The Violinist of Venice (20 page)

The rational part of me was nearly bursting with impatience; yet another part of me was apprehensive at what she might find.
Is it so impossible that there might be those who
can
see beyond the ordinary?
I asked myself.
She did, after all, somehow know Antonio's identity.
I waited in unsettled silence for her to finish.

She let out a low chuckle. “As I thought,” she said. She took her gaze from my hand and met my eyes. “You already know your fate. Although it will not come about in quite the way you think.”

I stared at her, my mind reeling. What could she mean?

“There is more,” she declared, glancing back at my palm, “more that you do not know.” Once again her eyes met mine as she imparted her prediction with unwavering certainty. “You will bear the child of the man you love.”

It felt as though I had swallowed fire, and it raced through my veins, my blood alight.
So this, then, is my fate … the one I have wanted but thought I could never have. Yes, perhaps I do know, have known, though I scarcely dare believe it.

“Does this mean—” I began, wanting her to confirm this joyous, beautiful future she was suggesting.

She shook her head. “I can tell you no more,” she said. “Perhaps you know what it means, perhaps you do not. It will still come, in its time.”

Sensing the interview was over, I extracted a coin from the purse at my waist and placed it in her grubby hand. “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

She gave a quick nod. “Mind you do not tell anyone what you have learned here tonight,” she said, her tone almost threatening as she pointed a stern finger at me. “It is for your ears alone.”

“Of course,” I said. “I shall speak of it to no one.” And I knew that I would not, for what would I say? “Farewell, signora.” I turned and walked out of the shadows as quickly as I dared, away from that strange place and back into the world of light and color and sound, of voices other than the ones I heard in my own head.

The noise of the square seemed strangely loud as I stepped back through the columns, as though the sound had been somehow deadened within the fortune-teller's realm. I placed my hand on Vivaldi's shoulder; he jumped slightly, then turned quickly to face me. Sensing something was amiss, he asked, “What is it,
cara
? What's wrong?”

“More wine, I think,” I said, searching for a vendor through the crowd. It had suddenly become painfully and obviously apparent to me that my wine had long since been consumed.

“Adriana,” he called, hurrying after me. “What on earth did she tell you? Why did you follow her?”

I found another vendor selling wine, handed him a coin, and wordlessly took the cup he offered me. I took a generous sip before turning to face Vivaldi. I found that I had no desire whatsoever to repeat the fortune-teller's words to anyone, least of all to him. The certainty I had initially felt at her prediction was gone now, its fires dampened and extinguished by the December cold, leaving me feeling foolish for having played along, for believing. “She told me nothing of import,” I said, trying to still my trembling hands. I smiled widely. “Nonsense, truly. I only listened because I felt there was no harm in it, and she was quite insistent.” I shrugged. “A silly Carnevale game, nothing more.”

He knew me too well to be put off by such an explanation: he knew that I had been unsettled, if only for a few moments. But to his credit, he did not comment further. Rather, he handed the vendor another coin and took a cup of wine for himself. Offering me his arm, he said, “Well,
mia bella donna
? Shall we rejoin the festivities?”

I placed my hand on his arm and let him lead me back into the throng, where further fantastical displays awaited us.

*   *   *

Several hours later, I realized—dimly—that I was quite drunk. I rather liked it. My head felt lighter than usual, although the ground beneath my feet kept shifting rather disobligingly. I stumbled a few times, each time becoming consumed with laughter.

“Too much wine,
cara,
” Vivaldi said, wrapping an arm around my waist to steady me as we left the piazza. I heard the smile in his voice; he, too, had had more to drink than I had ever seen him have, though not as much as I—not that I could be sure of that, having quite lost count. “It has happened to the best men and women before, and will again, I fear.”

I giggled. “Where shall we go now?” I asked, throwing my arms into the air. “Venice is ours for the taking!”

“Back to my house now,
cara,
to wait for Giuseppe,” he said. “Or perhaps…” He hesitated a moment. “Perhaps I should take you right back home.”

I wrenched away from him. “No!” I cried. “Do not dare! I do not ever want to go back there!”

“
Cara,
maybe—”

“No!” I stamped my foot childishly. “Take me back to your house and make love to me!”

A burst of laughter sounded nearby, and I saw a group of masked men walking past us. “If you do not oblige the lady, I will be happy to take your place, good signore,” one of them called, prompting whoops of laughter from his companions.

Vivaldi stepped closer to me, sliding both arms around my waist to draw me tightly against him. “Oh, I shall oblige you,” he said softly. He quickly pulled his mask off and kissed me, hard, on the mouth, right in the middle of the street, where the magic of Carnevale enfolded us in its protective embrace once more.

 

26

REST

Due to the license and effortless methods of disguise that Carnevale provided, for the duration of the season—and, now, with Meneghina's assistance—it was much easier for Vivaldi and me to meet—when we both had the time, that was. The Carnevale season brought with it, as always, an increased number of opera performances at theaters throughout the city, and the Teatro Sant' Angelo was no exception. Vivaldi was occupied more evenings than not playing at the theater, performing before native Venetians and tourists alike. We took to meeting during the day again at times, though even this was not always possible.

Nor was I entirely idle. I spent many evenings being escorted about by Tommaso Foscari, either to one of the countless parties taking place each night of Carnevale, or to the opera. We went to the Teatro Sant' Angelo again—much to my delight—and also to the more upscale Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo, where his parents owned a box. We saw an opera there called
Agrippina
that was all the rage, by some German named Handel of whom I had never heard.

And so January arrived, and the weather grew colder. Sometimes a week or more would pass without Vivaldi and me meeting. Giuseppe became accustomed to carrying messages back and forth between the two of us, arranging or canceling a meeting. I missed him more than ever; sometimes it felt as though he were hundreds of miles away instead of in the same city.

I envied him—that he was a man, a musician, that his life was his own to order. He was busy with his performances, with writing music, with learning new music for the opera. He had plenty to keep his mind occupied, whereas I languished in my palazzo, like a lethargic princess in some old fairy story, with only a dusty harpsichord and some books to divert me.

It was this dread of empty days—and also the ghost of that melody I had played once and lost—that prompted my subterfuge on one of the rare nights when we were together.

As he stepped into the back room, looking for the pages of a sonata he wished to show me, I took several sheets with blank staves drawn on them from his desk and hid them inside my cloak. I knew I could have just asked; but I did not want Vivaldi—Vivaldi the genius composer—to know I wished to try my hand at composition. He would want to hear what I had written, and I was not ready for that.

And so I had a new pursuit to occupy me. I would sit at my writing desk, my hands and clothes ink-splotched, the pages in front of me, and try to compose something, anything. I began with a violin melody, hearing the notes in my head even as my fingers burned to play them, to draw them from the strings, these notes that I myself had found and assembled. I had to resort to the harpsichord—a poor substitute. I soon came to be glad of it, however, when it came time to sketch in the orchestral accompaniment. I would play a chord out loud—usually several times—before putting it to the page and assigning its notes to the other instruments: second violin, viola d'amore, cello—or sometimes the
basso,
depending upon my mood. I began to see that each composition—however short and juvenile—was incrementally better than the last.

*   *   *

During the third week of January, I received an unexpected visitor. I was set to accompany Tommaso to a party being given by one of his friends and, having dressed and had Meneghina arrange my hair, I went to the
piano nobile
to await him. As I left my rooms, however, I encountered the butler, Signor Fiorello. “Ah, Madonna Adriana,” he said, bowing. “I was just coming to find you. You have a visitor.”

“Don Tommaso Foscari? I have been expecting him,” I said, slightly startled at his early arrival.

“No, madonna,” Signor Fiorello said apologetically. “Your caller is one Senator Baldovino. He is a friend of your father's, and said he has previously made your acquaintance.”

It took me a moment to summon a reply to this unforeseen turn of events. “Yes, I daresay he did,” I managed.

“Yes, well. He is awaiting your presence in the parlor, madonna,” Signor Fiorello said. Left with no choice, I followed him down the stairs to greet my caller.

The senator rose from his seat as I entered. I pointedly left the door open behind me. “Senator Baldovino,” I said evenly. “This is an unexpected honor. Please, do be seated.”

“I thank you, Donna Adriana,” he said, lowering himself back into his chair. “And may I say you are looking exceptionally lovely this evening.” As he spoke, his eyes swept over me in his usual lecherous manner.

“
Grazie,
Senator,” I said coolly, smoothing my skirts and taking a chair at an angle to his.

Neither of us spoke for a long, awkward moment, and I felt irritated impatience prickling at me. He was here uninvited, and now he could not be troubled to get down to the purpose of his visit?

“You must forgive my rudeness in dropping by uninvited like this,” he said at last. “I have sent several letters to your father, requesting permission to call upon you again, and yet every time he has replied that you have another engagement for the evening—which I do not doubt, as your company is obviously much desired.”

“I thank you—” I began.

“Yes,” he said, waving away my words. “In any event, I decided I would presume to call upon you in person, and ask that you do me the honor of accompanying me to a ball at the doge's palace this evening.”

I wondered what my father would say. Would the honor of his daughter being seen at the doge's palace outweigh the potential advantages of an evening with Tommaso Foscari? “I thank you for the honor of your invitation, Senator,” I said. “Truly, I do; and I know my father will be honored as well when I tell him. However, I must decline, as I am already engaged elsewhere for the evening, and could not now go back on my word.”

“I might have expected as much,” he said. “Very well. But might I not persuade you to tell me who my rival is?”

Good Lord, had he not heard the gossip? “It is Tommaso Foscari with whom I will be spending the evening.”

The senator laughed shortly. “I might have known. I will not trouble you further. After all, what young lady—and what father, for that matter—would prefer an aging patrician over a young, handsome, unspeakably wealthy one?”

“I—and my father as well—are certainly flattered by your attentions—” I began uncomfortably.

“Please,” he said, rising from his chair, “do not bother. Rest assured that I understand completely.” He bowed. “It is my sincerest hope that you should enjoy your evening, Madonna Adriana.” With that, he walked past me and out the door, and I could hear Signor Fiorello offering to show him out.

I sagged against my chair, feeling flattered and sorry for him and as though I had only narrowly avoided a rather great misfortune all at the same time.

 

27

SHADOWS

The parties and performances continued on into February, keeping Vivaldi and myself occupied and therefore separated more often than not. I was out more and more with Tommaso Foscari, and yet no proposal of marriage had been made.

“What in the name of God and Mother Mary can the boy be waiting for?” my father fumed one day as another note from Tommaso arrived, inviting me to the opera—again at the Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo. “He continues to seek out your company—and exclusively, I might add—and yet he has not made you an offer.” He turned to look hard at me where I sat sedately in my sitting room. “You have not been allowing him improper intimacies, have you?”

“Of course not,” I said, offended in spite of myself.

“Hmph,” he said, pacing before me. “What, then, is the problem?”

“Perhaps…” I began hesitantly.

He stopped pacing and looked eagerly at me. “Yes?”

“Perhaps the problem is his family,” I said. “Perhaps they object to a match with a girl who is not of noble blood.”

“Outrageous,” he scoffed. “We come from old Venetian stock, and what is more, we can far outstrip most noble families in the republic in terms of wealth. No family will turn their nose up at a girl with a large dowry in favor of an impoverished noble one.”

I remained silent. Truthfully I had asked myself the same question. Why had Tommaso not asked for my hand? Betrothals were arranged every day between brides and grooms of far less acquaintance than we had. Somehow, I was both relieved and worried that he had not proposed. After all, had I not become painfully aware on that first night at the Teatro Sant' Angelo how well suited Tommaso and I were for each other? I might not relish the idea of marriage, but I relished far less the idea of my father being forced to find a replacement for Tommaso, should things not work out as he planned.