The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  He was, in fact; to a degree that surprised even me. His fiery red hair was completely hidden, as was his face, and the mask slightly distorted his voice when he spoke. Had I not known that it was him, I would never have guessed it. “Perfect,” I said.

  He offered me his arm. “Very well, then. Shall we go?”

  I placed my hand on the crook of his elbow, and for the first time, we stepped outside together, welcomed into the night that seemed so full of promise.

  “To where are we bound, my lady?” he asked.

  I hesitated. “I would hazard that you are rather more familiar with the city and its many Carnevale spectacles than I am,” I said. “Therefore I shall allow you to lead the way.”

  “Very well. To Piazza San Marco, then,” he said. “There we shall see spectacles enough.”

  We made our way to the square, where all the merrymakers were out in full force. I peered interestedly at each mask I saw: there were many of the anonymous baute; some wore masks of the characters from the commedia dell’arte; and still others had more elaborate masks like mine, with lace and feathers and jewels.

  There were any number of women dressed in the attire of a courtesan, with their dresses cut so low that their bare breasts were exposed for all to see, even in the winter cold—though their faces were, of course, masked. But it was impossible to tell the true courtesans from those who were simply taking advantage of the license and freedom that Carnevale provided.

  Nothing, tonight, was as it seemed.

  Then there were those in full costume: figures from Greek and Roman mythology; people dressed in Turkish robes; others still in costumes in the English or French or Spanish styles. There were even a few dressed in the robes of priests, bishops, and cardinals who, it was not difficult to deduce, were certainly not clerics.

  Overhead, fireworks lit the sky, enormous splashes of white and red and blue and green.

  As we walked into the crowd in Piazza San Marco, Vivaldi wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me close against him. I smiled, dizzy and exhilarated by such contact and affection while in public. It went to my head just like a fine wine.

  The piazza was thronged with so many people, I thought half the city must be crowded into its confines. A strange mixture of smells, from unwashed bodies to heavy perfumes to roasting meat to spiced wine, mingled in the sharp winter air. In every corner there were street performers: a group of three men who could contort their bodies into seemingly impossible positions; two men juggling flaming torches; a small group of musicians struggling to make themselves heard over the din. There were also vendors every few feet, selling spiced wine, roasted nuts, ale, and chocolates, as well as those selling masks, comical hats, and other novelties.

  Vivaldi bent down to speak into my ear. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, forced to nearly shout to make himself heard.

  I nodded, and he led me over to a cart where a man wearing the long-beaked mask of a plague doctor was selling mulled wine, as though dispensing remedies. He handed me a cup and said, “May this protect you from all ills and maladies on this fine Carnevale night, signorina! For the affliction of drunkenness, however, I would suggest you seek a cure elsewhere!”

  I laughed and took a sip of the wine, letting it warm me from the inside out.

  We walked away, stopping to listen to different musicians that were performing, discussing the flaws and merits of each. We also watched a pair of acrobats execute a series of quite astonishing feats: one would stand on the other’s shoulders and launch himself into the air, performing two somersaults in midair before landing safely on his feet. The other strolled casually about on his hands, with the rest of his body straight up in the air, for such a prolonged period that he elicited gasps and murmurs of appreciation from those who had gathered to watch.

  As we moved away from the acrobats, I felt a hand clutch my arm and draw me away from the crowd, into the shadowed space between two of the columns that ringed the piazza. Immediately my heart began to pound, and a film of sweat broke out on my skin, despite the light snow that had begun to fall.

  I relaxed only slightly when I saw my apprehender: a bent, wizened old gypsy woman. She was dressed in a loose, flowing dress that had once, no doubt, been colorful and vibrant, but was now faded and dirty. Over that she wore a wool shawl, equally dirty and worn, and a striped kerchief bound her stringy hair back from her face. She wore no mask. Her face was a maze of lines and wrinkles; yet her eyes, deeply set in her face, were a blue so bright that they almost seemed to glow in the dim light.

  “Beg pardon, signora,” I said, catching my breath, “but I do not believe I know—”

  She waved my words away imperiously with her free hand, her other still clamped tightly about my arm. “Never mind that,” she said, her voice low and accented. “I would tell you your fortune, signorina.”

  “With respect, signora, I do not hold with such things,” I said, my eyes frantically darting from one masked figure to another as I searched for Vivaldi. He saw me before I saw him, and was soon moving quickly through the crowd toward me.

  The gypsy woman snorted derisively. “That may or may not be true,” she said. “But you should listen all the same. There are things you need to know.”

  By this time, Vivaldi had reached us; but the gypsy held up a hand to prevent him from coming any closer. He stopped just outside of the gateway created by the two columns, the gateway between the raucous world of Carnevale and the mysterious world of shadows I had been pulled into against my will. “Stay back, padre,” she said, her voice as unyielding as stone. “This is none of your concern.”

  The mask he wore hid his reaction, yet I knew he was as dumbfounded as I. He did not come closer. “Come, cara,” he said, reaching for my hand. “Come away. We shall return to the festivities; you need not stay here.”

  Yet I was shaken. How had she known who he really was? “Very well,” I said tentatively. “I will listen to what you have to say.” I turned back to Vivaldi. “Wait for me. I shall not be long.”

  The gypsy woman drew me farther into the shadows. “Give me your palm. Your left,” she instructed, and I silently obeyed. She took my soft hand in her gnarled, knotted ones, splaying my fingers apart so that my palm was exposed to her sharp gaze. She ran her fingers lightly over my fingertips, making note of the calluses that had formed there from my violin playing. She studied the lines of my palm intently, tracing them with a clawlike finger while making low, undecipherable noises in her throat.

  The rational part of me was nearly bursting with impatience; yet another part of me was apprehensive at what she might find. Is it so impossible that there might be those who can see beyond the ordinary? I asked myself. She did, after all, somehow know Antonio’s identity. I waited in unsettled silence for her to finish.

  She let out a low chuckle. “As I thought,” she said. She took her gaze from my hand and met my eyes. “You already know your fate. Although it will not come about in quite the way you think.”

  I stared at her, my mind reeling. What could she mean?

  “There is more,” she declared, glancing back at my palm, “more that you do not know.” Once again her eyes met mine as she imparted her prediction with unwavering certainty. “You will bear the child of the man you love.”

  It felt as though I had swallowed fire, and it raced through my veins, my blood alight. So this, then, is my fate … the one I have wanted but thought I could never have. Yes, perhaps I do know, have known, though I scarcely dare believe it.

  “Does this mean—” I began, wanting her to confirm this joyous, beautiful future she was suggesting.

  She shook her head. “I can tell you no more,” she said. “Perhaps you know what it means, perhaps you do not. It will still come, in its time.”

  Sensing the interview was over, I extracted a coin from the purse at my waist and placed it in her grubby hand. “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

  She gave a quick nod. “Mind you do not tell anyone what y
ou have learned here tonight,” she said, her tone almost threatening as she pointed a stern finger at me. “It is for your ears alone.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I shall speak of it to no one.” And I knew that I would not, for what would I say? “Farewell, signora.” I turned and walked out of the shadows as quickly as I dared, away from that strange place and back into the world of light and color and sound, of voices other than the ones I heard in my own head.

  The noise of the square seemed strangely loud as I stepped back through the columns, as though the sound had been somehow deadened within the fortune-teller’s realm. I placed my hand on Vivaldi’s shoulder; he jumped slightly, then turned quickly to face me. Sensing something was amiss, he asked, “What is it, cara? What’s wrong?”

  “More wine, I think,” I said, searching for a vendor through the crowd. It had suddenly become painfully and obviously apparent to me that my wine had long since been consumed.

  “Adriana,” he called, hurrying after me. “What on earth did she tell you? Why did you follow her?”

  I found another vendor selling wine, handed him a coin, and wordlessly took the cup he offered me. I took a generous sip before turning to face Vivaldi. I found that I had no desire whatsoever to repeat the fortune-teller’s words to anyone, least of all to him. The certainty I had initially felt at her prediction was gone now, its fires dampened and extinguished by the December cold, leaving me feeling foolish for having played along, for believing. “She told me nothing of import,” I said, trying to still my trembling hands. I smiled widely. “Nonsense, truly. I only listened because I felt there was no harm in it, and she was quite insistent.” I shrugged. “A silly Carnevale game, nothing more.”

  He knew me too well to be put off by such an explanation: he knew that I had been unsettled, if only for a few moments. But to his credit, he did not comment further. Rather, he handed the vendor another coin and took a cup of wine for himself. Offering me his arm, he said, “Well, mia bella donna? Shall we rejoin the festivities?”

  I placed my hand on his arm and let him lead me back into the throng, where further fantastical displays awaited us.

  * * *

  Several hours later, I realized—dimly—that I was quite drunk. I rather liked it. My head felt lighter than usual, although the ground beneath my feet kept shifting rather disobligingly. I stumbled a few times, each time becoming consumed with laughter.

  “Too much wine, cara,” Vivaldi said, wrapping an arm around my waist to steady me as we left the piazza. I heard the smile in his voice; he, too, had had more to drink than I had ever seen him have, though not as much as I—not that I could be sure of that, having quite lost count. “It has happened to the best men and women before, and will again, I fear.”

  I giggled. “Where shall we go now?” I asked, throwing my arms into the air. “Venice is ours for the taking!”

  “Back to my house now, cara, to wait for Giuseppe,” he said. “Or perhaps…” He hesitated a moment. “Perhaps I should take you right back home.”

  I wrenched away from him. “No!” I cried. “Do not dare! I do not ever want to go back there!”

  “Cara, maybe—”

  “No!” I stamped my foot childishly. “Take me back to your house and make love to me!”

  A burst of laughter sounded nearby, and I saw a group of masked men walking past us. “If you do not oblige the lady, I will be happy to take your place, good signore,” one of them called, prompting whoops of laughter from his companions.

  Vivaldi stepped closer to me, sliding both arms around my waist to draw me tightly against him. “Oh, I shall oblige you,” he said softly. He quickly pulled his mask off and kissed me, hard, on the mouth, right in the middle of the street, where the magic of Carnevale enfolded us in its protective embrace once more.

  26

  REST

  Due to the license and effortless methods of disguise that Carnevale provided, for the duration of the season—and, now, with Meneghina’s assistance—it was much easier for Vivaldi and me to meet—when we both had the time, that was. The Carnevale season brought with it, as always, an increased number of opera performances at theaters throughout the city, and the Teatro Sant’ Angelo was no exception. Vivaldi was occupied more evenings than not playing at the theater, performing before native Venetians and tourists alike. We took to meeting during the day again at times, though even this was not always possible.

  Nor was I entirely idle. I spent many evenings being escorted about by Tommaso Foscari, either to one of the countless parties taking place each night of Carnevale, or to the opera. We went to the Teatro Sant’ Angelo again—much to my delight—and also to the more upscale Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo, where his parents owned a box. We saw an opera there called Agrippina that was all the rage, by some German named Handel of whom I had never heard.

  And so January arrived, and the weather grew colder. Sometimes a week or more would pass without Vivaldi and me meeting. Giuseppe became accustomed to carrying messages back and forth between the two of us, arranging or canceling a meeting. I missed him more than ever; sometimes it felt as though he were hundreds of miles away instead of in the same city.

  I envied him—that he was a man, a musician, that his life was his own to order. He was busy with his performances, with writing music, with learning new music for the opera. He had plenty to keep his mind occupied, whereas I languished in my palazzo, like a lethargic princess in some old fairy story, with only a dusty harpsichord and some books to divert me.

  It was this dread of empty days—and also the ghost of that melody I had played once and lost—that prompted my subterfuge on one of the rare nights when we were together.

  As he stepped into the back room, looking for the pages of a sonata he wished to show me, I took several sheets with blank staves drawn on them from his desk and hid them inside my cloak. I knew I could have just asked; but I did not want Vivaldi—Vivaldi the genius composer—to know I wished to try my hand at composition. He would want to hear what I had written, and I was not ready for that.

  And so I had a new pursuit to occupy me. I would sit at my writing desk, my hands and clothes ink-splotched, the pages in front of me, and try to compose something, anything. I began with a violin melody, hearing the notes in my head even as my fingers burned to play them, to draw them from the strings, these notes that I myself had found and assembled. I had to resort to the harpsichord—a poor substitute. I soon came to be glad of it, however, when it came time to sketch in the orchestral accompaniment. I would play a chord out loud—usually several times—before putting it to the page and assigning its notes to the other instruments: second violin, viola d’amore, cello—or sometimes the basso, depending upon my mood. I began to see that each composition—however short and juvenile—was incrementally better than the last.

  * * *

  During the third week of January, I received an unexpected visitor. I was set to accompany Tommaso to a party being given by one of his friends and, having dressed and had Meneghina arrange my hair, I went to the piano nobile to await him. As I left my rooms, however, I encountered the butler, Signor Fiorello. “Ah, Madonna Adriana,” he said, bowing. “I was just coming to find you. You have a visitor.”

  “Don Tommaso Foscari? I have been expecting him,” I said, slightly startled at his early arrival.

  “No, madonna,” Signor Fiorello said apologetically. “Your caller is one Senator Baldovino. He is a friend of your father’s, and said he has previously made your acquaintance.”

  It took me a moment to summon a reply to this unforeseen turn of events. “Yes, I daresay he did,” I managed.

  “Yes, well. He is awaiting your presence in the parlor, madonna,” Signor Fiorello said. Left with no choice, I followed him down the stairs to greet my caller.

  The senator rose from his seat as I entered. I pointedly left the door open behind me. “Senator Baldovino,” I said evenly. “This is an unexpected honor. Please, do be seated.”

&
nbsp; “I thank you, Donna Adriana,” he said, lowering himself back into his chair. “And may I say you are looking exceptionally lovely this evening.” As he spoke, his eyes swept over me in his usual lecherous manner.

  “Grazie, Senator,” I said coolly, smoothing my skirts and taking a chair at an angle to his.

  Neither of us spoke for a long, awkward moment, and I felt irritated impatience prickling at me. He was here uninvited, and now he could not be troubled to get down to the purpose of his visit?

  “You must forgive my rudeness in dropping by uninvited like this,” he said at last. “I have sent several letters to your father, requesting permission to call upon you again, and yet every time he has replied that you have another engagement for the evening—which I do not doubt, as your company is obviously much desired.”

  “I thank you—” I began.

  “Yes,” he said, waving away my words. “In any event, I decided I would presume to call upon you in person, and ask that you do me the honor of accompanying me to a ball at the doge’s palace this evening.”

  I wondered what my father would say. Would the honor of his daughter being seen at the doge’s palace outweigh the potential advantages of an evening with Tommaso Foscari? “I thank you for the honor of your invitation, Senator,” I said. “Truly, I do; and I know my father will be honored as well when I tell him. However, I must decline, as I am already engaged elsewhere for the evening, and could not now go back on my word.”

  “I might have expected as much,” he said. “Very well. But might I not persuade you to tell me who my rival is?”

  Good Lord, had he not heard the gossip? “It is Tommaso Foscari with whom I will be spending the evening.”

  The senator laughed shortly. “I might have known. I will not trouble you further. After all, what young lady—and what father, for that matter—would prefer an aging patrician over a young, handsome, unspeakably wealthy one?”