The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  I did not even try to speak. It would have been futile, and I would sooner die than beg him to stop.

  “And yet, what do I find?” he asked, with a low, dangerous whisper in my ear. “I find that very daughter of mine, to whom I have given the world on a golden plate, sneaking behind my back and stealing from me!” By the end of the sentence, he was shouting again and, with these angry words ringing in my ears, he took a step back, still holding me by the hair, and delivered one last, mighty blow to my face with the back of his hand. I felt a wrenching in my neck as my head snapped to one side, and bright sparks filled my vision.

  He then wrapped his large hand around the back of my neck and shoved me toward the door of his study. “Now get out of my sight, and God help you if I so much as lay eyes on you again the rest of this day!” he bellowed, pushing me out into the hallway with such force that I stumbled and fell to my knees on the carpet. “You are never to touch a violin again while you are under my roof! And you are to stay away from whatever frittering fool you have convinced to teach you that confounded instrument!” he added. “God only knows what else he has been doing with you besides teaching you music.” He spat the last word. “And if I ever discover that you have disobeyed me again, Adriana, I shall not be responsible for what I do!” With that, he slammed the door of his study so hard the walls rattled.

  I remained crumpled on the floor, fighting to compose myself. Then I slowly dragged myself to my feet, feeling acutely every last budding bruise, every last inch of my body that throbbed with pain. Several of the servants were peeking around doorways, having been summoned by the commotion. My face grew hot with shame.

  Nevertheless, I would give them nothing further to gossip about. With my shoulders back, looking straight ahead, I walked down the hallway and to the staircase that would take me up to my rooms.

  As I reached the staircase, I saw Giuseppe hurrying toward me from the opposite direction. His look of concern changed to one of shock and alarm as he saw me. “Madonna!” he cried. “Are you all right? Please, I—”

  “Leave me, Giuseppe,” I said, not looking at him as I began to climb the stairs.

  “Please, madonna, let me—”

  “I said leave me!” I shouted, picking up my skirts and practically running the rest of the way up the staircase to my rooms.

  “Madonna!” I heard him call after me, but he did not follow. I darted into my sitting room and closed the door behind me. Then I continued into my bedchamber, where I shut and bolted the door before sinking down onto the bed, my whole body trembling. But I did not cry. I would not cry. I refused.

  MOVEMENT TWO

  THE POINT OF NO RETURN

  September 1710–December 1710

  10

  WITHOUT FEAR

  Eventually I rose from the bed to go sit at my dressing table. I pulled the dangling, loosened pins from my hair and carefully picked out the knots with my fingers while staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror.

  So my father had discovered my secret, the one I had been trying so desperately to hide, and his reaction had been exactly what I expected. He had exacted the punishment from my very flesh with that monstrous temper of his. Foolishly, I had thought that he would never hear me practicing—he was usually out during the day. Since he had never confronted me about it, I had assumed that my secret was still safe.

  I had grown careless.

  At least the punishment was over. But what now?

  After everything, would I bend to my father’s will? Would I, once and for all, have to give up music? And, more importantly, could I?

  But I had no choice. I would not be able to procure any more money to pay Vivaldi for his tutelage, and leaving the house would be more difficult now.

  Yet the thought of never playing music again—of never playing the violin again—felt as if someone had taken a knife and thrust it between my ribs. It was more painful than any of the injuries my father had inflicted on me. To never again coax a glorious cascade of notes from the strings, to never again lose myself in the music, in that place that was not wholly of this world. My life would be empty and cold, a sepulcher housing a living corpse.

  And to never again see Vivaldi, and have him look straight into me as if he understood everything, even the things I’d never spoken aloud to anyone.

  My heart cracked at the thought. I had not imagined anything could be more painful than being cut off from music, yet somehow this last thought was. In a way, both thoughts were one and the same. I would miss Vivaldi and the spellbinding, excruciatingly beautiful music he wrote, and the music he was able to draw forth from me, which was beyond anything I ever thought myself capable of.

  Vivaldi. I simply could not stop seeing him without explanation. He had to know. And I could not face the long, musicless days ahead without seeing him one last time.

  And maybe, just maybe, there was still some way out of this. Maybe he would see something that I could not—another way out.

  As soon as night fell, I would steal away one last time. I had to see him just once more.

  * * *

  I knocked as loudly as I dared on the door of Vivaldi’s house, my violin tucked under my cloak to keep it out of the rain that had begun to fall. The skies had opened up not long after I left the palazzo; my cloak and hood were beginning to soak through, and my hair was plastered against my face and neck.

  The front room of the house was dark, and there was no sign of anyone within. What if he was not even home?

  “Maestro!” I hissed. “Maestro, please open the door!” I knocked louder as the rain began to fall harder. Lightning flashed, brightening the narrow street for less than a second.

  Finally, I saw him descend the stairs at the back of the room, carrying a lit lamp and squinting irritably out into the dark. He had obviously dressed in haste, as he was wearing a plain black pair of breeches and an untucked white linen shirt.

  He peered out the window and, seeing me, hastened to open the door. “Adriana?” he asked, letting me in, clearly confused by my presence at such an hour, and in such weather. “What in the name of—” He gasped as I pulled back the hood of my cloak upon entering, exposing my bruised and swollen face to the dim light. “Mater Dei, what has happened to you?”

  I opened my mouth to explain, but the words caught in my throat as I saw the range of emotions that flickered across his face in the lamplight: horror, anger, surprise, indignation, concern. “My father,” was all I managed to choke out.

  Vivaldi’s eyes widened in shock. “Gesù Cristo,” he breathed. “Your father did this to you?”

  I nodded, unsure how to go on.

  “Come, sit down, sit,” he said, helping me out of my sodden cloak and leading me to a chair by the fire. He had me sit while he went about kindling a blaze in the grate. “We must get you warm,” he muttered to himself.

  “I … I am sorry to come so late, and to wake you, but I had to tell you,” I said, once he had taken the chair beside mine. I set my violin on the small table between us. “My father found out that I was sneaking away for music lessons, that I had disobeyed his order that I am not to study music. He…” I looked down, away from his eyes, so full of worry and sympathy that I could weep. “He was not pleased with me. As you can see.”

  “Oh, cara.” He made a move as though to touch my cheek, and I felt a twinge of disappointment when he thought better of it. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

  I nodded. “And so I have come to tell you that I cannot study with you any longer. I will not be able to get the money with which to pay you. But I could not simply stop coming without ever telling you why…” My voice broke. Oh, God, this was unbearable, worse than I had thought it would be. How had I thought I could cut him out of my life and leave no wound behind? “And I brought you my violin,” I said. “I did not want my father to find it; he would destroy it if he did. I thought I might ask you to keep it safe. And you will have much more use for it than I will.”

  “Oh, Adri
ana,” he breathed. He reached out and covered my hand with his, as though he could not resist any longer. He traced the outlines of my fingers with his, and I could feel the calluses that had formed on his fingertips from years of the playing the violin.

  I knew that now I should rise and take my leave. But I couldn’t. I remained where I was, closing my eyes and savoring his light touch.

  Finally he broke the long silence. “I will continue to teach you, cara,” he said. He removed his hand from mine and ran his fingers across the strings of the violin on the table, making them hum. “Money or no. But it is your safety that concerns me, if I were to do so.”

  A flush spread through my entire body at his words. “Why?” I asked, unable to help myself. “Why do that for me?”

  He smiled. “I must admit, the money did help me quite a bit of late. But if I am entirely truthful, I would miss your company most of all.” He added hastily, “And, of course, you are one of the most gifted violinists I have met. It would be criminal for you to stop studying.” His eyes met mine. “And I think I am right in saying that, for you, a life without music would be one not worth living, si?”

  “Yes,” I said, surprised at his frankness. “There is nothing more my father can do to me, not truly. But if he succeeds in taking music from me, then I may as well be dead. I knew that you, maestro, of all people, would understand.”

  He sighed. “I do, though I have never been made to face such a choice, thanks be to God.” He shook his head. “To think, if you were but a poor, orphaned foundling in this city, you would be able to study and play music freely, and perform it as well. Yet you have every luxury imaginable, except the one thing you truly desire. It makes one wonder who the truly lucky ones are, does it not?”

  “I have thought the same thing often enough.” We both fell silent for a moment before I spoke again. “Yet I could not ask you to teach me without any payment,” I said. “It would not be right.”

  He reached out, without hesitating, and squeezed my hand. “Do not concern yourself with that,” he said softly. “I will be here for you, when it is safe for you to seek me out again.”

  I turned my hand over and laced my fingers with his. Then, realizing what I was doing, I withdrew. “I should go,” I said reluctantly, rising.

  He hesitated. “You cannot go out into the storm,” he said. “You will fall ill, walking all the way in such rain. Stay until it passes.”

  Every instinct was telling me to go, that the longer I was away, the greater my chances of discovery. Yet my desire to stay was far stronger. “I suppose you are right,” I said, a quiet thrill running up my spine as I sat back down.

  He stared into the fire, the corners of his lips twitching slightly upward. “When I was a boy,” he said, “every time there was a storm such as this, I would leave the house and walk all the way to the Riva degli Schiavoni to watch the lightning over the lagoon.” He glanced up at me and smiled. “It is quite a sight to behold.”

  “Would that we could go now and do just that,” I said. “But you are right; we would no doubt catch our deaths.”

  He laughed. “I nearly did catch my death once or twice,” he said. “I was often ill as a child, and such wanderings in the rain did not help matters in the least.”

  Outside, the rain continued to pound against the stone and splash into the canals, and thunder rumbled overhead. I shivered, moving my chair closer to the fire.

  He jumped out of his chair instantly. “How careless of me,” he murmured. He quickly disappeared upstairs, and then returned, carrying a thin wool blanket. He stepped behind me and gently moved my wet hair aside, so that he could drape the blanket over my shoulders. His fingers lingered on the back of my neck, then my shoulders, as he wrapped the blanket around me. I found myself wishing there was nothing between his hands and my skin. I shivered again, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold or damp.

  Do not stop, I silently admonished him and, as if he heard me, his hands remained for just a moment before withdrawing.

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the chair, attempting to master myself.

  “Perhaps you would like to rest for a bit? Upstairs?” he asked, mistaking my expression for one of exhaustion. His face turned slightly pink. “I did not mean … that is, I will, of course, remain down here.”

  I rose, letting the blanket fall from my shoulders. “You need not stay downstairs,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. I stepped close to him, so that our bodies were only a breath apart, and laid my hand against his cheek. “You could join me.”

  A shudder ran through his body, and his hands reached up to cup my face. “Adriana,” he whispered. Then, suddenly, he moved away from me and pressed his hands to his forehead. “Oh, God. No. We cannot. This cannot be. I am a man of God, and you—”

  “Antonio,” I said, the first time I had used his given name. He looked up at me, startled, and I could see the desire that had ignited in his eyes. “You are a man, and I am a woman. God need have nothing to do with it.”

  “You are a virgin.” It was not a question.

  Sweat began to coat my palms as I wondered how I possibly thought I could see this through. “What of it?” I asked, as though it did not matter, when in truth it did; it mattered more than anything in the world, that I was a virgin and was willing not to be, for him. “Am I to believe that you have never been with a woman before?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He threw me a glance heavy with desire and frustration and anger. “I have not always been a priest,” he said, a touch sardonically, by way of answer.

  When he said nothing further, I looked away from him, mortification seeping in and threatening to choke me. “Do you wish me to go?” I asked. I was beginning to feel I had made a horrible mistake, one I had no idea how to fix. If it was indeed possible to fix it.

  “No,” he bit out, looking angry with himself for saying it. “Yes … Sancta Maria, I do not know.”

  Shame and embarrassment washed over me. He does not want me. I should not be doing this to him. “I am sorry,” I said aloud. “I will go.” I took my wet cloak from where it hung near the fire, put it on, and began to walk to the door, keeping my head down so I would not have to look at him.

  I had just reached the door when he seized me by the waist, spun me to face him, and kissed me; a passionate, bruising kiss that pressed my back up against the door so that I was pinned between it and his body.

  I wrapped my arms tightly around him and kissed him in return, my mouth opening beneath his, and for a long moment we stayed locked in that strange embrace, the virgin and the priest. Then he drew back, took my hand, and led me up the stairs to his bedchamber.

  Once inside, he shut the door behind us and turned back to me. Hands shaking, I unfastened my cloak again, letting it fall to the floor. I looked up at him, and my helplessness and anxiety must have been quite plain on my face, for he closed the distance between us and took me into his arms, pressing his lips to mine again. He then turned me so that my back was to him and began to unlace my gown, then my corset, until I was wearing only my linen shift. In the dim light of the only lit candle in the room, the bruises that had formed where my father’s fingers had dug cruelly into my flesh were revealed. Vivaldi bent his head to kiss the swollen, discolored skin. I sighed and tilted my head to one side, and he moved to kiss the side of my neck. I felt a pleasurable throbbing between my legs as his lips touched the tender skin.

  I drew away, turning to face him, and pulled the shift off over my head, dropping it to the floor. Now there was nothing between his gaze and me, but for as bold as I had been before, I was now unable to meet his eyes.

  Gently he placed a hand under my chin and lifted it, so that I had to look at him. “Do not look away, cara,” he murmured. “You are beautiful.” He kissed me again, this time guiding me back into the bed behind me.

  I slid beneath the coverlet, grateful to no longer be so exposed. Standing beside the bed, he removed his shirt and breeches,
then got into the bed and took me in his arms.

  Sensing my nervousness—had it been only moments ago that I so brazenly offered myself to him?—he began to speak as his hands moved over my bare skin, as though doing his best to put me more at ease. “You do not know,” he murmured in my ear, “you can have no idea of how many times I have dreamt of this very moment. Night after night I would lie awake and think of this, imagine every last, beautiful detail. And each time I would tell myself that it must be the last, that I must not think such things again, only to dream them again the next night.”

  He kissed my neck again, his lips moving down my chest to the hollow between my breasts. I closed my eyes and arched my body beneath his mouth, heat prickling my skin.

  I did not know what he expected or wanted; yet he seemed to know exactly the things I wanted, ached for, even though I did not know myself. When I, inexperienced as I was, returned his touch and kisses, he groaned and shifted himself atop me, one hand reaching down to caress my inner thigh. My heart rate sped up as my breathing quickened.

  He paused. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  If I said yes, I knew he would stop. And that was the last thing I wanted him to do. I reached up to take his face in my hands. “No, Antonio,” I said, my voice shaking and heavy with desire. “Of all the people in the world, I could never be afraid of you.”