The Violinist of Venice (17 page)

“I do not know whatever—”

“Why did you drag us out in the cold to freeze our arses off, then?” he demanded. “If not to speak freely?”

I shifted in my seat to face him, my chin raised haughtily. “We will not speak of the events of last night, Giuseppe,” I said. “Not now and not ever. I dragged us out here so that I would not have to think about it. It seems you are determined that I not get my wish, however.”

“I think it might help you to speak about it, Adriana,” he said.

“You forget yourself, Signor Rivalli,” I snapped. “It would do you well to remember that it is I who am the mistress and you who are the servant.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them. I could have wept at the shocked, hurt expression on Giuseppe's face.
Good God, can I say nothing that does not hurt those I love best?
I asked myself. “Giuseppe, I am sorry—” I began.

“No,” he cut me off, getting to his feet. “You are quite right. I should remember my place.” He nodded to the door. “I will just wait there for you then, madonna.”

“Giuseppe, please,” I said, reaching out and grabbing his sleeve. “Do not…” I released him and looked down. “Without you, I am all alone,” I said softly. “Do not you, too, forsake me.”

Giuseppe sighed and sat down again. “Is that what you think he has done, madonna? Forsaken you? Adriana, perhaps I have been wrong all along, for it seems to me that both of you—”

I held up a hand to silence him, unable to bear the bitterness of hearing him concede now, of all times. “Please. I was very much in earnest when I said I do not wish to speak of it.”

“Adriana, I only wish to help you.”

“Then help me forget,” I said.

I knew Giuseppe so well that it seemed I could read all of the words he wanted to say as they chased each other across his face. In the end, he only sighed and said, “As you wish, madonna.”

He rose and began to walk about the church, leaving me to my thoughts. After a time I knelt on the cold stone floor and tried to pray. But at first I could not think what to pray for. It seemed to be sin upon sin to beseech God to bring my lover back to me, to send him to beg forgiveness—though I could think of nothing I wanted more. The longer that I thought about it, the more it seemed that I might better ask God to help me become someone who was worthy of being forgiven.

*   *   *

As poor a distraction as my outing had proved to be, it was far better than sitting listlessly in the palazzo all day. Eventually, however, we had to return, and I was again confronted by the problem of how to fill so many empty hours, empty days.

I returned to my old refuge of my mother's library, reading many of the books I had not encountered before, including a few volumes of history of the Venetian republic. I delved deeper into the writings of Christine de Pizan, the Frenchwoman whom my mother had greatly admired, and reread Dante's
Divine Comedy,
which I appreciated far more than I had as a girl of fourteen. I studiously avoided the love poetry of Dante and Petrarch, however.

Giuseppe did his part as well. He had found a new bookshop deep in the Rialto district, and took me there one day when the weather was slightly more hospitable. I spent several happy hours browsing the stacks, and bade the bookseller to send the bill to my father.

Even so, I found reading all the time was soon no longer sufficient distraction. In desperation, I began spending time playing the ancient harpsichord that was housed in the small parlor on the
piano nobile.
I could not remember ever hearing anyone play it; perhaps that was why my father had not felt it necessary to remove this particular trace of music from the house. He came upon me playing it one day; I could hear him enter the room and stand in the doorway but did not turn until he spoke, his voice laced with disapproval. “Adriana—”

I stopped, turning to face him. “Yes, Father?”

“I think you know by now that I feel it inappropriate for a woman to study music,” he said dangerously.

Accomplished liar that I had become, a lie sprang to my lips instantly. “I know, Father,” I said, “but I did not think that you would mind in this instance, for you see, Tommaso Foscari mentioned that he plays the harpsichord, and so I thought to surprise him by learning to play a bit myself.”

“Hmph.” My father's two greatest desires were at war on his face: his desire that I be obedient to him in everything, and his desire that I wed Tommaso Foscari. “I suppose if you are just playing for your own amusement, and his, there is no harm.” With that he left the room, closing the door behind him, and I had one small refuge left to me.

The harpsichord was not an instrument I had learned in depth. I sat before it and plinked away at the keys, trying to remember which keys were which notes, and trying to string them together into something like a song. It was certainly nothing like playing the violin, but at least I was playing music, however paltry. I discovered some yellowed pages of sheet music beneath the lid of the bench, and tried my best to play them. I marveled at my lack of coordination with the instrument, yet could hear myself improving after the long hours I spent at it each day.

Tommaso Foscari invited me to dine with him, his brother, and his sister-in-law one evening, and of course I went, doing my best to smile and act carefree. Tommaso was just as charming and attentive as he had been at the opera—and just as handsome.

I suppose I may as well fall in love with him,
I mused after he had returned me to my palazzo.
For what else do I have left?
Yet just the thought was like a dagger being plunged into my breast.

 

22

SERENADE

About two weeks after that unspeakable night, something extraordinary happened.

At first I thought it was merely a dream, for all too often lately my dreams had been filled with such violin music, music that could only be played by one person. Yet soon I stirred into wakefulness and realized that the music was coming from outside the palazzo.

Quickly I got out of bed, pulled on my white silk robe, and ran to the window. Drawing the curtains aside, I peered out into the darkness.

It was hard to see, but I caught a glimpse of a gondola out on the Grand Canal, just beneath my window. Heedless of the cold, I unlatched the door and stepped, barefoot, out onto the balcony. There I could see—and hear—clearly.

The gondolier waited patiently in the back of his craft as his passenger—who was wearing a heavy black cloak with a hood, as well as a black half mask such as was popular during Carnevale—stood in the prow and played his violin. Played for me.

I knew without a doubt it was him.

It was a slow melody—something I had never heard before—yet somehow wild and wistful at the same time, as though he were pleading with me, desperately begging me to hear him, to hear all that he could not put into words.

I stood stock-still on the balcony, my hands gripping the frozen rail, and watched his fingers dance across the strings in spite of the bone-chilling cold. The ice that was inside me—the frozen mass of anger and pride and sorrow—began to melt.

When he finished playing, he lowered his violin and bow and looked up at me. He held my gaze for a few moments, then turned away, motioning for the gondolier to take him home.

I watched him until the gondola was out of sight, but he did not look back. I went back inside and closed and latched the balcony doors behind me before climbing back into bed. Even with the heavy covers pulled over me, it was hours before I stopped shivering.

*   *   *

Vivaldi's nighttime serenade had not gone unnoticed, least of all by my father. Meneghina woke me early the next morning with a summons commanding that I break my fast with him.

For once I was not in the least concerned. I could claim that I had not known who the mysterious musician was, and with such gestures of courtly love being all the rage among Venetian high society—according to Tommaso, in any case—such an event would hardly be to my detriment. Perhaps quite the reverse.

Meneghina dressed me, and I hurried down to the dining room, where I found a place set for me and my father already eating. He rose as I entered and motioned for one of the footmen to serve me.

“Well, daughter,” he said, sitting back down as the footman began to fill my plate, “I see you have made quite an impression on the young Foscari.”

“Perhaps,” I allowed. “I know that Don Tommaso is no violinist himself, so he may have sent or hired someone.”

My father smiled. “Indeed. This is most promising.” Abruptly his expression changed. “Unless last night's performance was the work of someone else entirely?” he asked, his expression darkening dangerously. “Have you been encouraging anyone else of whom I am not aware?”

His implication behind the word “encouraging” was plain enough. “Why, no, Father,” I said innocently. “The only other young men I know are those I met at the ball, and I only spoke to them there. I suppose one of them may have decided to make a bid for my attentions, but I did not think that any of them seemed particularly taken with me. Other than Don Tommaso, of course.”

My father chuckled. “They were all excessively taken with you,
figlia
.” He mulled this over for a moment. “Perhaps. Perhaps it was one of the others. We shall see.” He smiled at me again. “Endeavor to discover the truth next time you see Don Tommaso.”

“Of course, Father,” I said.

“Good.
Eccellente.
I must be off, then. And, Adriana—whatever you have done to make that boy so besotted with you, mind that you keep doing it.”

With that, he took his leave. I remained at the table, finishing my meal and trying to decide what to do next.

*   *   *

In the end, I did nothing. Despite the softening I had felt toward Vivaldi last night as he played, my anger and hurt were still too great. His words—“ashamed” and “whore”—still stuck in my skin like pins, and I could not pull them out, no matter how hard I tried.

How could I ever face him again?

All day, Giuseppe watched me expectantly, waiting for me to give the order that we were to go to Vivaldi's house that night, but it never came. I could tell he was perplexed, but he knew far better than to ask or offer his opinion.

As it turned out, the day after my serenade, an invitation arrived from Tommaso Foscari to be his personal guest at a party being given by his parents on Christmas, just a few days away. His timing was impeccable, and my father was beside himself with glee.

There would be no time to have a new dress made, so my dark green velvet one trimmed with lace would have to do. My father directed Meneghina to remove the existing lace trim and replace it with silver lace that he procured immediately from a merchant friend in the Rialto.

On Christmas Eve, my father and I shared a grand meal together—a tradition my mother had instituted upon her marriage to my father, and one that we kept to this day, in her honor. After dinner, my father left to attend a party given by someone important; I did not know and cared less exactly who.

In keeping with another custom my mother had begun, the servants were given a feast of their own and liberal amounts of punch, wine, and spirits, and were relieved from their duties until after Christmas. The only exception would be Meneghina, who would need to ready me for the ball at Ca' Foscari the following night.

I retreated to what had become my customary refuge before the harpsichord in the small parlor. Having learned to play all of the music I had found in the seat correctly—if not beautifully—I had begun to devise melodies of my own and, once I had done that, to create a proper left-hand part to accompany the melody. Lacking any blank staff paper on which to record these creations, however, they usually vanished as soon as I finished playing them, gone to whatever lost place my violin melody had all those months ago.

It was nearing midnight when I heard a rap on the parlor door. I turned to see Giuseppe step inside. “Madonna?”

I smiled. “Giuseppe. I thought you were celebrating with all the others. Would you—”

He shook his head, cutting me off. “I have a confession to make, madonna,” he said, standing stiffly in the doorway.

I frowned. “What is it, Giuseppe? What have you done?”

“Once your father left I went to Don Vivaldi's house.”

I gasped, rising from my seat. “Why?”

He fidgeted uncomfortably. “It is plain that you have been miserable without him, madonna. It pained me to watch it go on. I thought that you would go to him after he came here, but when you made no mention of it, I … well, I took the liberty of going to see him.”

“On my behalf,” I finished, “even though I did not send you.”

He nodded unhappily.

“How dare you—” I began, but Giuseppe interrupted me one more time.

“At least hear his message, madonna, I pray you. Then you can reprimand me all you wish.”

I fell silent.

“He was in quite a state when I arrived, madonna,” Giuseppe began. “He asked me if your father had punished you for what he had done, then he despaired that you would never forgive him. I told him—”

“You told him
what
?” I demanded.

Giuseppe continued. “I told him the truth. That you had been distraught for weeks, that you would not speak of it to me—of any of it. That you had been trying to hide how wretched you felt with your false cheerfulness and your belabored harpsichord playing—”

“Beg pardon?” I demanded, feeling a bit offended in spite of myself.

A flicker of a smile appeared on Giuseppe's face. “I do not think you need me to tell you that you are a much better violinist than a harpsichordist, madonna.”

“Yes,” I said, “these liberties you have taken are all very well, but I have yet to hear any message from the man himself.”