Read Online The Honeymoon by Dinitia Smith - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Dinitia Smith
Ads: Link
shoulders.
She drew on her long, white kid gloves, took her gold lace fan with the mother-of-pearl handle from its silk-lined box, straightened her shoulders, and prepared to go out into the
sala
. At the bedroom door, she hesitated. What would she find?
She pushed open the double doors.
There he was, standing tall in the middle of the room, waiting for her, dressed in full evening regalia, black morning coat, black silk foulard, pearl stickpin, holding his top hat.
“Bella, bella,”
he said. He smiled broadly. “You look lovely. The dress is lovely.”
For a moment, she believed him. Perhaps the dress made him see her in a new way.
They descended the stairs to the lobby, he smiling proudly with her on his arm, and she, queenly, almost pretty.
The gondolier, Corradini, was there on the
riva
. She noticed again his pale blue eyes. They stood out against his tanned and oiled skin, his seamed face and sinewy arms. Again she noticed that his costume fit him too tightly. He was trying to look younger, showing off his body.
Once they were seated, he pulled the boat efficiently away from shore, working easily, unsmilingly, saying nothing, distant and skilled, his skin weathered by years in the sun rowing tourists around.
It was early evening, the night beginning. As they passed along the banks of the canal, the gaslights glowed, and the
riva
was filled with tourists out in all their finery for their evening promenade.
She gave Johnnie a little lecture on Vivaldi to prepare him for the concert. “He wrote
The Four Seasons
in Mantua at the court of Philip of Hesse-Darmstadt. There are four cantos representing each of the four seasons, sonnets that go with them which Vivaldi probably wrote himself —”
In the middle of her explanation, he bent forward, took her hands exuberantly between his own, and kissed them through her gloves. Then he squeezed them so tightly her knuckles ground together.
“Ouch! You hurt me!” She winced and pulled her hands away.
“Sorry. I’m too enthusiastic, I’m afraid,” he said, patting them.
She flexed her fingers. “You’ve got a powerful grip.”
He sat back in the gondola, smiling in anticipation of the concert.
The gondolier curved to the right and made his way through the maze of canals. The buildings loomed close together, a crack of dark blue sky just visible between the rooftops.
They came to a stop, and Johnnie told Corradini to wait for them. The man nodded, once again, she noted, just verging on rudeness.
Making their way along a dark
calle
, they came upon the Corte Sabbionera and the tiny, jewel-like Teatro Malibran, its warm lights beaming from the windows and the door, the concertgoers assembled on the
campo
waiting to go in.
Inside, everything was trimmed with gold. The boxes were held up by caryatids, the parapets decorated with crowns. There were two men already in their box, one older and gray-haired, the other much younger, clean-shaven, perhaps his son.
She scanned the program. The rustling around them quieted, and the curtain lifted to reveal the musicians and the conductor. The conductor lifted his arms, the musicians lifted their instruments, and the heraldic notes of “Spring” sounded. Immediately, the tight notes of the first violin, playing the
allegro
, possessed her. Then the other instruments joined in. In the excitement of the music, she forgot everything — Johnnie sitting beside her, the theater around her. There was the sweet call of a single violin, a spring bird, rising then calming into a
diminuendo
. The goatherd dozingon the meadow, an intimation of love to come; nymphs and shepherds dancing. It flowed through her body, lifted her.
And now, “Summer.” In the last movement of the “Summer” concerto, the
presto
, the storm came. She noticed Johnnie moving from side to side in his seat, his torso quivering and shaking like the rain itself as the violins reached their peak, the thunder and lightning split the heavens, and hail
She drew on her long, white kid gloves, took her gold lace fan with the mother-of-pearl handle from its silk-lined box, straightened her shoulders, and prepared to go out into the
sala
. At the bedroom door, she hesitated. What would she find?
She pushed open the double doors.
There he was, standing tall in the middle of the room, waiting for her, dressed in full evening regalia, black morning coat, black silk foulard, pearl stickpin, holding his top hat.
“Bella, bella,”
he said. He smiled broadly. “You look lovely. The dress is lovely.”
For a moment, she believed him. Perhaps the dress made him see her in a new way.
They descended the stairs to the lobby, he smiling proudly with her on his arm, and she, queenly, almost pretty.
The gondolier, Corradini, was there on the
riva
. She noticed again his pale blue eyes. They stood out against his tanned and oiled skin, his seamed face and sinewy arms. Again she noticed that his costume fit him too tightly. He was trying to look younger, showing off his body.
Once they were seated, he pulled the boat efficiently away from shore, working easily, unsmilingly, saying nothing, distant and skilled, his skin weathered by years in the sun rowing tourists around.
It was early evening, the night beginning. As they passed along the banks of the canal, the gaslights glowed, and the
riva
was filled with tourists out in all their finery for their evening promenade.
She gave Johnnie a little lecture on Vivaldi to prepare him for the concert. “He wrote
The Four Seasons
in Mantua at the court of Philip of Hesse-Darmstadt. There are four cantos representing each of the four seasons, sonnets that go with them which Vivaldi probably wrote himself —”
In the middle of her explanation, he bent forward, took her hands exuberantly between his own, and kissed them through her gloves. Then he squeezed them so tightly her knuckles ground together.
“Ouch! You hurt me!” She winced and pulled her hands away.
“Sorry. I’m too enthusiastic, I’m afraid,” he said, patting them.
She flexed her fingers. “You’ve got a powerful grip.”
He sat back in the gondola, smiling in anticipation of the concert.
The gondolier curved to the right and made his way through the maze of canals. The buildings loomed close together, a crack of dark blue sky just visible between the rooftops.
They came to a stop, and Johnnie told Corradini to wait for them. The man nodded, once again, she noted, just verging on rudeness.
Making their way along a dark
calle
, they came upon the Corte Sabbionera and the tiny, jewel-like Teatro Malibran, its warm lights beaming from the windows and the door, the concertgoers assembled on the
campo
waiting to go in.
Inside, everything was trimmed with gold. The boxes were held up by caryatids, the parapets decorated with crowns. There were two men already in their box, one older and gray-haired, the other much younger, clean-shaven, perhaps his son.
She scanned the program. The rustling around them quieted, and the curtain lifted to reveal the musicians and the conductor. The conductor lifted his arms, the musicians lifted their instruments, and the heraldic notes of “Spring” sounded. Immediately, the tight notes of the first violin, playing the
allegro
, possessed her. Then the other instruments joined in. In the excitement of the music, she forgot everything — Johnnie sitting beside her, the theater around her. There was the sweet call of a single violin, a spring bird, rising then calming into a
diminuendo
. The goatherd dozingon the meadow, an intimation of love to come; nymphs and shepherds dancing. It flowed through her body, lifted her.
And now, “Summer.” In the last movement of the “Summer” concerto, the
presto
, the storm came. She noticed Johnnie moving from side to side in his seat, his torso quivering and shaking like the rain itself as the violins reached their peak, the thunder and lightning split the heavens, and hail
Similar Books
