The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice

by Laurel Corona

  Maddalena stood with her arm around her sister’s waist. Chiaretta’s knees softened, and Maddalena tightened her arm to steady her. They both love her, Maddalena thought. If she didn’t know it before, she knows it now.

  EIGHTEEN

  The plan concocted in a rowboat on the brenta Canal that summer was so bold it could only have come from Antonia. She had traveled out to the Morosini villa for the summer, with her two children, servants, and a nanny, and every day she and Chiaretta snuck away for a little time together. That day they were joined by Luca, who made the short trip from the Barberigo villa, a little farther up the canal.

  She had first raised the subject on the dock, but it had been temporarily forgotten while Luca clumsily rowed toward the opposite bank and then, in an unintentional zigzag, headed back in the direction of the dock at a speed that threatened to toss them all in the water when they crashed.

  “I wish that Andrea were here to hold my parasol,” Antonia pouted when Luca had gotten the boat straightened out. “Or that Luca had more hands.”

  “That reminds me, have you seen Andrea at all?” Chiaretta tried to look nonchalant while waiting for a reply.

  “Not much,” Luca said. “He stopped in for a day or two when he was doing business in Padua, but he says he’s too busy for the villegiatura this summer.”

  “That bookbinding investment?” Antonia asked.

  “That, and something else about a process to print music—Damn!” Luca had rowed so close to the bank that willow branches stroked over him, knocking his cap from his head.

  Once he was again in the center of the canal, Luca looked at Chiaretta. “So what do you think of Antonia’s idea?”

  Chiaretta groaned. “I was hoping you’d forgotten about it.”

  “Well, why not?” Antonia asked.

  “Because it’s insane. I can’t sing in an opera!”

  “Well of course not, if they know it’s you,” Antonia said. “But those women are so buried under their paint and their wigs, they could be your own mother and you wouldn’t know.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry,” she said. “I forgot you don’t have one.”

  Antonia’s thoughtless remarks were so frequent and so benign in intent they had become one of her most endearing traits.

  “That’s not exactly true. I do have one, I just don’t know who she is. So you’re right—she could be standing up there singing her heart out and I wouldn’t know. On the other hand, I think I would recognize your mother if she were dressed as the King of France.”

  “With a mustache and a beard!” Antonia shrieked. “Now that would be a sight! But seriously, why not, if you were sure you wouldn’t get caught?”

  “Well, it would be a lot of work, for one thing.”

  “You wouldn’t have to do the whole opera,” Antonia said. “We could find one where the soprano has a long break between scenes and you could change clothes with her. Then when you’re done, you change clothes again, and we’re off to the Ridotto with our delicious little secret.”

  The chirps from birds playing in the air around them and the small splashes of the oars were all that could be heard as the two of them waited for Chiaretta’s answer.

  “It does sound like fun,” she said.

  “Fun?” Luca broke in. “It sounds like so much fun that if you don’t do it, I’ll die feeling my whole life has been a waste.”

  “Oh, stop exaggerating.” Antonia slapped the top of his hand. “It will just hurt desperately for—well, maybe ten years or so, that’s all.”

  Chiaretta leaned over the edge of the boat, watching a frog kick alongside before disappearing into the brown water. Two horses grazing in a pasture came up to the bank, expecting a handout. Hearing them whinny, she sat up, brought back to the moment. Antonia and Luca were staring at her.

  “Well?” they both said.

  “It’s silly to discuss it. Claudio would have to agree.”

  “It might be best if he didn’t know,” Luca said. “In case there was trouble.”

  Chiaretta stared at him, astounded. “If there might be trouble, he most certainly has a right to know.”

  Antonia sighed. “You’re no fun. And besides, what if he actually wanted you to do it, but he didn’t want to know about it. You’d be the one who wrecked the whole thing by mentioning it. He might have to say no then, even though he wouldn’t have minded.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “But if he says yes, you’ll do it?”

  Chiaretta sighed. “I’ll give it some thought. Honestly, I will.”

  Antonia clapped her hands. “So here’s what I think. It should be at the Teatro Sant’Angelo. Nobody who works there will risk his job by saying anything even if he does figure it out. Claudio’s an investor, and you don’t denounce an investor and his wife unless you’re as brainless as a crayfish. And Vivaldi is supposed to be back for Carnevale.”

  “To the Pietà?” Not again.

  Reacting to the alarm in Chiaretta’s voice, Antonia gave her a quizzical look. “Not that I’ve heard,” she said. “Just for the opera season, I imagine. Hard to picture him going back to the Pietà when he’s getting so famous. Anyway, do you think we could get him to go along?”

  “I was pretty horrible to him before I left,” Chiaretta said.

  Luca cocked his head. “First I’ve heard about this.”

  “He wrote four arias, in this order. Wonderful; wonderful but right before and after something even better; ridiculous; and horrible.”

  “I loved it,” Antonia said. “Especially the one that sounded like a turtledove.”

  “I didn’t sing that one. That’s my point. I had to sing the one after—”

  “He’ll go along,” Luca interrupted. “He could never pass up a chance for you to sing in one of his operas. I think the little Red Priest will have to change his pants after he’s told the idea.”

  “Luca!” Feigning shock, Antonia started to chide him when two huge dragonflies buzzed past her cheek and hovered in the air near her ear. “Get them away from me!” she screeched, waving her arms until the boat rocked. Luca stood up, and the boat lurched. “No! No! Sit down before we capsize!”

  By the time Luca dropped back to his seat, the dragonflies had vanished and the subject of the opera, to Chiaretta’s relief, seemed to have gone with them.

  * * *

  Every time Chiaretta thought she understood life in Venice, she was proven wrong. She hadn’t given the opera another thought, so certain was she that Claudio would refuse. Antonia and Luca were the ones who had brought it up again at the first of Bernardo’s fall parties. Claudio had been hesitant at first about Chiaretta’s going onstage, even once, and in disguise, but by the end of the evening he was enthusiastic.

  “You’ll remember it the rest of your life,” he told her that night as they lay in bed. “And it’s Carnevale, so if anyone says they saw you, we’ll just say they’d had too much to drink and you were home that night.” He propped himself up on his elbow, tracing her belly with his finger. “And even if you told the truth, the police would probably ask you to change your story, so they wouldn’t have to do anything about it.”

  “Would you come if I sang?”

  Claudio fell back down onto the mattress and exhaled. “No, I think that’s a little too risky. I’ll make sure I have business out of town, but my God, how sad I am to miss it.”

  “I don’t know if I want to, if you aren’t there watching me.”

  “I’ll be watching you. I’ll remember what day it is and when you’re onstage, I’ll sit in a café wherever I am and imagine you up there.” He turned over and began stroking her hair. “I just have one question.”

  “What?”

  “Is it all right if I imagine you naked?” He threw his arm around her and launched himself on top of her, burrowing into her neck and making sounds like a bear. She shrieked with delight until he silenced her with kisses.

  When Vivaldi arrived back from Mantua for the fall
Carnevale season, Andrea and Luca approached him about the plan.

  They were still shaking their heads a week later.

  “He was so happy he started speaking Latin, and thanking God, as if He had anything to do with it,” Luca said over dinner with Antonia and Chiaretta.

  “Luca, you shouldn’t talk that way,” Chiaretta chided.

  “About Vivaldi or God?”

  “Both! Aren’t you afraid of making God angry, saying things like that?”

  Andrea smiled in amusement. “Perhaps you’ve never heard the saying that we are Venetians first and Christians second.”

  Chiaretta fell silent, not sure how to respond to what seemed like a dangerous thought.

  “Well, how religious is this anyway?” Luca added. “He tried to sell us a copy—more than one if we wanted—of what you would sing, and for a little extra he would transpose it to suit your voice. Oh, and then he said for a little more money, just for that performance he’d put in some songs you already knew, with different words to fit the plot, such as it is.”

  “And at first he insisted on coming over to give you lessons,” Andrea added, “but when we told him we’d changed our minds and got up to leave, he said never mind, that he was sure you remembered all he’d taught you.”

  Luca was laughing. “I thought if I stayed a few more minutes he might have tried to sell me his bed, or maybe his manservant.”

  “Stop it,” Chiaretta said, in a voice so uncharacteristically harsh that Luca fell silent and they all sat staring at her. “What can you do that is anything close to what he does? Sometimes when I looked at the music he’d written for me, I would tremble so hard I had to put it down. Even though there’s nothing much to like about him, that’s what I remember.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “He wrote with something in him beyond anything I’ve ever known.”

  “Like tapping the music of the spheres.” Andrea’s eyes grew distant as he spoke. “Like pulling beauty out of the stars and handing it to you, saying, ‘I found this in heaven. Here. It’s for you.’ ” He held out his empty hand, as if offering Chiaretta a gift.

  How could he know about that? How could he be so exactly right? Chiaretta wondered.

  Andrea had left Luca and Antonia with nothing to do but clear their throats and start wondering what liqueur they wanted before leaving.

  “A little sweet wine from the South would be nice,” Chiaretta said, looking away from Andrea while he motioned for the waiter.

  * * *

  Vivaldi had only one opera in the fall season, but the role of Rosane in La Verità in Cimento was perfect for Chiaretta. The soprano playing Rosane would have enough time between her scenes to slip out of her costume before Chiaretta went onstage late in the first act, and then to put it on again for the second. Chiaretta would sing as part of an ensemble, have some lines of recitative, and finish with an aria that would bring the act to a close.

  As far as Antonia, Luca, and Andrea were concerned, no event in the fall Carnevale season was more exciting than spending afternoons on the piano nobile of the Palazzo Morosini helping Chiaretta prepare.

  At first, her misgivings came out in the form of spluttering resistance. “I hate Rosane,” she said. “Zelim’s a nice man who loves her and she used to love him until Melindo came around. He’s the heir to the throne, so all of a sudden she’s cut Zelim to tatters, saying she’s in love with Melindo. But the minute it looks like Zelim is the true heir, suddenly it’s Zelim, Zelim, Zelim again?”

  “It’s just an excuse for singing,” Antonia said. “If you want real life, stay home.”

  “But she’s such a tart!” Chiaretta waved the sheet music. “Listen to this: ‘I love Melindo, but if it’s going to cost me my happiness, and if pleasure lies with Zelim, then good-bye, Melindo.’ Who says those kinds of things?”

  “Rosane does.” Luca shrugged. “I think she sounds like fun.”

  “Come on, Chiaretta, sing the music in Latin if it will make you feel better.” Antonia rolled her eyes. “Just let’s hear it.”

  Andrea took the sheet music from her and played the melody on the harpsichord. It swirled and undulated in the air of the portego, and within a few bars Antonia was swaying, holding her hands in front of her as if she were feeling the chest of a lover. “Dio mio!” she said. “The little priest wrote that?”

  Antonia stood next to Andrea and sang the first few bars. By the middle of the melody, Andrea was singing along with her. Luca grabbed Chiaretta’s elbow and nudged her toward the harpsichord. “You don’t want to sing this?” he asked, his voice rising in disbelief. “It’s terrific!”

  “Well,” Chiaretta said, “I guess I’ll try.” Before she could hesitate further, Andrea began playing the introduction.

  “My love, you are my hope and delight,” she sang. Her voice echoed off the floor and danced in the golden light of the portego. She stopped at the end of the first section and turned to Antonia, expecting approval.

  But Antonia was scowling. “It’s not a lullaby! The little slut thinks nobody’s listening, so she’s crowing about how sexy she is, and how she should be able to have all the men she wants.”

  Chiaretta looked at Andrea for support, but instead he nodded. “I’m afraid Antonia’s right.”

  “Try it this way.” Antonia sang the melody, pulsing at the beginning of each bar and ending it with a breathy sigh. “It doesn’t sound very good when I do it, but that’s what it should be like.”

  Andrea started playing again, and Chiaretta imitated Antonia.

  “Much better!” Luca said.

  “But still not enough.” Antonia lifted her shoulders and made circles, using her elbows to massage the sides of her breasts to push them up. “Watch me.”

  “Amato, ben tu sei la mia speranza,” she sang, turning to Luca.

  The tops of her breasts spilled forward as she dropped her shoulders and leaned her head toward him. “Tu sei il mio piacer.” Putting her face only inches from his, she emphasized each word with her lips, as if she were daring him to kiss her.

  “Ma per serbare a te costanza, non vuo turbare il mio goder.” She turned away and danced in a slow circle before coming back to face him. Standing now at arm’s length, she put her hands on her hips and swayed. “But I don’t want to interrupt my pleasure just to be faithful to you,” she repeated with a wink at Luca.

  “Brava!” Luca clapped.

  Andrea joined in the applause. “That was quite something, Antonia.”

  “Makes me wish you weren’t my cousin’s wife,” Luca said, putting his arm around Antonia’s waist and drawing their hips together in a friendly hug. “Especially when there’s a bedroom nearby.”

  Andrea turned to Chiaretta. “What’s wrong?”

  Her eyes were huge in her solemn face. “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” Luca asked. “You stuffed the head of Holofernes in a bag at the Pietà.”

  While he and Antonia laughed, Andrea stared at her. “You are a beautiful, sensual woman. Surely you must know that.”

  Chiaretta felt her skin prickle and her face grow hot. “I—”

  Antonia and Luca had stopped laughing. They all watched her, waiting.

  “I don’t really know why not. I’ve just never done it before. At the Pietà no one could see me. And the music wasn’t like this.”

  “You’ll have to learn how to act,” Andrea said. “At least a little.”

  “Luca, do you remember a few years back the fat one who stood there like a cow and we were supposed to believe she was so sexy that men would die for her?” Antonia asked. “Did she ever come back to Venice?”

  “I don’t think so. Not after someone threw a bench at her in the last act.”

  “Luca, stop,” Chiaretta said. She had seen enough singers booed without mercy at the opera houses around Venice, and the reminder was giving her second thoughts.

  Andrea stood up. “We all talked Chiaretta into this, and I don’t think it’s right for us to come over here
and tell stories that can’t help but scare her.” He looked Luca and Antonia in the eyes. “We have work to do.”

  Antonia took Chiaretta’s hand. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I still forget that, in a way, you’re not really from here, not from Venice at all.” She looked at Andrea. “Play it again.”

  Although she could never manage to forget the presence of the two men in the room, Chiaretta was soon able to put her self-consciousness aside enough to move her head, her shoulders, her hips, her mouth to the patterns of the aria. Little by little the embarrassment faded until it was gone.

  “You’re enjoying this!” Antonia said one afternoon after watching Chiaretta flounce and prance around the portego as she practiced her recitative.

  Chiaretta gave her a wicked smile. “I can’t believe how much fun I’m having.”

  “Well then,” Andrea said. “Let’s try the ensemble.”

  Chiaretta picked up the music and was leafing through it without a word.

  “I played it already at home,” Andrea said, reading her mind. “It’s not just beautiful, it’s sublime.” He began to play.

  “Aure placide e serene...” Chiaretta’s voice rose like the tranquil breeze she sang of. She held the high notes for a moment before letting her voice down gently and passing the melody to the others in turn.

  “You echo my laments,” all of them sang at the end, in harmony so tight it ached. When they finished, the music seemed suspended in the air for a moment before it died off.

  “Mater Dei,” Chiaretta whispered under her breath. “That is—” She let her voice trail off. No word could describe the beauty of what they had just sung.

  “I’ve never had music go straight into my soul like that,” Andrea murmured. “Never.”

  His eyes bored into Chiaretta’s. The lucid and pristine harmonies had stripped away all pretense and laid her so bare that, instead of looking away, she found herself staring back.

  Staring longer.

  Antonia cleared her throat, breaking the spell. “So what did you think?” she asked Luca.

  For once, Luca was speechless. He motioned with his chin toward Chiaretta, who had covered her face with her hands while Andrea pulled her to him and rocked her in his arms.