age.
Franz guided me out to a balcony where we could cool ourselves in the night air. All around us there were others from the party in various states of dishevelment and intoxication, wrapped around each other like strands of seaweed. Claudia was there with Scarlatti, laughing and hiccupping as he nibbled at a bunch of grapes tucked into her décolletage. He had doffed his mask and was wearing an expression of intense concentration. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen.
I quickly looked away.
“Should we go inside again?” Franz asked me.
I was about to answer when the notes of the “Cum Sancto Spiritu” drifted up from the canal. I instantly recognized the sound as the voices of our own figlie di coro . Franz and I walked hand in hand to the edge of the railing, and there they were, ranged over the same gondola that had taken us to the palazzo. Each girl carried a candle. They wore the sprigs of holly in their hair.
It was such an odd sensation to watch and listen to them from the outside, as if I had died and my spirit were looking down upon the orphan musicians of the Pietà. The serenata was unspeakably lovely as it rose in the air. And the sensation of my hand held in Franz Horneck’s seemed to make a liquid of all the solid parts of me.
As the last notes of the music died away, the night was rent by a series of whistles and explosions, immediately followed by fountains of colored lights cascading and purling through the darkness. When, clapping my hands and jumping up and down, I turned to Franz, he caught me in his arms.
He took off his mask. And then—slowly, carefully—he took off mine, and we stood there face to face. He did not gasp in horror at the sight of me, or laugh or run away. He smiled as his eyes traveled over every part of my face. With one of his hands he caressed my hair—and then, seeming to ask permission first with his eyes (and seeing that I granted it), he brought his face close in to the nape of my neck, just above my shoulder, and inhaled deeply, as if he were savoring the fragrance of some rare flower.
His eyes lingered on me before he spoke again. “I have two things to give you tonight, Anna Maria. This is the first.”
And then he kissed me, mouth to mouth, so that our breaths were mingled. It was as if, in that moment, we had each opened a secret door and the other walked through into places whereeven I had never ventured in myself before—whole continents, oceans, and islands of Anna Maria unmapped and uncharted.
We stood there, looking into each other’s eyes with a new knowledge of what lay beyond. Then Franz let me go for a moment, and I wanted to tell him to hold fast to me, as my knees felt in danger of buckling. But I said nothing, only swaying a little in the breeze that reached us, suddenly feeling the cold.
He found what he had been rummaging for in his pocket. “I don’t want you to think this is the only reason why I sought you out. I have heard you perform every Saturday and Sunday since my arrival in Venezia. I would give my birthright to be able to play the violin as you do.”
Then he placed something in my hands.
“What is it?” I asked him, peering down at the small object, metallic and cold. And then I saw that it was a locket on a gold chain. It was rather ugly, really, and of strange Levantine design, heavy and bejeweled. When I tried to open it, Franz turned it over to show me that it was fashioned with a tiny keyhole; it was locked.
I looked up at him. “Where is the key?” I almost forgot about the locket when I looked at his face again.
He shook his head. “I told him you would want to know.”
“Who?”
“The Jewish banker who serves Herr von Regnazig, resident consul for the Archbishop of Mainz—the one from whom I have been procuring musical scores.”
“But—I don’t understand! What do these foreigners have to do with me?” I looked at the locket again. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“I’m sorry,
Franz guided me out to a balcony where we could cool ourselves in the night air. All around us there were others from the party in various states of dishevelment and intoxication, wrapped around each other like strands of seaweed. Claudia was there with Scarlatti, laughing and hiccupping as he nibbled at a bunch of grapes tucked into her décolletage. He had doffed his mask and was wearing an expression of intense concentration. He was the handsomest man I had ever seen.
I quickly looked away.
“Should we go inside again?” Franz asked me.
I was about to answer when the notes of the “Cum Sancto Spiritu” drifted up from the canal. I instantly recognized the sound as the voices of our own figlie di coro . Franz and I walked hand in hand to the edge of the railing, and there they were, ranged over the same gondola that had taken us to the palazzo. Each girl carried a candle. They wore the sprigs of holly in their hair.
It was such an odd sensation to watch and listen to them from the outside, as if I had died and my spirit were looking down upon the orphan musicians of the Pietà. The serenata was unspeakably lovely as it rose in the air. And the sensation of my hand held in Franz Horneck’s seemed to make a liquid of all the solid parts of me.
As the last notes of the music died away, the night was rent by a series of whistles and explosions, immediately followed by fountains of colored lights cascading and purling through the darkness. When, clapping my hands and jumping up and down, I turned to Franz, he caught me in his arms.
He took off his mask. And then—slowly, carefully—he took off mine, and we stood there face to face. He did not gasp in horror at the sight of me, or laugh or run away. He smiled as his eyes traveled over every part of my face. With one of his hands he caressed my hair—and then, seeming to ask permission first with his eyes (and seeing that I granted it), he brought his face close in to the nape of my neck, just above my shoulder, and inhaled deeply, as if he were savoring the fragrance of some rare flower.
His eyes lingered on me before he spoke again. “I have two things to give you tonight, Anna Maria. This is the first.”
And then he kissed me, mouth to mouth, so that our breaths were mingled. It was as if, in that moment, we had each opened a secret door and the other walked through into places whereeven I had never ventured in myself before—whole continents, oceans, and islands of Anna Maria unmapped and uncharted.
We stood there, looking into each other’s eyes with a new knowledge of what lay beyond. Then Franz let me go for a moment, and I wanted to tell him to hold fast to me, as my knees felt in danger of buckling. But I said nothing, only swaying a little in the breeze that reached us, suddenly feeling the cold.
He found what he had been rummaging for in his pocket. “I don’t want you to think this is the only reason why I sought you out. I have heard you perform every Saturday and Sunday since my arrival in Venezia. I would give my birthright to be able to play the violin as you do.”
Then he placed something in my hands.
“What is it?” I asked him, peering down at the small object, metallic and cold. And then I saw that it was a locket on a gold chain. It was rather ugly, really, and of strange Levantine design, heavy and bejeweled. When I tried to open it, Franz turned it over to show me that it was fashioned with a tiny keyhole; it was locked.
I looked up at him. “Where is the key?” I almost forgot about the locket when I looked at his face again.
He shook his head. “I told him you would want to know.”
“Who?”
“The Jewish banker who serves Herr von Regnazig, resident consul for the Archbishop of Mainz—the one from whom I have been procuring musical scores.”
“But—I don’t understand! What do these foreigners have to do with me?” I looked at the locket again. “And what does this have to do with me?”
“I’m sorry,
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