Hidden Voices (5 page)

Afterward, we gather in a schoolroom for an assessment of our performance. On our way there, Maestro Gasparini makes excuses and turns down the Calle della Pietà. He is clearly feeling spent, his rotund backside swaying a little as he picks his way along the cobblestones, dark patches of sweat revealing themselves on his jacket when he raises his arms to steady himself. It is left to Father Vivaldi, as is often the case, to point out our difficulties and suggest how to correct them. For this, I believe we are all grateful, for he is ever considerate and not given to displays of temper.

“Well done,” Rosalba suddenly states to the entire small assemblage. She gives a low bow as if she herself has been entirely responsible for our collective achievement. “A magnificent performance. The dukes will come running.”

“Sit down, Rosalba,” says Father, chuckling and pulling her into a chair. “You, as much as anyone, need to hear what I have to say.”

As always, he has little to correct in Anna Maria’s playing. To her credit, she is not smug about this, but does leave early, having heard what little pertained to her. My own performance was not without fault, yet I’m relieved when there are only a few suggestions for changes in the bowing. Even Luisa has some pleasant comment to make about it, though later I cannot recall what it was. (Were it a true compliment, you can be sure I would have treasured it and committed it to memory.)

When Father is finished, I cannot restrain my own praise of her wondrous solo, which to my ear was the pinnacle of perfection.

When I say something of the sort, she waves me away with a small gesture of her hand that suggests she would rather not dwell on her performance but remark on the concert as a whole. Such a gracious response should have been expected.

She then tarries a little and stays behind to speak with Father, and the thought occurs to me that she is actually waiting for her mother to appear. I myself make a hasty departure. I do not want to witness Luisa’s great disappointment when that mysterious and ornamented woman does not come.

A
RE YOU HERE TODAY,
Mother, as you promised? Is that you wrapped in the scarlet
bagnolette
and wearing a satin mantilla? Or are you the woman with the dark blue cloak who has just turned to the man with the very high periwig? From here, looking through this iron grillwork, it is so hard to be sure. Did you notice how well I played the
flautino
in the little
sinfonia
? Please be here somewhere, Mother. Please be the elegant lady who has just bustled in late. Please be here now to listen to me sing, even though this cantata is not as pretty as some and to my mind relies too much on Geltruda’s thin contralto. I do realize, however, that Father must write to each of our strengths. I only wish that this time it were not at the expense of my part, which could have been much expanded and a great deal more operatic. You would have been so pleased by that. It is not an overly long little piece, however, and has a few places where I can show my ability to swell and sustain a note or sing a run with great rapidity. At any rate it is over very quickly, and did you notice how it was followed by a great deal more feet shuffling than I’ve heard this day? A little triumph, I must confess. Though Geltruda is red-faced and looking a bit spent, she has truly done her best.

The lady with the cloak is looking up, and I can see clearly now that she is not my mother. The woman in scarlet is already passing through the chapel doors, a red-heeled man at each elbow. Quite possibly Mama. The latecomer is holding court and obviously has not come to hear me or anyone else perform.

We do not bow, as I’m told other performers do after such a concert, but file down the stairs from the choir loft and back into the school, where we are congratulated or corrected as our professors see fit.

Anetta is beaming at me and clasps her large hands at her waist.

“You sang beautifully, Luisa, as always. We were all entranced.”

I cannot return her effusive compliment, for her playing to my ear was awkward, the solo part not mastered nearly as well as it should have been. It was Anna Maria who shone.

“We all did our best, I am sure,” I say in retort, but she doesn’t seem to have noticed the slight at all. Her constant good nature grates on one’s nerves so. When Geltruda compliments me as well, I do manage to tell her the small improvement I’ve noticed of late in her tone.

Imagine — Maestra Alicia has chastised me for the pomegranate blossom, saying what poor form it is to try to stand out from the rest. She reminds me that we are all doing our best to earn a steady income for the Ospedale in order to pay for our educations. Doesn’t she realize that some of the paying customers come especially to hear me or some other soloist who is unusually gifted? Is one not to be thought better than another if it is true? Should such truths be hidden?

Just in case Mother is allowed into the school after the concert, I stay behind while the others go for their tea. So many instruments have been left haphazardly around the room that it looks a good deal like Father’s repair shop. It amuses me to think that my best instrument cannot be seen but resides safely within my throat and chest, where only I can tune it and protect or repair it. Only I.

“Catching some time to yourself, Luisa?” asks Father as he passes through the room on his way to his shop. He is carrying a small birdcage with a house finch inside and holds it up for me to see. “My little bird is not as gifted as you, perhaps. But such a sweet voice, like a piccolo.”

I have seen Father looking up into the pear trees by the kitchen garden or chasing the gulls that gather at the water’s edge and the pigeons that pester the tourists. He stands for long periods studying the birds or cocking his head at the song of the goldfinch or call of the gull.

“I will capture that sound sometime. Someday you will hear a cluster of shimmering notes fall about you as if they have come from above — perhaps you will play them yourself — and you’ll say, ‘That is Father Vivaldi’s small finch.’” I smile to myself. I cannot believe he will ever cause an instrument to sound like a bird. It is too preposterous.

I make little chirping noises at the tiny creature and bend over to admire his shiny green feathers. “Where did you come by such a bird?” I ask.

“A street vendor was selling them, cage and all.” He is quiet for a time, watching me with the little songster. “Would you like me to obtain one for you? They could both stay in the repair shop. Two birds would be company for each other.”

It is such a delightful and unexpected suggestion, I don’t know what to say. But I sense my expression betrays me, for he suddenly concludes, “Of course. Of course, you would love such a creature. On my way home tonight, I will seek out that vendor and obtain one especially for you.”

But that is apparently not the only surprise he has in store, for he suddenly sets down the birdcage and claps his hands together like a child about to divulge a great secret. “I have obtained permission to take you and Anna Maria to see the Teatro San Angelo.” He looks down in a shy manner before continuing, “It is a sublime place where I have hopes of becoming impresario one day and where, praise God, my operas will be staged.” He had told us earlier about the publication of his first set of concerti,
L’estro armonico,
and his grander aspirations are no secret. When he finds the time to pursue them, however, is a great mystery.

I tent the fingers of both hands before my smile but don’t utter a word while he continues his little speech. “You see, it is so important for you very serious girls, the ones most apt to make a profession of your music, to see where and how true professionals outside of the Ospedale perform.”

“And Rosalba, too,” I interject. “Rosalba needs to come and see the theater as well.”

He pauses for such a time that I am afraid he has not heard me.

“And Rosalba, too?” I ask again.

“Not this time,” says Father. He sighs, removes his performance wig, and sets it on a waiting pedestal before turning back to me. “Rosalba’s thoughts are somewhere in the clouds of late. I believe it would be a great mistake to reward her for the flippant attitude and actions she consistently displays.”

“But that, Signore, is simply our Rosalba. You know her nature.”

“I know it well,” he says firmly, “and hope by this denial of an outing she could surely profit from, to make her see the error of her ways.”

On Monday, just the three of us set off by gondola, a conveyance Rosalba has desired to explore and travel by for years. I feel a measure of guilt that I am the first of the two of us to have a glimpse of what it’s like inside one and how it feels to sway and bob like this upon the water. In truth, this boat is not as fine as most; the gondolier is stooped and old, and cannot sing at all. She would have been quite disappointed.

Teatro San Angelo is grander, however, than I ever could have imagined. We go up a steep stairway, then through pillars and a lavish entry to an enormous hall lined with blue-and-gold viewing boxes from floor to ceiling. Plush seating is available in the center of the room, and all — boxes and loges — face an open stage with heavy velvet drapery ensconced beneath plaster garlands and gold figures.

“When all the candles are lit,” Father tells us wistfully as he points to the lanterns on the wall and the enormous glass chandeliers, “the light is soft and wondrous.”

He is disappointed that there are so few performers about and no rehearsal in progress. A few musicians, however, recognize him at once and call out to him, and it is startling to see how well he is known in this imposing space. A mezzo is practicing with her pianist, and she ignores our progression up the aisle, except for a wave of one plump hand. Anna Maria is quiet and somber as if in church, her eyes shining and focused, like mine, on the stage. For my part, I have a great desire to immediately fill this hall with the sound of my own voice, but content myself with merely imagining what it would be like up there on such a large platform with no grille to hide behind. If Father had hoped to ignite my desire for a career in such a place, I have fallen into his plan with abandon. Standing here, at the center of such immensity and grandeur and tingling with an excitement I have not felt before, it feels as if I may, indeed, have found my true and future home.

A
PPARENTLY SUNDAY’S CONCERT
was not exceptional enough to land a husband for anyone. At least no one has heard of any offers so far or tried to arrange a tête-à-tête. It is definitely not the way in which I will seek a mate.

It is a great gift not to have another concert for an entire two weeks. It will, however, give Luisa more time to trill and torture us, and Anetta more opportunity to worry herself into hysterics over the score.

The little escapade to the Teatro San Angelo on Monday was pointed out to me by more than one
maestra,
but I refuse to feel slighted or to become additionally inclined to spend more time on my instrument than I feel it warrants. All I can think of at the moment is that in these next weeks I will have extra chances to observe my heart’s darling and plot how to meet and ensnare him. Just closely observing his muscular grace as he lightly balances the wigs and goes about his deliveries will have to content me for the moment. It does afford the necessary study of the routes he takes and the times he takes them. I’ve seen him hop upon a gondola more than once and head off who knows where. If I could only manage to hide aboard sometime. I have observed many a fine
signora
or
signorina
peeking from behind the curtains of the windows in the gondolas and their elegant gentlemen alighting from the closed black boats onto the dock. But what can it be like inside those lovely gliding chariots? Are there velvet cushions and little stoves or heated stones? Are there feather couches to rest upon, fur bundling rugs, and places in which to be sequestered? How surprised my little merlin would be to find me there beneath a silken coverlet, my hair and girdle loose, my arms outstretched and beckoning. It is too sweet a
scene to be endured!

But I am getting much too far ahead of myself and courting disaster. A careful plan is what has always served me well in the past. That doesn’t mean, however, that I will not be alert for my opportunities. Carnival will not begin until Saint Stephen’s Day, but there is much I can do before then to ready myself.