An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (36 page)

~Adriana~

“You will never, ever scare the shit out
of me that way again,” I say to Alek as I embrace him, being careful to avoid
his wound. He’s restless. The hospital room reminds him of a cage he says.

“A Maestro needs to be on a podium and
not wrapped up like a mummy in a giant white box,” he says smugly. Suddenly, he
narrows his eyes at me. “You used profanity, little sister of mine.” A grin
creeps across his lips; Father’s charming smile. Erin has helped him shave, and
it feels good to be able to see his handsome face again.

I shrug. “After everything we’ve been
through over the past few weeks, I think these lips are long overdue for a
little bad assness.”

He playfully stretches his eyes. “Two
curse words. Keep that up and you’ll put me to shame, yes.”

“Yeah, right. I think I’ll need a little
more practice first.” We both start laughing; that is, until Alek winces. “Take
it easy. Tomorrow’s the big day. I don’t think they’ll let you go home if you
screw something else up.”

He lies back down on the pillow, closing
his eyes as his breathing evens out. Seeing him in pain this way makes my heart
ache. I take his hand in mine and he squeezes it. A moment passes. He opens his
eyes and focuses on me, a softness in his face, a vulnerability that makes him
look like a little boy again. “You look different. Are you satisfied with him?”

“Very much so,” I answer. The fourth
understated question of the decade. I’m crazy … excited whenever I’m with Luca.
“Are you happy with Erin?”

“I love her with everything I have inside
me. But I’ve been too stubborn to let her know. Almost didn’t get the chance to
tell her. Don’t make my mistake.” His unique bluish-brown eyes, the result of a
pigmentation disorder, bore into mine, his meaning clear.

“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

He gives me a big Alek grin. “We’re
survivors, Adriana. The son and daughter of Sergey and Katerina Dostovsky.
Failure was written out of our gene pool, I think.”

I smile wide. “You’re so right on with
that.”

“You better get going. Don’t want to miss
your last gig hanging out here with me in hospital hell,” he jokes. Standing, I
bend down and kiss his forehead. He waves me away, but not before I catch him
blushing. “Go on, get out of here.”

“Laters, Aleksey.”

“Sure thing, little fish.”

I think I’m going to replace the mirror
of cupids that sits here in my dressing room with one that has gargoyles on the
frame. That way, I can always have a little piece of Venice with me. Tonight
will be the final performance of Seraphine and I cannot wait to show off Luca’s
costume one last time.

Erin has forgiven Mother, but I can’t
shake the things she said to me. People say weapons of mass destruction pose
the greatest threat to this world. I disagree. Something has to lead up to that
moment, right? Words are the culprits that started the disagreement in the
first place, things that we say in the heat of the moment and can no longer
take back.

I know now that love is the key. In a
way, Mother taught me that. She calls Alek and me her Russian-American peace
treaties. I understand what she means now. Before words came into my parents’
lives, there was love and nothing else. I want to hold that kind of feeling in
my heart until the day I die, love that is, and if I manage to stay true to
myself, then I can love with everything I have inside of me. Words, unless of
course they’re the right ones, don’t stand a chance going up against something
like that.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t
even feel the first strokes of the brush raking through my hair, pushing it
back away from my face. Mother has entered the dressing room. I can’t ever
recall her coming to see me before a performance. My body stiffens at first.
Thoughts of our last real conversation, the one where she called me an ugly
name, still echoes inside my head. One of Simona’s last dying wishes was for me
to find a way to make peace with my mother because we need each other a lot
more than we both realize. Coming from someone who spent a lifetime aching for
the touch of a woman who spurned her, only to be the one her mother called out
for the day she died, tells me I should listen. But I don’t know. Maybe my
heart has hardened as well. I am the daughter of a woman who has reinvented
herself through the manipulation of those closest to her, so it shouldn’t come
as that big of a surprise.

“She was right, the Martuccio woman, I
mean. You do have beautiful hair,” she finally says.

“Mother, you can’t just go around
manipulating our lives and then expect us to kiss and make up with you,” I
state, staring at my mother’s reflection in the mirror. The way she’s brushing
my hair does feel good, different. However, I can’t let that distract me from
saying the things I need for her to hear me say, words I’ve waited a lifetime
to speak.

“Why not? You continue to play the role
of the traitorous daughter. As though you are ashamed to have me as a mother.”
This statement slaps me hard. I never considered my mother’s actions were that
of a woman who felt as though she wasn’t good enough for her daughter. My heart
begins to soften. I can’t let her off so easily, though.

“Thought you said we’re your peace
treaties, Alek and me. That Russia and America got together and decided it was
time to kick out a couple of documents to warm up the Cold War. If I’m a peace
treaty baby then I can’t be a traitor, too. That’s being hypocritical and you
hate those kind of people.” She stays silent for so long after I finish my
sentence that I begin to wonder if maybe something is wrong with her.

Suddenly, a miracle happens ... she
smiles wide, her face crumpling. She’s actually laughing at me. I work hard to
hold back my own amusement. I need for Mother to understand how her behavior
hurts me. How much I miss having the woman who risked her life to steal me away
from a madman around to comfort me.

“You are very much the daughter of Sergey
and Katerina Dostovsky. Even more so than either of your brothers, including
his full-blooded Russian son. I want to tell you something, a secret I’ve kept
from my own children.” She finishes securing the largest top knot I’ve ever
seen on top my head and continues, “My real name is Tracey Higgins. I’ve only
told one other person. Aleksandr’s girlfriend, Erin.” I don’t know what to say.
I do know that after everything she has done to Alek, Luca, Erin, and me that I
won’t be hopping up and throwing my arms around her neck anytime soon, but
through all my resolve to be a hard ass, the tears threaten to fall.

“You don’t look like a Tracey, Mother.
You should probably stick with Katerina.”

She clicks her tongue and playfully rolls
her eyes. “You think so?”

“Definitely.” A silent moment passes as
we stare at each other’s reflections.

“Go on, my beautiful daughter. Show those
stuck up fucks what happens when my peace treaty heads out into this
godforsaken world of ours.”

Blinking away the tears, I nod, standing
and walking out the door, eager to show my fans this new me I have found, the
woman who has been there inside the girl hiding behind the bangs all along.

~Adriana Dostovsky~

Back
in Tuscany, Luca and I head toward his olive tree. He wants to add the cork
from the last bottle of wine the family shared during Simona’s parting
ceremony. I also have a special treat to give him, the cork from a bottle of
Stoli Vanil, a Russian wine I confiscated from Mother’s collection.

“Now
you have a piece of me in there, too.” I give him the fish pout as I hand over
the cork and he gives me a big, warm Luca smile.

“How
did I get lucky enough to have a goddess caring for me?”

Caring
for you
, he says. I love
this man with all of my heart, with every fiber inside of me, and will do so
for the rest of my life. “I guess Aphrodite must’ve been smiling down on one of
her favorite relatives when she sent me to you.” He smirks and raises his left
eyebrow.

“That
was kinda lame. I know,” I confirm.

“It
was beautiful. I am obviously influencing your poetic side,” he says, kissing
me.

“Hm.
I think you’ve influenced many sides of me,” I add, smiling.

“How
about a little road trip tomorrow morning?” he suggests, wrapping his arms
around my waist. “Or maybe I should say a water trip.”

“Luciano
Martuccio, what are you planning?”

“You’ll
see.”

The
two hour drive from Tuscany to Venice the next morning almost kills me. Plus,
whatever Luca’s planning means we have to arrive at our destination before
sunrise, so that means we’re the only car on the road at three in the morning.
My stomach’s all fluttery and my mouth has gone dry from talking Luca to death.

In
Venice, we take a water taxi back to the pier, the one that had the red gondola
attached to it. Only this time, a black one awaits our arrival and the driver
is a new guy.

Sailing
through the canal under the cloak of dawn, I think back on the past few months
and on how far the two of us have come. This city will always be a magical
place for me to experience, a reminder of a song that changed my life forever.
It’s Pavlina’s butterfly effect theory again. I finally understand.

“Close
your eyes, amore,” Luca instructs. I do as he says. “Do not dare open them
until I give the word.”

I
can feel our gondola sailing along the canal, moving closer to whatever
surprise Luca has in store for me. I feel him situate his body on the seat
behind me as he wraps his hands around my head, covering mine. I’m trapped
between his legs and can’t think of anyplace better I’d rather be than caught
up in a spot this close to the man I love.

“I
want to open them now.” I sound like a big kid.

“Patience,
my love. Almost there.” Using his mouth to move the hair away from the left
side of my head, he kisses my ear, his warm breath making me shudder a bit and
says, “Now, you may open your eyes.”

The
Bridge of Sighs fills my vision first. It’s almost sunrise, so this makes the
first time I’ve ever experienced the glory of San Marcale kissed by the pink,
orange, and golden rays of the morning sun hitting the limestone facade.
Happiness swells in my chest, and for the first time in many years I’m actually
too excited to cry. A line of about fifteen or twenty men dressed as gondoliers
stand along the top of the bridge, Pia’s husband Gustavo standing among them.

As
our gondola approaches the Bridge, the gondoliers set off what appears to be a
hundred or more red balloons with five white ones saved for the end. Before
they release the doves, Luca shifts his body from behind me, so now he’s able
to sit by my side. And then he turns my face toward his, kissing me as we
receive the blessing of St. Marco, the Martuccio’s tradition for couples who
want everlasting love. Applause explodes around us.

The
sound of flapping wings and squawks breaks up our kiss. We’ve now sailed under
the bridge, so we turn back toward the sound. Both of us gasp as five white
doves lift themselves into the sky. There’s a man dressed in street clothes
standing among the gondoliers. He’s holding a crate, which tells me my insanely
sexy designer has given me yet another memory to cherish.

“Oh,
doves?” he says, frowning as though he didn’t know there’d be someone waiting
to release the birds. He’s totally and completely addictive and I cannot wait
to get him home so I can take advantage of every part of that beautiful body
that I know without a doubt belongs to me ... only me.

“All
this from the man who doesn’t do mushy, lovey things.”

“Ah
yes. Guess I lied.” We kiss some more. I can never get enough.

“I love you, Luciano Martuccio.
With all of my heart, I love you.”

“God,
I’ve waited so long to hear you say that. Say it again, but in Russian this
time.”

“
Ya
vas liubliu
.”

“Beautiful.
Now I have confirmation from both the American and Russian parts of you. And I
guess I love you, too, for some odd reason,” he teases. Gasping, I playfully
shove him a bit. He pulls me close and stares into my eyes.

“When
I closed my eyes, I could feel them watching over us. Simona and Giuseppe,” I
say truthfully, because I could.

“I
felt a little something, too. You know what that means, right?”

“No,
tell me.”

“It
means we’ll have to come back and do this every year for the rest of our lives.
My parents will expect this.”

I
snuggle up against him and say, “I’m sure we can handle that.” Because I know
without any doubt that we can.

~Luca~

Along
with our cork collection that sits in my olive tree, the one in Mama’s garden
at the Tuscan estate she left for her sons to manage, Adriana has begun our own
keepsake memento inside Simona’s journal, the story of the player and the
ballerina. At first I thought the idea was a little silly, I admit it. But
then, I thought about what Mama told me a long time ago, something about the
magic of the written word and its ability to last long after the author’s
spirit has passed on.

In
this crazy life of mine, I’ve never been touched by such a pure spirit. In
turn, she has taught me more about myself than I ever even knew existed.

I
open the little journal, a small brown thing made of leather, and read a few of
Adriana’s thoughts. The scent of apples mixed with the strangely soothing aroma
of leather reminds me of little Maia. She’s amazing. A gifted writer. Passion
swims in the way she describes the experiences shared with Mama, a time when
they snuck away to a city in the mountains outside of Venice. She has never
told me about that day. I smile because her words make me feel like I’m the
shit.

“What
are you doing?” Her voice scares the good sense out of me. I thought she’d
already fallen asleep on the couch.

“Nothing.”
I shrug and hide the journal behind my back. Narrowing her eyes, she gives me a
smug grin. She knows I’m lying.

“I’m
heading back downstairs,” she says, yawning and stretching so that I get a
glimpse of skin when her T-shirt lifts up. “One of my favorite shows just came
on. And you know how I love those sexy wizards.”

“Ah.
What are you watching?”

“Nothing.”
She shrugs, mocking me. I get a knowing grin before she walks back downstairs.
I not only have the most gorgeous, talented woman in the world by my side, but
she’s also a damn good kisser and a word sculptress, too.

I
turn back to the journal and decide to write a few of my thoughts on the next
blank page, my own tribute to all of the things Mama wanted to see me do before
she passed away. After I’m done, I sit back and stare at my masterpiece.

Here’s
what I wrote:

Dear
Goddess of the Ocean,

I
promise to be the best man in the world for you. How do I know I can do this?
Because you have shown me the kind of person I want to be. I will cherish you
today.

I
will love you forever and always …

Tu
Amor,

Luciano
(H.P. the wizard in training)