Hidden Voices (11 page)

I
WAS SO OVERJOYED
to see Luisa back in our chamber that I almost forgot why I came there in the first place in the middle of the morning. It is not easy to slip out during Latin, for Maestra Duval has enormous eyes that take in everything but the very corners of the room. Even with her back to the class, one must be directly behind her and not even a little to the side to be clear of the broad sweep of her sight. I waited most of the hour for just such an alignment and was quite certain that Silvia would tell on me, but at the time of my escape, her little head was almost down to the paper on her desk because of her need to squint so.

Luisa is much changed in ways I probably cannot describe properly. She is thinner, true enough, but also less fidgety, and I detect a new, uncommonly deep place within her dark eyes in which both sadness and calm seem to reside together. Her lovely auburn hair is completely covered by a cap, which makes her look even younger than she is.

In truth, it is a great gift to see her without the others present. She is idly strumming her guitar and not singing along, which of itself is unusual. I do not ask about her throat for fear there might in fact be some small problem with her voice after so long an illness. Befuddled at first and forgetting what I had come for, I roam about the room for quite a while before taking my mask from my pocket and putting it over my eyes to surprise her.

Her reaction is just as I had hoped, for the mask is surely as unique and beautiful as she declares it to be. Still angered by the decision of the Board of Governors concerning Carnival, and even though they may feel they are giving us a great treat under the circumstances, I cannot help making a bitter pronouncement about the puppet show.

Of course Luisa is untroubled by the Carnival ban, for I suspect she will not be allowed out-of-doors for quite a while. Few of the celebrations ever really appealed to her anyway. She seems, however, overly concerned for my welfare when she says, “Be careful, dear Rosalba.”

I have to tell her, “When was Rosalba anything but careful!”

She does not, of course, know about the little incident with Giuseppe, which seems very long ago now, or about my increasingly careless attitude toward some of the concerts, which, to my mind, are entirely too frequent of late. In this rather confidential and unexpected meeting, I must remind myself that it is right to think she will not understand and that it is enough to already have more than one watchdog at my back.

And no one, thank the heavens, was privy to my little encounter with Father Vivaldi yesterday at noon when he chided me for my sudden emergence of great mirth whenever it is time for work or concentration.

“I had thought,” said he, “that the little rapscallion who could never observe the rules might have grown wise, punctual, and obedient in my absence.”

“Me? Rapscallion?” I countered. “Have you not noticed that I am a
maestra
this year. Think of that! Surely the board would not reward me for bad behavior.”

“Perhaps,” he said, more somberly it seemed to me. “But be that as it may, I am frankly astounded at the improvement in your playing. It has given me a wonderful idea for a concerto for you.”

I was so taken aback by this unexpected praise and his offer of a new piece especially for my instrument, that I played the fool again and said, “You can’t already be trying to make me the bait of some duke. Surely it is too soon.”

He smiled. “Too soon, indeed, little renegade. I am simply planning ahead. Always planning ahead.”

More grateful for his kind words than he could know, I stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, but he blushed so furiously that I quickly rushed away from him and right out the door.

“Come down with me,” I tell Luisa now. I am already late for the class in solfeggio, in which we tediously learn strange sol-fa syllables that note the tones of the scale. I must not miss it again, even though it is sure to bore me to my undergarments. But she shakes her head and doesn’t rise from her cot, while I say something about languishing up here that makes her laugh.

“You go. I’m not ready yet.”

“You’ll have to make a start sometime.”

“And I will. But not just yet. And don’t tell Anetta I am here.”

Luisa will not be teased about Anetta’s great attachment to her, and so I offer her something in the way of consolation.

“I will tell her that when you do get back from hospital, she must not crowd or pester you. Does that please you?”

“If only she would listen!”

“Her heart is as soft as a pillow and can be shaped, truly, if one takes the trouble. Believe me, I will make certain she doesn’t oppress you. I will.”

As I start down the steps, Anetta is on her way up. At first I think she must have been told about Luisa and am relieved to discover that she is only looking for me.

“You are lucky that you were not caught slipping out from Latin this time,” she scolds me.

“It was not luck. It is never luck. I always know just what I’m about.”

“I should have said both cocky and lucky.”

I take her hand and turn her around. “Come with me to solfeggio. If we run all the way, we will be there before Maestra bolts the door.”

She locks step with mine, and we start off at a fast trot.

“She only does it to teach you a lesson.”

It amuses me when Anetta becomes so solemn. How she manages it at such a pace is confounding. Just as we approach the door in question and try the knob, I ask, “Is there no end to the lessons I must learn?” Then
“
Madre di Dio
!”
I exclaim as the door opens and swings wide. “What luck!”

I’m happy to see that there are quite a few who are missing, the ones I noticed on our way here who were hanging out windows to watch a spindly parade of street musicians. There will be much better things to take our attention later in the week. According to my plan, I will bide my time for a bit until the running of the bulls begins. I feel such a kinship with those animals when they are set free. It is all I can do not to follow after them.

A
T FIRST I WAS OFFENDED
at the way in which Rosalba spoke to me after solfeggio. I could not believe she was faulting me for my care and concern for Luisa or that she was privy first to the information that Luisa would soon be returning to us. But after a few moments of a little jealousy at Rosalba’s new role as Luisa’s confidant (yes, I do admit it) and no little anger, my relief at knowing my dearest girl will soon be in good health eased the unworthy feelings aside. They had come upon me like a flash fire and seemed out of my control at first. As I was slowly restored to my better self, however, I could not help thinking how impossible it would be to harbor such resentment of my own true friend, Rosalba, for very long. I will not feel at peace until I confess this to Father Luigi.

“Luisa will no doubt be very fragile for a while, considering her weakened condition,” says Rosalba, “and so we must all try not to intrude upon her as she recuperates.”

I am confounded. “Intrude? Have I ever intruded?”

“At times. In your zeal for her welfare. But no one would fault you for it.”

“Intruded how?”

“In . . . affectionate, small ways. Enthusiastic hugs. Too much touching of her hair and brow. Some small exaggerations of her many accomplishments.”

“I don’t understand. These are all good things.”

“And . . . a good deal of . . . hovering.”

“Hovering?

“Being always about,” Rosalba continues with a small sigh. “Going wherever she goes. Placing your chair nearest hers. Attending to even her unspoken needs.” She pauses for quite a time. “Sleeping in her bed.”

I feel my cheeks burn.

“How will she know that?”

“I will not mention it, but you can be sure that Silvia will.”

“Oh.”

“So it’s best, don’t you see, if you simply stand off for a bit to let her get used to the life here again.”

“Yes, I see,” I tell her, though the idea of restraining my deepest feelings seems pointless to me. If by some mere chance it will make Luisa feel better, however, I am determined to try.

“And,” says Rosalba, “there is one other thing. Do not gaze at her overlong with such calf’s eyes. She does find that oppressive, I’m told.”

“By whom are you told?”

“By Luisa.”

“Calf’s eyes?”

“I believe that’s what she called it.”

My veins run cold at this affront by Luisa herself, and at the thought that I have done this oppressive thing, apparently time and again, without my even knowing.

“What kind of monster am I then?” I ask in words so soft Rosalba has to lean her head toward me to hear them.

Ever kind to me, she has a ready antidote.

“No monster at all, dear sweet Anetta. Just overzealous in your deep love for her.”

“Can love be such a bad thing?”

“Never bad,” says Rosalba. “But it should be tempered if it is not returned in the same measure that it’s given.”

Tempered
is a word I do understand. It is so like a diminuendo, when the music gradually decreases in intensity until the pure harmonies can barely be heard. It is difficult to do this well on the viola d’amore. It will be even more difficult to tame my feelings for Luisa.

My attention to these hurts, however, is taken away completely when Signora Mandano bustles into our conversation and pulls me aside.

“Come to the nursery when you can, Anetta.”

“I have some free time now,” I tell her. “Is something wrong?”

My thoughts go to Concerta and all the possibilities and unforeseen events that can occur with infants.

“Do not alarm yourself. It is a small thing really, but Concerta runs a fever, and I thought you’d want to know.”

From my work in the nursery, I’ve learned that fevers can indeed be little things or they can be swift messengers of death. Hardly bothering to bid good-bye, I gallop up the back stairs and arrive breathless by Concerta’s little crib, where she is motionless with sleep, her golden head damp and glistening, her tiny thumb resting against a small blister on puckered lips that have stopped sucking. She’s so still and tranquil that I wonder if indeed Signora Mandano can be right. When I touch her brow, however, heat rises through my fingertips.

“Do not wake her,” says the wet nurse, who had evidently come to suckle Concerta but is busy now with another infant. “I couldn’t rouse her long enough to feed. Such heavy sleep may bring her round.”

Or take her from us,
I think, and cannot help searching the space above for a hint of wings. I long to lift her little form and hold it close, but resist when thinking of the better good. I cannot leave her, though, and so I pull a chair beside the small bed, implore Our Blessed Lady with a litany of prayer, and rest my own head against the little fence around her cot until I feel a hand upon my shoulder.

“Have you been here all this time?” asks Signora Mandano. “Why, it’s the middle of the afternoon.”

I rise up in some kind of trance with Rosalba’s earlier words to me and Concerta’s fitful breathing all entwined in something like a dream. The wet nurse is no longer in the room.

“You can’t continue sleeping here beside Concerta, Anetta.”

My mind begins to stumble back to life.

“If it is truly so late, I’ve missed the sectional for contraltos. Maestro Scarpari must have wondered what became of me.”

“I’m certain he’ll understand. You’re usually such a punctual girl. But there’s nothing you can do for this child right now. We’ll watch her carefully and tell you if there’s any change.”

“Are you certain there’s nothing?”

“Very certain.”

Nothing I can do. There is nothing I can do, it seems, for anyone I love.

R
OSALBA TELLS ME
there is a sectional for sopranos this afternoon. She says it will not be taxing and that I must begin somewhere to enter back into the life here.

“You can’t just sit up here and rot,” is how I believe she put it.

So I won’t have to converse with anyone, I make my way there late. Maestra Loretta is at the continuo and looks up when I enter, delight upon her face and such surprise that her single eyeglass slips from her eye and bounces, still on its ribbon, upon her ample bosom. When the students all turn to look at me, I realize there is no possible way I could have come in unobserved. Two of the
iniziate
scurry over with fistfuls of musical scores, and I quickly sit down on an empty stool near the back of the room while Maestra shushes the commotion I have created.