The Violinist of Venice

by Alyssa Palombo

  “With pleasure,” I said. “But you must call me Adriana.”

  “Of course,” she said. “But if you all will be so good as to excuse me, I must go and greet Maestro Vivaldi. I remember him well from my days there.”

  “Very well, my dear,” Don Cassenti said. I peeked in the direction of the orchestra to see Vivaldi now seated in the first violinist’s chair. He looked up as Vittoria approached, his expression one of excited surprise and pleasure. He rose quickly, and soon the two were deep in conversation.

  A hot surge of pointless jealousy swept over me. Did he think Vittoria more beautiful than I?

  Almost instantly I was ashamed of such thoughts, especially about a woman I hoped would be a friend.

  I turned back to hear Giacomo addressing me. “Francesco and Vittoria were married just after us; in fact, we were on our wedding trip at the time, and so could not attend. May, was it not?” he asked Francesco.

  “It was indeed.”

  “Perhaps, Giacomo,” I interrupted, “it is best that we begin the concert.” God help me, I could not take another moment of mindless pleasantries. Let us get this over with.

  “Yes, yes, you are right, as always, my dear,” Giacomo said. “Let us take our seats, then.”

  We moved to our seats in the front row of chairs that had been arranged to face the orchestra; Giacomo on the end and I beside him, uncomfortably aware of how close I was to Vivaldi. I did not look directly at him, nor he at me, yet neither of us could escape the fact that the other was there.

  Fortunately, Vittoria Cassenti came to sit in the seat next to mine. “I hope you do not mind if I sit beside you,” she said, arranging her skirts in the artful manner of someone who has been wearing them all her life, rather than only just becoming accustomed to costly garments.

  “Not at all,” I replied. “It is a privilege.”

  She smiled. “So you enjoy music, then, Donna Baldovino?” She blushed slightly. “Excuse me. Adriana.”

  “Very much,” I said.

  “And are you a musician yourself?”

  I hesitated. I could tell that although Vivaldi seemed intent on tuning his violin, he was actually listening to the conversation between Vittoria and myself. “I was,” I said. “I played the violin.”

  “That is wonderful!” Vittoria exclaimed. “I tried to learn it once, but I have little skill for that sort of instrument, I am afraid. God in His wisdom put my instrument within my body.”

  I smiled. “There you have the better of me by far. I should very much like to hear you sing.”

  “And I should like to hear you play your violin, if ever you decide to play again.”

  Thankfully, I was spared the need to respond to this by Giacomo rising from his chair to perform the introduction.

  “My wife and I would like to thank all of you for being here this evening, during which we hope you will join us in lending support to one of the republic’s worthiest institutions, the Ospedale della Pietà.” He gestured toward the orchestra. “With that said, I shall now take my seat without further ado and allow the performance to begin.” The guests applauded, and Giacomo sat down beside me again. He took my hand, squeezing it affectionately. I squeezed his hand in return, hoping it was enough to hold me steady through the next few hours.

  And just before the orchestra began playing, just when I thought I might survive this evening after all, I had to bow my head to hide the tears pooling in my eyes. Vivaldi’s violin was not some new one he had bought to replace the one he sent me; nor was it one of the other ones, of lesser quality, that he kept in his house.

  No. It was my violin.

  51

  FOR YOU

  The concerto the orchestra began with was one in D major that I did not recognize. The melody and the first violin part were relatively simple, and in spite of myself I realized I was working out the fingering in my head while I listened. The second movement, a larghetto, was equally simple, though pretty. When the third movement continued on in much the same vein, disappointment washed through me. I had been hoping—in spite of everything—the music today would be like the music I had played with Vivaldi: different and lively and exciting. Yet as I glanced around me, seeing the approving nods of the guests, I realized Vivaldi had started with this concerto deliberately. It was safe, what listeners would expect; he would not challenge them yet.

  The second concerto—which I recognized right from the opening notes—proved I was right. It was one he had been teaching me just before I had discovered that I was with child, with a first movement that rose in pitch and intensity until it seemed that the notes were bouncing right off the ceiling. For a moment it was almost as if I were standing in Vivaldi’s front room again, squinting at the music on the stand, trying to play it with the technical prowess and emotion he required.

  I was thankfully pulled from this reverie when the concerto ended, and the audience began applauding. I tried to steady my breathing, but it was not easy; so much of what I had been trying to repress had come flooding back, as vivid as ever. And all it had taken was a few bars of music.

  The next concerto, in E minor, was one I did not know. The opening movement had a dark, foreboding edge to it, a warning of danger. The second movement was painfully beautiful, and sounded as though the violins themselves were weeping. I could not help but wonder when he had written it, and about the thoughts that plagued his mind as he had done so. Inwardly I wept that I would never learn it, that there was so much music I would never be able to play with him in those glorious stolen hours.

  The next concerto was one I did not recognize until the second movement. It was for two solo violins, with the first part being played by Vivaldi, and the second by a slender girl with plain brown hair and a light dusting of freckles across her pale face, seated beside him. She played extremely well, so I deduced that this must be his protégée, Anna Maria. She had certainly earned his praise.

  The first movement began with a bold, rapid tutti section, the two solo violin parts circling and dancing around one another, now in a duet, now competing, now plunging quickly back down the scale, then back up, growing louder in volume, then softer.

  At the very first chord of the second movement, I felt myself dragged down deep by the undertow of memory. It was all I could do to keep from gasping for air. It was none other than the duet we had played together on that September day over two years ago. It was the same day, the same moment, that the attraction between us had first manifested itself physically, but only just, only in something so light as the touch of his fingertips on my cheek and the ghost of a kiss that had never truly lived. And even as I sat beside my husband, lifetimes away from that day, I suddenly felt a girl of eighteen again, knowing nothing of love or desire until this music, his music, had begun to teach me of them.

  I barely heard the third movement, or the concerto for il violincello that followed. I was too busy flailing about in a sea of memories, trying not to drown. All I could do was wonder why he had chosen to play that piece, if he was trying to tell me something.

  It would not be long before I had an answer.

  When the violincello concerto ended, Vivaldi rose, facing his listeners. “For our next piece, we have something a bit unusual to present to you,” he said. “This is a piece that reached me recently, by a composer who wishes to remain anonymous. What you are about to hear will be the premiere performance of this work.”

  I barely heard the murmurings of surprise and excitement from our guests. My heart was pounding so loudly in my ears as to nearly drown out everything else. No. He cannot mean what I think he means. I could not tell, in that moment, if I was more hopeful or afraid.

  The orchestra began to play my concerto—the one I had written on the darkest night of my life, the one I had Giuseppe take to my former lover as my final farewell. The excruciating, intimate story of my heartbreak filled my ears as Vivaldi’s violin sang with my rage in the first movement, a song of passion and pain and betrayal. The rest of the
violins played a slow, languid part in support, while the violas, celli, and violincelli stormed along with the solo. It was exactly how I had heard it in my head, but at the same time greater, larger, more alive and terrifying.

  Chills raced up and down my body, so that every hair, every last inch of me, felt alive. Tears pooled in my eyes, and I had to fight to stop them from falling.

  Come the second movement, my resolve broke. The voice of the first violin sang on, weeping now, and asking why her lover had betrayed her so, how she was supposed to go on without him. The rest of the orchestra played only the barest traces of accompaniment. I no longer cared who might see: I buried my face in my hands and wept.

  At the movement’s end, I managed to compose myself, but only just. As I lifted my head, trying to dab discreetly at my tears, I noticed Vittoria brushing away a tear of her own. A sudden surge of pride filled me. Perhaps my music really did mean something.

  The third movement was of a faster tempo, with a more balanced, traditional string accompaniment, but the same sadness and wistfulness of the previous. It was a song of letting go.

  Wiping the rest of the tears from my eyes, I drank in the enthusiastic applause of the audience as the piece finally concluded. Though I could not stand up before them all and claim my work—not that any of them would believe me even if I were to do so—I knew, all the same, they were applauding for me. And that would have to be enough.

  Again, Vivaldi stood. “My thanks to you all for being such a gracious and attentive audience,” he said. “We have one more piece to perform, and I would like to dedicate it to our host and hostess”—he turned to where Giacomo and I were sitting, his gaze fixing on mine—“in thanks for welcoming us into their home.” With that, he resumed his place, and immediately the orchestra broke into the opening bars of their final piece.

  I knew it instantly, would never be able to forget it. And I knew he was playing it for me and only me.

  It was the piece he had played for me at our first lesson, when I had boldly asked to hear him; the piece he had later told me was his favorite, among everything he had ever composed. I had dreamed of what it would sound like when played by a full orchestra, and now I had my answer.

  The majesty and passion of the music was only enhanced when played by the orchestra, as well as the four solo violins who shared the melody. I think I ceased to breathe altogether for a moment.

  And just then, in that beautiful, flawless, enlightened place to which his music took me, I felt that it had all been worth it. All the pain, the suffering, every last sacrifice I had made had been worth it, because it made possible this glorious music we were hearing.

  Then it was over, and just like that, I went back to being a woman still hopelessly in love with the man who had rejected her.

  There were two more movements to the concerto, but neither could equal the power and splendor of the first, which I was sure Vivaldi knew better than anyone. However, I was grateful for the extra time to compose myself. It was hardly enough time, but had I been expected to rise and resume my duties as a hostess immediately after such an intense flood of emotion, I would have failed miserably, ripping apart like a ship dashed on the rocks, unintentionally laying bare my deepest secret.

  It was a gift that only he could give me: the chance to hear my own music played, by a full orchestra in front of an audience, and to hear a piece that held so much meaning for us both. He had performed the best of both of our works, set them side by side; and though it could never make up for the wrong he had done me, there was nothing he could have done that would have meant more.

  When the final movement ended, the applause was almost deafening, in sharp contrast to the second of complete silence after the final notes had faded. All the audience members rose to their feet, and I shakily did the same. The musicians took their bows, and the applause continued, second only to the pounding in my ears.

  “A wonderful performance, truly,” Giacomo said, once the ovation had ended. “I heartily thank our performers for bringing this wonderful experience to us, and I thank our guests again for attending. Dinner will be served shortly; our servants shall lead you all into the dining room when the time comes.”

  As the guests resumed their mingling, I quickly turned to Giacomo and laid my hand on his sleeve. “I think, marito, that I shall go and check on the cook’s progress.”

  He frowned. “You need not trouble yourself, my dear. I can send one of the servants to do that. Stay here and chat with our guests.”

  I shook my head. “It is no trouble. In fact, I think I should like some air…” Before he could protest further, I turned and left the suddenly cramped, close room, making for the stairs that led down to the kitchens.

  Pausing by the staircase to collect myself, I decided that I might as well go down to the kitchens to check on the feast. When I arrived, the cook assured me everything was going perfectly, looking somewhat confused as to my presence. Feeling slightly foolish, I climbed back up the stairs to the piano nobile, only to find a figure awaiting me at the top of the steps.

  Vivaldi.

  He froze when he saw me, his expression uncomfortable, as though now that he was with me, he did not know what to say.

  I stopped several steps from the top, chin raised defiantly, and waited for him to speak.

  He opened his mouth, but no sound escaped. “Adriana,” he said finally. “I saw you leave, and I thought that if I followed you, I might have a word…”

  In a voice stronger than I felt—and before I could think better of it—I said, “Not here. Follow me,” and led him down to the mezzanine, where he followed me into one of the storerooms.

  “The concerti,” I said, turning to face him. “Mine and yours.” I stopped, uncertain of what else I meant to say.

  “Yes,” he said. “I played them for you. You deserved the chance to hear your work as it was meant to be played, and I … I think perhaps I needed to hear it, as well. I wanted to—”

  “I know,” I said. “I … I know. And I thank you for it.”

  He nodded.

  “And your concerto,” I said. “Our favorite.”

  “Did you … what did you think?” he asked.

  “It was … glorious. Magnificent.” I looked away. “There are no words. You must know that, Tonio.”

  I started at my old, affectionate name for him coming from my lips. He, too, looked surprised, but did not comment. “It seems that I have given you my message, then,” he said. “There are so very many things for which there are no words.”

  “Yes.”

  We stared at each other in silence. His eyes swept upward over me, drinking me in. “You look beautiful,” he said. “Beyond words.”

  “Apparently sorrow agrees with me,” I said, with the fierce resolve of a soldier in battle who knows he is doomed, but will fight to the death anyway.

  “Adriana.” He moved toward me, but I stepped back. Hurt flashed across his face at this, and I told myself that I did not care. “Do not think that you can possibly reproach me more than I have reproached myself this past year.”

  “And yet you were not there when they took our daughter away, and so you do not know—” I stopped abruptly, the tightness in my throat making it impossible for me to go on.

  “Yes, Giuseppe told me,” he said. “I am—”

  “Please,” I cut him off. “Do not say that you are sorry. It is such an empty word that has the power to change nothing.”

  I could see in his face that he wanted to press me, ask me more about the child—our child. However, when he said nothing further, I moved to walk past him and out the door. “I must go—I have a lot to do, and—”

  He placed a gentle hand on my arm, causing me to flinch. “Please, Adriana,” he said. “I only wanted to—”

  “To what?” I demanded, suddenly angry again.

  “To see how you fare. Please, no,” he said, when I opened my mouth to retort angrily. “If I thought it would make you feel better—if I thou
ght it would make any of this better—I would go drown myself in the Grand Canal right now.”

  His words so shocked me that I could think of nothing to say in reply. He, however, took advantage of my silence and changed the subject. “And what is he like?” he asked, nodding in the general direction of the piano nobile. “Your husband?”

  I laughed. “He is an old man.”

  “Is he good to you?”

  “He treats me well enough in that he leaves me mostly to my own devices,” I said.

  He studied me with sympathy. “That sounds very lonely.”

  “I am quite accustomed to being lonely, I am afraid,” I said. “And perhaps I am now paying for having stolen so much joy, once.”

  We were both silent for a long moment, the uncomfortable silence of two people who know everything there is to know about each other, and who can speak of none of it.

  It occurred to me that dinner was surely about to begin, and that my absence must have been remarked upon, and Vivaldi’s as well. But something prompted me to make one last confession. “I cannot play anymore, Antonio, let alone write. The music … I have lost it.”

  He smiled. “That is not true, Adriana. It cannot be. You have more music in you than anyone I have ever known. You wrote that spellbinding concerto everyone just heard, did you not?”

  To my horror, tears stung my eyes. “I did, but…”

  He moved to place his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, but then thought better of it. “You shall find the music again, eventually. Inevitably. I know you will.”

  The tears were flowing freely now; I would have given anything to make them stop. “I cannot. Not without you.”

  “Oh, Adriana,” he said. “I was never that important. You never needed me that much. Maybe you could not see it then, and cannot yet, but—”

  “You do not know,” I whispered. “You do not—” I broke off. Oh, God, why had I let him follow me here? Why had I thought that I could bear it? “I am sorry. I should not be … that is, as I said, I have much to do.”