“I suppose you are right,” Senator Baldovino said, shrugging.
All hope drained out of me. My life would go from being under the control of my father to being under the control of my husband, as I had always known it would. It was shocking, after all the upheaval and destruction that had been wrought in my life, to realize how little had actually changed.
“We shall abide by the original plan, then,” my father said. “You shall go to your aunt’s house, and the child shall be adopted by a suitable family as soon as we find one amenable to the arrangements. It should not be too difficult, for I will make it worth their while.”
I bowed my head so that neither of them would see the tears gathering in my eyes.
“Do you understand, Adriana?” my father demanded.
“I understand,” I said. “I suppose I have no choice, do I?”
“No,” he bit out. “You do not.”
To my surprise, Senator Baldovino rose from his chair, crossed the room to me, and patted my shoulder. “Do not fret, signorina,” he said. “In a few months’ time, all of this will be behind you. I am sure you will find nothing to object to in your life with me.” He turned back to my father. “Shall we adjourn to your study, Enrico, and draw up the papers?”
“Certainly,” my father said, rising from his chair. “Right this way, Senator.” He tossed me a careless glance over his shoulder. “Please return to your rooms immediately, Adriana.”
After they left, I remained seated, trying to absorb what had just happened to me. I was not surprised by my new betrothal, as I had known that my father would do his damnedest to find someone; yet I had found that imagining a blank future with some faceless husband had been ultimately more palatable than knowing exactly who I would be forced to spend my life with.
Just as I was about to rise and obey my father, Giuseppe slipped into the room and closed the door behind him.
“Oh, Giuseppe!” I cried, leaping to my feet and flinging myself into his arms. “Oh, where have you been? What has Father done to you?”
Giuseppe smiled. “He has done nothing to me, yet. But please, Adriana, sit. It cannot be good for your condition to be so excited.”
I obeyed, and he drew up another chair beside me. “I doubt I shall ever have occasion to be excited again.”
“So you are betrothed, then,” he said.
“You know?”
He shrugged. “I knew Baldovino was coming today, and I saw him and Enrico leave the room looking quite pleased with themselves.” He paused. “So you are to marry him?”
I nodded. “They are drawing up the betrothal contract. And the child—” I broke off, not sure if I could speak the words.
“They will not let you raise it yourself, will they?” he asked.
Taking a deep breath to steel myself, I told Giuseppe of our father’s carefully laid plans.
“Despicable,” he said when I had finished. “The two of them. But in truth I expected nothing better.”
“Nor did I,” I said. “But even so…” My eyes filled with tears. Dear God, would I ever stop weeping?
“Would that I could come with you to your aunt’s house, but Enrico would never allow it,” Giuseppe said. “He would no doubt think we were plotting an escape.”
“Would that I could escape,” I said. “But he need not fear, for I have nowhere left to go.” I changed the subject. “But what of you, Giuseppe? Where have you been?”
“I have been here, in the palazzo,” he said. “Enrico has not thrown me out, but he has forbidden me to communicate with you in any way. The servants have been warned not to carry messages between us, nor admit me to your rooms.”
“Oh, Giuseppe,” I said. “I have brought all of this upon you. It was all just as you said.”
“Do not trouble yourself about that, Adriana, do you hear me?” he said. “I have no desire to stay here in any case, since you will soon be gone.”
I reached out and took his hand. “I do not know how I can bear to be parted from you, especially now.”
“Do not fear, mia sorella,” he said softly. “We will still be a part of each other’s lives. I will not allow it to be otherwise.”
I smiled. “Nor I.”
“You should get back to your rooms soon, should Enrico decide to look in on you,” he said. “But first, I have something for you.” He rose, opened the door, and picked up something he had left just outside. I froze when I saw what it was: a violin case. “What—where did you get that?” I demanded.
He held it out to me, and when I made no move to take it, set it on the floor at my feet. “He sent it,” Giuseppe said. “It is for you.”
I did not reply. Slowly, I leaned down and lifted the case onto my lap. I opened the lid and gasped. It was not my violin that he had sent me: it was his.
Gently I lifted the instrument out of the velvet-lined case, hoping, fearing he had included a letter. But there was nothing. He knew there was nothing left to say.
But I had one last thing to say to him, in the only way I knew how—and the only way he would understand. “Follow me to my rooms, please, Giuseppe,” I said, my voice wavering as I closed the lid. “I need you to take something to him in return.”
“A message?” Giuseppe asked, somewhat incredulously. “Adriana, what can you possibly—”
“Not quite a message,” I said. “It is a piece of music.”
44
THE GREATEST PAIN
All went according to my father’s plans. The betrothal terms were finalized, and my affianced husband presented me with a heavy gold betrothal ring set with a large diamond and bordered with smaller diamonds. It had belonged to his mother, which accounted for its old-fashioned design. I wore it whenever I knew I would see him or my father; otherwise it remained in its case on my dressing table. My mother’s ring I wore every day, if only to feel that she was with me.
I was sent to Zia Gianna’s palazzo in Mantua at the end of October, as planned. The maid who had been seeing to my appearance, Agnese, accompanied me.
My stay with Zia Gianna was just as odious as I had anticipated. She was as disagreeable and miserable as ever; more so, in fact, due to the shameful circumstances of my visit. She wasted no opportunity to say that I was a common slut, no better than the whores who sold their bodies on the bridges of Venice—or worse, since I had always acted so modestly and properly, thus deceiving everyone as to my true nature. She was shocked that any man would stoop to make me his wife. I got into the habit of sitting on my hands whenever she would launch into such a tirade so as not to reach out and slap her smug, sanctimonious face. One day I finally broke down and screamed at the old harpy to be silent. I was locked in my room the rest of the day as punishment; but being confined was something to which I had grown quite accustomed.
A few weeks after my arrival, she informed me that a family had been found for my child. Their name was Girò, they already had one daughter, and owned a wig-making shop. That was all I was told; and none of it told me what I most needed to know: Were they good people? Would they treat my child well? Would they love him or her?
My questions were destined to go unanswered.
And so I waited, as I had been doing for so long now, for the birth of the child, for this phase of my life to end so the next could begin. Some days I could not help but think that this limbo in which I existed was perfect, for I wanted to go neither forward nor back.
* * *
The day after Christmas—a joyless and somber feast, so completely unlike the previous Christmas—I awoke in the dead of night to find the sheets of my bed soaked through. As I went to get up, a clenching pain caused me to double over, as though an enormous hand was wrapped around my innards and was squeezing tightly.
Within half an hour, I was installed in a chamber that had been prepared especially for the birth. My aunt was striding about the room giving orders as we waited for the midwife to come from town. It seemed as if all the servant women in the house were crowded into th
e room, carrying pails of hot water and piles of linens or herbs or medicines that were supposed to aid in the birthing process, or prevent childbed fever from setting in afterward. Somehow it had never occurred to me I might die during the birth, but I could not bring myself to be afraid. I could only wonder how Vivaldi would feel if he were to learn that I had died in childbirth.
When the midwife finally arrived, she ordered the servants out, save two older women—experienced in delivering babies—and Agnese. Zia Gianna remained as well, pacing and wringing her hands nervously. I wanted to ask her what she was so concerned about, considering the stain I was on the family name. But it occurred to me that perhaps she did not relish the thought of informing my father that his daughter—the intended bride of a senator—had died under her care.
The midwife, Pietra, had me lie on the bed and lifted the hem of my linen shift up past my waist. She instructed me to bend my knees and spread my legs, so that she might check on the baby’s progress, which I did.
When she was done, she replaced my clothing and looked at me with a faint smile. “You are in for a very long night, I am afraid,” she said. “This is your first child, is it not?”
I nodded.
“And do you know when, precisely, you conceived?”
Even then, my face flushed with heat as I remembered that April night, and the rose petals against my skin in Vivaldi’s bed. “I believe it was April 26.”
“A few weeks early, then,” the midwife said. “Yes, it will be quite a long night. The first child always takes the longest, for your body must perform a task with which it is not yet acquainted. And since the child is coming early, it will be harder to expel from the womb.”
She told me to walk about the room, the better to help the child shift into the proper position. Meanwhile, she had Agnese fetch me some broth from the kitchen. “Drink it,” she admonished me. “You will need your strength.”
I paused in my pacing long enough to obey, then resumed, back and forth, back and forth.
The pains were still few and far between when I began to grow weary. My eyelids began to droop, and my footsteps slowed.
“Might I not rest now?” I asked the midwife.
Pietra shook her head. “You must continue to walk about,” she said. “It will make it go faster.”
Obediently I continued to shuffle back and forth.
The sun had long since risen by the time my pains began to come closer together. They lasted longer and were more forceful; each time it was like a wave breaking over me, and I had to double over and squeeze my eyes shut until it passed, leaving me weakened and drained.
Finally, Pietra gave me permission to lie on the bed, which I did gratefully. She pulled up my shift again to inspect me, her fingers gently probing.
“Your body is opening to push the child out,” she told me. “The hardest part is still before you.”
I stared at her in wonder, hardly believing I could be any more tired than I already was.
As the pains began coming faster, Pietra instructed me to push each time they were upon me. Before long, each pain brought with it the utter certainty that I was being ripped in half; but I would do my best to push with the strength I had left, which was not much.
“You must push, signorina!” Pietra told me, crouching down to peer between my thighs.
“I cannot!” I cried, lying flat, my eyes closed.
“You must!”
“Please, signora, I cannot!”
In that moment, I was so full of hatred for everyone who had brought me to this place: Vivaldi, God, my father, Baldovino, even Giuseppe. Even if I did succeed in giving birth to this child, I was certain it would be formed of rage and loathing instead of flesh and blood.
“Signorina, you must not give up now!”
Why not? What do I have to live for? And how do I know things will be any better for my child?
My eyes fluttered open, and I fought to sit up.
I will not abandon my child as everyone else has abandoned me.
Teeth gritted, I commenced pushing, with Pietra urging me on. “I can see the head, signorina,” she told me. “Nearly there!”
I scarcely noticed the woman standing next to me, wiping my sweat-drenched face with a cool, damp cloth. The pain was relentless now, and I knew, with some basic, primal female instinct, that this meant it was almost over.
I pushed, harder, crying out in pain as I felt a rush of blood come from between my legs.
What strange, foolish creatures we women are, some numb, detached part of me mused. All of this blood and suffering for the love of a man.
“Once more, signorina! Almost there!”
With one last excruciating push, I gave the last of my strength and fell back against the pillows, utterly exhausted; so much so that I wondered if I had, in fact, died.
But then I heard my baby cry, and my eyes flew open, new life filling me.
Pietra was holding the small, red, blood-covered thing in her arms, smiling down at it. “A girl, signorina,” she said, looking up and transferring her smile to me. “A beautiful healthy girl.”
I reached out my arms, and Pietra, after severing the cord that still connected her to my body, gave her to me without hesitation.
She was the most beautiful creature I had ever beheld in my life. Each part of her tiny body was perfectly formed, a replica in miniature of my own.
“She has a good set of lungs on her,” Pietra remarked.
Indeed she had, for she scarcely seemed to pause in her wailing to breathe. I moved to bare my breast for her.
My aunt gasped in shock and disapproval. “Take the child from her at once,” she ordered Pietra. “We have a wet nurse who is to suckle the child, and go with her to her new home. Adriana is to have no further contact with the child.”
I clutched my daughter as tightly as I dared. “No! You cannot take her from me yet! Please, just give me a little time!”
But Zia Gianna was shaking her head. “You will only grow attached to her.” She motioned again to Pietra. “Take her away. Now.”
“No!” I screamed. “Please, I beg of you! Just give me an hour—not even that! Half an hour only!”
I broke off as Pietra approached me. “Please, signora,” I whispered, tears streaming down my cheeks. “This is the child of the man I love. She is all I have left.”
“Pietra!” my aunt barked, seeing her hesitation. “If you do not do as I bid you, I will see to it that you do not find work in this city ever again. Am I understood?”
At that, Pietra stepped closer, gently taking my daughter from my arms. The child began to wail anew, only this time her cries were like knives upon my ears. “What is her name, signorina?” Pietra whispered.
I looked for the last time upon my daughter’s face. In that moment I feared that, should I name her after her father as I had wanted, someone might guess his identity. “Anna,” I said aloud. “Her name is Anna.”
Pietra nodded once, then stepped away from the bed. I fell back and closed my eyes.
Once I heard the door close behind her, I began sobbing. “You evil, hateful witch!” I screamed as my aunt made to leave the room as well. “How could you—why—” But I could no longer speak, my words dissolving into screams, but of a different, far greater pain this time.
45
DARKNESS BEFORE THE DAWN
By two days after the birth, Pietra proclaimed me perfectly healthy. She also assured me—and my aunt, who would report to my father—that I should have no trouble bearing children in the future.
Tossing and turning, I tried to get some sleep. Despite my exhaustion, I wondered if I would ever be able to sleep again not knowing where my daughter was, or if she was safe.
I must have drifted off at some point, however, for the next thing I was aware of was being gently shaken awake. “Adriana,” a voice whispered in my ear.
“Who is there?” I mumbled, rolling over toward the voice, still half asleep. I opened my eyes to see Giuseppe�
��s face, dimly illuminated by the light of a single candle. “Giuseppe!” I gasped, pulling myself into a sitting position. “How did you get here? How did you get in?”
“Shhh,” he hissed, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I got on a coach that was headed here, of course. And as to how I got in…” He smiled mischievously. “You underestimate my effect on the fairer sex, Adriana. I spoke for a time with a young maid, who was kind enough to let me in once I explained.”
“Does Father know you left?” I asked, fully awake now. I pushed my heavy hair off my face, anxiously searching his eyes. His silence, however, told me all that I needed to know. “Dio mio,” I breathed. “He has not thrown you out?”
He nodded. “Told me I was no longer welcome in his house because of my betrayal. He gave me a small fortune before I left, though.” He chuckled darkly. “My inheritance.”
“Oh, Giuseppe. Whatever will you do?”
He shrugged. “Do not worry about me, Adriana. What of you? How are you faring here?”
I looked away. “I gave birth two days ago.”
His eyes widened. “Are you well? And what of the child?”
My eyes filled with tears. “I am not well, not at all. It was a girl, and they took her from me at once. Her name is Anna.”
“Oh, Adriana.” He enfolded me in a tight embrace. “I am so sorry.”
“There was nothing I could do, Giuseppe,” I said, sobbing. “Yet sometimes I think that if I really loved her, I would not have let them take her. That I should have died first.”
“Do not blame yourself,” he said. “You were caught in a web of plans laid by powerful men. There was nothing you could have done.”
“Perhaps,” I said. I knew he was right, yet I also knew that a mother’s guilt would never cease to hound me.
“And when do you come back to Venice?”
The Violinist of Venice Page 23
