Playing by Heart

by Carmela Martino

  “Come,” Maria said. “Let’s keep praying.”

  We kneeled again and began reciting another rosary. I tried to keep hope. I thought of how, even though Vincenzo’s birth had been difficult, both he and Mamma had survived. I prayed with all my heart that would happen this time, too.

  By the end of the rosary, my knees ached. I shifted my weight, but it didn’t help. Maria, on the other hand, showed no signs of discomfort. I think she could have remained on her knees all day and night. She began a third rosary. I prayed with her awhile longer, trying to ignore my discomfort. When I couldn’t bear it anymore, I stood. Pain shot up from my knees into my thighs. I offered up the pain as a prayer for Mamma as I waited for the strength to return to my legs.

  The rain had stopped. Except for the murmur of Maria’s prayers, all was silent. I wondered what was going on upstairs. Would anyone come fetch us if there was news? Perhaps I should go and see what I could learn. In a moment, I thought. When my knees feel better.

  I sat again and gazed up at the alabaster statue of the Blessed Mother. Her white face glowed softly in the light of the votive candles. Yet the Madonna’s downcast eyes seemed sadder than usual.

  Suddenly the air stirred. I glanced at the door, but it was still shut. Maria must have sensed it, too, for she stopped praying. When I turned again to the statue, the face was shrouded in flickering shadows. The votive flames that had burned brightly a moment ago quivered violently now, as though someone had brushed past them.

  The hair rose on my arms. Sitting there, watching the quivering flames, I knew. It was Mamma, come to say goodbye.

  “No!” I cried out. “You can’t leave us.”

  My voice echoed through the chapel. Then all was quiet.

  The candle flames righted themselves, again bathing the Madonna’s face in light. The flickering shadows were gone. And so was Mamma.

  Second Movement: February 1737 - October 1737

  Chapter Nine: Cerulean Madonna

  My new baby sister lived only a few hours. We buried her and Mamma together. Giovanni and Alessandro came home for the funeral, but they returned to boarding school the next day. They seemed relieved to go. I didn’t blame them. The pall hanging over our palazzo felt heavier than the black mourning drapes on the windows. Even the little ones were quieter than usual.

  Father locked himself in his study and suspended all our lessons. But that didn’t keep Maria from burying herself in her books.

  I, on the other hand, couldn’t even enter the harpsichord salon. I don’t know why. Perhaps I thought if I punished myself enough God would have pity and bring Mamma back.

  Heaven knows how long I would have gone on that way if not for Maestro Tomassini. About a month after Mamma’s death, he sent sheet music for several new pieces along with a letter admonishing me not to let my fingers grow lazy. At the end of the letter, he repeated his condolences on Mamma’s passing then added with uncharacteristic kindness, “I commend you to find solace in music—it is the best medicine for sorrow.”

  The maestro’s words blurred as I fought tears. Could he be right? Could music chip away the frozen blackness surrounding my heart?

  Before I could try the new pieces, I had to tune the harpsichord. That took longer than usual because I’d left it idle for so long.

  When I finally sat down to play, I began with something familiar, Pachelbel’s Canon in D. My fingers remembered the keys well enough, but the music gave me no comfort. Instead, the iciness in my chest seemed to expand.

  I played one piece after another. None of them expressed the depth of my sorrow. Finally, I began composing a sonata of my own. The maestro had taught me a little music theory, and I’d tinkered with writing music before. But this was different. My life suddenly depended on this work. If I failed, I feared my heart would remain frozen forever.

  Day after day, I sat at the harpsichord trying out various combinations of chords, keys, and tempos. Nothing felt right.

  Weeks passed. Then, late one evening, I closed my eyes and played without thinking. By shutting out all light and focusing on the darkness within me, I began to find my way. Gradually, over the course of many days, I worked out an opening movement that at least hinted at my profound sadness. Only then did I transcribe the notes to paper.

  For the second movement, I again closed my eyes and let my fingers lead me. The music that came out this time was not so somber. As I played, images of Mamma appeared in my mind—singing me to sleep with a lullaby, holding me when I was sick, standing behind me brushing my hair. I translated those images into music as best I could.

  In between my sessions at the harpsichord, life limped on. The month of March brought heavy snow and the Lenten fast. Neither was of consequence to me. I never went outside, and I ate only enough to sustain my strength for the long hours at the keyboard.

  I began working on the third movement of my sonata in early April. More glimpses of light seeped into the music as I recalled Mamma’s soft smiles, her patience with the little ones, her approval of my needlework. Then one day anger flared up within me. With Mamma gone, who would cherish me now? Certainly not Father.

  I struck the keyboard with both hands. A harsh dissonance filled the room. My fingers trembled from the fierceness of my feelings.

  I clasped my hands together. “I need you, Mamma,” I cried out. “Where are you?”

  A shadow crossed the salon. Naldo had come in at dusk to light the candles. They still burned brightly, but the light in the room seemed somehow different.

  I thought of Mamma’s words on the night of Epiphany, when she’d told me of her disturbing dream. She must have foreseen her own death, yet she’d promised, “I will help you in any way I am able.” Could she be trying to help me now, from beyond the grave?

  I glanced about the salon. “Mamma, are you here?”

  There it was again, an almost imperceptible shifting of the light. A log cracked in the fireplace. As I turned toward the sound, my eyes fell on the painting to the right of the mantle—a portrait of the Madonna and infant Jesus surrounded by four angels. The Madonna was covered from head to foot in cloth of deep cerulean blue, the same color Mamma had been wearing when I last saw her alive.

  “Oh, Mamma,” I cried. “How am I to manage without you?”

  There was no answer. I stared at the painting. The Madonna held baby Jesus in a protective embrace, gazing down on him with love.

  I closed my eyes. A warmth enveloped me. That’s when I knew—Mamma was here. I leaned into her embrace. All the anger drained from me.

  My hands went to the keyboard. With my eyes still closed, I finished the sonata. The final movement contained moments of both joy and anger, but it ended with the calm I’d felt in Mamma’s embrace.

  After transcribing the notes to paper, I looked back at the painting of the cerulean Madonna. I pointed the feather of my quill at the music I’d just written. “This is for you, Mamma.” I wrote at the top of the first sheet, Mamma’s Sonata. As I played it again from beginning to end, my tears fell onto the keyboard.

  I dried the keys with my handkerchief then wiped my face. The candles on the fireplace mantle flickered. A gentle breeze stirred the air, as though Mamma was brushing past me. Then I was again alone.

  Not even death could stop Mamma from keeping her promise. My heart warmed at the thought. At the same time, I recalled my own promise—I’d told Mamma I would do whatever I could to help Maria when she needed me. Yet I had barely spoken to my sister in ages. Had I already failed her?

  I got up immediately and went to our room. There, I found Nina helping Maria out of her gown. I was shocked to see how much thinner my sister had grown in the three months since Mamma’s death. How could I have not noticed?

  After helping me undress, too, Nina left. Maria and I knelt to say our prayers. I silently begged God’s forgiveness for failing Mamma and vowed to do better.

  ***

  Maria, however, did not make it easy. The next day, on our way to the mid
day meal, I told her of my concern. “You must eat more. You’re wasting away.”

  “I’m fasting for Lent.”

  “Your fasting is too extreme,” I said. “I fear for your health.”

  Maria gave me a weak smile. “Do not fret, Emmi. I am eating enough to maintain my strength.”

  The evidence, however, was to the contrary. At table, Maria took only a crust of bread and a tiny sliver of cheese. She finished both, but that was all. My meager portion seemed gluttonous in comparison.

  Day after day, my sister ignored my pleas to eat more. I had to find another way.

  I thought of Father locked away in his study. He was, no doubt, as unaware of Maria’s condition as I had been. If he commanded Maria to eat, she would surely obey.

  I mustered my courage and knocked on the door of Father’s study.

  “Who’s there?” Father’s voice sounded tired.

  “It is I, Emilia. May I have a word, Signor Padre?”

  “Enter.”

  Father, who always sat so straight and tall, was slumped in a chair before the fireplace, staring at the dying embers. I shivered at the cold.

  “What is it, Daughter?” The quietness of his voice surprised me, as did the paleness of his face. Wrinkles I’d never noticed before now rimmed his eyes.

  “It’s about Maria, Signor Padre. I am worried for her health.”

  “Maria?” Father rubbed his eyes as though I’d wakened him from a deep sleep. “Is she ill?”

  “No,” I said, “but I fear she soon will be. She has grown even thinner since …” I couldn’t bring myself to say “since Mamma’s death.”

  I began again. “Maria has grown terribly thin. She says she’s fasting for Lent, but I believe the true reason runs deeper. She eats almost nothing.” My eyes fell on the table beside Father’s chair. The stuffed trout on his plate appeared untouched. Maria wasn’t the only one who wasn’t eating.

  “Is that so?” Sorrow lurked behind the fatigue in Father’s eyes. Mamma’s death had left him as bereft as the rest of us. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much he’d loved her. I swallowed the sadness that rose in my throat.

  Father turned back to the dying fire. “I’m afraid I’ve been too preoccupied to notice any change in your sister. I had charged Mademoiselle Duval with supervising all of you, not only the little ones. Obviously, she has failed in her duties.”

  I hadn’t expected Father to blame our governess for Maria’s lack of appetite. In addition to watching over us, Mademoiselle Duval had taken over management of the household. “Perhaps Mademoiselle Duval has too many duties now.” The words slipped out without my thinking. I cringed in anticipation of Father’s anger.

  But there was only sadness in his voice. “Yes, it is a great deal of responsibility for one person.” He straightened in his chair. “It is time I find a remedy for the situation.”

  Father stood, walked to the fireplace, and took the iron poker from its stand. He stirred the dying embers until the fire sparked back to life. “Meanwhile, I shall take a more active role in household affairs.” He returned the poker to its stand. “Tell your sister I wish to speak with her.” His voice grew stronger as he added, “Then have Nina send Mademoiselle Duval to me.”

  “Sì, Signor Padre.” Relieved, I curtsied and ran off to find Maria. Yet, despite my relief, my heart flapped about like a wounded bird. I couldn’t help wondering: Would Father have acted as quickly if I had been the one starving myself and not Maria?

  I clenched my fist to my bodice at the thought. How could I still envy Maria after all we’d been through? I vowed to confess my sin to Padre Gilberto as soon as possible.

  ***

  In the following weeks, I watched closely to make sure Maria ate well and took fresh air and exercise. To my great relief, she gradually filled out. A spring glow bloomed on her cheeks.

  I believed I’d succeeded in keeping my promise to Mamma. I had no idea then of the perils that yet lay ahead for both of us.

  Chapter Ten: New Lessons

  After I completed Mamma’s Sonata, my head began bursting with music—music that required the voices of several instruments, not only the harpsichord. I couldn’t properly compose such pieces without more knowledge of music theory. When Father announced our lessons would resume the first week of May, I saw my chance. I would convince Maestro Tomassini I was worthy of such knowledge.

  My plan was to be playing Mamma’s Sonata when the maestro arrived for our next lesson. By God’s grace, Maestro Tomassini would find enough good in my composition to want to teach me more.

  The morning of my lesson, I sat waiting at the harpsichord, my sheet music propped before me even though the sonata was already engraved on my heart. The balcony doors stood open to the warm spring air. A pair of sparrows happily chreep-chreeped in the garden.

  I glanced at the portrait of the cerulean Madonna embracing baby Jesus and whispered, “Mamma, give me strength.”

  At the first bing-bong of the basilica bells chiming the hour, I began to play.

  Bing-bong, bing-bong, …

  I put the sound out of my mind and focused on the music, my music.

  “What’s this?”

  I started at the maestro’s voice. My hand slipped and struck a wrong note. The bells must have drowned out his footsteps.

  I played on as Maestro Tomassini set his satchel on a chair and came over to stand beside me. “This isn’t one of the pieces I sent you,” he said in an accusing tone.

  I shook my head. I couldn’t speak. Playing the first movement had rekindled my sorrow. I closed my eyes. I will not cry, I told myself. I will let my fingers express my feelings.

  As I played the transition into the second movement, the emotions welling up within me poured into the music—anger, sorrow, and loss blended with peace, joy, and love. But now I wondered if I’d broken the rules of music composition by merging together such discordant feelings. I pushed the worries aside. Instead, I imagined Mamma sitting nearby in her cerulean blue gown, listening with an open heart.

  In the middle of the third and final movement, I felt the air stir, not from the balcony, but from behind me. Mamma. My eyes still closed, I leaned into her loving embrace. As I played the ending coda, a profound sense of peace filled me.

  I let my hands fall to my lap. Thank you, Mamma.

  The maestro cleared his throat. I opened my eyes to see him wiping his nose with a handkerchief. Were those tears in his eyes?

  “How did you come by this piece?” he asked.

  “I wrote it.”

  The maestro’s eyes widened. Before he could say anything more, I quickly added, “I know I have much to learn about music theory. Please, will you teach me, Maestro?”

  “You? Wrote this?” He took my sheet music from the harpsichord and read the title aloud, “Mamma’s Sonata.” He studied the composition, nodding his head slightly at different parts. When he reached the end, the maestro said again, “You wrote this?” He fixed his eyes on mine. “On your own? With no one’s help?”

  “Sì, Maestro. I know it needs work, but I really want to learn. Will you teach me? Per favore.”

  “Well …” He looked back down at my music. “Of course it needs work …” He frowned. “I would never …”

  My heart tightened. He would never what? Teach me?

  The maestro seemed shaken. The pages trembled in his hands. He moved away from the harpsichord and sat down.

  Was he angry? I thought not. I’d seen him angry before, and he’d never acted like this. Perhaps he was unwell. That had to be it.

  I got up from the bench. “Are you ill, Maestro? Would you like a glass of water?”

  He nodded. “Sì, water would be good.”

  I filled a goblet from the pitcher Naldo had left on a side table then handed it to the maestro.

  “Grazie.” The maestro laid my music in his lap and took a long drink. I stood by, still waiting for the answer to my question.

  He handed the goblet
back. “I have been a fool!”

  His words startled me.

  Maestro Tomassini rose to his feet, taking my music in hand again. “You proved yourself to me over and over, yet I stubbornly refused to acknowledge it. Simply because you were, you are, a girl!” He paced the room now, his long, violin-bow arms gesturing as he spoke. “I expected you to regress while I was in Venice, but instead your musical abilities advanced by leaps and bounds. Even so, rather than admit your extraordinary talents, I convinced myself you’d show your weakness at the governor’s reception, performing before so many important dignitaries. Yet you played better than ever, better than any male student of your age. And now, now this …” He stopped and waved my music at me.

  I stared in confusion. What was he saying?

  “My stubbornness has cost us precious time. I could have taught you so much by now.” His face suddenly brightened. “But perhaps it’s not too late. Perhaps God will forgive my hardheadedness. I must speak with your father immediately. If he consents, we’ll begin your new lessons this very day.” The maestro hurried from the room, still clutching my music.

  His words swirled in my mind. All this time, the maestro had been impressed with my abilities but wouldn’t admit it. Just because I was a girl.

  I’d thought it was because I wasn’t good enough. In truth, I was better than good enough. Maestro Tomassini had said so himself—I had “extraordinary talents.” The very words Father had used to describe Maria’s abilities. And, at this moment, the maestro was seeking Father’s permission to begin my new lessons in music theory!

  I danced about the harpsichord salon, hugging myself for joy. When I ended up on the balcony, I leaned against the railing to catch my breath. The breeze carried the sweet scent of magnolia blossoms from below. Again I heard the happy chreep-chreep of sparrows. Oh, what a glorious day!

  I didn’t blame Maestro Tomassini for dismissing my talents. How could I, when most people, men and women alike, believed a woman’s mind inferior to a man’s? I only wished God had opened his eyes sooner. Then I wouldn’t have spent so much time doubting my abilities. I would have understood that Count Riccardi wasn’t simply being polite when he said I played beautifully and that Abbot Zanetti wasn’t trying to be rid of me when he called my talent stupendous.