The Violinist of Venice (10 page)

“I have been going to him all along, yes, but it had not…” I was surprised to find myself blushing. “We were not lovers until last week.”

“Then why…” Suddenly a look of comprehension crossed his face. “The violinist,” he said. “He was the one giving you music lessons. That is how it started.”

“Yes.”

He laughed. “If only Don d'Amato knew what effect his discipline truly had.”

“Let us pray that he never finds out.”

“Oh, I shall,” Giuseppe said, moving toward the door. “Believe me, I shall pray for that above all else. We will likely require divine intervention to come through this in one piece.”

“If God exists as they say He does, then I am the last one He would be willing to help,” I said.

Giuseppe laughed, in spite of himself. “It is better not to remind ourselves of that fact.” He opened the door that led to the sitting room and paused in the doorway. “Good night, then, madonna. We will talk more tomorrow. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Giuseppe,” I said. “And … thank you.”

He shook his head. “Do not thank me for anything just yet. Who knows what may become of us before this is over?” On that ominous note, he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.

 

15

LARGO

The next day, I set out to see an herb-woman whose name I had procured from Meneghina, under the pretense of needing a concoction for my skin. If I was going to carry on such a dangerous love affair, I could under no circumstances conceive a child. I had Giuseppe escort me to see the woman, and was given some herbs and instructed to mix a pinch of it into my tea or wine after each time I was with my lover. At least one worry was put to rest.

*   *   *

The following day, I was summoned to my father's study, where I was informed that we had received an invitation to a large party being given by the Foscari family to mark the end of the festival season in late November, when all the revelry of Venice would pause for Advent before resuming again on St. Stephen's Day.

The Foscari family was one of the premier noble families of Venice, having produced at least one doge, as well as managing to hold on to their vast wealth at a time when much of the Venetian nobility was losing their fortunes. Everyone of importance in Venetian society would be there—as my father wasted no time in informing me—and, naturally, it was assumed I would meet my future husband there.

“This promises to be a profitable evening for our family,” my father said. “And I trust you will behave with the perfect decorum and grace that our family name demands.” He did not add “or else,” but the threat was implied. “You are to have a new gown,” he added. “The dressmaker is coming tomorrow to fit you for it.”

I replied with my customary “Yes, Father” and, when he dismissed me, rose and took my leave calmly.

I had dreaded the fitting, but by the end the dressmaker had given me a fairly vivid idea of what the gown was to look like, and I was looking forward, in spite of myself, to trying on the finished product—much as I did not like its intended purpose. It was to be made of a pale blue silk, trimmed with silver lace and embroidered with silver thread. The skirt would be slashed to reveal a petticoat of cloth of silver that was being specially made as well. The overall effect would no doubt be stunning, which both excited and depressed me.

Later that same night was to be my next tryst with Vivaldi, so once the dressmaker had left I summoned Giuseppe to my rooms.

“Tonight you will accompany me to his house, so that you know the way,” I told him, my voice low. “Then you may go wherever you please, so long as you return for me after three hours.”

He nodded, his expression betraying his discomfort. “As you wish, madonna,” was all he said in reply.

I had been expecting a reprisal of his tirade from a few nights ago, not to mention all of the new arguments and reasons why I was utterly mad that he had no doubt thought of since. This resigned acquiescence was certainly much more welcome. “Very well,” I said. “Return for me here at midnight. I shall be waiting for you.”

He bowed and left the room without saying anything further.

That night, Giuseppe came for me at the appointed time, and I led him through the labyrinth of streets and canals to Vivaldi's house, telling him to make note of the way.

“Here it is,” I said, as we drew within sight of our destination. “You will be able to find your way back here?”

He nodded.

“Very well,” I said. “Remember, three hours.”

“
Si,
madonna.” With that, he turned and retreated the way we had come.

I opened the door and slipped inside.

“Who was that you were speaking to?” Vivaldi asked, his voice hushed, taking my arm when I entered and drawing me further into the room, away from the windows. “Did someone follow you here?”

“No, no,” I replied quickly. “You need not worry. That was Giuseppe Rivalli, my servant. He is to return later so he can take me home, and—”

“You told someone about this?” he demanded. “Adriana, what were you thinking? No one must know, no one! Do you know—”

“I had no choice!” I cried. “He caught me coming home the last time—and be thankful that it was him, believe me, for if it had been anyone else, my father would doubtlessly have beaten me bloody by now.”

He flinched at my words.

“He will not betray us,
caro mio,
” I said, stepping closer to him and cupping his face in my hands. “Have no fear. I would trust him with my life, and yours.”

He reached up and took my hands firmly in his. “Are you certain?”

I nodded.

He sighed. “Very well, then. If you say so,
cara
.”

*   *   *

Neither of us could sleep that night. We lay awake, hoping Giuseppe would never return.

“I have a question for you, Tonio,” I said finally, turning to him.

He glanced at me, raising his eyebrows expectantly.
“Si?”

“I have been wondering when I shall get to play the violin again,” I said. I grinned mischievously. “I have, after all, tendered you your payment thus far.”

He winced. “Do not say that,” he said. “You make yourself sound like a…” He trailed off.

“A whore,” I finished for him.

He nodded uncomfortably. “Nor does it make me sound much better.”

I shrugged. “I would rather be your whore than the wife of some insipid patrician.”

He looked mildly scandalized by my words. “You should not say such things.”

“Why not? It is true.”

“Yes, but … even so,” he said, apparently unable to tell me exactly why I should not say such things. He sighed. “So you wish to play, do you?”

I nodded eagerly, a child's wide grin spreading across my face.

He smiled in return. “Good,” he said, rising from the bed. “Get up and dress yourself, and we will play.”

Once we were both dressed, we went downstairs, where Vivaldi located my violin and handed it to me, smiling.

I immediately ran through a scale, happy to hear the rich, lovely sound coming from the strings. “I am afraid that I will get terribly out of practice now that I cannot play at home.”

He plucked several sheets of parchment from his desk and set them on the music stand in front of me. “The only way to avoid that problem, then, is for you to come here more often,
cara.
” He gestured to the pages before me—an A-minor concerto. “This is something I have been working on. Try it.”

After glancing over it once, I took a deep breath to steady myself and began to play, noting how quickly the piece started out. I found that it never let up: it was one rapid succession of notes after another, leaping higher and then plunging back down. I knew Vivaldi and his music well enough to know that no one else could have written it.

Much as I tried not to think about what I was doing, what I was playing, I found myself forced to slow down at several points to work my way through certain tangles of notes; even so, I made a few small mistakes along the way, my fingers clumsy from disuse. I had a good idea of what the maestro would have to say when I was done, but so be it.

When I reached the end of the piece and glanced at Vivaldi, he gazed back at me impassively and said, “Play it again.”

I complied, my fingers becoming much looser this time, my playing smoother. Once finished, I started again, determined to play it through perfectly. The third time was the best yet; I was able to play it as fast as was required, though I did make perhaps two or three noticeable mistakes. When I finally stopped, out of breath and invigorated, I admitted, “That may take a bit more practice.”

He nodded, selecting another sheaf of papers from the table. “Yes,” he agreed distractedly. “Leave that for now, and try the next movement, the largo.” He placed the pages upon the stand and motioned for me to begin.

This movement was much slower, more languid. I moved through it with relative ease, playing it smoothly and cleanly. Once I had finished, I looked up triumphantly, expecting him to exclaim over how well I had played it. Instead, he merely shook his head and, with a scowl, said, “Dreadful.”

In my shock, it took me a moment to find my voice. I stuttered, “What?… Why?”

“Dreadful,” he repeated, his voice even. “I had not expected you of all people to fall into this particular trap, but you did. I thought you knew better, Adriana. What have I been teaching you all this time?”

“What do you mean?” I demanded, bewildered and slightly hurt.

“You played the allegro much better,” he informed me. “Do you know why?”

“But I made several mistakes in the allegro,” I reminded him. “I made no mistakes at all in the second movement.”

He shook his head. “It is not about whether you made mistakes or not. It is about the
emotion
of the music, Adriana, and the feeling with which you play it.”

I waited silently for him to elaborate.

He sighed at my inability to grasp what he was saying. “Think of how you played the allegro. You made mistakes, yes, and you were frustrated. You wanted very much to be able to play it perfectly, and because of that desire, that frustration, you played with hunger, and gave a liveliness and edge to the music.” He moved across the room to where his own violin was kept and removed it from its case. “But because the largo is slower, and you had more time to think about each note, and how you would get to the next one, you did not pay as much attention to them, nor to the piece as a whole. I could hear the place in each and every long, drawn-out note where you gave up on it, where you stopped caring about it.”

I opened my mouth reflexively to protest, but he was right, and I knew it.

He set his violin into position and lifted the bow. “Listen.” Without so much as glancing at the music on the stand, he began to play.

It sounded like a different piece of music altogether from what I had just played. He held out each note lovingly, gently, tenderly, moving on to the next one with a certain reluctance, as though unwilling to let the previous one go. It sounded almost like a love song, wistful whispers tinged with sadness, as when one is thinking of one's beloved, yet cannot go to them. The thought was irresistible:
Had he written this for me?

Yet the slow, languorous, sensuous strings of notes also made me think of the sun shimmering on the many glassy waterways of Venice, of the summer heat hanging low over the canals. Perhaps it was just as much a love song for this beautiful city, where one breathed in music from the air.

When he finished, he looked up and met my eyes. “Now do you see?” he asked softly, as though to speak any louder would be to disturb the spell the music had cast over the room. Over me. “There is more to it than just the music, just the notes—there must be, if it is to be worth listening to. I have told you that there is more to virtuosity than technique. I know that you love music more than anything, so you must let that
passione
infuse every note you play. You must let your listener hear it.”

“Yes,” I replied, my own voice hushed. “Yes, I see.”

He nodded. “Then play it. Play it like the virtuoso that you are.”

So I did.

This time I paid close attention to each and every note, to its sound and cadence and meaning, its place in the larger context of the melody. I began by playing carefully, gently, as if each note were a fragile, hesitant breath drawn in the silence. As I went on, I let my bow sink ever so slightly into the strings, giving each note a sense of urgency I hadn't heard before, that I hadn't seen hiding between all of the markings on the staff. The longer notes cried out for a bold, vivid crescendo that would make the room ring, but each time I resisted, allowing the sound to swell ever so slightly before returning it to the place of almost unbearable softness where it had started.

When I reached the end of the piece, I remained still for a moment, eyes closed, until the last note faded completely from the air. Only then did I open my eyes and slowly lower my instrument.

The look on Vivaldi's face was one of pride and gratification and affection. It was a long time before he spoke, yet there was no need for words just then. “Yes,” he said finally. “That is what music is.”

The spell was abruptly broken by several sharp raps on the door. I almost jumped out of my skin before seeing Giuseppe through the window. I let out a sigh of relief and motioned for him to come inside.

I turned back to Vivaldi. “I must go, I am afraid,” I said, handing my violin back to him.

He took it, nodding. “Next time you come, we play again.”

I smiled. “Of course.”

His gaze shifted to Giuseppe, who was standing awkwardly yet defiantly inside the doorway. He nodded tightly. “Signor Rivalli.”