One morning two weeks before the performance, Zuana came up to Chiaretta’s apartment to tell her Andrea was waiting for her on the piano nobile. No practice had been arranged for that day, and worried that something had gone wrong, Chiaretta patted down loose strands of hair and put on a dressing gown suitable for receiving a frequent guest at home. Then she hurried downstairs, where she found Andrea at the harpsichord looking at some sheet music.
Seeing her in a dressing gown with her hair undone and an apprehensive look on her face, Andrea got up from the bench. “I’m sorry to come unexpectedly. I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?”
“Has something bad happened?”
“No, actually something quite wonderful. I thought you would want to know about it right away. This is a gift for you from Maestro Vivaldi.” He handed the sheet music to her. “Entirely without charge, I might add,” he said with a grin.
“De due rai languir costante,” Chiaretta read the title aloud and then began running her eyes over the music. “It’s lovely. But I don’t understand.”
“It’s a little something I’ve heard the gondoliers sing. He’s fancied up the melody a bit and used the words in an aria for you. I ran into him near the Broglio yesterday afternoon, and he asked if I could deliver it to you, since he wasn’t feeling well.”
Chiaretta put the sheet music in a neat pile on the harpsichord. “It’s a very nice gift, and I’ll look at it as soon as I can, but not until after the opera.”
“No,” Andrea said. “I came over because it can’t wait. He’s written it for you to sing in the opera. That is, if you can manage one more piece of music.”
Chiaretta picked up the music and began looking at it again. “I don’t know...”
Andrea held out his hand for her to give him the pages as she finished with them and began working the music out on the harpsichord. “ ‘To languish constantly for two eyes should be a pleasure and is instead a torment,’ ” he sang along as he started the music again. “ ‘Archer of love, lessen my ardor and leave me more content.’ Not many words to learn, mostly vocalizing, and the essential melody is simple.”
Chiaretta handed him the last few sheets of the music. “Perhaps he doesn’t realize how out of practice I am.”
“Perhaps all he realizes is this golden opportunity to hear you sing one more time something he’s written just for you. If I were you I’d be immensely flattered.”
“I am. But it doesn’t sound like Rosane. I don’t understand how it fits.”
“That doesn’t matter. Operas change all the time—a castrato says he wants to sing something from last month’s opera in Rome because it suits his voice better, or a diva will complain that the notes are too high or too low, or that she wants something more dramatic or more tender—who knows?—and the poor composer has to go along. This time, for a change, he’s doing it because he wants to.”
Chiaretta began playing with the keys on one end of the harpsichord. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try,” she said, sitting next to Andrea on the bench. “And if I find it’s too much, I’ll tell him I can’t do it.”
She was sitting so close to him she sensed a faint odor of lavender and myrtle in his clothing and could see where flecks of dust had accumulated along the seams of his coat. Since the day he had held her in his arms, Chiaretta had been grateful for Antonia’s and Luca’s constant presence because she had not wanted to be alone with Andrea. Now, without thinking about what she was doing, she had sat so close to him in her dressing gown that she could feel the press of his thigh against hers.
She got up quickly. “I’ll turn the pages,” she said, stepping to one side of the bench and reaching around him to line up the music.
With his right hand, Andrea played a simplified version of the woodwind accompaniment while his left played the string continuo. It sounded like a tree full of songbirds, chirping a happy chorus while people below them danced, and Chiaretta fell so in love with the piece that she implored him to stay longer to practice.
Finally, he had to go. “I’ll come back tomorrow, if you’d like,” he said, getting up to put on his cloak and hat.
The sound of a throat being cleared startled them, and they turned to see Giustina at the other end of the portego. She walked toward them. “I wondered who was here.” Her eyes scanned Chiaretta, noting her dressing gown and loose hair.
Chiaretta’s heart sank. What time was it? And why had she not thought to go upstairs and dress before they began?
Giustina’s mouth was a thin line. She greeted Andrea with frigid cordiality and said nothing to Chiaretta at all.
“I must apologize,” Andrea said. “I have imposed most terribly this morning.” He turned to Chiaretta. “I’ll leave the music here for you, and come back tomorrow, if you’d like.” Chiaretta nodded, too unnerved to speak.
Giustina watched Andrea walk across the portego, and when he was gone, she turned to Chiaretta. “I will not have this in my house.”
Chiaretta opened her mouth to apologize but stopped herself.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“So if my son were to walk in now and see you in your bedclothes with another man, you’d expect him to be pleased?”
I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t owe her an explanation. “This is my husband’s house also—and mine,” Chiaretta told her. “I believe he would trust me to know how to behave. And, I might add, these are not my bedclothes.”
Giustina’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, continuing to stare at Chiaretta, who struggled not to look away first. Then she spoke. “It is one thing to have male friends. People expect it. And Andrea has my son’s approval.” She looked toward an open door off the portego. “I need to sit down, and I would like you to come with me.”
Chiaretta followed her into a small parlor. The hearth was cold, the lamps were unlit, and the one small, high window did no more than cast shadows across the room. “No point in calling the servants to light the fire. We won’t be long.” She motioned to Chiaretta to sit in the chair opposite hers.
“I’ve seen how Andrea looks at you, long before what happened today, and though he knows what’s appropriate with a married woman, it’s still clear he has...” She paused as if not sure how to phrase it. “His passions.”
“Andrea has shown no passion to me.”
“He’s a gentleman. That doesn’t mean he won’t hope for a signal from you that you might be receptive to him.”
“I love my husband, Giustina.”
In the gloom, Chiaretta could not read the expression on her mother-in-law’s face, but she heard her take in a breath and let it out with a sigh that seemed to contain a mixture of annoyance and resignation.
“In Venice many people love more than one person,” Giustina said. “And as long as they keep their secrets, no misery is likely to come of it. But make no mistake, Chiaretta, those who are indiscreet pay dearly for it.”
“Are you suggesting I’ve been unfaithful?”
“I want to make very clear to you how serious an error you would be making.”
Chiaretta stood up. “I appreciate your concern for me,” she said, trying to disguise her anger. “But I don’t need to be told this.”
“Oh, really? Did you know that divorce is possible in Venice, and that adultery is cause for it? And did you know that divorced women rarely have the means to live on their own? And returning to your family—that would be a bit of a problem for you, wouldn’t it?”
Chiaretta felt the blood rise in her cheeks and was grateful the room was too dark for Giustina to see the effects of her words. Could I be abandoned? she wondered, but she did not want to give her mother-in-law the satisfaction of answering her question.
“Thank you for the advice,” she said. “But as you’ve so graciously pointed out, I still haven’t had time to dress today.” She turned and left Giustina sitting in the dark.
* * *
“I don’t know why she’s still so horrid to you,” anto
nia said two weeks later as they entered the stage door for Chiaretta’s performance. “She knows what she’s saying isn’t true.”
“Antonia, I’ve heard people talk about divorce. It is possible.”
“Not in your case. If it would cause you to be abandoned, the court wouldn’t allow it. She’s just trying to scare you.”
“Well, she did. I even thought about not singing, but then I decided I couldn’t let her have that effect on me.”
“You’ve become a real Morosini!” Antonia grinned at her. “Let’s find your dressing room.”
“Maestro Vivaldi said he would meet me,” Chiaretta said, looking in confusion at the warren of hallways and doors in front of her. Scenery and props cluttered the passages as she and Antonia wandered single file in what they assumed was the direction of the stage. The light was so dim that they had taken off their masks in the vain hope of seeing a little better. They pressed against a painted backdrop as two stagehands passed in the opposite direction, carrying a rolled carpet under their arms.
“Excuse me,” Antonia called after them. “Where is Signorina Strada’s dressing room?”
“Ahead and to the right,” one of them called over his shoulder.
Antonia shrugged and kept walking. They came to a wider corridor where a half dozen people in costumes were chatting with two police guards. Antonia inquired again, and one of the guards left the group to take them to the diva’s dressing room.
“Are you friends of hers?” the guard asked.
“No—” Chiaretta started to say, but Antonia’s “Yes” drowned her out.
Just as he raised his hand to knock on a door, he stopped. “Wait a minute,” he said. “I know you—you’re Chiaretta della Pietà, aren’t you? I saw you in the parlatorio at Carnevale and a few times on the Riva when you were going out.”
“No, you’re mistaken,” Antonia rushed to say. Chiaretta had never heard fear in her friend’s voice before. Her own heart was pounding too hard to speak.
“Wait here,” the guard said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Sancta Maria,” Antonia whispered. “I think we might be in trouble.”
Chiaretta looked up and down the hallway. “Should we try to get out?”
They heard a familiar voice from inside Anna Maria Strada’s dressing room, and Vivaldi opened the door. “Ah. You’re here!” Seeing their frightened faces, he ushered them inside. The diva sat at her dressing table warming up her voice while putting on makeup. She nodded to them but made no move to get up.
“The police know she’s here—” Antonia said.
Vivaldi clutched his chest. “Deus in adjutorium,” he stammered. “I should never have agreed to this!”
Chiaretta had collapsed in a chair. It’s Claudio who could go to jail. What would happen to me then? Vivaldi crossed himself, and even though she hadn’t been praying, by rote Chiaretta’s fingers moved to her forehead to do the same. I should never have let them talk me into this. She crossed herself again.
Someone was knocking on the door. “Should we answer?” Antonia whispered, but Anna Maria had already gotten up. She threw open the door with a smile, as if she were expecting an admirer. Her face fell again when, instead, two police guards walked in.
“Chiaretta della Pietà?” the second one said. Chiaretta’s stomach turned over. Antonia’s hand on her shoulder tightened like a vise.
“My God, you’re right!” He slapped the first guard on the back. “It really is her!” He fished in his pocket for a few zecchini. “You win,” he said, handing over the coins.
“My brother was crazy about you,” the first guard explained. “And when you got married, it was like the end of the world. So when I saw you—”
“You scared us to death!” Antonia stood in front of them, shaking her finger.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot—”
“So you’re not going to say anything?” Vivaldi cut in.
“You mean about how she’s not supposed to sing?” the first guard said. “We want to hear her, not arrest her! We won’t breathe a word.”
The second guard laughed. “For once I’m glad to be at work.”
Vivaldi’s relief was obvious. “Then as impresario, I give you permission to watch the first act from my box.” Bobbing his head as he thanked them, he ushered the two guards to the door. He shut it behind them and checked the latch.
“Dio mio.” He pressed his back against the door. Chiaretta cupped her hand over her mouth. “Dio mio,” she repeated.
Chiaretta had gone to several performances of Laverità in Cimento to memorize the blocking for her scenes, and one afternoon she had met with Vivaldi to tour the set. Despite her preparation, now that it was brightly lit and crowded with actors in the wings, she found the stage almost unrecognizable.
Anna Maria Strada was larger than she was, and the costume hung on Chiaretta in a way she could not imagine people would fail to notice. Fortunately, once she had gotten past the stagehands, she could wait in the shadows unobserved. With only a few minutes to go, Antonia left to watch from the box with Luca and Andrea. Chiaretta rubbed her hands together and jiggled her knees to try to calm her nerves, as she waited alone for her entrance. Sweat trickled from her armpits, and her head felt swallowed up by a huge wig so hot her scalp felt as if it were burning. Her makeup was so thick it wrinkled whenever she tried to move her mouth.
La Mantovanina, the mezzo-soprano playing the Sultan’s wife, Rustena, came up before her entrance and stood next to Chiaretta in the wings. Onstage the Sultan, Mamud, was having a long conversation in recitative with his mistress, Damira.
“The Maestro told us you were someone from out of town who wanted to sing,” La Mantovanina said under her breath. “Are you any good?”
Before Chiaretta could answer, Mamud left the stage, rushing by her so fast she had to step back to avoid him. “Stupid bitch upstaged me again,” he growled before disappearing.
When she turned back to La Mantovanina, the mezzo was already onstage, agitated at Damira’s plot to unseat Rustena’s son as heir in favor of her own. Finally Damira stepped into the wings, leaving La Mantovanina onstage alone.
“Oh,” she said, looking Chiaretta over. “You’re the one who’s singing for Anna Maria tonight.” She shrugged. “I wish you were singing for me. I have an awful headache.” She went over to a stool and sat down without saying anything more.
“Too much wine at dinner again, Margarita?” Girolamo Albertini nodded to Chiaretta before going over to knead the diva’s shoulders. He was dressed in a gold turban and a brightly patterned jacket with red pants that ballooned out before being tucked into high boots. His soft and fatty-looking face confirmed what his voice had already given away, that he was the castrato in the role of Zelim.
Albertini looked around. “Where’s La Coralli? We have to go on in a minute. The delicate flower’s almost dead.”
Margarita snickered. Onstage, La Mantovanina was singing about how joy was as short-lived as a flower. Albertini sang the last few lines in a low voice to open his throat. “My miserly life has never handed me pleasure without an equal dose of bitterness and pain,” he sang, stopping to look around. “Where is that girl?”
Just at that moment another singer in the costume of a Turkish prince slipped up beside them.
“Late, late, late,” Albertini said.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry.” Though Chiaretta knew a woman was playing the role of Melindo, she was still taken by surprise when she saw La Coralli’s trousers and bound chest. Embarrassed to have stared, Chiaretta looked away.
La Mantovanina swept offstage on the other side, and Chiaretta felt La Coralli push her from behind.
“Don’t look at the audience,” she whispered. “Just pretend they’re not there.”
Chiaretta blinked in the bright lights. I’m onstage. They can see me. Her music vanished from her head.
La Coralli grabbed her wrist, as if she knew Chiaretta might be tempted to run. Then the familiar fi
rst sounds came up from the orchestra, and before she had time to think, she had already sung her first notes. “Serene and peaceful breezes,” she sang. The notes had come out well, but her heart was beating so fast she could scarcely take in air to project her voice.
“Pleasant babbling streams.” The castrato’s voice was so huge that for a moment Chiaretta was too startled to remember to act. Then she arched her neck and looked haughtily away from him toward Melindo.
“Boughs, lovely and innocent,” La Coralli sang, and though it felt odd to flirt with a woman dressed as a man, Chiaretta leaned toward her, touching her cheek the way she had seen Anna Maria Strada do.
“Whispering, murmuring, you echo my laments.” Chiaretta’s voice soared over theirs, strong and full and clear. I’m doing it, she thought. I’m doing it.
The others left the stage, and the chortling sound of flutes rose up from the orchestra, beginning the aria Vivaldi had inserted into the opera for her. Much as Chiaretta loved the lilting melody, she had at first been wary about including it. She would be alone onstage for the aria, and after she heard about benches being thrown at divas who couldn’t act, it had taken some effort to convince her that wouldn’t happen to her.
“To languish constantly for two eyes seems a pleasure and is a torment,” she sang. Sometimes the flutes played alone, sometimes in the background, and sometimes with her, like a flock of larks landing in a meadow. Toward the end of the aria, Chiaretta could ornament her voice to answer the flutes however she wished. She warbled and trilled with as much confidence as if she were looking over Andrea’s shoulder while he played, and though the lights were hot and the room in front of her was dark, she thought of nothing but his graceful fingers on the keys.
The bass viols plucked the last notes of the continuo, and with only a single arpeggio from the harpsichord, Chiaretta transformed herself into Rosane again. I’m almost done, she thought, feeling a weight lift from her. This is it. Go out and treasure it. She came to the edge of the stage and looked out at the dim outlines of the crowd. “Amato ben tu sei la mia speranza,” she sang, stretching the ah in the last word as if each one of them were the lover she was imagining.
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