The Violinist of Venice (15 page)

I realized, with a certainty that made my entire body go cold, that Vivaldi had been right, in a way. Of all the men in Venice whom my father would consider serious contenders for my hand, Tommaso Foscari was the one best suited for me—perhaps perfect for me. And I genuinely enjoyed his company. But this only made me want to push him further away.

The moment the opera began, however, I forgot everything except the music. The
prima donna
strutted onto the stage to thunderous applause as the orchestra struck up the lively opening bars. She was arrayed in an elaborate Grecian costume, and weighed down with so much gold jewelry that she positively sparkled in the light from the stage lamps. She inclined her head regally in acknowledgment of the applause, then launched into the first aria.

Her voice was strong and full, yet also light. She would reach the highest notes in impossibly rapid passages, only to embellish them with a series of trills and ornaments. The cadenza at the end of her aria earned her a round of near-deafening applause.

With the conclusion of her aria, other singers came out onstage, and the plot of the opera began to unfold. I was lost in the music, the intricate arias, the back-and-forth banter of recitative, the tender love duets and elaborate ensemble numbers. But unsurprisingly, it was the orchestra and Vivaldi in particular that truly enthralled me.

It was new and somewhat strange to see Vivaldi playing for an audience, and in the service of a much larger whole, rather than hearing him play when we were alone, when he played just for me. I had never played in such a way before, and the tricks of blending and balancing intrigued me as I watched him.

When, after over two hours, the curtains fell, signaling the end of the first act, the audience applauded, and everyone rose from their seats to seek out their friends and acquaintances during the intermission.

“Tommaso,
fratello,
” Alvise Foscari called, poking his head through the curtains that separated the seats from the rest of the box, “I have held off on our dinner as long as possible, but we will wait no longer for you, I am afraid!”

I began to rise, but Tommaso placed his hand atop mine to keep me where I was.

“Stay,” he murmured. “You will want to hear this.” To his brother, he called, “Just a few more minutes, Alvise. The lady and I wish to hear the concerto.”

I threw him a questioning look.

“At the intermission, it is customary for the orchestra's soloist to play a concerto, or some such thing,” he explained. “Remember what I was telling you about this man Vivaldi? Now you will see what he is truly capable of.”

“I have been watching him through much of the performance thus far,” I said. “It seems he is just as skilled as you say.”

“You would know better than I,” Tommaso said.

Just then, as if on cue, Vivaldi rose from his seat and began to play.

I drew my breath in sharply when I heard the opening notes; I recognized them instantly. It was the first movement, the allegro, of the A-minor concerto he had taught me to play.

I glanced quickly at Tommaso, afraid that perhaps he had noticed my reaction, but his attention was fully on Vivaldi. I gratefully turned my gaze to the same place, feeling my heart beginning to thrum excitedly in my chest.

Vivaldi played it a thousand times better than I could ever dream of playing it, or so it seemed to my ears. And as though it were not an exquisite piece of music already, he embellished it a great deal, adding impossibly rapid ornaments and difficult cadenzas throughout, just as the singers did in their arias.

Once he reached the end of the allegro, he paused just briefly before beginning the next movement, the largo. It would always sound like a love song to me, whether he played it just for me or I for him, or whether he played it in an opera house before hundreds of people, bold and unafraid in its quiet simplicity.

As he reached the end of the movement, I realized I had been holding my breath; when he paused again, I let go a small, soft sigh, hoping Tommaso had not noticed.

The third movement, also an allegro, he played with a seemingly impossible speed and ferocity. Again he included elaborate ornamentation throughout, and toward the end he added a long, complicated cadenza that caused my breath to catch in my throat once more, as though I could see the notes falling through the air and was left to wonder where they would land.

As he finished and took his bow, I noted the substantial volume of applause that his performance received. Though most operagoers seemed to consider the social aspect of the experience the most important, they at least knew remarkable, exceptional music when they heard it. They—we—were Venetians, after all.

Once I awoke from the beautiful spell that Vivaldi's music had cast over me, like a maiden in a fairy story awakening from an enchanted sleep, I found Tommaso watching me expectantly, waiting for my reaction.

I smiled, flattered by his obvious desire that all I saw and heard should be pleasing to me. “Incredible,” I said.

He smiled in return, then reached over and took my hand between his, squeezing it gently. “I am so glad that you are enjoying yourself this evening,” he said.

I was saved from further intimacy by Paolo, who stuck his head through the curtains just then. “We have started eating without you, lovebirds!” he called. I heard Beatrice shriek at his impropriety, and I felt myself flush with embarrassment as I realized what we looked like. What if Vivaldi had looked up to see my reaction to his performance and saw us, the color in my cheeks and my hand in Tommaso's?

There was no help for it now; I rose and followed Tommaso into the back section of the box, where a table had been set up and a veritable feast laid out. We all sat to eat, and I was soon quite lost, trying to follow a flurry of gossip about people I did not know. Tommaso, bless him, kept up a whispered commentary for my benefit, explaining who each person they spoke of was and how each was acquainted with him or her.

Our dinner lasted through much of the second act, until Tommaso begged his companions to excuse us so that we might see the finale. To my surprise, the entire party rose and filed out into the front of the box to watch the end.

When the opera concluded and the singers came out onstage to take their bows, I enthusiastically rose to my feet with the rest of the audience to applaud. The
prima donna
received a shower of flowers, and small pieces of parchment—no doubt love notes and poems. As the members of the orchestra got to their feet in turn to be acknowledged, I applauded even louder, unable to stop an enormous smile from stretching across my face.

Once the applause had ended and the performers had begun to leave the stage, Tommaso turned to me. “So what say you, now that you have seen an opera?”

“It was wonderful,” I said. “I shall never forgive my father for having deprived me of this particular pleasure for so long.”

Tommaso laughed. “You need depend on him no longer,” he said, “for I shall escort you to any opera in the city, any time you wish to attend.”

“That is very kind of you,” I said, both grateful for and unsettled by his offer.

“But now you must answer a question of mine,” he said, as we left the box and moved toward the lobby. “Do you remember what I asked you at the ball, when first you agreed to accompany me tonight?”

“Yes,” I replied, knowing what was coming.

“Then now that you have seen an opera, I would beg you to revisit that question,” he said.

I was silent, considering my reply. I had guessed that he would bring this up, yet still I had not prepared a suitable answer. “Certainly the prospect of hearing such excellent music—and so well performed—will play a part in my desire to attend such events in the future,” I said truthfully. “Yet to be quite frank, I enjoyed your company this evening, and find you to be a perfect gentleman.”

He grinned boyishly. “I thank you for your compliments, madonna,” he said. “And please know I found your company absolutely enchanting, and that I think you the most gracious and elegant of women.”

I smiled demurely at this and looked away, realizing uneasily that he appeared to be quite smitten with me.

Yet it is one thing to be smitten, and quite another to propose marriage,
I quickly reminded myself as we went out to the dock where his gondola was waiting.
I should not alarm myself, not yet.

“There are a great many parties and such this evening that we might attend,” Tommaso told me once we were settled into the gondola, “but I think it best that I deliver you straight home tonight.” He smiled wryly. “I would not want your father to find fault with me, and therefore deprive me of your company in the future.”

It was all I could do not to roll my eyes.
As long as your surname is Foscari, I have no doubt that you could get me with child, and my father would still not find fault with you.
“Very well,” I said aloud.

That night the city was full of revelers, as it often is; cheers, shouting, singing, laughing, and the occasional strain of violins or flutes could be heard coming from other boats and from the streets and buildings around us.

As I listened to the opera of
la Serenissima
herself that echoed around us, I could feel Tommaso watching me, silently and unobtrusively, yet he seemed to know I did not wish to talk just then. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him lean back and listen along with me.

 

20

SCARLET

After I had risen, dressed, and broken my fast the next morning, I sent for Giuseppe. “I am going to him tonight,” I said.

Startled, he asked, “So soon? You were next to meet tomorrow night,
si
?”

“Yes,” I said, “but I cannot wait that long. I must see him tonight.” I tried to hide the wide grin that threatened as I remembered him playing the concerto, playing it for
me,
before the whole theater, as though declaring to them all that I was his.

“And what if he is not home?”

“Then he is not home, and we will return.”

Giuseppe hesitated, as though to say something else, but he merely bowed and said, “As you wish, madonna.”

*   *   *

As we drew near Vivaldi's house just after midnight, I could see the flickering light of candles and perhaps a fire behind the curtains. “He is home,” I said to Giuseppe, my voice low. “Return for me at four o'clock.” My blood heated at the thought of so much time with him.

“As you wish, madonna,” Giuseppe said. He turned and made his way back up the street, leaving me with the feeling that that phrase signified he had something he wished to say but was not planning to say it. I found I did not much care for it.

I pushed these thoughts aside, knocking once to alert Vivaldi to my presence, then let myself in. “Tonio, I—”

I stopped dead, the door slamming behind me, when I saw—disaster of disasters—he was not alone. The man sitting in the second chair before the fire looked startled and confused, studying me quickly before turning a questioning gaze to Vivaldi.

“I am so sorry,” I said, taking a step backward and bumping into the door. “I did not realize that … you had a guest.” I could feel my face burning, and my stomach roiled so that I was certain I would vomit.

We were found out. We had been discovered, and it was my fault.

“Adriana,” Vivaldi said, quickly rising from his chair. The panicked, stricken look on his face no doubt mirrored mine. “I was not expecting you this evening.”

“Antonio,” the stranger said, rising from his chair. He was a bit taller than Vivaldi, and a great deal older as well. His hair was gray, and his face had the worn look of a man who had toiled many years for very little. “What goes on here?”

Like the consummate performer that he was, Vivaldi immediately collected himself. “Signorina Adriana,” he said formally, “may I introduce my father, Giovanni Battista Vivaldi.”

Shock and shame seemed about to drown me, but I composed myself, wondering how in the name of God and all the saints we were going to explain ourselves—and if we should even go to the trouble. “A pleasure to meet you, signore,” I said, stepping into the light from the fire.

“And this, Father, is Adriana,” Vivaldi continued. “She studies the violin with me.”

My breath caught in my throat as I hoped, prayed. Not quite a lie. But hardly the complete truth.

“The pleasure is all mine, signorina,” Signor Vivaldi said, though his courteous response was belied by his suspicious tone and the frown creasing his brow. “But a violin lesson, so late?” He looked from me to his son and back again. “Surely this is not a safe or seemly hour for a young woman to be out and about in Venice alone?”

“I am a servant in one of the noble houses, signore,” I said, squirming uncomfortably. “It is only once my mistress releases me from my duties that I am able to come for a lesson, and Maestro Vivaldi has most graciously agreed to accommodate me. I show some small talent for the instrument, you see.”

“A great deal of talent,” Vivaldi corrected, just as a teacher would do for a favorite student.

I marveled at the ease with which the lies rolled off our tongues. “And I did not come alone. My brother is a manservant in the house where I am employed as well,” I went on, “and so he accompanies me and then returns to fetch me home.” I dipped my head slightly, deferentially. “I thank you for your concern, though, signore.”

He nodded, still frowning. “Well, do not let me keep you from your lesson, then, signorina. I came to dine with my son and have stayed later than I meant to.”

“No—no,” I said hurriedly. “I … I fear that I have mistaken the date of my lesson.” I looked at Vivaldi. “It is tomorrow, maestro, no? My apologies. I—”

“Do not leave on my account,” Signor Vivaldi said shortly. “As I said, it is past time for me to take my leave.”