The following day, when I was due to return to Vivaldi’s house for my next lesson, I let Giuseppe in—somewhat—on my secret. I had him take me to the shops at the Rialto and instructed him to wait there, and that I would return in no more than two hours’ time.
He eyed me reproachfully. “What are you on about, Madonna?” he asked. “Where are you going? What are you doing there?”
I laughed. “Goodness, Giuseppe, you need not sound as though it is so dire. It is nothing to worry about; I am not doing anything dangerous or scandalous.” Yet I found myself thinking twice as I spoke that last word, remembering again that almost-kiss.
“If it is nothing questionable, why can you not tell me?”
I sighed. “Because if you do not know where I am going, then you will not be lying if you need to tell my father so.”
“If it is something of which your father would not approve, then it is dangerous—for both of us,” he told me. “You know this. And what if something were to happen to you? What if you did not return?”
I wondered what exactly Giuseppe thought I was going off to do. “You need not worry,” I said. “I will be perfectly safe. You must trust me.”
“I only wish—”
“Please, Giuseppe,” I said. “Do not press me.” I paused, pointing to a small café situated in a lovely spot on the Grand Canal. “Go sit there, have a glass of wine, or a brandy. I will meet you there.” With that, I set off, melting into the crowd of people before he could say anything else.
* * *
Upon my arrival, the lesson began as usual. Vivaldi made no mention of what happened the last time. The only change—if I was not imagining it—was that when he lightly touched my fingers or wrist to correct my position, he did so briefly, and did not let his touch linger, as he had in times past. Indeed, so casual was his behavior that I found myself wondering whether or not he had even remembered, or if he had simply put it out of his mind as soon as I left. That did not seem quite fair; that something that had so haunted me for the past few days should not have had the same effect on him. That beautiful, somehow vulnerable music we had played, and that moment after—brief and fleeting though it was—had changed something in me. What, I did not know; but what did seem obvious was that he had managed to remain entirely indifferent.
Perhaps it is because you are a silly, inexperienced girl who knows nothing of the world, whereas he is a grown man, a voice in my head hissed at me, even as I was fighting my way through a difficult E-major concerto he had put before me. And he is a priest. But I thought of him as a man first, a musician second, and a priest last.
No, that same nagging, irritating little voice contradicted me. You began to think of him as a man only three days ago …
I abruptly stopped playing, heaving a loud sigh of frustration—at both my uncomfortable thoughts, which were sticking in my skin like burrs caught in my gown, and at my inability to play the music that was before me. “I cannot do this!” I cried.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I recognized how impetuously childish I sounded. I sighed again, this time in repentance, and transferred my bow to the same hand that held my violin, rubbing my forehead with the other. “I am sorry, maestro. I do not know what has come over me today.”
I was so weary of lying all the time, about how I felt, what I thought, where I was going, what I wanted. I was always lying to someone: my father, the servants, Giuseppe, and now Vivaldi. Vivaldi, the one person whom I had thought I would not have to lie to.
He frowned and moved forward, as if to take the music from the stand. “Perhaps you are right,” he said. “Perhaps this is too difficult. Maybe it is best left for another time…”
I shook my head firmly. “No,” I said, irritated that he would say such a thing; especially after the last lesson, when he had said I played so beautifully. Or had he forgotten that as well? “I can play it,” I told him.
Setting my violin into position once more, I took a moment to glance over the notes on the page once before beginning again. I would ignore him, I resolved; I would ignore him and play as though he were not in the room, as though I were playing for just myself. There would be only music in my mind.
I put my bow to the strings and began to play the opening notes, tentatively at first, then with mounting confidence as I progressed. Before long I was furiously attacking each measure, picking my way through the thorny clumps of notes on the staves without hesitation, flying through them with an almost reckless abandon; but, instead of making an absolute disaster of the piece and a fool of myself—as I had half expected—I was playing it correctly. And better than correctly. It was almost … lovely. It was as though some other, more competent violinist had stepped into my body and begun to play for me, showing the maestro that I could play it, and well. That was when I realized I was not ignoring him at all; rather, I was intensely aware of where he stood, several paces away from me, watching and listening carefully. But instead of allowing him to confuse and fluster me, I was pouring my very frustration into the music—which was just where it belonged. If my true feelings, my true thoughts, could have no other expression than through the strings of my violin, then I would play them louder and more boldly than I would ever dream of speaking them.
By the time I brought the piece to a close, I was breathing heavily from exertion, and beads of sweat had gathered on my forehead. I allowed myself a moment in which to catch my breath, then turned to face Vivaldi, curious to see his reaction but unwilling to appear so.
His expression was that of a man trying to stop an enormous grin from spreading across his face. “Well done, Adriana,” he said. He threw his hands up in surrender. “I see that I am proved quite wrong.”
It was somewhat infuriating to realize that voicing his doubts over whether or not I could play the piece had been intended to have exactly this effect: to challenge and prod and even anger me into playing it as well as—possibly better than—he knew I could.
“Now I must put my mind to finding something that will truly challenge you, cara,” he said.
I froze, startled. Cara. Dear one.
He quickly turned away from me and walked to his desk, hunting through the stacks of music there.
I watched him shuffle through the sheaves of parchment, and without thinking, I said, “Maestro…”
He straightened and turned to face me. “Yes?”
I opened my mouth, yet this time no words came out, although the ones I would have liked to say were not far to seek: Why did you nearly kiss me a few days ago? Do you wish you had? Do you still wish to? Is that why you have scarcely looked me in the eye all day?
But when he continued to look at me expectantly, I sighed and simply said, “It is nothing.”