The Violinist of Venice (9 page)

I nodded against his shoulder. “My father heard her sing when he was a young man, and fell so in love with her just in hearing her voice that he made her an offer of marriage.” I laughed. “That is the story, in any case. Whether it was really quite so romantic, I could not say.”

“Incredible,” he said. “She is still much talked of at the Pietà, one of the greatest, they say. I never heard her sing myself.”

“Her voice was…” I paused. “To call it beautiful would not do it justice. As I child I thought that all of God's angels together could not sing as magnificently as she.”

“But she was never allowed to perform again once she married,” he said, knowing even better than I the restrictions that governed the wards of the Pietà. He sighed. “A waste. But what had this to do with you, and your father?”

“When I was about six, and it was plain that I had not inherited her voice, she hired a violin teacher to come to the palazzo to teach me,” I went on. “It was the instrument she had always wanted to play, but never had the aptitude for. And, clearly, I turned out to have quite the affinity for it.” I smiled. “She always called me her little
miracolo,
for after Claudio was born the midwife told her the birth had so damaged her that she would never bear another child. Yet I was born all the same.

“She died of a fever when I was thirteen, and my father stopped my music lessons. I suppose I do not really know why,” I said, considering it all anew. “He says it is unseemly for a woman to learn music, which is certainly not how he felt when he met my mother; and of course, he is in the minority in his belief. Perhaps it is just that after my mother died, he could no longer bear to hear music anymore, could not bear the sound of anything beautiful.” My fingers traced the lines of his chest as I spoke. “Perhaps it would have been different if I had been a singer like her; if I had inherited her voice. Then maybe he would have felt that there was a part of her he could still keep.” I smiled. “But alas, I was only born to be a violin player, it seems.”

“Then I thank heaven for that,
cara mia,
” he murmured in my ear. “For that is what brought you to me.”

My whole body flushed with happiness at his words. I tilted my face to look at him, smiling. “And now it is my turn to ask you something,” I said.

“Ask away.”

My smile faded slightly as I spoke, my expression growing serious. “Why were you dismissed from the Pietà?”

He sighed heavily. “I did not much care for their rules,” he said bluntly. “Rules for performing, for practicing, for the types of music that could be performed. It is hard to create in a place such as that. But the governors of the Pietà did not see it that way, and I disagreed with them, strenuously and often. Eventually they decided I was not worth the trouble, I suppose.

“And I miss it, in truth,” he went on. “The skill, the talent of those girls, and the music they were capable of making…”

There was a part of me that, as his lover, could not help but be jealous to hear him speak so of these faceless, cloistered young women, whom few people were permitted to lay eyes on. Yet the musician in me was impressed and intrigued by the reverence with which he spoke of their abilities. “I have not heard the
coro
of the Pietà for many years, not since my mother would take me to Mass there,” I said. “I doubt I would be allowed to go now.”

Vivaldi raised an eyebrow at me. “Your father will not let you go to Mass?” he asked.

“He will not go to the Pietà—it is too painful for him—and in his current mood I do not think he would let me go alone, or with one of the servants,” I said. “No doubt he would suspect me of some trickery.”

“Then I do not suppose he would let you attend an opera, either?” Vivaldi asked.

I laughed. “It is quite doubtful. Why do you ask?”

“I know you would enjoy it immensely, even if none of the divas sing as beautifully as Lucrezia della Pietà. And perhaps,” he admitted, with an almost sheepish smile, “it was a bit of a self-serving question as well, for I have been playing as the soloist for the orchestra at the Teatro Sant' Angelo for several weeks now.”

“Aha,” I said playfully. “Now I discover your true aim,
amore mio.
Rest assured I would come just to hear you play, but I fear the chances of that are nonexistent at present.” As I spoke, sadness began to descend on me. “Let us not talk about this anymore,” I said, my voice wavering slightly. I closed my eyes, resting my head against his shoulder.

I felt his lips brush my tousled hair. “Do you think things would be different for you if your mother still lived?”

I had no answer. So much had happened since she died that I had become accustomed to thinking of my life as divided into two separate, almost unrelated lives: the one before her death and the one after.

If she had lived, there would always have been music, and my father would not be so bitter and angry.

I struggled to pull my voice from where it had retreated, deep down inside me. “Yes,” I whispered. “Yes, I daresay things would be different.”

He sighed and rested his cheek against the top of my head. “If only there was some way,” he murmured. “Something I could do to change things—”

“Please, let us not speak of such things,” I said, cutting him off.

He looked as though he meant to argue, so I pressed my lips against his to silence him. After a moment, he pulled away, albeit regretfully. “Should we not be getting you home?” he asked.

I smiled and shifted my position, drawing him atop me. “Not yet, my love. We were quite successful at this a short time ago, no? I am anxious to see if we can repeat that success … Oh.” I sighed as our bodies fitted together once more, and everything else was forgotten.

 

14

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE

Later that night, I watched Vivaldi slip away from my palazzo, waiting until he was safely out of sight before stepping into the small hallway. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness before carefully making my way through the sleeping house.

I had reached the first landing on the back stairs and was turning the corner to climb the next flight when I collided with someone. A scream rose to my lips as I stumbled back against the wall. A small choking sound came from my throat as I stifled it, and my heart quadrupled its pace, beating so hard and fast it was almost painful.

I quickly tried to run by the shadowy figure. But before I could get very far, my apprehender reached out and seized my shoulders in a strong grip, preventing me.

“Adriana!” he hissed as I struggled against him as silently as I could. “Adriana! Stop! It is me! Giuseppe!”

I stopped fighting and peered at his face in the darkness. “Giuseppe?” I sagged against him, all the fear immediately draining from my body. “Oh, thank God.”

“I would not relax quite yet,” he growled. “What in the name of heaven and all the saints are you doing? Where have you been? What—”

“Shhh! Not here, for God's sake.” I grabbed his hand to lead him up the stairs. “Come with me.”

“Where?”

“To my rooms, where do you think? I will tell you everything there, I swear, but please, just follow me before we wake the entire house!”

He acquiesced, and followed me to my rooms. I glanced furtively around the hall outside my door, but there was no one about. I closed and locked the sitting room door behind us, then led the way into the bedchamber, where I did the same. I turned from my task to find Giuseppe staring hard at me, his face white with anger, his lips set in a tight, thin line. He did not speak; he merely faced me, silently, waiting for my explanation.

I removed my cloak and walked past him to the wardrobe to hang it up. I was completely at a loss as to how to begin, to explain what I needed to without making myself seem like … well, a whore. I felt rather like a child squirming before an irate schoolmaster.

I cleared my throat, unable to quite meet his eye. “I—”

Again I was surprised as Giuseppe abruptly cut me off. “Good Christ, Adriana,” he said. “Where on God's green earth have you been? I saw you leave,” he said, causing my mouth to drop open. I started to speak again, but he held up a hand to silence me, as though he were the master and I the servant. “Yes, I saw you sneaking out the back entrance from the window in my room, and I have waited up all night for you to return. I saw you with him,” he added, his voice hard, accusing. “Whoever he is.” He threw up his hands. “What is the matter with you, Adriana? Was the beating your father gave you not enough to make you more prudent?” His voice rose, in spite of himself. “What can you be thinking? What—”

“First of all,” I interjected, in a much softer tone, “keep your voice down. You will most certainly
not
help me—which I am interpreting as your true aim, as opposed to insulting me—by alerting the rest of the household to the fact that I left earlier, and have only just now returned.”

Giuseppe had the grace to look slightly embarrassed.

“Secondly,” I continued, “I promised that I would tell you all, if only you would give me a chance to explain. And,” I added, “no matter how much you approve or disapprove of my actions, I need not answer to you for anything I do.”

He looked as though he might argue, but he simply nodded and said, “I understand. My apologies, madonna.”

I took a deep breath and thought carefully about how to proceed. Giuseppe might be quite useful when let in on my secret, although getting him to actually agree to help me was another matter entirely.

“I have been with a man, it is true,” I began. “It is not what you think,” I protested as he made a noise of disgust. “I … I love him.”

“Love,” Giuseppe spat. “Yes, I am sure that is what it is.”

“How dare you—”

“Perhaps it is love for you, but it is likely not for him,” Giuseppe said. “How can you be so foolish and naïve?”

“You do not understand!”

“Like hell I do not!” he said, in the loudest whisper I had ever heard. “I am a man. I know the sorts of lies men will tell women in order to get—”

“Please!” I cried. “You told me you would give me a chance to explain, and so far you have not done so.”

He sighed at this, but remained silent.

“I love him,” I repeated, my voice stronger now. “And I believe that he loves me. He cares for me, deeply, that I know. And he is concerned for me. He knows what manner of man my father is, and all that has passed between him and me of late.”

“If he is so concerned,” Giuseppe asked, “then why does he not do the honorable thing and ask for your hand?”

I laughed aloud at this. “He is not the sort of man I could marry. He cannot marry me.”

“He is already married, then?” When I did not reply, Giuseppe sighed. “Who is it, Adriana? I will not tell, I swear—you know I would not do that to you.” He shook his head. “Not even for your own good, which I have no doubt putting a stop to this would be. Just tell me his name.”

I hesitated.

“Who is it?” he asked again, in a whisper this time.

I sighed. “His name is Antonio Vivaldi.”

“Madre di Dio!”
Giuseppe all but shouted. “Not the Red Priest?”

“Quiet!” I hissed. “Yes.”

Giuseppe walked around the bed and seized me again by the shoulders, shaking me. “
Dio mio,
Adriana, the man is a priest!” he cried, shaking me again. “What is the matter with you? Do you have any idea what would happen if the two of you were found out?” Abruptly he released me and stepped back, trembling in consternation. “By the Virgin … the consequences would be catastrophic!”

“Do you think I do not know this?” I demanded. “Do you think he does not? I do not need you to remind me.”

“Apparently you do,” Giuseppe retorted, “for the knowledge alone has not been enough to stop you.”

“It is not that simple!”

“Oh, Adriana,” he said, his shoulders slumping as his large, sturdy body seemed to fold inward on itself. “What have you done this time? How is it that you cannot see the danger of your actions?”

“I can see it,” I said. “Believe me, I can see it. I just do not care.”

“That is even worse.”

“There are some things, Giuseppe, that you risk everything for,” I said. “And I need not—I
will
not—answer to you, nor do I care what you may think of me.”

He laughed, a short, harsh sound. “But you do,” he said. “You must, for you need me to help you, do you not?”

“I do not
need
your help,” I said. “I do not deny that this would be easier that way, but even if you refuse, that will not stop me.”

He sank down to sit on the bed. I did not protest the familiarity of the action; we were far past standing on propriety now. “God help us both,” he said finally, after a long pause. “This is madness, you know. Utter madness.”

His words echoed the ones Vivaldi had spoken two nights ago.
Yes, yes, we are all aware that sanity is something this venture is altogether lacking,
I thought with a tinge of humor.
At least everyone is in accord on that count.
“So will you help me?” I asked.

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Yes, God forgive me,” he said. “I will. I will, even though I think this will be the ruin of us both, and of your Maestro Vivaldi as well, because I think that whatever slim chance we do have of coming through this lies in my helping you.”

I smiled, allowing my relief to show. “Thank you, my friend,” I said.

“Tell me this,” Giuseppe said, rising to his feet. “Is it to him you have been going, all those times you had me wait for you near the Rialto? Has it been going on that long?”