Hidden Voices

by Pat Lowery Collins

  “Catching some time to yourself, Luisa?” asks Father as he passes through the room on his way to his shop. He is carrying a small birdcage with a house finch inside and holds it up for me to see. “My little bird is not as gifted as you, perhaps. But such a sweet voice, like a piccolo.”

  I have seen Father looking up into the pear trees by the kitchen garden or chasing the gulls that gather at the water’s edge and the pigeons that pester the tourists. He stands for long periods studying the birds or cocking his head at the song of the goldfinch or call of the gull.

  “I will capture that sound sometime. Someday you will hear a cluster of shimmering notes fall about you as if they have come from above — perhaps you will play them yourself — and you’ll say, ‘That is Father Vivaldi’s small finch.’” I smile to myself. I cannot believe he will ever cause an instrument to sound like a bird. It is too preposterous.

  I make little chirping noises at the tiny creature and bend over to admire his shiny green feathers. “Where did you come by such a bird?” I ask.

  “A street vendor was selling them, cage and all.” He is quiet for a time, watching me with the little songster. “Would you like me to obtain one for you? They could both stay in the repair shop. Two birds would be company for each other.”

  It is such a delightful and unexpected suggestion, I don’t know what to say. But I sense my expression betrays me, for he suddenly concludes, “Of course. Of course, you would love such a creature. On my way home tonight, I will seek out that vendor and obtain one especially for you.”

  But that is apparently not the only surprise he has in store, for he suddenly sets down the birdcage and claps his hands together like a child about to divulge a great secret. “I have obtained permission to take you and Anna Maria to see the Teatro San Angelo.” He looks down in a shy manner before continuing, “It is a sublime place where I have hopes of becoming impresario one day and where, praise God, my operas will be staged.” He had told us earlier about the publication of his first set of concerti, L’estro armonico, and his grander aspirations are no secret. When he finds the time to pursue them, however, is a great mystery.

  I tent the fingers of both hands before my smile but don’t utter a word while he continues his little speech. “You see, it is so important for you very serious girls, the ones most apt to make a profession of your music, to see where and how true professionals outside of the Ospedale perform.”

  “And Rosalba, too,” I interject. “Rosalba needs to come and see the theater as well.”

  He pauses for such a time that I am afraid he has not heard me.

  “And Rosalba, too?” I ask again.

  “Not this time,” says Father. He sighs, removes his performance wig, and sets it on a waiting pedestal before turning back to me. “Rosalba’s thoughts are somewhere in the clouds of late. I believe it would be a great mistake to reward her for the flippant attitude and actions she consistently displays.”

  “But that, Signore, is simply our Rosalba. You know her nature.”

  “I know it well,” he says firmly, “and hope by this denial of an outing she could surely profit from, to make her see the error of her ways.”

  On Monday, just the three of us set off by gondola, a conveyance Rosalba has desired to explore and travel by for years. I feel a measure of guilt that I am the first of the two of us to have a glimpse of what it’s like inside one and how it feels to sway and bob like this upon the water. In truth, this boat is not as fine as most; the gondolier is stooped and old, and cannot sing at all. She would have been quite disappointed.

  Teatro San Angelo is grander, however, than I ever could have imagined. We go up a steep stairway, then through pillars and a lavish entry to an enormous hall lined with blue-and-gold viewing boxes from floor to ceiling. Plush seating is available in the center of the room, and all — boxes and loges — face an open stage with heavy velvet drapery ensconced beneath plaster garlands and gold figures.

  “When all the candles are lit,” Father tells us wistfully as he points to the lanterns on the wall and the enormous glass chandeliers, “the light is soft and wondrous.”

  He is disappointed that there are so few performers about and no rehearsal in progress. A few musicians, however, recognize him at once and call out to him, and it is startling to see how well he is known in this imposing space. A mezzo is practicing with her pianist, and she ignores our progression up the aisle, except for a wave of one plump hand. Anna Maria is quiet and somber as if in church, her eyes shining and focused, like mine, on the stage. For my part, I have a great desire to immediately fill this hall with the sound of my own voice, but content myself with merely imagining what it would be like up there on such a large platform with no grille to hide behind. If Father had hoped to ignite my desire for a career in such a place, I have fallen into his plan with abandon. Standing here, at the center of such immensity and grandeur and tingling with an excitement I have not felt before, it feels as if I may, indeed, have found my true and future home.

  APPARENTLY SUNDAY’S CONCERT was not exceptional enough to land a husband for anyone. At least no one has heard of any offers so far or tried to arrange a tête-à-tête. It is definitely not the way in which I will seek a mate.

  It is a great gift not to have another concert for an entire two weeks. It will, however, give Luisa more time to trill and torture us, and Anetta more opportunity to worry herself into hysterics over the score.

  The little escapade to the Teatro San Angelo on Monday was pointed out to me by more than one maestra, but I refuse to feel slighted or to become additionally inclined to spend more time on my instrument than I feel it warrants. All I can think of at the moment is that in these next weeks I will have extra chances to observe my heart’s darling and plot how to meet and ensnare him. Just closely observing his muscular grace as he lightly balances the wigs and goes about his deliveries will have to content me for the moment. It does afford the necessary study of the routes he takes and the times he takes them. I’ve seen him hop upon a gondola more than once and head off who knows where. If I could only manage to hide aboard sometime. I have observed many a fine signora or signorina peeking from behind the curtains of the windows in the gondolas and their elegant gentlemen alighting from the closed black boats onto the dock. But what can it be like inside those lovely gliding chariots? Are there velvet cushions and little stoves or heated stones? Are there feather couches to rest upon, fur bundling rugs, and places in which to be sequestered? How surprised my little merlin would be to find me there beneath a silken coverlet, my hair and girdle loose, my arms outstretched and beckoning. It is too sweet a

  scene to be endured!

  But I am getting much too far ahead of myself and courting disaster. A careful plan is what has always served me well in the past. That doesn’t mean, however, that I will not be alert for my opportunities. Carnival will not begin until Saint Stephen’s Day, but there is much I can do before then to ready myself.

  “Where have you been? What are you doing here?” asks Anetta as she gallops through the front parlor, and, on finding me there, stops abruptly. She is always on her way to or from somewhere and always in a great hurry.

  “Slow down,” I say, pulling her with me onto a settee.

  “We shouldn’t even be in here at this time of day,” she says, stumbling to stand up again. “You have missed solfeggio twice already this week and this third time I have been sent to fetch you. We may have been given a little more time to practice for the next concert, but it is already only a week away, and they will expect us to be that much better prepared.”

  “They? Who is this ‘they’?”

  “Father Vivaldi and Signore Gasparini. Prioress. And the others. Our teachers. The people who come to hear us.”

  “There is plenty of time. There is always plenty of time.”

  “It is difficult music, Rosalba. Even you will find places to trip you. If you ever look at it. If you ever come to a rehearsal and pick up the score. Do
you even know which instrument you will be playing?”

  “No. But I’m sure you will tell me.”

  “Not this time, Rosalba.” She bites her chapped lips, which look as if they’ve been bitten many times before. She seems truly distressed. “For your own good.”

  “I will be there this afternoon. I promise.”

  “No. Not this afternoon. Now. I’m the one who takes the attendance,” she wails. “I’m the one who must check off your absence.”

  She seems so distressed that I can’t help feeling a little discomfited. I knew several days had gone by, but not an entire week.

  “It’s all right, Anetta. You must do it in the correct way, I know. I don’t blame you.” I jump up and try to tussle her hair but can’t reach the top of her head. Instead, I give her a soft pat on the cheek and am surprised to find it wet. “Surely, you’re not crying. You’re not crying over this?”

  Tears are actually starting to flow from her wide-apart eyes and to splash onto either side of her knotted kerchief.

  “I don’t want to see you punished,” she whimpers, “or removed from the privilegiate del coro. We have grown up here together. We have always played in the same ensembles. You belong among the privilegiate with me.” She makes a fist of each hand and all but stamps her foot. “But you have to follow the rules.”

  She then begins to study the pattern in the carpet, for what else can be so interesting upon the floor? As if she does not really want to be heard, her hands go up to cover her mouth while she speaks. Her voice becomes a whisper.

  “You were not there yesterday to sign the pay sheets for the maestri, so I, heaven help me, signed for you, making my letters as wiggly as I could to match yours.”

  “I suppose I should thank you, but it is a silly assignment. Which one of us should dare to keep a professor from his rightful earnings, no matter how inept we may feel him to be.”

  “You are changing the subject,” says Anetta, “something you do so well.”

  She takes my arm and pulls me into the passageway. “You must come with me now. Right now.”

  “Yes, yes, Maestra della Viola d’Amore,” I say to tease her. I let my arms go slack and allow myself to be led. “Right away, Maestra. Right away.”

  THERE ARE SNAKES twined all through my throat with scales that slice as they slide up and down. I am tugging a snake out through my mouth, enduring intense pain just to be free of it, when my fingers will not move and I must release it back into the pit of my neck. I scream in an agony of frustration and open my eyes. Anetta is holding both my hands and keeping me pinned to my bed.

  “Why did you make me let go?” I sob, desolate from the defeat of my great effort and the terrible soreness that seems to be causing my air passages to close.

  “Shush. It’s only a nightmare,” she says as I thrash and wrench out of her grasp.

  The others, awake now and up on their haunches in their beds, peer at me as if I’ve gone mad and say, “It’s all right.” “Stop screaming.” “You’ll wake up the entire floor.”

  My chemise is wet with perspiration, my hair damp and hot against my face. I can barely swallow. The dream is still so real; the snakes a writhing tangle pressing upon my chest from within. I barely feel Anetta’s hand on my forehead, but I hear her.

  “She’s feverish,” she proclaims to the others.

  Even in my pain and panic, it galls me to have Anetta take charge like this. I try to sit up but am made dizzy by the effort.

  “It’s another bid for attention, if you ask me,” says Silvia. “Isn’t it enough to always drown out the other sopranos. Does she also need to accost us nightly in our sleep with her bodily infirmities?”

  Silvia’s bed is behind mine, and I’m grateful at least that I can’t see her little wizened face and her eyes, bare of spectacles, that always look like blank thumbprints.

  “She cannot help feeling sick,” says Rosalba. “Anetta, please walk with her down to the infirmary so the rest of us can go back to sleep. All of us have Latin exams in the morning.”

  “More reason for her to feign illness,” says Silvia.

  “Luisa would never have need of such a dodge. She is proficient in many languages.” Though I cannot speak up for myself, I am not pleased to hear Anetta do it for me, embellishing my accomplishments.

  “Come,” Anetta tells me, pulling me to my feet. “The night nurse will have a comforting potion for you.”

  When I stand, the dizziness overtakes me so completely that I must lean upon Anetta so as not to fall over. She leads me along the unlit hall and down the stairway as if she is some nocturnal animal most alive in darkness. I myself can barely see to put one foot ahead of the other. I have no choice but to trust her; she prods and drags me along until we are at the door of the infirmary and I am tucked into a lumpy bed by the night nurse before I have a chance to complain that it’s much too close to the drafty window. After I am covered with a sheet, my sopping chemise is lifted over my head and a wet flannel poultice, smelling of camphor and mustard seed, is slapped upon my bare chest and wrapped roughly in place with strips of flannel.

  “Attend this candle, Anetta, while I look at her throat,” says the nurse. She presses on my tongue with a cold spoon handle, and I start to gag.

  “It’s all right, little duchess,” she says at last. “This is the third throat this week I’ve seen with such a grand lot of pustules and raw red flesh. And such a furry white tongue. You won’t be leaving here in the morning or anytime soon.”

  I have heard myself referred to as “little duchess” before. It is truer than they know.

  “But there’s a concert on Sunday,” says Anetta.

  “And every Sunday,” says the nurse.

  “Do you know who I am?” I finally manage to squeak out.

  “Who you are or who you think you are?”

  Anetta defends me: “Don’t you realize that Luisa is the most accomplished soprano in this or any other ospedale? The coming concert will be nothing without her.”

  “I know that she is a spoiled little singer who won’t be able to sing for a while. That’s what I know. Here,” the nurse says to me, forcing a spoonful of liquid between my lips. It tastes like something fermented and is so bitter that I cough and try to spit it out, but the nurse’s hand clamps my jaw shut.

  I fall back against the pillow, too weak to do battle with her.

  When Anetta begins her treacly litany of consolation, this strong nurse takes both of her shoulders and turns her around.

  “Get back to your own chamber, Anetta. There is nothing you can help with here.”

  There is only one other girl in the school infirmary tonight, a small little thing to judge by the size of the bump she makes in the bed. Since the moment we entered the room, her raspy snores have accompanied all our words. Perhaps she was given the same draught that the nurse has given me, for I am beginning to feel a peculiar calmness, my throat seems swabbed, and my thoughts tumble over each other into darkness long, I’m sure, before the candles are extinguished.

  When I open my eyes, it is morning, the little girl is fastening her dark blue sacque and pulling on her hose, and I recognize the iniziata who came to my defense in the parlor. She seems entirely well.

  “Where are you going?” I ask in a high, bruised voice I don’t recognize as my own. There is no sign of the ill-tempered nurse.

  “I didn’t mean to wake you up,” she says. “But I am better now. I think it must be time to breakfast.”

  “Hunger is a very good sign,” I tell her, not harboring even a little of it myself. I still feel hot and weak, and my throat is as swollen as ever. It is an effort to speak.

  “Would you like me to get something for you from the kitchen, Maestra?”

  “No thank you,” I croak. “But, tell me, is that allowed?”

  “Oh, yes, Maestra. I spend a great many nights here, you see, because of my breathing problems, my strettezza di petto. They say I sometimes sound just like Father Vivaldi w
hen he is at his worst.”

  “And what are you called?”

  “Catina. You wouldn’t have heard of me,” she says, as if she has forgotten our encounter. “I’m not often in class or ensemble. I’m not very strong.”

  Catina is fair with pale skin and corn-silk hair that falls down her back like a shawl. Her eyes are the deep green color of the lagoon just before a storm. She has a reticent smile but does not otherwise seem to be cautious of strangers.

  “I have a very sore throat,” I say, even though she has not asked. I don’t know if I say it to garner her sympathy or simply to explain my presence here.

  “Yes. That is a common complaint this week. It will not last long, I think.” I can’t help smiling. She sounds so much like one of the pompous physicians or like the night nurse herself.

  “I am glad to hear it,” I rasp. “Do you think it will leave me by Sunday?”

  “The day of the next concert?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, everyone knows. Listening to the senior performers is part of our education.”

  Of course. It had been part of mine as well. But now that I’m in the coro privilegiato myself, it feels as if I have always performed at this level.

  “And I know who you are. The soprano, Luisa

  Benedetto, the one who sings just like a saint.” Her eyes grow impossibly wide. “And yes, I am sure you’ll be able to sing on Sunday next, perhaps even by Saturday afternoon.”

  She is so certain, it picks up my spirits, and when she leaves, I savor the quiet — the hollow tick of the clock and the faint faraway songs of the gondoliers. I think about how Mother may really come to hear me this time, how she is sure to. About how very proud she will be.

  IT HAS BEEN DECIDED. Luisa will not sing at the concert this Sunday. She has lately been moved to a room far away from even the infirmary. The rumor is that her fever has risen, a bright pink flush has spread over her trunk, and her throat is as red as a strawberry. Maria’s throat, too, has seized up just at a time when there are plans for her to be introduced to a suitable gentleman. They say she is more aggrieved about this than about the pain she endures. She is the oldest one yet to be stricken.