The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  Giacomo turned back to a rather embarrassed Signor Peri. “Tell her this cannot be, signore,” he said. “This is folly, all of it.”

  “I am afraid it is not,” Signor Peri said. “I will have to have my agents investigate your claim, Donna Baldovino, but if what you say is true, then perhaps we can divide the estate and its assets in half—”

  “Half!” Giacomo roared.

  “Giuseppe can have it all,” I said. “I do not want any of it.”

  With one last, frustrated scream, Giacomo whirled around and stormed from the room.

  I rose to follow him, but Signor Peri lifted a hand to detain me.

  “Wait, Donna Baldovino. A moment, if you please.”

  I sat down again.

  “Is this truly what you wish?” he asked me. “I do not doubt that you are in earnest, but it is a rare individual who would turn their back on such good fortune.”

  “Giuseppe is my brother,” I said. “I love him more than anyone on earth, save my daughter.” Daughters, I amended silently. “It is not his fault he was not born in the marriage bed. And I owe him a great debt.”

  Signor Peri smiled. “I understand, madonna. At least, I think I do.” He sighed. “I will do what I can to see that he inherits at least some of the estate—you are entitled to some of it, as well, no matter your preferences.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued. “Think of your daughter, and the child you are carrying, and their futures, if not of yourself.”

  I remained silent, knowing that he was right. Giacomo’s own estate was not so diminished as that of many other members of the Venetian nobility, but if I wished for there to be enough money for my children—my daughter—to lead lives of their own choosing …

  “Perhaps you are right, signore,” I said. “But we shall leave the details to a later date.”

  He nodded. “Very good, madonna. I must first seek out this Giuseppe Rivalli, though I fear I will make an enemy of your husband by doing so. You may have made him an enemy as well.”

  I waved a hand carelessly as I rose. “I will handle my husband,” I said. “I look forward to hearing from you soon, then, signore.”

  “Indeed,” he said, rising as well. “And my condolences on your loss.”

  I smiled briefly. “Thank you, signore.”

  When I stepped into the hallway, I found a furious Giacomo waiting for me. “What in heaven and hell is wrong with you, Adriana?” he demanded, seizing my arm in a punishing grip. “We were about to inherit a vast fortune! We would have been wealthy beyond imagining!”

  I wrenched away from him. “Unhand me,” I said. “Think of your child, if nothing else.”

  “I am the only one thinking of our children, it seems,” he hissed. “Do you realize what you have just done? You have deprived them of a future filled with everything they could ever dream of!”

  “We shall still receive something, marito,” I said, with a touch of guilt. “Which you would have heard had you not stormed out of the room like a petulant child instead of comporting yourself as befits a patrician and senator of the republic.”

  He looked slightly chastened at my words. “You gave everything away, or almost everything,” he said through gritted teeth. “How can you—”

  I laid my hand gently on his cheek. “I promise that I did not do this to hurt you, Giacomo, nor our children,” I said. “But Giuseppe … you do not know the extent of the debt I owe him.”

  He snorted. “Oh, do I not? I know that without him, you would not have been able to carry on your disgraceful love affair.”

  “He protected me from my own father,” I said. “Numerous times. I know you do not want to hear this, Giacomo,” I said, as he blanched at my words, “but my father was cruel, violent, and angry from the day my mother died. Giuseppe was my only friend in that house.”

  “It does not do to speak ill of the dead, Adriana.”

  “The ill was my father’s own doing. I speak only the truth, because I wish you to understand.”

  “Be that as it may,” he said, after a long moment had passed, “you had no right, Adriana—”

  “It is my inheritance to give away,” I said, lifting my skirts and starting down the stairs that led to the water entrance. “And you would not have come within miles of it had it not been for me.”

  He said nothing further the entire the trip back to our palazzo.

  * * *

  And so, after several weeks of paperwork, correspondence, and further meetings, a settlement was reached. Giuseppe inherited the d’Amato palazzo and all its contents, ownership of the company and all its assets, and half of the money and other assets my father had left behind, of which there was far more than I realized. Despite the luxury in which I had grown up, my father had spent his wealth far more prudently than the majority of Venice’s nobility. And in the interests of Lucrezia and her as yet unborn brother or sister, Giacomo and I inherited the other half of the financial assets.

  Signor Peri suggested Giuseppe take the d’Amato name, in order to help smooth his transition into both Venetian society and his new role at the company. After some reluctance, Giuseppe relented partway, taking it as his second name. Thus, seemingly overnight, he became Giuseppe d’Amato Rivalli, one of the richest men in Venice.

  Our reunion, once everything was finalized—for, given my brother’s new status, Giacomo could hardly continue to deny me his company—was a joyous one. Despite our regular correspondence, I had not seen Giuseppe in the two years since my wedding. I introduced him to his niece, and saw his eyes glisten when he learned that she had been christened not only in my mother’s honor, but in his as well.

  “Oh, Adriana,” he said, once our near-hour of excited exclamations had passed. “How could you do this for me? You might have had everything, for yourself, for your children, and yet—”

  “Do not speak of it,” I cut him off. “Surely you know that it does not begin to make up for everything you have done for me, Giuseppe.”

  “I just feel as though I do not deserve it.”

  “Nonsense,” I said. “You are his son, are you not? It is only reparations for how he treated you. Think of it that way.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed. Then he chuckled. “What would Enrico say to see me sitting atop his throne, and it all your doing? I accepted it just to spite him, you know.”

  “I suggested it for the same reason,” I joked.

  Our talk turned to other things then, and it was late into the night when he reluctantly rose to take his leave. “I should return to the palazzo and get some rest,” he said. “It has been a trying several days.”

  “‘The palazzo’?” I teased. “Still not home, even after all these years?”

  He shuddered. “Dio mio, no. Now that all this business is settled, my first act will be to sell it and buy a new one—if you are agreeable, that is, sorella. There are more ugly memories in that house than any other kind, I think.”

  “Yes,” I agreed; then unthinkingly added, “Save for in the parlor with the harpsichord.”

  Giuseppe looked almost dumbstruck at my bringing up such a thing, then he laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “I will have the harpsichord sent to you without delay.”

  I smiled. “I will be most willing to accept it.” I rose and saw him to the door. “I shall see you again soon, si?”

  “Oh, certainly. Now that I am a respectable member of society, you will not be able to be rid of me.” He grinned. “I suppose I must start participating in all of the required social events: the opera and scandalous parties and I know not what else. If anyone invites me, that is.”

  “I shall begin by extending you your first invitation,” I said, smiling. “You must accompany my friends and me to the opera next week.”

  “That sounds splendid,” he said. “I look forward to meeting these friends of yours.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Of everything that has happened in these last weeks, I am happiest of all to have seen you again, and to see that you are doing well.�
��

  “I am,” I assured him. “I truly am.”

  56

  SOL DA TE, MIO DOLCE AMORE

  The following week Giuseppe joined us for an opera at the Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo. By that time, all of Venetian society was buzzing with the news of Enrico d’Amato’s bastard son, raised from obscurity to inherit his empire. Thus, my circle in particular was most excited to meet him.

  “So this is your brother, is it, Adriana?” Giulietta Grimaldi asked excitedly, allowing Mario to help her into the gondola that Giuseppe had so graciously volunteered for the evening.

  Once she had settled her heavy frame against the cushions—she was well into her seventh month of pregnancy with her second child—she extended her hand, which Giuseppe kissed with a gallant flourish. “Giuseppe Rivalli,” he introduced himself. “And you must be the charming Giulietta Grimaldi. My sister has told me much about you.”

  Giulietta giggled. “Indeed! It seems she must have found something good to tell you, for you do not look scandalized in the least.” She tossed me a conspiratorial glance. “But you did not tell me he was so handsome, my dear Adriana!”

  I laughed. “Then I apologize for being remiss in my description.”

  Giulietta introduced Mario, and then we made our way to the Cassenti palazzo, where Leonardo would have arrived earlier to escort Vittoria.

  Giuseppe had been deep in conversation with me but stopped mid-sentence when Vittoria joined us, his jaw hanging slack. A similar stillness came over her for just an instant upon catching sight of him, before she allowed Mario to help her into a seat—the one on Giuseppe’s other side, as luck would have it.

  Some light, bright happiness sparked within me as I observed the way they looked at each other. At that moment, nothing mattered other than the fact that two of the people I loved best in the world should be so instantly attracted to one another.

  “Giuseppe,” I said, as soon as Vittoria was seated, “this is my dear friend Maria Vittoria Cassenti, formerly Vittoria della Pietà.”

  Giuseppe reached for her hand and brought it quickly to his lips. “Madonna,” he said, with as much reverence as if he addressed the Blessed Mother herself. “The pleasure is all mine. Giuseppe Rivalli, your servant.”

  A blush bloomed in Vittoria’s cheeks. “I am delighted, Don Rivalli,” she said. “Adriana speaks so highly of you, and yet I see now that her praise was insufficient.”

  Giulietta tossed me a knowing glance over the folds of her fan as Leonardo plopped down close beside Vittoria and loudly cleared his throat. “Leonardo Franchetti,” he said, nodding at Giuseppe. “A pleasure.”

  “Likewise, Don Franchetti,” Giuseppe said.

  “Well, we are quite the merry group!” Giulietta broke in, smiling. She looked at Vittoria, then at Giuseppe, then back again. Vittoria’s face grew self-conscious, flushing even more. And Giuseppe, engaged in conversation with Mario, kept stealing glances at Vittoria when he thought no one would notice.

  That evening at the opera, we broke from our usual tradition, in which Vittoria and I insisted we watch at least a portion of the opera and would sit riveted at the front of the box, whispering critiques of the musicians to one another. In fact, we scarcely saw any of the opera, and were content to have it so. We remained in the rear section of the box, eating, drinking, and playing several hands of cards. I was delighted Giuseppe fitted in with my friends, who had in turn accepted him wholeheartedly—with the exception of Leonardo. Giulietta and I were quite certain Leonardo was in love with our friend, and his behavior tonight confirmed our suspicions.

  I watched my brother closely throughout the evening. The two seemed to dance about each other in some strange, unspoken complicity. Giuseppe did not single Vittoria out, nor did Vittoria readily engage him in conversation. Yet their eyes would constantly dart to the other’s face, as though trying to memorize each other’s features.

  Once we had taken the others home at the end of the night, and Giuseppe and I were alone in the gondola, I considered bringing it up, but decided it might be no more than a simple fancy. It was best not to make more of it than it was. After all, Vittoria was a married woman, and hardly one inclined to break her marriage vows.

  * * *

  Our newly enlarged group of six went out together a few more times before the annual migration of Venetian society to the country. Giulietta remained behind, being near to her confinement, and I knew that I would miss her company.

  Giuseppe, too, remained in the city over the summer, having many details to attend to as he began to take over our father’s business. He was true to his word and sold the d’Amato palazzo within weeks of the estate being finalized and bought a new one, slightly smaller than our father’s, that was not far from my own.

  Giuseppe wrote me frequently, and spent a few nights with us at our villa. Giacomo treated him courteously if a bit coldly. He was still angry at me for proposing that Giuseppe receive the inheritance, and angry at Giuseppe for accepting it; yet despite some grumblings, he had done nothing to block the process in earnest, which led me to believe that my words outside of Signor Peri’s office had reached him.

  In August we were forced to return to Venice early, as my pregnancy had become increasingly difficult. My belly had grown quite immense, and I suffered from aches and inordinate exhaustion that kept me in bed much of the time. We decided to make the return journey while I was still able, and once back home I found myself rarely able to leave my chamber. I was too tired even to play the violin, which I had continued to do, slowly, since Lucrezia’s birth.

  Lucrezia, the joy of my life, brought me even more happiness in those days when I stayed abed. She would curl up next to me contentedly while I told her stories of princesses and genies and angels, until we both fell asleep. Giuseppe was completely enchanted with her—more so, perhaps, than her own father—and often came over to help her toddle about her nursery while I rested.

  Yet I was far more impatient for and apprehensive about this birth than my previous two. I tried my best not to worry, as the midwife who examined me upon our return pronounced me perfectly healthy, and assured me my difficulties simply stemmed from carrying a large child. My friends happily came to visit me as I rested, and Giulietta brought her new infant son, named Giulio in her honor.

  Giacomo’s anger and frustration toward me faded away as his concern for my health grew, and he was even more attentive than he had been during my last pregnancy. As summer cooled into fall, my expected delivery date drew nearer, and it could not come soon enough.

  57

  DUET

  “It is a son!” the midwife cried triumphantly, holding up the red, squalling child in her arms.

  I let my head fall back, my body sinking into the mattress beneath me, exhausted, overjoyed, and relieved. I did not want to confront Giacomo’s disappointment again, and I was genuinely happy to have given him the son and heir he had wanted so desperately.

  I opened my eyes to see the midwife frowning. “You may not rest yet, I fear, madonna,” she said, handing my son to Giovanna.

  “What?”

  “There is a second child,” she said, crouching down to peer between my legs again. “Twins.”

  “Holy Virgin,” I breathed, shuddering as another pain racked me.

  “Indeed, we shall beseech the Holy Virgin to give you strength, madonna,” the midwife said. “You must push yet again!”

  Twins. I could hardly believe that I must expel another child from my body, that I would have the strength. Yet a mother’s fierce love shot through me, love for this second creature I had not known was there. I did as the midwife bade me and, in relatively short order, gave birth to my fourth child and my third daughter.

  This time, when I lay back against the pillows, I did not think I would ever open my eyes. But I was roused when I heard my children crying. “Bring them to me,” I said, struggling to sit up.

  The midwife hesitated. “You should rest, madonna, and we need to clean them up
in any case.”

  “No,” I said. I held out my arms, taking one child in each, with Giovanna hovering nearby should I need assistance.

  I studied each of them in turn. My son, I was certain, was the most perfect son ever born, from his tiny toenails to his soft, velvety head.

  And my daughter. My unexpected one. She was smaller than her brother, with an impressive head of dark hair, and perhaps feistier, for as he settled comfortably against me, making a strange hiccupping noise, she began to wail, demanding to be fed.

  I laughed. “Very well, figlia.” I handed my son to Giovanna, and set his sister to my breast.

  “Shall I send for a wet nurse for the boy, madonna?” Giovanna asked.

  “Of course not,” I said. “He shall have his turn.”

  Once both children had been fed, I reluctantly surrendered them to be washed before Giacomo came to see them. He had been informed of the happy news.

  “Twins?” he cried incredulously when he was finally allowed in the room. “Dio mio, twins! And one of them a son, a son at last!”

  I smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the children. “They are healthy, yes? A strong and healthy son and daughter?”

  “They are,” I said. “We are all three of us well.”

  Giacomo gently stroked our son’s head. “Yes, little Giacomo,” he said softly, as the baby stirred. “It is your father.”

  “Marito,” I began, “I … that is, I had a different name in mind.”

  He looked up. “Why should my son and heir not be named after me?”

  “Surely we can be more creative than that,” I said. “I have always been fond of the name Antonio.”

  Giacomo was silent for a moment, and I could scarcely breathe, praying that he would not guess. “Antonio Giacomo Baldovino,” he said, testing it. “Very well. Antonio was my father’s name, after all.”

  “But of course,” I said, though I had forgotten that entirely. “That is part of the reason I suggested it.”

  He kissed my forehead. “I can deny you nothing, mia bell’Adriana. And our little surprise?” he said, turning his attention to the girl. “What shall we name her?”