how the sky seemed to shatter into color and light as we danced in the garden.

  My sister turned to me; again, my nerves rose. “I’d nearly forgotten I’d called for you, Filamena. Can you sing for me, my sweet nightingale? I’ve a headache from all that wine.”

  I should have been relieved, but I wasn’t. For the remainder of the afternoon, I felt a grey silence within me, a disappointment I refused to name.

  By the time Tullia finished posing, enough hours had passed that a servant had lit candles against the approaching night. I was relieved to be freed of my duties, and to be alone with my troubled thoughts once more. As I walked down the dark, deserted corridor toward my own room, the cool air felt like a soothing caress upon my brow.

  Suddenly a hand grabbed mine. Startled, I looked up to see Angelo, his expression intent as he led me into the shadows beneath an archway.

  “Did you receive my book?” he whispered, his words a low rush.

  “Have you been waiting for me all this time?” I countered, remembering his intimate banter with my sister. Her perfume still lingered about him, insistent and voluptuous.

  When Angelo nodded, it seemed as though spring had returned after a long, cold winter. But then I remembered his betrothed. I did not waste a moment.

  I took a deep breath and curtseyed low before him.

  “Signore, I beg your forgiveness for my forwardness, but I would like to compose music. You have heard my sister speak of her plans for my future. Though I understand she follows my mother’s will, to give up music forever ... it would break my heart as much as the loss of a beloved mother.” I snuck a look at Angelo to judge the effect of my words; his expression was still. “I seek a patron to assist me—”

  “A patron?”

  I nodded as humbly as I could. “Perhaps one such as your esteemed father. His devotion to music is famed. Could you speak to him on my behalf?”

  As I said this, my voice trembled with desperation and fear. What if he refused to help?

  Irritation weighed his brow as he pulled me up from the floor. “If you depend on the power of others, you will have none of your own,” he answered. “Is that what you desire, Filamena? A life of servitude, of inconsequence in a gilded cage?”

  Though his question upset me, I steadfastly clung to my intentions, ignoring the voice of my heart. I quickly spoke anew of my love of music, of my sister’s desire to spare me from the world’s fickle nature. “I wish to write my own songs. To make my own life whatever that may be.”

  “Time and talent will reveal your songs to you. You have no need of my father for that.” His expression softened at my distress. “If you insist, I will speak to him. But is this all I can offer you?”

  And then his eyes looked deeply into mine. In his intense gaze, I saw frustration, rebellion, and longing—and I saw myself. And, in that moment, dear Patroness, I knew I would follow him upon the lover’s path wherever it might lead.

  How can one describe the first embrace of lovers? I had seen my sister kiss. I had seen men weep for her favors. Innocent as I was, there was much that I knew, more than I would have wished. I had no illusions, no romantic visions. I understood Angelo and I could never be together, that neither his father nor Tullia would allow it; he would wed whomever his father wanted whenever he decided. Yet I forgot all of this as his arms encircled mine. Though we did nothing but stare chastely at each other, it was at this moment that I learned that love creates love, for I sensed his and it gave birth to mine.

  He murmured, his mouth so close to my ear I could feel his warmth, “We are meant to be together.”

  Caterina’s steps echoed down the hallway. I pulled away before she could spy us.

  “I must see you again,” he whispered urgently. “When?”

  Now that I am older, I understand that the language of love is better served by music than by words, which only confuse, granting satisfaction to neither author nor reader. The years have taught me how unsatisfying descriptions of passion are. They are like dried flowers forced to pass for fresh—only a faded skeleton remains of what once thrived. I can use words to describe how I loved Angelo, how he loved me. They seem empty and pallid when I remember how I felt that summer so long ago when I was a girl of sixteen. Regardless, I will do my best, my dearest Patroness, to describe all that happened as best I can.

  The next day, I waited for Angelo in the walled garden behind our palazzo—yes, the same garden where we’d danced so ecstatically during La Sensa. No one was home save my maid, Laura. Tullia had gone out with her servants to call upon Matteo, intending to offer a crumb of attention to silence his yearning; though she said she’d be away several hours, I feared her early return. As I paced back and forth in the garden between the herb bed, the orange tree, and the ivy-laden walls, I thought of my music and of Angelo. Somehow they’d become entwined within me, each granting new life to the other.

  When Angelo arrived, Laura led him into the garden and withdrew, blushing. Now alone, we stared at each other like the strangers were were. I opened my lips but no words came forth, my mouth gaping wide like a fool’s. As his eyes met mine, I saw the flush on his face fade, and how many colors made up the darkness of his eyes; the length of his eyelashes, the new stubble on his cheeks. A scar marked the base of his strong chin, a wound he later told me he’d earned while swimming during a storm in defiance of his father.

  He looked down and took my hands. I did not pull away. I tried not to think of Tullia, of her sacrifices on my behalf, her promise to our mother. Instead, I remembered how his hands had looked when he offered me that plum at La Sensa. These were the same hands that now held mine.

  “I’ve thought only of this moment since we first met,” Angelo confessed. “It has been so difficult to dr
aw near you. You are like a princess in a tower, a nightingale in a cage.”

  “My sister would say that she and I are like two doves, impossible to separate one from the other,” I replied, with a bitterness that surprised me.

  “Doves may promise loyalty, but they also promise freedom.”

  “She would forbid me to speak to you.”

  “As would my father.” He raised his chin. “But I don’t care, Filamena. Nor should you.”

  Silence. I heard a bumblebee gather pollen from a nearby rose.

  Angelo reached to stroke my cheek. I hesitantly touched his hair. It was soft, vibrant. Sparrows called from one side of the garden, seabirds from the other. Their mingled songs sounded in a new music.

  His voice grew tender. “I first heard you sing several weeks ago, from a boat outside the wall of your garden. I had just returned to Venice from Rome, just learned of my mother’s death. There was such beauty in your voice, yet such ferocity. It spoke of everything inside me I could not express. I returned to listen to you every day after that. I even came on the days it rained, in case you appeared. I know how ridiculous this must sound, but I had to know who you were. When I asked my father who lived in your palazzo, he told me it was the home of a great courtesan.”

  “And what of this great courtesan?” I prompted. As if possessing him with my gaze, I ran my eyes over the lines of his stubborn brow, the thick waves of his hair, now gleaming in the late afternoon sun.

  He leaned close, his voice a hoarse promise. “I learned she was your sister. Then I heard you at La Sensa, and I searched no more.”

  Looking back, I believe Angelo and I could have remained there forever, bound by each other’s stares. But Laura rushed in, her face pale. “Your sister—” she warned. I heard Tullia call to Caterina, asking for me as she made her way toward the garden.

  Though he’d been away for several years, it was here that Angelo proved himself a true son of Venice. He pressed a heavy envelope into my hands. Before I could react, I heard the tearing of vines, the scattering of sparrows—he had climbed the garden wall and dove fearlessly into the canal on the other side. His body was a perfect arc of intent before it sliced the murky green water beyond.

  Later, when I was alone in my room, I remembered his envelope and sliced it open. Inside, I found three golden coins and a blank sheet of paper.

  Stroking the fragile paper under my fingers, I was moved to reverently kiss the empty page. To my astonishment, words emerged upon the white surface, as though the warmth of my breath had released them from a prison of ice.

  His handwriting challenged:

  Did Danae see the fortune before her, the lover’s path? Or did she count her gold coins and think of escape?

  With this, I opened his red book for the first time since I’d hidden it beneath my bed. I examined the maps, touched the pages as though caressing his hand. I imagined the sea wrapped about his torso as he swam away from the garden, the currents swirling against his arms in neat, regular patterns.

  When I hid his book away, his first letter fell out from the binding. To truly love another, you must follow the lover’s path, I read again.

  And so Angelo and I began to meet regularly in the garden. Now that I understood the secret of his book, we read many pages together in that hidden bower. It was also there that I sang for him, his presence infusing my voice with a new passion. Miraculously, he always appeared at my palazzo door while Tullia was away. I later learned that he waited in the piazza every day, hoping for the sight of my sister, dressed in her famed red cloak and accompanied by her servants, on the way to an assignation. Once Angelo saw Tullia in the piazza, he knew she would be gone for some hours, during which time I would be alone except for Laura, whom I had sworn to secrecy.

  As spring turned to summer, he and I watched the walled garden turn fragrant with honeysuckle, basil, and roses. The orange tree flowered, then turned green. I dared not think what winter would bring.

  It was during the week the orange tree began to bear fruit that Tullia came to my room as I lay awake one night, mulling over that afternoon’s visit with Angelo. As he’d left, he’d sworn he’d find a way for us to be together. But how? I couldn’t imagine it, though my heart hoped.

  “I need to speak to you, Filamena,” Tullia began, her dulcet voice betraying nothing. I shifted in my bed, fearful she’d discovered some evidence of Angelo, such as his red book or letters. Yet I could not avoid gazing at her in wonder. Even in the darkness, my sister shone like a deity. Her light hair shimmered loose about the shoulders of her gown. About her neck, I saw a brilliant flash of red, of cream—Matteo’s ruby and pearl necklace rested in the hollow of her throat like an expensive noose. I’d thought she’d returned it.

  “I know this will be a surprise,” my sister murmured as she reached down to stroke my brow, just as she would when I was a small child. “I’ve decided we should leave Venice for the summer. Signore Matteo has invited us to his new villa in the countryside. We leave tomorrow morning.”

  My face must have turned still as stone, for she quickly added, “There is still too much illness here. I would not have you exposed to such danger.”

  “I’d thought you’d refused him,” I protested, my breath tight. Yet I was relieved she hadn’t discovered my secrets. “You disdain him.”

  She winced. “There are more important things than what I desire. In the light of this sickness....”

  I turned from her. “I don’t want to leave Venice.”

  “I don’t understand. I would have thought you’d be happy to travel. You’re always begging to see the world.”

  “I want to stay here,” I cried. “I won’t get sick. I promise. How could I? You never allow me to step foot outside.”

  “No one understands how the illness chooses its victims—I couldn’t bear if anything should happen. And I made a sacred promise to our mother to look after you. To protect you.”

  Tullia paused to let her words settle, reminding me yet again of her sacrifice. It was overwhelming. I felt as though I was drowning in her love. I began to weep; in those days, I seeped water as easily as a fountain.

  “Shush, Filamena. Hush....” She stroked my cheek to soothe me. “When I was packing, I found something special. I’ve been intending to give this to you for some time. I think you’re finally old enough.”

  My sister placed in my hands a small portrait encased in a silver frame. The palm-sized painting depicted a young woman with gold hair, eyes the color of smoked glass, an imperious nose, and a long neck. A woman who looked much like me. Much like Tullia.

  “Our mother,” Tullia explained. “It was painted when she was about your age. You can see by her white dress how innocent she was then, much like you. I never showed this to you before because I worried it would remind you of our loss.”

  My sister cupped my face in her palms, dropping her head to meet my eyes. She seemed like a lily as she curled over my bed.

  “I remember the day she gave birth to you,” she continued, gazing intently at me. “The sea surrounded you before you even drew your first breath. After she and Papa drowned in that storm, we journeyed from island to island, never resting until we found our home here. Water and sorrow—that is how we found our way; that is where your music comes from.”

  As Tullia spoke, the portrait of my mother seemed to burn into my palm. Suddenly I was reminded of a morning when I was not yet four years old—not the first day I’d heard Tullia play her lute, but the first time I understood it was her hands conjuring those heavenly sounds from gut and wood. In wonder, I had reached for her as if trying to embrace the sun with my two small arms.

  “And what of our father?” I ventured. “Have you a painting of him?”

  Tullia frowned, letting her hands fall away. “I’ve said enough for one night. Sorrow shared is sorrow multiplied.”

  She smoothed the coverlet about me, and placed the portrait on the table beside my bed. Knowing from experience that further questio
ning would yield no harvest, I turned my head into my pillow. Under Tullia’s watchful eyes, I pretended to sleep.

  Several moments passed before I heard her close my door behind her. Then I opened my eyes. I lit the smallest candle in my room. I took out the portrait of my mother, and stared at it until exhaustion overtook me.

  I DROWN WITH DESIRE. ONLY MY BELOVED CAN SAVE ME.

  When King Mark of Cornwall decided to marry, he sent his trusted knight Tristan to fetch Isolde, his Irish bride. But Isolde vowed she would rather die than wed a man she considered an enemy to her people. She also vowed Tristan would die too for his loyalty to Mark. To accomplish this, Isolde mixed poisons in a cup, but inadvertently created a potion more powerful than death—anyone tasting of it would know love beyond reason. As soon as they drank from the cup, Tristan and Isolde were joined in heart and body. The lovers gave way to their desire, taking risks only the most foolhardy would contemplate.

  The next morning, we did not leave for Matteo’s country villa as Tullia had planned. Instead, the skies opened in one of those sudden desperate summer storms that last as long as the sun preceding it. By the time the rains ceased, the canals had overflowed, flooding all of Venice for several days.

  Trapped inside by water, I tried not to think of Angelo, and how deeply I missed him. Instead, I distracted myself by staring at the portrait of my mother, pondering all Tullia had confided. I thought of my mother drowning with my father, imagining their final embrace below the sea. Emotion filled me as I yearned for my parents’ presence. How different my life would be if they’d lived! Water and sorrow, my sister had said, that is how we found our way here. Yet my mother did not look sad. I decided that her eyes, so much like mine, told another tale: no matter my sister’s sacrifice, she would not want Tullia to deprive me of love and happiness. My mother may not have wished me to be a virtuosa or to love someone so above my station, but gazing at that treasured portrait, I felt certain she would have understood.