Hidden Voices

by Pat Lowery Collins

  To think I am being used in such a way is utterly demeaning.

  “I will stay here then,” I say, and sit down hard on a stair, folding my arms across my waist like a barrier.

  “You will do no such thing,” says Lydia. She grabs my arms and jerks me up again to a standing position.

  “Here,” says Pasquale, handing me his mother’s short bagnolette, which she rarely wears on these warm nights. “There is an easy solution.” He places the little satin cape across my shoulders and ties it under my chin as if I am a child on my way to school.

  “Thank you, Pasquale,” I say. I will wear it because of his kindness, even if I should swelter. It does seem a shame to hide my red velvet bodice, but the short cape hides my bosom as well, and I suppose that is really what bothers Salvatore.

  “There,” says Lydia. “She could well be a nun.”

  “Not with such a face,” says Salvatore. He does not mean to compliment me, but I am pleased, nonetheless, that he has noticed and does not plan to relegate me to a convent just yet.

  “Indeed,” adds Pasquale, but this brother says it quite tenderly as if he appreciates fully not just the face but the person I am. It is not clear to me how I know this. It is instinctual and deep.

  The square is, as usual, full to bursting with the oddments of Venice — well-dressed dukes dripping lace and gold embroidery, grimy little street urchins, a dwarf juggling three melons, a crippled woman sitting on the cobblestones in a stream of her own urine and stretching one crooked hand to the crowd. It has not taken as long to walk here as I had supposed, but since we have come from a direction opposite to the one taken from the Ospedale, we did not pass anything familiar to me.

  Salvatore claims a spot for us at the foot of the Campanile, and after the others have taken out their instruments and played a few rollicking instrumental pieces, Pasquale motions for me to come forward. A small crowd has already gathered, and as I come to the front, it is a shock to suddenly realize that I can be seen. There is no grille to disguise me or to hide behind. The realization makes me fall silent at first, and causes Salvatore to make some excuse before replaying the introduction to my song. I am feeling lightheaded, and the queasiness that has been visiting me of late is revived.

  “Scusi,” I say in a weak little voice that can’t be my own.

  Salvatore’s dark look does not encourage me. But I have come this far with these people. I must try to go on.

  The words and notes to the song “Alma del Core” come softly from my lips at first, but then I notice the expectant and approving countenances of the small crowd, and little by little my voice becomes warmer and fuller until it has all the timbre of the castrati part I often sang at the Pietà. It suits this ardent music well.

  With the second song, “Amarilli, mia bella,” I am fully in control again, lacing the music with my most heartfelt and sincere emotion and losing myself to the simple melody. At its end, I am truly disappointed not to have another song to sing, for these two are the only ones that I have mastered. And I am also pleased to observe many ducats being added to the ones already in the basket. Salvatore is bound to see my worth to the group.

  “Brava,” Pasquale says to me as we are packing up to leave, but Salvatore hasn’t uttered a single word.

  “You have a lusty voice,” says Lydia, as if this is a drawback. “You must rein it in the next time.”

  “I agree heartily,” says Salvatore. “Your singing must not eclipse the playing of our instruments.”

  “That makes no sense at all,” Pasquale defends me. “The people loved the way she sang. Our expanded coffers tell that story.”

  His quick and resolute defense of me is welcome, and I’m happy to see once more that Pasquale doesn’t bow to these most insensible decrees of his family.

  “Truly?” asks Lydia. “There is more in that basket tonight than is usual?”

  “A good deal more.”

  “It does not mean that she should not take heed of what we say and try to improve,” says Salvatore. “I for one am not convinced yet of her worth to us. It could be just a fluke.”

  “A fluke,” Pasquale repeats, rolling his eyes in consternation. “We can call it that if you like. We can call it anything, and it will still be good to have the extra income.”

  “Please,” I say at last. “I can do better. I will do better.”

  “All right, then,” says Lydia. “The matter is closed. We’ll come back here again tomorrow night. We’ll try our luck a second time at this same place.”

  It has been good to perform again, even these frivolous songs of love that every street musician knows, to smile at an audience and — imagine — to have them smile in return.

  Walking back through the winding streets, some lit only by the moon, I feel a little bit of hope, some excitable quivering within my stomach. But by the time the half house is in view, I cannot hold back the nausea that has been rising in my chest. I grip the rail of a small connecting bridge and retch over the side until I can bring up nothing but bitter mucous.

  Pasquale is the only one to stay behind with me. He wipes my face with his own sleeve, and we sit upon the stones awhile.

  “There’s no hurry,” he says. “We’ll move on when you’re feeling better.”

  “I don’t know what came over me.”

  “Perhaps,” he says cautiously, “it is not an illness of any sort.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that it’s been many weeks now since you came to us.”

  “Since you found me,” I correct him.

  He becomes flustered and puts his head into his hands. After which he looks at me with eyes that have become accustomed to the dim light and contain some cast of awe or reverence that I don’t understand.

  “It’s time enough, at any rate,” he says, and smiles as at some shared secret.

  “What do you mean to say?”

  “Only that it has been a few months’ time. Time enough to see some signs.”

  “Signs of what?”

  He takes my hand when he sees my confusion. He stares at his feet, suddenly shy.

  “Signs of new life,” he says at last.

  LUISA HAS FINALLY SENT a letter. Signora Mandano brought it to me after the noon meal. Everyone saw her do it, and I immediately slid it, unopened, into the pocket of my apron to take it into the kitchen garden, where I can read it privately. It is a very rare thing for one of us to receive a letter. I can’t even remember when it has happened before.

  I am a little surprised to find her words are more formal than if we were speaking face-to-face, but her handwriting is as lacy and fine as her lyrical speaking voice that I hear in my dreams.

  Dear Anetta,

  I hope this finds you well and that little Concerta has been cured of the nursery fever that plagued her for a time. The country is exactly like the picture in the small parlor that depicts a shepherd and his flock. Perhaps the green here is of an even purer hue. There are such fresh smells all about and a feeling of great peace.

  Though I often play my guitar for Signora Ricci, I do miss the music-making at the Ospedale, and many other things.

  Catina seemed much better for a day or so, but then her breathing difficulties became severe, and a doctor hereabouts was called upon. He says it is the grasses or perhaps the cattle droppings, maybe even the profusion of a tiny flower that is very golden. She will, no doubt, be returning in a few days’ time.

  Has Rosalba returned as of yet? I sent a letter asking this of Prioress, but she has not replied.

  Your friend, Luisa

  It is a lovely letter, but she did not sign it Dearest friend, as I would have done, as I hoped she would do. And she doesn’t name me among the things she misses most. No matter. She is well. It is a great pity that the country does not seem to be a place where Catina can find some surcease from her malady.

  I must reply to Luisa at once, so she will know how much she is missed. I must apprise her also of the fact that our R
osalba has not yet returned. The worry of it keeps my eyes wide open well into the deepest hours of the night. (For a certain I will not write that if what Prioress has said is true, Rosalba would be turned away and none of us would even know.)

  Dearest friend, I will tell her.

  Things are not the same here without you. I am glad the country agrees with you so and am hopeful that rest and fresh air will soon restore you to perfect health. Many of us left behind envy you the villeggiatura you have been given. No, Rosalba has not returned, and I feel desperate sometimes for news of what has become of her. It is awful to know that prayer is all I have to offer at this time, even though Father Vivaldi assures me that prayer can move entire mountains. It has certainly been responsible for a great change in the health of Concerta. She grows chubbier and more ruddy-cheeked with each day and raises up her little arms to me whenever I am by.

  Someone — a duke, I think — has spoken for the hand of Beatrice, not knowing she is very deaf. Signora Mandano hopes to keep this knowledge from the suitor until they are joined as one. Silvia has been tormenting Beatrice in your absence, and it’s rumored she is ready to accept any proposal at all. They say she had never expected to receive one.

  Father Vivaldi has at last written a concerto for my viola d’amore that is very beautiful and unbelievably inventive, and I performed it this past Sunday. Prioress says it was a triumph, but I have no way of knowing for a certain. There were, however, a good deal of noses blown and much random coughing.

  Father also asks about you from time to time and if your voice has been restored. He applies himself quite feverishly to the writing of Moyses Deus Pharaonis in between work on the new concertos and cantatas due each week, and he says your part will be ready for study when you return. Today we practiced a pasticcio pieced together by the copyists. It worked quite well and almost seemed to be a whole new composition.

  You will be returning very soon, won’t you? I know it’s not been such a long time, but it has seemed so to me. I have no confidant at all these days, so I whisper my complaints into Concerta’s little ears, which have no notion of what I truly say. She thinks it all a part of our frequent game of peekaboo and waves her hands about and laughs at me.

  On the day of Sensa, Sofia let me carry Concerta outside to see the annual celebration of the wedding of the doge with the sea. Remember how you and I and Rosalba loved to watch the large golden ship, il bucintoro, with the doge standing in the prow in his purple horn hat, white gown, and gold cloak faced

  with ermine? You would always squeal when he cast his ring and all manner of flowers into the waters of the lagoon, and Rosalba would sigh. If only you both could have been with me and Concerta. As usual, the naval vessel was surrounded by decorated gondolas, and all the singing from every craft washed over us in great waves that seemed to stun my tiny companion into silence. She pointed at whatever came into view — the great ship, a running child, a tattered old man, a wiry little dog that nipped at her bare heels — and I had to remind myself that everything, any sight I take for granted, is completely new to her. She is more curious and brighter than any child I’ve ever seen, the way I think you must have been when her age.

  Prioress just today has brought the news that some nobleman or other would like to have a closer look at me at tea, that he was “overcome” by the emotion displayed in my recent viola d’amore solo. I am reminded of how Rosalba used to say that many of these fellows wish only to employ a passionate musician and not procure a wife. I wish she were here to tell me how to behave in such a situation. I am not eager to be scrutinized by him, nor do I like the thought of leaving here. But I must go through the usual motions while keeping my divided heart in all the places that it already resides. A large part of it is still with you.

  I will sign my letter, Your dearest friend, Anetta.

  CATINA’S BREATHING PROBLEMS have been getting worse, and word of her difficulties has been sent to the Ospedale. I take the opportunity to include a letter to Anetta with the wagon driver as well. When I put pen to paper, however, I find it impossible to describe the magic of this place. But I had promised her a letter and am eager for news from her, so I do the best I can.

  It was pleasant having a little companion to wander with through the orchards and fields. Now when I go out alone, I think of that first day and how like a dream it felt, the masses of apple blossoms, the vineyards, the endless fields, everything suspended, glittering, and green. Here there is no water anywhere but in the well. It is as if I have slipped from the watery thoroughfares of Venice into a drier, more golden world. Everything smells of rich dark earth and is anchored to it. Any moisture must come from the sky, which it does at intervals regular enough to make the fruit grow plump and juicy and deliver ripe grapes that can be pressed into wine. Signora Ricci says that it is not always so, that this is a very good year when God’s blessings are abundant.

  “Go,” she tells me on this exceedingly warm morning when the sun is more fiery furnace than soft comforter. “Catina can help me bake bread. She’ll have plenty to keep her amused.”

  “Oh, may I?” begs Catina. “Cook never lets us help knead, even when she’s so worn out the sweat pours down her face and drips into the dough.”

  “How revolting!” I say, wishing she had not disclosed this unpleasant fact. Bread will now be one more thing at the Pietà that I will exclude from my diet.

  “God’s mercy, you never can tell it in the eating,” she continues.

  “It was not the kneading I had in mind for you, Catina,” says Signora. “Perhaps you can add the salt and the water. It would not do to have you cough into the mixture.”

  “Just another thing that I may only watch,” says Catina, slumping in her chair and sticking out her lower lip, which makes her seem very young indeed.

  I do not wish to leave her so dejected, but there is little for me to do if I stay, and so I take the basket of food Signora hands me and smile at her when she winks at me, hoping Catina doesn’t see this interchange.

  “They are harvesting the grapes on the north slope,” she tells me. “You may enjoy watching, but do not get in the way.”

  The peculiar little barn with its single cow is in another direction entirely. There is something about it, however, that draws me back. Perhaps the cow is in the field. Perhaps I will not be so much a hindrance as I was before. I will approach quietly and leave if the boy is milking her again.

  The dew has already dried upon the grasses, and there are none of the fine webs woven through the blades that glisten in early light. Far to the south, I can see workers clinging to another slope. From here they look like tiny dark bugs; I can’t distinguish head from hat.

  Approaching the barn from the back, I see the cow already in the field and grazing. The boy, no doubt, is off doing chores somewhere. Without the caution I had planned earlier, I sneak a look into the small outbuilding and am confronted by a sight that I had not expected. The boy is sound asleep upon the straw, his wide-brimmed hat perched on a post, his rake lying just beyond his reach. He has the dark bouncing curls of a child, but the more angled features of a young man. He is most beautiful in repose, even though the black eyes I had noticed before are shut tight. His hands support his head; his bare feet stick up straight, displaying calluses and dirt and straw between the toes. A small black lamb is curled into one corner. It may have been here before, but I didn’t notice it in all the upset over the cow.

  I have a sudden, unexplainable urge to wake the boy with a kiss upon his full, unsmiling lips and am glad no one can see the hot blush this thought produces. Instead, I back away very quietly and climb over the wall to the same spot beneath the apple trees where Catina and I had eaten our picnic. It is much different when there is no one to share the transporting sight of all those clusters of white blossoms abuzz with honeybees. The flowers give off a mystical light even in full sun. And I think how I will try to describe this in my next letter to Anetta and wonder if she will be able to imagine what I mean
.

  The cow is still grazing in the field inside a wooden fence with a wide gate. I go to the fence and lean upon it and stare at her, confounded that she is so completely unaware of me. I could be a bird, maybe even a vulture waiting to make a meal of her. And to think, she made all that fuss before over one harmless girl, and now she doesn’t care a wit. I am just noticing how short and brown the grass is wherever she has been, when I sense movement behind me and turn to find the boy coming this way from the barn. He is not smiling, but neither does he look as peevish as he did on our first meeting.

  “Does Signora Ricci have nothing for you to do?” he asks, opening the gate.

  It swings out, but he closes it behind himself and doesn’t invite me in.

  “I am here to rest,” I tell him.

  “You seem well enough.”

  “Enough for what?”

  “For ordinary chores.”

  “And is that what you are doing as you waltz around your cow?”

  I can tell he is offended by the way his eyes grow darker still and his mouth turns down. “I do nothing of the kind. I’ve come to groom her.”

  He has a flat, oval brush fastened to one hand that he begins to pass over the sagging sides of the beast in much the way I’ve seen a carriage driver do when currying a horse right in the Riva.

  “You take good care of her,” I say to appease him.

  “The Riccis gave her to me. I will have a barnyard full of animals one day.”

  “Will you have a bull?”

  “Yes. Undoubtedly a bull if there are to be calves.”

  “And sheep like that little black one in the barn?”

  “You were spying on me.”

  “I came to find you, but not to spy.”

  “Yes, I will have sheep. And chickens.”

  “I don’t see any chickens.”

  “They’re over in the henhouse. Would you like to feed them?”

  “Is it hard work?”

  “You are a lazy girl!”