The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  “Incredible,” he said. “She is still much talked of at the Pietà, one of the greatest, they say. I never heard her sing myself.”

  “Her voice was…” I paused. “To call it beautiful would not do it justice. As I child I thought that all of God’s angels together could not sing as magnificently as she.”

  “But she was never allowed to perform again once she married,” he said, knowing even better than I the restrictions that governed the wards of the Pietà. He sighed. “A waste. But what had this to do with you, and your father?”

  “When I was about six, and it was plain that I had not inherited her voice, she hired a violin teacher to come to the palazzo to teach me,” I went on. “It was the instrument she had always wanted to play, but never had the aptitude for. And, clearly, I turned out to have quite the affinity for it.” I smiled. “She always called me her little miracolo, for after Claudio was born the midwife told her the birth had so damaged her that she would never bear another child. Yet I was born all the same.

  “She died of a fever when I was thirteen, and my father stopped my music lessons. I suppose I do not really know why,” I said, considering it all anew. “He says it is unseemly for a woman to learn music, which is certainly not how he felt when he met my mother; and of course, he is in the minority in his belief. Perhaps it is just that after my mother died, he could no longer bear to hear music anymore, could not bear the sound of anything beautiful.” My fingers traced the lines of his chest as I spoke. “Perhaps it would have been different if I had been a singer like her; if I had inherited her voice. Then maybe he would have felt that there was a part of her he could still keep.” I smiled. “But alas, I was only born to be a violin player, it seems.”

  “Then I thank heaven for that, cara mia,” he murmured in my ear. “For that is what brought you to me.”

  My whole body flushed with happiness at his words. I tilted my face to look at him, smiling. “And now it is my turn to ask you something,” I said.

  “Ask away.”

  My smile faded slightly as I spoke, my expression growing serious. “Why were you dismissed from the Pietà?”

  He sighed heavily. “I did not much care for their rules,” he said bluntly. “Rules for performing, for practicing, for the types of music that could be performed. It is hard to create in a place such as that. But the governors of the Pietà did not see it that way, and I disagreed with them, strenuously and often. Eventually they decided I was not worth the trouble, I suppose.

  “And I miss it, in truth,” he went on. “The skill, the talent of those girls, and the music they were capable of making…”

  There was a part of me that, as his lover, could not help but be jealous to hear him speak so of these faceless, cloistered young women, whom few people were permitted to lay eyes on. Yet the musician in me was impressed and intrigued by the reverence with which he spoke of their abilities. “I have not heard the coro of the Pietà for many years, not since my mother would take me to Mass there,” I said. “I doubt I would be allowed to go now.”

  Vivaldi raised an eyebrow at me. “Your father will not let you go to Mass?” he asked.

  “He will not go to the Pietà—it is too painful for him—and in his current mood I do not think he would let me go alone, or with one of the servants,” I said. “No doubt he would suspect me of some trickery.”

  “Then I do not suppose he would let you attend an opera, either?” Vivaldi asked.

  I laughed. “It is quite doubtful. Why do you ask?”

  “I know you would enjoy it immensely, even if none of the divas sing as beautifully as Lucrezia della Pietà. And perhaps,” he admitted, with an almost sheepish smile, “it was a bit of a self-serving question as well, for I have been playing as the soloist for the orchestra at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo for several weeks now.”

  “Aha,” I said playfully. “Now I discover your true aim, amore mio. Rest assured I would come just to hear you play, but I fear the chances of that are nonexistent at present.” As I spoke, sadness began to descend on me. “Let us not talk about this anymore,” I said, my voice wavering slightly. I closed my eyes, resting my head against his shoulder.

  I felt his lips brush my tousled hair. “Do you think things would be different for you if your mother still lived?”

  I had no answer. So much had happened since she died that I had become accustomed to thinking of my life as divided into two separate, almost unrelated lives: the one before her death and the one after.

  If she had lived, there would always have been music, and my father would not be so bitter and angry.

  I struggled to pull my voice from where it had retreated, deep down inside me. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I daresay things would be different.”

  He sighed and rested his cheek against the top of my head. “If only there was some way,” he murmured. “Something I could do to change things—”

  “Please, let us not speak of such things,” I said, cutting him off.

  He looked as though he meant to argue, so I pressed my lips against his to silence him. After a moment, he pulled away, albeit regretfully. “Should we not be getting you home?” he asked.

  I smiled and shifted my position, drawing him atop me. “Not yet, my love. We were quite successful at this a short time ago, no? I am anxious to see if we can repeat that success … Oh.” I sighed as our bodies fitted together once more, and everything else was forgotten.

  14

  WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

  Later that night, I watched Vivaldi slip away from my palazzo, waiting until he was safely out of sight before stepping into the small hallway. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before carefully making my way through the sleeping house.

  I had reached the first landing on the back stairs and was turning the corner to climb the next flight when I collided with someone. A scream rose to my lips as I stumbled back against the wall. A small choking sound came from my throat as I stifled it, and my heart quadrupled its pace, beating so hard and fast it was almost painful.

  I quickly tried to run by the shadowy figure. But before I could get very far, my apprehender reached out and seized my shoulders in a strong grip, preventing me.

  “Adriana!” he hissed as I struggled against him as silently as I could. “Adriana! Stop! It is me! Giuseppe!”

  I stopped fighting and peered at his face in the darkness. “Giuseppe?” I sagged against him, all the fear immediately draining from my body. “Oh, thank God.”

  “I would not relax quite yet,” he growled. “What in the name of heaven and all the saints are you doing? Where have you been? What—”

  “Shhh! Not here, for God’s sake.” I grabbed his hand to lead him up the stairs. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To my rooms, where do you think? I will tell you everything there, I swear, but please, just follow me before we wake the entire house!”

  He acquiesced, and followed me to my rooms. I glanced furtively around the hall outside my door, but there was no one about. I closed and locked the sitting room door behind us, then led the way into the bedchamber, where I did the same. I turned from my task to find Giuseppe staring hard at me, his face white with anger, his lips set in a tight, thin line. He did not speak; he merely faced me, silently, waiting for my explanation.

  I removed my cloak and walked past him to the wardrobe to hang it up. I was completely at a loss as to how to begin, to explain what I needed to without making myself seem like … well, a whore. I felt rather like a child squirming before an irate schoolmaster.

  I cleared my throat, unable to quite meet his eye. “I—”

  Again I was surprised as Giuseppe abruptly cut me off. “Good Christ, Adriana,” he said. “Where on God’s green earth have you been? I saw you leave,” he said, causing my mouth to drop open. I started to speak again, but he held up a hand to silence me, as though he were the master and I the servant. “Yes, I saw you sneaking out the back entrance from the
window in my room, and I have waited up all night for you to return. I saw you with him,” he added, his voice hard, accusing. “Whoever he is.” He threw up his hands. “What is the matter with you, Adriana? Was the beating your father gave you not enough to make you more prudent?” His voice rose, in spite of himself. “What can you be thinking? What—”

  “First of all,” I interjected, in a much softer tone, “keep your voice down. You will most certainly not help me—which I am interpreting as your true aim, as opposed to insulting me—by alerting the rest of the household to the fact that I left earlier, and have only just now returned.”

  Giuseppe had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

  “Secondly,” I continued, “I promised that I would tell you all, if only you would give me a chance to explain. And,” I added, “no matter how much you approve or disapprove of my actions, I need not answer to you for anything I do.”

  He looked as though he might argue, but he simply nodded and said, “I understand. My apologies, madonna.”

  I took a deep breath and thought carefully about how to proceed. Giuseppe might be quite useful when let in on my secret, although getting him to actually agree to help me was another matter entirely.

  “I have been with a man, it is true,” I began. “It is not what you think,” I protested as he made a noise of disgust. “I … I love him.”

  “Love,” Giuseppe spat. “Yes, I am sure that is what it is.”

  “How dare you—”

  “Perhaps it is love for you, but it is likely not for him,” Giuseppe said. “How can you be so foolish and naïve?”

  “You do not understand!”

  “Like hell I do not!” he said, in the loudest whisper I had ever heard. “I am a man. I know the sorts of lies men will tell women in order to get—”

  “Please!” I cried. “You told me you would give me a chance to explain, and so far you have not done so.”

  He sighed at this, but remained silent.

  “I love him,” I repeated, my voice stronger now. “And I believe that he loves me. He cares for me, deeply, that I know. And he is concerned for me. He knows what manner of man my father is, and all that has passed between him and me of late.”

  “If he is so concerned,” Giuseppe asked, “then why does he not do the honorable thing and ask for your hand?”

  I laughed aloud at this. “He is not the sort of man I could marry. He cannot marry me.”

  “He is already married, then?” When I did not reply, Giuseppe sighed. “Who is it, Adriana? I will not tell, I swear—you know I would not do that to you.” He shook his head. “Not even for your own good, which I have no doubt putting a stop to this would be. Just tell me his name.”

  I hesitated.

  “Who is it?” he asked again, in a whisper this time.

  I sighed. “His name is Antonio Vivaldi.”

  “Madre di Dio!” Giuseppe all but shouted. “Not the Red Priest?”

  “Quiet!” I hissed. “Yes.”

  Giuseppe walked around the bed and seized me again by the shoulders, shaking me. “Dio mio, Adriana, the man is a priest!” he cried, shaking me again. “What is the matter with you? Do you have any idea what would happen if the two of you were found out?” Abruptly he released me and stepped back, trembling in consternation. “By the Virgin … the consequences would be catastrophic!”

  “Do you think I do not know this?” I demanded. “Do you think he does not? I do not need you to remind me.”

  “Apparently you do,” Giuseppe retorted, “for the knowledge alone has not been enough to stop you.”

  “It is not that simple!”

  “Oh, Adriana,” he said, his shoulders slumping as his large, sturdy body seemed to fold inward on itself. “What have you done this time? How is it that you cannot see the danger of your actions?”

  “I can see it,” I said. “Believe me, I can see it. I just do not care.”

  “That is even worse.”

  “There are some things, Giuseppe, that you risk everything for,” I said. “And I need not—I will not—answer to you, nor do I care what you may think of me.”

  He laughed, a short, harsh sound. “But you do,” he said. “You must, for you need me to help you, do you not?”

  “I do not need your help,” I said. “I do not deny that this would be easier that way, but even if you refuse, that will not stop me.”

  He sank down to sit on the bed. I did not protest the familiarity of the action; we were far past standing on propriety now. “God help us both,” he said finally, after a long pause. “This is madness, you know. Utter madness.”

  His words echoed the ones Vivaldi had spoken two nights ago. Yes, yes, we are all aware that sanity is something this venture is altogether lacking, I thought with a tinge of humor. At least everyone is in accord on that count. “So will you help me?” I asked.

  He shook his head, disbelieving. “Yes, God forgive me,” he said. “I will. I will, even though I think this will be the ruin of us both, and of your Maestro Vivaldi as well, because I think that whatever slim chance we do have of coming through this lies in my helping you.”

  I smiled, allowing my relief to show. “Thank you, my friend,” I said.

  “Tell me this,” Giuseppe said, rising to his feet. “Is it to him you have been going, all those times you had me wait for you near the Rialto? Has it been going on that long?”

  “I have been going to him all along, yes, but it had not…” I was surprised to find myself blushing. “We were not lovers until last week.”

  “Then why…” Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. “The violinist,” he said. “He was the one giving you music lessons. That is how it started.”

  “Yes.”

  He laughed. “If only Don d’Amato knew what effect his discipline truly had.”

  “Let us pray that he never finds out.”

  “Oh, I shall,” Giuseppe said, moving toward the door. “Believe me, I shall pray for that above all else. We will likely require divine intervention to come through this in one piece.”

  “If God exists as they say He does, then I am the last one He would be willing to help,” I said.

  Giuseppe laughed, in spite of himself. “It is better not to remind ourselves of that fact.” He opened the door that led to the sitting room and paused in the doorway. “Good night, then, madonna. We will talk more tomorrow. Sleep well.”

  “Good night, Giuseppe,” I said. “And … thank you.”

  He shook his head. “Do not thank me for anything just yet. Who knows what may become of us before this is over?” On that ominous note, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

  15

  LARGO

  The next day, I set out to see an herb-woman whose name I had procured from Meneghina, under the pretense of needing a concoction for my skin. If I was going to carry on such a dangerous love affair, I could under no circumstances conceive a child. I had Giuseppe escort me to see the woman, and was given some herbs and instructed to mix a pinch of it into my tea or wine after each time I was with my lover. At least one worry was put to rest.

  * * *

  The following day, I was summoned to my father’s study, where I was informed that we had received an invitation to a large party being given by the Foscari family to mark the end of the festival season in late November, when all the revelry of Venice would pause for Advent before resuming again on St. Stephen’s Day.

  The Foscari family was one of the premier noble families of Venice, having produced at least one doge, as well as managing to hold on to their vast wealth at a time when much of the Venetian nobility was losing their fortunes. Everyone of importance in Venetian society would be there—as my father wasted no time in informing me—and, naturally, it was assumed I would meet my future husband there.

  “This promises to be a profitable evening for our family,” my father said. “And I trust you will behave with the perfect decorum and grace that our family name dema
nds.” He did not add “or else,” but the threat was implied. “You are to have a new gown,” he added. “The dressmaker is coming tomorrow to fit you for it.”

  I replied with my customary “Yes, Father” and, when he dismissed me, rose and took my leave calmly.

  I had dreaded the fitting, but by the end the dressmaker had given me a fairly vivid idea of what the gown was to look like, and I was looking forward, in spite of myself, to trying on the finished product—much as I did not like its intended purpose. It was to be made of a pale blue silk, trimmed with silver lace and embroidered with silver thread. The skirt would be slashed to reveal a petticoat of cloth of silver that was being specially made as well. The overall effect would no doubt be stunning, which both excited and depressed me.

  Later that same night was to be my next tryst with Vivaldi, so once the dressmaker had left I summoned Giuseppe to my rooms.

  “Tonight you will accompany me to his house, so that you know the way,” I told him, my voice low. “Then you may go wherever you please, so long as you return for me after three hours.”

  He nodded, his expression betraying his discomfort. “As you wish, madonna,” was all he said in reply.

  I had been expecting a reprisal of his tirade from a few nights ago, not to mention all of the new arguments and reasons why I was utterly mad that he had no doubt thought of since. This resigned acquiescence was certainly much more welcome. “Very well,” I said. “Return for me here at midnight. I shall be waiting for you.”

  He bowed and left the room without saying anything further.

  That night, Giuseppe came for me at the appointed time, and I led him through the labyrinth of streets and canals to Vivaldi’s house, telling him to make note of the way.

  “Here it is,” I said, as we drew within sight of our destination. “You will be able to find your way back here?”

  He nodded.

  “Very well,” I said. “Remember, three hours.”