The Violinist of Venice (18 page)

Giuseppe's smile returned. “He said he has wanted you to come to him more than he has wanted air in his lungs; that he would give his soul to know he had not dreamt you, that the last few months had been real, and not some fantasy of paradise. He said that it was worth his life for him to know that you forgive him, and for you to know that he forgives you.”

“Why does he not tell me such fine things himself, then?” I asked, taking refuge in haughty anger, the only refuge I could find.

A wide smile split Giuseppe's face, and he threw open the door behind him. “Ask him yourself.”

 

23

CROSSING THE RIVER STYX

I could not move as a cloaked figure stepped into the room and past Giuseppe. He pulled down his hood so that I could see his face, making flesh the words I had scarcely dared believe.

I gasped, fighting back the urge to cry. “Did anyone see him?” I demanded.

Giuseppe shook his head. “No, Adriana. The rest of the servants are in the kitchen celebrating the holiday—and with liberal amounts of liquor and wine, I might add. Even if someone sees him, they will be too drunk to think anything of it or even to remember.”

But I had stopped listening. I just stared at Vivaldi, the man I had thought I might never see again.

“I will excuse myself, then,” Giuseppe said, backing toward the door. “I will keep watch not too far away.” He closed the door behind him.

I scarcely registered his departure. Vivaldi and I simply stared at each other, unable to believe we were actually in each other's presence, and here, of all forbidden places.

Suddenly I found I could not bear to look at him. I buried my face in my hands, an involuntary sob escaping me.

“Cara,”
he whispered, his voice ragged with fear and hope, joy and sorrow, “why do you not look at me?”

“I … I cannot,” I choked out. I opened my mouth to speak again but could make no sound. How could I ever explain that I feared to look at him, was afraid to see either love or hate on his face?

“Per favore, mia carissima Adriana,”
he pleaded.

After I took a moment to master myself, after I finally gained the courage to face this man who had come across such a great distance for me, I found I could not look away from him, from the desperate longing and love in his eyes.

“We have both said terrible things to each other,” I said, my voice heavy with tears. “But if you can forgive me, then, my love, I can forgive you.”

“I have,” he rasped. “I
have
forgiven you.”

Still neither of us moved. “And did you mean those things?” I asked. “The things Giuseppe told me you said?”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine. “Oh, yes.” He removed his cloak and flung it over the back of a nearby chair, crossing the room toward me. “All of that and more.”

He took me in his arms, his fingers twining through my hair as he kissed me. We drew apart, and he turned me swiftly so my back was pressed against his chest. “Shall I tell you?” he murmured, brushing my hair aside so that he could whisper in my ear. His hands moved down my back and began to unlace my gown. “I was not able to compose a single measure without you,” he said. “When I would try to play, every note sounded as though it were made of stone. Do you know why?” He undid the last of the laces and pushed my gown down to the floor. “It is because you are the violin, and I am the bow. Without one, the other is useless.” He bent his head to kiss my neck, his thumb brushing the top of my breast.

“I love you as Dante loved Beatrice, as Petrarch loved Laura, as Orfeo loved Euridice.” He ran his hands slowly up over my hips, my waist, my breasts. “I would descend into the underworld for you,” he whispered, “and play before the King of Hell himself until he released you.”

“I love you.” I sighed against his mouth as he turned my head to kiss me.

He moaned in response, quickly working to undo the laces of my corset, and then lifted my shift over my head. I waited patiently for him to remove his own clothes, then sank down onto the very conveniently placed daybed, which we put to a use for which I doubt it was ever intended.

As we made love, I held him as tightly against me as my strength allowed. I was determined to never let him go. It did not matter that the world we lived in was an imperfect one, cruel and conniving, and would seek to tear us apart. There was only perfection then, in that room, between the two of us, and I could not remember ever being happier in my life.

*   *   *

“I quite forgot,” I said lazily, my head resting on his chest, “that Giuseppe had said he would be keeping guard just outside.”

Vivaldi chuckled. “No doubt he knew to make himself scarce.” His fingers traced swirling, circular patterns on my bare skin.

We fell silent for a time before I spoke again. It was not something I wanted to say, not in that idyllic state which we had carved out, but I knew I had to.

“And so,” I said, propping myself up on an elbow so I could see his face. “Where do we go from here?”

He drew me tighter against him. “We go on,” he said. “For as long as we can.”

I nodded. “Yes.”

After that, he was quiet for so long that I thought he had fallen asleep. Then he said, “I am given to understand that your harpsichord playing leaves something to be desired.”

I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the daybed.

*   *   *

Reluctantly, we soon rose and dressed, and Vivaldi helped lace me back into my corset and gown, a task at which he had grown quite proficient.

“Meneghina shall have to find another position, I fear,” I teased him. “You would make a fine lady's maid,
caro
.”

He drew my hips tightly against his own. “As it would require me to spend a great deal of time in your bedchamber, I think I should enjoy it very much.”

I had not even finished cursing the clothing we had just donned again when he released me. I turned to face him, and he gently took my face in his hands. “Come to me the night after next,” he said. “We will spend the first night of Carnevale together.”

“I would like nothing better,” I said.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. A few moments later, Giuseppe stuck his head into the room. “Madonna, Don Vivaldi,” he said. Plainly relieved to see we were both fully clothed and not in any sort of compromising position, he stepped fully into the room. “I hate to interrupt, but I think it time that Don Vivaldi takes his leave. Some of the servants are beginning to disperse from the kitchens, and we cannot have anyone discover you.”

Vivaldi kissed me once more, then reluctantly released me.
“Buon Natale, cara mia.”

“Buon Natale,”
I said in reply.

He picked up his cloak from where he had dropped it and pulled it on. “Thank you, my friend,” he said to Giuseppe.

Giuseppe nodded.

With one last look at me, Vivaldi followed Giuseppe out of the room.

Once they had left, I climbed the stairs to my bedchamber, though I knew it would be hours before I could sleep.

What need I with sleep,
I mused, my lips curving into a smile as I watched the sky slowly begin to lighten over the Grand Canal,
when life itself has become like a dream?

 

MOVEMENT THREE

ORFEO E EURIDICE

December 1710–April 1711

 

24

SECRETS

Christmas Day passed in a haze, as did the party with Tommaso. My father returned home in the morning only to go out again as evening fell; I did not see him once. Meneghina dressed and polished me appropriately for the party, and Tommaso came to escort me in his gondola.

“You look ravishing,” he said, kissing my hand as I met him in the foyer. He led me down to the dock and into his gondola, where glasses of mulled wine were waiting for us inside.

We had scarcely pulled away from the dock when Tommaso said, albeit good-naturedly, “So I hear that I have a rival.”

I nearly choked on my wine. “You do?” I asked, employing the same innocent look I used on my father. “Whatever do you mean?”

He took a sip from his own glass. “Your mysterious midnight serenade,” he said. “It is the talk of Venice.”

I pulled my features into an astonished expression. “Do you mean to say that you did not send that musician?”

He grinned ruefully. “No, though I wish I had thought of it.”

I slapped him playfully on the arm. “Do not demur for my sake, Don Tommaso. You can admit it to me. I thought it was lovely.”

Tommaso shook his head. “I swear to you, it was not I.”

I furrowed my brow. “Then who could it have been?”

“You would know the answer to that better than I, I should think.”

“Truly, Tommaso, I am at a loss. Here I was all this time thinking that you were behind the whole thing!” I giggled girlishly.

“Hmmm.” His eyes searched my face, looking for truth. He must have found it, for he relaxed. “It should not surprise me. It is too much to hope that I should be your only suitor.” He smiled, his eyes sparkling. “I shall simply have to increase my efforts to capture your heart, then.”

His words set a stream of panic flowing in my stomach. “I suppose you must,” I said, returning his smile.

“I shall begin my endeavors in that regard immediately, then,” he said, taking a small wooden box from beneath one of the cushions and handing it to me. “I have a Christmas gift for you.”

“How kind of you,” I said. I opened the box to find a lovely bracelet nestled on a bed of green silk. It was gold, with emeralds set in a second gold band that twined around it. “Oh, Tommaso, it is beautiful! And it matches my gown exactly!”

He smiled. “It is my good fortune that you chose to wear green tonight,” he said. “Here. Let me.”

I handed him the bracelet and extended my left arm. He carefully clasped it around my wrist and, once the task was complete, did not remove his hands; they were warm and soft against my skin, contrasting with the cold, hard gold of the bracelet. Then, swiftly, he leaned in and kissed me.

I scarcely had time to respond before he drew back, smiling sheepishly. “Forgive me, madonna,” he said. “I found I could not help myself.”

“You have done nothing for which I must forgive you,” I said, leaning back against the cushions and trying to still my pounding heart.

The party was much like the last, except that Tommaso rarely left my side. I confess that his devoted attention went quite to my head, for he was far and away the most handsome of all the men present.

Don and Donna Foscari greeted me warmly, as did Tommaso's brother and sister-in-law. I spent some time in conversation with Beatrice; she was, I found, an extremely learned and well-read woman.

I also crossed paths once again with Senator Baldovino, who insisted upon speaking to me for upward of ten minutes about his work in the Senate, while sneaking glances at my bosom. I had never been so glad to see Tommaso as when he came to rescue me from the old lecher.

I endured it all in the only way I knew how: with memories of the night before burning brightly in my mind, with the knowledge that the next night I would be with Vivaldi again.

The next day dawned cold and bright and clear: perfect for the first day of Carnevale. When I rose in the morning and went to look out my window, I could see revelers already crowded into boats on the Grand Canal.

Let the debauchery begin,
I thought, smiling as I turned away from the window.

*   *   *

When night finally fell and my father had departed for his own Carnevale engagement, it was time for me to dress and be off. The act of dressing was a bit awkward; as I had no choice but to have Giuseppe help me. The gown I had chosen was a rather anonymous black dress I had not worn in several years; the sort worn by noblewomen on those occasions when they dressed in compliance with the sumptuary laws. It would suit my purposes of disguise well enough. And as I had not worn it for some time, it fit almost scandalously tightly, showing off my figure to the best possible advantage.

“Most of the servants have either left or will be slipping out soon, so we should not need to worry about them,” Giuseppe reported as I pulled out the corset I would need, stockings, the gown, and my mask: a silver half mask covered with black lace and adorned with black feathers and black and silver glass beads. He cast a nervous eye over my woman's gear.

“Very well,” I said, turning to retrieve my cloak from the wardrobe. “I do not see why you cannot return to Antonio's house to fetch me at, say, dawn—it is Carnevale, after all.”

Giuseppe did not answer. I frowned and turned to face him. “Giuseppe?”

The word all but died in my throat as I saw him staring, openmouthed, at the door to my bedchamber. At Meneghina, who had just walked in, carrying a basket of freshly laundered linens.

Her face was frozen in surprise as she took in the clothing on the bed and the damning words she had certainly overheard.

“By the Virgin,” I swore under my breath. This would be the ruin of us all.

Giuseppe, thankfully, came to his senses and took command of the situation. “How much did you hear?” he demanded, taking a step toward her.

“I…” Meneghina looked wildly back and forth between Giuseppe and me. “Madonna said you … you should return to fetch her at dawn, from—”

A small noise escaped my throat, and I sank down onto the bed, feeling faint. She had heard enough. Enough to tell my father, enough to have him put together the whole sordid picture.

“And how much will it take for you to hold your tongue?” Giuseppe asked.

My head snapped up at this. Giuseppe's gaze was focused, hard, on Meneghina.

“I do not understand,” she said, glancing at me.