The Violinist of Venice (25 page)

I turned to face him, impressed. “Oh, Tommaso, it is lovely,” I said.

“I am glad that it pleases you,” he said. “I thought it might.”

We stood facing each other in silence for a moment, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was waiting for something, for me to kiss him as I had that night in the gondola, perhaps.

Finally I spoke. “Would you be so kind as to have the servants leave my bags in this room, and ask them to unpack later?” I asked sweetly. “I should like to rest before dinner; I am quite weary from the journey, as you were so solicitous to notice.”

“Of course,” he replied. “It would be my privilege.” He bowed and backed toward the door, not taking his eyes off me. “Sleep well,
mia cara
Adriana.”

As soon as he was gone, I went into the adjoining bedchamber and closed the door. Hardly noticing my surroundings, I removed my traveling dress, loosened the laces of my corset as best I could, and let myself fall into the soft mattress. Soon I was drifting off to sleep, and did not even hear the servants leaving my bags in the outer room.

Dinner that night went well enough. I dressed in a newly made summer dress, one of many new items of clothing my father had had made for me specifically for our stay. I could only pray that they continued to fit me for the rest of the summer.

I tried as best I could to put my worries from my mind. Despite myself, I did truly enjoy the company of the Foscari family—even if Don Foscari was a bit pompous, and Donna Foscari a bit vain. A part of me was disturbed at finding such pleasure in their company, since soon I would no longer be able to claim their acquaintance.

Don and Donna Foscari seemed rather impressed with me now that we had a chance to converse; throughout dinner they asked me casual questions about my education, what pastimes I enjoyed, what I thought of some of the operas I had recently been to see. I had to carefully guard each word that came out of my mouth, so that I did not betray my violin playing or composing, and once, when asked how I liked the Sant' Angelo, almost spoke Vivaldi's name. Yet no one seemed to notice my struggle.

When they learn my secret, when they learn what is truly in my heart, they will turn on me and tear me to shreds, each and every one of them. Even Tommaso. Perhaps especially Tommaso.

*   *   *

The days flowed by in a leisurely manner very different from the pace of the city. We dined on exquisitely prepared food, sometimes as a collective group, sometimes just Tommaso and I, or even Beatrice, Donna Foscari, and I without the men. There were picnics and excursions into the countryside, by boat and on foot. There were moments when I was even able to forget the impending disaster hanging over my head. But after a month or so, the idle sameness of the days began to chafe on me.

I had Meneghina lace my corset as tightly as I dared to conceal my expanding waistline. My condition was easier to hide than I had anticipated because even as my belly grew, I became thinner everywhere else. I found it difficult to eat and was only able to force myself when others were watching. The more time passed, the more the dread seemed to snake its way around my heart and constrict my lungs with every breath I took.

I also missed Vivaldi terribly. This was the longest I had been without him, and it was more difficult than I had dared to imagine. The mere thought of him was enough to cause my eyes to well with tears.

Giuseppe could not look at me without worry creasing his brow, and I kept catching Meneghina sneaking scared, pitying glances at me. But none of us dared speak freely within the villa; indeed, I barely spoke to Giuseppe for most of the time we spent there.

Even in my dreams I was unable to escape. They became nothing more than tortured visions of being discovered, of confrontations with my father, with Tommaso. I would wake gasping for breath with my heart pounding. I knew all too well that such fears might not be confined to my dreams for much longer.

*   *   *

“I have the very best news for you,
cara mia,
the news you have been waiting for,” Tommaso said one day near the end of our stay, as I opened the door to admit him to my rooms. He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and took both of my hands in his. “I have just this moment come from speaking with your father. I have asked for your hand in marriage, and he has enthusiastically given his consent.”

I was unsurprised by his news, but the finality of it made me feel as though I had been doused in cold water. “Truly, Tommaso?” I exclaimed, with what I hoped seemed like happiness. “Oh, how wonderful!”

“It is, is it not?” he said, grinning. “This is all I have wanted, all I have been able to think of and dream about for months.”

“And I,” I said, forcing a smile.

“Oh, Adriana,
mio amore.
” He sighed, lowering his voice. His hands trailed down to my waist, which was thankfully securely laced into my corset. “You are going to make me the happiest man in the world.”

Quite the opposite, I am afraid,
I thought, waves of sorrow crashing against me, threatening to drown me, to pull me under. “And you will make me very happy,” I said, lowering my eyes so that he would not see the tears forming there.

Tommaso, however, was not interested in such modest, aloof responses. He placed a hand beneath my chin and raised my face. Apparently taking my tears for those of joy, he slowly brought his lips to mine, kissing me gently, then more passionately, parting my lips with his tongue.

I tried to respond as best I could, yet even as he kissed me, panic began to squeeze me tightly in its grip.
I cannot do this. I cannot.
I tried to subtly withdraw, but that seemed to only increase his ardor. He thrust his hands into my hair, loosening it from its pins, his tongue now boldly exploring my mouth. At the same time, he managed to all but carry me into the bedchamber.

“Tommaso—please—” I protested.

“Yes,
cara,
” he murmured, misunderstanding, one hand gently cupping my breast as he pushed me back onto the bed. “All in good time.”

Summoning all of my strength, I shoved against his shoulders, pushing him off. “No!” I cried.

He withdrew from the single, sharp syllable as though it were a knife I had slipped between his ribs. I rose to my feet, breathing heavily, and tried to compose myself. “Really, Tommaso,” I said. “We are not wed yet. It would not be proper.”

“You are right. I am sorry. Please forgive me,” he said, sounding abashed. “It is just…” He sighed. “How can you be so cold to me, Adriana?” he burst out. “I am mad with love and desire for you, and most times you act as though you care no more for me than for any other man!”

Guilt tore at me as I sputtered, “Simply because I do not think it right for you to have me before our wedding night does not mean—”

“It is more than that,” he interrupted. “Sometimes I feel as though you look at me and do not even see me!”

“How can you think such a thing?” I demanded. “I do love you, Tommaso. I want to marry you. You know this.”

He gave me a rueful look. “You say these things, Adriana, but your actions say otherwise.” He fell silent, and when I did not reply, he began to look like a dog that has been kicked by its master. “I would not have you marry me against your will.”

“Tommaso, if I have given you cause to doubt my affections, I apologize. I was raised to be a modest woman, so I have acted in the only way I know how,” I said.

“I know you have,” he said. “I am the one who should be apologizing. The last thing I want is for our life together to begin with an argument. I hope that you may forgive me.”

“Of course,” I replied. “You need not even ask.”

If only I would be able to win his forgiveness so easily.

“I thank you,” he said. “I will leave you now, but I shall see you at dinner in a few hours. Everyone will be abuzz with the news, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” I echoed.

He closed the space between us further, kissing me chastely on the lips. “I do love you, Adriana,” he said. “I do. I want to make you happy and give you everything you might possibly want.”

“And I love you,” I answered.

He smiled, the same brilliant smile he had been wearing when first he entered my rooms. “Until tonight, then,
mio amore.
” He kissed my hand and departed.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I let myself collapse onto the bed. If I had only let him have his way with me in his gondola on the eve of the Festa di San Marco, I would have a way out if everything fell to pieces. In the next instant I hated myself so much for the very thought that my stomach turned, roiling in a sickening stew of guilt and remorse and anguish. Yet very quickly I realized that this sensation was none of those things.

It was my child, moving within me.

 

36

MOLTO AGITATO

We stayed at the villa until the first week in September. In our final days the mood was one of celebration and anticipation of the upcoming nuptials. Though the official contract had yet to be negotiated—my father and Don Foscari having decided to wait until our return to the city—it had been determined that after Easter would be the most suitable time for the event: Lent would be over and the celebrations of Carnevale would be beginning again, allowing for a most extravagant occasion.

Thankfully, Tommaso did not attempt to make love to me again and behaved like a perfect gentleman, taking only as many liberties with me as was considered proper with a woman to whom one is betrothed but not yet married.

By the time we finally returned to our palazzo, it felt as if we had spent an eternity away. I forced myself to be patient as our trunks were unloaded from the boats, as mine were taken to my rooms so I could supervise their unpacking. As soon as that was complete, I shut myself into my bedchamber alone, claiming weariness.

But rest and sleep were the last things on my mind. I paced across the room, unable even to sit down. I knew Giuseppe would come to me as soon as he deemed it prudent, and with his help I would decide how to proceed.

After about twenty minutes, I finally heard a knock on my outer door, and rushed to open it. However, my visitor was not Giuseppe but my father.

“Father,” I said, trying not to sound surprised as he stepped inside. “Is something amiss?”

He frowned. “Amiss? Why would anything be amiss? I have merely come to see my daughter.”

I said nothing, not pointing out that he usually only sought my company to lecture or reprimand me.

“I thought you should know that the Foscari family will be returning to the city tomorrow, and then the betrothal negotiations can begin.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said.

“Yes, I thought that you might be,” he said. “I have also come to give you this,” he added, handing me a small wooden box.

I opened it to find a ring, one large diamond set in a gold band—my mother's betrothal ring. She had once told me my father had chosen it for her—rather than a gaudier ring with a small constellation of diamonds—because he thought she should have just one diamond as beautiful and rare as she.

“No doubt Tommaso will be presenting you with a betrothal ring of your own,” my father said, “but I thought you might wear this on your other hand. Your mother would want you to have it, and…” He trailed off, his eyes—to my shock—misting over. “She would be so proud of you, and so happy that you will be wed to a man who loves you.”

I clutched the box in my hand, looking down at the floor so he would not see my tears.

He put a hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “I understand,” he said, his voice heavy. “Rest now.”

I could do nothing but nod as he left, closing the door behind him.

*   *   *

Giuseppe, when he finally arrived about a half hour later, counseled further patience. “You are now the affianced wife of a Foscari,” he reminded me. “There will be more eyes on you than your father's now. We must tread carefully, for we cannot afford a misstep this late in the game.”

I agreed to allow him to go and seek Vivaldi that night, rather than risk going myself. If he was home alone, Giuseppe was to tell him I needed to speak to him about a matter of great urgency, and then return to fetch me directly.

I suffered through dinner alone with my father, all the while wondering where tomorrow would find me.

Giuseppe returned from his errand around midnight. “He was not there, madonna,” he reported in a low voice, dropping wearily into one of my chairs.

“He has not yet returned from Amsterdam, or he was not home?” I demanded.

“I cannot say, madonna. I banged on the door several times, and waited, but did not see any sign of him.”

“He must have returned to Venice by now,” I reasoned. “So tomorrow we try again.”

Giuseppe nodded. “Tomorrow we try again.”

*   *   *

For the next few nights, I continued to send Giuseppe to Vivaldi's house, and each time he was never home.

Perhaps he has not returned,
I thought on yet another sleepless night.
Oh, God, perhaps something has happened to him
 …
or perhaps it is no more than some foolish new opera.

It was not until nearly a week after our return that Giuseppe went to Vivaldi's house—in broad daylight, and without waiting for me to send him—and finally found him.

“He looks haggard, and quite exhausted,” Giuseppe reported. “He did not say where he has been, nor did I ask. I gave him your message, and when I told him you needed to speak with him immediately, he seemed rather concerned. He said you can come to him tonight.” Giuseppe smiled slightly, thinking that, at last, our problems were resolving themselves.

I groaned aloud. “I cannot see him tonight.”

Giuseppe's face fell. “After all this? Why ever not?” he demanded.