Playing by Heart

by Carmela Martino

  Maria’s voice came to a crescendo with a staccato of sharp words. I imagined Hector, the noble warrior, fighting fiercely before dying a brave death.

  After the story’s climax, Maria’s hand dropped. The tempo of her words slowed. I glanced at the governor again. His eyes now glistened. He appeared to be on the verge of tears. Maria’s voice fell one last time as she came to the story’s conclusion.

  The audience instantly broke into applause. Several men called out, “Brava!” I wondered if they had actually understood the poem or were simply praising my sister’s performance.

  The soldiers stationed at the doors seemed especially moved. They applauded long and hard. The governor rose to his feet. The other guests joined him. I stood, too, my chin raised in pride for my sister.

  Then it occurred to me—no one had stood to applaud my performance. Maria had outshone me.

  Envy flared up in my chest. I pressed my hand against the embroidered bodice of my gown, but this time I couldn’t quell the flames.

  Maria blushed as the applause continued. Count Riccardi walked over to say something to her. Maria curtsied to the count. Then he led her to the governor. The applause finally died down.

  Governor von Traun said to Maria, “That was outstanding! I have heard the tale of Hector many times, but no other translation has moved me so powerfully. And your German is impeccable.”

  Maria curtsied deeply and thanked the governor.

  He said something to Maria in German. She answered in the same language then added in Italian, “My tutor deserves the real credit.” She held out her hand toward Abbot Zanetti. The old abbot hobbled over, sweeping the polished marble floor with the hem of his long black cassock. He bowed as Father presented him formally to the governor.

  Taking his seat once more, Governor von Traun asked Abbot Zanetti, “How many languages have you taught her?”

  “Five, Lord Governor.”

  “Five?”

  “Yes, Lord Governor,” the abbot said. “When I began tutoring her, she already spoke French quite beautifully. I’ve instructed her in Latin, Greek, German, Spanish, and Hebrew, bringing the total, counting Italian, to seven languages.”

  “And she can read and write in all seven?” the governor asked.

  “Indeed, Lord Governor,” Abbot Zanetti said. “She can also readily translate from one to another.”

  The governor shook his head in amazement.

  He and Maria spoke back and forth in German for several minutes. Finally, Governor von Traun said to Father, “Your daughter tells me she is also studying history with the abbot here and astronomy and mathematics with another tutor.”

  “Yes, Lord Governor,” Father said. “Her new tutor says she exhibits a great aptitude for mathematics in general and geometry in particular.”

  “I must admit,” the governor said, “when Count Riccardi first told me of your daughter, I was rather skeptical. In my experience, the word ‘prodigy’ is bandied about much too loosely. However, it is clear that she is indeed a prodigy. The first I have ever met. And a girl, no less!”

  Envy blazed in my heart. I longed to be called a prodigy, too.

  “You honor her greatly by your praise, Lord Governor,” Father said with a bow.

  Count Riccardi said, “So, Lord Governor, you concede, then, that I did not exaggerate.”

  “Indeed, Count,” the governor said. “If anything, you failed to extol this girl’s talents strongly enough.”

  I couldn’t bear to hear any more. I pushed my way through the throng of my sister’s admirers and into the hallway. I tried to remind myself of how much I owed Maria. If not for her, I’d never have had a music tutor. Yet I couldn’t stop thinking of how she had outshone me. The governor obviously considered her talents as “extraordinary” as Father did. Mine were trivial in comparison.

  ***

  When we returned home from the governor’s reception, Maria immediately headed for our room. Father, on the other hand, strode off to his study. No doubt he wanted to begin planning his next academic meeting. He’d promised Count Riccardi that the meetings would resume as soon as possible and that Maria would again be a regular participant. Father didn’t mention me at all.

  I dragged myself up the stairs. Part of me couldn’t help thinking: if not for Maria, I would have been the evening’s “shining star.” Yet another part of me blamed myself—my performance had been merely satisfactory, not outstanding.

  In my distraction, I nearly bumped into our maidservant Nina at the top of the stairs. “Pardon me, Miss,” she said with a curtsy.

  “You’re up late, Nina. Is something wrong?”

  “The mistress asked for some tea. She’s having trouble sleeping.”

  Mamma. I hadn’t thought of her all evening. “Perhaps I should look in on her.”

  “I’m sure she’d like that, Miss.”

  I knocked on Mamma’s door. “It’s Emilia, Mamma. May I come in?”

  “Please do.” She sounded more awake than I’d expected.

  Mamma was sitting up in bed against a stack of pillows. The heavy winter bed curtains were pulled open and the candelabra on both nightstands burned brightly. She held a cup in one hand.

  “Come.” Mamma waved me over with her free hand. “I want to hear all about the reception.” Her cheerful tone contradicted her appearance. Mamma’s chestnut-colored hair was disheveled about her face, and the shadows under her eyes seemed darker than ever.

  I took a breath to calm the concern that rose in my chest. “Did you sleep at all?”

  “A little, until a disturbing dream woke me. I haven’t been able to get back to sleep.” She set her cup on the bed tray. “I had Nina bring some valerian tea. Would you like some?”

  “No, thank you.” I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. Valerian was known for its calming properties, but it smelled horrid and didn’t taste much better.

  Mamma patted the bed beside her. “Sit down and tell me everything.”

  I did as she requested, describing everything from the presepio in Palazzo Riccardi’s front hall to the expression on the governor’s face when he learned Maria was fluent in seven languages. The flame of envy flickered within me again as I recalled the scene.

  Finally, I said, “Father was so pleased with Maria’s performance that he forgot all about mine.”

  “Come now,” Mamma said. “Your father never forgets anything. And I know for a fact he is quite pleased with your progress on both the harpsichord and your singing. He told me so himself.”

  “But he favors Maria,” I said.

  “I’m afraid he does.” Mamma patted my hand. Her touch felt soft and warm. “However, exchanging places with your sister would not bring you happiness. Your father’s demands are a terrible burden.” She sighed. “I worry for Maria’s health. She is not as strong as you, Emilia.”

  I’d never thought of myself as strong. Then I recalled what I’d overheard Mamma say to Father about the terrible throat-and-fever sickness that struck last winter. By spring, Isabella and I had recovered completely, but Maria had remained ill for weeks afterward. She never regained her normal appetite.

  Mamma went on, “I have been considering how I have ill-treated Maria. I often scold her more harshly than necessary, especially with regard to her needlework. I fear I’ve favored you in the same way that your father favors Maria.”

  I wanted to tell Mamma she was wrong. She was nothing like Father. But just then Nina returned and asked, “Will there be anything else, Mistress?”

  Mamma said to me. “Would you like anything, Emilia?”

  “No thank you, Mamma.”

  She signaled for Nina to take away the tray.

  When we were again alone, Mamma said, “God has blessed you with an amazing gift, Emilia.” She stroked my hand. “You are destined to use it for great things. But difficult times lie ahead.” Her brow wrinkled in a worried look. “The dream that woke me …” Her voice trailed off.

  I thought of how Mamma h
ad foreseen both the Sardinian occupation and the return of the Hapsburg forces. Her prophetic dreams had an uncanny way of coming true. “What is it, Mamma? Will there be another invasion?”

  “No,” Mamma said. “It’s not that.” She shook her head. “This time I dreamed of you and Maria. She is going to need you.” Mamma looked right at me then. A terrible sadness overshadowed the tiredness in her blue-gray eyes. “In truth, you will need each other. But you are stronger, in both body and spirit.” Mamma took my hands in hers. “Maria’s destiny will one day rest in your hands, Emilia. Will you be able to put aside your envy to help her?”

  Heat rose to my face. Had the dream told her of my envy, or had she seen it for herself in my eyes?

  I turned away and stared at the brass candelabrum to the right of Mamma’s headboard. The melting wax had formed an ugly lump on the candle nearest me. I felt as loathsome as that lump.

  Instead of answering Mamma’s question, I asked, “But you’ll be here to help us, won’t you, Mamma?”

  This time, Mamma was the one to look away, fixing her eyes on the farthest bedpost. “Parts of the dream were unclear.” She swallowed hard, then sat in silence for a moment. Finally, her gaze met mine.

  “I can promise you one thing. I will help you in any way I am able.” Mamma squeezed my hands. “Will you make me the same promise? Will you promise that when your sister needs you, you will do whatever you can for her?”

  I hesitated. My own sense of inadequacy fanned the flame of envy already burning inside me. But I couldn’t refuse Mamma. “I promise.”

  Later, as I lay in bed, I prayed it was a promise I would be able to keep.

  ***

  The next morning, Maria and I joined Mamma for hot chocolate in her sitting room, as had become our habit lately. Mamma said our younger siblings had grown too boisterous for her to tolerate early in the day. I had noticed no change in Paola and Vincenzo’s behavior. Rather, I believe it was Mamma who had grown less patient. Whatever the reason, I cherished the intimacy of our time together.

  Sleet pelted the windows, but the sitting room was warm and cozy. Mamma sat in her high-backed armchair wearing a gown of deep cerulean blue, one of her favorite colors. With her hair neatly arranged atop her head and a soft smile on her face, she looked much better than the night before.

  She was particularly attentive to Maria this morning. I might have felt envious again if not for what Mamma had told me about her dream.

  “Eat something, Maria,” she said, pointing at the plate of pastries on the table. Ever since the throat-and-fever illness, Mamma never missed an opportunity to feed Maria.

  My sister took a small sliver of panettone then passed the plate to me. As much as I enjoyed the raisin egg bread, I really wasn’t hungry. I set the plate down without taking any.

  “I understand a celebration is in order,” Mamma said to Maria. “Your father told me the new governor was quite impressed with your performance.”

  Maria blushed at the compliment. “Grazie, Mamma.” She stared down at her bread then took a nibble.

  “And Emilia,” Mamma said, “your father told me Governor von Traun particularly enjoyed the saltarelli you played.”

  “Really? Father said that?”

  Mamma nodded. “He also said he is planning for both of you to perform at his next meeting.”

  Praise be to heaven! Father valued my talents, too. I might be spared from the convent after all!

  I raised my glass to my lips to hide my grin and inhaled the wonderful scent of hot chocolate. I sipped slowly, relishing the rich flavor as its warmth filled me.

  Maria set her barely-touched panettone down on her plate and said to Mamma, “I pray Father won’t schedule the meeting too soon for he’ll surely want me to prepare something new.”

  The anxiety in her voice reminded me of what Mamma had said last night. Father’s demands really were hard on Maria.

  “Do not fret,” Mamma said. “I shall convince him to wait until after the baby’s birth.” Mamma placed a hand on her abdomen. “It won’t be long now.” I expected Mamma to smile. Instead, she winced as though in pain.

  “Is something wrong, Mamma?” I asked.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “You girls go off to your lessons.” She waved us away.

  I should have known then something was wrong—Mamma never encouraged our lessons or at least not Maria’s. But I went to the harpsichord salon without giving it a thought.

  Chapter Eight: Quivering Flames

  I had finished my lesson with Maestro Tomassini and was practicing a new piece he’d given me when Isabella rushed into the harpsichord salon. “Have you heard, Emmi?” Isabella said. “The midwife is here.”

  My hands slipped, and I struck a bad chord. “What?”

  “The midwife is here,” my sister repeated. “That means the baby’s coming, right? Nina won’t let me in to ask Mamma.” Isabella could hardly wait for the birth of our newest sibling. She hoped for another little sister to dress up like one of her dolls.

  “Yes.” I got up from the harpsichord bench. “Mamma never sends for the midwife until the time is near.” Mamma’d said it wouldn’t be long until the baby’s birth, but I hadn’t expected it this soon.

  I hurried down the hall with Isabella close behind. Just as I was about to knock on Mamma’s door, Nina came out with a basket of bloody linens. She quickly shut the door behind her. “You mustn’t go in, Miss.”

  “Is Mamma all right?” I asked.

  “I can’t say. All I know is the midwife wants more linens.” Nina waved us away. “Now off with the both of you.”

  Nina obviously knew more than she was letting on. Before I could question her further, a horrible scream came from Mamma’s room. “Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,” Nina said, making the sign of the cross with her free hand. I did the same.

  Isabella buried her face in my shoulder. “Mamma’s going to die,” she muttered into my sleeve.

  “Hush, Isabella! Don’t even say such a thing. Come.” I took her hand and led her away. “We must go to the chapel.”

  Our family chapel was brighter than I expected. Despite the pounding rain, orange- and gold-tinted light still filtered in through the stained-glass windows. But the main source of light came from the corner of the room, where six votive candles burned before the alabaster statue of the Blessed Mother. To my surprise, Maria was kneeling in the pew in front of the statue, her forehead resting on her folded hands.

  Seeing my older sister calmed me. But as Isabella and I walked toward her, I realized Maria must have learned of the midwife, too, yet she’d said nothing to me. If not for Isabella, I would have been left completely unaware. For a moment, resentment made me forget my fear.

  Isabella tugged on Maria’s arm and asked in a loud whisper. “What’s going to happen to Mamma?”

  Maria raised her head. She blinked for a moment, as though coming out of a trance. Then she hugged Isabella. “We must pray for her. And for the baby, too.” She slid over so Isabella and I could kneel beside her. Maria pulled out her rosary. With the crucifix in her hand, she made the sign of the cross and began leading us in prayer, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

  Even as my lips recited the Ave Marias, my mind imagined horrible possibilities. I thought of how difficult Vincenzo’s birth had been for Mamma. What if she died this time? How would we manage without her? Heaven forgive me, I gave little thought to the baby she carried.

  To add to my distraction, Isabella kept fidgeting. She shifted from kneeling to sitting to standing then back to kneeling. It was hard to believe Isabella was only fifteen months younger than I. Despite being nearly twelve, she often behaved more like a five-year-old.

  When we finally came to the end of the rosary, Isabella announced, “I’m going to see what Paola is doing.”

  “That’s fine,” Maria said, “as long as you don’t tell her about Mamma.”

  Isabella frowned. “Why not?”

&nb
sp; “We don’t want to worry her, too.” Still on her knees, Maria put an arm around Isabella’s shoulders. “She’s not as grown up as you.”

  Isabella? Grown up? If I hadn’t been so worried about Mamma, I would have laughed out loud.

  Isabella put on a serious face. “You’re right,” she said. “Paola’s just a baby. I won’t tell her.”

  “Brava.” Maria patted Isabella’s shoulder.

  As soon as the chapel door had closed behind Isabella, I stood and faced Maria. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Maria’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “Tell you what?”

  “When you found out about the midwife, why didn’t you come and tell me?”

  “I’m sorry.” Maria’s voice was hushed. “I thought only of praying.” She gestured toward the statue of the Blessed Mother.

  “Why?” I asked, but the word stuck in my throat. I coughed then tried again. “What do you know?”

  Maria half-stood then slid back to sit in the pew. “I was in my study,” she explained, “preparing for my lesson, when I realized I’d left one of my books in our room. On my way to get it, I heard Mamma cry out in pain. I ran into her room.”

  Maria stared down at the wooden rosary beads in her hands. “There was blood everywhere.” She gripped the beads tighter. “Nina came in soon after. She tried to reassure me, saying the midwife was on her way. But when the midwife arrived…”

  “Tell me, Maria. What happened?”

  Maria looked up. Tears filled her eyes. “The midwife told Nina to send for a priest.”

  “A priest?” My legs went weak. I sat down beside Maria. Priests were only summoned to a birth if death was imminent. He would baptize the baby or administer last rites to the mother.

  Or to both.

  “Why, exactly, did the midwife call for the priest?”

  “I don’t know.” Maria swiped at her tears. “The midwife said only that there was little she could do. It is up to God now. That’s why, when Padre Gilberto arrived and sent me from the room, I came directly here. I didn’t think to look for you.”

  I nodded, dazed. Dear God, not Mamma.