4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (19 page)

I refused to rise to the bait. Tired to death of Grisella’s dramatics, I removed my hand from her cheek and said, “I know what I need to know about Jean-Louis.”

Grisella wasn’t out of cards to play. Drawing back with a wounded look, she asked, “Would you rather it had been me in that coffin?”

“Of course not.”

“Well then, show some brotherly feeling.”

I shook my head, sighing. “What do you want of me?”

“What I’ve always wanted. Take me home. You’ll keep your promise, won’t you?”

I felt hot and cold at the same time. My stomach roiled like I’d swallowed an eel, but I couldn’t let Grisella go on thinking I would serve as her champion.

I spoke quickly, before my longing to reunite my family could destroy my resolve: “Based on what Alessandro has discovered,
I don’t see how I can take you back to Venice.”

Her startled face swam before my eyes. Every bit of strength I had went into forcing the next words through my dry
throat. “You’re a liar, a thief—you may have even committed murder.”

“No, Tito, no.” The cry exploded from her lips. “I admit I made up a story about Jean-Louis’ landlady. But only because I didn’t want you to think badly of me. I didn’t want you to know I’d stayed at that brothel. You have no idea how ashamed I was to find myself in such a place. It was filthy—the sounds and the smells. That’s why I wouldn’t leave my room or talk to the other women.”

“And Danika’s disappearance that coincided so conveniently with your arrival?”

“I never even saw the girl, knew nothing about her. That was Jean-Louis, I tell you.”

“Besides Danika, your escape from Turkey involved the death of Count Paninovich.”

She tossed her head. “So
you
say.”

“So Alessandro says. Our brother went to great lengths to follow your trail.”

“Oh, Tito, I expected more from you. Alessandro was always hard. He thought he could do no wrong and no one else could do any right. He expected the worst of everyone, especially me, and apparently that hasn’t changed. But you—you were different. You always understood. You used to take up for me with Papa and Alessandro, remember?”

I shut my eyes for an instant, trying mightily
not
to remember.

Grisella twisted her fingers into a prayerful gesture. “Please, you must understand. I didn’t steal anything from Vladimir—it was Jean-Louis, all Jean-Louis. He thought Vladimir possessed something of great value—I don’t even know what—”

“Are you telling me you don’t know what item changed hands at The Red Tulip?”

She shook her head wildly.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I wasn’t at that meeting—Alessandro’s whore confirms it.” She jerked her chin toward the letter in Gussie’s hands. “Jean-Louis kept me entirely in the dark. He promised to get us both to Paris, and I went along with him because he was my only chance to get out of that accursed Turkish hell. I didn’t steal anything from Vladimir. I didn’t start the fire. I didn’t kill anybody. I just unlocked the back gate of the
yali
at the appointed time, and Jean-Louis did the rest.”

I stole a glance at Gussie. His head was still bent to the letter. “Grisella,” I began. “I can’t—”

“Tito, you must listen.” Her voice was a moan. “Every woman has her little ruses. Annetta, Zuhal, and yes, even your Liya. We do what we must when we have only our own wiles to save us. My only sin is lying when circumstances demanded. For the love of Heaven, tell me your promise still stands.” With a tearful sob, she threw herself on my chest and clasped her arms around my back.

A knock sounded at the door, causing Grisella to squeeze me even more tightly. Twisting in her grasp, I saw Gussie quickly fold the letter and slip it in his waistcoat. Then he picked up the lamp and crossed to the door. My brother-in-law is tall and broad, much broader than the slit he creaked open.

“What is it?” Gussie asked. I noticed he held the lamp at eye level to further blind our visitor.

The response was muffled.

Hoping it was a footman that Gussie could quickly send on his way, I broke Grisella’s hold. I could only sigh in frustration as she sank to the floor and, reaching up from her nest of taffeta skirts, glued herself to my knees.

“By Jove,” Gussie exclaimed as Jean-Louis shouldered the door wide open. The Frenchman stumbled into our room, face twisted in a scowl.

“Gabrielle,” he rapped out. “I’ve been searching everywhere. What are you doing in here?”

My sister jumped to her feet, jaw quivering. “
Mon cher
, I was just talking to my… colleague.”

“
Zut
! You call this talking?” His dark brows slashed down toward his beaked nose. “Do you think I’m a fool? Return to our room at once.”

Grisella met his sharp gaze with her own. I thought she might challenge him, but I was wrong. My sister simply raised her chin and sailed from our chamber with a swish of her hips.

Jean-Louis waited until she had passed into the corridor before stepping close enough for me to smell the brandy on his breath. “Don’t think I’ve not noticed her working on you. My wife likes your kind—you soft half-men—she’d love nothing more than to scoop you up like a choice morsel. But hear me well, if I catch you together again, I’ll make you both very sorry.”

I mustered as much dignity as I could manage. “You are quite mistaken, Monsieur. I hold no amorous attraction for your wife, nor she for me.”

Jean-Louis gave a derisive snort of the type that only the French are able to produce, but he did retreat a step as Gussie came to my side and loomed as a silent, forbidding presence.

“Just know this, my friend,” Jean-Louis drawled as he strolled toward the door. “The woman you believe to be a legitimate singer would be nothing more than a whore without me. Before I secured her position at the Paris Opera, she wasn’t above warbling her tunes while stripped to her corset. Be that as it may, Gabrielle is my whore and will be governed by me in this and all other matters. I refuse to be made a laughing stock while she dallies with a capon who can barely get a rise out of his cock.”

I watched Jean-Louis leave with a heavy heart. Never had a man taken umbrage at such severely crossed purposes.

Part Three

“Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.”

—John Keats

Chapter Fourteen

Where opera is concerned, nothing succeeds like scandal. Several years ago, I sang Orfeo at the Teatro Regio in Torino. The prima donna who sang Euridice, my operatic bride, was seven months gone with child. A very special child. As every Savoyard from nine to ninety was well aware, the soprano was the Duke’s mistress. Torino audiences couldn’t get enough of the nightly spectacle: from the royal box that overlooked the stage, the Duke caressed Euridice with tender gazes while the Duchess stared daggers. Instead of the customary two week run, we played for two months. I feared my poor Euridice would be forced to have her baby in the middle of the River Styx.

Octavia’s concert profited from a similar notoriety. Not one of the citizens of Molina Mori who were favored with an invitation refused it. The Villa Dolfini was already colored with the tragic history of Francesca Luvisi’s sudden death and her young husband’s self-imposed banishment; now two murders added an alluring tint of danger and mystery. The belated funeral Mass that Padre Romano finally conducted for our unlikely pair of victims only fanned the flames of the public’s curiosity. Those who had been excluded in the first round of concert invitations besieged Octavia with notes and afternoon calls. We were, as the saying went,
il furore
.

Despite the base motives that raised Molina Mori’s interest in her concert, Octavia was determined to provide her neighbors with the musical experience of a lifetime. No idleness was tolerated in any quarter. Every worker not involved with gathering grain or winemaking was set to help with the building of a temporary stage which would jut out from the front portico and cover the steps. Benches to accommodate the burgeoning audience also had to be knocked together. Thus, the rasp of the saw and the banging of the hammer pervaded our rehearsals as thoroughly as the delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. After the singing, the audience would be invited inside for coffee or sparkling wine and every sort of elegant pastry that Nita’s repertoire could rise to.

Considering that we had replaced a seasoned soprano with an amateur who possessed more vigor than talent, rehearsals went remarkably well. The pressure of the impending performance forced Karl from his melancholy and honed his musicianship to a fine edge. Somehow he found the right words to help us all overcome our weaknesses and prevent our strengths from becoming our downfalls.

From the beginning, I had struggled with the character of Tamerlano. Now, with patience and prodding from the maestro, I gradually learned to surrender my civilized philosophy to the ways of the despotic tyrant who saw every city and woman as his for the taking. My arias became more believable, and my confidence grew with every practice session.

As far as I knew, Vincenzo ventured only a token protest against the concert. One day I chanced upon him and Octavia in the corridor and overheard a snatch of conversation:

“My dear,” he started diffidently, “I know you want to be well thought of… so I feel I really must point out… I seldom see women of the rank you seek to emulate putting themselves about in quite the brash manner you intend.”

Octavia responded with a frosty smile. “I’m certain that our friends will find my performance charming. Besides, I’ve sung at many musical evenings, in our home and others.”

“But that was in the company of other ladies who were only obliging with a bit of after-dinner entertainment. Throwing your lot in with singers who make their living from the stage is a different thing altogether.”

“As a true devotee of music, I am willing to make any sacrifice. Maestro Weber is pleased with the way I handle the part, and in the end, that is all that matters.”

“Of course the German is pleased, Octavia. You’re paying an exorbitant sum for him to be pleased…”

As I passed from earshot, I had a sudden thought. Octavia had originally plucked Karl from the anonymity of a Swiss spa to compose an opera which would boost her social standing, but somewhere along the way, her girlhood dream of conquering the stage had returned in full. Though others did not share her inflated opinion of her voice, it seemed to me that Octavia was being gradually seduced by her own wishful thinking. Karl had proposed several well-known sopranos to rehearse the role of Irene for the Venetian debut of
Il Gran Tamerlano
, but Octavia had found an excuse to reject each one. Did she imagine herself singing Irene in Venice? Did she actually believe that she could leap over the chasm separating the amateur from the professional?

Still seeking to untangle the knotted threads of our midnight murders, I wondered if it was just possible that Octavia might have killed Carmela to leave a hole in the cast that she could conveniently fill. Octavia was certainly large enough to overpower the petite Carmela once she had lured her to the cantina with the tantalizing note. But our hostess’ ambition could not explain the change of the soprano’s clothing and the lust-stained nightshift. I shook my head as I returned to rehearsal and picked up my assigned score. My theories were getting wilder and wilder. Perhaps I should bow to Captain Forti’s dictum and focus on opera instead of murder.

When the concert day finally arrived, all was in readiness. Even the weather had bent to Octavia’s stalwart will, bringing dry air and clear skies. If the temperature was not as warm as could be desired, at least the audience would be comfortable in their shawls and cloaks.

At dusk, Giovanni and the other footmen lowered the huge lantern that hung from the portico’s ceiling, lit its four wicks, and hauled it up again. Torches set on iron spikes surrounding the makeshift stage further illuminated the musician’s stands and the harpsichord that the footmen had carried out earlier in the afternoon.

The instrument’s polished lid had been propped open, giving the audience a full view of the lovely mythological scene painted on its underside. I knew its sound would be just as lovely. Karl had spent over an hour plunking out scales and adjusting the tuning pins. Though Karl’s zeal displayed itself more quietly than Octavia’s, we all understood that the composer’s career was riding on the success of
Tamerlano
. In some ways, this concert was a dress rehearsal for Venice. If our rural audience turned up their noses at his composition, Karl would be crushed.

At the appointed hour, I joined the other performers in the darkened foyer. Romeo was booming out fast sets of scales, and Emilio sounding “ahs” and “ohs” on his favorite note. I’d already warmed up in my room, so I drifted over to an unshuttered window to watch a steady stream of carriages pour through the front gates. After they had deposited their occupants, who made up an interesting assortment of impeccably dressed aristocrats, pompous village dignitaries, and shopkeepers in ancient finery, the drivers circled onto the lawn where Manuel and his brother Basilio directed them to park in neat rows.

The crowd appeared expectant and full of high spirits as Vincenzo directed Mayor Bartoli and his wife to take seats on the front bench. The master of the villa then took the arm of a dignified woman who had arrived with Signor Luvisi. Vincenzo looked around expectantly, but the lady gestured to something out of my sight and shook her head in confusion. I quickly moved down the corridor to another window.

Behind a patch of shrubbery that shielded them from the audience, Ernesto was conversing with Signor Luvisi. If the steward’s strained expression was any indication, he was bending the nobleman’s ear over a matter of some import. Several times, Luvisi shook his head, appearing more resistant with each negative gesture. I was wondering what they could possibly be discussing when the steward abruptly shut his mouth. Vincenzo came into view. Luvisi welcomed him with an affable smile and allowed himself to be led away. Ernesto watched them leave with a grim jaw and cold stare, then stalked off toward the strip of lawn where the boys were parking the carriages.

I pondered what I’d seen for a several minutes. When I drifted back to the first window, the guests of lesser prominence were crowding onto the benches behind their betters. Over the greasy smoke of the torches, I spotted Gussie’s blond haystack bobbing along one of the back rows. Captain Forti was also very much in evidence. Declining to sit, he stomped about the perimeter of the benches with his gaze trained on the audience rather than the stage.

The performance began with an enthusiastic welcome from Octavia and a brief outline of the opera’s plot from Karl. The composer barely looked like himself. Though we were playing without scenery or full costumes and skipping many of the recitatives, Octavia had insisted that Karl get himself up as he would for the premiere at the Teatro San Marco. The German who usually favored plain woolens and unbound hair wore a coat of ivory silk encrusted with gold embroidery and a formal wig whose curls soared to an uncommon height. His hollow cheeks were powdered, rouged, and graced with a mouse-skin patch below his right eye.

After our transformed maestro had settled himself at the harpsichord and the fiddlers had taken their places, Romeo and Emilio passed through the front door to the stage. Knowing I couldn’t be seen by the audience and anxious to see how
Tamerlano
fared, I remained at the dark window. Octavia had stationed herself at the window on the opposite side of the door.

Grisella waited just inside the dim salon, staring down at the tiles with heavy-lidded eyes. Jean-Louis hovered close by. Since our confrontation, the man had behaved more like a jailer than a husband. I’d managed no private words with my sister, as Jean-Louis kept her in their chamber except for rehearsals and meals, both of which he monitored with a keen eye.

Out front, the audience greeted Romeo and Emilio with a tumult of applause. Romeo was dressed in black velvet breeches, a jacket of purple silk threaded with silver, and a regrettably tight waistcoat the color of a canary bird. To convey the impression of a captured sultan, a coil of white linen sat atop his periwig and a shiny link of chains spanned his wrists. Emilio had used more restraint in his concert garb. His entire suit was of gosling green, decorated only by gold buttons polished to a high shine. A jeweled crown twinkled on the neat bob wig that framed his thin face.

My colleagues’ voices contrasted as sharply as their persons. As Romeo sang of Bajazet’s shameful defeat, his mellow basso throbbed with tragic swells, echoed by tremolos from Lucca’s violoncello. Like a slow-moving river of exquisite pathos, Romeo’s aria flowed over the gaily dressed ladies and gentlemen and drenched them in sorrow. Such an ill-treated captive! Such agony!

The audience was enraptured. Women inclined their heads and pursed their lips in distress. Signor Luvisi was so overcome, he had to reach for a handkerchief to wipe his eyes.

Emilio followed Romeo’s lament with an aria cantabile meant to comfort the now swooning prisoner, just the sort of lyrical piece that showed Emilio’s silvery soprano to best advantage. I was impressed with his trills, more so with his never-ending notes that seemed to echo off the starry dome above. Karl was pleased, as well; his profile displayed a grin as his fingers hammered the keys and his gaze bobbed between his instrument and the divine castrato.

But when it came time for bows, who did the audience cheer to the skies? Romeo! For once, a basso scored a triumph over a castrato. Cries of “Bravo” swelled over the applause. Mayor Bartoli’s wife even tossed Romeo a nosegay of posies under her husband’s astonished eyes.

As I stepped away from the window, a frisson of premonition ran up my spine. The many-headed monster of fashion had been fascinated with my kind for some time now. We castrati were the darlings of the public, the acknowledged princes of the stage. But nothing lasts forever. Were tastes about to change? Were more natural voices finally coming into their own?

I had no time to consider the matter; Grisella and I were on next. As we waited at the door, Emilio blew past, then Romeo, all smiles.

The audience welcomed Grisella and me with the same fervor as our two colleagues, and I was relieved to see my sister’s sullen expression change to joy. The air between us had been heavy with unspoken hurts and disappointments, but all tension dissolved as we took on the mantles of our characters.

Grisella made a lovely Asteria. She had costumed herself more thoroughly than the rest of us, and I wondered if her ensemble had traveled with her from Turkey. Baggy trousers peeked from under a close-fitting white robe topped with a damask jacket stiff with brocaded silver flowers and accented with wide, drooping sleeves. A scarf of glossy white silk confined her bright curls and hung down her back. Metallic spangles glittered along the hem of the scarf, which was held in place with a golden band wound round her head.

Grisella’s first aria presented her as a fragile creature, worried almost to death by the fate of her sultan papa. Her notes were true and brilliant, her acting wistful and tender. Every gesture, even the crook of her little finger, proclaimed her a captive princess.

Which only made me seem all the more terrible as I threatened to make her father food for my scimitar if she refused to become my queen. The audience booed and hissed, but I wasn’t worried. They were hissing the evil Tamerlano, not my singing abilities.

Grisella launched into her answering aria with flashing eyes and roulades so impassioned that several spangles popped off her costume. Beneath the princess’ wounded butterfly exterior lurked a steely resolve. Singing from the very front of the little stage, she let the audience in on her secret: she did intend to wed Tamerlano, but only so that she could stab him with a dagger smuggled into their wedding bed. In typical opera fashion, I had to stalk around in the background, stroking my trailing fake mustache while pretending I didn’t hear a word of her plan. Grisella outdid herself, ending with a crescendo di forza which brought the crowd to their feet. Flowers and excited cries of “Brava” rained down on the boards.

My sister was a true prima donna. Without a particle of modesty, she retrieved her flowers, signaled Karl, and repeated the aria not once, but twice. I must admit that I got out of character sufficiently to join my own applause with the tempestuous clapping that greeted each of her encores. My time would come. In our next round, I had an aria that would also astound.