The Violinist of Venice (11 page)

Giuseppe inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Don Vivaldi.”

I had the uncomfortable feeling that there was much more they wished to say to each other, yet thankfully each held his tongue. I fetched my cloak from the chair where I had left it, facing Vivaldi as I settled it about my shoulders. “Two nights hence, then,
amore mio?
” I asked, my voice low.

He nodded. I could tell that he wanted to take me in his arms and bid me a proper good night, but did not because of Giuseppe's presence.
“Si. Addio, cara.”

 

16

L'ESTRO ARMONICO

And so we fell into a routine, if such an ordinary, pedestrian word can be applied to something so heavenly. We would make love, then spend the rest of the night playing music; or sometimes we would begin with music that would turn into lovemaking. I did not know which I loved more.

Vivaldi continued to give me some insight into the composition process, and how music and chords and notes must be put together, often using his own compositions as examples.

Soon enough, I was able to play the allegro of the A-minor concerto almost as well as Vivaldi, or so I fancied. The third movement, another allegro, was equally difficult, but I loved it just as much as I had the first. “I may have to name this ‘Adriana's Concerto,'” he joked one night.

I laughed. “I am honored. But I do not think that that would help our bid for secrecy very much, do you?”

“Perhaps not,” he said, smiling.

“Since you are satisfied with my progress on this concerto, then, what will you give me to play next?” I asked, dropping into one of the chairs by the fire.

He laughed. “So demanding! You learn faster than I can write,
cara.
”

I scowled at him.

“I see I will have to come up with something for you next time,” he said, sitting in the other chair beside me.

“You shall have plenty of time, for it will not be for several nights,” I reminded him unhappily. “My father is dragging me to that atrocious marriage market masquerading as a ball.”

A troubled look entered his eyes. We had never said it aloud, but both of us knew that my marriage, whenever it should occur, would be the end of our love affair.

I quickly changed the subject. “There is something else I would like to learn to play, Tonio.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And what might that be?”

“Do you remember the first lesson I had with you, when I asked you to play for me?”

He nodded.
“Si.”

“Do you remember what you played that day?”

He nodded immediately. “
Si,
I do.”

“I would like to play that.”

“Why?” he asked. “Why that one?”

I tried to think of how to explain. “It was more than beautiful, it was … captivating. Brilliant. Consuming. How long will you sit there grinning at me like a fool as I try to think of more words?”

He laughed aloud. “I was just thinking … it is interesting. And strange.”

“How so?”

“Of all the concertos I have written, I believe that one is my favorite,” he told me. “I suppose that is why I played it for you that day.” He paused, considering. “It is written for four solo violins and cello continuo, but I can teach you certain sections of it, if you wish.”

Suddenly I was not so sure. “I do not know. Perhaps I would rather hear you play it again.”

He laughed. “You do not wish to play it yourself?”

“I do not know if I can do it justice,” I said. The bold, passionate melody swept through my memory again. What if I could not play his favorite concerto as well as he wished?

He sighed. “You can, Adriana. I know you can.” Yet all the same, he rose and went to fetch his violin from its case. “However, since you ask it, I shall play it for you, my lady,” he said, sweeping me a gallant bow.

It was just as breathtaking as I remembered it—perhaps more so, now that I was hearing it again in all its liveliness and color and resonance, and not just in a pale memory. The piece had so much life, so much intensity when played by one violin that I could not imagine how immense it would sound when played by four, with an entire orchestra surrounding it. It was intricate, but certainly not more difficult than anything else he had given me to play. But I was afraid that, were I to attempt it, it would lose some of its spellbinding magic, some of the power it had over me to quicken my heart and still my breathing. If I tried to unravel it, note by note, surely it would no longer affect me thus.

I would leave it precisely where it was: in Vivaldi's capable hands.

When he ended the piece, I rose from my chair, stepped close to him, and kissed him. “I will leave it to you,
amore,
” I said. “No one will ever be able to play it quite the way you do, and I do not wish to try.”

He set his instrument on the table behind him and took me fully in his arms. “Far be it for me to argue with a beautiful woman,” he murmured.

“Then do not.” I drew away from him, loosening the laces on the back of my gown as I moved toward the staircase, pulling it seductively down to reveal my bare shoulders. “Follow me, and do exactly as I say.”

*   *   *

“What will you do with all these concerti, then?” I asked later, as we lay in bed together. “Will you have them performed, or published, or…”

“Some of them have already been performed by the
coro
at the Pietà,” he said. “Others are newer. I am looking into having them published, though, yes.”

“Truly?”

“
Si.
There is a group of twelve—several of which you have already played—that go quite well together, or so I like to think. Our favorite is one of them,” he added.

“And what will you call this collection?” I asked.

“Well, if I cannot call it
I concerti d'Adriana,
” he teased, “then I suppose it is fortunate that I have another title I like. I was thinking of calling it
L'estro armonico
.”

L'estro armonico
. The harmonic inspiration. “The name suits,” I said, smiling.

“I am glad you think so.”

“Oh, I do. And furthermore,” I added, “I think that that name shall become quite well known—not just in Venice, but throughout Europe.”

“You truly believe that?” he asked.

“I know it,” I said. “And I thought you knew better than to argue with a beautiful woman …
especially
one who is naked in bed with you…”

He wrapped his arms around me and shifted me so that I was straddling him. “My mistake,” he said. “You must help me to make sure that I never make it again,
mia bella.
”

 

17

PARTITA

The dreaded evening of the
festa
at Ca' Foscari arrived, and the preparations for it commenced as soon as I rose that day. Meneghina drew me a bath and washed my long hair; once it dried, she arranged it in as stylish and elaborate a fashion as she could manage. She braided many small locks of hair and wound them around my head like a crown, leaving the rest of my hair to fall in loose curls down my back. Through the crown of braids she wove several delicate silver chains set with diamonds, which my father had ordered for the occasion. At my insistence, Meneghina then used only the barest traces of cosmetics on my face. I had no desire to be as thickly painted as a clown upon the stage.

The gown, which my father had gone to such pains and expense to have made for me, had arrived several days before, and I adored it in spite of myself. It was every bit as beautiful as the dressmaker had promised, with its froths of silver lace and embroidery. It looked as though it had been breathed from the very winter air.

Once my hair and makeup were complete, Meneghina laced me into my corset, petticoats, and finally the gown. The finishing touch was a necklace of elaborately worked silver set with sapphires, and earrings to match—a gift from my father to my mother many years ago.

My father was called in. As he entered my bedchamber and saw me standing before the dressing table, he stopped dead, an almost stricken look on his face. “Adriana,” he said. “You look … you look just as beautiful as your mother. She would be very proud.”

I was taken aback by his words. I must have looked very much like my mother for him to mention her. “Thank you, Father,” I said sincerely.

Extending his arm to me, he said, “Shall I escort you down to the gondola,
figlia mia
?”

Meneghina settled my fur wrap about my shoulders, and I crossed the room to him and took his arm. He led me down the stairs to the ground floor and out to the dock, where the gondola bobbed patiently.

As my father helped me into the gondola, I felt my pessimistic spirits lift a bit. My father was being so cordial, and I was wearing the most beautiful gown I had ever set eyes on, about to go to a party given by members of Venetian high society, the likes of which I had never before been permitted to attend. I was weary of being shut up in my gloomy palazzo, seeing nothing of my city or those who inhabited it. That had changed once I had started venturing to Vivaldi's house, and it would change again tonight, though in a different way.

As our gondola carried us up the Grand Canal to Ca' Foscari, I peered through the curtains of the
felze,
which created a sheltered space in the gondola and protected us from the elements. It was an uncommonly mild night for late November, and I would just as soon have ridden out in the open air, that I might gaze upon the bright, cold stars.

A liveried footman was waiting on the dock just outside Ca' Foscari. He assisted me in stepping out of the gondola, then I took my father's arm and allowed him to lead me into the brightly lit palazzo. Another footman was waiting to lead us through the entrance hall and up the stairs to the
piano nobile,
serving this evening as a ballroom, with an orchestra in one corner and an enormous table laden with food at the other end of the room. Yet another table held wine and spirits, manned by a veritable legion of servants. None of the guests would have to lift a finger for anything.

Waiting just inside the tall mahogany doors to welcome us was our hostess, Donna Foscari. A woman of perhaps fifty or so, she was dressed in a festive red gown trimmed with gold lace, and diamonds dripped from her throat, ears, and fingers. On any other woman, such a display would have looked excessive and vulgar; however, Donna Foscari's regal bearing—aided by her rather tall height—made it look natural, stunning.

“Don d'Amato,” she purred as we drew nearer. She held out her hand for my father to kiss.
“Benvenuto.”

“My dear Donna Foscari,” he said, bowing, oozing charm and warmth. “You are dazzling, this evening and always.”

She laughed. “You are too kind, signore.”

“May I present my daughter,” my father said, drawing me forward. “Adriana.”

I inclined my head in a respectful nod. “It is an honor, Donna Foscari.”

“Likewise, my dear,” she said. “My, but you are a beauty, child.”

I felt my face flush. “
Grazie,
madonna. And I thank you for inviting us into your home.”

She waved a heavily ringed hand. “Not at all. I trust you will enjoy yourselves this evening. There are a great many handsome young men who will no doubt be in a fever to make your acquaintance in particular, Donna Adriana. I would introduce you about myself, if my duties as hostess permitted, but alas.” She sighed. “When I see my husband, I shall send him to introduce you to a few eligible young men.” She glanced at my father, raising her eyebrows inquisitively. “If that is agreeable to you, Don d'Amato.”

He bowed again. “Perfectly agreeable.”

“Benissimo,”
she said. “Now do enjoy
la festa,
you two.”

“What a boon it would be, if Don Foscari were to introduce you to some of his acquaintances,” my father whispered in my ear as we walked in. “The Foscaris also have a younger son who is about your age. His parents are no doubt hoping for a girl of noble birth for him, but perhaps for a second son a girl of impeccable breeding with a very generous dowry will suit.”

I wanted to laugh at this, but restrained myself. “Do you truly believe that the Foscari family would make an offer for my hand?”

For once, my insolent tone did not bother him. “And why not? We are much wealthier than most noble families in Venice; that is all that matters. There is no reason why you could not marry into this family.”

I shook my head. Surely now my father was aiming too high. It was hardly a secret that most of the noble families were burning through their wealth at an alarming rate, and that the preferred method of replenishing the coffers was through marriage to a girl who would bring a sizable dowry; however, the Foscari family fortune was in no need of replenishing, and all of Venice knew it.

Suddenly I became aware that I was attracting glances from many of the young men in attendance. They pretended not to be looking; I caught the eye of several and smiled politely, only to have them quickly turn away and whisper to a companion, perhaps to inquire who I was.

“Ah, now, there is an acquaintance of ours,” my father said, steering me toward Senator Baldovino, bedecked in his purple senator's robes and looking as aged and portly as ever.

“Enrico!” the senator cried jovially. “Good to see you!”

“And you, Senator,” my father said. “You remember my daughter, Adriana, surely?”

The senator's eyes darted very quickly up my person, from the hem of my gown to my waist, then lingering just momentarily upon my décolletage before moving on to my face. His smile widened as he took my hand, bending to kiss it. “A pleasure to see you again, Donna Adriana. You look more beautiful than ever.”