The True Adventures of Nicolo Zen (7 page)

“No. I saw her at the rehearsal.”

“I thought she must have been the second girl. Some of the girls say she had a wild life before she arrived here. That she has been with men, and learned the worst about them.”

“Does the Master know any of this?”

“I doubt it. Anyway, he is too involved in his own affairs—with
Anna del Coro, the mezzo-soprano, to be precise. There is nothing particularly hidden about that, at least here in the Ospedale.”

“Julietta hinted as much.”

“The Master often travels alone with Anna, and her sister Rosa. Don’t look so surprised, Nicolà. That’s the reason most of the girls have paid little attention to these other doings. They expect secrecy and intrigue in this place. After all, nearly everyone’s origins are secret.” She paused. “Including my own. I’ve only shared mine with Julietta. Would you like to know how I came to be here?”

“My mother’s name was Heléne Manzone,” Adriana said. “I don’t know who my father was. My mother was from Modena. She fell ill, and when she realized she wasn’t going to recover, she sent me here. One month later, she died. I was five years old. Her parents were dead, she had broken off with the rest of her family, so there were no relatives she could have left me with. They were all poor people, but my mother and I lived in a fine apartment in Modena. There were two servants, one of whom, Consuela, looked after me most of the time. My mother didn’t work, but she was frequently out. I couldn’t understand how she could afford such a life until I was older and realized she must have been a courtesan.” She looked away. “She could have been with a number of men, but I would like to think she was one man’s mistress. A wealthy merchant, perhaps, who may have been my father. Whoever he was, I never met him. We seldom had visitors, and never men. I was only a child, but I sensed that she was very cautious about who she saw and spoke with. That’s why I believe she had a single lover. Only once, when I was out with my mother in her carriage, did I see her with the man I thought that could be. It was just for an instant, on a street of high white houses and shade trees in Modena. My mother told me to wait in the carriage while she went into one of those houses. I watched a footman admit her. Through a window beside the door I could
look into a well-furnished drawing room. Suddenly my mother appeared, crossing the room. A man met her midway. He was tall, dark-haired, wearing a blue dressing robe. But he had his back to the window, and I never saw his face. They exchanged words, he disappeared, and before I knew it, she was back beside me in the carriage. When I asked her who the man was, she was surprised. She grew agitated, asking me what I had seen, exactly, but after I told her, she calmed down.

“ ‘He is a friend,’ she said.

“ ‘Is he also my father?’

“ ‘Why do you say that?’

“ ‘Well, my father must be somewhere.’

“ ‘He is far away from here.’

“ ‘Will I ever meet him?’

“ ‘I feel sure you will, someday.’

“That was the only conversation on the subject I remember. She got sick soon afterward, and then this became my home. I showed some musical talent on the lute and the pianoforte, and they gave me lessons on the viola. I was admitted to the
privilegiate di coro
. Most of the other girls don’t know their parentage. You’re one of the lucky ones.” She stopped herself. “I’m sorry, Nicolà. I wasn’t thinking.”

“It’s all right. For a long time, I was lucky.”

“Do you know why the Ospedale is so well kept? Why we have fine linens and the best food?”

“I know it is supported by the State.”

She smiled. “True, but the Doge is only generous up to a point. After which the Master must rely on his musical patrons. It happens that the most generous of these are motivated by more
than music.” She leaned closer to me. “You see, there have been girls here who were the daughters of princes and dukes. A few years ago, Angela dal Violino discovered she was the daughter of the Duke of Parma. He acknowledged her and took her away. Another girl, a contralto named Magdalena, received an anonymous letter informing her that her father was the Prince of Naples. Sometimes we see these rich and powerful men who come to visit the Master and make their donations, and we try to guess if anyone is connected to them by birth. Prudenza knows her mother was a prostitute, but one day it was whispered in her ear that her father was a Swedish count who for a time lived in Venice. She waits for him to come. Me, I’ve stopped waiting. I have looked hard at these men, trying to find a resemblance, some similarity to my own features. I doubt my father, whoever he is, knows I am here. In fact, I’m not so sure my mother ever told him of my existence.”

“Why wouldn’t she tell him?” I asked naïvely.

“Because of who he was. Perhaps a member of the clergy, like the Master—although I don’t fancy myself the daughter of a priest. Or a married man who decided to break off with her. Who knows?”

“You’ll find him one day.”

She shrugged. “Or perhaps I’ll discover he is someone I don’t want to find.”

The following night, for the first time in my life, I was thrilled to perform in public before a large audience. Among the three hundred people in attendance were some of the city’s wealthiest, most powerful citizens, eager to hear the debut of the Master’s latest concerto, conducted by Vivaldi himself. From our screened perch in the mezzanine, the members of the orchestra could study the audience freely. The ladies wore flowing gowns and long silk shawls and the brightly colored, feathered headdresses that were in fashion. Their jewelry glittered beneath the chandeliers. I could smell their perfumes wafting upward as they cooled themselves with hand-painted fans depicting dragons and leviathans that our trading vessels had brought back from the Orient. The gentlemen wore black dress coats and ruffled white shirts. Their wigs were powdered pale blue. I recognized the Archbishop in his gold-trimmed cassock; and the renowned opera singer Chiaretta Fanosa, draped in pearls; and the Doge’s stern younger brother, Admiral Cornaro, who had become famous for a battle off the coast of Sicily in which he sank half the Sardinian fleet and lost an eye. Coming from where I did, my sudden proximity to such people was dizzying. The girls around me were relaxed, tuning their instruments and studying the sheet music. They had performed publicly many times, so none of this was new to them.

All afternoon I had been thinking about Julietta and Adriana,
but when the Master raised his baton and signaled us to begin, I cleared my head and threw myself into the music. This concerto, in B-flat major, did not feature a particular soloist, on string or wind instrument, but there were two violin solos, assigned of course to the Prima Violina, and four brief, energetic flute solos. In rehearsal, the latter had been played by the Prima Flautista, Genevieve dal Flauto. But as we took our places in the mezzanine, Luca had come to the flute section and informed us that the Master wanted me, Nicolà Vitale, to play the fourth of these solos on my clarinet.

Genevieve was furious. “There must be some mistake,” she said.

“No mistake.” Luca scowled.

“But she’s not even a flautist—and she’s only been here for a week.”

“Just do as you’re told,” he snapped. “And you, Nicolà: don’t disappoint the Master.”

Genevieve’s cheeks flushed. She bit her lip. I thought she was going to burst into tears. But that wasn’t her way. When Luca was gone, she grabbed my arm and, digging her nails in, whispered, “You’ll pay for this.”

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said, squeezing her wrist until she released my arm.

She seemed surprised by my strength. “You’ve been looking for trouble since you arrived here, and now you’ve found it.”

Carmona dal Flauto, the second flautist, who had not previously acknowledged my existence, looked at me with disdain. “I hate you, too,” she said.

I wanted to tell them both off, but I held my tongue and
turned away, trying to understand why the Master would order me to play a solo. Mean-spirited as they were, these girls were right: I was green, barely settled in. Why would he want to test me at this point?

I’d had only a few moments to study the solo, near the end of the third movement. I saw at once that, though written for flute, it was easily playable on the clarinet. When its moment arrived, the other instruments broke off and the Master’s eyes alighted on me, and the silence was so profound that I reminded myself to breathe. And above all else to concentrate, to focus on each note as I played it, so that my clarinet might do its work. The Master nodded and I launched into the solo, a rapid crescendo,
allegro con brio
, that restated the opening bars of the movement and lasted about thirty seconds, which felt like an hour. My concentration did not waver and my clarinet did not fail me: I hit no wrong notes, I shaded the dynamics properly, and I added a depth on the lower octaves that was not possible on a flute. As the rest of the orchestra started up again, I played into the flow without a hitch and caught a small smile on the Master’s face before he turned away.

When we finished, we received a sustained ovation, which grew louder when the Master took his bows. But Genevieve was still seething. The fact I had played well further incensed her.

After we returned to the dormitory, Adriana took me aside, where no one could hear us.

“Congratulations,” she said. “I feel sure the Master is going to make you the principal soloist in the flute section.”

“No, it’s much too soon. One solo in my first concert—and not even on the flute!”

“He doesn’t care about things like that. He operates according to what he last heard, and what his instincts tell him. I’ve seen it before. He promoted Prudenza after only two concerts.”

“And Genevieve?”

“She will become Seconda Flauto. And Carmona will be Tertia.”

“And they will hate me even more.”

“Genevieve hates everyone, except Marina.”

I shook my head. “I hope you’re wrong about this.”

She kissed my cheek. “Then you should not have played so flawlessly, my friend.”

That night, after tucking my clarinet under my pillow, I was too excited to fall asleep. The applause was still echoing in my ears. But I also had a sense of foreboding. Each day at the Ospedale had been more disturbing than the last: the stories I had heard, the envy and hostility I had felt. My previous life had in no way prepared me for this one. The one-room schoolhouse and tiny church choir on Mazzorbo had been the extent of my education. Since all the children were poor, with no expectation of advancement, there was little sense of competition at either place. “If you can talk, you can sing,” our priest, Father Michele, used to say. The difference between his choir and the
privilegiate di coro
—or even the midlevel
coro
at the Ospedale—was enormous. Despite my initial hopes, I wasn’t sure now that I could ever feel comfortable at the Ospedale—and my disguise was the least of it.

Soon after I fell asleep, someone whispered in my ear, “Wake up.”

I sat up, and there was Aldo, kneeling at my bedside, grinning. His milky eyes looked even whiter in the darkness.

“Good evening, Nicolà.” He leaned closer. “Or should I say, Nicolò.”

He sensed my panic and his smile widened.

“Oh yes, I’m on to you,” he said.

“What are you talking about?”

“I have to hand it to you. It must be difficult to wear a dress, learn to curtsy, remember to sit down when you pee. Though you do forget sometimes, you know.”

How could he know that? I thought.

“I don’t need to see you in the privy,” he went on. “I can read the sounds. The rustle of clothes, the piss hitting from higher up. It’s easy for me.”

“Go away or I’ll call Marta.”

“Call her. It won’t take her long to determine which of us is telling the truth.” He leaned a few inches closer. “But I have a better idea: you give me something I want and your secret remains safe.”

I was wide awake now, but felt as if I had stumbled into a nightmare. “What could I possibly give you?”

“Adriana,” he replied with a crooked smile. “Bring her to the wine cellar tomorrow night and I’ll forget everything I know about you.”

“Go to hell.”

“Maybe I will. But if you don’t bring her, I’ll go to Luca and you’ll be sent packing.”

“What if I speak to them first?”

“They won’t believe you. And after she hears from me, Marta will check beneath your little dress and confirm that you’re an impostor and a liar. In no time, you’ll be back on the street. Don’t try to warn Adriana off, because I’ll know about it. Tell her you’re taking her to Julietta. She trusts you. Knock four times at the door to the wine cellar and leave immediately. Don’t look back at Adriana. And don’t say another word now.” He backed away into the darkness. “Eleven o’clock. Sleep well, Nicolò.”

I felt sick the next morning. I saw Adriana across the room at breakfast. She smiled at me, but I didn’t have the chance to speak with her. The entire string section—violins, violas, bass viols—were sitting at the same table. When they were finished eating, Marta ushered them downstairs to a large rehearsal room. They would spend the next four hours there while I was assigned to a practice room with Prudenza, playing the violette, and a bassoonist named Lucia, a shy girl with flushed cheeks who was reputed to be the daughter of a Milanese prince imprisoned in Austria. We had been told to play two of the Master’s sonatas as well as a trio by Albinoni. But we had barely begun when Luca entered the room looking grim.

“The Master wants to see you,” he said to me.

“Now?”

“Yes, now. You two play on without her.”

I was certain Aldo had turned me in; after discovering some other means of getting at Adriana, he wanted me out of the way.

When I entered his office, the Master was by the window, gazing at the sailboats on the canal. He was wearing a white shirt, ink-stained at the cuffs, and blue trousers. As usual, his desk was littered with sheet music. His yellow cat, Giacomo, was curled up on an ottoman. “Good morning, Nicolà,” he said pleasantly. “Please, sit. So how do you like life at the Ospedale?”