The Violinist of Venice (4 page)

“Yes, completely,” I answered. Despite slowing as he reached his stopping point, it still had not felt final. It had put me almost physically off balance, a feeling not unlike reaching for the back of a chair to steady yourself, only to find the chair was much farther away than you thought.

He smiled, pleased I had grasped his point. “There are rules by which music must abide, even when you are not aware of them. Without such rules, it would be chaos, and one cannot convey much of anything in chaos. This is why you must consider more carefully which notes the music is moving toward, so that you may phrase the melody in a more meaningful way.”

I spent much of the summer thus at the maestro's house, playing and listening and learning from a teacher whom I knew was second to none. Vivaldi was always pleased to see me, to hear me play, to give me a new piece of music. I thought that if I could spend my entire life this way—living, it seemed, always inside a song—I would be perfectly, absolutely content; happy, even, and would never ask for anything more.

*   *   *

One day in early September, I arrived at the Red Priest's house in a melancholy state: my father was due back in the next day or two. And almost as if he had known my spirits would be down, Vivaldi had something a bit different planned.

“Come in, come in,” he said when I opened the door. “I have been waiting for you. I need your assistance.”

My eyebrows rose. “My assistance?”

He nodded. “Here.” He gestured to two music stands he had placed side by side.

I stepped closer and examined the sheets of music on them. It was a largo, a slow movement, for two solo violins.

Vivaldi moved to stand beside me, and when I turned to face him I saw his violin was already in his hand. “It is something I have been working on,” he explained. “A concerto for two violins, in A minor, as you can see. I have heard this movement in my head for some time now, but I need to hear it aloud, with both parts played together.” He smiled. “We shall have to imagine the rest of the orchestra, however.”

“Are you sure you want me to play this?” I asked incredulously. “I am not sure if I—”

He interrupted, shaking his head vehemently. “You must not doubt yourself, Adriana,” he said. “You are more than capable of playing this.” He paused. “I
need
you to play it.”

I had no idea what to say. I hesitated briefly before taking my violin and bow from the case and setting the instrument into position. I took my place, glancing at the maestro, awaiting his signal to begin. With a single brisk nod, we played the opening together: a series of simple unison notes. At another quick nod from Vivaldi, I took the first violin part, beginning the beautiful cantabile melody that seemed to drift effortlessly from the strings of my violin, almost like falling snow. After another four measures, Vivaldi came in, echoing what I had just played. His next measure consisted of a long F, and from there the melody tumbled into another gentle cascade of notes. I came in above him, on a high B flat, and from there our respective lines of music twined around each other in a tightly and inextricably bound duet.

I kept my eyes on the music, fearful of making a mistake, of spoiling this perfect tapestry of sound that we were creating; yet even so I could sense that every now and then Vivaldi would take his gaze from his own score and watch me.

Dio mio,
this is beautiful, more beautiful than anything I have ever heard.
Dimly I realized that I had stopped breathing for a moment.

The long strands of notes continued on, entwining and embracing one another like lovers, rising and falling like a sigh, like a breath. They fit together so perfectly that it did not seem as though Vivaldi could have written it; rather, he must have
found
it, fully formed; must have plucked this exquisite music from thin air, from some enormous body of music that already existed around us, audible only to those who sought it.

The tenderness of the minor melodies was so heart-wrenching, so painfully beautiful, as to make playing it almost terrifyingly intimate, as if in doing so I was seeing the maestro's naked soul, and he could see mine. I shivered slightly, pressing the feelings of fear and exposure into the bow hairs, the strings; let it bleed into the music.

As we neared the end of the movement, I could see that the last few measures were simply a repetition of the chords at the beginning. As we entered those final measures, I tore my eyes from the music and turned to look at Vivaldi, only to find his warm, dark eyes already seeking mine as we ended the piece together in perfect unison.

We stood, eyes locked, until the last traces of the music faded completely and we were only ourselves again, but somehow not quite the same as we had been only minutes before.

Finally he lowered his instrument, and, exhaling shakily, I did the same. Breaking the loud silence that always seems to follow a powerful piece of music, he said, keeping his eyes on mine, “It is just as I have always said. You play the
music,
Adriana, not just some notes on a page, but something far greater.”

“I…” I did not know what to say, nor could I bear his gaze any longer. I looked down at the floor. “Surely I…”

He did not seem to hear my barely formed protests. My heart quickened as he stepped closer, reaching out and placing a hand gently beneath my chin, tilting my face to meet his eyes again. “It is as if you were able to read my thoughts, to know what I was feeling as I wrote this…” He trailed off, and slowly, carefully, his hand began tracing the line of my jawbone, caressing the curve of my cheek.

I was frozen, unable to move, unwilling to do so. Unthinkingly, I closed my eyes and leaned ever so slightly into his touch, into the feverish heat of where his skin met mine. He drew nearer to me, the cloth of our clothing whispering as it brushed together, and his fingers trailed lightly down my neck, resting at the nape, drawing me gently toward him. Our lips were almost touching. I could feel his breath caressing my skin as I inhaled his scent. I could hear his heart beating, or was that my own? My existence shrank down to the pounding in my ears, and his lips, just a hairsbreadth from mine.

Some part of me knew I could close the distance between us with little more than a breath. Instead I waited there for him, suspended, wanting the tide to draw me under or cast me out to sea. I felt certain, somehow, that I was going to drown.

Suddenly, he pulled back and moved away, putting several long paces between us. “I am sorry,” he said, looking away and running his fingers through his hair. “I should not have—”

“No, no,” I assured him. “I—” I broke off, not having the slightest idea of what I meant to say next. That I liked his touch? That I wished he had continued? That I wanted him to kiss me?

Did I?

A heavy, uncomfortable silence stretched between us, and I felt as if it were stifling me, leaving me alone, too alone, with my thoughts.

Finally Vivaldi spoke. “Perhaps you should go,” he said, still not looking at me. “I do not think…” He trailed off awkwardly.

Struggling to find my voice, I nodded. “Yes, I believe you are right,” I said, putting my violin and bow back in their case. I walked quickly to the door, stopping just as I reached it. “Shall we say … three days hence, at the same time?” I ventured. Vivaldi nodded in response. With that, I took my leave, only to spend the rest of that day—and the next, and the one after—trying to understand what, exactly, had happened.

 

6

MODULATION

Two days later, my father returned from Florence. All at once, the atmosphere of the house changed from peaceful to full of tension and gloom—or perhaps I was the only one who felt that way.

In the furor that the master's return had sent the servants into, I almost missed a familiar face in the bustle of the entrance hall: Giuseppe Rivalli, my brother's manservant, looking a bit worn and dusty from the long journey.

I smiled at the sight of him; glad, as always, to see him. Though he had long been in the service of my brother, it was I with whom he was closest. Giuseppe and I had grown up together; his mother had been a servant in the household, and my parents—especially my mother—had taken a liking to him as a boy. He was two years younger than Claudio, and always had the time for me that my brother, believing himself at six years older than me to be too important to be bothered with a tangle-headed younger sister, did not.

After my mother's death of a fever, my father finally decreed it was no longer proper for me to spend so much time with a servant—especially a male servant. Giuseppe was given permanent duties in Claudio's household, and we were not able to see each other as often—and then not at all, when he moved to Florence with Claudio.

“Giuseppe,” I said, approaching him with a warm smile. Upon seeing me, he bowed courteously. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Has Claudio come back to Venice, then?”

He sighed, his weariness showing on his face. He had smooth skin, tanned from running errands in the sun, and his hair was a rich dark brown. His brown eyes were wide and striking, and his face hovered between rounded and angular. Had I not known him since childhood, I would no doubt have been forced to concede that he was a very handsome man.

“No, Claudio is not with us,” Giuseppe said. “He has dismissed me, as a matter of fact.”

“What?”

“Yes,” he said, with a somewhat crooked smile. “Said he preferred to have a manservant who was a Florentine. Why this should bother him after all these years, I know not.” He shrugged. “So Don d'Amato brought me back with him, as you see. He said he would find some work for me here.”

“Grazie a Dio,”
I said. “I am so happy you will be back in Venice!”

He smiled again. “I am happy to be home, as well.”

“Where is Father?” I asked, not without apprehension.

“He is downstairs at the water entrance, supervising the unloading of the luggage,” Giuseppe said.

I nodded. “I shall make myself scarce, then, until I am summoned.” I gathered up my skirts, preparing to dash upstairs to my rooms, but Giuseppe put a light hand on my arm to prevent me.

“Wait,” he said softly. “How are you, Madonna Adriana?” His eyes searched mine. “You have been keeping out of trouble, yes?”

I knew what he really meant:
You are not doing anything for which your father will feel the need to punish you, are you?
I bit my lip, unable to lie to Giuseppe, but unwilling to tell him the whole truth.

Yet having him in Venice was a boon I had not expected. He could be of help to me.

His look changed to one of concern and almost disapproval. “What are you on about now, madonna?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing, Giuseppe. Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

He released my arm, watching me carefully. “Take care, madonna,” he said. “You
will
take care, yes?”

I nodded. “Of course. Please do not worry about me.”

“I shall try not to,” he said, smiling slightly.

*   *   *

As expected, I received a summons to dine that evening with my father and Zia Gianna, who would be returning to Mantua the next day. Meneghina dressed me in a pale pink gown trimmed with lace, slightly more formal than I would normally wear, but not too formal for a family dinner.

“Well, Adriana,” my father said, once the three of us were seated and the servants had brought our pasta course, “you are looking quite well. Gianna tells me that everything here went very smoothly.”

His dark, sharp eyes held a veiled threat that said in no uncertain terms that, should he hear otherwise from anyone else, I would be the one who would pay for it. “Indeed it did, Father,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “I am glad to hear it.”

“And I trust your business in Florence went well? And that Claudio is well?” I inquired, not because I cared, but because it was expected that I ask.

“Well enough,” he answered. “Claudio is much the same as ever.” My brother was apparently still making as much time for drinking, gambling, and whoring as he had in Venice. He smiled first at me, then at his sister. “Though I shall not bore you ladies with business talk. Gianna, I trust you enjoyed a pleasant stay?”

Zia Gianna launched into a recitation of everything she had done in Venice, the goods she had purchased, the people she had seen, and what each of them had been wearing. I could see quite plainly that my father didn't care, but it would have been discourteous to cut her off.

In the course of my aunt's tedious tirade, I felt myself slip into memory. I found myself remembering Vivaldi's hand on my face, my neck, the heat of his skin against mine; how close he had come to kissing me, how I wondered what might have happened had he not stopped. The heat in my face began to spread down through the rest of my body.

Much to my horror, I heard my father calling my name. I abruptly pulled myself from my daydream. “Yes, Father?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even. “Forgive me, my mind was wandering.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Your aunt complimented you on your modesty, Adriana,” he told me.

“I—oh,” I said, looking across the table at Zia Gianna. She was nodding.

“Truly, Enrico, I never heard a word out of her when she was not spoken to,” she said. “I cannot see why you are always going on about her willfulness.”

“I thank you for saying so, Zia,” I said.

My father, meanwhile, was still studying me. “Your face is quite red, Adriana,” he said. “You are not taking ill, I hope?”

“No, no,” I assured him. “I was just not expecting such a compliment.”

“I see,” he said. Then Zia Gianna claimed his attention again, and he was forced to let me be.

*   *   *

When the servants brought in the
dolci
a bit later, there was a lull in the conversation, and I took the opportunity. “I see that Giuseppe Rivalli has come back to Venice, Father,” I said casually, before taking a bite of my custard with strawberries.