The Violinist of Venice (19 page)

“How much must I pay you,” I said, finding my voice, “for you to swear that you will tell no one what you heard, least of all my father?”

“Oh, madonna.” Meneghina put the laundry down and took a hesitant step toward me. “You need pay me nothing; I will not tell a soul, I swear—”

“And can I trust you with my skin? With my life?” I demanded. “I have heard you gossip many a time, Meneghina. You know, I am sure, what my father would do to me if—”

“I would never betray you!” she said, her large brown eyes shining fiercely. “How could you think I would do such a thing?”

“Because you will lose your position if Don d'Amato finds out you kept such a secret from him,” Giuseppe pointed out coldly.

“Even so,” Meneghina said. “I … oh, madonna, I must confess. I have known for some weeks now that you have been leaving the house in secret, and I … well, I assumed you have been going to a lover.”

She looked back and forth between the two of us for confirmation, and apparently took our silence as such.

“I have not said anything to anyone—I would never!—because…” She hesitated. “Well, because I am happy for you, madonna!” she declared. “You have seemed so happy, and after the way your father has treated you all your life—” She clapped a hand over her mouth and immediately dropped a curtsy. “
Mi scusi,
madonna.”

A small smile stole over my face. “You have nothing for which to apologize, Meneghina, I assure you.”

“Thank you, madonna,” she said, looking relieved. “All I meant to say was that you deserve to be happy. To choose for yourself.”

For a moment I was humiliated, that my own maid should pity me. Yet then the simple truth of her words struck me:
You deserve to be happy. To choose for yourself.

“Thank you, Meneghina,” I said finally. “As you are here, you may as well help me dress for Carnevale, and spare poor Giuseppe the indignity.”

Giuseppe looked as though he wanted to protest—strenuously—but did not say anything.

“Wait just outside for me, Giuseppe,” I said. “I shall not be long.”

He frowned, but left quickly to wait in the sitting room.

Meneghina hesitantly crossed the room to me, and I turned my back to her so she could unlace my day dress. “You can trust me, madonna,” she said softly. “I swear it, on the Holy Virgin.”

“I do not know that I deserve such devotion,” I said. “But I thank you, and can only hope that I may repay you one day.”

She laced me into my corset, then my dress, as she had done hundreds of times before; but this time was different. Now we were confidantes, coconspirators—more like friends than maid and mistress. She did not ply me with questions, but seemed to trust I would tell her my secrets if and when I chose.

I could see her smile in the mirror as she finished lacing the gown. “You look ravishing, madonna,” she said. “I do not know this man of yours, but I should think he will be quite pleased. Now, sit,” she said, “and I will pin up your hair quickly.”

She used pins set with diamonds that had been a Christmas gift from my father, and then tied on my mask. When she was finished, she placed both hands on my shoulders and leaned in close, so that her face appeared in the mirror beside my own, bright with excitement.

“Now go, madonna,” she said. “And happy Carnevale.”

I rose from my seat and drew her into a brief embrace. “Thank you,” I whispered again into her ear.

 

25

MASQUERADE

We had not even left the house when Giuseppe started in on me. “What can you be thinking, madonna?” he hissed as we made our way down the servants' stairs. “Do you truly think we can trust her?”

“We do not have a choice,” I said as we stepped outside. We paused briefly for Giuseppe to don his own mask: a simple white
bauta,
which covered the entire face, leaving holes for the eyes and with a jutting chin that allowed the wearer to easily breathe as well as eat and drink while remaining disguised.

“Perhaps,” Giuseppe grumbled. “But she is a gossip, as you said.”

“She has managed to hold her tongue thus far,” I said as we set off, “if in truth she has noticed my disappearances before now.”

“Let us pray she is the only one who has noticed.”

I winced. “No one has occasion to be near my rooms save you and Meneghina,” I said slowly.

“And what of—”

I sighed. “Please, Giuseppe. It is Carnevale—my first Carnevale, and I would like to enjoy it. I believe she will keep my secret. We must trust her.” Even as I spoke, nervousness gnawed at me—there were too many people now who knew. Like a true Venetian, though, I vowed not to think of such things tonight. “It is Carnevale!” I said again, laughing and skipping on ahead of Giuseppe.

I could hear the smile in his voice. “So it is, madonna. You are right. I will try not to worry.”

Soon enough, we had melted into the crowds that had taken to the streets that night. I felt an irrepressible smile stretch across my face. What freedom a mask provided, that anyone could look at me and not guess the face beneath. I had never experienced anything quite so liberating.
Such is the magic of Carnevale!

I studied my fellow revelers as we passed them, wondering where they were going to spend this most joyous of nights.
Perhaps some of them use their masks to hide secrets, as I do; not just because it is tradition,
I thought.

As we reached Vivaldi's house, I found myself thoroughly enamored of Carnevale—and it had barely begun. I stepped inside, Giuseppe behind me, to find Vivaldi waiting for me.

“You are as beautiful a seductress as Carnevale has ever seen,” he said. I could see from the look in his eyes that he was contemplating not leaving the house at all, but instead having a very private sort of celebration. I stepped into his arms and kissed him boldly, heedless of Giuseppe's presence. I drew back after a moment, determined that we should not be tempted to miss out on the fun to be had in the streets of Venice.

Vivaldi was dressed in a suit of simple gray damask, with a lace cravat and lace at the cuffs of his sleeves. He also wore a white powdered wig to conceal his red hair, and in his hand was a white
bauta
mask just like Giuseppe's, anonymity being even more important to him than it was to me.

“I shall leave you, then, madonna,” Giuseppe said.

“Very well,” I said, turning back to him. “Remember: dawn.”

“Indeed.”

“Go out, Giuseppe,” I said, tossing him a smile. “Enjoy yourself.”

He bowed. “Your wish is my command, madonna,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. With that, he turned and went back into the boisterous night.

Vivaldi chuckled. “He does not strike me as one to revel in such debauchery as he is likely to find out there this night.”

I smiled. “No. But he is a man all the same, and no doubt that is prerequisite enough. Besides,” I added, my tone becoming a bit more somber, “he needs a bit of respite from worrying about me.”

“Then we shall give him nothing to worry about tonight,” Vivaldi promised. He settled his mask into place, donned his cloak, and put a simple tricornered black hat on his head. “What say you? Am I sufficiently disguised?”

He was, in fact; to a degree that surprised even me. His fiery red hair was completely hidden, as was his face, and the mask slightly distorted his voice when he spoke. Had I not known that it was him, I would never have guessed it. “Perfect,” I said.

He offered me his arm. “Very well, then. Shall we go?”

I placed my hand on the crook of his elbow, and for the first time, we stepped outside together, welcomed into the night that seemed so full of promise.

“To where are we bound, my lady?” he asked.

I hesitated. “I would hazard that you are rather more familiar with the city and its many Carnevale spectacles than I am,” I said. “Therefore I shall allow you to lead the way.”

“Very well. To Piazza San Marco, then,” he said. “There we shall see spectacles enough.”

We made our way to the square, where all the merrymakers were out in full force. I peered interestedly at each mask I saw: there were many of the anonymous
baute;
some wore masks of the characters from the
commedia dell'arte;
and still others had more elaborate masks like mine, with lace and feathers and jewels.

There were any number of women dressed in the attire of a courtesan, with their dresses cut so low that their bare breasts were exposed for all to see, even in the winter cold—though their faces were, of course, masked. But it was impossible to tell the true courtesans from those who were simply taking advantage of the license and freedom that Carnevale provided.

Nothing, tonight, was as it seemed.

Then there were those in full costume: figures from Greek and Roman mythology; people dressed in Turkish robes; others still in costumes in the English or French or Spanish styles. There were even a few dressed in the robes of priests, bishops, and cardinals who, it was not difficult to deduce, were certainly not clerics.

Overhead, fireworks lit the sky, enormous splashes of white and red and blue and green.

As we walked into the crowd in Piazza San Marco, Vivaldi wrapped an arm around my waist and drew me close against him. I smiled, dizzy and exhilarated by such contact and affection while in public. It went to my head just like a fine wine.

The piazza was thronged with so many people, I thought half the city must be crowded into its confines. A strange mixture of smells, from unwashed bodies to heavy perfumes to roasting meat to spiced wine, mingled in the sharp winter air. In every corner there were street performers: a group of three men who could contort their bodies into seemingly impossible positions; two men juggling flaming torches; a small group of musicians struggling to make themselves heard over the din. There were also vendors every few feet, selling spiced wine, roasted nuts, ale, and chocolates, as well as those selling masks, comical hats, and other novelties.

Vivaldi bent down to speak into my ear. “Would you like some wine?” he asked, forced to nearly shout to make himself heard.

I nodded, and he led me over to a cart where a man wearing the long-beaked mask of a plague doctor was selling mulled wine, as though dispensing remedies. He handed me a cup and said, “May this protect you from all ills and maladies on this fine Carnevale night, signorina! For the affliction of drunkenness, however, I would suggest you seek a cure elsewhere!”

I laughed and took a sip of the wine, letting it warm me from the inside out.

We walked away, stopping to listen to different musicians that were performing, discussing the flaws and merits of each. We also watched a pair of acrobats execute a series of quite astonishing feats: one would stand on the other's shoulders and launch himself into the air, performing two somersaults in midair before landing safely on his feet. The other strolled casually about on his hands, with the rest of his body straight up in the air, for such a prolonged period that he elicited gasps and murmurs of appreciation from those who had gathered to watch.

As we moved away from the acrobats, I felt a hand clutch my arm and draw me away from the crowd, into the shadowed space between two of the columns that ringed the piazza. Immediately my heart began to pound, and a film of sweat broke out on my skin, despite the light snow that had begun to fall.

I relaxed only slightly when I saw my apprehender: a bent, wizened old gypsy woman. She was dressed in a loose, flowing dress that had once, no doubt, been colorful and vibrant, but was now faded and dirty. Over that she wore a wool shawl, equally dirty and worn, and a striped kerchief bound her stringy hair back from her face. She wore no mask. Her face was a maze of lines and wrinkles; yet her eyes, deeply set in her face, were a blue so bright that they almost seemed to glow in the dim light.

“Beg pardon, signora,” I said, catching my breath, “but I do not believe I know—”

She waved my words away imperiously with her free hand, her other still clamped tightly about my arm. “Never mind that,” she said, her voice low and accented. “I would tell you your fortune, signorina.”

“With respect, signora, I do not hold with such things,” I said, my eyes frantically darting from one masked figure to another as I searched for Vivaldi. He saw me before I saw him, and was soon moving quickly through the crowd toward me.

The gypsy woman snorted derisively. “That may or may not be true,” she said. “But you should listen all the same. There are things you need to know.”

By this time, Vivaldi had reached us; but the gypsy held up a hand to prevent him from coming any closer. He stopped just outside of the gateway created by the two columns, the gateway between the raucous world of Carnevale and the mysterious world of shadows I had been pulled into against my will. “Stay back, padre,” she said, her voice as unyielding as stone. “This is none of your concern.”

The mask he wore hid his reaction, yet I knew he was as dumbfounded as I. He did not come closer. “Come,
cara,
” he said, reaching for my hand. “Come away. We shall return to the festivities; you need not stay here.”

Yet I was shaken. How had she known who he really was? “Very well,” I said tentatively. “I will listen to what you have to say.” I turned back to Vivaldi. “Wait for me. I shall not be long.”

The gypsy woman drew me farther into the shadows. “Give me your palm. Your left,” she instructed, and I silently obeyed. She took my soft hand in her gnarled, knotted ones, splaying my fingers apart so that my palm was exposed to her sharp gaze. She ran her fingers lightly over my fingertips, making note of the calluses that had formed there from my violin playing. She studied the lines of my palm intently, tracing them with a clawlike finger while making low, undecipherable noises in her throat.