me see.’ Antonio goes on talking while his father rifles through
pile after pile of sheet music and libretti. ‘Ah, here we are. Take a
look at this.’ He interrupts another stream of enthusiasm from his
son and blows the dust off an old libretto. ‘I knew it. Messalina!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here, have a look; Messalina, performed in 1680 in the
Teatro San Salvatore. You were just learning to walk then. The text
was by Francesco Maria Piccioli, set to music by Carlo Pallavicino.
Yes, he was a good composer. It was his opera Vespasiano that was
the first on the boards at the opening of Teatro San Grisistomo, you
know. A real honour! He moved to Dresden later, and if I’m not
mistaken he died there, too. I can’t recall what sort of success he
had with Messalina, but neither can I bring to mind a single flop for
Pallavicino.’
‘Perfect!’ replies Antonio. ‘That’s a good omen to start
with.’
‘Hold on though, not so fast. I’d like to think about the
possibility of an opera, but not here in Venice. You know my
feelings about that.’
‘I do, father, and I bear them in mind. But I have
instructions from Maestro Gasparini to leave all of that to him. He
actually has everything to gain from helping me.’
‘Oh?’ responds his father in surprise. But Giambattista
will have to wait to know what his son means by this remark.
Before he can probe further Antonio has gone off to his own room,
his face alight with a mysterious smile.
As the days get shorter, so the libretto grows ever thicker. Vivaldi
and Lalli meet regularly and become good friends. Antonio has
still not discovered what Lalli is hiding from him, but it no longer
bothers him.
The priest has enquired a couple of times of Gasparini
whether he has any idea where the debut of his opera might take
place. The Maestro di Coro assures him that he need have no worries
on this score. Trust him and all will be well. In the meanwhile he
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