It was painful, with a bit of blood, as I had heard rumors of. But it did not matter. What mattered were his hands on my body, hungry yet gentle at the same time, as though I were something sacred, to be revered. What mattered was the feeling of being close, so close, to this man I loved in ways I was just beginning to understand. And what mattered were the words he whispered in my ear: that he was mine and I was his, that he would never hurt me, that I would be safe with him, always. That he loved me. And I believed his words as others believe in God: hoping that they would be what saved me.
11
END OF THE DREAM
I woke when dawn was only a few hours off, when the sky was still pitch-black. The rain had stopped. Slipping from bed quietly, I picked up my clothes from the floor and pulled them on as best I could, tying my corset and gown loosely. As I dressed, I studied the small room around me. It was plain and nondescript, with just the large bed, a window with simple linen curtains that looked out onto the street, a wardrobe—though his clothes were strewn about rather haphazardly—and a wooden crucifix hanging on the wall opposite the window. Even in the dark, I fancied that the crucified Christ’s eyes watched me reproachfully. I turned my back on it.
I heard Vivaldi stir behind me. Eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that he had pulled himself into a sitting position and was watching me. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice raspy with sleep.
“Home,” I said, brushing my long, tousled hair away from my face. “I must get back before anyone discovers I am missing.” I shuddered. “If they have not already.”
“At this hour?” he asked. “You cannot simply go strolling through the streets of Venice alone. It is far too dangerous.”
“I arrived here safely,” I pointed out, scooping up my cloak—still damp—from the floor and settling it about my shoulders. “And it would be far more dangerous for me if it were to become known that I had left in the middle of the night.”
He sighed, and I could see that he was rubbing his forehead in consternation. “Oh, cara,” he said. “What have we done? We—”
I crossed to him and placed a finger on his lips. “No,” I whispered. “Please. I beg of you.” I paused and drew a deep, unsteady breath as I tried to get the words out. “These past few hours have been the most beautiful of my life. Please do not ruin them with regrets and fear of consequences. There will be time enough for all that, if need be. Just…” I trailed off and looked at him beseechingly. “Please.”
He sighed, then turned his head to kiss the palm of my hand. “Yes,” he said softly. “You are right.”
He got out of bed. “I will go with you,” he said. “Just to see you home.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “It is far too dangerous for you at this time of night, as I said.” He began to hunt about in the dark for his own discarded clothes.
“What if someone should see you with me?” I asked him, a near panic rising to claw at my throat. “What if—God and the Holy Virgin forbid—what if my father was to see you with me?”
“And if your father caught you returning to the house at this hour, would it matter much whether or not there was a man with you?”
I considered this as he dressed himself. “No,” I admitted. “But it is not myself for whom I am concerned.”
“Nor am I concerned for myself,” he said, looking for his shoes. “So we are perfectly matched.”
Once he was suitably attired against the night air, we left, with me leading him through the maze of streets and canals to my family’s palazzo. Fortunately, we met no one to impede us on our way. When we came within sight of the back entrance, I motioned for him to keep to the shadows, lest some vigilant servant should happen to be keeping watch.
I heard Vivaldi draw in his breath sharply as we drew nearer. “So this is Ca’ d’Amato,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I said, “and were it up to me, I would never set foot inside again.”
I turned to him in the shadows, only to find that he was moving to take me in his arms. Boldly, he bent his head to kiss me, pressing my back against the palazzo’s stone wall. I kissed him back, mindful of what would befall us should anyone see, yet unable to stop.
“When should I return to you?” I asked as we broke apart.
Even in the darkness, I saw the look of uncertainty and chagrin that flashed across his face, leaving me terrified, for a brief and vivid moment, that he would tell me I could not return. “Two nights hence,” he said, drawing back only a few inches, so that I could still feel the heat of his breath on my face as he spoke. “If you can get away.”
“I shall if it is the last thing I do,” I swore.
“And I will pray that it is not,” he said. He kissed me one last time. “Buona notte, cara. May you sleep well.”
I smiled, happily doubting that I would be able to do any such thing.
12
MEA CULPA
The next morning, as Meneghina was dressing me, my father barged in without warning. “Father,” I said coolly, my tone belying the fear that was pumping through my veins. Had he discovered I left the night before?
“Give me that violin of yours,” he said. “You will have no further need for it.”
“I gave it to Giuseppe yesterday, and told him to destroy it, in accordance with your wishes,” I said. Giuseppe would have his wits about him enough to lie for me if my father should question him before I could speak to him.
My father narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you did, did you?”
I widened my eyes. “I assumed you wanted it destroyed, so that it would not present any further temptation for me.”
“Hmph.” My father grunted in displeasure. I knew perfectly well that he had intended to destroy the instrument himself—or sell it, perhaps—after taking it from me. “Very well, then,” he said. He began to walk toward the door, then stopped and turned back to me. “I trust that you will not forget what we spoke about yesterday, Adriana,” he said.
Or, rather, that I will not forget what you beat into me yesterday. “No, Father,” I said. “Rest assured I will not forget.”
“Good.” With that, he left my chambers, and I allowed myself to exhale, ever so slightly.
* * *
Each hour of that day, and the one that followed, seemed to crawl by at the speed of one of the slowest barges on the Grand Canal. I lived for nothing but the moment when I would be able to slip away again and return to Antonio. Even the dull pain between my legs served only to make the memories and longing even sharper.
I moved through those two days like a ghost, uno fantasma, keeping to myself, getting in nobody’s way, unwilling to pull myself from the world within my head.
Yet the longer I was away from Antonio, the more my fears grew. I remembered how he had begun to voice his doubts, when we had awoken. And had he not hesitated when I had asked him when I should return? In my absence, might he not have come to regret his actions all the more? Now that he had time to think, away from me? I was almost paralyzed with fear at the thought that he would never wish to see me again, imagining him remorseful and angry and … ashamed. Then at other times I would tell myself I was being foolish; after all, he had told me to return, had he not? And how he had kissed me just outside the door of the palazzo …
And so my vicious cycle of doubt and reassurance went on. I barely ate. Sleep was all but impossible.
Finally, the appointed night arrived, and I again left the palazzo as soon as quiet began to settle over it. The possibility of being discovered was no less real or likely than it had been the first time, yet wrapped in a love-struck haze that was a potent mixture of fear, desire, anxiety, and anticipation, I did not dwell on it.
I arrived safely at Vivaldi’s house, and knocked softly two times before going in. The state in which I found him was unfortunately more or less what I had feared.
He had evidently been pacing the floor, waiting for me, and stopped to look up when he saw me. “Adriana,” he said. “Come in. I must speak w
ith you.”
I stepped into the dim light of the room and undid my cloak, trying not to let him see my shaking hands. “What is the matter?” I asked. But God help me, I already knew.
He began pacing again, as though unsure how to say what he wanted. I knew with a crushing certainty that I would not like it, whatever it was.
“I cannot countenance what I have done,” he said at last, stopping and looking at me. Just as suddenly, he looked away, running his fingers through his loose, unruly hair. “I have defiled a virgin. I have broken my vows as a priest. I have put you in grave danger. I have…” He trailed off. “Ah, God!” he cried, his voice vibrating with anguish. “Domine Deus, how I have sinned…”
My breath froze in my lungs as I listened to him.
No … please, God, stop him saying these things. Does he not see? Oh God, Mother Mary, let me have this one thing, this one thing in all my wretched life.
Yet as fervent as my prayers were, I was uncomfortably aware that I was likely the last person God and His virgin mother were likely to hear. Surely the prayers of a lustful sinner were not answered, not when she was praying to sin again? But why should wishing for love and happiness be a sin?
“I must beg your pardon, Adriana,” he said, collecting himself. “For the wrong I have done you. We must both seek penance, and not allow ourselves to be so tempted again.”
I shook my head, as if to ward off his words.
“Please,” I whispered, my eyes downcast. “Do not do this.”
“Adriana.” My name came out half sigh, half groan. “How can I not?” He began pacing again. “Do you not see what could befall us? What could befall you?” He stopped. “I could have gotten you with child,” he said, not looking at me. “What would become of you then? As it is, I may have already ruined your chances for marriage and a respectable future—”
“But I do not want any of that,” I argued.
He sighed. “You do not know what you want. You do not understand—”
“I do not understand?” I cried. “I understood perfectly well two nights ago, when you were making love to me.”
He flinched. “Adriana, please—”
“I do not want to make a good marriage and refresh some nobleman’s coffers and bear his children,” I spat. “You know that, Antonio. I only want—”
“Do not say it,” he cut me off. “Merciful God, do not say it. I will not be able to bear it if you do.”
“Say what?” I demanded. “Say that I want only you? That you are the first beautiful thing that has happened to me since I can remember? That—”
“Yes! That!” he cried. “Do you not see? You cannot want these things! They can lead nowhere except to pain and despair and ruin!”
“I would have left,” I told him, my voice low. “If you had told me to. If you had not stopped me. Remember that, Antonio, before you blame me for what’s happened. I would have walked through that door if you had wanted me to.”
“I am not blaming you,” he said. “Not in the way that you think. Not—” He broke off and turned away from me. “It is both of us,” he said at last. “We are both to blame.”
Neither of us spoke or moved; we simply stayed locked in our silent struggle, standing halfway across the room from each other, not knowing how to draw closer or move farther away.
I finally broke the silence. “What now, then?” I asked, calling on all my strength to keep my voice from breaking, to hide everything inside me that was beginning to splinter. “What do we do now?” I continued, taking another step toward him. “Is this what you want? Because if it is, I…” I closed my eyes. “I will go, and never seek you out again.”
He turned his head to look at me. “I do not know what else to do,” he said, his voice rough. “I cannot protect you if I am your lover. This is the only way I can think of to keep you safe.”
“Safe from what?” I whispered.
“Safe from … ah, God, from everything!” Without warning, he strode across the room to where I stood and seized me by the shoulders. “No good can come of this, do you understand? None!” He shook me slightly. “This can only lead to you being disgraced and dishonored, or me, or both of us! And what is worse…” He gently caressed my cheek, where the bruises left by my father’s blows had begun to fade to an ugly greenish-yellow color. “I saw what your father did to you—and just for daring to learn music! I can see the marks from where he struck you yet,” he went on, his fingers still outlining the marks. “What would he do if he were to learn that you had a lover? And one such as myself at that?” Tenderly he cupped my face in his hands. “He would kill you, Adriana. Even I can see that. A man who is capable of inflicting such brutal punishment on his own daughter is surely capable of anything.”
At his words I felt joy and hope, fragile and daring as spring’s first flower, begin to blossom in my heart. If he thought that his fear for my safety and honor would succeed in driving me away, he was wrong, for it was having precisely the opposite effect.
“Oh, Antonio,” I said, reaching up to rest my hand against his face. “Do you not know that there are some things that are worth dying for?”
At these words, he violently clutched me to him, holding me in a tight, almost suffocating embrace. “Please do not, cara,” he whispered in my ear. “Please.” He drew back slightly, so that he could see my face. “Listen to me—”
“No!” I cried, shoving him away roughly. “You listen!” I recognized how childish I sounded, so I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. “Maybe…” I scrambled to gather my frantic, jumbled thoughts. “Perhaps none of those things—the dangers or shame or whatever it is that may lie at the end of this road—matters. Perhaps the good in this—the good which you said could not be—is simply what is here, now, between us, and is comprised of nothing greater than ourselves.” I looked up to meet his gaze, startled by what I saw there: it was as if he wanted so desperately to believe me, yet a part of him still resisted. “Maybe…” I trailed off again, trying to think of how to make him understand. “Maybe it is not doing homage to some stern, unknown, unseen God that is the holiest of things one can do,” I said, never taking my eyes from his. “After all, is it God or man who keeps such tallies of sin and virtuousness? Perhaps it is love which is sacred above all things, of God and man alike. And I do not believe, amore mio, that any God worthy of worship will condemn us for thinking so.”
He stared at me for a long time. “Do you truly believe this, then?” he asked finally.
I returned his stare evenly, though inwardly I had reached my breaking point. I longed to scream at him, to beg him. Instead, I replied, “I have never believed in anything more.”
“So now you will seduce me with your words, your beautiful words,” he whispered, reaching out and brushing a strand of hair away from my face.
“I seduce no one,” I said. “I would have you come to me of your own free will, or not at all.”
Then, just as suddenly and violently as before, he crushed me to him. I could feel every line of his body, and he of mine. His lips brushed my hair. “This is madness,” he whispered. His hands traveled downward, over my body, possessively caressing every curve. “Madness! You know that, yes?”
I nodded, my head buried against his shoulder. “Yes. But even knowing that cannot change how I feel.”
“Nor I.” I thought I heard him whisper, under his breath, something that sounded like the words miserere nobis, yet I could not be certain. But then his lips were seeking mine, and he was leading me to his bedchamber, and I returned to that world of passion and light and joy that I had recalled in my mind over and over throughout the past few days. I felt the ghost I had been disappear, and again I knew myself to be real, made of flesh and sensation and feeling.
13
ADAGIO
Again Vivaldi saw me home in the small hours of the morning, and I made it back to my rooms undetected. We planned to meet again in another two days’ time, but I feared what his state of mind wou
ld be then. Would his resolve to end our relationship have returned, or had his doubts been effectively silenced? The only thing I could do was wait, and so I waited, beginning the torture all over again, like a prisoner counting the minutes until her release.
When the awaited night came at long last, my heart pounded as I reached his house. What man would I find looking out at me from his eyes tonight?
When I arrived, breathless, he was again pacing the room, waiting. I froze, certain he was about to unleash another litany of regrets, but upon seeing me, he crossed the room and in an instant had me in his arms. Wordlessly we returned to his bed, and he made love to me with an excruciating slowness that both tortured me and caused me to cry out with pleasure. So this is what everyone whispers and writes and sings of, I thought, before being consumed by sensation. I felt him smile against my mouth as he kissed me, and I clung tightly to him, hoping that this glorious fall would never end.
We did not know how many nights, how many hours, we might have together, and so each moment, each tick of the clock, had to be made to last. And he made it last exquisitely.
* * *
Afterward, neither of us slept, so we lay together in the bed, holding each other and talking, when we had something to say, and embracing the silence when we did not, hands lightly exploring each other’s skin.
Eventually he asked me, “Why did your father forbid you to study music?” One hand absentmindedly caressed the curve of my waist. “I know that he did, of course, but you never told me why.”
I shifted a bit, turning toward him. “It has something to do with my mother,” I told him. “She was a famous singer, a soprano.” I glanced up at him in the dark. “Lucrezia della Pietà.”
He drew in his breath sharply in surprise. “She is your mother?” he asked.
I nodded against his shoulder. “My father heard her sing when he was a young man, and fell so in love with her just in hearing her voice that he made her an offer of marriage.” I laughed. “That is the story, in any case. Whether it was really quite so romantic, I could not say.”
The Violinist of Venice Page 6