My son’s namesake had been anything but idle since last I had set eyes on him. May of 1713 had seen him mount his first opera, Ottone in villa, to much acclaim in Vincenza. The gossip said that it had been well received; well enough, at least, for him to return to Venice, the city with the most discerning musical tastes, to continue his new career. He had also begun to gain a reputation as a very shrewd businessman when it came to selling both his scores and his skills to whoever may have need of them.
In November of 1714 he premiered Orlando finite pazzo at the Teatro Sant’ Angelo, where he was now impresario as well as composer and performer. Still recovering from the birth of the twins, I managed to avoid attending. My friends enthusiastically went, not about to miss one of the biggest operatic events of the year: the premiere of a new work by a native son of Venice, who had gained much notoriety across Europe since the publication of L’estro armonico.
Vittoria had been especially eager to see the opera. She came to visit me the following day, imparting the information I both dreaded and hungered for.
“The sets and the costumes were all a bit overwrought, as usual,” she said. “But the music,” she went on, her expression softening, “the music was wonderful. I do not believe that Maestro Vivaldi could write anything that is not beautiful.”
I nodded my agreement, not trusting myself to speak.
She sighed, not noticing my lack of response. “It is when I am confronted with such beauty, such music, that I realize anew what I have lost.”
My head came up sharply at this echo of my own thoughts.
“He wrote a few pieces of music especially for me,” she went on, lost in the past, “for my voice. I do not believe that I shall ever be so honored again in my life.”
Suddenly it struck me how deeply one man and his music could touch so many people. He had never, I realized with both sorrow and pride, been mine alone. How selfish I had been, to believe that I could and should keep him for myself.
“I am sorry,” Vittoria said. “You did not invite me here to listen to me bemoan the past. I am selfish, I know. I have a wonderful life, and I do it and my husband a disservice by longing for days that are gone.”
“And I did not even invite you,” I said. “You simply dropped by of your own accord.”
Vittoria laughed. “Horribly rude of me, I know.”
“I trust you will continue to exercise such rudeness often enough,” I told her.
She inquired after the children then, and our talk turned to happier matters. Thus the past retreated to whence it had come—for both of us.
* * *
Since Lucrezia’s birth, I had continued—hesitantly, sporadically—to resume my violin playing. Giacomo, just as I had hoped, made no comment when he noticed.
On that night when I had played my daughter to sleep I had felt invincible—to fear, to the past’s power to hurt me—but that feeling quickly faded. It was a struggle to discipline myself, to regain my technique and to learn, once again, to push aside everything but the music.
It was a slow process. It had been years since I had played with intensity, and my fingers had to once again accustom themselves to their task. And even then, I could only play scales and half-remembered bits of concerti for so long.
Finally I went to a shop that sold scores one day, and selected a few at random for the violin: some by composers I had heard of, such as Arcangelo Corelli, and others I had not. Though much of the music was lovely and challenging, it was not Vivaldi’s music. Was it only because he had been my lover that I so plainly preferred his music?
No. His music truly did have something that the music of others did not. I had recognized this within hours of meeting him, long before we had become lovers.
Every now and then, especially once I had started playing again, it occurred to me that I could—I could, if I wanted to—slip away to see Vivaldi. Giacomo never questioned my comings and goings; was often not home enough to notice. Vivaldi was so close, still in the same city, and would anyone ever know me as well as he had?
Had. Once. And if I were to see him again, what then? Would we play music together as though nothing had happened? Talk about the past? Make love? The remnants of my anger and heartbreak would always come flooding back like the acqua alta, and I would wonder what, precisely, I had been thinking.
I had mentioned to Giuseppe one day, rather in passing, that I had begun to play again but did not have enough scores to satisfy me. I should not have been surprised he managed to decipher my true meaning; yet I could not have been more astonished when, one day in late January of 1715, a rather large packet was delivered to me. A small cry escaped me as I opened it, finding the scores for every piece Vivaldi and I had ever played together, as well as many new works of increasing difficulty that I had never seen before. It was enough to keep me busy for years to come, and to bring me back to virtuoso form.
On top of this pile of treasure was a note, folded in half. I opened it, a slight tremor in my hands, and read:
Adriana—
I saw Giuseppe at the Sant’ Angelo two weeks ago, and he mentioned to me that you might have some use for these. I hope that you are well, and that these scores will help you to find the music again, if indeed you still feel that it eludes you.
At the bottom of the parchment it was signed, as he had always signed his missives to me, simply AV.
The leaping, acrobatic notes on the staves swam before my eyes. I clutched the packet to my chest and let the tears roll down my cheeks.
* * *
I invited Giuseppe to lunch the next day. Once the meal was served and we were alone, I did not mince words: “You saw him.”
It was somewhere between an accusation and a question, but Giuseppe needed no further explanation of my meaning.
“Ah.” He laid down his silverware beside his plate. “I take it he sent you the scores, then?”
I nodded.
“Yes, I went to see him at the Sant’ Angelo after a production I attended there. You had said you needed music to play, and I assumed you would rather have his music than any other, though I knew you would never say it.” He looked at me calmly, as though daring me to dispute it. “I had heard he is now quite the music salesman these days, and so I thought to buy some scores from him. When he learned that they were for you, though, there was no mention of payment. All he said was, ‘I will see that she gets them.’ And I see that he has done just that.”
“He copied them himself,” I said. “I know his hand. He did not have a copyist do it for him.”
Giuseppe held my gaze. “That does not surprise me.”
“What…” I hesitated. “What else did he say?”
Giuseppe looked away and returned his attention to his pasta, pretending my inquiry was a casual one. “He congratulated me on the change in my circumstances, of which he had heard. I took the liberty of telling him that you are well, and have three beautiful children.”
I nodded at my plate but did not speak.
“He looks well,” Giuseppe ventured, “if a bit harried.”
Suddenly I felt there was nothing more I wanted or needed to say on the subject. I looked back up at my brother, a cheerful smile on my face. “Did you receive an invitation to the ball Leonardo’s father is giving on Friday next?”
He looked a bit startled by the abrupt change in topic, but followed my lead, letting me steer the conversation to friendlier shores.
* * *
When Giuseppe left that afternoon, I went upstairs to my rooms and pulled out a sheaf of papers from my desk. Sitting, I smoothed them out and began to look them over anew.
Here it was, La sirena, my first real concerto. I had feared facing this more than even Vivaldi’s music.
I had been certain that when I finally looked at what I had written again, it would pale in comparison to the memories I had of it, of learning to play it myself, of teaching Vivaldi to play it. Or that I would now dismiss it as a juvenile girl’s scribbling.
But as I read through each note, sections I had forgotten and those I remembered all too vividly, I felt its power anew, in a way that I had not before. I could see it as a work of music separate from myself, and not just as something I had created. It was well done; Vivaldi had not been lying to me, nor had I been lying to myself.
Gathering the pages, I placed them on my music stand. Then I got out my violin, took a deep breath, and began to play.
I played the entire thing, and let the memories flow through me. They were infused in the music, had bled into every note as I had written it. There was no parting the two.
But, I knew now, there were new memories to be made, and new music to be written.
When I finally reached the end, I was startled by a light applauding coming from the doorway into the nursery. I looked up to find both Meneghina and Giovanna watching me.
“That was beautiful, madonna,” Meneghina said. “Who wrote that?”
A slight smile touched my lips. “I did.”