The Violinist of Venice (3 page)

I shook my head slightly, as if to clear it, and set my violin into position again, waiting for him to tell me when to begin.

*   *   *

I made it safely home again that afternoon without being detected. Yet just as I had ensconced myself in a seat by a window in my rooms with a volume of Petrarch's sonnets, one of the maids appeared at my door, telling me that my father required me to dine with him that evening.

My father was, more often than not, much occupied with business, and lately I had been—very happily—left to my own devices as a result. But I knew that the servants would report to him all of my doings, as needed. It had happened before; when I was about fourteen, I had slipped out of the palazzo one Carnevale night at dusk to watch the revelers, and dream of joining them. I had not strayed far; I even made it safely back inside without being seen. Yet about a half hour later, my father burst into my room, delivering a ferocious lecture as well as a backhand across my face. I never discovered which of the servants told, but since then I knew better than to trust them.

As my maid, Meneghina, dressed me in a presentable gown for dinner that evening, I briefly entertained the idea that this unexpected summons meant my father had discovered my secret trips. But I knew better. If he'd learned of my disobedience, he would have taken me to task in a display of unrestrained rage that would shake the walls. I shivered thinking of it.

He was already seated when I entered the dining room. “Adriana,” he said in his deep voice, nodding formally in my direction.

“Father,” I replied, before resuming my silence.

Servants brought out our soup, and one filled my wineglass with one of the crisp white wines that was produced on the mainland of the Veneto.

I had almost finished my soup—a salty broth with white fish—when my father finally spoke again. “I have some news for you,” he said. “I am leaving the day after tomorrow to assist your brother with some business matters in Florence.”

My elder brother, Claudio, had moved to Florence a few years ago to take charge of the d'Amato business offices there. As head of the company, my father made periodic trips there to ensure everything was to his satisfaction.

“While I am gone,” he continued as the servants removed our soup dishes, “your Zia Gianna will be staying here with you. We may expect her tomorrow.”

“And how long will you be gone?” I asked.

“I plan to spend the summer there,” he said as the servants brought out the next course.

I forced myself to temper my smile. My father's departure provided just the freedom I needed to continue my lessons. If the servants noticed anything during his absence—and Fortuna, that most capricious of goddesses, smiled on me—they would forget it by the time he returned.

My father put a piece of chicken into his mouth and chewed, scrutinizing me. He swallowed. “And when I return I shall focus on finding a husband for you.”

My stomach lurched, as when one slips and narrowly misses tumbling into a canal. I had known that this would be coming soon: a few months ago, my father had sent away my tutor and stopped my daily lessons, saying I was eighteen and had learned all that was proper for a woman and more than enough to be a patrician wife and run a nobleman's household. Yet hearing it aloud gave it life outside of my own mind.

My father chuckled. “Surely this cannot be a surprise to you, Adriana. It is time you had a husband and, given the position of our family and your dowry, we shall have Venice's finest to choose from.”

He had said “we,” but I was not fooled. When I did not respond, he said, “Well, you have the rest of the summer to accustom yourself to the idea. I am expecting you to do well in marriage, Adriana, and to bring honor to our family. It is a woman's duty,” he added, an edge of warning in his voice.

I bowed my head and nodded at my plate, my meal suddenly losing all appeal. “Yes, Father,” I said quietly. There was nothing else to say.

 

4

THE CROSS I BEAR

“Stop, Signorina Adriana. Stop for a moment.”

So intensely was I trying to unravel what seemed to be a very complicated section of music that I did not immediately register the maestro's words. It was not until he placed a gentle hand on my shoulder that I felt myself pulled abruptly back into the cluttered front room of his house.

“My apologies, maestro,” I said, flustered and disoriented, not immediately realizing that he let his hand linger upon my shoulder longer than necessary. “I was just thinking … that is, I cannot seem to—”

He waved my attempted apologies aside. “You do not seem quite in your usual spirits today, Signorina Adriana, if I may presume to say so. Is anything amiss?”

I opened my mouth to reply, to tell him that I was quite well, that everything was fine, I was just tired, or it was the heat—for it was unseasonably warm that day. But instead, “It is my father,” I blurted out. “He has just gone to Florence on business for the summer, but when he comes back, he is going to find a husband for me.” I looked down, away from the Red Priest's penetrating stare. “I am sorry,” I said. “I do not know why I told you. You certainly do not care about such trivial matters. I should—”

Vivaldi shook his head. “On the contrary. It is not trivial, and I do care. But I must confess I do not fully understand. I thought most young ladies wished to make a good marriage, if they are able?”

I studied him disbelievingly, but there was nothing but sincerity in his open gaze. “I suppose it is mostly that I do not want a marriage with the kind of man my father will choose for me,” I said. “He cares little for my happiness, you see…” I trailed off, unable to put eighteen years' worth of anxiety and mistrust into words.

Vivaldi did not say anything. Then he motioned to my violin. “Put that away for now,” he told me. He turned and disappeared through a door at the back of the room, emerging a moment later with a bottle of white wine and two glasses. “Music serves to cure all ills, yet a bit of wine never goes amiss either, no?”

I smiled, accepting the glass of wine he poured me. As soon as I tasted it, I knew it was cheaper than I was used to, but I enjoyed it all the same. It was sweet and soothing.

I sat in the tattered armchair near the fireplace, and he took the other, angling it in my direction. “So tell me, Signorina Adriana,” he said, “what would you do with your life, if you could? If you did not have to marry?”

It was a question no one else would dare ask; a question I had barely dared to ask myself. Yet my answer was immediate. “I would play music. It is the one thing I have loved in my life, yet for so long I have been cut off from it. But even if my father let me”—Vivaldi's eyebrows lifted in curiosity—“there is no call for female instrumentalists, only singers in the opera.” I paused, taking a sip of wine. “And I know I have to marry someone, someday, but I want my husband to be someone I love, that I choose for myself…” I trailed off and glanced at the maestro again, then looked down into my wineglass. “You are very kind to listen,” I said. “But I do not wish to burden you with my troubles, nor do I expect you to understand the cares and wishes of a silly young woman.”

“I am afraid I must contradict you again, signorina,” he replied, a trace of emotion beneath his words. “You speak of music; who better to understand than I? What is more,” he added, almost reluctantly, “I, too, know what it is to have a path chosen for you which is not what you would have desired.”

I glanced back up, surprised.

“I am the eldest son of a family which was never particularly well off,” he continued. “And so my parents decided the best chance I would have to advance in the world was the Church.” He took another sip, staring at a spot on the wall behind me, as though he were seeing people and places and events long in the past. “I was a boy of fifteen when I was accepted into the minor orders for the priesthood; what was I to do? I was too young to have any idea of what I wanted. I still did not know ten years later, when I was ordained; but even if I did, by then it was too late. Even if I had realized what I know now.” He shook his head, sighing.

I struggled to find my voice, spellbound by this side of him I never knew existed. “And what is it that you know now?” I asked softly.

His eyes snapped back to my face, almost surprised, as though he had forgotten I was there. “I am not at all suited for the priesthood,” he said wryly. “I am the wrong sort of man altogether. My passions are not limited solely to serving our Heavenly Father, I am afraid.” He smiled and looked away. “Strange,” he said, more to himself than to me.

“What is strange?” I asked.

His eyes met mine again, an odd curiosity in them. “I do not believe I have ever told anybody that before,” he said. “Only said it to myself, countless times, over and over again.”

I remained frozen where I was, silent, unsure how to respond.
Why me?
a part of me wanted to ask.
Why tell me, of all people?

“Still,” he added, breaking what had turned into a long silence, “being a man of the cloth has had its advantages. Were I not a priest, I would never have been able to teach at the Pietà, or write music for them.” He laughed. “For as long as that lasted.” He tipped his head back, draining the rest of his glass. “At least I am not required to say Mass,” he said. “A chest ailment,” he explained, in response to my questioning look. “A breathing problem that plagued me greatly as a boy, but seems to have mostly sorted itself out as I have grown older. Nothing serious. A convenient excuse,” he added with a smile, “though I expect the bishop was glad to be rid of me, as I got into a persistent habit of leaving the altar during Mass if an idea for a new composition struck me.”

I laughed aloud at this.

Noticing my wine was gone as well, he refilled my glass, then his, without a word. He lifted his glass. “To us, Signorina Adriana. Perhaps the fact that we already know what our lives lack will at the very least keep us from spending our years wondering what is missing.”

I touched my glass lightly to his, smiling.

“But one thing, maestro,” I said, after we drank our toast. “That is enough of this ‘signorina' nonsense. You must call me Adriana.”

He nodded. “Yet I fear I must presume upon this familiarity a bit further. Would it do so much harm if you told me your surname?”

I considered this. Surely it could do no harm now.

“Just to sate my curiosity,” he added.

“D'Amato,” I confessed finally. “Adriana d'Amato.”

His eyes widened. “Surely not,” he breathed. “Then you are the mysterious daughter that Enrico d'Amato keeps under such close guard.”

I flushed. “I had not realized that all of Venice knew of my circumstances,” I said. “But yes.”

He gave me a crooked sort of smile. “Never underestimate the might of the Venetian gossips, my girl.”

“Then you understand why your discretion is of the utmost importance,” I said. “Nobody—especially my father—can know I've been coming here.”

His face closed off slightly. “Is it your own reputation you guard so closely, or his?” he asked coolly.

“It is my skin I am guarding,” I retorted. “And I mean that in the most literal sense you can imagine. My father has forbidden me to study music. Were he to discover that I had disobeyed him…” My voice wavered. “It would not go well for me.”

Vivaldi sighed. “Forgive me, Adriana. Of course your secret is safe with me.” We sat in silence for several moments before he spoke again. “Perhaps we had best finish our wine, and leave it at that for the day.”

I agreed. As I drank the last of my wine, I was surprised by the degree to which unburdening myself—and hearing the maestro's confidences in return—had lifted my spirits. I took my leave soon after, glowing at how he had said my name,
Adriana
. It was as if he were saying the name of a favorite composition.

 

5

SPELLBOUND

During my father's absence, I was able to go to the maestro's house more often. Zia Gianna—my father's elder sister—had become a very wealthy widow upon the death of her much older husband some years ago. She had inherited a huge palazzo and estate in Mantua, and so far as I knew spent most of her time skulking about the place, upset that she lived there rather than in the fashionable city of Venice. As such, she scarcely paid me any attention, preferring instead to spend her time with her Venetian friends at parties, the opera, or visiting the shops at the Rialto. Indeed, she was so seldom actually present in our palazzo that I thought my father could have saved himself the trouble of sending for her at all.

The lessons were pure joy. Each day I could feel my fingers regaining their old strength and suppleness. Such were my enthusiasm, dedication, and—perhaps—talent, that I was soon able to play any piece of music Vivaldi put in front of me at first glance. However, sensing the fast progress I was making, the maestro began giving me much more difficult music—often his own compositions, along with those of others. He also took to instructing me on points of composition and the theory behind it; how music was and should be put together.

“See here,” he said, while we were discussing phrasing one afternoon. “All music must return to where it began—the root of the scale, no?” Picking up his own violin, he played a quick C-major scale, upward and down again. “It always moves back to the beginning. If I were to begin the scale but then stop on the fourth note”—he paused, moving quickly up through the first four notes and then abruptly stopping—“it feels incomplete, and the listener is unsettled.”

I nodded.

“The same is true of a piece of music, be it melody or harmony. This here, for instance”—he pointed with his bow to the sheet of music, a sonata by the old master Corelli—“if I play it like this…” He began to play the first bars of the sonata, then stopped at a random point, though he executed a customary rallentando before stopping. “It simply does not feel right, because I did not end on the tonic chord. Even those who have no understanding of music would feel that this is wrong and somehow incomplete. And again, the listener is unsettled.”