Playing by Heart

by Carmela Martino

  My fingers slipped, striking an ugly chord that set my teeth on edge. I dropped my hands to my lap.

  I didn’t understand—why couldn’t Father let Maria take the veil? She would truly welcome a life of devotion to God. Yet Father’d been angered by the mere suggestion. I will not have her extraordinary talents hidden away in a convent.

  The chiming of the Basilica bells pulled me into the present. Maestro Tomassini would be here any moment. I raised my hands to the keys and began my first practice piece—a piece the maestro used to have me play blindfolded.

  Suddenly, I knew what I must do. I had to make Father feel the same way about my talents as he did Maria’s.

  My fingers stumbled again as a voice in my head said, But you’re not good enough.

  To which my heart replied, then I must become good enough.

  Chapter Two: The Challenge

  The maestro strode in just then. “Well, you’ve obviously been neglecting your practice in my absence.”

  “Maestro Tomassini!” I jumped up. “I, I, I—”

  Maestro Tomassini set his leather satchel on a chair. “Bah! Stop babbling, Girl.”

  Girl. My shoulders sagged under the weight of the word. I was the maestro’s only female student and, as far as I could tell, his least favorite. His time away obviously hadn’t changed that. Or his disposition.

  The maestro moved to the far end of the harpsichord and waved his long fingers at me. “Come, come. I don’t have all day.”

  My heart still racing, I sat down and began again. But I couldn’t find the right tempo. How could I hope to impress Father with my talents if I couldn’t even play a practice piece properly?

  I breathed in so deeply my bodice stays pinched. I can play this piece blindfolded, I reminded myself. Then I did the next best thing—I closed my eyes. I imagined I was alone in the room. The beating of my heart gradually slowed and I settled into the music.

  When I finished, I opened my eyes.

  The maestro still stood at the end of the harpsichord, but he was frowning at the floor.

  I continued with my normal practice routine. Now that I’d found my rhythm, I moved easily from one piece to the next. In between, I stole glances at the maestro. He kept staring at the floor with one ear cocked toward me, his sharp profile dark against the light from the window.

  The maestro’s time in Venice had left little mark on his appearance—he was as tall and thin as ever, though the silver streaks in his black hair seemed to have multiplied. He wore his hair tied back at the neck with a ribbon, as always. I’d never seen him in a wig. Perhaps he thought a wig inappropriate for a priest, even one who was now maestro di cappella at three different churches and who not only directed the choirs but composed most of their songs, too.

  As I worked through the last three practice pieces, I realized the maestro had never heard me play them before. He’d sent them from Venice along with the new music he’d wanted me to learn in his absence.

  When I’d finished the final piece, I let my hands fall to my lap. The closing chords faded away. I waited for the maestro’s inevitable criticism. But none came. He must have been intent on keeping the session short, for he said only, “Now let me hear how much of the Rameau Suite you’ve managed to learn.”

  He pointed his long chin toward the harpsichord bench, which held a storage compartment. “I trust you have the music.”

  “Sì, Maestro.” I stood and took out the sheet music. Rameau’s Suite in A Minor was the most recent piece he’d sent and the most difficult. I handed the music to him then sat down again and started playing. I’d barely begun when he stopped me.

  He held out the sheet music. “Don’t you need this?”

  “No, Maestro. I know it by heart.”

  “You mean to say you’ve memorized the opening allemande?”

  “No, Maestro. I mean I’ve memorized the whole thing. I played it for Father’s name day.”

  The maestro’s eyes widened ever so slightly. “Very well then,” he said, taking a seat. “Let me hear it.” The words sounded like a challenge.

  It was a challenge I happily accepted. I loved the Rameau Suite.

  I had to concentrate to do justice to the long opening allemande, but I was rewarded for my efforts. Soon, I was being swept away by the great arpeggios of the second movement. I lost myself in the music, playing one movement after another until I reached the end of the seventh and final movement.

  I smiled in satisfaction. Then I remembered the maestro.

  He sat poring over the sheet music, his eyes scanning left to right across the page. Had I misinterpreted the music? Was he looking for the place where I’d gone astray, to point out my mistake?

  Maestro Tomassini stood and placed the pages before me on the harpsichord. I sat up straighter, bracing for the reprimand, but I wasn’t prepared for what he said next.

  “Have you been working with someone else?”

  “Excuse me, Maestro?”

  He frowned then said slowly, as though talking to a child, “Has another tutor been instructing you in my absence?”

  “No, Maestro. I’ve had no other tutor.” I could see in his eyes he didn’t believe me.

  “Hmpmf,” was all he said. He walked to the chair and removed some sheet music from his satchel. “See what you can make of this.” The maestro practically threw the music at me. “That’s all the time I have.” And then he was gone.

  Had I disappointed Maestro Tomassini that badly? Perhaps the time away had changed him after all. Now, instead of ranting over my failings, he expected me to find them for myself.

  I stood and slipped the new music into the harpsichord bench. As much as I longed to learn something new, I couldn’t even think about it until I’d uncovered and corrected my errors in playing Rameau’s Suite.

  I don’t know how much time passed before Nina, our maidservant, came in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss,” she said. “Your mother wishes for you to join her in her sitting room to work on your stitchery.”

  I groaned. All I wanted to do was practice. But I didn’t dare disobey. I went to my bedroom to get my embroidery.

  Maria was already there, pulling her own project from the wooden cassone that held her future trousseau. When she looked up, the paleness of her cheeks made her brown eyes seem even darker than usual.

  “Oh, Emmi, it’s you.” She sounded relieved. “Did Mamma call for you, too?”

  “Yes. I just came for my needlework.”

  “Praise heaven! I thought I’d done something wrong.” Maria straightened up. “It’s unlike Mamma to call us at this hour. Father won’t be happy when he learns she sent my tutor away.”

  I thought of the argument I’d overheard but decided against telling Maria about it. She hated any kind of discord.

  “Don’t worry yourself.” I opened my own cassone, which stood beside Maria’s, and grabbed my needlework. “Come. We’d better not keep Mamma waiting.”

  “You’re right. She’ll be displeased enough when she sees this.” Maria held up her embroidery.

  Her project was a purse made of drawn-thread work. Between the embroidered sections, it was supposed to have tiny windows of open space. But Maria’s windows were filled with loose threads. My sister had an amazing gift for languages and could solve complicated geometry problems, yet when it came to embroidery, she was hopeless. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her.

  I took Maria’s hand, which was cold, as always, and pulled her to the hallway. “Let’s hope Isabella’s already there to distract Mamma.”

  Isabella was there, seated beneath a large portrait of Santa Clara. Our little sister’s bouncing legs and restless spirit contrasted sharply with the tranquility on the saint’s face in the painting.

  “Look, Emmi.” Isabella held up a piece of burgundy and black brocade. “I’m making a new gown for Lina.”

  Lina was Isabella’s favorite bambolina. At eleven, my sister was still fascinated with dolls, and she managed to beg the fines
t fabric scraps from Mamma to clothe them. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “It is,” I answered. Isabella and I were the only ones who had inherited Mamma’s blue-gray eyes. But my sister’s eyes were bluer than mine, especially when she smiled, as she did now. “Lina will be the best-dressed doll in all Milan, maybe even all of Italy.”

  “And Isabella will be the most proficient young seamstress,” Mamma said, “once she learns to keep her stitches of even length.” Mamma sat working on a beaded pillow cover stretched across a standing embroidery frame. “Now back to work, Isabella.”

  Mamma often addressed us by our Christian names, something Father rarely did. And when he wasn’t present, she encouraged us to call her simply “Mamma.” If Father knew, he’d be furious. Before the Sardinian occupation, he’d been scheming for our family to be added to the ranks of the nobility. With the Hapsburgs again in power, Father was so confident of success that he insisted we call him Signor Padre—my lord father—instead of simply Padre, as if he’d already been granted a title.

  Maria and I sat down on the sofa and began to work. I was embroidering a border of flower petals and leaves onto a set of white handkerchiefs. Mamma had given me a simple pattern of cross and satin stitches, infinitely easier than Maria’s purse of drawn-thread.

  The four of us stitched in silence for some time. While Maria embroidered in white thread on a white background, I worked with many colors—pink, red, and gold for the flower petals, and green for the leaves.

  I was finishing the last of the leaves on one of my handkerchiefs when Mamma stood to stretch. With the baby’s birth expected in less than a month, Mamma was heavy with child and unable to sit for long.

  Isabella, whose legs had never stopped bouncing, stood and skipped about the room.

  Mamma came over to inspect my work. “Excellent progress. Brava, Emilia.”

  “Grazie, Mamma.” I smiled up at her. She smiled back, a rare occurrence lately.

  “Let me see yours, Maria.” Mamma held out her hand.

  Dread filled Maria’s eyes as she offered up her embroidery hoop.

  Mamma held the hoop toward the window and peered through the cutouts in the fabric. “What’s this?” she said. “Your threads are showing. You have to stitch exactly as I taught you and bundle the stray thread as you work.”

  Maria bowed her head. “I’m sorry, Mamma.”

  “Go back and gather the loose threads.” Mamma dropped the hoop into Maria’s lap, startling her. Mamma spoke her next words quietly, as though they were meant for Maria alone, but I couldn’t help overhearing. “Your father is forever boasting of your intelligence, yet I do not see it in your needlework.”

  Maria’s cheeks flushed pink.

  As Mamma returned to her chair, I squeezed the sleeve of Maria’s blue velvet gown. I could barely feel her slender arm in the folds of the heavy fabric. I don’t know if my touch brought any comfort. Maria was already intent on fixing the mess she’d made of her needlework.

  By now Isabella stood at the balcony doors, tracing the ice patterns on the glass with her fingers. Mamma called, “Come along, Isabella.”

  Isabella sat down and took up her sewing again. Mamma slowly lowered herself into her armchair. She pulled her standing embroidery frame as close as she could and leaned forward.

  “Maria,” Mamma said, “if you spent half as much time on your needlework as you do on your studies, you’d improve much more quickly.” Mamma stitched as she spoke, something I couldn’t do without losing count of my threads. I let go of Maria’s arm and went back to my own work, switching to the pink thread for the flower petals.

  “At your age,” Mamma went on, “I was proficient not only in embroidery but in weaving and lace-making, too. I had also learned to read and write and to do sums well enough to run a household.” She pointed her needle at Maria. “I didn’t waste hours a day on books as you do. What value is there in learning Greek and Hebrew? How will it serve you as a wife and mother?”

  Mamma shook her head, then added, “Presuming your father will even be able to find you a suitable husband. Rare is the man who desires a learned wife.”

  Maria was bent over her needlework so I couldn’t see her reaction to these words. It couldn’t be easy for her to hold her tongue. Maria loved studying and saw no reason why girls shouldn’t learn the same things as boys. But she always said it was best to keep silent during one of Mamma’s lectures. No good could come of disagreeing with her, especially when she was with child. This was a perilous time for both Mamma and the baby.

  “At least Emilia’s musical training has practical value,” Mamma said, her voice suddenly lighter. “She’ll be able to entertain her future husband with her talents.”

  My heart warmed at Mamma’s words. I held my needle against the tip of a tiny pink petal and offered a silent prayer. Dear God, please help me prove to Father that my talents really are as extraordinary as Maria’s.

  Otherwise, I may never have a husband at all.

  Chapter Three: Summons

  The next few days, I worked longer and harder at my lessons than ever before. When I was finally satisfied with my ability to play Rameau’s Suite, I began learning the new music the maestro had given me, a Sonata in A Major by Pergolesi.

  One afternoon while I was practicing, Father sent Nina to fetch me. A summons from Father was not to be taken lightly. I hurried from the room.

  I stopped to catch my breath outside Father’s study. Through the open door, I saw him at his desk, writing a letter.

  I took another breath, then knocked. “You sent for me, Signor Padre?”

  “Enter, Daughter.” He pointed his feather quill at the chair facing him. “Sit while I finish.”

  I watched Father’s quill bob back and forth as he continued the letter. Scritch-scratch. Scratch-scritch. The sound of his writing filled the room. I wondered if the letter had something to do with why Father had summoned me. I sat up taller, stretching my neck, but I couldn’t make out the upside-down words.

  Father wrote methodically, pausing only to dip the quill’s tip into his silver inkpot. He seemed to have forgotten me. But that was impossible. Father never forgets anything.

  Scritch-scratch-scritch. The sound scraped at my nerves. With my hands resting in my lap, I rubbed the tip of my right index finger around the pad of my thumb, over and over, a nervous habit Mamma was always trying to break me of.

  Finally, Father reached the end of the letter. He signed his name with a flourish. “There, that’s done.” He set down the quill, uncovered his silver pounce pot, and sprinkled sand onto the page. “I have news that concerns you, Emilia.”

  My fingers froze. Father had used my Christian name.

  Looking directly at me for the first time, he said, “The new interim governor is due in Milan any day.” Father’s normally stern expression softened, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly. “Count Riccardi is planning a special celebration in the governor’s honor.”

  I nodded. Emperor Charles VI had appointed one of his generals to rule the Duchy of Milan as a reward for distinguished service against the Sardinians. What could the new governor’s arrival have to do with me?

  Father’s dark brown eyes glittered as he went on. “Count Riccardi wishes to use this opportunity to show the governor how cultured and sophisticated we Milanese are. To that end, he has requested that you and your sister perform at the reception.”

  “Perform?” My voice came out in a squeak. “For the governor?” How could Father want me to play at such an important event when he’d been so disappointed in my last performance? Without thinking, I blurted out, “Why me?”

  The hint of smile vanished. “Count Riccardi is a nobleman of the most refined tastes.” Father raised his chin. “Obviously, he believes you capable of impressing the new governor, and I trust his judgment.”

  “Sì, Signor Padre.” Count Riccardi always had lavish praise for my performances. I’d thought he was simply being kind. Could it be
he really did admire my abilities?

  Father lifted the letter and carefully poured the sand back into the pounce pot. “This letter expresses my gratitude to the count and assures him that both you and your sister will be well-prepared to perform for the new governor.”

  My hands went cold. I sensed an unspoken threat underlying Father’s words. If I failed, I’d end up like Zia Delia.

  But this could also be my chance. If I managed to impress the new governor, Father would finally value my talents as he did Maria’s, and my future would be secure.

  I rubbed my hands together to warm them. “Sì, Signor Padre.”

  Father lowered his chin in a half-nod. “I will send word to Maestro Tomassini to begin preparing you immediately. The reception will take place on the Feast of Epiphany.”

  Epiphany! That was less than a month away. I opened my mouth to speak then stopped. It would do no good to protest.

  “That is all,” Father said, with the same gesture he’d use to shoo away a fly. “Shut the door behind you.”

  My hands trembled as I closed the study door. I leaned my forehead against the wood.

  I’d never performed outside our palazzo.

  Or on a strange harpsichord.

  Or in front of a governor.

  The reception could be my salvation or my downfall. I had to make sure it wasn’t the latter.

  I thought of Maria—she was experienced in such performances. Before the Sardinian invasion, Father had often hosted academic meetings to show off her gift for languages. Surely, she could help me prepare. I dashed down the hall to her study.

  The usual jumble of books and papers lay strewn across Maria’s desk, but her chair was empty. She stood beside a table at the far wall, her back to me. I envied how her brown hair lay perfectly in place. My unruly curls always managed to escape no matter how I tried to secure them.