The Violinist of Venice (49 page)

He looked at me, his gaze still clear. “You are as beautiful today, Adriana, as you were on that night when you first walked into my house.”

“If you persist in this flattery, I shall be forced to tell you how old I really am,” I said, tears threatening to choke me. “Know you not that our daughter is nearly thirty years old?”

“Our daughter,” he repeated, smiling faintly. “I told her, you know.”

I froze. “Told her?”

“That I am her father. She wept—I think she is upset with me for keeping it from her all these years.” He shifted slightly, as though seeking some small scrap of comfort that eluded him. “I did not tell her who her mother is. That is for you to do. If you choose.”

I remained silent, mind racing.

“Adriana.” His voice, softer now, drew me back to him. “I was not sure that you would come.”

“And how could I do otherwise,
caro mio
?” I asked, tears flowing freely now.

He sighed. “I can die in peace now that I have seen you once more.” He let his eyes drift closed. “And I … I am sorry, Adriana. For all the wrong I have done you. For everything I did to hurt you.”

“Shhh. No more talk of that. I told you years ago, Tonio, I have forgiven you all.”

“I have always loved you,” he said, briefly tightening his grip on my hand. “I never stopped.”

“I know,
carissimo,
” I said, unable to see him through my tears. “I know,
amore mio.
Go to sleep now. Go with my love.”

I sat beside him, keeping my grip on his hand as his breathing slowed and grew ever shallower.

It was early evening when he breathed his last.

After, it was as if a light had been extinguished inside me, one that had always been there but that I only noticed now that it had vanished. I realized then how much comfort I had taken in simply knowing that he was out there, somewhere, in the world.

But now he was gone, taking with him a part of me he had had all along, changing me forever one final time.

I do not know how much time passed before I rose and left the room. Anna was sitting in the front room, and when I appeared, tears began to trickle down her face anew, realizing what my emergence meant.

“He told me he was my father,” she said, her face grief-stricken. “He said that he had a love affair as a young man, and that I … I was his daughter.” She shook her head. “Sometimes even I wondered why he was so devoted to me. I knew what people said, of course, and I knew it was not true. But it never did fit together until now.”

“He loved you,” I said. “That was plain to see.”

“But you…” Her eyes brightened somewhat. “You said you are an old friend of his. Do you know who my mother is, madonna?”

I had imagined this moment for thirty years: the moment when I could finally claim my lost daughter as my own. Never had I given up hope that it would come, one day. And here it was, and I was not ready.

What, in truth, could I gain by telling her? She would never think of me as her mother, not a stranger whom she had only met twice.

And, much as my heart broke to admit it, I had difficulty thinking of her as my daughter. Lucrezia was my daughter, Cecilia was my daughter; the daughters I had suckled and raised and watched grow, day by day. Anna, my lost child, my firstborn, was a stranger to me and always would be. Even if we were to begin now, we could never make up for what we had missed.

Everything had happened as it had happened, and it was not for me to say that there was not a reason for it all.

The girl had enough havoc wreaked in her life this day. Let it remain at that. No doubt she would draw her own conclusions, but I would let it be.

“No,” I answered her finally. “No, he did not confide such in me. I am sorry.”

She studied me for a moment, then bowed her head. “Very well. It may be that I am not meant to know.” She rose. “If you will excuse me, I must…”

“Yes, you see to him, signorina,” I said. “It is for you to do, now.”

“Will you stay the night, madonna?”

I shook my head. “No. I must return to Venice. There are those who are waiting for me.”

She nodded and turned to go into the bedchamber, leaving me.

I saw myself out.

As I stepped out of the house into the heat of summer, I thought that when Tommaso asked me to marry him, maybe I would say yes. And maybe … maybe I would let him show me the world, after all.

Maybe the time had come.

 

HISTORICAL NOTE

Antonio Vivaldi was well-known in eighteenth-century Europe as a virtuoso violinist and composer. But he was in fact ruined later in his life by his relationship with the young opera singer Anna Girò. The common gossip, as portrayed in my novel, was that she was his mistress, an accusation which he always vehemently denied. In the end, he died impoverished in Vienna, and was buried in an unmarked pauper's grave.

I came across the theory in several places (one of which being Barbara Quick's phenomenal historical novel
Vivaldi's Virgins,
about Anna Maria dal Violin of the Pietà) that Anna Girò was perhaps Vivaldi's daughter, not his mistress. The idea fascinated me, and it also begged the question: if this were the case, who was Anna's mother?

We will likely never know the true nature of Vivaldi's relationship with Anna, but it was this “what if” idea that led me to write
The Violinist of Venice.

Adriana d'Amato is a fictional character, as are her family and friends. While Adriana's mother, Lucrezia, and best friend and sister-in-law, Vittoria, are not based on any real figures, they faced the same choice as many real wards of the Pietà did: to stay in cloistered seclusion and continue their (often celebrated) musical careers, or to leave for marriage and the outside world. Marriage indeed meant signing a contract stating that they would never again perform in public.

The Foscari family was a real Venetian patrician family of considerable wealth and power, and Ca' Foscari still stands on the Grand Canal in Venice to this day. Tommaso and his family specifically are my inventions.

Each piece of Vivaldi's music I describe here is real; each concerto that he and Adriana play together is one that I chose carefully to fit the mood and needs (and the era) of a particular scene. I hope that, after reading this book, you will seek out some of Vivaldi's music if you are not already familiar with it, whether it is the music described here or other works.

I tried to bring the backdrop of sensual eighteenth-century Venice alive as much and as accurately as possible. Baroque Venice was a city long past the economic and military glory of the Renaissance; the discovery of the New World had made Venice's formerly prime position as a trading empire between East and West irrelevant. As such, by Vivaldi's lifetime what was once the richest and most powerful state in Europe had been slowly crumbling for years. The wealth of the great patrician families, originally amassed from trade, was quickly dwindling. Yet almost in defiance of this fact, eighteenth-century Venice was more decadent and hedonistic than ever. What money the wealthy had left they spent quickly, on lavish parties and costumes and clothing, on food and wine. Carnival (or
Carnevale
) went on for months at a time, and with the whole city going around masked for so long, the results were just as scandalous as you would expect.

Eighteenth-century Venice was, as modern Venice is today, a major tourist destination. Young aristocrats from around Europe would visit on the grand tour, and notable figures such as Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Lord Byron also spent time in Venice. Tourists would partake of the city's many delights: the architecture; the artwork; musical performances both at the many opera houses and at the Pietà and other institutions like it; traveling by gondola; and, of course, the famed Venetian courtesans.

Venice is a wonderful place to visit, to read about, and to imagine. I hope I have accomplished my goal of bringing it to life for you, and giving you an entertaining and meaningful story at the same time.

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

They say writing is a solitary endeavor, and yet I count myself fortunate in that I do not always find it so. I have been so lucky to have so many wonderful people in my life who have inspired me, championed me, and believed in me and this book all along the way.

Bear with me, because it's a long list.

I would be remiss if I did not thank, first and foremost, Lindsay Fowler, my critique partner, one of my closest friends, and a mind-blowingly talented writer herself. She read each draft of this book (and is to this day the only person besides myself to have seen the messy first draft, a dubious honor) and gave me excellent notes, suggestions, and criticism at every step of the way. Thank you times infinity for your patience, your support, for endless conversations talking through plot points and characterization and themes, and for putting up with all my two
A.M.
freak-out texts.

Thank you to my fabulous Canisius Alumni Writers (aka CAW), without whose enthusiasm this book might still be languishing on my hard drive: Joe Bieron, Cara Cotter, Brittany Gray, Caitie McAneney, Ryan Nagelhout, and Ryan Wolf.

Showers of gratitude upon my amazing, fabulous agent, Brianne Johnson: for taking a chance on a cold query by a first-time author with a crazy-long manuscript, for helping me improve said manuscript exponentially, and for finding it a wonderful home and making my dreams come true.

Millions of thanks (and brisket tots!) to my gem of an editor, Vicki Lame, for giving me this chance, for your love and enthusiasm for this story, and for making this book so much better than I thought it could be. I've already learned so much from working with you—can't wait for round two!

Thanks to the wonderful team at St. Martin's Press for their work on this project, and for the absolutely gorgeous cover that I am so in love with.

Thank you to all my wonderful English and creative writing teachers at Canisius College, especially Janet McNally, Jennifer Desiderio, and Eric Gansworth. And, above all, thanks to Mick Cochrane: mentor, fellow writer, and friend, for making me the writer I am today. I'll never forget the day, a few years after I'd graduated, when he took the time to meet with me at a point when I was feeling particularly lost and talked through my writing-career options with me. Thanks to his advice and wise counsel, I decided to really give this book a shot, and it worked out.

Thank you to Karla Manzella, my ninth-grade English teacher, who knew I was writing my own stories during her class and let me keep doing it.

Thank you to piano teacher extraordinaire Karen Schmid, for all those wonderful and inspiring conversations about music. Thanks to my voice teacher, Melissa Thorburn, for not batting an eye when I showed up with obscure Vivaldi arias to learn. Thank you to the wonderful and wise Maestro Frank Scinta, who taught me more about music than I can possibly say.

Thank you to all the rocking musicians whose music I listened to and drew inspiration from while writing this novel, namely Nightwish, Lacuna Coil, Evanescence, Within Temptation, Delain, Stream of Passion, Epica, Florence + the Machine, Serenity, Tori Amos, and Icon for Hire. A special thanks to Lindsey Stirling for giving a voice to Adriana's violin inside my head.

Heaps of thanks with sprinkles on top to my BFF and partner in frozen-yogurt crime, Jen Hark, for letting me babble at her about all kinds of historical subjects.

Thanks and virtual hugs to #TeamWritersHouse for reaching out via Twitter and Facebook and welcoming me to the family, and for all their support and wonderful bookish conversation.

Thanks beyond words or measure to my family. To my grandparents, Mike and Kathy Zimmerman, who read early drafts of this book and brag about me all the time. To my brother, Matt Palombo, for making me laugh and for always believing I could do it (even if this book has no duels, car chases, or explosions. Maybe next time!). And thank you, thank you, thank you to my parents, Tony and Debbie Palombo, for never doubting me for an instant, for supporting me in everything I've ever wanted to do, for instilling in me a love of reading and of history, for teaching me the value of hard work, and for their unconditional love every second of my life. Without them I would not be here, nor would I be a writer.

And last but certainly not least, thank you to Antonio Vivaldi.
Grazie mille per l'ispirazione, maestro.

 

Discussion Questions

  1. Both Adriana and Vivaldi reference the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice several times throughout the novel—also a brief, fateful love affair. Do you see parallels between this myth and
The Violinist of Venice?

  2. At the beginning of the book, Adriana is blinded by her passion for Vivaldi to such an extent that she often cannot fully comprehend the risks that others take on her behalf. But, by the end of the book, she is a complex woman full of great warmth and compassion for others. How might Adriana have been different if she had never ignored her father's rules and taken violin lessons from Vivaldi?

  3. Taking into consideration the time period of the novel, do you see Adriana as a feminist character? Why or why not?

  4. Throughout the novel, Adriana has several relationships with men that evolve significantly over time, most especially Vivaldi and Tommaso, but also Senator Baldovino. How do you think becoming a mother—someone responsible for the life of another—might have changed these relationships or led to more understanding within them?

  5. Though Adriana raised her children with more freedom than she had growing up, her daughter, Cecilia, ends up pregnant out of wedlock, much like she did. Cecilia confronts her for not telling them her mistakes so that they might learn from them. Does nature vs. nurture have a role here, or as humans are we always destined to follow our hearts regardless of the consequences? Discuss.