dead weight. So Giambattista enlists the aid of the coachman and
together they drag the insensible man inside and straight to
Antonio’s room on the same floor. A worried Paolina follows them
and bends over Antonio as he lies on the bed. ‘Nothing the matter
with him, girl.’ growls Giambattista, ‘Too much to drink, that’s
all.’ He manoeuvres the coachman out of the house and crawls
back into bed. Paolina tries to undress the priest, but Antonio,
completely lost to the world, puts up such a fight at every turn that
in the end she decides just to loosen his collar and pull off his
shoes. After making sure he’s warm, she leaves the room, but still
feels unnerved enough to leave the door open a chink.
The following morning Antonio amazes everyone by appearing
halfway through breakfast and sitting down brightly at table. He
looks tired and crumpled, but says he feels fine. His father is
nonplussed, Paolina merely relieved.
‘A very pleasant evening,’ is Antonio’s verdict, delivered as
he dips bread into his coffee. ‘Oh yes, and Ottoboni has invited me
to play some of my work tomorrow evening at a private concert,’ he
continues, with a full mouth.
His father brings up the subject of the schedule. ‘It’s all
getting very busy, son.’ Antonio slurps his coffee. ‘You’re right,
father, but who am I to refuse a concerto for the Pope?’
‘What did you say?’ Paolina busts in. Giambattista blinks.
Antonio surveys them both archly, as if he is already attending
daily audiences with the Holy Father. ‘Is there something wrong?’
he asks blandly.
This is all wonderful! What a golden opportunity, what a
crowning achievement! He is eternally grateful to Ottoboni for
laying on this small but oh so important concert for him. Ottoboni
must have known what a favour he was doing him. ‘Don’t expect
too much,’ the cardinal had warned Vivaldi. ‘The Pontifex Maximus
is a music lover but he’s no spring chicken, and he’s none too fit
these days. Confine the concert to a single piece.’

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