The Violinist of Venice (31 page)

“She has a good set of lungs on her,” Pietra remarked.

Indeed she had, for she scarcely seemed to pause in her wailing to breathe. I moved to bare my breast for her.

My aunt gasped in shock and disapproval. “Take the child from her at once,” she ordered Pietra. “We have a wet nurse who is to suckle the child, and go with her to her new home. Adriana is to have no further contact with the child.”

I clutched my daughter as tightly as I dared. “No! You cannot take her from me yet! Please, just give me a little time!”

But Zia Gianna was shaking her head. “You will only grow attached to her.” She motioned again to Pietra. “Take her away. Now.”

“No!” I screamed. “Please, I beg of you! Just give me an hour—not even that! Half an hour only!”

I broke off as Pietra approached me. “Please, signora,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “This is the child of the man I love. She is all I have left.”

“Pietra!” my aunt barked, seeing her hesitation. “If you do not do as I bid you, I will see to it that you do not find work in this city ever again. Am I understood?”

At that, Pietra stepped closer, gently taking my daughter from my arms. The child began to wail anew, only this time her cries were like knives upon my ears. “What is her name, signorina?” Pietra whispered.

I looked for the last time upon my daughter's face. In that moment I feared that, should I name her after her father as I had wanted, someone might guess his identity. “Anna,” I said aloud. “Her name is Anna.”

Pietra nodded once, then stepped away from the bed. I fell back and closed my eyes.

Once I heard the door close behind her, I began sobbing. “You evil, hateful witch!” I screamed as my aunt made to leave the room as well. “How could you—why—” But I could no longer speak, my words dissolving into screams, but of a different, far greater pain this time.

 

45

DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN

By two days after the birth, Pietra proclaimed me perfectly healthy. She also assured me—and my aunt, who would report to my father—that I should have no trouble bearing children in the future.

Tossing and turning, I tried to get some sleep. Despite my exhaustion, I wondered if I would ever be able to sleep again not knowing where my daughter was, or if she was safe.

I must have drifted off at some point, however, for the next thing I was aware of was being gently shaken awake. “Adriana,” a voice whispered in my ear.

“Who is there?” I mumbled, rolling over toward the voice, still half asleep. I opened my eyes to see Giuseppe's face, dimly illuminated by the light of a single candle. “Giuseppe!” I gasped, pulling myself into a sitting position. “How did you get here? How did you get in?”

“Shhh,” he hissed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I got on a coach that was headed here, of course. And as to how I got in…” He smiled mischievously. “You underestimate my effect on the fairer sex, Adriana. I spoke for a time with a young maid, who was kind enough to let me in once I explained.”

“Does Father know you left?” I asked, fully awake now. I pushed my heavy hair off my face, anxiously searching his eyes. His silence, however, told me all that I needed to know.
“Dio mio,”
I breathed. “He has not thrown you out?”

He nodded. “Told me I was no longer welcome in his house because of my betrayal. He gave me a small fortune before I left, though.” He chuckled darkly. “My inheritance.”

“Oh, Giuseppe. Whatever will you do?”

He shrugged. “Do not worry about me, Adriana. What of you? How are you faring here?”

I looked away. “I gave birth two days ago.”

His eyes widened. “Are you well? And what of the child?”

My eyes filled with tears. “I am not well, not at all. It was a girl, and they took her from me at once. Her name is Anna.”

“Oh, Adriana.” He enfolded me in a tight embrace. “I am so sorry.”

“There was nothing I could do, Giuseppe,” I said, sobbing. “Yet sometimes I think that if I really loved her, I would not have let them take her. That I should have died first.”

“Do not blame yourself,” he said. “You were caught in a web of plans laid by powerful men. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Perhaps,” I said. I knew he was right, yet I also knew that a mother's guilt would never cease to hound me.

“And when do you come back to Venice?”

I wiped away my tears. “No one has said. As soon as I am recovered enough to travel safely, I suppose. But what of you?”

“It was suggested that it would not go well for me if Enrico were to find me hanging about you, causing trouble,” he said, smiling. “So I have a mind to see more of the world, outside of Italy. With Enrico's money, of course.”

“I wish that I could keep you with me always,” I said, crestfallen. “But perhaps you are right, and this will be best for now.”

He squeezed my hand. “I will return to Venice soon enough,” he said. “In plenty of time for your wedding.”

I chuckled. “Father will be thrilled.”

“He cannot stop me. What will he do, throw me out of the church?”

I laughed at the image: my aging father, formidable though he might be, attempting to bodily expel the young, robust Giuseppe from my wedding ceremony. “It is to be in April, I believe,” I said. “After Lent.”

“I will be there,” he said. “No doubt I will be homesick before long, in any case.”

I smiled. “Come home with a lovely French wife, Giuseppe. They are said to be the most beautiful women in the world.”

He leaned forward and kissed the top of my head. “No,
cara sorella,
” he said.
“Le donne italiane sono.”

As he rose to leave, I clutched at his sleeve. “Wait,” I said. “Where do you go from here?”

He paused. “Back to Venice, I suppose, to find passage from there.”

I hesitated only a moment. “There is one thing I need you to do for me,” I said. “I have no right to ask, not when you have already done so much for me, but…”

“Anything,” he said, sitting back on the edge of the bed. “Just tell me what it is, Adriana.”

“Will you go to him?” I asked. “Tell him he has a daughter, and her name is Anna.”

“Oh, Adriana.” Giuseppe sighed, running his fingers through his dark hair. “What good can it do now?”

“Would you not want to know, if you were in his position?” I asked.

He was silent. “Very well,” he said. “I will go. Yes, of course I will go.” He rose to leave. “I promise I will find him before I do anything else.”

“I will repay you someday, Giuseppe,” I vowed. “For everything. I know not how, but I will, I swear it.”

He shook his head. “You need do no such thing.” Before I could protest, he moved toward the door. “
Addio,
Adriana. I will see you at your wedding.”

Tears stung my eyes again.
“Addio, mio caro fratello.”

And then he was gone, and I was alone in the darkness of the cold room.

 

46

RECAPITULATION

I returned home to Venice at the end of January, without having heard any more of my daughter's fate. I was not such a fool that I did not realize this was how it would be, for the rest of my life: Anna would be the child I could never admit to having borne, and everyone around me would pretend these events, which had shattered my entire life, had never happened at all.

Plans for the wedding were well under way by my return. My father and my affianced husband had apparently disagreed over the size and style of the event: the former wanted the large, lavish wedding that would normally accompany the union of a senator and a daughter of a wealthy family and, as such, quash any rumors of scandal. The latter, however, in a turn quite uncharacteristic of a Venetian nobleman, did not want much made of himself. My father was not happy, but he was forced to hide his displeasure.

I did not care either way what people might think and doubted anyone would ever guess the whole truth. After all, besides myself, only my father, Vivaldi, and Giuseppe knew everything there was to know—Meneghina had never even asked my lover's name—and we would all remain silent unto the grave, if for very different reasons.

I had resolved to be as stoic as possible regarding the wedding arrangements and the marriage itself. I had lost and I knew it.

Yet there was one crucial detail of the arrangements that, when revealed to me by my fiancé, nearly caused me to lose the composure I had just barely achieved.

Several days after my return, I was informed the senator was waiting in the small parlor for me. I went down to see him in the graceless, listless manner I had adopted since giving birth. It was as though my body could not seem to remember how it ought to move without the added weight of a child within me.

He rose when I entered, his eyes moving over my form probingly. I had lost all of the weight I had gained while carrying the child, and then some. “You are thin, Adriana,” he said, in lieu of a greeting. He lowered himself heavily back into his chair once I was seated. “You have not been eating well, I take it?”

I shrugged. “I do not have much of an appetite of late,” I said.

“You must try to eat more to regain your health,” he instructed. “You do not want to be a pale, wan bride, do you?”

I do not want to be a bride at all.

He leaned toward me. “If you think to discourage me with your indifference, you are destined to be disappointed,” he said. “I care very deeply for you, and nothing would induce me to part with you, when I am so close to making you mine.”

You care for me as you would a prized possession, not a woman.

To my surprise, his tone grew gentler. “All I ask is that you give me a fair chance,” he said. “I know I am not the young, gallant knight errant that young ladies dream of marrying. But I cannot make you happy if you do not let me try.”

In spite of myself, my heart softened ever so slightly. “You are a man of sense, I see,” I said, glancing up to find him smiling at me. A bit more at ease, I prompted, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today, Senator?”

“Wedding plans, what else?” he said. “The dressmakers and jewelers and what have you—since I know not what gear a woman needs for her wedding day—will be coming here in the next few days to consult with you. Spare no expense, my dear. Choose anything and everything you desire. Though it is to be a small wedding, I want it to be as beautiful and luxurious as you wish.”

I nodded, touched by his heartfelt words. “I thank you very much, Senator. And has a date been chosen?”

“It has. The happy day is to be the thirtieth of April, at the church of the Pietà. There should be enough of spring in the air by then, would you not say?”

I scarcely heard his last words. “It … what? Where?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “At the church of the Pietà,” he repeated. “Adriana, whatever is the matter?”

“I … I…” I stuttered.

How can I be married in that church, where I will see him everywhere?

“Please, I beg of you,” I began. “Might we not be married somewhere else?”

“No,” he said, still looking perplexed. “I have been attending Mass there since I was a boy and I am one of their benefactors. And I confess I do not understand your reluctance, my dear. I thought it would please you to be married in the same church as your parents.”

“Please,” I repeated. “Please, Senator, anywhere but the church of the Pietà.”

His expression darkened. “No, Adriana. I would give you your head in anything else, but I am quite set on this, and it is already arranged. You are being quite unreasonable, especially as you have yet to explain your objections.”

“I will not ask you for anything else,” I said. “Just, please…”

He rose to his feet. “Out of the question,” he said. “I have decided, and so it shall be. I hope you are not planning to make a habit of questioning my decisions in such a way. Good day to you, Adriana.” With that, he moved crossly past me and out of the room.

Once alone, I buried my face in my hands. Fortuna was, no doubt, once again laughing loudly at my expense.

*   *   *

The wedding preparations seemed to go on around me, as though I were standing in the middle of a river and simply letting the water flow past me, neither helping nor hindering the current. I made decisions when I was asked to, but did not offer an opinion otherwise; yet somehow, no one seemed to notice.

My twentieth birthday came and went, lost in the wedding plans, almost as unremarked upon as the previous one. My father invited Senator Baldovino to dine at our palazzo, but it was a rather subdued, joyless affair. After dinner, my future husband presented me with a heavy gold necklace set with an enormous diamond, saying he would be most pleased if I would wear it on our wedding day. I did not know if I would be able to hold my head up with such a thing around my neck, let alone stand through the entire ceremony, but I said I would.

The date of the nuptials quickly approached, and I heard nothing from Giuseppe. He had sent me several letters since his departure, telling me of the things he had seen and the people he had met. His first letter came from Milan, the second from Vienna, the third from Barcelona, and the last from Paris. The first letter had informed me he had succeeded in delivering my message to Vivaldi, but gave no further details.

The letter from Paris was dated in late March, and as the beginning of April came and went, I had no further news of him. I began to worry that Giuseppe—the only person I truly wanted at my wedding—would not return to Venice in time.

My other, incessant worry was for my daughter. I worried that she was not being properly cared for, that the Girò family did not love her, did not want her. I worried, foolishly, that she somehow knew I had abandoned her. And as I had no one in whom to confide, these worries bled and festered within me, a wound that everyone chose not to see and so could not be healed.