Chapter One Anetta You can find him by following the leaping shadows along the walls of the school corridor, for Father Vivaldi often paces there and waves his arms about. This time he's so intent on whatever he hears in his head, he doesn't notice us dancing around him or running right past. Luisa Benedetto plays tag, reaching up and tugging his sleeve, yet he flicks away her hand as if it's a pesty little bird and doesn't even look down. Almost fourteen, she is small for her age and sometimes seems younger. But her voice is as large as a room and so sweet that I carry the tones that she makes in my mind so I'll hear them when I'm feeling sad. My own voice is pleasant enough. Somewhat, they say, like my face, which is almost the very same shade as my very pale hair. When I've looked in a glass, which we're not encouraged to do, I could see there was no counterpoint between the two to make me seem pretty and overshadow the marks of the pox. Father tells me it would be wise to spend more of my time on the viola d'amore than on my singing, that I have an ear and a touch for the instrument. I would like to explain how I have a heart for it as well. But perhaps he's already aware of this in the same way that I am aware when he loses himself to the music he's making while walking the halls. "Ouch!" says Maria. The distracted man has given her a good swat in the face with one of his flapping hands. "Scusi, my dear," he says, snapping back to the life all around him. He rubs the slight red mark on her cheek while she looks up, her dark eyes hurt but resigned. We're becoming used to these antics again. He studies his watch. "Surely it isn't so late. Almost the middle of day." "It's a half hour past violin ensemble for the beginners," I tell him. "Maestra dei Cori has sent me to say they've been waiting long enough." Father has been a maestro here, except during the few years just past, for most of the life I remember. But I don't really feel completely at ease with this priest since his unexplained recent return. Perhaps I should not have used Maestra's own words. Often called the Red Priest because of his startling red hair, Father shakes the cap of it in dismay. Not at me, I'm relieved to find, for he seems to look into himself as he spits out a litany of complaints. From what I can gather, his great efforts to arrive before first bell seem to be complicated by the fact that the apartment of his parents, where he and his many brothers and an unmarried sister or two still live, is always in a state of upheaval. "How do I do it? How do I lose track of time in this way? It cannot be so many hours since dawn and my father's rap on my door. Today Guido went off with my only clean shirt, and I had to search for a worn one of Tomaso's. I came as fast as I could, can you believe it, still carrying the notes that I heard in my dream. Where does the day go?" He is not really asking me anything. But if he were, I would tell him the way he goes out of himself when the music takes hold. Afterward, he must know it, just as I do after living inside a concerto for hours on end. "It is your fault, you know," he says, taking small steps in a hurry to keep up with me. My feet are much longer than his but have finally ceased growing, I'm happy to say. At fifteen, I am well rounded and tall. But my body seems awkward beside his slight frame. "It's the new concerto for your performance on Sunday. I have some ideas for the harmonies right near the end of the second movement." He has discovered the dissonant places that troubled me. I should have known that he would. If he did but look at me at this moment, he'd see the pleasure in my eyes, for even as I hesitated to mention it, I was certain he'd find the problem. I step more quickly, and he increases the length of his stri Excerpted from Hidden Voices: The Orphan Musicians of Venice by Pat Lowery Collins All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
