The Violinist of Venice (22 page)

COUNTERPOINT

A few days later came my nineteenth birthday. My father presented me with a strand of fine pearls that had belonged to my mother, but otherwise did not remark upon the occasion.

Tommaso, determined to celebrate with me despite the strictures of Lent, invited me to dine with him at his family's palazzo, where we ate a sparse Lenten meal of plain fish, bread, and pasta. We had a pleasant enough evening; then in the gondola as Tommaso escorted me home, he finally brought up that most elusive of topics.

“I want you to know,” he said suddenly, reaching across the intimate space of the
felze
to take my hand, “that I have wished to ask your father for your hand these many weeks past.”

I was so taken aback by his raising of the topic, after months of silence on the matter, that I had no idea what to say. “I—you have?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, his eyes shining with resolve and determination. “You must know, Adriana,” he said, his grip on my fingers tightening, “you must know I adore you, that I have eyes for no other woman except you. I want nothing more than to make you my wife, as soon as I may.”

So this is it,
I thought, my whole body feeling heavy.
This is the end. It has finally come.
“I am honored, to be sure, Tommaso,” I said, trying to inject the proper enthusiasm into my voice. “But you should be saying these things to my father, not me. It is he who must give his consent for us to wed, as you well know.”

He released my hand and sat back. “If only it were that simple,” he said. “If it were, I would have done so long ago. Yet my family…” He glanced at me nervously. “My family has yet to give their permission.”

“Your family does not approve of me?” I asked, sparing him the need to say it aloud.

“No, no,” he hurriedly assured me. “It is not that. They simply wish to be sure that I am making a prudent decision. They wish to know you better, and your father. My family,” he went on, a hint of excitement in his voice now, “is going to invite you and your father to spend the summer at our villa, so that we all may become better acquainted. My parents will send the formal invitation to your father after Lent.”

I was surprised. “That is very generous,” I said. “We will be honored to be your guests.”

Tommaso paid no attention to these courtesies. “Do not tell your father that we have spoken of marriage; it would not do for him to hear of it before it is proper. I only wished to set your mind at ease, to let you know that my intentions are honorable.” He kissed my hand, joy alight in his eyes. “Hopefully we can be betrothed by the end of the summer.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I said, unsuccessfully trying to sound excited.

He eyed me worriedly. “This is what you want, is it not?” he asked. “You do want me as your husband?” His gaze probed mine. “I know that you are a modest woman, Adriana, but I confess that I thought—hoped—that you felt as I did, that you would be more excited…”

Thinking quickly, I learned forward and boldly kissed him on the mouth.

His response was instantaneous. His arms went around me as he deepened the kiss, keeping it gentle yet insistent. He need not know I was imagining that he was someone else.

*   *   *

The next day, I sent Giuseppe to Vivaldi's house, asking if I could come to him that night. He replied in the affirmative, and if he wondered why I should want to return now, after what had passed between us last time, and our lack of communication since, I had no way of knowing. All that mattered was he still wanted me to come to him.

When I arrived that night, I threw myself into his arms without so much as a word of greeting. He was surprised at first, but within seconds his ardor rose to match mine, and no words were needed.

After we made love, he drew me tightly against him, my back to his chest. He was silent a long time before finally speaking. “You will always be mine,” he whispered. “You will always be a part of me.”

And I knew, for better or worse, what he said was true.

 

30

COMPOSITION

The beginning of April brought with it Easter and the end of Lent. Unfortunately, the end of the gloomy season also brought with it a fresh start to the opera season, and Vivaldi was again much occupied.

It was all too much—that I would likely be betrothed to Tommaso by summer's end, that I would lose Vivaldi, that I barely even saw him. And since I had no other outlet for my turmoil, I poured my anguish into the music I wrote. I spent every moment I could on it, and soon it seemed that my time and suffering had paid off: finally, one day just after Easter, I finished the first movement of a concerto that I was ready to show to Vivaldi.

Despite my newfound confidence, my thoughts stumbled when it came to how I would present my work to him. Much as I would like to play it for him—or so I told myself—I had never played it on the violin myself, nor could I while in my father's house.

I also thought of handing it to him one night and asking him to play it, without explaining further. Almost instantly I rejected that idea as well.

Yet once I had thought that this one, finally, I would show him, I could not change my mind. It was a challenge, one from which I could not allow myself to shrink.

Finally, I decided subtlety was best. One night, while Vivaldi was not looking, I slipped the pages onto his desk. I had signed my name across the top, so as to leave him in doubt as to what it was.

I was even more anxious than usual in the next few days—mercifully only three, this time—that passed before we could meet again. Surely he had seen it, but had he played it? Did he like it? Or was he trying to think of the kindest way to tell me that I should keep to playing the violin, instead of writing for it?

As Giuseppe and I approached Vivaldi's door at last, I could not decide whether I would rather run inside or turn and dash in the opposite direction. I had not even been this nervous the night I first offered myself to Vivaldi. Showing him my work was somehow far more intimate and dangerous than making love.

“I shall return in a few hours, madonna,” Giuseppe said as he left me outside the door.

I nodded briefly, barely hearing him.

As I stepped inside, Vivaldi came down the stairs almost instantly.
“Buona sera, cara,”
he said, and I stepped gratefully into his embrace, some of my nervousness ebbing away at his touch.

Luckily, he did not keep me in suspense for long—I probably would have thrown myself into the canal outside his door if he had. “I believe you left something on my desk when last you were here, no?” he said, releasing me and taking a step back.

“I did,” I said to the floor. “What did you think?”

“I will not tell you unless you look at me,” he said, his voice that of the maestro, the teacher. I dragged my gaze up to his. “Why do you act ashamed,
cara
? It was quite well done.”

“For a woman, you mean,” I said, immediately wishing I had not.

He eyed me sharply. “For anyone,” he said. “Do you think I would lie to you? Do you think that I would say it is well done if it is not?”

I wrung my hands. “No,” I said. “I did not know what you would say, if you would simply try to be kind, or if you would be harsh, or—”

“I will be honest, if that suits,” he said, and—damn him—there was a touch of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“You are laughing at me,” I accused.

“Not at all, Adriana,” he said. “Forgive me; I only remember the first time I showed one of my compositions to someone else—my father, in my case. You are comporting yourself better than I did, I must say, but only just.”

I decided to stop speaking and simply listen to what he had to say. He drew another chair to his desk and slid his own chair over so that there was room for me beside him. The pages of my concerto were already there, waiting.

“Now then,” he said, casting his eyes over the pages. “B minor.” He flashed a smile at me. “The same as our favorite concerto, yours and mine.”

I returned his smile. “I know. I did not realize it until after I had written it. It simply came from my quill in B minor.”

“I know just what you mean,” he said. “But to business. Let us start with your violin melody. The backbone of any concerto, and the strength of yours, as I might have expected.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “I think I see some influence of my own work here, if I may presume.”

“Naturally,” I said.

“Yet altogether…” He shook his head as though words failed him. “Very different from anything I would write. I could not have written this, Adriana.”

I frowned, unsure of his meaning.

“I have never seen or heard anything like it before. It is … wild, like a storm on the sea. Beautiful.” He looked up at me with pride, respect, and—did I imagine it?—a trace of awe as well. “What you have written here, this melody … this is something new. Something I do not think anyone has heard before.”

“Surely—” I began to protest, but he cut me off.

“I mean what I say, Adriana. I told you I would be honest, and so I am.” He smiled ruefully. “Now I must continue to be honest, and give you some constructive criticism, if I may.”

“Of course,” I said, feeling foolish at my hope he would adore it unequivocally.

“Your orchestral parts are in need of some adjustments, and understandably so, for when have you worked with a full orchestra?” He smiled. “Here, for example, you have the viola d'amore playing a lower note than the cello; a simple mistake, I am sure. All you will need to do is switch the two, and—”

“I did that deliberately,” I interrupted.

He raised his eyebrows. “You did?”

“Yes,” I said, my voice smaller now, hoping I had not committed some grave compositional error. “From what I know of it, I like the viola d'amore. It has a very rich, somber sound, but passionate in a way. And this piece…” I gestured to the pages. “It is about suffering, about anguish, about screaming…” I trailed off as we each caught the other's eye and quickly looked away. “I wanted to explore the fullness of the viola d'amore's range, to the very bottom end.” I shrugged, suddenly unsure of myself. “I know it is not what is usually done, but it made sense to me when I wrote it.”

“Hmmm.” He looked at the score again, considering this. “Indeed. I see now why you made such a choice.” He smiled. “In truth, I am quite eager to hear it aloud. We may need to hire ourselves an orchestra.”

“It sounded well enough in my head, though I know that that does not necessarily mean much.”

“Often that is all we have to go on, at first. Very well, we will leave your crossing parts alone for now. On to your modulation.” He indicated a few measures on the second page. “You slip very briefly into major mode here, then go right back to minor. The major section needs to be fleshed out a bit more. I know it may seem counterintuitive, given your subject matter, but as it stands, it will be a bit jarring to the listener, when all the parts are played together. You see?”

“Yes, I think I do,” I said, studying the measures.

He shrugged. “It should be an easy correction; insert a few more measures, perhaps. You have the same problem here.” He indicated a spot on the following page.

He also pointed out a few places where he had made suggestions for the redistribution of the orchestral parts. I scribbled furiously on a piece of parchment as he spoke, impatient to get back to my harpsichord and consider it all anew.

“And when may I expect to see the second and third movements?” he asked, once he had finished.

“The second is almost complete,” I said. “I should have it ready the next time I see you.”

“Excellent.” He swiftly rose from his seat, taking his violin from its case. “And now, maestra,” he said, sweeping me a bow, “I presume you would like to hear your work?”

A shiver went down my spine.
Maestra.
“You have played it?” I asked.

“I took the liberty, yes,” he said. “It is my hope that you will teach me how to play it properly.”

For a moment, I was taken aback. “I, teach
you
how to play it?”

“Of course,” he said. “Who better?”

“But I have not even played it myself yet.”

“That is of no consequence,” he said. “You know how it is supposed to sound in a way that I cannot.”

I shook my head. Me, teaching Antonio Vivaldi how to play something? What strange, wondrous new world was this? “If you insist,” I said. “But first, play on.”

So he did.

It sounded better than I ever could have imagined, this melody that I had conceived and given birth to. I knew, suddenly, how he had felt all those times, when he told me I had played something just as he heard it in his mind. It was thrilling, beautiful, eerie, and frightening all at once.

But even so, the more analytical part of me remained apart, revising the melody as I heard it, adjusting a note here and there that was out of place.

Yet by the time he finished, I was close to tears. I felt as if I had created some living thing that now had a life of its own, apart from me. How was that even possible?

“It … it is beautiful,” I said. “I did not think…”

He set his violin on the desk and knelt before my chair. “It
is
beautiful,” he affirmed. “And if I have taught you nothing else, remember this: we will never, ever find enough beauty in this world to satisfy ourselves. And so we must make our own, and never stop making it.”

I could not speak; I only nodded. A single tear slid down my cheek as he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.

 

31

THE SIREN

The rest of April passed with my head in a cloud of music. Within two days after working on the first movement with Vivaldi, I had finished the second, and sent a copy to him via Giuseppe. I could not wait until the following night's visit to show him.