The Violinist of Venice (39 page)

I opened my eyes to see the midwife frowning. “You may not rest yet, I fear, madonna,” she said, handing my son to Giovanna.

“What?”

“There is a second child,” she said, crouching down to peer between my legs again. “Twins.”

“Holy Virgin,” I breathed, shuddering as another pain racked me.

“Indeed, we shall beseech the Holy Virgin to give you strength, madonna,” the midwife said. “You must push yet again!”

Twins.
I could hardly believe that I must expel another child from my body, that I would have the strength. Yet a mother's fierce love shot through me, love for this second creature I had not known was there. I did as the midwife bade me and, in relatively short order, gave birth to my fourth child and my third daughter.

This time, when I lay back against the pillows, I did not think I would ever open my eyes. But I was roused when I heard my children crying. “Bring them to me,” I said, struggling to sit up.

The midwife hesitated. “You should rest, madonna, and we need to clean them up in any case.”

“No,” I said. I held out my arms, taking one child in each, with Giovanna hovering nearby should I need assistance.

I studied each of them in turn. My son, I was certain, was the most perfect son ever born, from his tiny toenails to his soft, velvety head.

And my daughter. My unexpected one. She was smaller than her brother, with an impressive head of dark hair, and perhaps feistier, for as he settled comfortably against me, making a strange hiccupping noise, she began to wail, demanding to be fed.

I laughed. “Very well,
figlia.
” I handed my son to Giovanna, and set his sister to my breast.

“Shall I send for a wet nurse for the boy, madonna?” Giovanna asked.

“Of course not,” I said. “He shall have his turn.”

Once both children had been fed, I reluctantly surrendered them to be washed before Giacomo came to see them. He had been informed of the happy news.

“Twins?” he cried incredulously when he was finally allowed in the room. “
Dio mio,
twins! And one of them a son, a son at last!”

I smiled as he sat on the edge of the bed, peering at the children. “They are healthy, yes? A strong and healthy son and daughter?”

“They are,” I said. “We are all three of us well.”

Giacomo gently stroked our son's head. “Yes, little Giacomo,” he said softly, as the baby stirred. “It is your father.”

“Marito,”
I began, “I … that is, I had a different name in mind.”

He looked up. “Why should my son and heir not be named after me?”

“Surely we can be more creative than that,” I said. “I have always been fond of the name Antonio.”

Giacomo was silent for a moment, and I could scarcely breathe, praying that he would not guess. “Antonio Giacomo Baldovino,” he said, testing it. “Very well. Antonio was my father's name, after all.”

“But of course,” I said, though I had forgotten that entirely. “That is part of the reason I suggested it.”

He kissed my forehead. “I can deny you nothing,
mia bell'Adriana.
And our little surprise?” he said, turning his attention to the girl. “What shall we name her?”

“I rather like Cecilia,” I said. “For the patron saint of music.”

“I think that suits,” Giacomo said. “Cecilia Adriana, for her courageous mother.”

I smiled, tears stinging my eyes.

He drew me gently against him. “You have made me the happiest man alive,
mia carissima.
I know that our marriage was not your choice, but I fancy that I have managed to make you happy at times, yes?”

The tears spilled over onto my cheeks. “Oh, yes,” I whispered. “I am happy at this moment,
marito.
Brilliantly happy.”

*   *   *

Giacomo spared no expense on a lavish party to celebrate the twins' birth, and particularly the birth of his heir. Antonio was, as such, the focus of the evening—the early part, anyway. He was carried about by me, by Giovanna, and even by Giacomo, for our guests to admire and croon over. Cecilia, however, was not to be ignored, and took to wailing loudly whenever she felt not enough attention was being paid to her.

Soon, however, they both grew fussy, and I made my escape. As refreshing as the party was after my long confinement and recovery, I still tired easily, even though a month had passed since the birth. I excused myself to put the children to bed, gathered Vittoria and Giulietta, and we adjourned to my sitting room just as Giacomo was calling for more brandy to be poured.

I sighed in relief as I sank down into one of the armchairs and kicked off my silk shoes. Lucrezia promptly crawled into my lap, peering into the face of the sleeping Antonio, who lay in my arms.

“Shall I take Cecilia to the nursery?” Giovanna asked.

“Oh, may I hold her?” Vittoria asked, her eyes alight.

“Of course,” I said, and Giovanna handed the baby to her. “You are dismissed for the evening, Giovanna.”

Vittoria cradled my daughter as skillfully as any experienced mother. “What a little angel,” she said. “All three of them. You are blessed, Adriana. Truly you are. What I would not give for such beautiful children as yours.”

I smiled, stroking Lucrezia's feathery light hair with one hand as she fell asleep in my lap. Vittoria was right: I
was
blessed, in spite of the things I had lost. “Perhaps you and Francesco might yet be so blessed,” I said, though even I did not believe my own words. As if Francesco's age were not enough of an impediment to conception, his health had been poor of late. Always thin, his appearance had become almost skeletal, and he was prone to chills and fevers.

Vittoria smiled sadly. “Not now, I am afraid. He was already too old to father children when I first married him, or so it seems.”

Giulietta chuckled. “I would have thought the same of our illustrious Senator Baldovino, yet it appears he has more life in him than anyone could have guessed!”

I rolled my eyes. “And he has thrown a party to announce and celebrate that fact.”

“As well he should,” Giulietta said. “He is apparently so potent that he managed to get you with two children at once!”

“Or such is the story he shall tell,” I said, and we all dissolved into laughter.

“If only Roberto could have done the same, I might have been finished with childbearing all in one fell swoop,” Giulietta said.

“Perhaps Giacomo can give him lessons,” Vittoria said, surprising us so with her bawdy joke that our fits of giggles returned, petering out only when we saw all my children were fast asleep.

“Come,
cara,
” I whispered, nudging Lucrezia awake. She sleepily tumbled off my lap, and I lifted her with my other arm, carrying her and her brother into the nursery. Vittoria followed me with Cecilia.

Once the children were safely abed, Vittoria and I returned to the sitting room. “I was just wondering, Adriana,” Giulietta said as I sat down, “why your son is not named after his father.”

I froze, just for an instant, yet the look in Vittoria's eyes told me she had seen it nonetheless. “Oh … well, Antonio was the name of Giacomo's father,” I said. “And he is Antonio Giacomo, at any rate.”

Giulietta looked satisfied enough with this explanation, though Vittoria's face remained curious.

“Oh!” Giulietta cried suddenly, heedless of the sleeping children in the next room. “Have you heard who that dreadful Claudia Cornaro was caught
in maschera
with?” She leaned forward, eyes wide. “They say she was found in a very
compromising position,
if you take my meaning, at the
festa
given by the Guicciardi family with—you shall never guess it—her brother-in-law! Her sister Elisabetta's husband! They were found in the mezzanine by a footman! They say it was Claudia, anyway; the mask the lady was wearing was the same as one she has worn. I, for one, believe it, what with the way that girl behaves…”

I readily confessed to enjoying the frivolousness of gossip from time to time, but tonight I could not bring myself to pay attention. Instead, my thoughts were on my children, and what their lives would be like in this vain, decadent Venice of ours, and how I could protect and shelter them while still letting them live. And what of my lost daughter? Did the Girò family love her, and treat her well? Had they told her of her true mother, or did she believe herself to be their daughter? Which way was better?

And, in spite of myself, I found myself wondering whether or not Antonio Vivaldi would ever know I named my son after him.

 

58

HARMONIES

My son's namesake had been anything but idle since last I had set eyes on him. May of 1713 had seen him mount his first opera,
Ottone in villa,
to much acclaim in Vincenza. The gossip said that it had been well received; well enough, at least, for him to return to Venice, the city with the most discerning musical tastes, to continue his new career. He had also begun to gain a reputation as a very shrewd businessman when it came to selling both his scores and his skills to whoever may have need of them.

In November of 1714 he premiered
Orlando finite pazzo
at the Teatro Sant' Angelo, where he was now impresario as well as composer and performer. Still recovering from the birth of the twins, I managed to avoid attending. My friends enthusiastically went, not about to miss one of the biggest operatic events of the year: the premiere of a new work by a native son of Venice, who had gained much notoriety across Europe since the publication of
L'estro armonico.

Vittoria had been especially eager to see the opera. She came to visit me the following day, imparting the information I both dreaded and hungered for.

“The sets and the costumes were all a bit overwrought, as usual,” she said. “But the music,” she went on, her expression softening, “the music was
wonderful.
I do not believe that Maestro Vivaldi could write anything that is not beautiful.”

I nodded my agreement, not trusting myself to speak.

She sighed, not noticing my lack of response. “It is when I am confronted with such beauty, such music, that I realize anew what I have lost.”

My head came up sharply at this echo of my own thoughts.

“He wrote a few pieces of music especially for me,” she went on, lost in the past, “for my voice. I do not believe that I shall ever be so honored again in my life.”

Suddenly it struck me how deeply one man and his music could touch so many people. He had never, I realized with both sorrow and pride, been mine alone. How selfish I had been, to believe that I could and should keep him for myself.

“I am sorry,” Vittoria said. “You did not invite me here to listen to me bemoan the past. I am selfish, I know. I have a wonderful life, and I do it and my husband a disservice by longing for days that are gone.”

“And I did not even invite you,” I said. “You simply dropped by of your own accord.”

Vittoria laughed. “Horribly rude of me, I know.”

“I trust you will continue to exercise such rudeness often enough,” I told her.

She inquired after the children then, and our talk turned to happier matters. Thus the past retreated to whence it had come—for both of us.

*   *   *

Since Lucrezia's birth, I had continued—hesitantly, sporadically—to resume my violin playing. Giacomo, just as I had hoped, made no comment when he noticed.

On that night when I had played my daughter to sleep I had felt invincible—to fear, to the past's power to hurt me—but that feeling quickly faded. It was a struggle to discipline myself, to regain my technique and to learn, once again, to push aside everything but the music.

It was a slow process. It had been years since I had played with intensity, and my fingers had to once again accustom themselves to their task. And even then, I could only play scales and half-remembered bits of concerti for so long.

Finally I went to a shop that sold scores one day, and selected a few at random for the violin: some by composers I had heard of, such as Arcangelo Corelli, and others I had not. Though much of the music was lovely and challenging, it was not Vivaldi's music. Was it only because he had been my lover that I so plainly preferred his music?

No. His music truly did have something that the music of others did not. I had recognized this within hours of meeting him, long before we had become lovers.

Every now and then, especially once I had started playing again, it occurred to me that I could—I
could,
if I wanted to—slip away to see Vivaldi. Giacomo never questioned my comings and goings; was often not home enough to notice. Vivaldi was so
close,
still in the same city, and would anyone ever know me as well as he had?

Had. Once. And if I were to see him again, what then? Would we play music together as though nothing had happened? Talk about the past? Make love? The remnants of my anger and heartbreak would always come flooding back like the
acqua alta,
and I would wonder what, precisely, I had been thinking.

I had mentioned to Giuseppe one day, rather in passing, that I had begun to play again but did not have enough scores to satisfy me. I should not have been surprised he managed to decipher my true meaning; yet I could not have been more astonished when, one day in late January of 1715, a rather large packet was delivered to me. A small cry escaped me as I opened it, finding the scores for every piece Vivaldi and I had ever played together, as well as many new works of increasing difficulty that I had never seen before. It was enough to keep me busy for years to come, and to bring me back to virtuoso form.

On top of this pile of treasure was a note, folded in half. I opened it, a slight tremor in my hands, and read: