The Violinist of Venice (7 page)

“Oh, Adriana,” he breathed. He reached out and covered my hand with his, as though he could not resist any longer. He traced the outlines of my fingers with his, and I could feel the calluses that had formed on his fingertips from years of the playing the violin.

I knew that now I should rise and take my leave. But I couldn't. I remained where I was, closing my eyes and savoring his light touch.

Finally he broke the long silence. “I will continue to teach you,
cara,
” he said. He removed his hand from mine and ran his fingers across the strings of the violin on the table, making them hum. “Money or no. But it is your safety that concerns me, if I were to do so.”

A flush spread through my entire body at his words. “Why?” I asked, unable to help myself. “Why do that for me?”

He smiled. “I must admit, the money did help me quite a bit of late. But if I am entirely truthful, I would miss your company most of all.” He added hastily, “And, of course, you are one of the most gifted violinists I have met. It would be criminal for you to stop studying.” His eyes met mine. “And I think I am right in saying that, for you, a life without music would be one not worth living,
si
?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised at his frankness. “There is nothing more my father can do to me, not truly. But if he succeeds in taking music from me, then I may as well be dead. I knew that you, maestro, of all people, would understand.”

He sighed. “I do, though I have never been made to face such a choice, thanks be to God.” He shook his head. “To think, if you were but a poor, orphaned foundling in this city, you would be able to study and play music freely, and perform it as well. Yet you have every luxury imaginable, except the one thing you truly desire. It makes one wonder who the truly lucky ones are, does it not?”

“I have thought the same thing often enough.” We both fell silent for a moment before I spoke again. “Yet I could not ask you to teach me without any payment,” I said. “It would not be right.”

He reached out, without hesitating, and squeezed my hand. “Do not concern yourself with that,” he said softly. “I will be here for you, when it is safe for you to seek me out again.”

I turned my hand over and laced my fingers with his. Then, realizing what I was doing, I withdrew. “I should go,” I said reluctantly, rising.

He hesitated. “You cannot go out into the storm,” he said. “You will fall ill, walking all the way in such rain. Stay until it passes.”

Every instinct was telling me to go, that the longer I was away, the greater my chances of discovery. Yet my desire to stay was far stronger. “I suppose you are right,” I said, a quiet thrill running up my spine as I sat back down.

He stared into the fire, the corners of his lips twitching slightly upward. “When I was a boy,” he said, “every time there was a storm such as this, I would leave the house and walk all the way to the Riva degli Schiavoni to watch the lightning over the lagoon.” He glanced up at me and smiled. “It is quite a sight to behold.”

“Would that we could go now and do just that,” I said. “But you are right; we would no doubt catch our deaths.”

He laughed. “I nearly did catch my death once or twice,” he said. “I was often ill as a child, and such wanderings in the rain did not help matters in the least.”

Outside, the rain continued to pound against the stone and splash into the canals, and thunder rumbled overhead. I shivered, moving my chair closer to the fire.

He jumped out of his chair instantly. “How careless of me,” he murmured. He quickly disappeared upstairs, and then returned, carrying a thin wool blanket. He stepped behind me and gently moved my wet hair aside, so that he could drape the blanket over my shoulders. His fingers lingered on the back of my neck, then my shoulders, as he wrapped the blanket around me. I found myself wishing there was nothing between his hands and my skin. I shivered again, but this time it had nothing to do with the cold or damp.

Do not stop,
I silently admonished him and, as if he heard me, his hands remained for just a moment before withdrawing.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the chair, attempting to master myself.

“Perhaps you would like to rest for a bit? Upstairs?” he asked, mistaking my expression for one of exhaustion. His face turned slightly pink. “I did not mean … that is, I will, of course, remain down here.”

I rose, letting the blanket fall from my shoulders. “You need not stay downstairs,” I said, sounding braver than I felt. I stepped close to him, so that our bodies were only a breath apart, and laid my hand against his cheek. “You could join me.”

A shudder ran through his body, and his hands reached up to cup my face. “Adriana,” he whispered. Then, suddenly, he moved away from me and pressed his hands to his forehead. “Oh, God. No. We cannot. This cannot be. I am a man of God, and you—”

“Antonio,” I said, the first time I had used his given name. He looked up at me, startled, and I could see the desire that had ignited in his eyes. “You are a man, and I am a woman. God need have nothing to do with it.”

“You are a virgin.” It was not a question.

Sweat began to coat my palms as I wondered how I possibly thought I could see this through. “What of it?” I asked, as though it did not matter, when in truth it did; it mattered more than anything in the world, that I
was
a virgin and was willing not to be, for him. “Am I to believe that you have never been with a woman before?” I raised an eyebrow.

He threw me a glance heavy with desire and frustration and anger. “I have not always been a priest,” he said, a touch sardonically, by way of answer.

When he said nothing further, I looked away from him, mortification seeping in and threatening to choke me. “Do you wish me to go?” I asked. I was beginning to feel I had made a horrible mistake, one I had no idea how to fix. If it was indeed possible to fix it.

“No,” he bit out, looking angry with himself for saying it. “Yes …
Sancta Maria,
I do not know.”

Shame and embarrassment washed over me.
He does not want me. I should not be doing this to him.
“I am sorry,” I said aloud. “I will go.” I took my wet cloak from where it hung near the fire, put it on, and began to walk to the door, keeping my head down so I would not have to look at him.

I had just reached the door when he seized me by the waist, spun me to face him, and kissed me; a passionate, bruising kiss that pressed my back up against the door so that I was pinned between it and his body.

I wrapped my arms tightly around him and kissed him in return, my mouth opening beneath his, and for a long moment we stayed locked in that strange embrace, the virgin and the priest. Then he drew back, took my hand, and led me up the stairs to his bedchamber.

Once inside, he shut the door behind us and turned back to me. Hands shaking, I unfastened my cloak again, letting it fall to the floor. I looked up at him, and my helplessness and anxiety must have been quite plain on my face, for he closed the distance between us and took me into his arms, pressing his lips to mine again. He then turned me so that my back was to him and began to unlace my gown, then my corset, until I was wearing only my linen shift. In the dim light of the only lit candle in the room, the bruises that had formed where my father's fingers had dug cruelly into my flesh were revealed. Vivaldi bent his head to kiss the swollen, discolored skin. I sighed and tilted my head to one side, and he moved to kiss the side of my neck. I felt a pleasurable throbbing between my legs as his lips touched the tender skin.

I drew away, turning to face him, and pulled the shift off over my head, dropping it to the floor. Now there was nothing between his gaze and me, but for as bold as I had been before, I was now unable to meet his eyes.

Gently he placed a hand under my chin and lifted it, so that I had to look at him. “Do not look away,
cara,
” he murmured. “You are beautiful.” He kissed me again, this time guiding me back into the bed behind me.

I slid beneath the coverlet, grateful to no longer be so exposed. Standing beside the bed, he removed his shirt and breeches, then got into the bed and took me in his arms.

Sensing my nervousness—had it been only moments ago that I so brazenly offered myself to him?—he began to speak as his hands moved over my bare skin, as though doing his best to put me more at ease. “You do not know,” he murmured in my ear, “you can have no idea of how many times I have dreamt of this very moment. Night after night I would lie awake and think of this, imagine every last, beautiful detail. And each time I would tell myself that it must be the last, that I must not think such things again, only to dream them again the next night.”

He kissed my neck again, his lips moving down my chest to the hollow between my breasts. I closed my eyes and arched my body beneath his mouth, heat prickling my skin.

I did not know what he expected or wanted; yet he seemed to know exactly the things I wanted, ached for, even though I did not know myself. When I, inexperienced as I was, returned his touch and kisses, he groaned and shifted himself atop me, one hand reaching down to caress my inner thigh. My heart rate sped up as my breathing quickened.

He paused. “Are you afraid?” he asked.

If I said yes, I knew he would stop. And that was the last thing I wanted him to do. I reached up to take his face in my hands. “No, Antonio,” I said, my voice shaking and heavy with desire. “Of all the people in the world, I could never be afraid of you.”

It was painful, with a bit of blood, as I had heard rumors of. But it did not matter. What mattered were his hands on my body, hungry yet gentle at the same time, as though I were something sacred, to be revered. What mattered was the feeling of being close, so close, to this man I loved in ways I was just beginning to understand. And what mattered were the words he whispered in my ear: that he was mine and I was his, that he would never hurt me, that I would be safe with him, always. That he loved me. And I believed his words as others believe in God: hoping that they would be what saved me.

 

11

END OF THE DREAM

I woke when dawn was only a few hours off, when the sky was still pitch-black. The rain had stopped. Slipping from bed quietly, I picked up my clothes from the floor and pulled them on as best I could, tying my corset and gown loosely. As I dressed, I studied the small room around me. It was plain and nondescript, with just the large bed, a window with simple linen curtains that looked out onto the street, a wardrobe—though his clothes were strewn about rather haphazardly—and a wooden crucifix hanging on the wall opposite the window. Even in the dark, I fancied that the crucified Christ's eyes watched me reproachfully. I turned my back on it.

I heard Vivaldi stir behind me. Eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw that he had pulled himself into a sitting position and was watching me. “Where are you going?” he asked, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Home,” I said, brushing my long, tousled hair away from my face. “I must get back before anyone discovers I am missing.” I shuddered. “If they have not already.”

“At this hour?” he asked. “You cannot simply go strolling through the streets of Venice alone. It is far too dangerous.”

“I arrived here safely,” I pointed out, scooping up my cloak—still damp—from the floor and settling it about my shoulders. “And it would be far more dangerous for me if it were to become known that I had left in the middle of the night.”

He sighed, and I could see that he was rubbing his forehead in consternation. “Oh,
cara,
” he said. “What have we done? We—”

I crossed to him and placed a finger on his lips. “No,” I whispered. “Please. I beg of you.” I paused and drew a deep, unsteady breath as I tried to get the words out. “These past few hours have been the most beautiful of my life. Please do not ruin them with regrets and fear of consequences. There will be time enough for all that, if need be. Just…” I trailed off and looked at him beseechingly. “Please.”

He sighed, then turned his head to kiss the palm of my hand. “Yes,” he said softly. “You are right.”

He got out of bed. “I will go with you,” he said. “Just to see you home.” I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. “It is far too dangerous for you at this time of night, as I said.” He began to hunt about in the dark for his own discarded clothes.

“What if someone should see you with me?” I asked him, a near panic rising to claw at my throat. “What if—God and the Holy Virgin forbid—what if my father was to see you with me?”

“And if your father caught you returning to the house at this hour, would it matter much whether or not there was a man with you?”

I considered this as he dressed himself. “No,” I admitted. “But it is not myself for whom I am concerned.”

“Nor am I concerned for myself,” he said, looking for his shoes. “So we are perfectly matched.”

Once he was suitably attired against the night air, we left, with me leading him through the maze of streets and canals to my family's palazzo. Fortunately, we met no one to impede us on our way. When we came within sight of the back entrance, I motioned for him to keep to the shadows, lest some vigilant servant should happen to be keeping watch.

I heard Vivaldi draw in his breath sharply as we drew nearer. “So this is Ca' d'Amato,” he whispered.

“Yes,” I said, “and were it up to me, I would never set foot inside again.”

I turned to him in the shadows, only to find that he was moving to take me in his arms. Boldly, he bent his head to kiss me, pressing my back against the palazzo's stone wall. I kissed him back, mindful of what would befall us should anyone see, yet unable to stop.

“When should I return to you?” I asked as we broke apart.