As everyone rose to receive the Host, I surreptitiously glanced around the church from beneath my veil. The pews were full of people I did not know. I had been hoping to see Giuseppe, but he did not appear to be present. I wondered if he had even heard the news, though there was no love lost between him and Claudio in any case.
Giuseppe and I corresponded regularly by letter—he had found employment as a secretary for one of the members of the Council of Ten—but we had not seen each other since my wedding. Giacomo’s and my first true argument as a married couple had been when he had forbidden me from inviting Giuseppe into our house.
“Your father warned me about this friend of yours,” Giacomo said as I broached the subject over dinner one evening. “I know he was the one who helped facilitate your trysts.” He shook his head and reapplied himself to his meal. “No. I shall not have him in my house.”
“And did my holier-than-thou father also inform you,” I asked, “that this same Giuseppe Rivalli is also his bastard son, and therefore my half brother?”
The look of surprise on my husband’s face was quite gratifying. Giuseppe may have sworn not to reveal the truth of his parentage, but I had taken no such vow.
Giacomo recovered rather quickly. “Most men of privilege have at least one bastard somewhere,” he said. “It is the way of the world.” He glanced up at me. “You should know that better than anyone, Adriana.”
That put a quick end to our discussion on the matter.
After the requiem Mass, we accompanied Claudio’s coffin out to one of the islands in the lagoon for burial, and then returned to the city. We had offered to return home with my father and spend the evening with him, but he had declined rather brusquely, saying he preferred to be alone.
“A sad state of affairs,” Giacomo said as our gondolier rowed us back. “But in truth it seems your brother had no one to blame but himself.” He quickly crossed himself. “Not to speak ill of the dead, of course.”
“I do not believe the dead can hear you, husband,” I said, smiling slightly, “nor do I think they can take offense at an utterance of the truth.”
He smiled back, changing the subject. “As to happier thoughts, can we expect the renovations to be finished by the end of the month, as projected?”
“We can,” I told him. “The new carpets I ordered are set to be delivered tomorrow, and the last few pieces of furniture by early next week.”
“Excellent.”
Just as Giacomo had told me on the night we first met, his palazzo was very much in need of renovations when I moved in: the furniture was both old and old-fashioned, scratched and worn; the curtains were oppressively thick and heavy; the carpets had grown threadbare.
He had told me to spare no expense in the renovations and to choose whatever pleased me. Glad to have a project to distract myself from the memories that resurfaced upon our return to Venice, I summoned the finest furniture makers, upholsterers, and carpenters in the republic to remake the old bachelor’s house into a home fit for a patrician and his wife, and perhaps someday children as well.
Giacomo had also allowed me to hire whatever additional servants I might need, and my first act had been to find and rehire Meneghina as my personal maid, for which she seemed both grateful and happy.
“Home we go, then,” he said, smiling at me.
“Yes,” I said, realizing that I was beginning to think of his palazzo that way. Ahead of us, Venice rose out of the waters of the lagoon to greet us, as if by magic. “Home.”
49
PERFORMANCE
The renovations were finished by the end of October, as planned, and Giacomo was more delighted with the finished product than I could have imagined. I went from room to room with him, pointing out everything that had been done and explaining my choices.
“This is excellent,” he marveled, taking everything in. “You have marvelous taste, Adriana.”
“I am glad you like it,” I said genuinely. He had been most generous in giving me free rein, and I was happy that he was so pleased.
“And it is finished just in time, for I am planning to give a party,” he informed me.
“Oh?” I asked. I had been under the impression that Senator Baldovino did not cut a large, dashing swath through Venice’s social scene. “I thought that you did not like parties,” I ventured.
He chuckled. “I have never had a particular fondness for them, it is true,” he said. “But I have this lovely house which looks as if it were new, and a beautiful wife whom I am eager to introduce to society.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I said, finding his enthusiasm was catching. And I was hardly opposed to having company; surely there would be someone among Giacomo’s circle of friends who would be pleasant enough. “I should like to meet more of your friends.”
“And so you shall,” he said. “But I had something else in mind for this particular festa that I think shall be most pleasing to you.” The smile on his face was almost boyish, and I was touched he should be so happy at the thought of pleasing me.
“Do tell, marito,” I said. “For pity’s sake, do not keep me in suspense.”
“You know that I have long been a benefactor of the Pietà,” he began. My stomach clenched at that word. “It is a most worthy institution, as you know. So I thought that we might invite the orchestra of the Pietà to come and give a concert for us and our guests. And of course we would make a suitable donation to the ospedale in return.”
He watched me eagerly for my reaction, which I was trying desperately to hide. “What say you?” he asked. “I know you played the violin when you were younger, and I am told that you love the opera. I thought it something that you would especially enjoy.”
I looked into his gentle, doughy face and knew that I could not break his heart. As in Scripture, I must forgive him, for he knows not what he does. “Oh, Giacomo,” I said, smiling widely. “That would be wonderful! Why, that you should go to such lengths for my sake!”
He slipped an arm around my waist, drew me against his hip, and kissed my lips lightly. “It is no trouble at all. I would gladly do so much and more for a chance to see one of those rare smiles of yours.”
Before I could recover from his tender declaration, he was already moving off to inspect the newly carved moldings in the dining room. “Lovely,” he murmured. “Exceedingly lovely. Fine work, indeed.”
As he stepped into the next room, I sank down into one of the newly upholstered chairs, burying my head in my hands.
I was going to have to face Antonio Vivaldi again.
* * *
The invitations to the party went out a mere two days later, and Giacomo assured me that I was not to trouble myself over the arrangements. He would see to everything, he promised.
The powers that be at the Pietà were thrilled to receive such an invitation from a senator of the republic. Giacomo promptly delivered half of his promised donation, and there was the prospect of more to come from our wealthy guests. The Pietà was sending an orchestra comprised of their finest musicians, they promised us, under the direction of the reinstated Maestro Vivaldi.
“This man they call il Prete Rosso is remarkable, truly,” Giacomo said as he read me the reply to his invitation over dinner. “I am sure you of all people will appreciate his talent.”
I kept my gaze fixed determinedly on my plate.
“And I have no doubt that the orchestra will be playing some of his own compositions,” Giacomo went on. “He is rather good at that sort of thing. Strange to think the Pietà parted with him for so long. No one seems to know what he got up to during that time, other than playing at the Sant’ Angelo.”
I drowned my wry smirk in a sip of wine. I can tell you exactly what he was doing during that time. I can also tell you that he wishes he had not done it.
“They say he is now trying his hand at opera—and no wonder, for it certainly pays better than writing music for the Church,” Giacomo added. “I believe he published some concerti not long ag
o, as well.”
This was news to me. So he had managed to get L’estro armonico published, then. And opera, well, that only made sense financially, as Giacomo pointed out. That Vivaldi would distinguish himself well in this new field I had no doubt. Whether I could ever bear to attend an opera he had written would be another matter entirely.
Fortunately, Giacomo changed the subject to something about a dispute two other senators were embroiled in, but I scarcely heard him. Dear God and Mary Virgin, I thought, if I can barely keep hold of myself when I hear him mentioned, how in the name of heaven will I manage when I am faced with the man himself?
50
LONG-LOST LOVE
The best I would be able to do was avoid Vivaldi as long as possible, though eventually we would be forced to come face-to-face. When the musicians from the Pietà arrived several hours before the party was to begin—along with their maestro and a few nuns as chaperones—I sent Giacomo to greet them, telling him I still needed a great deal of time to dress and ready myself for the evening. This was to diverge slightly from what was expected of me as a hostess, but I could not bring myself to care. Not tonight.
In truth, dressing did not take all that long. I wore black, with a single strand of pearls, as all patrician women did in the first year after marriage. But as though she sensed how much I wanted to look beautiful on this day, Meneghina took extra care with my hair. She pinned it back—leaving a few strands down to soften the effect—and wound through it a strand of diamonds and pearls set in gold which had been a wedding gift from my father to my mother, and which he had given to me on my wedding day. Finally, she applied a light touch of cosmetics to enhance my eyes and lips.
When she was done, I hardly recognized the woman in the looking glass. Her glossy hair shone nearly as much as the diamonds nestled in it, and her large, luminous eyes gazed seductively back at me.
Meneghina met my eyes in the mirror with a satisfied smile. “Every man in attendance tonight will fall madly in love with you,” she said. “You shall break a great many hearts tonight, madonna.”
In spite of all that was weighing on me, I laughed. “Perhaps I shall make that my goal for the evening.”
* * *
When the time finally came for me to go greet the guests who were beginning to arrive, I was relieved to learn the orchestra was setting up in the piano nobile, where the concert would take place before dinner. Though Meneghina had painted confidence on my face, I could only thank God that my skirts hid my shaking legs as I stood beside Giacomo in the entrance hall and was introduced, one by one, to his friends and acquaintances. The man whom I had loved with all my heart, whom I had trusted with my life and more and who had betrayed me, was in a room just behind me, living and breathing and real and not at all like my pale remembrances of him. I could feel him. I could just barely admit to myself the foolish fantasy I harbored, the fantasy of a naïve girl: when he saw me, he would draw me away into another room, and fall to his knees, begging me to forgive him, telling me that he had made a terrible mistake, that he could not live without me after all, and ask me to leave Venice with him this very night. My face heated with embarrassment for even allowing such a scene to play out in my head. I had not learned much this past year after all.
“Ah, here is a very dear friend of mine,” Giacomo said, breaking into my self-pitying thoughts. I looked up to see a short, somewhat rotund man, his face doughy and flushed, though the white wig that sat atop it was immaculate, as were his expensively tailored clothes. On his arm was a petite yet shapely and very fashionably dressed young woman, with a lovely, heart-shaped face and what seemed to be yards of silken blond locks. “Adriana, this is Senator Roberto Grimaldi, whom I have known since I was a boy. It was in his villa that we stayed on our wedding trip. Roberto, may I present my wife, Adriana.”
I smiled at him, extending my hand for him to kiss. “I must thank you for your generosity, Senator Grimaldi,” I said. “It is a most lovely house.”
“Not at all, Donna Baldovino,” he said. “It was my pleasure to be of service, and it is my hope that you and your esteemed husband will be our guests there again in the future.” He gestured to the blond woman beside him. “Donna, may I present to you my wife, Giulietta Grimaldi.”
“It is an honor and a pleasure, Donna Grimaldi,” I said, nodding.
“Oh, no, the honor and pleasure are all mine,” she said, her voice remarkably strong and animated coming from such a small frame. “I have been much looking forward to making your acquaintance, Donna Baldovino—why, I came this close to simply climbing into my gondola to come call on you, but Roberto insisted I wait for a formal introduction, as no doubt your husband was not through keeping you all to himself!”
As she spoke, something about her face, her figure, and her name jarred my memory. “Why, Donna Grimaldi,” I said, “forgive me, but I just realized I have seen you before. I was in a gondola passing your palazzo some time ago, and a young man was outside singing to you. You came out to blow him a kiss.”
She laughed. “That was my dear Mario, no doubt,” she said. “He is a most charming and devoted cavaliere servente. We shall have to find you one just like him, and I have no doubt the young men will be falling all over themselves for the honor!”
I laughed. “I shall trust your judgment in this matter, donna,” I said.
She smiled warmly. “I have been so hoping for someone marvelous and diverting among all of my husband’s stuffy friends, and you are just such a person!”
I laughed again, startled and refreshed by such frank speech. Senator Grimaldi chuckled tolerantly. “My wife is quite outspoken, you will find, Donna Baldovino,” he told me.
“Indeed.” I tossed a conspiratorial smile to her. “I, too, have a bit of outspokenness in my nature.”
Grinning back at me, she reached out and briefly clasped my hand. “I think that we are going to be great friends,” she said. “But for now, I shall let you continue greeting your guests. We will have more of an opportunity to talk later.”
“Indeed.” I smiled at her as she took her husband’s arm again, and they moved past us into the piano nobile.
I greeted the rest of the seemingly endless procession of guests with an easy charm that surprised me; such pleasantries had never come easily to me. I flattered myself that I was acting the perfect Venetian hostess, though I knew I scarcely remembered anyone’s name.
Finally Giacomo turned to me. “I believe that just about everyone is here,” he said. “Should we not perhaps begin the concert soon?”
My already rapid heartbeat doubled its pace. “Yes, I suppose,” I answered.
“Very well. Perhaps a bit of wine first.”
I took his arm, and we went into the piano nobile, where our guests were mingling cheerfully. Across from the double doors was the semicircle of chairs and music stands where the orchestra would be seated. The musicians—no more than girls—were already in their places, tuning their instruments and practicing a passage here and there. I quickly looked away, lest I catch sight of their maestro, and grabbed the nearest glass of wine I could find.
What if I faint dead away when I see him? I wondered, suddenly panicked. Yet … why am I so fearful? It is he who wronged me; it is he who should be afraid to meet my eye.
Yet any sort of logic left me just seconds later, when I finally saw him. He was standing off to one side of the orchestra, sifting through a pile of scores. My stomach lurched violently, and my head swam. If not for a deep, well-timed breath, I no doubt would have fainted.
He looked as I remembered, albeit thinner. As though he sensed my eyes upon him, he looked up, causing me to look quickly away, my heart pounding and my breath coming in short, shallow pants.
But there were guests to attend to, and Giacomo and I threaded our way through the throng, drifting apart from each other and trying to speak to everyone all over again. I made certain that my voice was light and my laugh bright and genuine, should Vivaldi still happen to be observi
ng me.
I was engaged in conversation with Donna Barbo, a lovely, silver-haired older woman who was the wife of Senator Barbo, when my husband approached us with another couple whom I could not remember greeting earlier. “I will perhaps speak with you at greater length during dinner, Donna Baldovino,” Donna Barbo said, nodding regally to me and returning to her husband so that I might greet the newcomers.
The man was tall and thin, and had eschewed the fashion of wearing a wig, having combed back his own iron-gray hair and tied it with a ribbon. His clothes were simple but made of the finest stuff. Beside him stood a slender young woman who looked to be about my age. She was tall, easily Giacomo’s height, with a perfect oval-shaped face that featured high, delicate cheekbones, cream-colored skin, and wide green eyes. Her long, wavy brown hair, a shade lighter than mine, was bound at the nape of her neck, with a few strands loosened to frame her face. She, too, wore the black gown and pearls of a newly married woman. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, but beautiful in a different way from Giulietta’s sensual, seductive charms: this woman may well have posed for an artist’s portrait of the Blessed Virgin, so pure and serene was her beauty.
“Adriana,” Giacomo said, “this is another dear friend of mine, Francesco Cassenti. Francesco, my wife, Adriana.”
We exchanged pleasantries, and then Don Cassenti indicated the woman next to him. “May I present to you my wife, Vittoria.”
“A pleasure, Donna Cassenti,” I said, smiling.
“Likewise, Donna Baldovino,” she said warmly, her voice smooth and sweet.
“Donna Cassenti was formerly at the Pietà,” Giacomo informed me. “She was a singer, if I am correct, just like your late mother.”
I appraised her with new interest. “Truly, Donna Cassenti? That is most fascinating! You must tell me all about it!”
She laughed, a musical sound that instantly made me wish to hear her sing. “I would be glad to do so, certainly. But please, you must call me Vittoria.” She smiled shyly. “Actually, it is Maria Vittoria, but there were so many Marias at the Pietà that I was always called by my second name.”
The Violinist of Venice Page 25
