“Of course, Signore,” I say.
In the dampness of the night, I know my heavy hair is curled and massed about my face, that my cheeks are quite a match for the red velvet of my girdle. But he appears enchanted, just the way I dreamed he would be oh, so many, many times.
His hands, when I’ve observed him, have always held a pedestal for wigs. Now they do not hesitate to draw me to him as he reaches down to kiss my neck and shoulders and as he presses me roughly against the rail. The first attentions are delicious, but the second is so indelicate it makes me feel quite breathless. I must wrest my own hands free to push him from me.
“Flirt,” he accuses me in an angry fashion, and uses some coarse words that I don’t fully understand but have heard used in the street.
“Signore,” I say, “you sweep me off my feet. I wish to savor your attentions slowly.”
“D’accordo,” he says. “We’ll play this little game your way. But I must warn you, at Carnival I have no more patience than a hungry child.”
He then proceeds a bit more slowly with his caresses, causing such delightful and unexpected sensations that I begin to feel quite giddy. It’s not until he clasps my bottom with both hands to draw me to him, leans in and thrusts his tongue almost to my throat that I resist again, and with all my might, for surely these are not the gentle attentions of a true lover. Flavio did not comport himself in such a way upon the stage.
“Signore,” I say, wrenching from his grasp and backing away, “I do not understand your intentions.”
“Nor I, yours, it would appear.”
“I thought that we might talk. Might dance.”
He laughs, and I must admit it is a charming, lilting sound, and that his smile is whitely brilliant in the dim light. What have I done to ruin things?
“Might dance? You are a schoolgirl.”
“No, Signore, a true maestra.”
“A schoolgirl, nonetheless. I can’t be bothered with such things. I am apprenticed to a busy man. I do not have the time for this.”
His face is still as handsome as when first I saw him, his form and figure just as dashing. Can he not be, eventually, the gentle lover of my dreams?
“You are disappointed?” I ask.
“I am surprised. You sent for me. Remember?”
Why should my invitation put some rough claim upon me that is altogether unclear? Yet I have thought of no one else but him these many months. I do not want to believe that we have failed each other.
“I will be here tomorrow at this time,” I tell him. “Perhaps we can begin again to come to know each other.”
He laughs once more and gives me a sweet, charming cuff across the chin.
“Perhaps,” he says, and spreads his hands, palms up, as if confounded, and turns and makes his way back down the darkened Riva toward the Piazza San Marco.
I cross immediately to the Calle della Pietà, bumping into revelers as if I’m blind, and lean against the wall beside the Ospedale door to compose myself, for I am strangely shaken. Light from a gibbous moon glistens on the cobblestones all the way to the lagoon, and I think how this is such a perfect night for love. So perfect, and yet so disappointing. His disappointment, too, was clear. But I had not counted on such an impetuous nature, such unbridled passion. I’m certain that given another chance, he will not behave in those same bold ways that troubled me tonight. He must be, even now, composing himself and thinking of a way to make amends. And he will come again. I know he will.
I turn the knob upon the Ospedale door. It’s still unlocked, and inside is a silence as deep as those beautiful few seconds at the very end of a concerto when not a single bow or baton moves. It envelops me like a warm cloak a mother might provide. But then someone’s nose begins to whistle loud enough in sleep to be heard clearly all the way downstairs, and there’s the clatter of an upset pot followed by a shriek. The candles along the hallway have already been extinguished, and I must trail my fingers along the wall to find my way.
AT FIRST LIGHT, I look across at Rosalba’s bed and find her sleeping there, one hand beneath her head, the coverlet pulled to her chin. The other girls are stirring about the room, pulling their dresses down over their heads, arranging their caps, smoothing out the bedclothes. I close my eyes quickly so they’ll think I’m still asleep, something I will be excused for because of my recent illness. But Rosalba will be brought to task this time, I’m certain. There have been too many lapses in attendance of late, too many late arrivals.
As soon as the nosy dawdler, Silvia, heads down to breakfast, I leave my warm bed and shake Rosalba awake.
She mumbles something I can’t understand and turns upon her stomach, one hand hanging limply to the floor. With a great effort, I grasp that hand and the arm and shoulder attached to it and turn her over, causing her to open her eyes wide with a start.
“What . . . what in the world are you doing, Luisa?”
“I’m trying to save your neck,” I tell her. “You must rise at once and breakfast with the others. The second bell has sounded. It’s almost too late already.”
“You’re still here.”
“And have been excused. But you’re courting a punishment this time, I’m sure. All of us saw that you were not in your bed at the proper time last night. One of us will undoubtedly tell if given the chance. Silvia was quicker than usual to be on her way and will certainly tattle if you don’t soon follow.”
Rosalba sits up and rubs the small of her back.
“Why is everyone so concerned for me all of a sudden? You and Anetta, you’ve begun counseling me at every turn as if I possess no reason of my own.”
“Of late it does appear to be the truth.”
She grins. “Aha! You do acknowledge it.”
“Only that you suddenly have no reason of your own.”
“Oh, Luisa. Stop frowning as you do. It will make tracks upon your face not easily erased. You’ll begin to look just like Signora around the eyes and display those irritating tiny lines that cross each other.”
“It is not my face we are speaking about. It is your predicament, which grows more perilous with every day.”
She swings her legs across the bed and puts her feet upon the floor, grabbing her watteau as she does this and slipping out of her chemise. In only seconds she is standing naked in the middle of the room and pulling on her undergarments, woolen petticoat, and dress.
“Tie this,” she instructs, backing up and handing me her apron lappets. “And make a proper bow this time.”
Then she quickly runs a brush over her wild hair to tame it from heading in the countless directions it has chosen. She splashes cold water from the basin onto her face.
“See?” she says at last. “I’m listening to you. I’m going to be punctual from now on. You’ll see.”
As she starts for the door, I grab her hand.
“What of last night?” I ask. “Where did you go? Why did you leave?”
She looks at me as if at a very small child.
“You would not understand,” she says. “Don’t worry so. You will be just like Anetta if you keep it up. Believe in me, Luisa. I know what I’m about.”
She bends down quickly and pats my cheek, then turns back to straighten out her bedclothes. “And I will return soon to take my chamber pot down to the slop closet for the maids to empty,” she tells me. “Am I not being obedient and good?”
“As if anyone would be concerned about a trifle such as that,” I mutter, but in her quick departure she hasn’t heard me. I already hear her footsteps on the stairs.
True to her assurances to me, Rosalba is most punctual all day, attends solfeggio (the whole of it), and plays continuo, in place of the indisposed Anna Maria, for the entire rehearsal. Father is not in a humor to reassign the oboe part to Rosalba, fretting understandably and quite audibly that the new Rosalba may not last till Sunday next. “Of late, my dear,” he says, “you are as changeable as the weather. And just as undependable.”
Surpris
ingly, she does not seem offended in the least and counters with, “As is the case with most natural phenomena, Signore.”
“Natural disasters, more the like,” says Silvia in a sotto voice that can be heard throughout the room.
Father scowls uncharacteristically, quickly taps his stick for order, and moves his complete concentration to the music. For an instant, I see a surprised response to this rebuff in Rosalba’s eyes.
Afterward, wanting to be certain that she truly sees the consequences of her former careless attitude, I ask if she will not miss playing this delightful new concerto in performance.
“They are all delightful,” she says, “and one performance is no different from another to my mind.”
I am astounded. “How can you say that! Each work is so distinct, so intricate and amazing. Oh, how I missed hearing all the instruments playing together the entire time I was trying to get well.”
“There’s music everywhere in Venice,” she says. “Musicians play up and down every street. One sounds quite as good as another to me, and they’re a great deal more carefree about it.”
“You say that because you’ve had much more than the noise of the street musicians in your ears since birth. If the Red Priest’s compositions did not appear with regularity, you’d see how much they mean to you. Don’t you recall those few years he was not, in fact, in attendance here and how the music procured for us at that time was so inferior? When something beautiful absents itself after having been so long a part of you, there is a terrible void.”
“Luisa, you are being much too glum and spend too much time ruminating on unimportant things.”
I could have said that the void exists even when one is not certain of the absence. But she would not have known what I meant. Nor do I, at times. I only know that calling up my singing voice into my throat is as impossible right now as trying to coax a wild bird out of a tree. I cannot bear attempting it, and in the end, having it fly from me.
I am starting up the stairs for my obligatory afternoon rest (a new rule for which I am most grateful, as I still do not feel strong enough to move about all day without interruption) when I feel a hand upon my arm and see a sheaf of papers held before my face. I twist about to find myself almost level with a rim of short red hair, those telltale flaming tufts that appear, when not concealed beneath his performance wig, to extend from a brain always on fire.
“Luisa,” says Father. “I got right down to work after our little talk about the oratorio. These pages are preliminary, but I was sure you’d want to see exactly what I have in mind. Look at the part of Sapens Primur . . . when you have the time. You’ll see I have designed it especially for your unique vocal qualities. Your timbre. Your sonorities.”
I take the scores from him. What else can I do?
“Thank you, Father,” I say. “I’ll look them over. When I have the time.”
“Show them to Maestro Scarpari if you wish. Have him work with you.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“You do not seem excited by this project.”
“It’s just . . . it’s only that I’m still so weak.”
At first he seems to sympathize.
“And I am rushing you. There really is no hurry, Luisa. It is a long oratorio. Very difficult. It will take many months to write. I’m always like this when I first begin a piece. You’ve seen the way I’m apt to carry on.”
“My finch, Father,” I ask to change the subject and because I truly want to know, “does she still sing as much as ever?”
“Yes, yes. She is a happy little twitterer. I sometimes need to put a cover on her cage to make her stop. You must come by more frequently to hear her sing yourself.”
My true opposite right now, I think, but the very expression of my soul.
But his sympathy is short-lived. “Go have your nap,” he adds. “We’ll speak of my oratorio again when you have read the score.”
IT WILL BE DIFFICULT to get away this night, as all eyes will be watching me. I should have named a time next week or some days hence, when the suspicions will have died down. Even Prioress suspects something, for she has had me sit beside her at each meal and quizzes me unmercifully about my lessons. It is my good fortune that she doesn’t know exactly what we’re taught but only the bare bones of it, and I can easily impress her with the little more I know than she.
“You speak well, Rosalba,” she says at last, “but I cannot help wondering at the substance behind the words. If rumors and records are to be believed, you’ve slacked off in attendance at almost every class for quite some time. It is an abuse of the privileges that we provide you with and a poor example for the younger girls.”
She is right, I know, and I do feel contrite. At least I think that is the name for what I feel, besides rancor, when she scolds me. However, whatever it is doesn’t last much past my mostly sincere expression of sorrow and the length of time it takes to consume the meal that we are sharing.
Tonight I retire with the others, but undress in the shadows so that I may conceal my Carnival clothing under my chemise. Only when I’m certain that the others are soundly asleep do I make a move to slip from underneath the covers and creep quietly down the hallway and stairs to the door.
As soon as I have shut it behind me, I see him standing there across the Riva, a muted figure in the lantern light, but clear enough in form and stature to be unmistakably the object of my heart.
On coming closer, I can see he’s holding a bouquet of roses out to me and grinning that bright smile. Of course. It is a peace offering, and when we are quite near each other, he takes my hand and kisses it. A peace offering indeed and courtly beyond words. How glad I am that I have given him a second chance and did not rush to judgment, as Signora’s nightly readings from the Bible often tell us we should never do.
After a few caresses, as gentle as I’ve always dreamed that they would be, he asks in whispers close against my ear, “Where can we go, Signorina, to be entirely alone?”
“A gondola,” I say at once, thinking to make that dream come true as well.
“It is beyond my means.”
“I have a few florins,” I tell him, and hold them out to him.
“No,” he says, which makes me note again that he, in truth, has gentlemanly virtues. “Perhaps a garden.”
“There is the kitchen garden where they grow the herbs and spices. There are some grassy places underneath the pear trees.”
“It sounds just right,” he says, and takes my hand and runs with me back across the Riva and into the Calle, where the kitchen garden gate is fastened with nothing more than rope and latch. We are like children, running wild and playing hide-and-seek. I am delirious with joy.
The windows of the Ospedale are all dark by now, and there is nothing but the calm light from a waning moon, so what looks ragged and unkempt by day is softened into shapes that could be bowers or imagined topiaries. The grassy places shine.
He leads me to the one beneath the tallest pear tree and helps me down until we both are sitting on the cold ground. He pulls my cloak around us both as well and rests my head upon his arm as he reclines. It is a lovely lover’s pose, though somewhat awkward to maintain.
“There is a bench against the wall,” I tell him, “where we can sit in much more comfort.”
When I begin to rise, he pulls me down beside him in such a way as to suggest that he doesn’t know his own strength.
“This will do very well,” he tells me, and then he, all of a great sudden, removes the arm that was supporting me and fastens my own arms above my head. Laid flat upon the ground, I am alarmed and writhe and try to pull out of his grasp. But it is of no use, nor am I able to resist in any way as he lowers his whole body onto mine, then feigns a kiss upon my lips but bites them both instead, a bite so searing that it causes me to cry out from the fierce and burning pain of it.
“Stupid, conniving wench,” he says against my face, my own blood upon his chin. “I’ll teach you how to play at love.” He
reaches down between us then to raise my skirt and rip my drawers, and pins me with such a sharp stab in the soft and private place between my legs that, if I could but move, I’d double up in agony. It’s just as if I have been torn in two, and my own scream appears to come from someplace far away, muffled as it is by his one shoulder pressed against my bleeding mouth. Under his continued thrusts, pain sears and radiates all through me till I think that I have not the strength to take another breath or keep a conscious thought. When after one last lunge he finally arises, velvet breeches now around his ankles, I stare, amazed, at what, in the foggy dark, I can discern of the limp organ that has caused such torture to me.
He doesn’t look at me again until he turns to leave, and then he spits on me when I begin to cry and laughs that same lighthearted way, and grabs my roses, throwing them into the air.
I don’t even try to stand until I’m certain he is gone, and when I do, a sticky fluid runs along the inside of my legs. I have nothing but my petticoat to staunch it with and suspect that there is blood mixed with the odious juices my cruel ravisher has left behind.
Where can I go? In what waters can I wash myself? My lips are swollen and inflamed, my entire body’s stiff from cold, and there’s a soreness and a deep and growing wound within me that may never mend. If he thought to teach a lesson to a schoolgirl, I have learned it very well. But what’s the remedy? I cannot stay within these garden walls. Come morning, they’ll be emptying the slops out here and hanging clothes to dry. Even if the doors weren’t locked by now, I can’t go back inside like this. I need to find another place to rest, to hide. If only I could die.
HER BED IS EMPTY. It has not been slept in. It is morning, and her bed is empty.
Luisa sits up and looks immediately across at where Rosalba sleeps. Luisa doesn’t look at me, nor I at her. We do not say anything. Even Silvia and Margaretta and Anabella look at Rosalba’s bed and are silent, and that silence is much louder than the things we are all thinking to say, to ask. Can it be true? Has Rosalba actually stayed away all night? When will Signora and the others begin to miss her? Will they let her come back? In what way will she be punished if they do? What would we ever do without her?
Hidden Voices Page 11