Hidden Voices (3 page)

She is right. There are many girls here who want nothing more than a home of their own. I suppose they will put up with anything — anyone — that they must.

“It’s a shame those girls are not attractive enough to be courtesans,” muses Luisa, as if that life were really an option.

“She means it,” says Silvia. It appears that we all think at once of Luisa’s mother, for I and the others are suddenly silent.

“Of course I do,” says Luisa. “My mother has everything anyone needs or could wish for.”

Except, it would seem, her own child.

Time. There is never enough of it. With Father Vivaldi in residence again, there are new concertos to learn almost every week. Sometimes an entire cantata as well. I sing the bass part in this latest one, an octave above what is intended. Maestra says the school will not hire a true bass for fear he will run off with one of us. Who but me, however, would take up with an impoverished singer the likes of whom would accept the single ducat Maestra can part with? Of course, chaste and dependable Rosalba is the last person anyone would expect to lose her head in this way.

I am working on my usual after-dinner headache as the girls begin to exercise their voices or practice their parts, and the halls and common rooms of the residence become filled with an oppressive mix of trills and scales. Luisa always drowns out the others, and sometimes there are ridiculous battles between sopranos determined to outsing her. So many tra-la-las and ah-hah-hahs, I could retch! The
figli di commun
play charades and backgammon above-stairs, their giggling and shrill shouts of victory carrying down the stairway to remind us that there can be something other than music to fill leisure hours. Those of us in the
figli di coro
cannot afford to engage in such games, however. It is constantly impressed upon each of us. But at times I long for a wider world in which I could go to the shops or to hear the opera or for a ride in a covered gondola with my sweetheart. When I have a sweetheart. It will be soon. Next Carnival, I think, when the doors are opened wide for a time and we mingle as much as we dare with the other masked revelers. I will know him by his unusual height, swift gait, and strong thighs. He will know me — somehow. For I am determined to wear a mantua wild with color that shows off my small waist, slim throat, and ample bosom, and not the white silk sacque in which we perform or the drab blue everyday watteau. How I will make this happen is still unclear to me.

After the usual scripture readings, talk at the tables this evening had been about the unidentifiable parcel of dark meat on each plate, covered in a tasteless watery sauce, and about the new infant left in the chapel last night. If she were scrawny and mottled, there would not have been such excitement. Anetta is certain that this one is a miracle child, protected by angels that no one can see except her.

“I am sure that I saw just the tips of their luminous wings when I picked up the baby,” she claims. “They had risen, you see, when I stooped and gathered her into my arms. Now, of course, they will keep out of sight, ready to be at Concerta’s side in an instant if she is in need.”

The others believe her. And, I suppose, it cannot do harm. But since Prioress has often assured us of at least one guardian angel apiece, and as every girl invokes her aid before each concert, I begin to think how very crowded it must get up near the ceilings and can’t help smiling.

“Go ahead and smirk, Rosalba,” says Anetta. I had not meant to anger her, and it is usually not so easily done. “But you will see after a while that this baby has been singled out.”

“If you ask me,” says Silvia, “she has one angel too many. Who would want to be watched over all of the time?”

Luisa has been quiet until now. She gets annoyed when the talk turns to infants. She’s probably hoping that God hasn’t taken her own extra angel away for this new little orphan.

“It might be so,” she says at last. “But I simply don’t believe that you saw their wings, Anetta. I don’t believe that, and you shouldn’t go around saying it.”

“Not saying it doesn’t make it any the less true,” says Anetta. I’m surprised to hear her oppose Luisa. Almost always Anetta will agree with whatever she says.

“And I suppose you think that she’s bound to have a grand voice when she grows up,” Luisa adds. “Just don’t be upset if she takes to embroidery or some other domestic skill and lives with the
commun
girls where she’ll make dresses, chemises, and kerchiefs for the
coro.
”

“I can’t know the future, Luisa,” Anetta says, somewhat chagrined, “but the signs I have seen make me feel certain that something unusual is in store for this little one. If you don’t want to believe it, then think what you will.”

“As if I had need of your permission for that! Really, Anetta. You take quite a lot upon yourself.”

“For a certain,” says Silvia with a sly grimace. “She will be sent to live with a wet nurse for her infancy, and who knows what will happen to her after that.”

“No,” protests Anetta, “I have beseeched the signora in charge of the nursery, and she has assured . . . well, almost assured me . . . that Concerta will be kept at the Ospedale.”

“And if she isn’t?”

“I will not even consider of that possibility.”

Tonight Signora Mandano has laid a small fire in the parlor to dry out the dampness that’s begun to creep back into the building with the coming of cooler weather. Some of the girls arrange themselves around it on small cushions, but Anetta spreads her entire body facedown on the tile floor and rests her head on her hands. When she bends her knees and waggles her big feet in the air, it’s too much for Luisa.

“You cannot laze around in that way,” she states. “It is so . . . so . . . unwomanly, and not charming in the least.”

As if formerly unaware of her odd comportment, Anetta turns over and sits up very straight.

“No one would mind,” I say to Luisa. “Prioress has gone to bed. Why be so stiff-backed?”

“Luisa is quite correct,” Anetta defends her. “I’m sorry, Luisa. I sometimes forget myself. I’m not naturally graceful like you.”

“Ooh. And please do not grovel. I cannot bear it.”

Anetta becomes very still and composed, as if she’s a puppet with strings that Luisa can pull. It’s upsetting to watch.

“When Father Vivaldi finally returns in the morning, he’ll be so surprised at the progress you’ve made,” I say to console and distract her. He lives not far from here, I’m told, but is often quite late.

“But you haven’t heard me play the new solo.”

“I caught the very last movement,” I lie, “when I went back to the school at night for some . . . ink. It seems much improved and is certainly . . . lavish and . . . lively.”

She jumps up and sits down again awkwardly in the chair next to mine with a hand on my arm, her wide brow furrowed with concern.

“And did you see anything in the street? Did you see anyone? Someone carrying a bundle perhaps?”

“No. I mean . . . I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

She sighs.

“You probably passed her. Concerta’s mother. You must have passed her. Poor woman. I wonder what will become of her.”

Luisa shakes her head and pulls on a dark lock that falls along one cheek. “Fortunate woman is more the like. Isn’t it enough that the Ospedale takes in her child to feed and educate?”

“But to have to give her own baby away like that. I cannot imagine what that must be like.”

Why does she think it so extraordinary? Weren’t we, in fact, each like this child, given away for whatever the reason? And except for Luisa, we have no real knowledge of where we came from. We know nothing about what it’s like to give birth and only a little of what must happen to make it possible. (What meager information
is
divulged seems highly improbable.) Except for the male infants who are sent to one of the
ospedali
for boys when they are six or seven, sometimes as old as ten, the only men that come into the school to teach might as well be
castrati.
It is enough to be groomed, as we are, for a life that is better and all our own. It can be that way if we let it. I know that it can be that way, for many of our teachers were once just like us. Most no longer live here, but come and go to apartments and sometimes to husbands and families. Though I am perhaps too impatient for it, isn’t to be loved what we all want in the end? How I long for a suitor who will quickly be overcome by this fire that stirs me.

S
INCE THIS IS NO CONVENT,
the others were watching as usual during my mother’s visit yesterday, and they leaned like caged monkeys into the grille that separates them from visitors. Perhaps from a distance her caresses appear warm, her kisses sincere. But as soon as she sees the girls spying on us, her eyes flit about and she poses and fawns over me. Anetta, as if she’s obsessed, always pushes and shoves for a place in the front. Afterward, too, she is full of rude questions. When I simply don’t answer, she grows morose. I know they think I am favored, and that Anetta has even wished at times that she could be me. She has said as much, once wondering aloud how it must feel to be held for a moment and pressed against all the satin and silk of my mother’s fancy gowns.

And I have heard the girls discussing how none of them know why I remain in this place, since it is well known that everyone here is a ward of the state, and a child with a family is unlikely to come here to stay, no matter how gifted, unless the family is royal or completely impoverished. When I tell them it is only because of the excellent musical education the Ospedale della Pietà can provide and because of my wonderful voice, it annoys them in the extreme.

Another thing that sets me apart is the fact that I have a real last name and am not called by the name of my primary instrument like some of the senior girls, as if there is truly a flesh and blood family named Violin or Bassoon or Flautino. For an instance, Maestra della Viola is what Anetta is called and will be until she takes the veil, becomes a true
maestra,
or attracts a husband. Because she is not more comely, perhaps it will not be a duke, but some gentleman, a rich merchant, perhaps, who would value a wife who can teach the children to sing and play for his guests.

I begged Mother yesterday, something I promised myself I would never do. And today I feel ashamed. It was not as though the others could hear me, for the parlor is somewhat below the grille and all the commotion behind it. And I made very sure that I stood quite still, my hands at my sides, and called her
Mother,
as she has told me to do.

“Take me with you this time, Mother,” I said. She made me repeat it, and it seemed as if she would truly consider my words. For a wonderful instant there was this fragile bubble of hope, soon pricked when her dark brows curved down and her fan went up to her lips.

“None of that, Luisa,” she said, touching my fingers with a cold gloved hand. “The life that I lead would never permit such a thing.”

I turned my head toward the door, for I could not allow the others to see the quick tears.

The life that she leads. I often imagine the apartment she has told me about — the gilded chests and armoires, carved settees with satin cushions, silk curtains enclosing a deep feather bed surrounded by tapestries, and, think of it, even a fanciful Murano glass chandelier with fat beeswax candles. In fact, at times there are little flashes of my first few years there with her and of a shadowy nursemaid, the milky smell of her, the tuneful songs that she taught me to sing. The duke, my father, keeps my mother well — much better, she says, than his own wife and legitimate children.

“A mistress is always loved best,” she said before pausing to study her long fingers. For this visit, even her stomachers were embroidered with gold and her frontage was pleated and high over honey-hued ringlets and rolls.

“And the voice,” she said. “The voice will be trained as in no other place in the world. The Pietà is renowned throughout all of Europe.”

As always, she spoke as if my voice is not part of myself but something I must cater to as to a perfect child who is demanding and spoiled. She never asks about my progress on the clavichord or violin. To her, they are only instruments of accompaniment.

“It is opera that must be our goal, and now that Father Vivaldi is back at the Pietà, he can help us. Already his folios are being performed in cities like Vienna. You will be more than a courtesan, child, though that is hardly a life to be spurned. You will be a famous soprano. I will be your companion.” She tittered. “For no one would take us for mother and child.”

She has everything planned. And she’s right to believe that my voice is exceptional and will someday be heard everywhere. But how does she know? How many times has she come to our concerts to hear me sing? I have caught sight of her only once, and then she left before my recitative. I was thrilled to see her arrive, even though very late, but her seat was empty the next time I looked, and I could hear the flutter of voices and laughter and the shutting of doors. I wanted to run after her then, but of course, there was no way that I could. I think my desperate feelings went into my song, for after the concert Father remarked how I really must have more control of my emotions.