The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  He eyed me reproachfully. “What are you on about, Madonna?” he asked. “Where are you going? What are you doing there?”

  I laughed. “Goodness, Giuseppe, you need not sound as though it is so dire. It is nothing to worry about; I am not doing anything dangerous or scandalous.” Yet I found myself thinking twice as I spoke that last word, remembering again that almost-kiss.

  “If it is nothing questionable, why can you not tell me?”

  I sighed. “Because if you do not know where I am going, then you will not be lying if you need to tell my father so.”

  “If it is something of which your father would not approve, then it is dangerous—for both of us,” he told me. “You know this. And what if something were to happen to you? What if you did not return?”

  I wondered what exactly Giuseppe thought I was going off to do. “You need not worry,” I said. “I will be perfectly safe. You must trust me.”

  “I only wish—”

  “Please, Giuseppe,” I said. “Do not press me.” I paused, pointing to a small café situated in a lovely spot on the Grand Canal. “Go sit there, have a glass of wine, or a brandy. I will meet you there.” With that, I set off, melting into the crowd of people before he could say anything else.

  * * *

  Upon my arrival, the lesson began as usual. Vivaldi made no mention of what happened the last time. The only change—if I was not imagining it—was that when he lightly touched my fingers or wrist to correct my position, he did so briefly, and did not let his touch linger, as he had in times past. Indeed, so casual was his behavior that I found myself wondering whether or not he had even remembered, or if he had simply put it out of his mind as soon as I left. That did not seem quite fair; that something that had so haunted me for the past few days should not have had the same effect on him. That beautiful, somehow vulnerable music we had played, and that moment after—brief and fleeting though it was—had changed something in me. What, I did not know; but what did seem obvious was that he had managed to remain entirely indifferent.

  Perhaps it is because you are a silly, inexperienced girl who knows nothing of the world, whereas he is a grown man, a voice in my head hissed at me, even as I was fighting my way through a difficult E-major concerto he had put before me. And he is a priest. But I thought of him as a man first, a musician second, and a priest last.

  No, that same nagging, irritating little voice contradicted me. You began to think of him as a man only three days ago …

  I abruptly stopped playing, heaving a loud sigh of frustration—at both my uncomfortable thoughts, which were sticking in my skin like burrs caught in my gown, and at my inability to play the music that was before me. “I cannot do this!” I cried.

  As soon as the words left my mouth, I recognized how impetuously childish I sounded. I sighed again, this time in repentance, and transferred my bow to the same hand that held my violin, rubbing my forehead with the other. “I am sorry, maestro. I do not know what has come over me today.”

  I was so weary of lying all the time, about how I felt, what I thought, where I was going, what I wanted. I was always lying to someone: my father, the servants, Giuseppe, and now Vivaldi. Vivaldi, the one person whom I had thought I would not have to lie to.

  He frowned and moved forward, as if to take the music from the stand. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps this is too difficult. Maybe it is best left for another time…”

  I shook my head firmly. “No,” I said, irritated that he would say such a thing; especially after the last lesson, when he had said I played so beautifully. Or had he forgotten that as well? “I can play it,” I told him.

  Setting my violin into position once more, I took a moment to glance over the notes on the page once before beginning again. I would ignore him, I resolved; I would ignore him and play as though he were not in the room, as though I were playing for just myself. There would be only music in my mind.

  I put my bow to the strings and began to play the opening notes, tentatively at first, then with mounting confidence as I progressed. Before long I was furiously attacking each measure, picking my way through the thorny clumps of notes on the staves without hesitation, flying through them with an almost reckless abandon; but, instead of making an absolute disaster of the piece and a fool of myself—as I had half expected—I was playing it correctly. And better than correctly. It was almost … lovely. It was as though some other, more competent violinist had stepped into my body and begun to play for me, showing the maestro that I could play it, and well. That was when I realized I was not ignoring him at all; rather, I was intensely aware of where he stood, several paces away from me, watching and listening carefully. But instead of allowing him to confuse and fluster me, I was pouring my very frustration into the music—which was just where it belonged. If my true feelings, my true thoughts, could have no other expression than through the strings of my violin, then I would play them louder and more boldly than I would ever dream of speaking them.

  By the time I brought the piece to a close, I was breathing heavily from exertion, and beads of sweat had gathered on my forehead. I allowed myself a moment in which to catch my breath, then turned to face Vivaldi, curious to see his reaction but unwilling to appear so.

  His expression was that of a man trying to stop an enormous grin from spreading across his face. “Well done, Adriana,” he said. He threw his hands up in surrender. “I see that I am proved quite wrong.”

  It was somewhat infuriating to realize that voicing his doubts over whether or not I could play the piece had been intended to have exactly this effect: to challenge and prod and even anger me into playing it as well as—possibly better than—he knew I could.

  “Now I must put my mind to finding something that will truly challenge you, cara,” he said.

  I froze, startled. Cara. Dear one.

  He quickly turned away from me and walked to his desk, hunting through the stacks of music there.

  I watched him shuffle through the sheaves of parchment, and without thinking, I said, “Maestro…”

  He straightened and turned to face me. “Yes?”

  I opened my mouth, yet this time no words came out, although the ones I would have liked to say were not far to seek: Why did you nearly kiss me a few days ago? Do you wish you had? Do you still wish to? Is that why you have scarcely looked me in the eye all day?

  But when he continued to look at me expectantly, I sighed and simply said, “It is nothing.”

  8

  IMPROVISATION

  In the first week that my father was home, I heard nothing of potential suitors. I knew better than to take heart from this, for my father simply needed some time to settle back into business in Venice after his absence. It was a temporary stay of execution. The axe would fall eventually; it was just a matter of when.

  For the time being I went about my business, carefully sneaking out to Vivaldi’s house for lessons, and trying to practice behind closed—and locked—doors whenever possible. The music that the maestro was now giving me made it essential that I practice as much as possible, so that I did not disgrace myself under his discerning ear. Giuseppe continued to assist me in leaving the palazzo, though he was not happy about it. I still had not told him where I was going, nor did I intend to.

  Then, in the second week after my father’s return, I got the news I had been dreading.

  I was just dressing for the day when my father’s manservant appeared to tell me that I was to report to his study immediately. Meneghina finished lacing my gown and quickly pinned up my hair, then left.

  Remaining seated at my dressing table, I stared at my reflection in the gilt-framed Murano glass mirror, gathering my courage. I smiled, practicing for the moment when my father delivered me news of some suitor about whom I must pretend to be happy; yet even to me, the smile looked fake, forced, fragile.

  I took a deep breath and rose, knowing I could delay this no longer.

  I made my way to my father’s study, w
hich was on the floor below my rooms. The door was already open, and I halted in the doorway, awaiting permission to enter. When he looked up from the papers on his desk and caught sight of me, he waved me forward.

  “Adriana,” he said, as I came in and sat in one of the silk-upholstered chairs facing his desk. “I wanted to give you fair warning. I shall be hosting a party here a week hence, and I shall need you to play hostess. The guests will be largely my business associates and investors and their wives—also their sons.” His expression became stern. “Needless to say, I am hoping you may find a potential suitor or two among them, and as such, I will require your full cooperation, and will expect you to look your best.”

  “Yes, Father,” I said, because it seemed that I was expected to say something.

  My father tended to keep me shut away in my rooms when he had company over, citing the loose morals of Venetian society. Yet now that a husband was needed, he was forced to loosen his hold, if only slightly. Under the circumstances, though, I realized that I much preferred the role of cloistered virgin to chattel for sale.

  “Very good,” he said, turning his attention back to the documents before him. “I am glad we understand each other.” There was a brief pause, and he glanced back up at me, as though surprised to find me still sitting before him. “That is all. You may go.”

  I rose wordlessly to take my leave.

  I swept back down the hall and up the stairs to my rooms, jaw clenched tightly to prevent the ugly, jagged emotions I felt from spilling onto my face. When I reached my bedchamber, I locked the door behind me and removed my violin from its hiding place beneath the bed. My fingers itched to play; it was the only thing that could bring me any modicum of solace at this particular moment, and damn any who might hear me.

  My fingers scurried up and down the fingerboard to match the speed of my bow, picking out a rough melody that was not beautiful or soothing, but harsh and prickly, and perhaps the more powerful for it. I leaped between notes, sprinkling in dissonant chords as I went. The melody seemed to slide from the strings, curling itself up my arm and twining around my body, a sinuous serpent that held me in its grasp.

  When the melody—or whatever it had been—finally came to an end, I felt a great deal calmer. My emotions receded and the musician in me came forward, wondering what it was that I had played. Yet as I put the bow to the strings to try to play it again—more slowly this time, so I could study it—nothing came. It had slipped through the cracks in my mind, and though I stood there and tried and tried, I could not remember it. The melody was gone.

  * * *

  The party my father gave was more or less what I had anticipated. Meneghina laced me into a gown chosen by my father: one that was cut to show off my figure just enough but not too much, one that was fine—of green silk and lace at the neckline, bodice, and sleeves—but not the finest that I owned. My dark curls had been tamed and hung halfway down my back. I did look rather lovely, I thought, but this caused me to grow more despondent, as those who would see me were not ones for whom I would have chosen to look beautiful.

  The evening began in the large ballroom of the piano nobile, where my father received his guests and introduced them to me. It was a blur of names and faces: business associates and members of the Grand Council and their wives, as well as a member of the Signoria and his son. The young man—Lorenzo or Luca Morosini, some such thing—was seated beside me at dinner, where he proceeded to regale me with his views on such varied topics as Venice’s Jews—who, he felt, were treated much too leniently—as well as his dislike for the opera. He found it distasteful to see the divas wearing so much makeup and such scandalous costumes, for only whores would put themselves on such display. In fact, according to young Don Morosini, women should not be encouraged to engage in the arts at all.

  “Take that ridiculous woman artist, for instance; what is her name?” he asked, nodding imperiously at the servant who had appeared to refill his wineglass. “Rosalba. Stealing commissions away from the rest of the artists in Europe, men who have trained and studied for years, all to be passed over in favor of a woman.”

  He was as old-fashioned as the most elderly grandfather of the republic. My father would adore him. I had to hope that they did not get a chance to converse later in the evening, or I might wake to find myself betrothed to the monster.

  The only respite I had was from the man seated on my other side, Senator Giacomo Baldovino, and he was hardly any better. He was old, older than my father, with a belly that suggested he partook of the finest foods and beverages without quite overindulging. He was apparently a lifelong bachelor, and he went on at length about his family palazzo, which was much in need of renovations and, he hinted, a woman’s touch—all while glancing obviously and appreciatively at the hint of bosom revealed by my gown’s neckline.

  Later that night, once everyone had finally, finally departed, my father followed me up the stairs to my rooms and settled himself in one of the chairs in my sitting room. “Senator Morosini’s son seemed rather taken with you,” he said. “He is a younger son, of course, but to marry into a senatorial family is a high honor for a girl without noble blood.”

  Exhaustion made me blunt. “And does it matter that I was not in the least taken with him?” I asked.

  His eyes darkened and his smile hardened. “No, it does not,” he said. “You are a girl of eighteen. How can you be expected to know what sort of man will be best for you?” He lapsed into silence for a moment before continuing. “Senator Baldovino was also quite taken with you,” he said. “He expressed a wish to call on you.”

  I gave him a disgusted look. “He is older than you are, Father.”

  He laughed. “I am well aware, figlia. I anticipate there will be better prospects yet for you—and younger ones, as well. Senator Baldovino comes from a minor noble family, and owes his seat in the Senate more to the accomplishments of his esteemed late father than to any political talents of his own. Still, he is an old friend, and is powerful enough in his own right, so it would hardly do to offend him. And you should consider yourself honored that a senator wishes to pay court to you.” He rose from his chair. “High time you slept, I think. Buona notte, figlia.”

  “Buona notte,” I said woodenly. It was all I could do not to slam the door behind him.

  9

  DISSONANCE

  Senator Baldovino came to call on me a week after the party. As we drank wine in the parlor, he spoke of people in Venetian society whom I did not know, and tedious governmental happenings I could not bring myself to care about. I replied when necessary, and was perfectly polite, even though inside I was screaming. He took his leave before long, thankfully.

  I had other matters on my mind by then as well. It was almost the beginning of October, and I would need to pay Maestro Vivaldi for my next month of lessons. I would wait until Thursday of the following week. Among his other business interests, my father owned a share in one of the glassworks on Murano, and went there most Thursdays to check on production and consult with the other investors.

  After lunch on the appointed day, I was reading in one of the window seats in the library when I saw my father step out onto the dock in front of the palazzo and get into his gondola to make the journey across the lagoon. I had to act quickly, before my courage failed me.

  I set my book aside and headed for his study, hoping I need not be forced to explain myself to any of the servants. I opened the unlocked door—one of the maids would be in to clean soon—stepped inside, and closed it behind me. I went to the desk and opened the top right drawer, where beneath a great many papers was the small wooden box that held the key to the safe.

  I crossed the room and removed the painting of the Grand Canal from where it hung on the wall; behind it, built into the wall, was the safe, which I unlocked. Inside were piles of gold ducats, important papers, and some of my mother’s more costly jewels.

  I extracted a small velvet pouch from the bodice of my dress and counted out the duca
ts I would need into it. I drew the drawstrings tightly closed and was just closing the safe when the door to the study opened behind me.

  I whirled around in fright, one hand over my furiously pounding heart and the other clutching the purse of coins, to see my father standing in the doorway, looking like the very personification of wrath, his favorite of all the deadly sins.

  He must have returned for something he had forgotten, not that it mattered now. He had discovered me. There was nothing I could do about it, no way I could explain myself, nothing to stop the storm that was about to break over and crush me as surely as a ship dashed against the rocks.

  “Father,” I said. “I—”

  Without bothering to speak, he crossed the room to where I stood in three long, angry strides and struck me, the back of his hand crashing against my cheek with such force that I went tumbling to the ground, the pouch of coins falling from my hand.

  “What in God’s name do you think you are doing!” he roared. “Stealing from me! From your father! In my own house!”

  Clutching the stinging side of my face, I got to my feet, backing away from him. “You do not understand,” I said, thinking wildly for some explanation I could give.

  He hit me across the face again, sending me stumbling into the wall behind me. “Oh, I know very well what you were doing, and why!” he shouted, spraying me with spittle. “Do you think I do not? Do you think I am a fool?”

  “No, Father,” I said, shrinking into the wall as he advanced on me. “That is, I do not—”

  He seized me roughly by the shoulder, his fingers digging so hard into my flesh that I cried out in pain. He dragged me away from the wall and flung me across the room, into his desk. My other shoulder, as well as my back, slammed into the wood of the heavy desk as I fell, causing me to cry out again. Tears stung my eyes at the sharp pain, but I bit my lip, determined to hold them back. I would be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

  “Yes, I know exactly what you have been on about!” he yelled, standing over me where I was slumped against the desk, so I could not rise to my feet. “I have heard the violin music coming from your chambers. Do you think I am deaf as well as blind?” He reached down and grabbed me by my hair at the scalp, pulling it loose from the few pins that had been holding it in place, and yanked me to my feet. He thrust his face close to mine. “At first I told myself I was imagining it, that I must be mistaken; that my daughter would never dare to disobey me, that she would never even think of it—” He twisted the clump of hair he held in his hand, and I felt my eyes water anew at the pain. I bit down so hard on my tongue to stop from making a sound that it began to bleed. “Because she would know the consequences that awaited her.”