Copyright 2012 by DM Denton
I know … yet another self-promotion. But I had to share this beautifully written and satisfying review of A House Near Luccoli on Goodreads by Barbara Rodgers.
New Review
Historical Fiction
A House Near Luccoli – Excerpts on Tour
All Things That Matter Press, publisher of my newly released novel, A House Near Luccoli©, is running an Excerpt Tour beginning October 1st. Many of the authors at ATTMP will be participating in it, providing links back to blog posts containing excerpts of their published works which can then be shared.
I warmly thank those who have already ventured into the world of the Italian Baroque composer Alessandro Stradella (1639 – 1682) as I have researched and imagined him. I would love to tempt a few more of you with the following three excerpts:
A House Near Luccoli© focuses on chance encounters, beautiful music, and the paradox of genius through an imagined intimacy with one of the most legendary and undervalued figures of Italian Baroque Music.
5 Star Review
Excerpt 1:
In the middle of the night Donatella rose to a dare and the third floor, bare steps as uncertain as candlelight on an unknown artist’s commission of cherubs and festooned fruits and flowers in muted greens, grays, and sienna. The floor of the apartment didn’t keep her entry quiet but it seemed only her carefulness was disturbed. The trestle table was set up in the salon, too close to the fireplace with its escalloped oak mantle and triangular copper hood illustrating Vulcan and Venus. Windows on both sides were almost hidden by red curtains with gold scrolling around the Garibaldi coat of arms, the moon somehow casting light on the secrecy of her endeavor. She unpacked Signor Stradella’s clothes, carrying the pieces one at a time or in piles to the bedroom and shelves of the wardrobe that threatened to be too small. He has more of what’s necessary and unnecessary than a woman, a much indulged woman. She opened another trunk holding the rewards of beautiful music, smiles and connivances, too, doubtful he carried the family heirlooms while by invitation or escape running around and hiding. Whatever explained the collection, he was aristocratic in everything but bedding and especially fortunate in moveable assets, even indifferent about some of them with silver candlesticks and snuffers, trays, bowls, spoons, toothpicks, and boxes as tarnished as his reputation.
Silver wasn’t unusual in a city where even the lowest had the chore of it in their homes, while gold wasn’t to be seen in any ordinary way, and she supposed he took pride in what he had of it, from buttons and medals to a locked tobacco caddy studded with diamonds.
She sensed some fraud, too, and quickly deposited a reliquary with the scapular in the chest at the foot of the bed. Otherwise she arranged with an eye for practical and creative importance, or just not knowing where else to put things without cluttering incidental surfaces and the narrow mantle. A candelabrum belonged on the trestle table as did a bookstand and bundle of folders with ribbons untied for a chance of revelation, placed next to a decorated writing slope for composing more than little notes to honorable ladies.
Three lutes huddled against the emptiness of a corner, stepsisters born separately of rosewood, maple, and ebony, sharing an inheritance of long necks, head backs, full bodies with rosettes like intricately set jewels on their breasts. Theirs was harmonious rivalry, recalling a master’s touch and understanding. On the settee a leather case contained a violin resembling a dead man on the red velvet of his coffin, not mourned but celebrated by nymphs dancing through vines on the friese high around the room.
Excerpt 2:
She hadn’t much time. Until the eighth of June was a deadline through its morning only, four festive galleys already in port, smaller boats gathering the night before with lanterns swaying in unheeded winds and displaying their own regalia. The barges were due to be pulled in and lined up around four in the afternoon so the silks for transforming them into a grand hall wouldn’t fade in the sun that after all didn’t even brighten the clouds. A week earlier, at Despina’s invitation to lunch and numerous glasses of wine, Signor Stradella explained the plan for this divertissement in the bay by drawing little pictures and witticisms from a perverse sense of what made him a living.
Donatella was more impressed by him writing slower than he scratched out, biting his hand and grabbing his hair, throwing back his head and closing his eyes. He hadn’t shaved or buttoned his shirt and didn’t seem to remember he had sent for her.
“Tromba or cornetta?”
She assumed he was speaking to Golone, who set out his clothes for the evening and left with a smile that knew what would never happen.
“I told them to decide.” He stood stiffly as she moved into the untidy salon. “But still they ask.”
“What’s the difference?”
It was as if she had thrown water on him. He shuddered, his back arched even before he sat at the harpsichord to play barely broken chords like a boat rolling on little trills of foam.
He motioned her over. “You copied by hand, now voice.”
“Oh, no.”
“Sì, sing. With me. One breath.” His fingers were moving again, his voice letting hers lead, for courtesy and because she couldn’t outperform him. “And so you played the tromba.”
“It felt like drowning might.”
He slapped his thighs. “There are too many phrases like that. Why do I make it so difficile?”
She wouldn’t guess.
“Hmm?” He played the trumpet line again, trying and refusing to break it into something easier and less wonderful. “If only there was more talent in Genova.”
The mirror now above the console table was as elegant as she wasn’t, her hair less carefully arranged than Nubesta’s, the lace around her neck that might have improved her needing to be washed and starched. She looked tired from weeks of candles being excessively burned—her hands, too, blistered from the lye soap normally avoided with a long stick in the laundry coppers but desperately used to scrub off stains that had grown beyond her use of quill and ink for writing in a journal.
“What did you want me for?”
He went back to the table, offering some pages. “This duetto. It seems soprano and basso won’t share a copy. Like a bed.”
She couldn’t hide her embarrassment as she reached out.
“Oh, you haven’t taken care.” He didn’t exactly caress her hands, or merely examine them, either.
“It looks worse than—”
“Olio d’oliva. Cooled. Rub it on gently.”
She stiffened as he showed her.
“Certamente, I don’t mean to make you suffer.”
“But how do you clean the ink off?”
He presented his stained fingers.
“You don’t have to hide what you do.”
“Except with the direction of my eyes?”
She picked up her next assignment, feeling unworthy of his gaze.
“Presto? There’s not much time.”
Sleep could never be more important.
Donatella was more impressed by him writing slower than he scratched out, biting his hand and grabbing his hair, throwing back his head and closing his eyes. He hadn’t shaved or buttoned his shirt and didn’t seem to remember he had sent for her.
“Tromba or cornetta?”
She assumed he was speaking to Golone, who set out his clothes for the evening and left with a smile that knew what would never happen.
“I told them to decide.” He stood stiffly as she moved into the untidy salon. “But still they ask.”
“What’s the difference?”
It was as if she had thrown water on him. He shuddered, his back arched even before he sat at the harpsichord to play barely broken chords like a boat rolling on little trills of foam.
He motioned her over. “You copied by hand, now voice.”
“Oh, no.”
“Sì, sing. With me. One breath.” His fingers were moving again, his voice letting hers lead, for courtesy and because she couldn’t outperform him. “And so you played the tromba.”
“It felt like drowning might.”
He slapped his thighs. “There are too many phrases like that. Why do I make it so difficile?”
She wouldn’t guess.
“Hmm?” He played the trumpet line again, trying and refusing to break it into something easier and less wonderful. “If only there was more talent in Genova.”
The mirror now above the console table was as elegant as she wasn’t, her hair less carefully arranged than Nubesta’s, the lace around her neck that might have improved her needing to be washed and starched. She looked tired from weeks of candles being excessively burned—her hands, too, blistered from the lye soap normally avoided with a long stick in the laundry coppers but desperately used to scrub off stains that had grown beyond her use of quill and ink for writing in a journal.
“What did you want me for?”
He went back to the table, offering some pages. “This duetto. It seems soprano and basso won’t share a copy. Like a bed.”
She couldn’t hide her embarrassment as she reached out.
“Oh, you haven’t taken care.” He didn’t exactly caress her hands, or merely examine them, either.
“It looks worse than—”
“Olio d’oliva. Cooled. Rub it on gently.”
She stiffened as he showed her.
“Certamente, I don’t mean to make you suffer.”
“But how do you clean the ink off?”
He presented his stained fingers.
“You don’t have to hide what you do.”
“Except with the direction of my eyes?”
She picked up her next assignment, feeling unworthy of his gaze.
“Presto? There’s not much time.”
Sleep could never be more important.
Excerpt 3:
Now and then Alessandro ventured out with folder and violin under his arm, a bored Golone at his side, and renewed hope that Genova continued to love him it spite of itself.
Donatella believed it would because there was no unloving him as he was, available and irresistible, artful yet authentic, larger than life but vulnerable. Making his acquaintance was unforgettable, seduction unavoidable, consequences bestowed like blessings. It was easier to believe he converted assassins than encouraged them and that he meant to fondle hearts, not break them. His wasn’t a minor nobility, with the title Il Maestro di Grande Spirito e lo Stile Fervente, raising voices of angels from the aspirations of singers and offering chances for instrumentalists to perform miracles. So he gave an almost sacred consent to listening for salvation, revealing the purpose of a life not as undisciplined as it seemed. Every note was part of an arrangement between the gifts of God and man, with counterpoints carefully conducting discussions, harmonics cohering different expressions like a rainbow does its colors, language and instruments making passages into the same emotive poety. Yet there was always inovation, interpretation, even impulsiveness and evasion, love never far from its theme, fulfillment not necessary to end with, drama as essential for content as the spectacle of a sunset burning up the sky when it never actually did.
Donatella believed it would because there was no unloving him as he was, available and irresistible, artful yet authentic, larger than life but vulnerable. Making his acquaintance was unforgettable, seduction unavoidable, consequences bestowed like blessings. It was easier to believe he converted assassins than encouraged them and that he meant to fondle hearts, not break them. His wasn’t a minor nobility, with the title Il Maestro di Grande Spirito e lo Stile Fervente, raising voices of angels from the aspirations of singers and offering chances for instrumentalists to perform miracles. So he gave an almost sacred consent to listening for salvation, revealing the purpose of a life not as undisciplined as it seemed. Every note was part of an arrangement between the gifts of God and man, with counterpoints carefully conducting discussions, harmonics cohering different expressions like a rainbow does its colors, language and instruments making passages into the same emotive poety. Yet there was always inovation, interpretation, even impulsiveness and evasion, love never far from its theme, fulfillment not necessary to end with, drama as essential for content as the spectacle of a sunset burning up the sky when it never actually did.
Thank you for having the interest and taking the time to read!
A House Near Luccoli© is available at Amazon in Paperback and Kindle Edition, and at Barnes and Noble as a NOOK Book.
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
New Book Release: My Novel, A House Near Luccoli
That figure was the 17th Century composer, violinist and singer, Alessandro Stradella (1639 – 1682). My novel, A House Near Luccoli, published by All Things That Matter Press, is set in Genoa, Italy, imagining an unusual intimacy with him as he tries to sustain his career and escape his demons.
It is now available!
In the US, through amazon.com in Paperback and Kindle Edition
In the UK, through amazon.com.uk in Paperback
(and–in English–through amazon.com Germany, Italy, France and Austria)
Please note: Kindle editions must be ordered through amazon.com
Through Barnes and Noble as a NOOK book
You can read a sample at amazon.com and request one sent to you from barnesandnoble.com.
I offer a small excerpt here … which I post in tribute to a beloved friend who died yesterday, an amazingly talented and bravely spirited singer and musician (mainly Medieval and Renaissance music) who will never be absent from me. My heart goes out to his beautiful wife and sons, and all those who are missing him so much already.
She was caught in a wishful trap, like the first time she had seen him. No, not really the first, for that was from afar and without any intent but to keep him in impossibility. It was when he blew in on scandal and forgiveness, delicate and dynamic, climbing to the top, carrying his fortune, mistaking identities but not character, his heart not skipping a beat so hers found some rhythm again. And from that beginning offered everything and nothing, working and playing, rising and falling, causing concern and relief, making music more important than memories.
from A House Near Luccoli© by DM Denton
If you wish to contact me regarding the novel, please go to my website’s contact page, or email me at astradellasojourn@earthlink.net
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
Announcing Release Date for My Novel, A House Near Luccoli
September 1, 2012!
It will be published by All Things That Matter Press, available in paperback and as an eBook. If you would like to receive notification of how to obtain a copy, please click here: http://www.dmdenton-author-artist.com/contact.html.
Alternatively, email me @ astradellasojourn@earthlink.net to let me know you are interested.
This historical fiction takes place in Genoa, Italy, 1681 -1682. For more information regarding its story and background, please visit the novel’s page on my website: http://www.dmdenton-author-artist.com/a-house-near-luccoli-a-novel-of-musical-intimacy–intrigue.html
Below are links to a couple of excerpts, and here is the blurb from the back cover:
A House Near Luccoli, focuses on chance encounters, beautiful music, and the paradox of genius through an imagined intimacy with one of the most legendary and undervalued figures of Italian Baroque music.
Over three years since the charismatic composer, violinist, and singer Alessandro Stradella sought refuge in the palaces and twisted alleys of Genoa, royally welcomed despite the alleged scandals and even crimes that forced him to flee from Rome, Venice, and Turin, his professional and personal life have begun to unravel again. He is offered, by the very man he is rumored to have wronged, a respectable if slightly shabby apartment and yet another chance to redeem his character and career. He moves in to the curiosity and consternation of his caretakers, also tenants, three women whose reputations are of concern only to themselves.
Donatella, still unmarried in her mid-thirties, is plainly irrelevant. Yet, like the city she lives in, there are hidden longings in her, propriety the rule, not cure, for what ails her. She cares more for her bedridden grandmother and cats than overbearing aunt, keeping house and tending to a small terraced garden, painting flowers and waxing poetic in her journal. At first, she is in awe of and certain she will have little to do with Stradella. Slowly, his ego, playfulness, need of a copyist and camouflage involve her in an inspired and insidious world, exciting and heartbreaking as she is enlarged by his magnanimity and reduced by his missteps, forging a friendship that challenges how far she will go.
Excerpts:
First Chapter
Random
Cover Artwork©
by DM Denton
I appreciate your time and interest. Blessings to all!
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
Excerpt #1 from A House Near Luccoli, a Novel
For the Italian Baroque composer, violinist and singer Alessandro Stradella (1639-1682), loving the wrong women and angering the wrong men held grave consequences. But scandal only scratched the surface of his story.
My historical fiction A HOUSE NEAR LUCCOLI © focuses on beautiful music, chance encounters, past possibilities, and the paradox of genius. Set in Genoa nestling a mountain backdrop and looking out to sea, amidst palaces, twisted alleys and cozy rooms, it offers a window of opportunity for intimacy with a charismatic and embattled Stradella. Forced to move down from the city’s golden street to a residence off la Via Luccoli, Stradella meets an unlikely ally in a woman who is nothing like his usual female “companions”. His ego, playfulness, need of a copyist and camouflage involve her in an inspired and insidious world—exciting and heartbreaking as she is enlarged by his magnanimity and reduced by his missteps, forging a friendship with him that challenges how far she will go.
To set the scene, here is the opening Chapter:
Part One
The Arrival
April 1681
– Chapter One –
Her heart had stopped breathing. She didn’t fuss with her hair or use the vain clutter of the dressing table except to waste time rearranging it. Eventually she turned to what was behind her. Two fancy gowns were laid over a small unmade bed and the chair beside it, creased and dated, suiting a younger shape and needing somewhere to go. She was sure she wouldn’t wear them again.
“Donatella! Are you in your room?”
The lace might be salvaged, for she couldn’t be without lace, at least around her neck and at most edging her sleeves as well. Otherwise she dressed serviceably, invisibly, in gray or dark blue.
She no longer thought of being bolder or more submissive or, in a city on a bay becoming the sea, swept away at last.
It was as if someone else recalled a ship, who sailed in it and walking down a shady alley with a stranger. There was always temptation for mixing imagination with reality, especially as the past was otherwise inalterable. Her reflection was plainly in the mirror, her hair quickly pinned and her face flushed.
“Donatella. I need you!”
She moved to a corner table begging light from a narrow window, cleaning brushes and closing colors yet to finish curled pictures of spring or begin the next season before it did. She’d painted in brighter places, dreamed in them too, and didn’t care who saw her as a dreamer. Until she committed herself to being withdrawn and forgotten like a lunatic huddled in a corner hardly knowing the difference between a smile and a frown.
“You might answer me!”
She took the green dress off the bed and pretended to wear it for a small stroll around the room. Then she walked into the hall as if out into the city, her city, also born of land and sea, formed by highs and lows, ruled by outer constraint and inner abandon, safe and sorry in disguise. Of course Genova had a conceit she couldn’t have, knowing its purpose and hiding or flaunting its features of beauty. Once she saw all its wonders and woes from the esplanade of Castelletto, the mountains closer and la Lanterna further away. Perhaps she made out her house, if not its signature portal of Saint George and the dragon then a signifying shine on its roof’s slant. It was a prestigious place to live depending on how she looked at it, whether connected up to a parade of palaces, across divides or down crooked stairways to the port.
She was patron and prisoner of a gated entrance and more rooms than the closeness of the surrounding dwellings allowed, aspiring staircases growing them similarly into multiple stories. She could’ve done without so much unused furniture, mirrors and silver to be cleaned but was greedily accustomed to a tenanted wealth of paintings, tapestries, frescos, and stained glass not created for outside views.
“There you are! What are you doing?”
Donatella had barely reached the doorway of her bedroom, throwing the dress in as if not caring where it landed.
“Oh, it’s so sudden!”
Her aunt gave her a key and feather duster for gentler work than Nubesta carrying broom and bucket, hastening an end to the long vacancy of the third floor apartment. It was a little unnerving to open its door and step into its past. It offered another chore for the young maid complaining about wiping tall windows while Donatella removed furniture covers and thought of her mother sitting there, writing more letters than she ever received.
The girl opened a window and the room to the street below, a rag-waving hand jumping out. “Up here! Up here!”
Donatella felt a shiver that shouldn’t have surprised her, the bumping and cursing of the movers fading into music and poetry from la Forza dell’Amor Paterno as performed at la Teatro Falcone on Christmas Monday 1678. She’d worn the green dress, agreeing to excessive curls and anticipation, Nonna showing her how to fan away smoke from the chandeliers and smile although her shoes pinched. After the first act sonnets fell from garlanded boxes for those lucky enough to catch them, as much enthusiasm when the opera was finished. That was Donatella’s last trembling in applause and first glimpse of its beneficiary too remarkable for humility as he accepted a gold tray of the taffeta wrapped accolades. He was as well presented in a long shimmering coat with flared skirt and accented with a looped and knotted cravat, an undressed wealth of hair changing the angles of his face as he bowed and then again. Obviously this was the legend of subterfuge, here and there, elegant and rakish, kissing the hand of Centoventi, goddess of the stage. He was clever and foolish not to worry she took exception at his as intimate approval of the contralto said to be the daughter of a cook, nothing but wisdom and faithfulness in his deepest bow and sincerest smile towards Genoa’s Prince and Princess.
Even overlooked in the audience, Donatella felt he was a suitor offering the art of himself. So at least in the theater she could be chosen.
Nothing more intimate was expected, and shouldn’t be. Not even when their landlord, one of the Falcone’s managers, announced that Signor Stradella would be moving into their quiet world.
And unquiet hearts, resentment sounding in Signor Garibaldi’s teasing.
Like offering the pigeons to the cat! Aunt Despina couldn’t resist.
It was assumed Signor Stradella would use the apartment for composing, sleep and light refreshments. Otherwise he would be out for tutoring and rehearsals during the day and church performances on Sundays, his evenings planned and unplanned with meals and diversions in more and less respectable settings.
Two large but struggling men maneuvered in a long walnut trunk with brass filigree corners and latch, looking down the embossed hall to its sun-splashed end.
“Should we leave it here?”
“Why not?” Nubesta decided. “He’ll put it where he wants.”
“No”—Donatella, not for the first time, had to correct her— “in the bedroom.”
The men grumbled to do so, left but weren’t gone, bringing up musical instruments, a pair of trestles, square board, small stool and plainer case rattling with poorly packed contents. The apartment was already furnished, not the Garibaldi finest but bees-wax polishing gave console tables, armoire, credenza, and bed posts a higher shine. By the time citywide bells announced the vespers hour, Nubesta was done and resting on a frayed settee without any guilt for Donatella reaching over her to wipe the beveled mirror above.
The movers were less irritated as they brought in one crate dropping heavy and another floating to the floor, talking about where they would go drinking. Nubesta followed them out to be sure they were gone.
“Look.” Donatella untied a note from around the handle of the fancier trunk.
“You know I can’t…”
“To the most honorable ladies of this household…please make my bed with the hemp sheets, pillowcase and woolen blanket within. A.S.”
“Not such a gentleman—” Nubesta hoped.
The trunk’s carved exterior was scarred and the latch almost fell off when Donatella popped it, folding back its top like a book she shouldn’t read and hadn’t any reason to beyond the first page, the noted bedding on top. She was hesitant to intrude, relying on Nubesta’s nerve in determining Signor Stradella was a gentleman touched by linen and taffeta and velvet, and favored by the finest neckties, cuffs, shirts, jackets, breaches, dressing gown, ribbons, kerchiefs, gloves, stockings, belts and buckles.
And maestro musicale scented by parchment and resin and caring for bunches of silver instrument strings wrapped in the softest cloth.
Even a man of some faith keeping two rosaries with gold clasps and a religiously embroidered runner with pointed ends and silk tassels.
“What is it?”
Donatella stretched it out, wondering too. “A scapular, devoted to St. Dominic.”
“Why would he have it?”
“Let’s see to the bed.”
It seemed a shame to strip already made wealth for grey hemp and brown wool, squeezing a plump pillow like the best sausage meat into a thin and tasteless casement. They pulled the sheets tight, laid out the yarn-hemmed blanket, finishing with a swollen brocade cover-up, the room ready or not for its distinguished if disreputable arrival. It was the second adjective Nubesta seemed to know the most about, as servants often did, talk amongst themselves informed and ignorant.
“Another note!” the girl tugged at it.
Donatella was already fond of the forwardly fluid and looped handwriting. “Most honorable ladies. I know how you hesitate. Please feel free to unpack and arrange my effects, like a puzzle, and see if you can know how I would like them. A.S.”
“For a prize?” Nubesta squirmed, waiting for Donatella’s next move.
“I don’t think we should.”
“You went through his clothes. What are a few knickknacks after that?”
“Take the cleaning things and tell my aunt we’re done.”
Nubesta obeyed sluggishly, the late afternoon warming the room’s new belongings, the key Donatella tied around her arm under her sleeve too prominent to forget there.
***
Nonna stirred a little. “You could copy for him.”
“I’m sure he has a copyist. I’m sure he has all he needs.”
“He might think so.” Nonna pulled her granddaughter’s face so close to hers against the pillow Donatella almost laid down. “You shouldn’t.”
Donatella kissed her grandmother’s dry cheek, combing her still thick gray hair, regretting more than that she wasn’t a chaperone for the theater any more. Nonna’s hands had lost touch with the virginal, her trained voice weakened to whispers and appetite merely for bread and broth. Less and less she managed a slow shuffle from bed to chair to bed, her eyes when not closed clouded with desire for the curtains to be.
Il Prima Donata and two cats were all the companionship Donatella had, mostly in that darkened room now the latter belonged to the bottom of its bed.
“What’s this?” A misshapen hand caught the bulge in Donatella’s lower sleeve.
“Oh. The key to…the…linen closet…”
“Well”—Nonna winked—“you might keep it, as you never take what isn’t yours.”
In the middle of the night Donatella rose to a dare and the third floor, bare steps as uncertain as candlelight on an unknown artist’s commission of cherubs and festooned fruits and flowers in muted greens, grays and sienna. The floor of the apartment didn‘t keep her entry quiet but it seemed only her carefulness was disturbed. The trestle table was set up in the salon, too close to the fireplace with its escalloped oak mantle and triangular copper hood illustrating Vulcan and Venus. Windows on both sides were almost hidden by red curtains with gold scrolling around the Garibaldi coat of arms, somehow the moon casting light on the secrecy of her endeavor. She unpacked Signor Stradella’s clothes, carrying the pieces one at a time or in piles to the bedroom and shelves of the wardrobe that threatened to be too small. He has more of what’s necessary and unnecessary than a woman, a much indulged woman! She opened another trunk holding the rewards of beautiful music, smiles and connivances too, doubtful he carried the family heirlooms while by invitation or escape running around and hiding. Whatever explained the collection he was aristocratic in everything but bedding and especially fortunate in moveable assets, even indifferent with some of them like silver candlesticks and snuffers, trays, bowls, spoons, toothpicks and boxes as tarnished as his reputation.
Then silver wasn’t unusual in a city where it was said even the lowest had the chore of it in their homes. While gold wasn’t to be seen in any ordinary way and she supposed he took pride in what he had of it, from buttons and medals to a tobacco caddy studded with diamonds and locked.
She felt some fraud too and quickly deposited a reliquary with the scapular in the chest at the foot of the bed. Otherwise she arranged with an eye for practical and creative importance, or just not knowing where else to put things without cluttering incidental surfaces and the narrow mantle. A candelabrum belonged on the trestle table as did a bookstand and bundle of folders with ribbons untied for a chance of revelation, placed next to a decorated writing slope for composing more than little notes to honorable ladies.
Three lutes huddled against the emptiness of a corner, step-sisters born of rosewood, maple and ebony, sharing an inheritance of long necks, heads back and full bodies with rosettes like intricately set jewels on their breasts. Theirs was harmonious rivalry, recalling a master’s touch and understanding. On the settee a leather case contained a violin resembling a dead man on the red velvet of his coffin, not mourned but celebrated by nymphs dancing through vines on the frieze high around the room.
Nearby Santa Maria Maddalena sounded for Lauds, the gold and diamonded box urgently inviting investigation. She guessed where the key might be, pressing a button under the ink bottle section of the slope. A sudden drawer offered it, tiny, burnished, a promise of something special, not in that container but the one worth hundreds of lire which instead of tobacco held more diamonds or a love note or pressed flower or curl of hair or…
An accolade. She recognized the taffeta tied scroll at once, recalling applause that lingered, hearts melting for the music and man and impossibilities he left behind.
“You’re in trouble”. Nubesta startled Donatella who could only hope she wasn’t seen locking the rolled sonnet away again, placing its treasured box on the lower shelf of the nightstand. “She’s looking for the key.”
“Here. No!” Donatella put a hand behind her back. “Where?”
Nubesta pulled it out of the door more for power than assistance.
“Give it to me.”
Donatella waited for Nubesta to leave before returning one key to its almost private place, exiting the apartment herself as the other met Despina’s outstretched hand. Her aunt might’ve wanted an explanation but didn’t get one, Donatella escaping to her room to dress hurriedly, stuffing her hair under a cap, on her way downstairs in time to welcome a man she’d never met except as he inspired sonnets and forgetfulness.
Copyright © 2010 by DM Denton
All Rights Reserved
©Artwork and writing, unless otherwise indicated, are the property of Diane M Denton. Please request permission to reproduce or post elsewhere with a link back to bardessdmdenton. Thank you.
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