The Violinist of Venice (24 page)

“Amiss? No,” I answered quickly. “Why?”

He shrugged. “You simply seem out of sorts.”

“I am fine.”

“If you say so.” He studied me a moment longer before exiting the room. “I shall not be gone long,” he called over his shoulder as he left.

I lay back down again, my hands shaking. I could not lie to Giuseppe for much longer.

Hopefully I need not lie to anyone for much longer,
I thought, trying to slow my racing heart.

*   *   *

The next night not even the opera could hold my attention. Vivaldi had, in fact, been engaged at the Sant' Angelo the night before, and had sent Giuseppe back with no further message than he would send word when next he could meet. I wanted to break things; to scream, to tear at my hair.

I spent the entire evening trying to think of the best way to tell Vivaldi once I
did
get to see him. Even Tommaso noticed my distraction.

“You do not seem quite yourself, Adriana,” he said during the intermission. “Are you feeling quite well? We can leave at once if you are not.”

“No,” I assured him. “Quite well, just tired. I have not been sleeping well these past few nights.”

He covered my hand with his. “I hope it is not concern for our future that is keeping you awake,
cara mia,
” he said. “For you may rest assured, I would move heaven and earth to make you my wife.”

At that moment I felt very ill indeed. Still, I forced my stomach to behave itself, reassured Tommaso that I had complete faith in him, and we went on with our evening.

Have I not learned to be a better actress by now? My audience must believe me completely, or I am done for.

 

34

ORCHESTRATION

Days passed, with more messages carried between Vivaldi and me, still without an agreed-upon time and date. This was nothing unusual; we had been forced to go a week or more without seeing each other in the past. But this was different. This was urgent, and I could not tell him what I needed to say in a letter.

Toward the end of June, Giuseppe finally brought a letter to me after several days without a reply. He waited by the door, in case he needed to return with my response. I went to the window of my bedchamber to read it, letting the late morning sun fall upon the hasty scrawl on the page:

Mia carissima Adriana—

I am sorry to have not replied to you sooner, and you will have to forgive me for giving you such short notice of my news. Even as you read this, I am on my way to Amsterdam. There is a publisher there who is interested in
L'estro,
and I thought it best to go meet him without delay. This may be the opportunity I have been waiting for, so I know you will understand. I wish that I might have seen you before I left, but it was not possible. I promise we will meet again as soon as we are both in Venice once more. I beg you to wish me luck in my venture.

A.V.

I let the letter fall from my hand. “No,” I murmured. “Please, no. Not now. He cannot go now, of all times. He cannot!”

I bent to pick up the letter and turned to face Giuseppe, almost accusingly. “Did you have this from his own hand?” I demanded. Maybe, if he had not departed yet, I could intercept him. Maybe he would take me with him …

Bewildered, Giuseppe shook his head. “No, he sent it via a messenger, as he often does. I have told the other servants that I have a sweetheart on Burano, to explain why I receive so many letters.”

I stared through him. “He is gone,” I whispered. “He has left for Amsterdam, to meet with a music publisher.” My whole body began to tremble. “He cannot, not now! I must—”

Giuseppe crossed the room and placed his hands on my shoulders to steady me. “Madonna, please! What is the matter? He is planning to return, is he not?”

“Yes,” I said. “But by then, it may well be too late…” I pulled away, sinking down onto the edge of my bed. “What am I going to do?” I whispered.

“Do about what? Why will it be too late?” he demanded.

I met his worried eyes. “I am with child,” I said.

Giuseppe staggered back as the news—and all its potential consequences—became clear to him.

“He does not know,” I went on. “I have not been able to see him to tell him. And by the time he returns, it may be too late. My condition may become apparent before…” I trailed off, unable to put into words the fate we were both envisioning.

Giuseppe's mouth opened and closed soundlessly several times, as though no words could be found. “How far along are you?” he asked at last.

“Almost three months,” I said.

“And he does not know.”

It was not a question, but I answered anyway. “No, he does not.”

“Then you know what you must do,” Giuseppe said.

I gasped and jumped up, backing away from him. “No.”

“You must, Adriana,” he said. He stepped closer, taking me by the shoulders again. “You must. You have no other choice. He does not know; he need never know. By the time he returns, you will be at the villa. And once you come back to Venice, it will be too late. He will no longer be able to do anything for you. And if your father finds out…” He did not finish the sentence, but neither of us needed him to.

“I cannot, Giuseppe,” I said, my voice breaking. “Do you not understand? This is the child of the man I love. I would do anything to keep it safe. I could not…” I was unable even to speak the words.

“But you must, Adriana!” he exclaimed, releasing me and furiously turning his back on me. He took a moment to regain control before facing me again. “I will go seek out a wisewoman myself, if you wish,” he said. “I will get whatever herbs or mixture you need to take so that this can all be over with now. Women do it all the time, Adriana,” he added, trying to reason with me. “You will be neither the first nor the last.”

“I will
not
rid myself of my child,” I said through clenched teeth as I pushed him away. I pressed both hands to my belly.

“It is the only way!” he shouted.

“Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “Do you wish the rest of the household to hear you?”

He sighed. “Can you really be so foolish, Adriana?” he asked. “Can you really be so hopelessly, foolishly blind?”

“I am not blind,” I said. “I know the consequences just as well as you do.”

“And even if you do tell him before it is too late?” Giuseppe asked. “What can he do to save you? He cannot marry you. You could run away and live together in shame, but how will he make a living then? Unless he were to leave the Church—”

Giuseppe broke off and stared incredulously at me. “That is it, is it not? You are planning to ask him to leave the Church for you, and for the child.”

“In a way,” I admitted, unable to meet his eyes. “Not
ask
him, per se. But surely he will see that it is the only way for us.” I grew more confident as I spoke. “He will not abandon me. He loves me.”

“I know he does,” Giuseppe conceded. “But Adriana, what if he is not willing to destroy his life and his reputation for you? Everything he has worked for, everything that he hopes to achieve, would be undone.” He looked at me closely, a hard, scrutinizing stare, the one I had so far been able to avoid when I looked into the mirror but could not turn away from now. “And you would ask him to do all of that for you?”

“I should not have to ask him anything!” I burst out. “He should do it because he loves me and because it is what is right. I did not want this to happen either, but it did. We have both made choices that brought us here; neither one of us is solely to blame, and so we both must make sacrifices.”

“And what sacrifice will you be making, Adriana?” Giuseppe demanded. “If all of this goes according to your plan, then you will have everything you have ever wanted, and he will be ruined. What exactly will you be sacrificing, pray?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but found I could not. Giuseppe, damn him, was exactly right. All I stood to lose was a place in society that had never meant anything to me. It would be Vivaldi, and only Vivaldi, who would lose everything.
Can I really ask that of him?
I wondered, guilt creeping in to settle in the pit of my stomach.
And if I do, might he not grow to resent me, someday?

“It does not matter,” I said aloud. “We have no other choice, Giuseppe. We will go someplace far away, far from Venice—far from Italy, if need be—where the scandal cannot follow us. And then we will begin again.”

“Is there nothing I can say that will dissuade you from this folly?” he asked.

“It is not folly.”

“It is,” he countered. “For what are you going to do when everything you are hoping for falls to pieces?”

“I do not know,” I said. “It cannot go awry. It will not.”

“Adriana.” He groaned, sitting down heavily on the bed. “Even the best-laid plans can go awry, and this one is folly. It is. Folly and madness.”

“Stop speaking thus!” I cried. “My life is unraveling, and—”

“But it is not just your life!” Giuseppe exploded, with a vehemence that made me jump. He rose to his feet. “
Dio mio,
for once, will you stop being so selfish and open your eyes? Your life is not the only one at stake! If you fall, we all fall with you: the maestro, your child, Meneghina, and … and me.”

“If you wish to leave,” I said slowly, “then go. Go to my father and ask for the rest of your wages, and leave. I will not stop you, and I do not wish you to suffer for me. Surely you know that is the last thing I want.”

He sighed. “I know,” he said. “And I would not abandon you, now or ever. Do not think that I care for myself more than I care for—” He stopped, the words he had not spoken hanging in the air, as audible as if he had said them aloud:
for you.
“Damn Enrico,” he snarled under his breath, turning away from me. “He is like a great filthy spider, and we are all caught in his web. Damn the old bastard to
il inferno
and back…”

I listened, fascinated by his rant, and had to stop myself from questioning him.

“So what will you do?” he asked finally, turning back to me. “You will wait for him?”

I nodded. “I will pray that he is here when we return from the villa, and that we can be gone quickly.”

Giuseppe sighed. “I know that I should tell you I will not help you.” He hesitated. “But I cannot. For better or for worse, madonna, I am, as ever, at your service.”

“And I thank you,” I said. “More than I can say. I know that I have a large debt to repay someday.”

He waved this aside. “There are no debts between friends,” he said. “And I have been wrong before where Maestro Vivaldi is concerned. He does love you, very much. I can only pray that it will be enough to see you through this.”

I nodded. “Have faith, Giuseppe.”

“And you. You will need it.”

I smiled weakly. “I will. I do. For I know no other way, now.”

 

35

GOING UNDER

Having faith, however, became more and more difficult. At the end of the month, we set off for the Foscari villa, and I climbed aboard the boat that would take us there with the feeling of one who was being taken to her execution rather than being spirited away for a restful sojourn in the country.

Three months gone with child, I had gained a bit of weight, but thankfully it was not obvious. Meneghina would be accompanying me, so she would be able to assist me in continuing to hide my condition.

Upon our arrival, we were welcomed with the utmost courtesy by Don and Donna Foscari. Tommaso's brother Alvise was his usual quiet self; however, Beatrice greeted me warmly, as an old friend. She did much to put me ease, and I returned her greeting with equal enthusiasm.

Tommaso was alight with joy, and he made no effort to dampen his excitement. He bowed deeply, kissing my hand, and only then turned to address my father.

“I echo my parents, dear signore and signorina, in welcoming you to our house,” he said, his eyes already sliding back to me. “We are honored that you are here.”

“The honor is all ours,” my father replied.

I smiled at Tommaso, and as a result his own grin widened until he positively beamed.

Dio mio,
he is in love with me beyond all reason,
I thought uneasily to myself.
He deserves better than this.

As I beheld Tommaso's adoring gaze, it suddenly felt as though, instead of a child within me, there were a mass of writhing serpents.

If you fall, we all fall with you,
Giuseppe had said, and only now did I realize that his words included Tommaso as well.

I wish there was some way to explain it to you,
amico mio, I thought as I watched Tommaso direct the servants to see to our baggage.
I wish I could tell you everything, and let you know that it is not about you. It was never about you.

I started when I felt Tommaso's hand on my arm. “You are no doubt weary from your journey, Donna Adriana,” he said. “Allow me to show you—and Don d'Amato—to your rooms, so that you may rest and refresh yourselves.”

“A rest would be most welcome, I thank you,” I said.

“We shall see you at dinner this evening,” Don Foscari said as Tommaso led us up the stairs.

He led us to the wing of the villa that housed the guest rooms, and showed my father his quarters. With him thus installed, he led me to my suite, which was at the end of the hallway. He flung open the door in dramatic fashion and waited for my reaction.

The outer sitting room was immaculate; the walls were covered in white and pale green striped silk, and the furniture upholstered to match. An Oriental carpet of various shades of green covered the floor, and white silk drapes fluttered around the open windows, which afforded a beautiful view of the countryside and let in a sweet, fresh breeze.