Hidden Voices

by Pat Lowery Collins

  What is she thinking?

  “You can sing with us awhile until you earn enough to buy an instrument, a used but playable one, in the Piazza San Marco. It won’t take long. We can use a new and pretty face to draw the crowd and to give me a vacation.”

  “How can you tell that I am pretty?” I ask, searching my swollen lips again to see if there has been some change.

  “I’ll admit, you are a sight. But it came to me a little while ago that you’re the one we saw at the Piazza last Tuesday week. The one with the Signora from the Pietà and all the little girls. You watched us from your spot by the Campanile while all the others watched the puppets.”

  “Yes, that was me,” I tell her. “I thought you played quite well. I thought you seemed to be having such a grand time.”

  “When we don’t work hungry,” she said. “But you’ll see. We’ll make a place for you.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. She still misunderstands me. “As soon as I look more presentable, I’m going back to the Ospedale. I’ve learned my lesson, don’t you see?”

  “My girl,” she says, quite kindly on the one hand but rather too briskly on the other, “what more is there to say? You don’t believe me yet, but you will never be allowed to go back there.”

  A rap upon the door saves me from yet another protest, as one of the young men whom I’d seen play in the Piazza, the plainer and the shorter of the two, comes into the room.

  “This is Pasquale,” says the woman, “And my name is Lydia. I don’t think that I told you that before.”

  “How are you feeling?” asks Pasquale in a much larger voice than I would have thought belonged to someone of his size.

  My face must be as scarlet as my vest, for he has seen me in my complete disgrace, even carried me and my soiled clothing in his arms. I cannot look at him.

  “I came to tell you that Salvatore is heating up the goat stew for midday meal. It’s very good.”

  Lydia turns to me. “You’ll feel much better when you’ve eaten,” she says. And then she adds, “What is your name?”

  I do not tell her at once. It is the only thing I have to give away, and I’m not ready to do it.

  “It’s all right,” Pasquale intervenes. “A woman should have secrets.”

  A woman. I am still a child. What happened to me makes me feel this even more. I will go back to the Ospedale and throw myself against the skirts of Prioress, beg for her mercy, never leave her side. But first I must use the water this lady, this Lydia, has just poured into the basin. I must become presentable.

  Salvatore’s goat stew is flavorful and builds little fires at the edge of my exhaustion. He is as handsome as his brother is plain, but he does not even look at me after my entry into the small room used as a kitchen, nor I at him, and Pasquale is the one to do most of the talking. He jokes at the way I fill out his mother’s dress. He takes a brush himself to my tangled hair, which must be bushing out as it does on most mornings and could not be properly cleaned with a few cloths. His strokes are as firm and sure as a woman’s. He then fills my bowl a second time and pats my head and tells me to eat more. But I cannot. I am so mute in this company that they must think me very slow of mind or a true idiot, the likes of which there are a goodly number in Venice.

  “She should rest,” Pasquale says to his mother as if I am not in the room.

  “If she’s to stay here for a time, she needs to be of help at something. What can she do for us?” asks Salvatore.

  His mother tells him, “Hush. There is time for that. I have already told her she must make herself useful.”

  She had only talked about what I would do as a member of their little musical troupe. Doesn’t she know that at the Pietà, the privilegiate do not do common chores?

  “I am not of the figli di commun,” I say.

  “Ah. She speaks,” says Pasquale.

  “You might as well be,” says Salvatore. “Each person does their share in this group. We will not coddle a Vivaldi brat or keep a girl such as yourself from plying her loose trade.”

  I am mortified to think that he believes me to be one of those women of whom he speaks.

  “This girl is not your common whore. I’d swear it. She’s hardly old enough to leave the house unchaperoned,” says Lydia.

  “I’m sixteen years,” I tell them.

  “Old enough to earn her keep,” says Salvatore.

  They continue to talk above me, and I have so little will or energy to join the conversation, that I sit there like a bruised stone.

  “Come,” Lydia says at length. She takes my arm and pulls me up from the hard chair they had given me to sit upon. “You may as well get more rest for now. I’ll fix your clothes while you’re asleep, and we’ll take you with us in a day or two.”

  “Or three or four or five,” says Salvatore. “That mouth has to heal before she shows herself on the street with any of us. And sew a wider fichu into her bodice if you don’t want the same thing as last night to happen to her again.”

  I try to imagine a time when the pain and soreness all through me will be gone, but cannot wrap my mind around the thought. It feels right now as if the mending will need to go on without end, as if I will always feel just as I do today.

  “Chiudi la bocca, Salvatore,” says Pasquale. “You will frighten her.” He turns to me and lifts my chin until he looks — no, not looks — sees into my eyes. “Do not worry, Signorina. No one will harm you again. I will be there.”

  THERE IS WARM GOAT’S MILK on my breakfast millet and a dish of pale pink berries of a kind that I have never seen before. Catina has had a bad night, and so I do not awaken her. Though we must share a room, it is a blessing we don’t have to share a bed, for I am at least spared her tossing about. Under the circumstances, I myself didn’t sleep well, in spite of the background quiet of the country. When a rooster crowed and the light began to mingle with the dark, I went to the window and looked out, amazed, as a round red sun lifted above the low hills and made the fields blush crimson. After such a display, I could not return to bed and was happy to find Signora Ricci already bustling in the large kitchen and my breakfast ready for me.

  “Lazybones,” she chides me as if it is closer to noon than dawn. “The men are already in the fields.” She gives me a quick hug, and it is very pleasant to be so welcomed from sleep. She herself is fully dressed in her shift and bodice, and I am in my robe de chambre. When I mention this with a bit of chagrin, she reminds me that I am the patient, that I am here to regain my health.

  “I will prepare a picnic for you and Catina to take out into the countryside,” she says as I eat. “It will be good for you in the warm sun. You should both nap in it after your meal.”

  Catina doesn’t awaken until almost midday, but she is quick at her toilette, and we head off with our basket while the sun is at its pinnacle. Our new shifts have shorter sleeves, and the sun bathes our faces and part of our arms. It is intoxicating to discover that the sound of instruments being tuned and the constant chatter of the Ospedale have been replaced by singing birds, an insect’s hum, the bleating of a lamb. Every little while we both twirl in circles with delight just to feel a great rush of the warm dry air. And Catina’s breathing is less labored; she does not cough at all. My own throat seems more open.

  Not having a true destination, we pass many possible spots in which to linger, but are enticed by a small apple orchard along the path that’s in full bloom and bursting with fragrant white flowers. There is a low stone fence at its border, on which we can sit and watch the grandeur of it. Signora has also given us a blanket on which to recline for the naps she is sure we’ll need. But we are invigorated by all the new sights and sounds and smells, and for once, I do not feel the terrible weakness that has been my constant companion of late. Catina all but dances as she darts in among the trees, oblivious to the many bees that buzz through the branches and hover over the fiori. Soon she has tired herself sufficiently to seek rest on the blanket I have placed where sunlight through the
branches casts a lacy pattern on the ground. Signora Ricci has warned us not to allow the sun to burn our delicate skin, which has only been exposed to it on infrequent trips to a nearby campo, or, once, on a boat ride to the island of Murano. She has remarked at how you can almost see through our skin right to the veins, that it is both bianca and blu.

  “Shall we play a game?” asks Catina after catching her breath, which has begun to sound somewhat wheezy and rough again.

  “I don’t know any.”

  “We can make one up.”

  She turns on one elbow and coughs into her hand. “Let me think.”

  “Father Vivaldi watches the birds,” I tell her.

  “That’s not a game. And, anyway, we don’t know all their names and markings and special calls, as he does.”

  “I know a thrush when I see it. And a goldfinch. Everyone knows a goldfinch.”

  “What if we just count them?” she says. “Like that bird over there. Let’s count all the others just like it that we see.”

  “That’s not much of a game either.”

  “Well, I’ll count those nameless ones over there and you count the thrushes. The one who counts the most birds wins.”

  I am reminded that the commun girls know all about games, but the privilegiate never have time for them. The game that Catina suggests is too simple and dull, and I tell her so.

  “Not if we also take note of their markings and color and each distinct call. Father keeps a notebook with just these same things. I’ve seen it when clearing his desk.”

  “That’s not a game. It’s an . . . endeavor. I’m much too tired to compose such a list, and we haven’t a paper or pen.”

  “Then I’ll tell you a story,” she says, unperturbed by her own labored breathing. “Sit back. It will be long. I can sometimes go on and on and on.”

  “You have done this before?”

  “Oh, yes. Many times. The little girls, the ones even younger than me, they beg for them when I’m about, which has not been so often of late.”

  But I am too hungry to want stories just yet. This kind of hunger, it is a sensation I had almost forgotten.

  “Let’s eat our picnic first, and then have a story,” I suggest, and she is quick to agree, as she has been pestering since we set out to pull back the napkin from the basket and uncover the mysterious contents. Inside are lovely red grapes, an arancia for each of us, a focaccia with caramelized onions and goat cheese on top, a small jar of tea, and a pastiche filled with sweetened raspberries and custard. It is all so delicious that I eat every bit of my share, but Catina has a very small appetite and just nibbles a little of each thing the Signora has packed.

  Afterward, I am terribly sleepy and curl on my side on the blanket while Catina sits up and begins her story. At first she describes a beautiful kingdom, much like what we have seen today, with a very young and powerful queen. It isn’t long before her breathy words begin to weave themselves into a kind of song filled with castles and unicorns and magicians that spill unevenly into and over one another until they become a little whirlwind that carries me off into my own dreams. When I wake up, the air is cooler, and Catina is asleep and snoring raggedly. The sun has more pink to it and is much lower in the sky. A chalky moon hangs just over the trees.

  I pull my shawl from the basket and stand up to stretch and drape it over my shoulders. I tuck Catina’s around her, and wonder if I should wake her and if we should be going back. The beautiful silence is too intoxicating, however, and my curiosity invites me to roam a little while. There is an outbuilding nearby that I had noticed before. It is a crude little shack, really, and when I climb over the wall and amble up to it, my intention is to take a quick look and go right back to Catina.

  The undeniable smell of livestock gets stronger the nearer I come to the building. And as I step over dried cow patties, my nose burns and my eyes water and sting. But just as I decide to turn back, the swish of a tail near the opening of the little broken-down building catches my eye. Coming closer, I hear a strange hiss and muted thud and what I can only describe as mumbling cow sounds, a sustained grunt, a deep occasional moo. When, with some difficulty, I pull back the wide door left ajar, the mystery is solved, and a sight I had never imagined to see is before me in all its rude splendor.

  I have startled a young man sitting upon a milk stool who is massaging the teats of a rather large and patient cow. Embarrassed, my hand goes to cover my mouth, but the boy keeps up his steady pull and squirt of milk and doesn’t look up. It is clear that the little thuds are made when the milk hits the side of a wooden pail.

  “Do not frighten Evangelina,” he says. “It is best if you just back away.”

  “May I watch?” I ask.

  “From a distance only. From way over there,” and he nods with his head at the hay-filled corner of this odd little barn.

  The cow moos most plaintively even though I am out of her sight.

  “She knows you are there. She does not like strangers. Her milk may shut down if you stay. Please. Just go away.”

  He has still not looked over at me. When I don’t move immediately he says, “You spoiled little orphans. You think you can go wherever you like.”

  “Spoiled we may be,” I reply. “But at least we are not taught to be bad-mannered. And how do you know who we are?”

  “I saw you arrive yesterday. You’re not the first to be taken in by Signora Ricci. She needs the extra ducats badly.”

  Of course I knew that she was being paid for our keep, but I don’t like it being pointed out in this way or to think that there have been a stream of others before us from the Ospedale.

  Evangelina moos with annoyance, and the boy takes his hands from the udders and strokes her side, speaking more softly. His message to me, however, is still the same but delivered almost in a whisper.

  “Please. Go away. Some other time you can look at the animals. Not while they’re being milked.”

  He says this as if there is more than one animal about and not just this single sensitive cow. But I do as he says, not wishing to cause her any more consternation.

  As I make my way quietly from the odorous corner out into the field, I can hear him crooning gently, “There, there, mio amore” and the rhythm of the little wet thuds against the pail again.

  A quick wind, warm and swift, lifts my skirt when I climb back over the wall. It riffles through the apple blossoms and sends them swirling all through the air. When I look down at the sleeping figure of Catina, there is a smile of contentment on her lips and a thin cover of white flowers, as fragile and lucent as glass, over her small body. She is not coughing or wheezing. She is at perfect peace.

  I HAVE TOLD THEM over and over, but they still choose not to understand.

  “I am not allowed to play an instrument in Venice. No one from the Ospedale may play in Venice once they have left. The rules are very clear.”

  “Child,” says Lydia, “if you think that anyone from the Pietà will hunt you down, you are sadly mistaken. As far as they are concerned, you no longer exist. What music you make in the streets is of no concern at all to them.”

  “How else do you intend to earn your keep?” asks Salvatore. “It is the only reason we have for allowing you to stay.”

  “I think it will be all right if I sing,” I agree at last. Father Vivaldi made no mention of singing when he said I could not play my oboe in the city. It has been some time since my face healed, and no instrument has yet been procured for me. I will decide what to do about that when the time comes to buy one.

  “And I’m certain you will do it well,” says Pasquale.

  He is always so agreeable that I do not have to try to please him and, unfairly perhaps, find myself expending my energies in attempts to make Salvatore like me better. His face is as beautiful as a painting by Tiepolo, though I have yet to see him smile. Often his mother plays the coquette with this particular son and bristles when I do anything that might change his original impression of me. Pasquale notices
my efforts and cautions me not to try so hard to endear myself to either mother or son.

  “Salvatore is the favored one,” he says without malice. “I am tolerated. As you will be if you are of any use to them. It is not such a bad thing.”

  “Why does this not cause you to be resentful?” I ask, for his constant cheerfulness and eagerness to please all of us confounds me.

  “What is the point? Things will only change for ill if I become petulant. Life is too much of a gift to despoil it with petty wrangling.”

  I have no retort to such unselfishness, but I am myself determined not to become the doormat that he willingly makes of himself. Doormat is perhaps not the best description of Pasquale, for both Lydia and Salvatore seem to have a great deal of respect for him even as they allow him to do most of the unpleasant tasks. When I mention something of the sort, he says, “People are imperfect. Why do battle with such an indisputable fact day after day?”

  “You are a philosopher, then,” I tell him.

  “What do you know of philosophers?”

  “Not very much. But I think they are quite high-minded. As you seem to be.”

  “Perhaps,” he says, and looks at me with those searching, clear eyes. “And an ordinary man. Very much a man.”

  If he is courting my favor, I cannot tell. What is clear is that he intends to protect me in both large and small ways, and for that I am grateful. Nothing of my earlier disgrace has passed his lips, and as weeks pass, I am certain that nothing ever will.

  “She cannot wear those clothes,” declares Salvatore as I run down the stairs to join the others with the intention of going along to the Piazza San Marco and trying a few of the songs they have taught me. My clothing has been washed and mended, but he looks at me as if I have just rolled in the mud.

  “It is all I have,” I tell him. Lydia had spoken of sewing a new dress for me, but has never even begun it. We were not taught to sew in the Ospedale.

  “It will have to do,” says Lydia. “If she looks like a tart . . . well . . . it may draw the crowd.”