The Violinist of Venice (6 page)

Later that night, once everyone had finally,
finally
departed, my father followed me up the stairs to my rooms and settled himself in one of the chairs in my sitting room. “Senator Morosini's son seemed rather taken with you,” he said. “He is a younger son, of course, but to marry into a senatorial family is a high honor for a girl without noble blood.”

Exhaustion made me blunt. “And does it matter that I was not in the least taken with him?” I asked.

His eyes darkened and his smile hardened. “No, it does not,” he said. “You are a girl of eighteen. How can you be expected to know what sort of man will be best for you?” He lapsed into silence for a moment before continuing. “Senator Baldovino was also quite taken with you,” he said. “He expressed a wish to call on you.”

I gave him a disgusted look. “He is older than you are, Father.”

He laughed. “I am well aware,
figlia.
I anticipate there will be better prospects yet for you—and younger ones, as well. Senator Baldovino comes from a minor noble family, and owes his seat in the Senate more to the accomplishments of his esteemed late father than to any political talents of his own. Still, he is an old friend, and is powerful enough in his own right, so it would hardly do to offend him. And you should consider yourself honored that a senator wishes to pay court to you.” He rose from his chair. “High time you slept, I think.
Buona notte, figlia.
”

“Buona notte,”
I said woodenly. It was all I could do not to slam the door behind him.

 

9

DISSONANCE

Senator Baldovino came to call on me a week after the party. As we drank wine in the parlor, he spoke of people in Venetian society whom I did not know, and tedious governmental happenings I could not bring myself to care about. I replied when necessary, and was perfectly polite, even though inside I was screaming. He took his leave before long, thankfully.

I had other matters on my mind by then as well. It was almost the beginning of October, and I would need to pay Maestro Vivaldi for my next month of lessons. I would wait until Thursday of the following week. Among his other business interests, my father owned a share in one of the glassworks on Murano, and went there most Thursdays to check on production and consult with the other investors.

After lunch on the appointed day, I was reading in one of the window seats in the library when I saw my father step out onto the dock in front of the palazzo and get into his gondola to make the journey across the lagoon. I had to act quickly, before my courage failed me.

I set my book aside and headed for his study, hoping I need not be forced to explain myself to any of the servants. I opened the unlocked door—one of the maids would be in to clean soon—stepped inside, and closed it behind me. I went to the desk and opened the top right drawer, where beneath a great many papers was the small wooden box that held the key to the safe.

I crossed the room and removed the painting of the Grand Canal from where it hung on the wall; behind it, built into the wall, was the safe, which I unlocked. Inside were piles of gold ducats, important papers, and some of my mother's more costly jewels.

I extracted a small velvet pouch from the bodice of my dress and counted out the ducats I would need into it. I drew the drawstrings tightly closed and was just closing the safe when the door to the study opened behind me.

I whirled around in fright, one hand over my furiously pounding heart and the other clutching the purse of coins, to see my father standing in the doorway, looking like the very personification of wrath, his favorite of all the deadly sins.

He must have returned for something he had forgotten, not that it mattered now. He had discovered me. There was nothing I could do about it, no way I could explain myself, nothing to stop the storm that was about to break over and crush me as surely as a ship dashed against the rocks.

“Father,” I said. “I—”

Without bothering to speak, he crossed the room to where I stood in three long, angry strides and struck me, the back of his hand crashing against my cheek with such force that I went tumbling to the ground, the pouch of coins falling from my hand.

“What in God's name do you think you are doing!” he roared. “Stealing from me! From your father! In my own house!”

Clutching the stinging side of my face, I got to my feet, backing away from him. “You do not understand,” I said, thinking wildly for some explanation I could give.

He hit me across the face again, sending me stumbling into the wall behind me. “Oh, I know very well what you were doing, and why!” he shouted, spraying me with spittle. “Do you think I do not? Do you think I am a fool?”

“No, Father,” I said, shrinking into the wall as he advanced on me. “That is, I do not—”

He seized me roughly by the shoulder, his fingers digging so hard into my flesh that I cried out in pain. He dragged me away from the wall and flung me across the room, into his desk. My other shoulder, as well as my back, slammed into the wood of the heavy desk as I fell, causing me to cry out again. Tears stung my eyes at the sharp pain, but I bit my lip, determined to hold them back. I would be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Yes, I know exactly what you have been on about!” he yelled, standing over me where I was slumped against the desk, so I could not rise to my feet. “I have heard the violin music coming from your chambers. Do you think I am deaf as well as blind?” He reached down and grabbed me by my hair at the scalp, pulling it loose from the few pins that had been holding it in place, and yanked me to my feet. He thrust his face close to mine. “At first I told myself I was imagining it, that I must be mistaken; that
my
daughter would never dare to disobey me, that she would never even think of it—” He twisted the clump of hair he held in his hand, and I felt my eyes water anew at the pain. I bit down so hard on my tongue to stop from making a sound that it began to bleed. “Because she would know the consequences that awaited her.”

I did not even try to speak. It would have been futile, and I would sooner die than beg him to stop.

“And yet, what do I find?” he asked, with a low, dangerous whisper in my ear. “I find that very daughter of mine, to whom I have given the world on a golden plate, sneaking behind my back and stealing from me!” By the end of the sentence, he was shouting again and, with these angry words ringing in my ears, he took a step back, still holding me by the hair, and delivered one last, mighty blow to my face with the back of his hand. I felt a wrenching in my neck as my head snapped to one side, and bright sparks filled my vision.

He then wrapped his large hand around the back of my neck and shoved me toward the door of his study. “Now get out of my sight, and God help you if I so much as lay eyes on you again the rest of this day!” he bellowed, pushing me out into the hallway with such force that I stumbled and fell to my knees on the carpet. “You are never to touch a violin again while you are under my roof! And you are to stay away from whatever frittering fool you have convinced to teach you that confounded instrument!” he added. “God only knows what else he has been doing with you besides teaching you
music.
” He spat the last word. “And if I ever discover that you have disobeyed me again, Adriana, I shall not be responsible for what I do!” With that, he slammed the door of his study so hard the walls rattled.

I remained crumpled on the floor, fighting to compose myself. Then I slowly dragged myself to my feet, feeling acutely every last budding bruise, every last inch of my body that throbbed with pain. Several of the servants were peeking around doorways, having been summoned by the commotion. My face grew hot with shame.

Nevertheless, I would give them nothing further to gossip about. With my shoulders back, looking straight ahead, I walked down the hallway and to the staircase that would take me up to my rooms.

As I reached the staircase, I saw Giuseppe hurrying toward me from the opposite direction. His look of concern changed to one of shock and alarm as he saw me. “Madonna!” he cried. “Are you all right? Please, I—”

“Leave me, Giuseppe,” I said, not looking at him as I began to climb the stairs.

“Please, madonna, let me—”

“I said leave me!” I shouted, picking up my skirts and practically running the rest of the way up the staircase to my rooms.

“Madonna!” I heard him call after me, but he did not follow. I darted into my sitting room and closed the door behind me. Then I continued into my bedchamber, where I shut and bolted the door before sinking down onto the bed, my whole body trembling. But I did not cry. I would not cry. I refused.

 

MOVEMENT TWO

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

September 1710–December 1710

 

10

WITHOUT FEAR

Eventually I rose from the bed to go sit at my dressing table. I pulled the dangling, loosened pins from my hair and carefully picked out the knots with my fingers while staring blankly at my reflection in the mirror.

So my father had discovered my secret, the one I had been trying so desperately to hide, and his reaction had been exactly what I expected. He had exacted the punishment from my very flesh with that monstrous temper of his. Foolishly, I had thought that he would never hear me practicing—he was usually out during the day. Since he had never confronted me about it, I had assumed that my secret was still safe.

I had grown careless.

At least the punishment was over. But what now?

After everything, would I bend to my father's will? Would I, once and for all, have to give up music? And, more importantly, could I?

But I had no choice. I would not be able to procure any more money to pay Vivaldi for his tutelage, and leaving the house would be more difficult now.

Yet the thought of never playing music again—of never playing the violin again—felt as if someone had taken a knife and thrust it between my ribs. It was more painful than any of the injuries my father had inflicted on me. To never again coax a glorious cascade of notes from the strings, to never again lose myself in the music, in that place that was not wholly of this world. My life would be empty and cold, a sepulcher housing a living corpse.

And to never again see Vivaldi, and have him look straight into me as if he understood everything, even the things I'd never spoken aloud to anyone.

My heart cracked at the thought. I had not imagined anything could be more painful than being cut off from music, yet somehow this last thought was. In a way, both thoughts were one and the same. I would miss Vivaldi and the spellbinding, excruciatingly beautiful music he wrote, and the music he was able to draw forth from me, which was beyond anything I ever thought myself capable of.

Vivaldi. I simply could not stop seeing him without explanation. He
had
to know. And I could not face the long, musicless days ahead without seeing him one last time.

And maybe, just maybe, there was still some way out of this. Maybe he would see something that I could not—another way out.

As soon as night fell, I would steal away one last time. I had to see him just once more.

*   *   *

I knocked as loudly as I dared on the door of Vivaldi's house, my violin tucked under my cloak to keep it out of the rain that had begun to fall. The skies had opened up not long after I left the palazzo; my cloak and hood were beginning to soak through, and my hair was plastered against my face and neck.

The front room of the house was dark, and there was no sign of anyone within. What if he was not even home?

“Maestro!” I hissed. “Maestro, please open the door!” I knocked louder as the rain began to fall harder. Lightning flashed, brightening the narrow street for less than a second.

Finally, I saw him descend the stairs at the back of the room, carrying a lit lamp and squinting irritably out into the dark. He had obviously dressed in haste, as he was wearing a plain black pair of breeches and an untucked white linen shirt.

He peered out the window and, seeing me, hastened to open the door. “Adriana?” he asked, letting me in, clearly confused by my presence at such an hour, and in such weather. “What in the name of—” He gasped as I pulled back the hood of my cloak upon entering, exposing my bruised and swollen face to the dim light. “
Mater Dei,
what has happened to you?”

I opened my mouth to explain, but the words caught in my throat as I saw the range of emotions that flickered across his face in the lamplight: horror, anger, surprise, indignation, concern. “My father,” was all I managed to choke out.

Vivaldi's eyes widened in shock.
“Gesù
Cristo,”
he breathed. “Your father did this to you?”

I nodded, unsure how to go on.

“Come, sit down, sit,” he said, helping me out of my sodden cloak and leading me to a chair by the fire. He had me sit while he went about kindling a blaze in the grate. “We must get you warm,” he muttered to himself.

“I … I am sorry to come so late, and to wake you, but I had to tell you,” I said, once he had taken the chair beside mine. I set my violin on the small table between us. “My father found out that I was sneaking away for music lessons, that I had disobeyed his order that I am not to study music. He…” I looked down, away from his eyes, so full of worry and sympathy that I could weep. “He was not pleased with me. As you can see.”

“Oh,
cara.
” He made a move as though to touch my cheek, and I felt a twinge of disappointment when he thought better of it. “I had no idea it was this bad.”

I nodded. “And so I have come to tell you that I cannot study with you any longer. I will not be able to get the money with which to pay you. But I could not simply stop coming without ever telling you why…” My voice broke. Oh, God, this was unbearable, worse than I had thought it would be. How had I thought I could cut him out of my life and leave no wound behind? “And I brought you my violin,” I said. “I did not want my father to find it; he would destroy it if he did. I thought I might ask you to keep it safe. And you will have much more use for it than I will.”