She twirled away. Pretending Luca and Andrea were onstage with her, she beckoned and teased, invited and pushed away each one in turn. Then, as the orchestra played the accompaniment one last time, she walked to the edge of the stage and traversed its length, looking out into the audience and blowing kisses. As the last notes sounded, she sauntered offstage, as confident as a courtesan with a trail of admirers in her wake.
La Coralli was waiting in the wings. “Who are you? ” she asked, before waving Chiaretta toward the stage. “Go out for a bow.”
Applause rolled toward her in torrents from the boxes. “Brava! Bravissima!”
“Anna Maria, I love you!” someone shouted, as cries of “Viva La Strada!” erupted all over the theater.
Chiaretta stood in the lights, feeling tiny and huge at the same time. “Brava, Chiaretta,” she whispered, just to hear her own name once. She stretched out her arms as if to embrace the crowd, and then with a wave she left the stage.
La Coralli was still waiting. “Who are you?” she asked again.
“I live in Venice,” Chiaretta said, and then remembering Antonia’s words at their rehearsal, she corrected herself. “I’m from here.” Finally, she thought, finally that feels true.
“You’re not an opera singer?” La Coralli shook her head in amazement.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“My husband won’t let me.” Chiaretta smiled inside at the little lie.
“Lucky for us,” La Coralli said. “I think Anna Maria would be out of a job otherwise.” She laughed. “And me too, if you didn’t mind strapping your tits and wearing pants.” She motioned to Chiaretta. “Come on. I’m supposed to get that costume off you.”
Andrea arrived alone at Chiaretta’s dressing room after the performance. His eyes were glittering. “You were magnificent,” he said. “Did you hear the applause?”
“It seemed awfully loud from the stage, but I’ve only heard it from the box before.”
“Louder than for any of the other singers. You even broke up a couple of fights. They stopped to listen, and then I guess they forgot what they were fighting about.”
“Did you like it?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I thought for a moment you had lost your courage and it was Anna Maria after all, because I couldn’t imagine how anyone could walk out with such confidence, and just”—he clenched his fists in front of his chest for emphasis—“just grab the audience the way you did. And then of course I knew it wasn’t her because I know your voice so well.” He drew in a deep breath and, without taking his eyes off her, let the air out slowly.
“I don’t even know where it came from. All of a sudden I was just up there doing it.”
He was still looking at her.
“Where are the others?” she asked, turning toward the door to avoid his eyes.
“Luca and Antonia are off to the Ridotto preparing the celebration.” He laughed, and the tension was broken. “Antonia makes a most indelicate noblewoman, but she certainly compensates for it in her loyalty to a friend. She was the loudest person in the house after your arias. Luca had to restrain her or it would have been worse, I’m sure, and we didn’t want anyone to wonder why in the world she would have cared so much.” He paused. “Can I help you with your dress?”
Chiaretta had already removed the costume and put her own dress back on, but she had not been able to close it in the back. Though the suggestion of such an intimacy unnerved her, the backstage maids had all run off with Anna Maria, finishing her costume change.
She turned her back to Andrea, and he began connecting the hooks and pulling the laces tight. “I heard about the guards,” he said.
The guards. Was it still the same night? “It seems like a lifetime ago,” Chiaretta said. “I’d already forgotten.”
His motions were enough to buffet her slightly, and she felt his strong fingers pushing into her back. She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on something else.
“Finished,” he said, and she turned around. The look in his eyes had grown intense again, and she felt her corset tighten around her ribs as she took in a secretive gulp of air.
“We should go,” she managed to say. “Luca and Antonia must be at the Ridotto by now.”
Andrea stood, taking in her hair, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, before sweeping his eyes briefly and discreetly from her head to her feet.
“Both of them losing Luca’s money, I presume,” he said. “Let me help you with your bauta.”
He put his arm around her waist to guide her through the crowded Piazza Sant’Angelo. Boys were setting off firecrackers, and two intoxicated women exposed their breasts to the cheering crowd. Impromptu bands played on each corner of the square, while jugglers, mummers, and magicians competed for space on the church steps. The aromas of caramelized sugar and roasting nuts filled the air from a booth where a man stood holding a bear cub on a chain while children darted in to taunt it.
“Don’t they ever get tired of this?” Chiaretta asked, pressing closer to Andrea.
He tightened his hold around her waist. “It’s the last night before the break for Christmas. I guess they want to make sure they have enough to tell their confessor for two weeks.”
As they passed the church of San Moisè and turned in the direction of the casino, the sky lit up with fireworks.
“Let’s go watch,” Andrea said, as they passed by the entrance to the Ridotto and walked the few remaining steps to the Riva. Oil lamps on boats scribbled lines of light in the darkness as they were jostled by the water of the lagoon. The dome of Santa Maria della Salute glowed in the moonlight, and Chiaretta could see the outline of the crowd gathered there. Then the sky was lit again with golden sparks that fell in burning cinders into the canal, dying with hundreds of little hisses.
A shower of embers fell close to them on the walkway, and Andrea drew her closer. “Let’s move back a little.” He pulled her aside into a sheltered corner between two buildings, and though she no longer needed protection from the crowds or the sparks, Andrea did not pull away. Instead, he turned toward her.
“Chiaretta,” he said. “Take off your mask. I have something I can’t wait any longer to say.” His eyes softened when he saw her face, and he lifted his hand to brush her cheek. Another burst showered down nearby, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Claudio is my friend and so are you. But I find myself in such pain over my feelings for you, and I just want to say that if you ever felt that you wanted to— If you wanted there to be more between us, I would guard your honor with my life.”
Chiaretta put both hands to her mouth and stared at him. He reached behind her neck with one of his hands, and gently taking her fingers away from her face with the other, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. His lips were thinner than Claudio’s, but his tongue traced the corners of her own with a delicacy that sent spikes of sweet pleasure through her shoulders and down her arms, through her neck and to the bottom of her spine.
He pulled away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I took something from you that you hadn’t offered.”
She lifted herself up on her toes and looked into his eyes. “I’m offering it now,” she said, kissing him again.
Shortly after dawn the following morning, Chiaretta was woken from a restless sleep by a wave of nausea so strong she barely made it to her washbasin before she vomited. For the last week she had fought down the same feeling, dismissing it as nervousness about the performance and forgetting about it by midmorning.
When Zuana came in to inquire if she wanted breakfast, she stopped short at the smell coming from the basin and the figure of her mistress fallen back on the bed like a discarded cloak. She rushed to remove the basin, and when she carried it back dry and clean, Chiaretta was sitting up.
“I don’t know what came over me,” Chiaretta said. “I woke up sick, but I seem to be better now.” Her nipples felt like hot coals, and her breasts seemed to be made of stone; when she reached down to touch them, s
he winced at the pain.
“Would Madonna like me to ask the lady of the house to come attend her?”
Giustina? Why would she want Giustina? Her quizzical look made Zuana smile. “At these times, Madonna, a woman might like to talk to another woman. Or perhaps I should call for your husband?”
At these times? Then it dawned on her. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Zuana. Does this mean—?”
“Yes, Madonna. It is the first sign.”
All thoughts of Andrea vanished. I’m going to have a baby.
PART FIVE: BLESSINGS
1723–1726
NINETEEN
Donata Morosini held up the blue and white cat’s mask in front of her face. “I want to wear this one!”
“Cara, it’s too big. It belongs to your mother. Be careful with it!” The gold filigreed wings had bent a little over the six years since Claudio had given Chiaretta the mask, but it was still beautiful. Besina, the young nanny, grabbed it away.
The little girl’s face crumpled. “But it’s a kitty. I don’t like mine. It isn’t special.”
“It isn’t supposed to be. You’re supposed to look like everybody else. It goes with the bauta your father bought you.”
“But this is a party. I want to wear a mask.” Donata twirled in her silk chemise and long slip and practiced the new dance she was learning, shutting her eyes and whispering the count out loud as she concentrated. “I’m four and I’m singing at the party!” she crowed.
“Almost four, and not if you don’t take a nap first!” Chiaretta came in, holding a one-year-old boy. She put him down, holding him up by one arm and linking her finger through a tape sewn into the back of his jacket to help him learn to walk. “Go to Besina!”
The child gurgled, his broad face wet with the drool of a new tooth. Still holding him, she moved forward as he put out each foot in turn.
“Good boy, Maffeo!” she said as she passed the tape to the nanny.
“He won’t need his girello soon,” Besina said, picking him up and slipping him into a polished wooden walker carved with leaves and flowers. Maffeo babbled as he patted the designs on the girello with his wet fingers before pushing himself across the room toward his sister.
“Yes, I think you’re right. Another week or two and he’ll be walking. Is my husband back from the Pietà?”
“No, Madonna, I don’t believe so. Would you like me to find out?”
“No, but would you leave a message that I’d like to see him before the guests arrive?”
“Of course.” Besina looked over at Maffeo, who had begun to suck on his knuckles. “Excuse me, Madonna, but I think it’s time for him to be fed. Shall I take him to the wet nurse?”
“Yes, please. I can get Donata into bed.” Chiaretta watched as Besina pulled the baby from the girello and bounced him in her arms. He whimpered, and Chiaretta came over to him, smoothing his hair and kissing him on the forehead. He reached out his arms for her, but she moved just out of reach. “Go with Besina, my darling. I’ll see you after your nap.”
Donata was in one corner of the nursery, rocking her dolls in the carved wooden cradle generations of Morosinis had slept in as infants.
“Do I have to take a nap?” she asked her mother.
“The party isn’t for a few hours. It will make the time pass.”
“Can I sleep in your bed?” Donata turned around and gave her mother a calculated smile. “With you?”
Chiaretta laughed. “I suppose so. I may not fall asleep, but I’ll lie down with you until you do.”
She helped her daughter up into the high bed and got in after her. Donata turned toward her, and Chiaretta cradled her head in the hollow of her shoulder.
“When will my aunt get here?” Donata asked.
“Which one?”
“Maddalena. Who else is coming? Antonia?”
“Maybe.” Antonia had just given birth to her fourth child, and the quick succession of pregnancies and a stillbirth had made her so heavy and listless that she rarely went out. A third girl, Chiaretta thought, playing with Donata’s fine blond hair as her breathing grew shallow and she took in the little snuffles of air Chiaretta knew meant she was falling asleep.
It had taken Antonia several weeks to think of a name for her new daughter, and she had sent her away with barely a glance after her birth. “Convent fodder,” she had said. “Piero won’t be happy.”
Claudio, Chiaretta thought with pleasure, had been delighted with his perfect little daughter and son. Piero was not anywhere near as good a father or provider. Antonia hadn’t gotten a new wardrobe after her last two babies, and Chiaretta had noticed with dismay how stained and worn some of the new baby’s bedding looked. Though Piero’s family was once among the wealthiest in Venice, he was not particularly intelligent and had not shown a good head for business. In the last two years the rumors about his gambling losses had gotten so bad it was hard for Chiaretta to look Antonia in the face.
When the story circulated that, in order to make one last bet, Piero crawled under the gaming table to find a few zecchini he had dropped, he denied it had been him. The rumor eventually floated away, replaced by another about someone else. The masks everyone except the banker wore at the casinos gave Piero his cover and Antonia the ability to put the best public face on her husband’s growing shame. For that and other reasons, in the last few years Antonia had become reclusive, rarely wanting visitors, even among her oldest friends.
I have my beautiful babies for company, Chiaretta thought. Antonia will come around. Someday she’ll look at her children and see what a blessing they are. When she saw her own features and personality reflected in Donata, she wanted to pull her daughter to herself and never let go. The ferocity of her love overwhelmed Chiaretta at times, and she was adamant that nothing would separate her from her children, even if it was the Venetian way.
Soon after her body had first started to swell with Donata, a Morosini property in one of the small squares of Venice fell vacant after the family leasing it went back to Austria. Chiaretta insisted that she and Claudio make it their family home. She took only Zuana with her to Ca’ Morosini, and Claudio retained only his own personal servant. A new staff worked for them, without loyalties to the Palazzo Morosini or to the troublesome woman who lived there.
The house looked out onto a lively square, where Besina often took Donata to look in the shops or chat with the vendors, bringing home their small gifts—an apple from the grocer, a bright feather from the milliner. Twice a week, Chiaretta took Donata to mass at the church on the other side of the square, followed by a treat at a café.
The portego on the piano nobile was about half the size of the one they had moved from, ideal for the smaller kinds of entertainment Chiaretta favored. The portego on the next level, where the family lived, was perfect for her daughter to dance in her stocking feet and listen to her voice echo off the terrazzo floor as she sang.
Though she might have chosen larger personal quarters, Chiaretta had taken a corner of the new house where, next to her own rooms, there was another suitable for a nursery. Besina lived downstairs with the rest of the servants, but she had a bed in the nursery as well.
Donata mumbled something in her sleep, and Chiaretta realized she too had dozed off. Much remained to be done in the hours before the party, so she slipped her arm out from under her daughter and got out of bed. She knocked on the door to Claudio’s quarters, but he was still not there. His father had died after a brief illness the year before, leaving Claudio to take over his role on the Congregazione. It took up more hours of his time than Chiaretta could ever have imagined. This year Claudio was also serving on the Council of Ten, often returning home so exhausted he fell asleep within minutes of getting his boots off.
By now Chiaretta had adjusted to the fact that the floor where his boots dropped was sometimes not in their home. Antonia had been right. The woman on the boat was a courtesan, and though occasionally a nobleman was foolish enough to fall in love with one of
them, their company was a diversion no one gave much thought to. Claudio asked nothing of his wife but to look out for his wants and needs, and be discreet about private matters. Chiaretta expected and got the same from him. Perhaps the Venetians were right after all, that not expecting one’s spouse to be the source of all happiness and pleasure led to a more contented life.
Tonight, her husband would be lucky to get even a few minutes’ rest before the guests arrived. Among the dozen or so invitees was an elderly man Claudio was encouraging to remember the Pietà in his will, and another donor who appeared to be moving his favor to the coro of another ospedale, the Mendicanti. If all went well, a private concert led by the illustrious violinist Maddalena della Pietà would lead to two favorable commitments in one evening.
As she started back toward her quarters, Chiaretta heard Claudio’s footsteps on the stairs. He was sweating in his black patrician cloak in the sultry heat of a June evening.
She took his cloak and followed him into his study. “Did you get it?” she asked, gesturing to a small package he was holding.
“Yes. They stayed open for me. Where is she?”
“Asleep in my bed. Why don’t you lay it on the pillow?”
Claudio tiptoed into the bedroom and bent over his daughter for a moment before leaving the package next to the arm she had flung outside the coverlet. Chiaretta felt a sweet pang in her heart as she watched him. Claudio loved his children more openly than any other father she knew. He found time for them whenever he could, and tolerated being interrupted in his study just to get a kiss or a view of a new tooth. I am so glad to be married to him, Chiaretta thought.
Donata stirred and opened her eyes. “Papa!” Her hand touched the package, and she sat up to see what it was. “A present for me?” she said, her eyes opening wide. She pulled at the wrapping and extracted a tiny pink and gold papier-mâché half-mask with an attached stick to hold it in front of her eyes.
The Four Seasons: A Novel of Vivaldi's Venice Page 27
