“Are you a citizen of Modena,” the clerk asked, “and is this a request or complaint of some sort? If so, you must—”
“Please tell him, sir,” I interrupted, “that Nicolò Zen of Venice, the clarinetist, would like to honor him with a performance, if it pleases him. The letter explains the rest. Thank you.”
I walked out without another word. I thought this was the sort of tone, proper but firm, to which a palace functionary would respond. Adriana and I ate lunch at a restaurant on the Via Caselle and then strolled through the nearby park. She liked to feed the birds, and took some bread crumbs from the restaurant that she tossed them. When we returned to our hotel, I hoped to find a note from the palace awaiting us, but there was nothing. We spent the afternoon practicing an assortment of sonatas by Corelli, Albinoni, and our former Master, Vivaldi. The viola and the clarinet made for an interesting pairing: we had to imagine the accompaniment of other instruments, ideally a violin and a cello. I was still somewhat hesitant on the clarinet, unsatisfied with the fluidity of my sound, but when I mentioned this to Adriana, she insisted I was playing beautifully. Maybe so, and I just couldn’t hear it properly; or maybe she was keeping up my spirits. Either way, playing alongside her was a blessing and relieved some of the pressure I felt. I also enjoyed the intimacy of playing alone with her, just for ourselves. When we simply could play no longer, we had supper in the hotel dining room and then fell asleep in one another’s arms.
We were awakened at dawn by a knock at the door. I pulled on my pants and opened it to the concierge, who, clearly both impressed and frightened, handed me a gold envelope.
“From the Palazzo Ducale,” he said unnecessarily, for affixed to the envelope was the official red wax seal of the Duchy of Modena.
I tore the envelope open the moment he was gone, and got back under the covers. Adriana sat up sleepily.
“It worked,” I said. “He says, ‘My cousin, Count Cecci of Torino, after attending your performance in Strassburg, raved about it. I am delighted to learn that you are in Modena.’ Then he invites us to perform at the palace the night after next. He will provide a violinist and a cellist from his State orchestra.”
She hugged me. “I can hardly believe it. You’re so clever, Nicolò.”
Maybe too clever, I thought, concerned more than ever about the quality of my own playing now that this scheme had become a reality. Now that both Adriana’s future and my own were riding on it. “I’ll send down for a pot of tea,” I said. “We need to practice some more.”
6
On the appointed night, Adriana put on a white dress and silver shoes we bought the previous day, combed out her long blond hair, and looked serene as could be, though I know she was anything but that on the inside. I wore a black suit and new black boots. I was edgy, but my nerves had settled down. It wasn’t so much that I felt more confident as that I had learned in Vienna how to shut the world out and turn inward at such times in order to calm myself.
As we approached the Palazzo Ducale, carrying our instruments, we stopped to gaze over the rooftops at the half moon rising against the dark blue evening sky. Then we turned around and Adriana stared hard at the palace. We had passed it several times since arriving in the city, but the prospect of entering it obviously gave her pause.
“It looks enormous,” she said. “All those lighted windows—how many people do you think are in there?”
“The Duke has a large court. And there will be other visitors, come to hear the music.”
“You’re accustomed to this, Nicolò, performing in all those big concert halls. I’m used to playing behind the grille at the Ospedale, not standing on an open stage.”
“You’ll be fine. Once you start playing, it’s all the same.”
But of course it wasn’t the performance she was fretting about. “What if he’s not my father?” she said. “Or worse—what if he turns his back on me, as if I don’t exist? Isn’t that what he did when I was a child?”
“You don’t know what happened back then.”
She shrugged and choked back tears. “There aren’t that many possibilities, are there?”
I embraced her. “I’ll be there for you, Adriana, no matter what.”
She nodded and picked up her viola case. “I’m all right now. Let’s go.”
We gave our names to the sentry at the gate. I had only known her as Adriana dalla Viola, so when she said, “Adriana Manzone,” I squeezed her hand.
The Duke’s retainers wore red doublets and green pants, the same colors as Modena’s flag. Accompanied by a tall, bearded footman, one of these retainers led us up a grand staircase, down a wide corridor where portraits of previous Dukes hung on the walls, up a spiral staircase, and down two more corridors to what was clearly a music room, with a clavichord, a harp, and an assortment of other instruments. The two musicians who would complete our quartet awaited us in leather chairs. They were young men, cleanly shaved, wearing identical blue suits, the one tuning his cello, the other holding his violin.
They stood up, introduced themselves—Antonio and Maurizio were their names—and bowed. They knew who I was, but it was on Adriana that their gazes fell, and for good reason: the moment light touched her skin, whether sunlight or candlelight, her face grew even more radiant.
They had been informed of the program I had put together, and they told me they had played the pieces several times. We had twenty minutes before the concert began. After tuning up together, we played the opening measures of the Scarlatti quartet that would be our first piece. I saw that Antonio and Maurizio were staring at my clarinet.
“I have never heard one before,” Antonio remarked.
“In our final piece, the Albinoni,” I said, “there are four solos, two for clarinet and two for violin. Adriana will play the string solos on the viola.”
Adriana turned to me in surprise.
“I was prepared to play them,” Antonio said, and I could see he was checking his temper.
“I understand that. And you will play the string solos in the other pieces.”
“I am the first violinist in His Grace’s orchestra,” he added haughtily.
“Nevertheless, that is how we shall do it. Please don’t take it as an affront.”
Clearly he did, and Adriana was about to intercede when I said, “We don’t have time to discuss it.”
Maurizio had grown increasingly uneasy. “Antonio, His Grace ordered us to follow the lead of Signor Zen.”
“Fine,” Antonio said, sitting up very straight. “And we shall.”
Another retainer entered the room and informed us that the Duke would soon arrive in the hall, and so we ought to take the stage now. Then he handed us each a two-page musical score. “The Duke begs your indulgence, Signor Zen, and asks that you play this capriccio at the conclusion of your program. As a special favor to him.”
No name was printed on the score.
“Who is the composer?” I asked.
“That is a surprise, and I cannot say.”
“Surprise for whom?”
“For the audience, signor. Now, please, follow me or we will arrive after His Grace, and that cannot be allowed to happen.”
We followed him down yet another corridor, Adriana and I trailed by the two string players, to a set of double doors beneath the heraldic crest of Modena: a crowned eagle atop three blue fleurs-de-lys. The retainer opened the doors, and we walked onto a stage brightly lit beneath a crystal chandelier. Before us was an audience of about a hundred people who fell silent, following us with their eyes as we took our places. The hall had a high ceiling with a fresco of Saint Jerome on a mountaintop, and on the walls gigantic murals of other biblical scenes, from Ezekiel in his fiery chariot to the three Magi, surrounded by angels, beneath a starry sky. Gold draperies framed the windows. The floor was gleaming Carrara marble. The audience was what I had expected: gentlemen with extravagant wigs in velvet suits and ladies wearing silk gowns and a good deal of jewelry.
Onstage t
here were four chairs and music stands, backdropped by a red curtain. Adriana sat between Antonio and Maurizio, and I stood to their right. We did a second tuning, and opened our sheet music. I was most curious about the capriccio, and as I scanned the score, I realized who the composer must be even before everyone stood up and the Duke of Modena entered the hall with his surprise guest.
It was the Master himself, Antonio Vivaldi, acknowledging the applause of the audience and walking three paces behind the Duke.
I heard Adriana gasp, and I was so stunned that, after bowing formally to the Duke, I had to make an effort not to avert my eyes from him and Vivaldi in the front row. I glanced at Adriana: I knew it was difficult enough for her to look upon the Duke for the first time; to have the Master there, too, must have been overwhelming.
The Master hadn’t changed much since I left the Ospedale: in a blue suit, with a bright yellow cravat, his long red hair half combed, half tangled, he seemed preoccupied. I guessed that he was in Modena seeking the Duke’s patronage for one of his new operas. When he turned to the stage, I saw that he recognized Adriana at once and was puzzled to see her there. He looked at me with curiosity, for he had heard of the young clarinetist who was championing his compositions in European salons and concert halls. But as he studied my features, his curiosity obviously deepened, and despite my short hair and my fine clothes—for, after all, even then there were still only a handful of virtuoso clarinetists on the continent—he saw that I was Nicolà Vitale, who had disappeared from the Ospedale. His jaw dropped, he turned to the Duke to say something, then thought better of it, and folding his hands in his lap, wearing a bemused expression, he sat back to hear the music.
As for the Duke, at whom Adriana kept stealing glances, he wore a handsome white suit and green vest over a black silk shirt. He was a tall, thin man who looked younger than his years: his long, curly hair still black, with a spray of white above the ears, his eyes dark brown and penetrating, his face angular, with a long nose, thin lips, and a pointed chin. An intelligent face, sad but not angry, and behind the gaze of the absolute, unwavering ruler, a hint of kindness. I could not say the same for the woman beside him, obviously his sister, the Baronessa Casina, stout and sallow, her face locked in a grimace, her eyes narrowed, her lips shut tight. On her right was her daughter, equally sallow, but rail-thin, with a blank expression and washed-out eyes that roamed from object to object, never settling in any one place.
The Duke nodded for us to begin. I bowed to him again, and signaled the others to launch the Corelli sonata, and suddenly I was playing along with them and we were filling the hall with music. And with so many distractions—the Duke, Adriana, and now the Master, for whom I wanted to play that much better—I had to concentrate harder than ever. I had to remind myself yet again that, having performed so much great music with the help of my clarinet, under the most intense conditions, I really had trained my fingers and my ear, my heart and my mind, and yes, my soul, and had begun making myself into the musician I hoped to be. I felt a surge of joy, too, when I realized that, of all the factors animating my performance, one I couldn’t have predicted—the love I shared with Adriana—had been the most crucial of all.
As we proceeded through the program, receiving strong applause after each piece, I didn’t make eye contact with the Master. But I noticed that the Duke couldn’t take his eyes off of Adriana. He seemed mesmerized, his expression certainly not lustful, or even admiring, but haunted. I had no idea what Adriana’s mother had looked like, but I realized Adriana must bear a strong resemblance to her.
When we performed the final piece, the Albinoni, I completed my solo, and then turned the lead over to Adriana, who played a brilliant solo, with gusto, bringing the audience to its feet. I was thrilled—and relieved.
For our encore, we delivered a spirited rendition of the Master’s capriccio. Considering we had never played it before, we did so with a surprising lack of errors. It was a delightful, intricate piece—much of it played prestissimo, which oddly forced us to work more from instinct—and as we concluded, the Duke led the applause, while the Master, not always the most gracious of men, bowed to us, studying me with a bemused smile.
Then the Duke beckoned Adriana and me over. “Thank you for visiting our court, Signor Zen. It was a fine performance.”
“It was an honor, Your Excellency.”
He turned to Adriana. “And you, my dear, played beautifully. Tell me, what is your name?”
Adriana curtsied. “Thank you, Your Excellency. My name is Adriana.” She paused. “Adriana Manzone.”
The Duke turned pale. But he didn’t look surprised; if anything, it appeared as if his suspicions were being confirmed, but remained too fantastic for him to absorb. “A pretty name,” he said. “Do you also hail from Venice?”
“Yes, but I was born here in Modena.”
“I know most of my subjects. From what family are you?”
She lowered her eyes, then looked at him directly. “My mother was Heléne Manzone.”
The Duke did not blink; but I could see that, as a man accustomed to keeping his feelings under wraps, he was having difficulty. The Baronessa, meanwhile, showed no sign of recognizing the name Heléne Manzone, but knew her brother well enough to sense his emotions. “What is it, Rinaldo?”
He ignored her, and said to Adriana, “So you grew up in Modena?”
“Only for the first four years of my life. Then my former nanny left me at the Ospedale della Pietà in Venice.” She nodded toward the Master. “I was in the privilegiate di coro.”
“The best of the best,” Vivaldi put in.
“You are the girl who wrote the letters,” the Baronessa exclaimed, covering her mouth.
“What letters?” the Duke said.
Adriana and I exchanged glances.
“She’s an impostor!” the Baronessa cried, falling back into her chair.
“What are you saying?” the Duke snapped, but I knew from his voice that he had already intuited exactly what she was saying. He turned back to Adriana. “When did you leave Modena, my dear?”
“October 1705. From that time, until last month, I lived at the Ospedale. My mother died that same year, two months later. I never saw her again.”
“My god,” the Duke said under his breath.
The Baronessa had turned red, and the audience was buzzing now.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke said. “I knew your mother. Do you remember where you lived with her?”
“I don’t know the name of the street. It was a house with blue shutters and a blue roof. There were flowers on the porch.” She paused. “My mother had a dog named Pépe. A white dog.”
There were tears in the Duke’s eyes. “Then you know who I am,” he said softly.
She nodded.
“And that is why you came here this evening.”
“Yes.”
He looked at the Baronessa and said acidly, “I never received any letters. I’m sorry for that, Adriana, and for so much else.” He opened his arms. “Come, child.”
She stepped into his embrace.
The Baronessa was incredulous. “What are you saying?”
He held Adriana close. “What do you think I’m saying? This is my daughter. I am her father.”
“Rinaldo!”
“All these years, I thought you were dead, Adriana,” he said, choking back his sobs. “When she was gravely ill, your mother told me you had died. Before that, I would not formally adopt you, I would not even spend time with you, because I was so afraid of scandal. Heléne must have been even more afraid, and rightfully so, that when she died, you would be abandoned completely. So she took you away. And thinking you had died, I lived with my guilt for all these years. I ask you to forgive me.”
“I do,” Adriana said, tears welling up in her eyes. I knew that, though she had dreamed of an outcome like this when we traveled to Modena, she didn’t really believe it could happen.
“Forgive you?” the Baronessa said scornfull
y. “Have you taken leave of your senses? This girl is a traveling musician. And who is Heléne Manzone—a woman you slept with?”
“Beatrice!” he said, with such menace that even the Baronessa’s mute, impassive daughter, Maria Angela, recoiled.
“Anyone could tell you the things she has: a house with blue shutters, a white dog—”
“I am not going to warn you again,” the Duke growled.
Noticing that I had instinctively moved closer to Adriana during this exchange, he took stock of me for the first time as someone who was not just a fellow musician. “How do you come to know Adriana, Signor Zen?”
Before I could reply, the Baronessa leaped up, fuming, and shouted, “I’ve had enough of this.”
The Duke disengaged gently from Adriana. “And I’ve had enough of you, sister. I am telling you now, unequivocally and before witnesses, that this changes everything between us.”
“You can’t mean the succession?”
“Everything.” He raised his voice so everyone could hear. “It’s a miracle, but I have a child again, my own issue.”
“Not legitimate!” the Baronessa retorted.
“I say what is legitimate in Modena,” he said with a clenched jaw. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again, or you will not only be unwelcome here, but in Casina as well.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“No? Father arranged for you to assume that title and all that went with it. I can take it away just as easily.”
He turned to the astonished audience. “Friends, let me tell you what all the citizens of Modena will soon learn: this is my daughter, Adriana. She has come home, and so long as she desires it—and I hope that is well beyond my lifetime—this will be her home.”
The Baronessa glared at him, then at Adriana and me, and grabbing Maria Angela’s arm, stalked from the room.
The Duke put his arm around Adriana. “We have a lot of time to make up. We can only begin tonight. And, if you are willing, we shall visit the Archbishop tomorrow, so I can right things, as I should have years ago.”