The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  “The gondolier,” I gasped, when he removed his mouth from mine.

  “We need not worry about him,” Tommaso whispered, trailing kisses down my neck. “Gondoliers are honor-bound not to breathe a word of what happens in their craft.”

  “Yes, I know, but—” He stifled my words by kissing me again, and his distraction was so effective that I did not immediately notice he had removed his hand from my breast and slid it underneath my skirts—not until his fingers brushed against the inside of my thighs and began to probe at the most intimate part of my body.

  “Dio mio,” I breathed.

  “Yes, cara,” he said, smiling. “It feels good, si?”

  May God and the Holy Virgin forgive me, but it did. I was nearly completely seduced. Would it be so wrong, truly, if he is soon to be my husband? And Antonio all but gave me permission …

  The thought of Vivaldi wrung the desire from my traitorous flesh in an instant. “No,” I said, wriggling away from him. “Stop.” I moved back, putting as much space between us as possible. I drew a deep breath. “Really, Tommaso,” I said, readjusting my clothing, my skin flushed with shame and guilt. I patted my hair back into place, my fingers brushing the satin softness of the rosebud. “Do you wish for us to arrive at Paolo’s party quite disheveled? What will everyone think?”

  “This is a day for lovers,” he said, turning my face back toward his. Breathing heavily, he reached out to put his hands on my waist. “They will think that we have been putting it to good use.”

  “Tommaso, please,” I said, removing his hands. “I cannot.”

  “Adriana,” he said, his voice heavy, “I am nearly dying for want of you.”

  I looked away from the pleading in his eyes before I gave in. “I cannot,” I repeated. “Please understand.”

  He ran his fingers through his mussed curls, sighing. “You are right,” he said. “I am sorry.”

  Stupidly enough, I found myself hoping I had not ruined the entire night. “I thank you for inviting me out this evening,” I offered lamely.

  He smiled broadly, as though his disappointment was already forgotten. “And who else would I spend this evening with? Our first Festa di San Marco together,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it. “The first of many.”

  * * *

  The next night, I went to Vivaldi—could not help myself, could not have stayed away for anything in the world. When I stepped inside, I found him waiting for me at the door, and before I could speak a word he had me in his arms, his mouth against mine. As he kissed me, he slipped a red rosebud into the bodice of my gown. We did not speak as he led me upstairs to his bedchamber.

  I gasped as I stepped into the room. Many a sweetheart must have languished without a rosebud on the feast day, for Vivaldi had surely ransacked all of Venice to gather them: there were dozens, hundreds, scattered over the bed and all about the room.

  “The day for lovers,” he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind. I could not help a shiver at the way his words echoed Tommaso’s, but I pushed that aside.

  “Yes,” I said, lying across the bed and drawing him down atop me. “Now let us not delay our celebration any longer.”

  MOVEMENT FOUR

  THE END OF TIME

  May 1711–September 1711

  33

  THE CHILD

  It was mid-May when I realized my monthly courses were over a week late. I knew what this likely meant but—God help me—I cast about for another explanation with all my might. I had heard that they sometimes came late in times of distress, and that was something of which I had plenty. We were due to leave for the Foscari villa in a few weeks, and then everything would be over: I would spend the summer away from Vivaldi, and I would return betrothed.

  But soon enough it was June and they had never arrived. By the time I awoke one morning, queasy enough that I was forced to vomit into my chamber pot, I had no choice but to acknowledge the truth. I had not thought it possible; had trusted in the herbs the wisewoman had given me and taken them faithfully. But they had failed, and I was with child.

  I placed my hands wonderingly on my belly, the prophecy of the gypsy woman at Carnevale vivid in my mind: You will bear the child of the man you love.

  And even though I knew that this would be the end of everything, the tears that sprang to my eyes were tears of joy.

  * * *

  Meneghina, it seemed, was well aware of the truth of my condition, perhaps before I was. When she came into my room that morning to take the chamber pot for emptying, she did not seem surprised at its contents. She glanced at me where I had gone to lie back down in bed until I felt better. Softly, she asked, “How long has it been since you bled, madonna?”

  My eyes listlessly sought hers. “Two months.”

  She drew her breath in sharply. “Dio mio.”

  “Yes.” I drew myself into a sitting position. “I do not suppose that I need to say you must speak of this to no one.”

  She nodded fervently. “Of course not, madonna. But…” She eyed me worriedly, biting her lip. “What will you do?”

  “I do not know,” I said, falling back against the pillows.

  * * *

  What followed the rest of that day, as I lay wretchedly in bed, was something akin to a blizzard of thoughts raging inside of my head.

  My first instinct was to tell Vivaldi right away. Yet I fought off the urge to summon Giuseppe to take me to him immediately, forcing myself to ponder what this news meant. What was I expecting of him?

  We had both known the days of our romance were numbered, that we must let go eventually. But surely he would not—could not—leave me to simply fend for myself. This child would bring us to our moment of reckoning: would he throw everything away—his reputation, his position in the Church, his place in the musical society of Venice—for me, for our child?

  He might think I was trying to entrap him. I gritted my teeth at the thought—I had not wished for this any more than he had. Suddenly I found myself prepared to fight for this child—this child that I was certain had been conceived the night of our private celebration of the Festa di San Marco—with my very last breath, if need be.

  No, he must be told as soon as possible, so we could make plans. Whatever we were going to do, it must be soon, before I left for the Foscari villa at the end of June, not to return until September.

  As if Vivaldi knew I needed him, Giuseppe appeared in my rooms with a message for me. “He has sent word to you, madonna,” he told me, his voice low as he handed me a piece of folded parchment. “He asks if you will meet him tomorrow night.”

  It took all of my self-control not to swear, out loud and fluently. Tommaso had invited me to the opera at the Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo tomorrow evening, and I could not cancel now without arousing his suspicion or my father’s. “I cannot,” I said, schooling my voice to remain steady. “Take him my reply, and ask him if I may come tonight instead.”

  Giuseppe nodded hesitantly. “Is there not an opera at the Sant’ Angelo tonight, madonna?”

  “No doubt, but ask him anyway.”

  “Very well.” He hesitated as he moved toward the door. “Are you quite all right, madonna?” he asked. “Is anything amiss?”

  “Amiss? No,” I answered quickly. “Why?”

  He shrugged. “You simply seem out of sorts.”

  “I am fine.”

  “If you say so.” He studied me a moment longer before exiting the room. “I shall not be gone long,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

  I lay back down again, my hands shaking. I could not lie to Giuseppe for much longer.

  Hopefully I need not lie to anyone for much longer, I thought, trying to slow my racing heart.

  * * *

  The next night not even the opera could hold my attention. Vivaldi had, in fact, been engaged at the Sant’ Angelo the night before, and had sent Giuseppe back with no further message than he would send word when next he could meet. I wanted to break things; to sc
ream, to tear at my hair.

  I spent the entire evening trying to think of the best way to tell Vivaldi once I did get to see him. Even Tommaso noticed my distraction.

  “You do not seem quite yourself, Adriana,” he said during the intermission. “Are you feeling quite well? We can leave at once if you are not.”

  “No,” I assured him. “Quite well, just tired. I have not been sleeping well these past few nights.”

  He covered my hand with his. “I hope it is not concern for our future that is keeping you awake, cara mia,” he said. “For you may rest assured, I would move heaven and earth to make you my wife.”

  At that moment I felt very ill indeed. Still, I forced my stomach to behave itself, reassured Tommaso that I had complete faith in him, and we went on with our evening.

  Have I not learned to be a better actress by now? My audience must believe me completely, or I am done for.

  34

  ORCHESTRATION

  Days passed, with more messages carried between Vivaldi and me, still without an agreed-upon time and date. This was nothing unusual; we had been forced to go a week or more without seeing each other in the past. But this was different. This was urgent, and I could not tell him what I needed to say in a letter.

  Toward the end of June, Giuseppe finally brought a letter to me after several days without a reply. He waited by the door, in case he needed to return with my response. I went to the window of my bedchamber to read it, letting the late morning sun fall upon the hasty scrawl on the page:

  Mia carissima Adriana—

  I am sorry to have not replied to you sooner, and you will have to forgive me for giving you such short notice of my news. Even as you read this, I am on my way to Amsterdam. There is a publisher there who is interested in L’estro, and I thought it best to go meet him without delay. This may be the opportunity I have been waiting for, so I know you will understand. I wish that I might have seen you before I left, but it was not possible. I promise we will meet again as soon as we are both in Venice once more. I beg you to wish me luck in my venture.

  A.V.

  I let the letter fall from my hand. “No,” I murmured. “Please, no. Not now. He cannot go now, of all times. He cannot!”

  I bent to pick up the letter and turned to face Giuseppe, almost accusingly. “Did you have this from his own hand?” I demanded. Maybe, if he had not departed yet, I could intercept him. Maybe he would take me with him …

  Bewildered, Giuseppe shook his head. “No, he sent it via a messenger, as he often does. I have told the other servants that I have a sweetheart on Burano, to explain why I receive so many letters.”

  I stared through him. “He is gone,” I whispered. “He has left for Amsterdam, to meet with a music publisher.” My whole body began to tremble. “He cannot, not now! I must—”

  Giuseppe crossed the room and placed his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Madonna, please! What is the matter? He is planning to return, is he not?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But by then, it may well be too late…” I pulled away, sinking down onto the edge of my bed. “What am I going to do?” I whispered.

  “Do about what? Why will it be too late?” he demanded.

  I met his worried eyes. “I am with child,” I said.

  Giuseppe staggered back as the news—and all its potential consequences—became clear to him.

  “He does not know,” I went on. “I have not been able to see him to tell him. And by the time he returns, it may be too late. My condition may become apparent before…” I trailed off, unable to put into words the fate we were both envisioning.

  Giuseppe’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times, as though no words could be found. “How far along are you?” he asked at last.

  “Almost three months,” I said.

  “And he does not know.”

  It was not a question, but I answered anyway. “No, he does not.”

  “Then you know what you must do,” Giuseppe said.

  I gasped and jumped up, backing away from him. “No.”

  “You must, Adriana,” he said. He stepped closer, taking me by the shoulders again. “You must. You have no other choice. He does not know; he need never know. By the time he returns, you will be at the villa. And once you come back to Venice, it will be too late. He will no longer be able to do anything for you. And if your father finds out…” He did not finish the sentence, but neither of us needed him to.

  “I cannot, Giuseppe,” I said, my voice breaking. “Do you not understand? This is the child of the man I love. I would do anything to keep it safe. I could not…” I was unable even to speak the words.

  “But you must, Adriana!” he exclaimed, releasing me and furiously turning his back on me. He took a moment to regain control before facing me again. “I will go seek out a wisewoman myself, if you wish,” he said. “I will get whatever herbs or mixture you need to take so that this can all be over with now. Women do it all the time, Adriana,” he added, trying to reason with me. “You will be neither the first nor the last.”

  “I will not rid myself of my child,” I said through clenched teeth as I pushed him away. I pressed both hands to my belly.

  “It is the only way!” he shouted.

  “Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “Do you wish the rest of the household to hear you?”

  He sighed. “Can you really be so foolish, Adriana?” he asked. “Can you really be so hopelessly, foolishly blind?”

  “I am not blind,” I said. “I know the consequences just as well as you do.”

  “And even if you do tell him before it is too late?” Giuseppe asked. “What can he do to save you? He cannot marry you. You could run away and live together in shame, but how will he make a living then? Unless he were to leave the Church—”

  Giuseppe broke off and stared incredulously at me. “That is it, is it not? You are planning to ask him to leave the Church for you, and for the child.”

  “In a way,” I admitted, unable to meet his eyes. “Not ask him, per se. But surely he will see that it is the only way for us.” I grew more confident as I spoke. “He will not abandon me. He loves me.”

  “I know he does,” Giuseppe conceded. “But Adriana, what if he is not willing to destroy his life and his reputation for you? Everything he has worked for, everything that he hopes to achieve, would be undone.” He looked at me closely, a hard, scrutinizing stare, the one I had so far been able to avoid when I looked into the mirror but could not turn away from now. “And you would ask him to do all of that for you?”

  “I should not have to ask him anything!” I burst out. “He should do it because he loves me and because it is what is right. I did not want this to happen either, but it did. We have both made choices that brought us here; neither one of us is solely to blame, and so we both must make sacrifices.”

  “And what sacrifice will you be making, Adriana?” Giuseppe demanded. “If all of this goes according to your plan, then you will have everything you have ever wanted, and he will be ruined. What exactly will you be sacrificing, pray?”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but found I could not. Giuseppe, damn him, was exactly right. All I stood to lose was a place in society that had never meant anything to me. It would be Vivaldi, and only Vivaldi, who would lose everything. Can I really ask that of him? I wondered, guilt creeping in to settle in the pit of my stomach. And if I do, might he not grow to resent me, someday?

  “It does not matter,” I said aloud. “We have no other choice, Giuseppe. We will go someplace far away, far from Venice—far from Italy, if need be—where the scandal cannot follow us. And then we will begin again.”

  “Is there nothing I can say that will dissuade you from this folly?” he asked.

  “It is not folly.”

  “It is,” he countered. “For what are you going to do when everything you are hoping for falls to pieces?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “It cannot go awry. It will not.”

  �
��Adriana.” He groaned, sitting down heavily on the bed. “Even the best-laid plans can go awry, and this one is folly. It is. Folly and madness.”

  “Stop speaking thus!” I cried. “My life is unraveling, and—”

  “But it is not just your life!” Giuseppe exploded, with a vehemence that made me jump. He rose to his feet. “Dio mio, for once, will you stop being so selfish and open your eyes? Your life is not the only one at stake! If you fall, we all fall with you: the maestro, your child, Meneghina, and … and me.”

  “If you wish to leave,” I said slowly, “then go. Go to my father and ask for the rest of your wages, and leave. I will not stop you, and I do not wish you to suffer for me. Surely you know that is the last thing I want.”

  He sighed. “I know,” he said. “And I would not abandon you, now or ever. Do not think that I care for myself more than I care for—” He stopped, the words he had not spoken hanging in the air, as audible as if he had said them aloud: for you. “Damn Enrico,” he snarled under his breath, turning away from me. “He is like a great filthy spider, and we are all caught in his web. Damn the old bastard to il inferno and back…”

  I listened, fascinated by his rant, and had to stop myself from questioning him.

  “So what will you do?” he asked finally, turning back to me. “You will wait for him?”

  I nodded. “I will pray that he is here when we return from the villa, and that we can be gone quickly.”

  Giuseppe sighed. “I know that I should tell you I will not help you.” He hesitated. “But I cannot. For better or for worse, madonna, I am, as ever, at your service.”

  “And I thank you,” I said. “More than I can say. I know that I have a large debt to repay someday.”

  He waved this aside. “There are no debts between friends,” he said. “And I have been wrong before where Maestro Vivaldi is concerned. He does love you, very much. I can only pray that it will be enough to see you through this.”

  I nodded. “Have faith, Giuseppe.”

  “And you. You will need it.”