Hidden Voices Read Online Free PDF Page B

sit to play or stand to sing, we dress in white Spitalfield silk and feel quite special. It does not rustle the way some taffetas do and thus distract from the performance.
    The same cannot be said for the materials of those who mull around in the chapel below or perch on small couches and tiny brocaded chairs. They dress in all manner of noisy fabrics and swish about and call to one another as if at a fair.
    “At least we can’t smell them,” Rosalba whispers to me when we are in our places.
    It is said that one reason we perform from above is to spare us from all the perfumes and pomades and sweat — a lethal blend for a singer or asthmatic priest. Luisa wears a pomegranate blossom in her hair that Geltruda eyes suspiciously. It is a mystery where Luisa could have found such a flower, yet she always thinks of something to set herself apart. We have come to expect it, and she is so beautiful, who can object?
    The first concerto is for cello, one of the instruments Father himself plays, plus strings and basso continuo. I’m told that this work was requested by the cello teacher for Maestra Georgetta del Cello, who is almost ready to leave here and desperately needs to attract a suitor. (It is especially fortunate that she cannot be seen too clearly, as the way in which she grimaces, spreads her legs, and attacks her instrument is simply indecorous.) The allegro is very bright and rhythmic and the adagio curiously languid. After the sprightly third movement there is much nose blowing and shuffling of feet below us — a very good sign that the audience is both awake and enjoying the performance.
    The second concerto, one of the
concerti ripieni,
has no name and no real soloists but is carried by the strings, so I am kept busy. Maestro Gasparini himself plays the harpsichord, flinging his arms about when his fingers are not occupied on the keys, and it is completely thrilling when all the strings converge to deliver the
ritornello
and then go their separate ways for the little fugues.
    The concerto in which my violin is featured — the one for two violins and basso continuo — begins the second half of the concert. Maestro Gasparini steps forward, raises his stick, counts noiselessly, then brings the stick down, and we are immediately into the difficult allegro that bounces motifs back and forth so nervously that it’s no surprise to hear a loud pop right before the adagio. It echoes from the high ceiling like a hollow cannon shot, and there are many exclamations and titters from the crowd. As he always does, Father Vivaldi races off to the wings with the offending instrument and replaces the broken gut string immediately, a feat only he can accomplish in such a short space of time. He rushes back, and we resume playing at the exact place of the interruption, completing the stirring allegro and launching into the tuneful adagio, where I ultimately lose myself in the rich weave of the music. Even the final allegro seems to be played in my sleep, for I am in fact as startled as a sleepwalker might be when the last note is delivered.
    The shuffling, foot stomping, and blowing of noses is even louder this time, and Father Vivaldi grins at me, extremely pleased. Maestro Gasparini wipes his glistening brow as though weary beyond belief.
    Almost at once, Luisa and Geltruda step forward and the other singers take their places. Luisa appears almost unearthly, as if she has stepped out of a fresco by Tintoretto. The gasps from the audience must be caused by what little they can see of her behind the grille, for she is a vision truly, and she delivers her solo like an angel.
    Afterward, we gather in a schoolroom for an assessment of our performance. On our way there, Maestro Gasparini makes excuses and turns down the Calle della Pietà. He is clearly feeling spent, his rotund backside swaying a little as he picks his way along the cobblestones, dark patches of sweat revealing themselves on his jacket when he raises his arms to