The Violinist of Venice (23 page)

The second movement had the same “voice” as the first. In truth I had come to think of the violin part as a character all her own, like the
prima donna
in an opera. She seemed to me to be a water nymph, a mermaid, singing her song of sorrow and longing to the untamed sea.

It began softly, then eventually the cantabile melody would grow louder and higher in pitch, only to suddenly fall off in volume and move back to the lower end of the violin's register. I meant it to mimic the rhythm of sobbing, almost as if the strings of the violin were saturated with tears. The tutti sections, where the entire orchestra joined in, were quiet and hushed, attempting to console this bereft siren. Or so I thought in my more fanciful moments, and so I settled on
La sirena
—The Siren—as a title for the work.

Vivaldi was equally enthusiastic about the second movement, declaring it to be just as fine. He had some comments for revision as well, which I was already using to rework the piece even as he spoke them. Now I understood how he could compose hours into the night without being aware of the time; how he could write so many new works so quickly. Once I had entered into this haze of creation in earnest, it seemed endless melodies and harmonies drifted through my mind, and all I wanted to do was write them down.

I finally had the chance to play my own compositions, with Vivaldi looking on. The two movements were both easier and more difficult to play than I expected. Though I had virtually every note committed to memory, to actually execute those notes upon the violin was another thing entirely. Now I was back in the role of player, of performer: my fingers needed to commit the notes to memory, to find the best way to get from one to the next, an action that I found I had not considered during the composition process.

It embarrassed me that I could not play my own compositions flawlessly, but Vivaldi saw nothing odd in it. “Just because you wrote it does not mean you do not need to learn to play it,” he said. “You did not write it in one sitting without error, did you? Why should your playing of it be any different? And consider, you wrote all this without benefit of a violin beside you to test out certain sections. I have never written that way myself—not for the violin, in any case.”

Quickly enough, though, I could play both movements with a level of competence that satisfied me, and I soon gave in to Vivaldi's demands that I teach him. I was certain that the entire thing was an exercise in futility—surely he could already play them both better than I—but, to my surprise, this was not always the case.

“You are dotting that rhythm, Tonio,” I interrupted, for what felt like the tenth time.

“Yes, but does it not sound livelier that way?” he asked, stopping.

“Yes, but the dotted rhythm comes in the repeat of that section, not here. The contrast is important, as the listener will not expect it.”

He sighed but did not protest further.

“Now back to the beginning of the solo section, if you would,” I said.

In the second movement, I was forced to criticize him for playing too stridently.

“It is a lament, like weeping, do you see?” I said. “Gentler,
caro.
”

When he finally played it as I intended, the result moved me to tears—something that had been happening all too frequently for my comfort of late.

“I hope the next piece you write will be happier,
cara,
” he told me later that night, as I was curled up next to him. “Something bright, and not so full of sorrow.”

But we both knew the true sorrow was yet to come.

*   *   *

I had been delaying telling Vivaldi about my impending summer visit to the Foscari villa, the official invitation having been tendered and accepted long ago. Yet as mid-April came, I knew it could be put off no longer.

He remained silent for a moment after I explained the Foscari family's desire to get to know me—and my father—better. When he looked up and met my eyes, there was a strange, wistful half smile on his face, as though he were already missing me. “And by the time you return to Venice, you will no doubt be betrothed.” It was not a question, and he did not phrase it as one.

“Tommaso has told me that is what he wishes.”

He looked at me for a long while with that heartbreaking expression on his face. Finally, he asked, “Do you love him?”

Reeling, my breathing quickening, I turned my back to him, under the guise of situating my violin in its case.

“Do you? Even a little bit? I would know the truth, Adriana.” He paused. “It is just … this would be easier, if you loved him.”

My eyes were filled with tears, making the pane of glass in his front window look as though it had dissolved into a sheet of water. “I cannot love him,” I said. “I love you.”

He stepped close behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and drawing me close against his chest. I covered my mouth with my hand, trying futilely to hide my sobs from him.

“I am sorry,” he whispered in my ear.

He held me for a long time. And even as I clung to him like a castaway to a rope, part of me wished that he would let me go, so that I might get on with drowning.

 

32

WILD ROSE

The Festa di San Marco came on April 25, sending all of Venice into a frenzy of celebration as she honored her patron saint. There were boat races on the Grand Canal, musicians and performers and dancing in the streets, and parties—
in maschera
—held by all those who could afford them.

I was, of course, on Tommaso's arm as we attended a party hosted by his friend Paolo. As soon as we were seated in the gondola, Tommaso took my hand in his. “I had hoped to be able to present you with a betrothal ring by this time,” he said, smiling ruefully. “But I fear I must settle for something more traditional.” He produced a single red rosebud, such as men typically give to the woman they love on the Festa di San Marco.

I smiled as I moved to take the flower from his hand. “Oh, Tommaso. Thank you.”

Instead of handing it to me, he slid closer and tucked it into the curls of my elaborate coiffure. His hand trailed down the bare skin of my neck and shoulder, causing me to shiver. He turned my chin toward him and kissed me, gently forcing open my lips with his tongue.

I tried to relax my body into his, as a woman in love would. In response he deepened the kiss, pressing closer to me, pushing me back so that I was falling back, slowly, onto the seat. His hand trailed down my neck to my chest, and his fingers spread out to cup my breast in his hand.

“The gondolier,” I gasped, when he removed his mouth from mine.

“We need not worry about him,” Tommaso whispered, trailing kisses down my neck. “Gondoliers are honor-bound not to breathe a word of what happens in their craft.”

“Yes, I know, but—” He stifled my words by kissing me again, and his distraction was so effective that I did not immediately notice he had removed his hand from my breast and slid it underneath my skirts—not until his fingers brushed against the inside of my thighs and began to probe at the most intimate part of my body.

“Dio mio,”
I breathed.

“Yes,
cara,
” he said, smiling. “It feels good,
si?
”

May God and the Holy Virgin forgive me, but it did. I was nearly completely seduced.
Would it be so wrong, truly, if he is soon to be my husband? And Antonio all but gave me permission
 …

The thought of Vivaldi wrung the desire from my traitorous flesh in an instant. “No,” I said, wriggling away from him. “Stop.” I moved back, putting as much space between us as possible. I drew a deep breath. “Really, Tommaso,” I said, readjusting my clothing, my skin flushed with shame and guilt. I patted my hair back into place, my fingers brushing the satin softness of the rosebud. “Do you wish for us to arrive at Paolo's party quite disheveled? What will everyone think?”

“This is a day for lovers,” he said, turning my face back toward his. Breathing heavily, he reached out to put his hands on my waist. “They will think that we have been putting it to good use.”

“Tommaso, please,” I said, removing his hands. “I cannot.”

“Adriana,” he said, his voice heavy, “I am nearly dying for want of you.”

I looked away from the pleading in his eyes before I gave in. “I cannot,” I repeated. “Please understand.”

He ran his fingers through his mussed curls, sighing. “You are right,” he said. “I am sorry.”

Stupidly enough, I found myself hoping I had not ruined the entire night. “I thank you for inviting me out this evening,” I offered lamely.

He smiled broadly, as though his disappointment was already forgotten. “And who else would I spend this evening with? Our first Festa di San Marco together,” he said, taking my hand and squeezing it. “The first of many.”

*   *   *

The next night, I went to Vivaldi—could not help myself, could not have stayed away for anything in the world. When I stepped inside, I found him waiting for me at the door, and before I could speak a word he had me in his arms, his mouth against mine. As he kissed me, he slipped a red rosebud into the bodice of my gown. We did not speak as he led me upstairs to his bedchamber.

I gasped as I stepped into the room. Many a sweetheart must have languished without a rosebud on the feast day, for Vivaldi had surely ransacked all of Venice to gather them: there were dozens, hundreds, scattered over the bed and all about the room.

“The day for lovers,” he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind. I could not help a shiver at the way his words echoed Tommaso's, but I pushed that aside.

“Yes,” I said, lying across the bed and drawing him down atop me. “Now let us not delay our celebration any longer.”

 

MOVEMENT FOUR

THE END OF TIME

May 1711–September 1711

 

33

THE CHILD

It was mid-May when I realized my monthly courses were over a week late. I knew what this likely meant but—God help me—I cast about for another explanation with all my might. I had heard that they sometimes came late in times of distress, and that was something of which I had plenty. We were due to leave for the Foscari villa in a few weeks, and then everything would be over: I would spend the summer away from Vivaldi, and I would return betrothed.

But soon enough it was June and they had never arrived. By the time I awoke one morning, queasy enough that I was forced to vomit into my chamber pot, I had no choice but to acknowledge the truth. I had not thought it possible; had trusted in the herbs the wisewoman had given me and taken them faithfully. But they had failed, and I was with child.

I placed my hands wonderingly on my belly, the prophecy of the gypsy woman at Carnevale vivid in my mind:
You will bear the child of the man you love.

And even though I knew that this would be the end of everything, the tears that sprang to my eyes were tears of joy.

*   *   *

Meneghina, it seemed, was well aware of the truth of my condition, perhaps before I was. When she came into my room that morning to take the chamber pot for emptying, she did not seem surprised at its contents. She glanced at me where I had gone to lie back down in bed until I felt better. Softly, she asked, “How long has it been since you bled, madonna?”

My eyes listlessly sought hers. “Two months.”

She drew her breath in sharply.
“Dio mio.”

“Yes.” I drew myself into a sitting position. “I do not suppose that I need to say you must speak of this to no one.”

She nodded fervently. “Of course not, madonna. But…” She eyed me worriedly, biting her lip. “What will you do?”

“I do not know,” I said, falling back against the pillows.

*   *   *

What followed the rest of that day, as I lay wretchedly in bed, was something akin to a blizzard of thoughts raging inside of my head.

My first instinct was to tell Vivaldi right away. Yet I fought off the urge to summon Giuseppe to take me to him immediately, forcing myself to ponder what this news meant. What was I expecting of him?

We had both known the days of our romance were numbered, that we must let go eventually. But surely he would not—could not—leave me to simply fend for myself. This child would bring us to our moment of reckoning: would he throw everything away—his reputation, his position in the Church, his place in the musical society of Venice—for me, for our child?

He might think I was trying to entrap him. I gritted my teeth at the thought—I had not wished for this any more than he had. Suddenly I found myself prepared to fight for this child—this child that I was certain had been conceived the night of our private celebration of the Festa di San Marco—with my very last breath, if need be.

No, he must be told as soon as possible, so we could make plans. Whatever we were going to do, it must be soon, before I left for the Foscari villa at the end of June, not to return until September.

As if Vivaldi knew I needed him, Giuseppe appeared in my rooms with a message for me. “He has sent word to you, madonna,” he told me, his voice low as he handed me a piece of folded parchment. “He asks if you will meet him tomorrow night.”

It took all of my self-control not to swear, out loud and fluently. Tommaso had invited me to the opera at the Teatro San Giovanni Grisostomo tomorrow evening, and I could not cancel now without arousing his suspicion or my father's. “I cannot,” I said, schooling my voice to remain steady. “Take him my reply, and ask him if I may come tonight instead.”

Giuseppe nodded hesitantly. “Is there not an opera at the Sant' Angelo tonight, madonna?”

“No doubt, but ask him anyway.”

“Very well.” He hesitated as he moved toward the door. “Are you quite all right, madonna?” he asked. “Is anything amiss?”