September 1709
Venice“And why so glum?” I asked Antonio when I encountered him at the Café Ridolfo, at his usual table but not in his usual mood. His right hand was wrapped around the short tumbler filled with red wine, his chin rested near his chest, and his eyes stared blankly at the bloody liquid in the glass. He didn't reply at once, so I sat down at the table with him, my back to the piazza which he faced.
I admit that I was a bit cheered by his glum expression and I had to overcome my own good feelings in order to continue the conversation.
“What is it, Antonio?” Do you have bad news about your music? Or your situation at the Conservatorio?” I paused then but couldn't resist. “Or does it have to do with a woman?” I knew that he had developed a reputation as a lady's man, although
