The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  But Tommaso would know the truth. And love me though he did, he was not so mindlessly besotted that he would consent to raise another man’s child as his own. Nor could I ask such a thing of him.

  But it did not matter. My hesitation had been the giveaway. My father had seen the calculation in my eyes, as I tried to decide the best answer to give. And in that one moment, he knew everything that I had tried so hard, for so long, to hide.

  In a few quick, long strides, he crossed the room, and the back of his hand came crashing against the side of my face, sending me tumbling to the floor.

  “You disgusting hussy!” he yelled, standing over me. He reached down, grabbed a fistful of my hair, and used it to haul me to my feet. “You filthy whore! How … who…”

  But his anger was so great that words failed him. He struck me across the face again, harder this time. Black spots began to dance across my vision, and I could feel my lip split open and begin to bleed.

  “How could you be so stupid, you slut?” he demanded, shoving me into my wardrobe. I fell against it, striking my head and back so hard that I cried out. I huddled against it as he came to tower over me again.

  “Tell me his name!” he demanded, spittle flying from his mouth. “Tell me the name of the depraved bastard who dared defile you, or so help me God—”

  “I would sooner die!” I flung my head back and shouted at him.

  He struck me across the face again. “Tell me his name!”

  But beating or no beating, I was through cowering in fear of him. Even as I knelt on the floor, my body curled around my belly to protect my child, I refused to give in. “You are not fit to touch his shoes!” I cried. “Your filthy, foul lips are not fit to speak his name!”

  He dragged me to my feet by my robe, and I could feel the thin cloth tear under his violent grasp.

  “How dare you speak to me that way!” He shook me roughly. “You will burn in hell for this! For your harlotry, for lying to your father, for your disgusting lust!”

  “Oh, yes,” I choked out. “And the man who beats his pregnant daughter will have a seat in heaven just below the throne of God!”

  “Damn you!” he shouted, shoving me away from him. “Damn you to hell!”

  “I will see you there, Father,” I shot back.

  “It is the violin teacher, is it not?” he demanded, causing the air in my lungs to desert me yet again. “He has been your lover all along; you have been going to him all this time, and you have let him have you.”

  I tried to get around him to the door, but he caught my face in a crushing grip. “I told you to stay away from him! Now for the last time, tell me his name!”

  “No,” I bit out. “I will not.”

  He struck me again, a stream of insults spilling from his mouth. “Stupid bitch … whore … slut … harlot…”

  He had backed me up against my dressing table, and my hand scrabbled over the surface of it, finding a pair of shears Meneghina had left there with one of my gowns she was letting out. I grasped them behind my back as he withdrew, ready should he try to strike me again.

  “And to think,” he said, extracting a small box from his pocket, “I came to bring you your betrothal ring from your fiancé, and to tell you the negotiations are complete and everything is settled.” He flung the box at me, overcome by his wrath again. “Do you realize what you have done, you insufferable whore? No one will want to marry you now! You have ruined yourself, and you have ruined me! I am going to be shamed before all of Venice by you, the whore with the bastard child whom no one will ever marry…”

  He raised his fist to hit me again, but this time I was ready. Gripping the handle of the shears so tightly that my fingers ached, I brought them up in an arc above my head, intending to plunge them into whatever part of his body I could, to save myself and my child.

  A hand seized my wrist in a crushing grip. “No, Adriana!” Giuseppe shouted in my ear. “Stop! Give me the shears, for God’s sake!”

  I struggled, but Giuseppe was much stronger than I. He wrested the shears from me, pushing me away from my father as he did.

  “The bitch tried to kill me,” my father said, staring at me in wonder. Quickly his shock dissipated, and he lunged at me again. “You bloodthirsty demon, I shall teach you!”

  Giuseppe caught him and forcefully shoved him back. He leveled the point of the shears at the older man’s chest. “You stay away from her!” he shouted. “As God is my witness, Enrico, if you lay another finger on her, I will kill you myself!”

  “You!” my father seethed. “You knew! You have been helping her in her harlotry! Helping her to deceive me, after all I have done for you!”

  “I am my own man, Enrico,” Giuseppe said. “You do not own me.”

  “How dare you, you ungrateful wretch!” My father looked wildly back and forth between us. “I am betrayed not only by my daughter, but by my son as well!”

  Silence fell as the truth was spoken aloud at last.

  Finally I had the answer to the question I had asked so often.

  “Is this true?” I asked aloud, even though I already knew it was.

  “I am not about to answer to you, you murderous bitch—” my father began, but Giuseppe cut him off.

  “Yes,” he said, turning to look at me, all the while keeping the shears pointed at my—our—father. “It is true.”

  And even in this most dire moment, as my life lay in pieces around me, I could not help but study his familiar face anew, seeing things I had never noticed before. His hair was the same dark brown—almost black—as my father’s before it had begun to gray. Their skin was the same color, a shade lighter than mine. And Giuseppe and I had the same dimples at the corners of our mouths …

  “Are you going to stand there brandishing those shears at me forever?” my father demanded imperiously, yet there was fear on his face.

  “That depends,” Giuseppe said. “Because I am not going to let you hurt Adriana again. Ever. I have stood by enough times in the past, but no more.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Now get out.”

  He did as he was told, glaring all the while. Yet he stopped just inside the doorway to my bedchamber. “You have ruined everything, you know,” he told me, almost conversationally. “You might have had everything any woman has ever dreamed of, and you threw it all away to be some common musician’s whore.”

  Rage nearly blinded me, but I would not give him the satisfaction of showing it.

  “The Foscaris will never have you now, of course,” he went on, “but perhaps I can find someone else who will still have you. Either way, do not expect to keep that bastard you are carrying.”

  I could no longer restrain myself. “You despicable excuse for a man—”

  “You shall see, you worthless whore,” my father said, his eyes glittering dangerously. “You will not defy me again.”

  “Enough!” Giuseppe yelled. “Get out, Enrico!”

  This time he obeyed, but not before slamming the door with an earsplitting crack.

  Giuseppe put the shears back on my dressing table and turned to me, his expression almost fearful at what he might find. “Come and sit down,” he said, taking my arm and leading me gently to the bed. I complied, beginning to tremble as my exhilarating rush of anger began to fade. Suddenly I was fully aware of each bruise, each ache—and there were many.

  “I will send for Meneghina to bring some cloths and warm water, madonna,” Giuseppe said, moving toward the bellpull that rang in the servants’ quarters.

  I nodded, still trembling. “But you must never call me madonna again,” I told him, my tongue feeling thick and awkward in my swollen mouth. “How can you have condescended to be my servant, to be Claudio’s servant, all these years, when the whole time you knew…”

  He shook his head. “It does not matter. I was watching over you—the best I could, in any case. What do you think has kept me here all these years?”

  I merely stared at him in wonder, silently willing him to contin
ue, greedy for the whole truth now that I had had a taste of it.

  “I stayed,” he said, “because of you. Enrico was good enough to give me a place in the household—”

  “As a servant,” I spat. “And you his own son!”

  Giuseppe shrugged. “It could have been much worse. He could have thrown my mother and me out and washed his hands of us. Instead, he saw that I was educated, and had a roof over my head and food in my mouth. The only condition was that I never reveal the truth to you or Claudio.”

  “Who was your mother?” I asked. I was far beyond being shocked that infidelity was also on the long list of my father’s crimes; yet a part of me felt what my mother’s pain must have been at discovering such a thing.

  “A kitchen maid,” he said. “Her name was Maria Rivalli. Your father kept her on after I was born, but she died of a fever when I was only five. Your mother, angelic woman that she was, never once took her hurt out on me. She loved me as if I were her own.” He smiled sadly. “When she knew she was dying, she made me promise I would always look after you. As if she needed to ask.” He sighed, and after a moment chuckled. “I always knew the day would come when I would have to protect you from Enrico, but I never expected I would have to protect him from you.”

  “You should have let me kill him,” I snarled. “I would have done all of us a favor.”

  “No,” he said. “That is not a road you want to travel, Adriana.”

  Meneghina came in just then, stopping dead when she saw the state I was in. Giuseppe told her quickly what we would need, sending her scurrying off again. She soon returned with a basin of steaming water and strips of clean cloth. She efficiently set about cleaning the blood from my face and applying the warm cloths to the ugly bruises and lumps forming on my skin. “È il lavoro del diavolo,” she whispered as she inspected me. “How did he find out, madonna?”

  I laughed mirthlessly. “He came to bring me my betrothal ring and saw me in my robe,” I said. “After all this time, it was naught but a moment of chance that has undone me.”

  “What will you do now, madonna?” she asked.

  “You must rest,” Giuseppe said, before I could answer.

  “No,” I protested, moving to get up from the bed.

  “Please,” he said gently, placing his hands on my shoulders to prevent me from rising. “You must think of the child.”

  “I am thinking of the child!” I retorted. “I must get both of us to its father at once, or else…”

  “Oh, Adriana,” he said, in a voice so full of sorrow that my heart nearly broke. “Do you not think we have finally lost?”

  “No!” I shouted, pushing him away and sitting upright. “To give up now would be to lose all!”

  “Please, Adriana,” he said. “You must rest! You will think more clearly if you do.”

  “What are my choices, Giuseppe?” I asked. “What would you have me do?”

  “I would have you sleep, restore yourself,” he insisted, getting to his feet. “We will leave you now, so that you may do so.”

  “Giuseppe,” I whispered. “Please. Do not you abandon me, mio fratello.”

  Tenderness, joy, sorrow, and pain all warred on his face as I addressed him, for the first time, as fratello. Brother. “I am not abandoning you,” he said. “I would never. And so long as you promise me that you will rest, I will take you to him tonight, I swear it on my life. But after this…” He gestured at the vicious bruises that covered me. “I no longer know what we are fighting for.” With that, he turned and left, and Meneghina silently followed him, looking back at me sorrowfully.

  I lay down and rolled over onto my side, curling my body into as tight a ball as my swollen belly would allow. It will be just as Giuseppe said, I told myself, letting the thought gently lull me to sleep. I will go to Antonio tonight, and then we shall flee together.

  Despite my initial resistance, I fell asleep almost immediately. I was exhausted from so many things, including relief. My father’s wrath had been horrific, but it was over, and I had nothing further to hide. And soon all of this—this house, my father, my betrothal, Venice—would be behind me.

  When I awoke, it was evening. Meneghina had left food for me beside my bed. It was not much—stew and some bread—but I bolted it down, famished. Then I strode to my wardrobe, pulled out a simple dress that I could lace easily myself, and donned my cloak. I went to the door, prepared to walk out of these rooms for the last time, but as I seized the handle I found that it was locked. I twisted the knob again and again, staring at it in disbelief, as if it might open under my incredulous gaze.

  But it did not. I was locked in.

  38

  LOST

  Morning dawned to find me still locked in my rooms. I had paced them all the night, certain Giuseppe would come set me free, but he did not. No one did.

  It was beneath my dignity—only just—to pound at the door and demand to be released. It would have been an exercise in futility in any case. The order to lock me in had surely come from my father, and none but Giuseppe would dare to defy him. Which could only mean that Giuseppe had been similarly incarcerated, to prevent him from coming to my aid.

  The sun rose, and lingered in the sky, and still no one came. I had finally succumbed to exhaustion and was sleeping atop the coverlets of my bed when I heard voices outside my door.

  “Let me pass, please,” an unfamiliar female voice said. The door swung open, and I was on my feet as quickly as my condition would allow. A woman whom I only vaguely recognized as a kitchen maid came in with a tray, set it on my sitting room table, and moved to leave.

  “Wait!” In an instant I caught her arm in a tight grip. “What is the meaning of this? Why is the door to my rooms locked? Where is Giuseppe? Where is Meneghina?”

  “The master commanded it, madonna,” the woman informed me, looking almost apologetic. “I know not where they are; only that I was told to bring you this to break your fast.” Quickly she slipped from my grasp and went out the door. I heard the lock click back into place behind her.

  I stood, dumbfounded, staring at the closed door.

  * * *

  For over a week I was trapped in my rooms, seeing no one except the servant from the kitchen—whose name, I learned, was Teresa—who brought me my meals three times a day, helped me dress, and drew me a bath every other day. For the first few days I continued to ply her with questions, until I came to realize that even if she did know something—and how could she not?—she was not about to share with me.

  My father I saw not at all. He had found the perfect punishment for me, worse than a beating, and he knew it.

  On the third day of my imprisonment, I hit upon the idea of bribery. I took a pair of small diamond earrings set in gold that my father had given me and had them ready when Teresa arrived with my midday meal. “Come look, Teresa,” I said, making my voice as cheerful as possible.

  Glancing at me wearily, she set the tray down and came to where I sat, in a chair by the window. I opened my palm to show her the earrings. “Lovely, are they not?”

  She nodded, still not sure of my aim.

  I held one up to her ear. “They would look marvelous on you. That lovely dark hair of yours would set them off quite well.”

  “I would have no use for such things, madonna,” she said, but I could see from the gleam in her eye that she was rather taken with the idea.

  I extended my palm again. “They will be yours if you help me leave this house.”

  For a moment she hesitated, looking covetously at the baubles in my hand. Then her face closed off, and she shuddered slightly. “I dare not, madonna,” she said. “The master has said if you were to be found missing whilst I am attending you, it will go worse for me than it did for Meneghina…” She trailed off, eyes wide. “I mean to say—forgive me, madonna…”

  “What has happened to Meneghina?” I asked, feeling slightly sick, Giuseppe’s words echoing in my mind: If you fall, we all fall with you.

  �
�Forgive me, madonna, I am not supposed to say.”

  “And who is to know if you do say?” I asked, standing to block the door that led from my bedchamber to the sitting room so she could not leave. “One earring if you tell me what has befallen Meneghina,” I said, holding them out to her again, “and the other if you tell me where Giuseppe is.”

  Her meaty shoulders sagged in defeat. “Very well,” she said. She reached for the earrings, but I curled my fingers into a fist over them.

  “Speak first.”

  “Very well,” she said again. She lowered her voice. “Meneghina was dismissed.”

  “No!” I cried.

  “Si. The master assumed she knew of your … that you had a lover,” she said awkwardly. “Nor did she deny it.”

  “Dio mio,” I murmured, the guilt tightening like a noose around my throat. “Here,” I said, dropping one of the earrings into her hand.

  “If it please you, madonna, you did promise me the other one as well…”

  “First tell me of Giuseppe.”

  “He is locked in his room,” she said, admiring the diamond in her hand. “Under guard, as well. All of the servants have been forbidden from carrying messages between the two of you, under threat of dismissal.”

  He was still in the palazzo at least; our father had not turned him out as I had at times feared. Yet that may have been preferable, for now he was in no position to help me, nor I him. I gave Teresa the other earring, as promised, and she scurried from the room, her new treasures hidden in a pocket of her worn apron.

  Despite everything, I smiled. My jailer was susceptible to bribes.

  * * *

  Each day, I tried to tempt Teresa into releasing me, first with a strand of pearls—another gift from my father—and then with the emerald bracelet Tommaso had given me on Christmas. I was rather fond of it, but I did not see that I had a choice. After a week had passed since my door was first locked I offered her both, in desperation.

  Each day she refused, though not without some hesitation. When she refused both the pearls and the bracelet I snapped, screaming at her to get out of my sight.

  Finally I pulled out the strands of silver set with dozens of diamonds that my father had ordered for my coif on the night I attended the Foscaris’ ball, the night I first met Tommaso. It was obscenely valuable; I had more costly things still, but I refused to part with anything that had been my mother’s, or that I might need later. When Vivaldi and I made our escape from Venice, we would need everything of value we had. Those pieces were packed away in a purse I had secreted in my wardrobe.