Vivaldi's Virgins (10 page)

But, then again, I did not want to be anyone’s wife except perhaps Franz Horneck’s, and what chance was there that his family would allow themselves to be allied with someone who might well be a child of the gutter? Without his family’s blessing, there would be nothing to live on. And without the governors’ permission—unlikely to be given for my marriage to a Protestant and a foreigner at that—there would be no dowry for me. And even if I was given the dowry due every
figlia
of the
coro
who serves her time here, I would not accept it—because it would mean that I would be barred by the laws of the Republic from ever performing again.

None of the paths or possibilities open to me was acceptable. I would never become a wife if it meant that I would have to stop playing music. I did not feel called to become a nun, and especially not unless I was of noble birth, for it is, as everyone knows, only the daughters of noble families who can become choir nuns, while all others are relegated to
converse
, who serve the convents as menials. And I did not want to grow old at the Pietà. I looked at la Befana and I swore I would not let such a fate befall me.

It was soon afterward, while I sat in church, that the idea first came to me—the first idea of mine that seemed to hold real promise for bringing about a resolution, even while it threatened to bring about my ruin if it failed.

I had been thinking once again—with the offended sense of justice peculiar to adolescence—that all of us in the
coro
were, in
the manner of trompe l’oeil, only a simulation of dimensional things. Instead of life or blood in our veins, we were filled with music. We lived not for our own salvation, but were indentured as slaves to the salvation of others—of all those others who had real lives and passions, who were allowed to see stars every night and to cross vast expanses of land and water every day. They knew who they were and what they could expect of life, while we were condemned to having our real selves—both our histories and our destinies—locked away.

It was then that I lit on the idea I should have thought of before, if I had possessed a mind more disposed to scheming. What I longed so much to find out was inscribed in the
libri della scaffetta
—the well-guarded, locked books of the registry where every detail about every baby left here has been recorded through the centuries, since the founding of the Pietà. There are two
scrivane
, the scribes chosen anew every three years, who write in these books and keep their contents secret.

It dawned on me that if I could befriend or bribe a
scrivana
—or steal her keys—I could settle, once and for all, what I was sure was a matter of life and death, and worth any risk I had to take.

The identity of the two
scrivane
was itself a closely held secret. But I was sure that, with persistence and perhaps some help from my friends, I could find out which of our keepers stood between me and what I needed to know.

A
s we stood trembling in our choir lofts that Palm Sunday, poised to perform the oratorio for the Doge, we heard what sounded like a dozen trumpeters announcing his arrival. Peeking through the grille, we watched the procession of grooms, ducal pageboys, and ensigns, all in their splendid uniforms, pouring through the church doors. This first wave was
followed by the rest of his entourage, bearing with great solemnity and self-importance the Doge’s chair, scepter, sword, and cushion.

Il Doge
Giovanni Cornaro was the fourth man in his family to hold Venezia’s highest office. From where I stood, peeking through the grille, he looked terribly unhappy beneath the heavy cloth of gold of his vestments and his ermine cape lined in scarlet silk. His weary expression bespoke a man who would have far preferred to be sitting in a cozy place somewhere with a book in his lap, rather than serving as the center of this noble storm. Neither he nor his family can venture anywhere outside his palace without just such a phalanx of guards, servants, and sycophants. It amazes me that men seek out these high offices that rob them of their freedom to come and go in anonymity in a city in which such anonymity is the very key to happiness.

We ourselves were resplendent in the fine new red taffeta robes made for us by Rebekkah. Such was the pomp and glory of the occasion that I felt convinced for the time it lasted that we were indeed angels with a fearful power to redeem and transform.

Much to the credit of Signor Gasparini, who had to work much harder to rehearse all of us in Vivaldi’s absence, the oratorio was a great success. The next day, the editors of the
Palade Veneta
sang the praises of the
figlie di coro
of the Pietà. Marietta, Rosa, and Apollonia were all singled out for the celestial beauty of their voices—and Marietta especially. She had somehow got hold of the broadsheet and showed the sentence that featured her name to all of us over and over again, until someone threatened to throw the whole thing into the fire.

But none of us, in truth, has ever been immune to the surges of delight and hope that come with praise, especially when we are mentioned by name outside the walls of the
ospedale
.

We sucked all the sweetness and comfort we could out of our triumph, which was the result of weeks of practice and the culmination, for many of us, of a long-held dream.

But there followed, as there so often does after a victory of any sort, a period of doldrums. Marietta was cross with everyone for treating her as they always had, despite the fact that, in her own words, she was now, clearly, a soloist. In fact, she wasn’t yet even officially a member of the
coro
. Marietta’s promotions—like mine—were forever being postponed as a punishment for bad behavior.

Even sweet-tempered Giulietta snapped at me, saying that my tone was no longer what it used to be. It was worse because she was right: I desperately needed my bow rehaired, and yet couldn’t trust anyone but Vivaldi to get it done properly and in good time.

Claudia—usually so serene—was also agitated and out of sorts. I watched her push her food around on her plate rather than put any of it in her mouth. Several of the chubbier girls took to paying for the privilege of sitting beside her at mealtimes and eating her leftovers. Increasingly thin, with a haunted look in her lovely blue eyes, she was forever hanging around windows, looking out—and she stopped sleeping with me. She said it was because the weather was changing, and it was too hot for her, in the middle of the night, with the two of us sharing the bedclothes.

She asked to start in on voice lessons—but I knew it was only because of that full-length mirror in the practice room. Every time a visitor was announced in the
parlatorio,
all the blood drained from her face. When a rumor circulated at supper that Scarlatti was quitting Venice to return to Rome, Claudia actually let out a shriek. The room fell silent. But no one—not even the nuns in attendance—said anything. We all went on eat
ing—all of us except Claudia—as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

I came up beside her at bedtime that night as she stood by the window brushing her hair. “Do you want me to do it?” I asked her. Claudia had thick honey-colored hair that fell below her waist when it was unpinned. She was allowed to keep it long, and it was the envy of the
coro
.

She closed her eyes while I brushed, and I could see tears popping out from under her lashes. “After all his pretty words!” was all she said. “I will never trust an
Italiano
again. A German would never say such words without meaning them.”

“Oh, Claudia,” I said, “you were the one to tell me that all men, from whatever country, speak in the service of their—what did you call it?”

“I never called it anything. But you’re right—how much harder it is to heed one’s own advice in these matters!” She turned me around and then brushed my hair, which was cut—according to the rules of the institution—just above my shoulders.

Having one’s hair brushed by someone else is surely one of life’s sweetest pleasures, and I emptied my mind of all other thoughts so that I could enjoy it completely.

“It’s colder tonight, I think,” Claudia said when she was done.

I nodded my agreement and smiled—because it was the first time in a long while that she had spoken to me as a friend.

We climbed into the same bed that night without saying anything at all about the matter. I fell asleep, I think, as soon as she curled herself up against my back, her hand held in mine.

I thought I was dreaming at first as the music came drifting in through the window, poking at my sleep. But then Claudia stirred, and I could sense that she heard it as well.

I cracked my eyes open. The sky was that pale shade of green
streaked with pink one sees sometimes at sunrise in early spring. I could hear three
flauti dolci
—a tenor, an alto, and a soprano—and a single man’s voice, surprisingly rich and strong as it rose above the
rio
.

We all dragged ourselves from our beds and looked out the window, rubbing our eyes, at the gondola bedecked with pink roses. Scarlatti stood in the prow, his hands stretched wide, his face tipped upward, singing a barcarole.

When the
matinade
was finished, he kissed his fingertips and threw his hands up toward our window, where we had all shoved aside to give Claudia the best spot at the center.

“I don’t imagine a German would do
that
,” I ventured as the gondola turned and grew smaller, silhouetted in the rising sun.

Claudia started eating again after that morning serenade, and didn’t even argue with her parents when they wrote to say they’d picked out a bridegroom for her and made a down payment on her dowry. “Because he needs to wait for me,” was her only comment. “He needs to wait until I turn seventeen.”

O
n the first warm day after that memorable winter, the Prioress rose from the head table at dinner to announce that the
figlie di coro
were to have a special holiday. His Excellency Andrea Foscarini, head of that noble house and on our own board of governors, had granted a dispensation to pay for an outing to the island of Torcello.

We threw our napkins into the air to signal our joy, knowing that any great noise might cause our treat to be taken away.

Donna Emanuela warned us to sing our prayers with special sweetness as we made our preparations for bed—because if there was the slightest threat of rain, the outing would be postponed.

The sound that night must have warmed the heart of any
Veneziano who passed beneath our windows. Marietta especially sang with such strength and clarity as she brushed her hair that I expected to hear applause when the last “amen” shimmered with all the brilliance of rain caught by sunlight.

I lay in my bed and thought—as I so often did at night—of Franz Horneck. It had been one full month since I’d felt his lips on mine. I reached under the bedclothes to find that place again—for the merest touch of it would waken the memory of his kisses.

The day dawned fair. One by one we propped ourselves up in our beds. Giulietta, who was usually the most difficult among us to waken, was first at the window looking east over the Rio della Pietà. The rising sun shone through her chestnut-colored curls.

Marietta woke up as if someone had shouted “Fire!” into her ears. “Oh,
Dio!
” she cried out. Then she threw on her clothes and ran barefoot out the door.

“Where’s she off to?” Bernardina asked me. I was able to say with perfect honesty that I didn’t know. But I guessed—though I kept it to myself—that she was sending a message through Matteo. A message to whom or to what purpose, I had no idea. But when she returned—daring us with her baleful looks to tell on her—I noticed that she paid special attention to her toilette, and even washed, much to our amusement, between her legs when everyone else was done with the water.

Our old red robes had been newly laundered. We pinched our cheeks and bit our lips to bring the blood to them and chase away our winter pallor. More than one of us arranged her veil so that wisps of curls showed through. We knew full well that the eyes of Venezia would be upon us as we were rowed through the canals in the stately gondola of the Foscarini, northward to Torcello. Each of us thought of the one we hoped would be watching.

ANNO DOMINI
1709

Dearest Mother,

You must think that I spend all my time in jail. But it is not true. It is just that these are the only times when I am given the opportunity—indeed, compelled—to write to you.

But compelled or not, I do so gladly. If it is only an illusion that I speak to you, the illusion brings me gladness nonetheless. I can tell you things that I could not say to anyone else—and perhaps more so than if you were a flesh-and-blood mother at my side. Writing to you brings a relief even greater than that of prayer, a cleansing as sweet as Confession.

Two days ago, one of the huge gondolas of the Ca’ Foscarini came to take us away for the entire day and much of the night, as it turned out, to the island of Torcello. Wearing our colors, we wound like a red ribbon first along the Grand Canal and then northward, wending our way between
palazzi
and under bridges, where people gathered to hear us sing as we passed by. I am quite sure that for many of the boys and men who gathered, the goal was also to catch a glimpse of our faces. They cheered. They called more than one of us by name. They threw flowers, and some threw gold and silver coins. A boatload of bare-breasted courtesans drew up alongside us somewhere along the way, waving and calling gaily. “I was at the Pietà!” said one, and another, smiling sweetly, said, “I have a daughter there!” They made no special sign to any one of us, though I searched their faces.

When we passed by the Iron Bridge, there was the seamstress Rebekkah waving at us. I looked in vain for her apprentice, Silvio, who was my classmate and a favorite friend of mine before I was chosen for the
coro.
Many Jews of the Ghetto gathered to see the sight of us and hear our singing.