The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  He took me in his arms, his fingers twining through my hair as he kissed me. We drew apart, and he turned me swiftly so my back was pressed against his chest. “Shall I tell you?” he murmured, brushing my hair aside so that he could whisper in my ear. His hands moved down my back and began to unlace my gown. “I was not able to compose a single measure without you,” he said. “When I would try to play, every note sounded as though it were made of stone. Do you know why?” He undid the last of the laces and pushed my gown down to the floor. “It is because you are the violin, and I am the bow. Without one, the other is useless.” He bent his head to kiss my neck, his thumb brushing the top of my breast.

  “I love you as Dante loved Beatrice, as Petrarch loved Laura, as Orfeo loved Euridice.” He ran his hands slowly up over my hips, my waist, my breasts. “I would descend into the underworld for you,” he whispered, “and play before the King of Hell himself until he released you.”

  “I love you.” I sighed against his mouth as he turned my head to kiss me.

  He moaned in response, quickly working to undo the laces of my corset, and then lifted my shift over my head. I waited patiently for him to remove his own clothes, then sank down onto the very conveniently placed daybed, which we put to a use for which I doubt it was ever intended.

  As we made love, I held him as tightly against me as my strength allowed. I was determined to never let him go. It did not matter that the world we lived in was an imperfect one, cruel and conniving, and would seek to tear us apart. There was only perfection then, in that room, between the two of us, and I could not remember ever being happier in my life.

  * * *

  “I quite forgot,” I said lazily, my head resting on his chest, “that Giuseppe had said he would be keeping guard just outside.”

  Vivaldi chuckled. “No doubt he knew to make himself scarce.” His fingers traced swirling, circular patterns on my bare skin.

  We fell silent for a time before I spoke again. It was not something I wanted to say, not in that idyllic state which we had carved out, but I knew I had to.

  “And so,” I said, propping myself up on an elbow so I could see his face. “Where do we go from here?”

  He drew me tighter against him. “We go on,” he said. “For as long as we can.”

  I nodded. “Yes.”

  After that, he was quiet for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep. Then he said, “I am given to understand that your harpsichord playing leaves something to be desired.”

  I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the daybed.

  * * *

  Reluctantly, we soon rose and dressed, and Vivaldi helped lace me back into my corset and gown, a task at which he had grown quite proficient.

  “Meneghina shall have to find another position, I fear,” I teased him. “You would make a fine lady’s maid, caro.”

  He drew my hips tightly against his own. “As it would require me to spend a great deal of time in your bedchamber, I think I should enjoy it very much.”

  I had not even finished cursing the clothing we had just donned again when he released me. I turned to face him, and he gently took my face in his hands. “Come to me the night after next,” he said. “We will spend the first night of Carnevale together.”

  “I would like nothing better,” I said.

  Just then, there was a knock at the door. A few moments later, Giuseppe stuck his head into the room. “Madonna, Don Vivaldi,” he said. Plainly relieved to see we were both fully clothed and not in any sort of compromising position, he stepped fully into the room. “I hate to interrupt, but I think it time that Don Vivaldi takes his leave. Some of the servants are beginning to disperse from the kitchens, and we cannot have anyone discover you.”

  Vivaldi kissed me once more, then reluctantly released me. “Buon Natale, cara mia.”

  “Buon Natale,” I said in reply.

  He picked up his cloak from where he had dropped it and pulled it on. “Thank you, my friend,” he said to Giuseppe.

  Giuseppe nodded.

  With one last look at me, Vivaldi followed Giuseppe out of the room.

  Once they had left, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber, though I knew it would be hours before I could sleep.

  What need I with sleep, I mused, my lips curving into a smile as I watched the sky slowly begin to lighten over the Grand Canal, when life itself has become like a dream?

  MOVEMENT THREE

  ORFEO E EURIDICE

  December 1710–April 1711

  24

  SECRETS

  Christmas Day passed in a haze, as did the party with Tommaso. My father returned home in the morning only to go out again as evening fell; I did not see him once. Meneghina dressed and polished me appropriately for the party, and Tommaso came to escort me in his gondola.

  “You look ravishing,” he said, kissing my hand as I met him in the foyer. He led me down to the dock and into his gondola, where glasses of mulled wine were waiting for us inside.

  We had scarcely pulled away from the dock when Tommaso said, albeit good-naturedly, “So I hear that I have a rival.”

  I nearly choked on my wine. “You do?” I asked, employing the same innocent look I used on my father. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He took a sip from his own glass. “Your mysterious midnight serenade,” he said. “It is the talk of Venice.”

  I pulled my features into an astonished expression. “Do you mean to say that you did not send that musician?”

  He grinned ruefully. “No, though I wish I had thought of it.”

  I slapped him playfully on the arm. “Do not demur for my sake, Don Tommaso. You can admit it to me. I thought it was lovely.”

  Tommaso shook his head. “I swear to you, it was not I.”

  I furrowed my brow. “Then who could it have been?”

  “You would know the answer to that better than I, I should think.”

  “Truly, Tommaso, I am at a loss. Here I was all this time thinking that you were behind the whole thing!” I giggled girlishly.

  “Hmmm.” His eyes searched my face, looking for truth. He must have found it, for he relaxed. “It should not surprise me. It is too much to hope that I should be your only suitor.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “I shall simply have to increase my efforts to capture your heart, then.”

  His words set a stream of panic flowing in my stomach. “I suppose you must,” I said, returning his smile.

  “I shall begin my endeavors in that regard immediately, then,” he said, taking a small wooden box from beneath one of the cushions and handing it to me. “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

  “How kind of you,” I said. I opened the box to find a lovely bracelet nestled on a bed of green silk. It was gold, with emeralds set in a second gold band that twined around it. “Oh, Tommaso, it is beautiful! And it matches my gown exactly!”

  He smiled. “It is my good fortune that you chose to wear green tonight,” he said. “Here. Let me.”

  I handed him the bracelet and extended my left arm. He carefully clasped it around my wrist and, once the task was complete, did not remove his hands; they were warm and soft against my skin, contrasting with the cold, hard gold of the bracelet. Then, swiftly, he leaned in and kissed me.

  I scarcely had time to respond before he drew back, smiling sheepishly. “Forgive me, madonna,” he said. “I found I could not help myself.”

  “You have done nothing for which I must forgive you,” I said, leaning back against the cushions and trying to still my pounding heart.

  The party was much like the last, except that Tommaso rarely left my side. I confess that his devoted attention went quite to my head, for he was far and away the most handsome of all the men present.

  Don and Donna Foscari greeted me warmly, as did Tommaso’s brother and sister-in-law. I spent some time in conversation with Beatrice; she was, I found, an extremely learned and well-read woman.

  I also crossed paths once again with Senator Baldovino, who insisted upo
n speaking to me for upward of ten minutes about his work in the Senate, while sneaking glances at my bosom. I had never been so glad to see Tommaso as when he came to rescue me from the old lecher.

  I endured it all in the only way I knew how: with memories of the night before burning brightly in my mind, with the knowledge that the next night I would be with Vivaldi again.

  The next day dawned cold and bright and clear: perfect for the first day of Carnevale. When I rose in the morning and went to look out my window, I could see revelers already crowded into boats on the Grand Canal.

  Let the debauchery begin, I thought, smiling as I turned away from the window.

  * * *

  When night finally fell and my father had departed for his own Carnevale engagement, it was time for me to dress and be off. The act of dressing was a bit awkward; as I had no choice but to have Giuseppe help me. The gown I had chosen was a rather anonymous black dress I had not worn in several years; the sort worn by noblewomen on those occasions when they dressed in compliance with the sumptuary laws. It would suit my purposes of disguise well enough. And as I had not worn it for some time, it fit almost scandalously tightly, showing off my figure to the best possible advantage.

  “Most of the servants have either left or will be slipping out soon, so we should not need to worry about them,” Giuseppe reported as I pulled out the corset I would need, stockings, the gown, and my mask: a silver half mask covered with black lace and adorned with black feathers and black and silver glass beads. He cast a nervous eye over my woman’s gear.

  “Very well,” I said, turning to retrieve my cloak from the wardrobe. “I do not see why you cannot return to Antonio’s house to fetch me at, say, dawn—it is Carnevale, after all.”

  Giuseppe did not answer. I frowned and turned to face him. “Giuseppe?”

  The word all but died in my throat as I saw him staring, openmouthed, at the door to my bedchamber. At Meneghina, who had just walked in, carrying a basket of freshly laundered linens.

  Her face was frozen in surprise as she took in the clothing on the bed and the damning words she had certainly overheard.

  “By the Virgin,” I swore under my breath. This would be the ruin of us all.

  Giuseppe, thankfully, came to his senses and took command of the situation. “How much did you hear?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.

  “I…” Meneghina looked wildly back and forth between Giuseppe and me. “Madonna said you … you should return to fetch her at dawn, from—”

  A small noise escaped my throat, and I sank down onto the bed, feeling faint. She had heard enough. Enough to tell my father, enough to have him put together the whole sordid picture.

  “And how much will it take for you to hold your tongue?” Giuseppe asked.

  My head snapped up at this. Giuseppe’s gaze was focused, hard, on Meneghina.

  “I do not understand,” she said, glancing at me.

  “How much must I pay you,” I said, finding my voice, “for you to swear that you will tell no one what you heard, least of all my father?”

  “Oh, madonna.” Meneghina put the laundry down and took a hesitant step toward me. “You need pay me nothing; I will not tell a soul, I swear—”

  “And can I trust you with my skin? With my life?” I demanded. “I have heard you gossip many a time, Meneghina. You know, I am sure, what my father would do to me if—”

  “I would never betray you!” she said, her large brown eyes shining fiercely. “How could you think I would do such a thing?”

  “Because you will lose your position if Don d’Amato finds out you kept such a secret from him,” Giuseppe pointed out coldly.

  “Even so,” Meneghina said. “I … oh, madonna, I must confess. I have known for some weeks now that you have been leaving the house in secret, and I … well, I assumed you have been going to a lover.”

  She looked back and forth between the two of us for confirmation, and apparently took our silence as such.

  “I have not said anything to anyone—I would never!—because…” She hesitated. “Well, because I am happy for you, madonna!” she declared. “You have seemed so happy, and after the way your father has treated you all your life—” She clapped a hand over her mouth and immediately dropped a curtsy. “Mi scusi, madonna.”

  A small smile stole over my face. “You have nothing for which to apologize, Meneghina, I assure you.”

  “Thank you, madonna,” she said, looking relieved. “All I meant to say was that you deserve to be happy. To choose for yourself.”

  For a moment I was humiliated, that my own maid should pity me. Yet then the simple truth of her words struck me: You deserve to be happy. To choose for yourself.

  “Thank you, Meneghina,” I said finally. “As you are here, you may as well help me dress for Carnevale, and spare poor Giuseppe the indignity.”

  Giuseppe looked as though he wanted to protest—strenuously—but did not say anything.

  “Wait just outside for me, Giuseppe,” I said. “I shall not be long.”

  He frowned, but left quickly to wait in the sitting room.

  Meneghina hesitantly crossed the room to me, and I turned my back to her so she could unlace my day dress. “You can trust me, madonna,” she said softly. “I swear it, on the Holy Virgin.”

  “I do not know that I deserve such devotion,” I said. “But I thank you, and can only hope that I may repay you one day.”

  She laced me into my corset, then my dress, as she had done hundreds of times before; but this time was different. Now we were confidantes, coconspirators—more like friends than maid and mistress. She did not ply me with questions, but seemed to trust I would tell her my secrets if and when I chose.

  I could see her smile in the mirror as she finished lacing the gown. “You look ravishing, madonna,” she said. “I do not know this man of yours, but I should think he will be quite pleased. Now, sit,” she said, “and I will pin up your hair quickly.”

  She used pins set with diamonds that had been a Christmas gift from my father, and then tied on my mask. When she was finished, she placed both hands on my shoulders and leaned in close, so that her face appeared in the mirror beside my own, bright with excitement.

  “Now go, madonna,” she said. “And happy Carnevale.”

  I rose from my seat and drew her into a brief embrace. “Thank you,” I whispered again into her ear.

  25

  MASQUERADE

  We had not even left the house when Giuseppe started in on me. “What can you be thinking, madonna?” he hissed as we made our way down the servants’ stairs. “Do you truly think we can trust her?”

  “We do not have a choice,” I said as we stepped outside. We paused briefly for Giuseppe to don his own mask: a simple white bauta, which covered the entire face, leaving holes for the eyes and with a jutting chin that allowed the wearer to easily breathe as well as eat and drink while remaining disguised.

  “Perhaps,” Giuseppe grumbled. “But she is a gossip, as you said.”

  “She has managed to hold her tongue thus far,” I said as we set off, “if in truth she has noticed my disappearances before now.”

  “Let us pray she is the only one who has noticed.”

  I winced. “No one has occasion to be near my rooms save you and Meneghina,” I said slowly.

  “And what of—”

  I sighed. “Please, Giuseppe. It is Carnevale—my first Carnevale, and I would like to enjoy it. I believe she will keep my secret. We must trust her.” Even as I spoke, nervousness gnawed at me—there were too many people now who knew. Like a true Venetian, though, I vowed not to think of such things tonight. “It is Carnevale!” I said again, laughing and skipping on ahead of Giuseppe.

  I could hear the smile in his voice. “So it is, madonna. You are right. I will try not to worry.”

  Soon enough, we had melted into the crowds that had taken to the streets that night. I felt an irrepressible smile stretch across my face. What freedom a mask p
rovided, that anyone could look at me and not guess the face beneath. I had never experienced anything quite so liberating. Such is the magic of Carnevale!

  I studied my fellow revelers as we passed them, wondering where they were going to spend this most joyous of nights. Perhaps some of them use their masks to hide secrets, as I do; not just because it is tradition, I thought.

  As we reached Vivaldi’s house, I found myself thoroughly enamored of Carnevale—and it had barely begun. I stepped inside, Giuseppe behind me, to find Vivaldi waiting for me.

  “You are as beautiful a seductress as Carnevale has ever seen,” he said. I could see from the look in his eyes that he was contemplating not leaving the house at all, but instead having a very private sort of celebration. I stepped into his arms and kissed him boldly, heedless of Giuseppe’s presence. I drew back after a moment, determined that we should not be tempted to miss out on the fun to be had in the streets of Venice.

  Vivaldi was dressed in a suit of simple gray damask, with a lace cravat and lace at the cuffs of his sleeves. He also wore a white powdered wig to conceal his red hair, and in his hand was a white bauta mask just like Giuseppe’s, anonymity being even more important to him than it was to me.

  “I shall leave you, then, madonna,” Giuseppe said.

  “Very well,” I said, turning back to him. “Remember: dawn.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Go out, Giuseppe,” I said, tossing him a smile. “Enjoy yourself.”

  He bowed. “Your wish is my command, madonna,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. With that, he turned and went back into the boisterous night.

  Vivaldi chuckled. “He does not strike me as one to revel in such debauchery as he is likely to find out there this night.”

  I smiled. “No. But he is a man all the same, and no doubt that is prerequisite enough. Besides,” I added, my tone becoming a bit more somber, “he needs a bit of respite from worrying about me.”

  “Then we shall give him nothing to worry about tonight,” Vivaldi promised. He settled his mask into place, donned his cloak, and put a simple tricornered black hat on his head. “What say you? Am I sufficiently disguised?”