“This way, madonna.” A servant led me through the maze of the backstage area, past immense pieces of painted scenery, past singers still in costume and garish stage makeup, and piles of props.
We turned down a quieter hallway, and I saw Vivaldi waiting for me outside of what I presumed was Anna’s dressing room. The servant bowed to us and departed.
“Adriana,” Vivaldi said. He looked even older than he had the last time I saw him, as though he had aged more than three years since then. But there was no trace of the abrasive character of which the gossips spoke. “I … your note surprised me.”
“Did you think I would not be here?” I asked.
“I was not sure.” He paused. “I had hoped you would come.”
“And here I am.”
“Yes,” he said. “Well, then, let me present you to her.” He stepped forward and knocked twice on the door, then opened it.
As we stepped into the room, Anna rose from her seat at the dressing table. “Dear maestro,” she said happily. “Did you hear how they applauded after the aria? I do not think I have ever sung better!”
“I do not think that you have either, cara,” he said, surprising me by using the endearment so openly.
“Do you think—oh.” She broke off as she saw me. “Mi scusi. I did not realize that you had brought a visitor.”
“Yes. Anna, may I present Donna Adriana Baldovino, wife of the late Senator Baldovino,” Vivaldi said. “She sent me a message expressing a desire to make your acquaintance. Donna Baldovino, Signorina Anna Girò.”
Anna curtsied and I nodded in acknowledgment. The desire to gather her into my arms and clutch her to me was nearly overpowering.
She was looking at me expectantly, yet now my tongue felt like a massive, immovable rock, unable to rouse itself and speak.
Now that she had removed her wig, I saw her hair was, indeed, similar in color to mine, save for the red that laced through it, turning it a rich auburn. Her eyes were dark, and fathoms deep, like her father’s. She was beautiful, as beautiful as I had been at her age, perhaps more so.
Remembering myself, I managed to speak. “Signorina Girò,” I said. “I wished to compliment you on your performance. I was much moved by your aria in act two.”
“I thank you, madonna,” she said, perfectly poised and gracious. “I do believe that is my favorite aria of those the maestro has written for me thus far.”
“Indeed,” I murmured, continuing to study her. I glanced at Vivaldi; he seemed to be fighting back tears. My own eyes began to well. He and I and our daughter are all in the same room. Together. When will this ever happen again?
“Allora, I shall impose on you no longer, signorina,” I said. “I merely wished to give you my compliments.” Before turning to leave, I added, “I wish you only success in your career and your life.”
She curtsied again. “Thank you, madonna.” I could see she was weary from performing and relieved I was leaving; I tried not to let it sting.
I walked past Vivaldi and exited the small room; he pulled the door closed behind me and followed me. A lone tear slid down my cheek.
“I know,” he murmured, as if I had spoken. “I wish that you could know her as I do, and spend time with her.”
“There is nothing on this earth that I wish more,” I said. “And yet it is impossible, I am afraid.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. Adriana.” He grasped my arm, drawing me away from the door. “The rumors … you have heard them, surely?”
I nodded.
“God, how they torture me, how they pick at my soul!” he burst out. “And I cannot contradict them, for I cannot reveal the truth!” He sighed. “Does it not pain you as well?”
I did not know how to answer. The gossip did not particularly upset me, not any longer. And it did not seem to bother Anna. It would not, after all, be the first or last time that scandalous tales were told about a famous opera singer.
After all, the things of which they were accusing Vivaldi now he had, in fact, done—but years ago, and not with the woman they thought. But I could not say any of this.
“Adriana, you must know, for you heard … her voice, it is not the best,” he said, speaking even more softly now.
I nodded reluctantly.
“And I know that—how could I not? Perhaps I should not blame them for what they say. Short of the truth, what other explanation could there be? Unless everyone is to believe that I have lost my ear, my skills.”
“Venetians will always find something to talk about,” I said. “You told me that, once. In a few months, no one will think of it more.”
“Perhaps. But Adriana, surely you can see why?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Why I have brought all this upon myself.” He released my arm, which he had still been clutching. “I sought her out when I was last in Mantua. I knew that was where she was; it was not difficult. And she wished desperately to be an opera singer. How could I deny her, when it was within my power to give her what she most wanted? I swore I would teach her as best I could, so as to know her, be near her, even if she never knows the truth.”
“Why have you not told her?” I asked.
“I have been tempted,” he confessed. “But I knew it would be a selfish act, for my benefit and not hers—and not yours, either.”
“Rest assured that I know, even if no one else does, that everything you do for her is because she is your daughter, and you love her,” I said.
“But it is more than that,” he said. “I would do anything for her, yes, but this is also for you.”
Final words, a farewell, whispered into my ear: I will make it right somehow, someday, mia carissima Adriana. I swear that I will, even if it takes my very life. I heard his words again with such clarity that for a moment I thought that he had spoken them aloud again.
“It is all for you, Adriana. I swore to you, and everything I have done has been to fulfill my vow. I have done everything I could—even some unscrupulous things at times—to ensure that my career would be successful, for if it is not, then all I did to you was done for nothing. And this—supporting Anna—this is the best way I know how to fulfill my vow.” He paused and looked away. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I wanted to make sure you knew. That you knew I had not forgotten.” He sighed. “You must have hated me all these years. As well you should, but I—”
Trembling, I reached out and laid a finger against his lips. “Please, caro. No more. It is forgiven.”
He looked at me, disbelieving. “Truly, Adriana?”
I stepped closer, pressing my mouth to his and, though surprised, he responded quickly, and for a moment we were the young lovers we had been, one last time.
I drew away. “It was so long ago, Tonio,” I said, struggling to steady my voice. “But know that I have forgiven you for all long since.”
It was only when I spoke the words that I realized they were true.