An Aria in Venice: A Musical Interlude Novel (15 page)

“The way the sun’s positioned in the sky is incredible,” I
continue. “The light in the water casts an illumination upward and outwards.
The sunlight plays on the walls and ceilings with a
rippling
effect, stirring the air. Everything dances here.”

I glance at Adriana. She has a dreamy look on her face as she
stares at me, her lips parted the slightest bit. She should be glad Mama stands
not too far away from us or that pouty top lip of hers would be mine to devour.
“Now, what are you thinking?”

“Not a thing. That’s a lie. I’m thinking about everything.
You’re incredible. I mean, the way you see the beauty and art in all this
history. It’s … refreshing.” Turning away, she sighs and crosses her arms.
Moving to stand in front of her, I ease her arms apart, gently grasp her chin,
and lift it so she stares at me.

“Well, let’s just say I’m not the original poet of this
family. That was my father. Wouldn’t be a very good designer if I couldn’t see
the abstract inside the concrete, now would I?” Lowering her eyes, she starts
wringing her hands. I take her tiny wrists in my own, easing my fingers into
her palms and pulling her hands apart.

I sigh, even though there isn’t a thing about her that’s
annoying. “Look at me.” There’s a short hesitation before she does. My heart
almost stops. How can someone who brings laughter and light into the lives of
so many others fall into these moments of sadness? I would hunt down and kill a
thousand wild boars to make sure she never has to frown or feel sad ever again.

“Anyone can be a poet. You have to truly look at an object
and open your mind to what you see,” I explain. What I want to say is I can see
you for who you truly are, Adriana Dostovsky—a girl dealing with more pain than
she realizes. I want to pull her into my arms and sail around my home city until
the waves carry us out to the sea, all traces of pain fading along with the
distance behind us. I touch her cheek. I have to. Moving her lips to my palm,
she closes her eyes and it takes all I have in me to hold my ground without
kissing her. A short moment passes before she opens her eyes.

“I think I need a little practice, with the poetry thing, I
mean,” she says. More nervous laughter. We do this a lot, but something’s
different this time. A thing I can’t explain. Maybe it’s in the way she holds
me under her spell so I’m not able to look away. Or maybe it’s that she still
hasn’t let go of my hand. I lean forward, my lips parting.

“La sede di musica,”
Mama says, breaking our spell, her eyes filled with warmth
and happiness.
Shit!
I didn’t even see her move over to where we’re
standing. “The center of music. We’re here. I can already feel the atmosphere
changing. Are you ready, my girl?” she asks Adriana, reaching out a hand for
her to take.

“Oh yes,” Adriana answers, smiling in a way that tells me
she’s being completely honest with Mama, taking her hand and linking her arm.
The sight of my little badass ballerina walking along the streets of Venice
with my mother stirs a part of me I swore I’d never listen to ever again in
this lifetime. I don’t commit, or hold hands. I don’t spend the night in a
hotel with a woman unless we’ve made an arrangement, and that usually involves
my pleasure in some way.

“Are you coming?” Mama asks me, smiling and loving every
minute of our adventure with a girl she has practically adopted. I can’t lie;
having Adriana around feels good and natural, kind of like the last two rows of
a crossword puzzle that has just enough letters for you to know the word you’ve
found fits in that slot and it’s safe to fill in the blanks.

“Si, Mama,” I say, my hand already feeling lonely after
releasing Adriana’s, the distance between us disturbing. I shake off whatever
madness is going through my head, stuff my hands in my pockets, and walk toward
my mother and the girl who has intrigued me. The music hanging in the air isn’t
the only thing that has changed since we stepped off the boat.

~Adriana~

Street bands, concert halls, and choirs. This part of
historic Venice has the rhythm of the sea, provoking
astonishment
rather than admiration, an Eastern flavor and the smell of trade. With an arm
linked inside Simona’s, I’ve fully embraced the first part of
mission-Adriana-losing herself. If the way Luca has been staring at me during
the past few days is any indication of things to come, I don’t think the second
part of my mission is going to be all that hard to accomplish either.

Why hasn’t he made a move on me yet? I know he wants to, and
I’m pretty sure he knows I’ll let him. Men are so complicated.

While Luca takes a call, Simona and I steal a moment to sit
under the Venetian sun at a spot just outside the Gallerie. “My husband was a
gondolier who sang for the Choir of Gondoliers. He had the voice of an angel.
Music was a part of his daily life. I was performing at
La Fenice
that
night and was taking a break. We girls loved to steal away and sail down the
canal just so we’d have a chance to gawk at the handsome gondolier with the
golden voice. It took Giuseppe a month before he finally gathered enough courage
to ask me out. We started dating shortly afterward. At twenty, I was at the
height of my ballet career. Giuseppe was struggling to pay his rent here in
Venice. The Sicilian man with the bright eyes full of hope and life. I fell in
love right away.” She smiles brightly as she stares off into the distance. I
feel like we’re two teenage girls passing the time by gossiping and hanging
out.

“But of course, dreamy eyes and great abs couldn’t pay the
bills. Not even here in the capital of Opera. Did you know the musicians Wagner
and Montiverdi lived and died in Venice?” she asks me. I shake my head and
watch a group of tourists snapping photos. I can tell by the laugher and the
animated way they’re pointing at the statues etched into the music hall’s
facade across the way from where we’re sitting that the group is excited.

“Giuseppe always aspired to be just like Wagner and
Montiverdi. Oh yes, and Antonio Vivaldi, the red-headed step child of a growing
era.” She stares at the tourists as well, her eyes clouded over by thoughts of
her husband, I’m sure. I wonder what a love like the one the two of them shared
feels like. Surely, it’s nothing like the one-sided torch I’ve been carrying
around for Nikolai all these years.

 Eventually Luca remembers that we do exist and decides to
rejoin us. Next, we visit one of Simona’s University friends, a woman named
Julia, an American like me. I’d guess she stands around 5’7” with her honey
brown hair and dark eyes that remind me of an actress. I’m assuming she’s
around Simona’s forty something years of age, but then, I could be wrong. She
has one of those faces that appear both youthful and wise with life’s
experience at the same time.

What can I say about the house she lives in? I’m thinking
Paris and Nicole Hilton must’ve given up the services of their interior
designers for the day to help conjure up this design. If there’s one reliable
thing I have learned from Mother, then that would be how to determine someone’s
personality by the way the place they sleep in each night is decorated. Flokati
rugs lay everywhere: the halls, the kitchen, inside the bathroom. Abstract
paintings covered in black and white city scenes, which have a hint of red in
each, hang on the walls, making the ones Luca purchased for Black Butterfly
look like finger paintings in comparison.

Speaking of my boyfriend, where is he? That must be some
dilemma he’s discussing with his employees since this makes the second time he
has slipped away to take a call. Could he be meeting one of his Juliette’s?
Doesn’t matter. If that’s what he’s doing then I’m good with it.
Yeah right.
There’s something disturbing about the thought of Luca sharing his Harry Potter
story with another female. I can’t be sure, but I think I might be a bit
jealous.

No way. Snap the heck out of it!

I focus back on Simona, but she’s staring at me, a knowing
smile on her face as though she can hear what I’m thinking.

“You shouldn’t worry, my girl. Luciano will return soon
enough,” she confirms. My cheeks heat to a flame. Partly due to what I was
thinking about her son, but mostly because each time she uses his full name, I
get a little tickled. It makes me envision Luca dressed in a tux sitting at a
piano as he strums out a tune to one of the great composers the way Simona says
Giuseppe used to do for her.

Another half hour passes before
Luciano
returns. At
first, he refuses to look at me, which makes me think I’m right on point with
the Juliette thing. However, he quickly turns on the other Luca, complete with
charm and poetry, hooking Julia under his spell as she becomes noticeably more
flirtatious … as do all women who Luca interact with each day.

“Look what was delivered to me today,” Julia says, standing
so that we get a clear view of the low back dress she’s wearing, a skimpy thing
that would make J-Lo blush I do believe. The red and orange swirling design in
the fabric, a silk that shimmers when the light hits it, flows around her
generous curves. She has the type of raw sexuality that would make a man act
obsessive. I have to admit the damn thing looks hot on her, even though the
bold colors would overpower my tiny frame.

“Ah yes. That dress comes from our Mystical line. I’m
flattered,” Luca says, passing a cool gaze over his creation. And yes, jealousy
hitches in my chest … again. Regardless, this is what he does on a daily
basis—studies the way his clothing fits the curves of the women wearing his
designs. It must be a heavenly thing to do for a man with such a healthy
appetite for sex. Julia’s beaming at Luca, completely ignoring me, and I think
Luca checks his watch at least twenty times during our stay. I also don’t
neglect to see the glances passing back and forth between my fake boyfriend and
his mother’s friend.

Oh my God. There’s no way the two of them … I can’t even
bring myself to think such a thing, but I also can’t deny the way Julia made
sure as much skin as possible was exposed in the back of the dress she’s
wearing.

After listening to Julia and Simona share stories of the way
they both found their boyfriend and husband, as well as devouring the best
chocolate covered biscotti I’ve had in years, Simona tells her friend good-bye
and we take a water taxi back toward the canal. While Simona’s having a conversation
with our driver, I prepare to question Luca on a few things. He’s been distant
ever since we left Julia’s place and his aloofness is starting to wear on my
nerves.

“May I ask why you and your mother’s friend were doing the
cougar-cub eyeball thing?” I ask, waiting for him to turn his head toward me.
He doesn’t.

“No,” he answers and checks his phone. This time, I’m not
ready to accept his response.

“That’s not fair. You ask me about the guys in my life.”

“I do not. I only ask of one man,” he says, frowning as he
turns toward me. “You never open up about him. Why should I do the same for
you?” He raises his left eyebrow. Good point. I’m not a stranger to the concept
of the older woman and the younger man. I sometimes think Mother has a thing
for Nikolai. The evidence lies in the way she used to always pick his
explanation over Alek’s, when as boys running through the streets of Moscow,
they got into trouble. With my fake boyfriend, the question that has been
nagging at me ever since we left Julia’s place sits on the tip of my tongue,
along with the one I’d like to ask him about why the Bellini picture of the
Madonna and Child affected him the way it did. He shut down for almost five
minutes after explaining the painter’s techniques, a faraway look in his vibrant
eyes, and I don’t even think he realizes that’s what he did.

“Did you sleep with Julia?” The question flies out there
before I can silence the words.

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “Long ago.”

“Oh. Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say.

“Told you not to ask, didn’t I?” he reminds. I look straight
ahead, my gaze focused on the buildings we’re sailing past. A silent moment
passes. “You think negatively of me now.” He’s telling me more so than asking.

I shrug. I’m not sure what I think … or feel. “I don’t have a
right to say anything about what you do.” Who the heck are you trying to fool?
The thought of him being with Julia triggers all kinds of strange things in my
gut. He’s staring at me again.

For some reason, I think of Mother; specifically, the way she
has been flirting with Nikolai’s lead dancer, Mikhail. I shouldn’t be affected
by Luca’s confession, but I can’t help myself. “Wait. I’m lying. I’m just a bit
curious. She’s your mother’s friend.”

“As Nikolai Belikov is to your brother,” he snaps, giving me
a hard look. Yeah, he has a point, and the slap back stings. I break our
staring war first by lowering my eyes and checking out the flower ring Jojo let
me borrow to remind me of our conversation from this past weekend.

“I’ve offended you.”

“You have not,” I lie.

“Whatever you say, Maia. It happened a few years ago. I was
reckless. She was horny and between boyfriends. I told you, I’m no angel. Don’t
let this sentimental side of me you’ve been seeing fool you into thinking I’m a
good boy.” He stares at me as though he’s trying to drill the words he just
said into my head.

“I don’t believe that,” I reply, and he flinches.

“You’ve been warned.”

“I think I can handle myself.”

“I don’t do mushy love things, except when doing so gets me
what I need.” I can hear the slightest doubt in voice, as though he’s working
to convince himself more so than me.

“Right. And that would be a quick fuck with a Juliette.”
I
cannot believe I just said those words.

He gives a short, scoffing laugh, but his face lights up at
my words. Narrowing his eyes, he says, “Careful, little ballerina. I might
start thinking you’re jealous.”

“Not a chance, ego head.” I cross my arms, ignoring the smug
look on Luca’s face, and steal a glance at Simona. She has begun a conversation
with yet another passenger. I wonder if everyone in Venice knows Simona
Martuccio.

Before long, we reach the Grand Canal. Feeling relieved to
put some distance between Luca and me for the moment, I exit the taxi and walk
up the Vaporetto’s steps. I take a seat on Simona’s right side and Luca takes
the one on her left. However, his mother doesn’t miss a beat. She’s staring
back and forth between the two of us. I can easily see where the brothers get
their analytical skills when it comes to reading people.

After exiting the taxi, Luca creates an excuse to disappear
by saying he needs to go make some calls. Good. I’m sick and tired of hearing
that phone vibrate in his pocket.

I feel Simona’s gaze on my profile as we walk toward our
final destination for the day, a church-orphanage where Antonio Vivaldi used to
train female singers. Simona tells me how she used to visit this place with a
few of the girls in her ballet troupe, and later on with Giuseppe.

“Are you and Luciano having a disagreement?” she asks,
snatching my attention away from my phone’s blank screen. Figures I wouldn’t
have any calls or texts.

“No. Not really,” I answer, which is the truth. Neither Luca
nor I have the right to be upset about our past sex lives, or the current ones,
either. We’re not a couple in that way.

Simona doesn’t look convinced. I turn my attention back to my
phone before I give something away. The only texts I’ve received since I left
three days ago have been from Alek asking how my stint at the University is
going, although, I have the feeling he knows exactly what I’m doing and where
I’m doing it. The part I hope he doesn’t try to figure out is the “with whom”
because I’ve led everyone to believe I’m studying a new routine with an
instructor at the University of Venice. One of Lis’s friends has even offered
to vouch for me in case anyone asks.

“Luca is very much like me in that he follows his passions
with a ruthless abandon, yet he is vulnerable like his father when dealing with
matters of the heart,” Simona explains, recapturing my attention. “The two of
you remind me so very much of the way Giuseppe and me were in the first days.
Denying what we feel, but falling that much harder the more we fought our
hearts. Or, let me say, the more I denied my feelings for him. I came from a
prominent Roman family and Giuseppe was a performer, a Sicilian trying to make
a living in Venice. I was determined to avoid love and he was just as focused
on capturing it with me. You can probably guess who won this battle.”