every word with a vitriolic slam of his fist upon the table, adds, ‘But
if the vote changes and he is kept on, I should like my warning to
be recorded in the minutes.’
But the clerk does not have to put anything down for
posterity. The new vote is decisive. Seven votes against. Subdued
but always prone to thinking along straight lines, Jacopo has
changed his vote and the unsuspecting Vivaldi is summarily
dismissed.
Hardly any secret can survive in Venice, and even fewer in the
Ospedale della Pietà. The meeting of the Congregazione is hardly
disbanded before the first rumours filter out, gathering strength as
they go. It is only a matter of time before the whispers are out on
the streets and the following morning every baker between the
Arsenale, the Republic’s shipyard, and the Pietà is regaling his
customers with the news that Il Prete Rosso has been sent packing!
The door flies open and Antonio’s youngest sister Zanetta rushes
in, out of breath and shocking half to death the family still sitting
quietly around the breakfast table. Camilla spills boiling water over
the table and Cecilia swallows something down the wrong way.
Only Antonio remains immune to the drama; as usual, he’s miles
away.
‘What in heaven’s name is going on?’ demands Giambattista,
stooping to pick up a couple of still warm bovoli dropped by his
daughter in her consternation. Francesco, one of Antonio’s brothers,
unimpressed by all the excitement, breaks a bovolo in half and takes
a bite of the fragrant bread.
‘It’s Antonio’, stammers Zanetta. ‘They say Antonio’s got
the sack.’ Waking up at the sound of his name to what is happening
around him, Antonio stares in disbelief at his sister. Many raised
voices fill the little kitchen: ‘What did you say?’ Zanetta repeats the
news told her at the baker’s. ‘Gossip,’ pronounces Giambattista
decisively. Antonio sits on in dejected silence. His brother Francesco
eats steadily, harvesting the crumbs from the table on a licked
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