The Violinist of Venice (36 page)

*   *   *

I had to lean in close to hear Giulietta Grimaldi over the noise around us: other guests of the Loredan family talking, laughing, the music of the orchestra. “And then, if you can believe, she said to me—”

A woman behind me in a blue and green peacock's mask, with feather plumage to match, let out a shrill laugh just then, drowning out Giulietta's words. “
Che?
I did not hear you,
amica,
” I said, nearly shouting.

She pursed her lips in a pretty pout, one she had perfected to the devastation of many a Venetian gentleman. “It is
far
too crowded in here, and we cannot even hear one another gossip! Shall we go to the Ridotto, then?”

“Because the Ridotto will not be crowded at all,” Vittoria said, rolling her eyes behind her mask. “And honestly, Giulietta, I do not know how you can gamble so much.”

“Where, then? It is too early to eat dinner— Oh, for the love of God and all the saints, it is so
hot
in here,” Giulietta complained, snapping open a fan and flapping it vigorously. “Where
has
Mario gotten to? Ah!”

Giulietta broke off when she saw Mario Albonini across the room. She waggled her fingers at him, and he excused himself and began to move toward us.

“We need some air,
caro,
and we have quite tired of this crowd,” she said when he drew near enough. “Do come fetch us when the gondola is ready,
si?
”

Mario nodded, kissing Giulietta's hand, and went off to do her bidding.

Mario was Giulietta's
cicisbeo:
a lover whose name was included in the marriage contract as part of the arrangement between husband and wife. I had heard of this practice before; it was quite fashionable among a nobility comprised of aging men who took young wives. In such cases, the older husband was often glad his wife had someone nearer her own age to squire her to parties and other entertainments. It was a strange arrangement, but Giulietta and her husband were both perfectly comfortable with it, and she and Mario seemed to care a great deal for each other. Mario would take Giulietta wherever she wished to go, bring her gifts, and write her poems, while she would repay him with certain favors which—as she told Vittoria and me in a giggling whisper—she was only too happy to provide.

“We still have not decided where we are going,” Vittoria pointed out as we began to move toward the door.

Giulietta smiled. “Do you mean to tell me the convent girl has not yet had her fill of merrymaking for the night?”

Vittoria laughed, a light, carefree sound. “Hardly!”

I had been surprised to learn that Giulietta and Vittoria were already friends; I would not have expected the pious, introspective Vittoria to get along so well with someone like the outgoing, flamboyant Giulietta, but I was wrong and gladly so. Giulietta had taken it upon herself to serve as our guide into the tangled thicket of the Venetian nobility, a jungle which, she informed us cheerfully, we were both novices at navigating.

“Let us go to Piazza San Marco!” I said suddenly.

Both of my friends stopped, looking at me quizzically. “Have you never been to Piazza San Marco during Carnevale?” I asked Giulietta.

“When there are parties to go to? No,” she answered. “Whatever is there to do in
la piazza
?”

“Oh, you will see!” I said excitedly. When Giulietta still looked doubtful, I added, “There are wine vendors.”

“Well, in that case,” she said. “I suppose it is worth a try. Leonardo,
andiamo
!” She waved to Leonardo Franchetti, a friend of Mario's and another member of our party. Leonardo joined us, wrapping one arm around my waist and one around Vittoria's. “Where are we off to, my lovelies?” he asked.

“Piazza San Marco, apparently,” Giulietta said.

As Giulietta had Mario, Leonardo fulfilled the more chaste role of
cavaliere servente
for Vittoria and me: he accompanied us to all social functions, brought us flowers and little gifts, and even wrote us a terrible poem or two, as in the game of courtly love. He had become a good friend, and was the final member of this merry group of ours that had formed over the course of the Carnevale festivities.

We left the palazzo and the party and climbed into our gondola. The other houses we passed were all brightly lit, with the noise of parties and dinners and concerts pouring out of each one. My eyes drank it all in hungrily. Even this late in the Carnevale season, the unbridled excess and scandal and pleasure of my city still fascinated me. Tommaso Foscari had been careful only to escort me to events of which my father would approve, never keeping me out too late. I had never truly experienced the freedom of Venice until now.

As we passed one of the palazzi along the Grand Canal, I peered at a man in a black cloak with a familiar hawk mask helping a woman—a courtesan, judging by her breast-baring neckline—into a gondola. Giacomo.

I looked away, pretending I had not seen, as any good Venetian wife was expected to. I knew that when we went out separately—as we often did—he enjoyed the company of the occasional courtesan, but it did not bother me, as I hardly envied any of them a place in his bed. There were, of course, times when we both returned early in the morning from our respective entertainments and he exerted his husbandly privilege, bolstered by the wine he had consumed. It appeared this evening I would be spared.

When we reached Piazza San Marco, Giulietta and Vittoria were just as enchanted as I had known they would be. There were no fireworks this night, but the jugglers and tumblers and magicians were out in force, and my friends gasped and whooped at their exploits. We moved through the crowd, each with a cup of mulled wine in our hand. We had quite misplaced Mario and Leonardo, but I could not say that we minded.

Just as Giulietta was suggesting we adjourn to a restaurant for dinner, I thought I saw the old gypsy fortune-teller lurking behind one of the pillars that ringed the square. But when I turned to look more closely, there was no one there.

I put my back to the columns and joined my friends' conversation again, letting the past retreat back to the shadows, where it belonged.

 

53

STABAT MATER DOLOROSA

I was quite sad to see Carnevale end. There would be no more entertainments for the next forty days, while Venice began the tedious process of repenting of our sins during Lent's somber season.

I further lamented when Giacomo made a most unwelcome announcement at dinner on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday. “We will be attending Mass tomorrow morning at the Pietà,” he informed me. “So be sure to rise and make yourself ready.”

“Oh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow with practiced composure. “Suddenly so pious,
marito
?”

He chuckled. “I have neglected piety a great deal of late, it is true,” he said. “But I mean to begin attending again with you. No doubt you will find the music the
coro
performs during Mass just as enjoyable as their performance here. Also,” he added, “tomorrow the
coro
is to premiere a new work by
il Prete Rosso,
and I mean to hear it.”

I felt that old vibration of longing, as though someone had taken a bow to the strings of my heart. “As you wish,
marito,
” I said, bowing my head to hide my discomfort.

*   *   *

The chapel was crowded when we arrived, but Giacomo seated us in one of the first pews, reserved for the nobility. I cast my gaze at those sitting around us, hoping that perhaps Vittoria might be among them. I did not see her.

Sighing, I turned my attention to the simple beauty of the chapel. I had been far too distraught on my wedding day to appreciate the painting of the Blessed Mother over the altar, and the high, graceful dome with windows beneath it allowing sunlight to spill in. To my left was the choir loft, where the members of the
coro
filed onto the balcony and took their places behind the grille in a blur of indistinct shapes and colors.

Just then, the Mass began. The words of the priest and the mumbled replies of the congregation faded into a dull blur of sound as I tried to regulate my breathing. The past few days had found me quite ill in the morning—a pattern I knew too well and couldn't bring myself to think on just yet. It was an unseasonably warm, muggy day, and as such the air inside the chapel was heavy from the closely packed bodies within, oppressively so.

When it came time for the psalm, it seemed as if the congregation drew in a collective breath of anticipation. I realized that this must be the expected new work of
il Prete Rosso
as the strings struck up a beautiful yet heartbreakingly somber melody. After several measures, a mournful contralto voice rang out from the balcony.

“Stabat mater dolorosa,”
she sang, managing to convey so much sorrow in her rich, low voice it seemed as though she were actually weeping as she sang.
“Juxta crucem lacrimosa, lacrimosa.”

I broke out into a cold sweat, feeling as though the close air was smothering me. The psalm was of the Virgin Mother standing before the cross, sobbing as she looked up at her crucified son, her sacrificed child.

“Stabat mater dolorosa, dolorosa,”
the soloist sang with heightened urgency. Then she backed away, her voice becoming softer, as though her anguish were such she could not muster the strength to be any louder:
“Juxta crucem lacrimosa, lacrimosa.”

My breath came in shallow gasps. Never before had I thought of the Holy Virgin as a mother like any other, who had surely raged against the divine plan that took her beloved child from her. How she would weep to find that the world had not changed, that mothers and children were still being separated by the plans of those more powerful than they.

And I was going to bring another child into this world …

I tried to stand, pulling myself up using the back of the pew in front of me, but found my legs would not support me. The heat was overwhelming; the altar and the crucifix swam before my eyes.
If I could just breathe, breathe past this sorrow …

Vaguely I heard Giacomo's urgent whisper: “Adriana! Be seated!” I opened my mouth to reply before collapsing against him, surrendering to the blackness that was waiting to catch me.

*   *   *

When I awoke, my breathing came easily, and the air around me was cool and clean. I slowly opened my eyes to find myself lying on a narrow bed in a small, plain room with feeble sunlight trickling in through a window.

I sat up, leaning against the wall, and discovered that I was dressed only in my shift. My gown, petticoat, and corset were draped over a nearby chair.

The chapel … that music … the heat … then nothing.

Evidently I had fainted dead away.

I breathed in sharply, my hands going to my abdomen: the child. Was the child well?

In the space of only a few seconds, I felt myself become fiercely protective of the child about whose existence I had been somewhat ambiguous—so much so that I had not yet told Giacomo.

I began to take inventory of my ailments. But other than a minor and persistent ache in my head and what felt like a bruise forming on my hip, I felt quite well. There was nothing leading me to believe that the tiny child within me was any the worse for wear after its mother's unexpected adventure.

Just then, a nun entered my chamber, carrying a tray with a bowl of soup on it. Her face brightened. “Donna Baldovino! You are awake, praise the Virgin!” She set her tray down and laid a hand on my forehead while peering into my eyes. “There is no fever, so that is well,” she said. “How do you feel, madonna?”

“Well enough, if a bit embarrassed,” I confessed. “But Sister…?”

“Sister Graziella,” she supplied. “I am the nurse and apothecary here.”

“Sister Graziella,” I repeated. “I must ask … that is, I am with child, you see, and I hope my fainting spell did not harm the baby.”

An excited yet knowing look came into her eyes. “Why,
congratulazioni,
madonna! You need not worry; I saw nothing to indicate that the child would have suffered any ill effects. And this quite explains your spell.”

“Good,” I said, relieved.

“But, madonna, does
il senatore
your husband know?” she asked. “He did not mention anything of your condition when he brought you here…”

I was somewhat touched by the implication Giacomo had carried me to the infirmary himself. “No,” I said. “Not yet, I fear. It is early days yet.”

She nodded. “Of course. Well, I have brought you some soup to help you regain your strength, and I shall send for your husband. I am sure he will be overjoyed at your news!”

After she left, I obediently ate my soup, pondering the best way to tell Giacomo. Then I wondered whether Vivaldi had seen me fall in the chapel, whether he had known it was me. Whether he had worried. Whether he cared.

 

54

LULLABY

Giacomo was overjoyed and puffed with pride at my news. As soon as the Lenten season ended he threw a large, lavish party in honor of the forthcoming birth of (he hoped) his son and heir.

The spring and summer that followed were wonderful: Giacomo saw to it that I had everything I could possibly need or desire—from fresh fish, fruits, and vegetables to pastries and even a new, softer coverlet for my bed—brought to me without question or delay.

As my belly grew and my time neared, I went out in public less, depriving my friends of my company on their excursions—something they lamented very loudly. But much as I missed accompanying them out, I had begun to anticipate the birth of my child with unabashed joy. This child would never be able to replace my Anna, but here was a chance to start again, and to have a son or daughter that would be mine to love, bring up, and care for as I saw fit.