The Violinist of Venice (14 page)

His words gave me the chance to blurt out the question I had been longing to ask for years. “Why are you so good to me, Giuseppe?” I asked. “What is it that makes you feel so…” I paused. “Responsible for me?”

“That is a question that you must ask your father,” he said, straightening.

“What does my
father
have to do with this?” I demanded.

He chuckled and moved away from the railing. “More than you know.”

Frowning, I followed him as he began to lead the way back home. “I have not the slightest idea what you mean,” I said.

“And it is not my place to enlighten you on this point.”

My first instinct was to press him on the matter, yet something held me back. If it was something he felt he had no right to tell me, then he must have a good reason. After all, when had Giuseppe ever refused me?

So instead I remained silent, and we walked the rest of the way back to the palazzo without speaking further.

 

19

OPERA AND CONCERTO

On Friday night Tommaso came to call for me, as planned. I met him wearing a gown of dark red velvet trimmed with gold thread. My father had bought me a gold and ruby pendant with earrings to match, and carefully selected strands of my hair were held back with a gold hairpin. In my hand I carried a fan of the same fabric as my gown, edged in lace.

Tommaso's eyes caught sight of me as soon as I appeared on the staircase, and never left me as I descended the stairs and stopped before him. He immediately kissed my hand, still keeping his eyes on mine. “After you left
la festa,
I thought I could only have imagined so beautiful a creature as you,” he said, by way of greeting. “But now I see that memory and imagination alike have failed me, for you are far lovelier than I remembered.”

I blushed. Nearby, my father had a smile on his face that was wider than the most ridiculous Carnevale mask.

Without giving me a chance to respond, Tommaso offered me his arm and, with a warm smile, asked, “Shall we be off, madonna?”

I took his arm and smiled in return.

“I thank you again for permitting your daughter to accompany me, Don d'Amato,” Tommaso said. “Her comfort and safety will be my utmost priority.”

“Good. I am glad to hear you say so,” my father replied, apparently feeling he had to play the stern, reluctant parent at least briefly.

“You need not fear, sir,” Tommaso said. “I shall return her to you as soon as the evening's entertainment has ended.”

“Good-bye, Father,” I called as we moved toward the door, intensely relieved and elated to be away from his watchful eye for a few hours without worrying about secrecy.

Tommaso stepped into his gondola, then reached up to assist me in doing the same. Once we were both comfortable Tommaso called to his gondolier to take us to the theater.

“I confess to being somewhat surprised that your father did not insist on a chaperone,” Tommaso said as soon as we were away from the dock.

I felt slightly alarmed at such a comment. “I believe he felt that, as a gentleman, you could be trusted in my company without one,” I said coolly.

He laughed. “I did not mean to make you ill at ease,” he said. “I have heard that Enrico d'Amato is unusually protective of his daughter, especially in so lax a city as Venice. Not to mention that, before my parents' ball, no one could rightly recall ever having seen you in public before.” He smiled. “I have been making some inquiries, you see.”

“Oh?” I said, my tone uncaring, yet truthfully I was nervous—I had so very much to hide. “And what else have you learned?”

“Let me see,” he began, smiling. “I know your mother was Lucrezia della Pietà, and that she had one of the finest voices of any of the Pietà's foundlings, ever. I also know that she died several years ago, and that your father has never remarried. I know that you have an elder brother named Claudio who is the heir apparent to the d'Amato firm. And I also know,” he added, his voice dropping to just above a whisper and leaning closer to me, “that you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” Just as abruptly, he sat back again. “Now tell me, is there anything else you think I should know?”

I smiled and looked away from him. “Not at the moment.”

As we passed one of the great houses on the Grand Canal, I heard snatches of a lovely melody, accompanied by a lute. I pulled back the curtains of the
felze
and peered out.

A young man stood in a gondola beneath the balcony of a palazzo, playing the lute and singing a song about a lady of such beauty that Venus blushed in her presence, and that Zeus himself would be jealous of the man who held her affections. On and on the song went, praising the beauty and grace of the unnamed lady, whom I assumed resided in that palazzo. As the young man reached the end of his song, spectators in nearby boats applauded. Then the balcony doors opened and a lady appeared, dressed in evening finery, and blew a kiss to the ardent young man below.

“Ah, yes,” I heard Tommaso say behind me. “Donna Grimaldi will never want for admirers, it would seem.”

Based on the glimpse of Donna Grimaldi that I had seen—she was possessed of hair that shone like gold, a heart-shaped face, and a figure for which women would sell their souls—I could only agree.

“The young man is her suitor, then?” I asked.

Tommaso laughed. “I should hope not, for the lady is married to Senator Grimaldi. He is a friend of my brother's.”

I raised my eyebrows incredulously. “And yet a man dares pay court to her anyway?”

He smiled. “I forget that you have not been out and about in society. It is very much the custom for men and women to play at courtly love, to exchange poems and songs and small gifts, whether they be married to others or not. Likely that young man—or another young man like him—escorts Donna Grimaldi to the opera and the Ridotto and to parties.”

“And her husband does not mind?”

Tommaso grinned. “Hardly. He will take it as a compliment that another man should so admire his wife. Sometimes such a
cavaliere servente
might also be a woman's lover, but these things are usually chaste.”

I was silent as I turned this new information over in my head. The idea of love as a game played purely for show, for display, for the consumption of others, was completely contrary to my experience of it. And yet if I was to make my way through Venetian society and keep my secrets, I must learn to play the game, and play it well.

“I have a confession to make,” Tommaso said as he drew near to the theater. “I instructed my gondolier to bring us here the long way around, so that I might have a bit more time alone with you.”

I smiled, a tad uncomfortable but unwilling to show it. “It was a lovely ride.”

Once we docked, Tommaso helped me from the gondola himself, and we joined the large, milling crowd gathered outside the theater. There were many finely dressed ladies and gentlemen: patricians, wealthy businessmen, foreign dignitaries, all manner of members of the privileged class. I also noticed several courtesans on the arms of wealthy men, their dresses cut low enough that their bare breasts were exposed to the night air. Then there were theatergoers who were neither noble nor wealthy, identifiable by their plain manner of dress: just ordinary Venetians indulging in their love of music.

When we stepped inside the theater, Tommaso had a brief conversation with the concierge, and then led me up several flights of stairs until we reached the box.

The Foscari box was easily the grandest in the theater; it was positioned directly opposite the stage, allowing for an unobstructed view. A chandelier made of thousands of sparkling pieces of Murano glass hung from the gilt ceiling above us, a ceiling that boasted an almost overwhelming display of frescoes and carvings.

I spread my fan, using it to hide the wonder and delight on my face as I took a seat at the front of the box and looked around. It was beautiful, this temple devoted solely to music. I knew that there were other, more richly decorated opera houses in Venice, but this one had a claim on my affections before I had even seen it.

This was Vivaldi's theater.

I felt my excitement growing almost unbearably as I looked down at the orchestra. Though his distinguishing red hair was hidden by a powdered white wig, I recognized Vivaldi at once. As if he could feel my gaze, he turned and scanned the row of boxes until he saw me, a smile stretching across his face. He shifted in his seat and audaciously raised his bow, pointing in my direction, a salute.

My wide answering grin was hidden by my fan, so instead I winked boldly in reply.

Beside me, I was startled to hear Tommaso say, “I wonder who the Red Priest knows up in the boxes?”

I lowered my fan and gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Who?”

He nodded down at the orchestra. “The solo violinist,” he said. “His name is Antonio Vivaldi. They call him
il Prete Rosso,
because of his red hair. Have you never heard of him?”

I shook my head, maintaining a look of polite bewilderment.

He smiled. “Well, then, as a former violinist yourself, you will certainly appreciate his skill. He is phenomenal; if there is a better violinist in Venice, I have not heard him. Anyway, just a moment ago, he gestured to someone in one of the boxes, and I simply wondered who it was that he knows. Probably some wealthy patron he is courting. He is a composer as well, or so I hear.”

“No doubt,” I said vaguely. I raised my fan again and snapped it open to hide the smile that had crept back onto my face.

We had not been in the box long before several of Tommaso's friends and acquaintances came in to greet us, and we moved to the seats in the back section of the box to speak with them. Tommaso introduced me to all of them, in a flurry of names that I could not quite keep straight. There was Bernardo Contarini, about Tommaso's age, and heir to another of Venice's most powerful families. He introduced us to Count Sandro Farnese, visiting from Rome. There was elderly Senator Guicciardi and his wife, who begged Tommaso to give their regards to his father. Then came Tommaso's friend Giovanni Somebody-or-other, who had on his arm a woman I suspected of being a courtesan, as her dress was cut perilously low and Giovanni did not introduce her.

We were also visited by a close friend of Tommaso's, Paolo Cornaro—or was it Corner? He bowed over my hand and paid extravagant compliments to my beauty, much to the displeasure of his new bride, a girl named Silvia, who would have been a raving beauty had it not been for the seemingly permanent sour look on her face.

“I declare, Donna Adriana,” she said to me, as Paolo and Tommaso were rapidly conversing about a friend of theirs who was apparently in dire straits after too much gambling at the Ridotto—honestly, and the sin of gossiping is laid primarily at the door of women—“I have heard your name spoken, of course, but cannot recall ever crossing your path in society.”

“Nor would you, donna,” I replied, “for I have not been about in society until very recently. My mother died several years ago, you see, and it has made my father somewhat overprotective.”

“I see.” She sniffed, snapped open her fan and began languidly fanning herself, as if the very action bored her. “Well, men do love a mystery—while it lasts, that is.”

I drew back as though she had slapped me.

Fortunately, I was saved by the arrival of Tommaso's brother, Alvise, and his wife, Beatrice. Since I had not been introduced to them at the ball, Tommaso quickly made the introductions. Alvise was a quiet, serious, reticent man; a man many considered in line to be elected doge someday. Beatrice was kind yet reserved; Tommaso later whispered in my ear that his sister-in-law had always been shy, and was much warmer once she knew someone better.

From the floor of the theater, I could hear the sounds of the orchestra tuning as one, ostensibly in preparation to begin, and it sent excitement scurrying through my veins. I glanced up at Tommaso, assuming we would be going to take our seats now.

“You would do me a great honor, both of you, if you would join me in a hand of cards,” Paolo was saying to Tommaso and his brother.

Tommaso reached for my hand. “I would,
amico mio,
but this time I must decline,” he said. “Unfashionable though I know it is, I would very much like to see at least
some
of the opera.” He turned and smiled at me, which I must confess caused my knees to weaken just a bit. “And I daresay that my lovely companion feels the same way.”

“We can hardly blame my brother for eschewing our company in favor of that of Donna Adriana,” Alvise Foscari said, bestowing on us what I sensed was a rare smile. “In that case, I shall certainly oblige you, Don Cornaro.” So that was Paolo's surname; his family, too, had produced several doges over the years. “I will be ordering dinner for us shortly,
fratello,
” he said to Tommaso. “Hopefully the two of you can be persuaded to join us?”

“Of course,” Tommaso said. “Do fetch us when the time comes.” He led me back through the curtain separating the seats from the rear of the box and helped me into a chair.

“The fashionable practice,” he explained to me, “is to spend one's time at the opera doing anything but watching the opera—except, of course, when one's favorite singer is onstage, or when one of the characters is about to die a dramatic death.” He grinned. “I seem to be the only one in my circle of acquaintances who actually comes to the opera with the intention of seeing most of the performance and hearing the music.” The look he gave me then was a companionable one, as if we were coconspirators. “And I believe that you feel the same way, yes?”

My answering smile was genuine and warm. “Yes,” I said. “To ignore such music and spectacle, why, it seems almost sinful.”

“That it does,” Tommaso said, “and we can only hope that all these poor souls will confess as much to their priest tomorrow.” With that, he settled back into his seat for the beginning of the opera.