Hidden Voices (28 page)

I put the oboe down. It is as offensive to me as someone else’s worn-out glove and a symbol now of what will be expected. It is a threat, and with such a trap, there is but little place to stand above and not fall in.

“I’ll find a better one,” Pasquale says, retrieving it. “I’ll see what has been popped today and make a trade.”

“Bring me a piccolo,” I tell him. It is an instrument I’ve seldom played and therefore one that I may definitely toot upon while still in Venice. Or so I reason.

Poor, doting, kind Pasquale. He is much cheered by this. And for my part, it buys me time before I need to come to a decision, the thought of which is pressing like a large and leaden fist upon my soul.

“No more tears,” says Pasquale, taking my hands in his. “You see, isn’t it much easier to be agreeable?”

Easier and so deceptive, for I do not mean to be agreeable for long.

“Here,” I say, placing his hand upon my belly where the baby thumps quite lustily. Pasquale’s eyes smile down at me with such clear happiness, I almost start to think that we are indeed a little family.

It is many weeks before I slip away again to walk the Riva and to view the Ospedale in the dark. I wait to leave until Lydia is so sound asleep I know she will not stir again till morning. Her heavy snores accompany my footsteps down the stairs.

The streets are washed again by rain. It has stopped falling and is being held in clouds so dark they fade into the blackness of the sky and mask the stars. The lagoon is sleeping, only one or two gondolas plying purple waters under a curious moon that Father Vivaldi used to call “the old moon in the young moon’s arms.” There is that pervading sense at midnight of the turning of the spheres that used to keep me wide awake with longing.

This time there is only a faint glow from the few candles left to burn throughout the night. It creeps around the edges of the shuttered windows and turns the ones left open into softly shining shapes. A boat is coming to the pier as I approach, and I quickly duck behind a pillar of the chapel. There are two passengers alighting, a woman and a younger female, judging from their stance and walk. The gondolier carries their cases to the door of the Pietà, leaving both the travelers to grapple with the unlit door. When the
signora
manages to put a key into the lock, the
signorina
pushes and the sticky hinges grant a slender opening through which the ladies pass into the hallway and drag their baggage after them. The candlelight inside illumines both their faces long enough for me to know exactly who they are, but I’m confounded as to why they are arriving at the Ospedale at this hour. Luisa’s face is streaked with tears; Signora’s is set, determined, much more tired than the face that I remember.

T
HERE WAS SOME COMMOTION
in the night, but that is always so in this building of many rooms, filled with girls of all ages. Not a night goes by that someone doesn’t waken from a dream or have a stomachache or need to use the chamber pot. I’ve learned to sleep through all the nightmares and the terrors, and I barely stir when Prioress does her heavy pacing down the halls, even sometimes in the early hours before dawn.

Come morning I don’t find it strange at first that someone’s sleeping in Luisa’s bed, never imagining that she’d be sent back to the Ospedale in the dark. I just assume that one of the other girls has climbed into the wrong cot. But then I see these tresses on the pillow, as black and shiny as a shoe, and that pale skin, so marble white with that blue tinge at the temple from tiny veins right near the surface. My heart begins to leap within my chest, just as if I’d been surprised by someone jumping out at me.

How I wish to wake her and gather her into my arms, but she’s so still, so sound asleep, and would never allow such an embrace from me. Did she allow such overtures, I wonder, from the boy Alessandro? It makes me feverish to think of it.

Brigitta has tiptoed around her, but Silvia bumbles through the door, dropping her books and then her music, the pages fanning out into the hallway.

“The duchess has returned, I see, “she says while scrambling for them. “I wonder what she’ll do this time to gain attention. I’m told the squawky little bird has lost her song at last.”

“You don’t know that for certain,” I tell her. “No one knows that for certain.”

“We’ll soon find out,” she says, and scurries after her newfound friend, Brigitta, who has recently been settled in Rosalba’s space.

In my excitement, I dress as quietly as possible, but cannot wait to find Signora and have her explain this riddle. Does she, does anyone but me, know about Luisa’s voice returning or of the farm boy? How did they cause her to leave Alessandro? Has she returned to us to stay?

In the refectory I catch up to Signora, who looks drawn and tired in the extreme. Tangles of her hair, which is usually gathered into neat rolls, escape a pleated cap. She gazes at her bowl of millet as if she is a fortune-teller reading tea leaves in a cup, and barely stirs when I sit next to her.

“Signora,” I address her, “why did you bring Luisa back? It gave me such a start to see her there upon her cot when I arose this morning. You must have traveled half the night.”

“We did, indeed, for Prioress insisted that she be here for Catina’s funeral. You may not know that it was Father Vivaldi who requested such a ceremony. He had a special bond to this unfortunate child and has written a new
Agnus Dei
that he plans to have Luisa sing.”

“If she is able.”

“Of course, if she is able. We do not know that yet.”

“Have you asked her?”

“She was so overcome with grief on the entire trip, I didn’t think that I should speak of it. I’ll wait until she’s rested. Until she’s had something to eat.”

“That’s probably best.”

“You are usually such a sensible girl, Anetta,” she says, changing the subject so that I am put off guard. “I hope you will not ruin any opportunity for marriage that comes your way again.”

“You are not married,” I make so bold as to observe.

“No. Such an alliance is not for everyone.”

“Then why need I comply?”

She slowly chews the porridge in her mouth and swallows it before she answers me.

“Our prioress believes it best for you. She knows about such things. You should defer to her good judgment.”

And not consider my own discernment, which has served me rather well these sixteen years.

There is no point in telling her just now why Prioress may be in error. And so I finish my repast and take my leave, hoping to have some minutes to see Luisa and consult with her before the first ensemble of the day.

Retracing my steps back to the bedchamber, I think how when we learned, days ago now, about Catina, it was no great surprise to those who had been with her near the end. It was still so very sorrowful, however, even knowing how her little body had been wracked with every breathing crisis and seeing her released from all of that. At the last, Sofia says it was as if she’d stepped into another, a more peaceful, room. I think myself, she was not meant to stay on earth for long.

And I do understand Father’s fond attachment to her, which began because they shared the same affliction. But above that, there are always certain souls here who have a special attraction for each other and between whom there is deep friendship, even love. Concerta’s happiness has been my great concern right from the start; my love for Luisa, though not truly reciprocated, is a constant, and she will always be most dear to me.

When I enter our room, it is in a slow and quiet manner, but Luisa is already dressing and rubbing sleep from her eyes. She does smile heartily on seeing me, which makes me think I may have indeed been missed. The smile fades quickly, however, and her wan appearance matches a desultory attitude and displays itself in listlessness, as if she carries unseen burdens on her spare shoulders.

“I did not tell about your voice,” I blurt out after some pleasantries have passed between us. No need for her to know that I would have, given enough time, or how Catina counseled me. But then I shock myself by adding, “Except for Catina. I did at length reveal the glorious news to her. I simply could not help myself.”

To my surprise, Luisa says, “I’m glad she knew before she died. She worried when my voice did not return as if it were her own.” And then she says, “The summer’s coming to an end. They would have sent for me no matter. They would have torn me from the arms of Alessandro.”

I sense my own eyes opening wide. “Is that what happened?”

“I feel as if it did. I was all packed and set to leave in such a short time and never had a proper chance to say good-bye.”

“Will you not see him once again?”

“Somehow I will. Somehow — I don’t know when — I’ll manage to go back to him. You’ll see.”

“I’m not the one who separated you. I never told a single soul about that.”

“I know, Anetta. It isn’t you I have a quarrel with. You are a loyal soul and would not betray my trust. And Signora Ricci didn’t tell, I’m certain. She was so anxious that I leave before we were found out.”

I wince within, thinking of the great temptation that lingers still to reveal and try to end her little love affair once and for all. More than once it has occurred to me that if I but told the whole of what I know to Silvia, she’d slither off with it to Prioress, and then it would be Silvia who takes the blame.

“But have you told Signora or Prioress that your singing voice has been returned to you?”

“Alessandro has been taken from me. Rosalba is still missing. Catina is dead. What is there to sing about?”

“You should talk with Father Vivaldi,” I tell her. “You should do it right away.”

The funeral for Catina the next morning is better attended than one would think for someone so often ill, for many of the older girls did not know her very well. Sofia is here and Signora Mandano, Geltruda, Brigitta, and Anna Maria, as are all of the
iniziate,
each little downcast face soggy with tears. The Mass is celebrated on one of the side altars, in front of which Catina lies within a plain pine box, a spray of flowers from the kitchen garden on the lid. I think of the marble caskets Father talked about once that enclose the remains of royal children. He saw them in some famous basilica, and on top of each of these was a marble effigy of a child in peaceful sleep surrounded by many sculpted angels and by garlands made of stone. Will Catina’s reward be different from the one that they receive? Will their heavens ever meet and will they play together?

I look for Luisa immediately on entering the chapel, thinking to find her in the choir loft. But she is neither there nor in the church below. When a few of the younger girls sing the entrance hymn and the later Offertory, it is clear she must be indisposed and doesn’t mean to come. At the
Alleluia,
however, I cannot help but listen for her voice among the rest, but, alas, it is not there.

Right before Communion, I am so deeply wrapped in prayer for Catina’s precious soul that the first notes of the
Agnus Dei,
though not fortissimo, enter my consciousness like a thunderclap and spark my instant recognition of the perfect voice, Luisa’s own, that I carry in my mind. They are so pure, so rich in tone, so otherworldly, as to make me certain I will soon be tasting the true bread from heaven.

S
ALVATORE WILL NOT LET ME
play or sing from now until the child is born. He says I am too large and that I look ridiculous. Pasquale says his brother is afraid his whores and paramours will think the baby is his own, the very thought of which disgusts me. Most nights I go out with the family until they find a spot in which to settle, and then I sit upon a bench or rock or anything that will not break under my bulk. Sometimes I stay alone within the little house, but it was blistery hot in midsummer and presently is as cold as the outdoors and creaky, and there are no locks. The rats within the walls are most rambunctious. Sometimes they scurry out and run across the floor.

And so tonight I troop behind the family once again. Even Pasquale walks ahead of me. There is no spring in my step. My belly’s heavy, my feet are leaden, and my breath is short. It feels as if the babe has slipped much lower just since yesterday. An old cape of Pasquale’s covers most of me, but I feel like a barge in the lagoon that plows the waters more slowly than a boat adrift. I wonder how I’ll manage with a child in tow.