refuge behind her skirts. Vivaldi is so taken with the little girl he
hardly notices the mistrust in the older woman’s eyes.
‘Why nothing, signora, nothing much at all,’ Vivaldi
answers, showing her the basket of strawberries. ‘Your daughter?’
The priest’s question is uncertain.
‘My little sister,’ the woman corrects him.
‘I beg your pardon, signorina. She quite by accident
knocked over this basket of wonderful strawberries as she walked
by.’
The woman bends down and whispers something in the
child’s ear. Very timidly the little blushing face reappears. ‘I’m
sorry,’ she lisps. Antonio can do nothing but smile at the innocence
of her confession. Kneeling, he offers her the basket. ‘That’s all
right, my child. Here, take one.’
Sunshine softly returns to the small features and quick as
a flash she claims the biggest and juiciest strawberry. Entranced,
Antonio watches her face, especially the eyes. How extraordinary!
Before he knows it the child has scampered off to rejoin the game
as if nothing has happened. Getting to his feet the priest proffers
his basket to the sister. She declines.
‘How is Mantua suiting you?’ she asks, friendly, but with
the slightest touch of sharpness.
Used by now to strangers addressing him in the street,
Antonio readily responds. He is aware that everyone in the little
town now recognises him as the red-haired priest from Venice, the
famous Vivaldi.
‘Very well, thank you. How kind of you to ask.’
‘Have you never wondered how things were with me?’
Antonio recoils as if hit in the solar plexus. What sort of
question is this?
‘Do we know one another?’ he asks nervously. Shading his
eyes with one hand from the fierce sunlight, he scrutinises her
anew. Beneath the upswept hair her face is open and, despite her
bare arms, still glistening with soap in the sunshine, there is
something about her that sets her apart. Is she perhaps a singer
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