4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight (6 page)

The women continued to bicker, yowling like angry cats, Octavia towering over Carmela by a head. Karl’s melancholy face sank lower and lower behind the harpsichord’s music stand, and the rest of the company began to stretch and chat as players tend to do during any rehearsal interruption, however contentious. Jean-Louis left his gazettes and spoke with Grisella in low, intense tones. Was he giving her a personal critique?

I didn’t join in any of their conversations. Carmela’s mention of St. Petersburg forced me to confront something I’d been trying to ignore. I strolled over to the loggia doors and gazed toward the lawn dozing under the gentle autumn sun. The lake beyond twinkled as if diamonds floated on its lazy waters, and the tops of the cypresses waved in the breeze. An idyllic scene. But last night, violence worthy of the most turbulent city had forced its way into this quiet paradise.

We were sure of only one thing concerning the murdered stranger. By virtue of his unique pistol, he had a connection to Russia. Within the space of the morning, I’d heard two women mention their own ties to that distant, northbound country. And one of them was my sister.

Chapter Five

After several more hours, we were released from one of the most grueling rehearsals I had ever endured. Octavia had been called away to tend to household affairs, and Karl had resumed his mantle of director with a vengeance.

Our maestro demanded perfection, not with the strident commands or biting sarcasm of some composers, but with steady encouragement to shift focus and imbue the music with the true expression of the poetry we sang. He was most insistent that the drama not be stifled by ornamentation. An interesting stance, I thought. Usually I was asked to invent as many flowery embellishments as possible.

I taxed my voice to meet Karl’s new challenges and was feeling exceedingly proud of my performance when the composer rose from the harpsichord.

“Very pretty,” he said with a small sigh. “You could easily carry their hearts away.”

I allowed myself no more than a modest nod. Emilio had been watching from the ring of chairs, trying to appear aloof and detached, but his flared jaw revealed his true state of mind. No need to further inflame his jealousy by basking in the composer’s praise.

Karl came to stand in front of me. He thumped on my chest as if he were knocking on a door. “A beautiful instrument you have here. But you forget, Tito. You’re playing a tyrant who has sacked villages and murdered thousands. You’ve callously abandoned your betrothed Irene, and you’re trying to force Asteria to marry you by offering to free her imprisoned father. If she doesn’t comply, you have every intention of cutting off both their heads. I want the audience to hate you—I want you to make them wish they could storm the stage and tear you to bits with their bare hands.”

Emilio broke into a broad grin. Romeo and Carmela traded appalled looks. I couldn’t see Grisella’s reaction; Karl blocked my view.

After a stunned moment I realized that the composer was absolutely correct. In my zeal to make beautiful music, I had sung Tamerlano as a light, roguish villain. I had not yet found the truth of his ruthless character. I gulped and mumbled, “
Si
, Maestro Weber.”

“Drink deep of Tamerlano,” the composer continued. “Come to know his barbarity, his blood lust—and show these to me after dinner. We will break for now.” After a decisive nod, Karl headed toward the loggia, where Nita was arranging a tray of lemonade and glasses.

I didn’t follow my fellow singers out to partake of refreshment. Karl’s criticism stung all the more for being well-considered, and I needed a moment to soothe my battered pride. I went to our room, hoping to find Gussie, but he wasn’t there. Vincenzo had probably installed him in the vineyard to begin sketching.

I rang for a footman. Giovanni answered my call and didn’t seem surprised when I requested a pot of tea.

“That Maestro Weber, he’s written a throat-scorcher for sure.”

“Indeed,” I replied baldly, then asked, “Giovanni, does the Post stop in the village?”

He nodded. “There’s a Post house and station at the bottom of the hill, just past the church.”

“When you come back with the tea, I’ll have a letter ready. I’d like you to take it into Molina Mori for me.”

A dubious look came over his handsome, young face. “I don’t know if I can get away, Signore. The mistress keeps us all very busy.”

Fortunately, my travels had taught me a thing a two about busy young footmen. “There’s a
zecchino
in it for you.”

“I’ll manage, then. Happy to be of service, Signore.” Giovanni bowed and withdrew.

I retrieved my writing case from the chest of drawers. I would ponder Tamerlano later; just then I was bursting to write to Alessandro. I scribbled the news of our sister with a stubby quill and enclosed my brother’s letter in a short note addressed to Benito. My manservant would take charge of sending the longer missive on its way to Constantinople. Barring bad weather, it should reach Alessandro in three weeks. I only wished I could be there to see my brother’s face when he realized he’d been fooled over the matter of Grisella’s grave.

Giovanni returned as I was heating wax for the seal. After I’d impressed my ring in the soft blob, the footman took charge of my letter as promised. I bathed my throat with several quick cups of tea and headed for the vineyard to deliver the news to Gussie.

***

“By Jove, but this is wonderful—Grisella alive! Nothing could please Annetta more.” Gussie’s sketching pad lay abandoned on the stone wall that overlooked the vine rows. His blue eyes danced with glee. “You
are
sure? I mean, this prima donna couldn’t be some sort of imposter, could she? I wouldn’t want to tell Annetta and then have to disappointment her.”

“I’m absolutely certain that Gabrielle Fouquet is my sister Grisella. Beyond that, I’m not sure of anything.” I spoke in low, unforced tones, resting my throat.

Gussie gathered his sticks of chalk into a leather portfolio. “I’ll start a letter immediately. I’ve accomplished enough for the day.”

“Whoa, don’t be so hasty. I’ve already written to Alessandro, but no one in Venice or here at the villa must know.”

Gussie gave me a perturbed stare.

“Grisella made me promise. Apparently this new husband of hers smuggled her out of Turkey one step ahead of a pasha who considers her a stolen piece of personal property. If he suspected she survived the fire and was appearing on the stage, he would be most anxious for her return.”

“Constantinople is a long way away, Tito. And your Grisella is now a married woman. She should have no reason to fear.”

The vineyard was hot; the afternoon sun bore down on men and vines more like July than September. I removed my hat and mopped my forehead with my sleeve. “If Grisella was being truthful, the pasha she fears may be from the Sultan’s inner circle.”

Gussie whistled under his breath. “Your little sister disappeared long before I came to Venice, but I’ve heard all the stories. Never does anything by halves, does she?”

“No, and I don’t suppose she’s much changed. Where this need for secrecy is concerned, I’d like to think her harsh experiences have made her overly cautious and her fears are unfounded, but… I don’t know. The Sultan’s empire stretches from Persia to Algiers and north across the mountains into Europe. Even the eastern coast of the Adriatic is now in Turkish hands. The Ottoman arm has a long reach when you look at it that way.”

“The man with the Russian pistol—you don’t think he could’ve been after Grisella, do you?”

“I can’t imagine that a Turk would send a European to do his dirty work. Or that any gentleman with an ounce of honor would take it on. Besides, we concluded that the stranger must have been expected. That hardly fits the picture of someone snatching Grisella to drag her back to Constantinople.”

Gussie nodded. “It’s more likely that this pasha forgot about your sister once he heard of her death. After all, she’s only one woman, and not exactly fresh—” He stopped short when he caught sight of my dark look. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to disparage her. My unbridled tongue is getting me in trouble, as usual.”

“Don’t worry. You’re only speaking the truth.” I sighed. “But let’s keep this to ourselves. Not even her husband knows her true origin, and that’s the way she wants it for now. We’ll explain to Annetta in good time, after I’ve wrung a few more details out of Grisella.”

“Gabrielle,” he replied, nodding.

“Eh?”

“You had better start thinking of her as Gabrielle, lest you slip and give the game away.”

I put a finger to my lips. I’d heard voices in the distance, and now they were coming closer. Two men rounded the end of the nearest trellis.

“If you would just let me explain, Signore.” Ernesto spoke in plodding, patient tones, but his shoulders balled in tense mounds under his loose, open-weave shirt.

Vincenzo grimaced impatiently. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks. His muscular chest was buttoned into a snug waistcoat topped by a neckcloth that was already half-sodden. He’d slung his jacket over his arm. “All right, tell me again.”

“Spring was unusually warm this year, and the buds broke through early. Then we had a hot summer, putting the crop ahead of schedule. These berries have wonderful color, but the flavor lags behind.” The steward plucked several grapes from the bulging purple clusters and offered them to his master. “You try a taste. You must chew the skin thoroughly—the skin tells the tale. These tell me they need to stay on the vine a bit longer.”

They walked toward us, Vincenzo chewing dutifully, Ernesto clasping his hands behind his back. Santini, the peasant who had helped put our carriage back on the road, loped into view and caught up with them in a few strides of his spindly, scarecrow legs.

Vincenzo paused to spit out grape skins. “All right, they could be sweeter. But next door, Luvisi has already started his harvest.”

“Signor Luvisi’s vines are a different variety,” Ernesto explained. “His berries are ready, yours are not. We must remain patient—that’s the key to unlocking the full flavor of any vintage.”

Behind him, Santini nodded his long chin.

Vincenzo mopped his cheeks with a cloth. “But Luvisi is getting ahead of us—”

“With all due respect, Signore.” Ernesto bobbed his head. “The harvesting of grapes is not a race. And if I might be allowed to venture a prediction, I believe we’re in for a cool spell, perhaps even some rain that will delay the harvest even further.”

Santini licked a finger and held it up to catch the breeze. He nodded again.

“Mercy me.” Vincenzo chewed at his lower lip. “Signora Dolfini won’t stand for that. The grapes will have to be in well before her concert. She’s planning a musical evening to show her opera off to the entire neighborhood. She wants the front steps of the villa planked over to make a temporary stage and benches set up in the drive. She won’t appreciate any competition from farm work.”

“And when does the signora plan on holding this concert?”

Vincenzo frowned uncertainly. “She’s told me, but I’m damned if I can recall the date now. I’ll have her speak to you about the arrangements.”

“Si
, Signore.” Ernesto bowed stiffly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the boys are cutting hemp in the north field, and I must make sure that the stalks are properly retted.”

“Yes, I was going to speak to you about that. I rode out that way this morning, and they seemed to be making a fearful mess of it. The crop was still on the ground, lying every which way. That big white dog was walking all over the cut hemp.”

Ernesto cleared his throat, and I caught Santini rolling his eyes before he dipped his gaze to the ground. The man’s tongue might be impaired, but his natural reason was clearly intact.

The steward replied, “The hemp stalks are left in the field for the dew and rain to start breaking down the fibers, but they must be stacked just so or rot will set in.”

“Oh yes, of course. Decidedly so.” Vincenzo nodded as if he had learned the vagaries of hemp farming at his father’s knee. “Go on, Ernesto and see to that, ah… retting.”

As the steward and his silent shadow left the vineyard by a gate in the stone wall, Vincenzo walked over to Gussie and me. “I hope both of you have had a more profitable day than I have.”

Gussie responded by opening his portfolio and spreading his sketches on the sun-drenched wall. In his modest manner, he said, “Mind you, these are only a start. I’ve been working my way around the vineyard, taking in several viewpoints so you could have your choice.”

“Yes. Very nice.” Vincenzo nodded as he inspected each drawing, then picked up several sheets by the corners. “I want you to paint both of these. This one with the hills stretching into the distance and this other that shows the lawn and the north side of the house in the background.” He sighed deeply, raising his gaze to the golden landscape that had inspired Gussie’s pen and chalk. “It will soon be time to return to the city, and I tell you, Signori, I dread it. This is the very meat of existence, living on the land as men were meant to.”

“You prefer the country to the city?” I asked.

Our host nodded vigorously, gesturing to the shimmering fields, the remote hills flaming orange and yellow. “Venice can hardly compare with this. There’s purity and virility in nature, while the city is smelly, dirty, and full of strangers on the prowl for who knows what. It’s not like the old days when the Arsenale was turning out three boats a day and the dock workers were never idle. Now a new vice lurks down every alleyway.”

Vincenzo had a point. I was a confirmed Venetian, never quite comfortable unless the undulating waters of the lagoon were a short walk away, but I had to admit that my city had changed
in recent years. Venice’s abiding tragedy was the shift of trade to Atlantic routes just as she was losing her territories in the eastern Mediterranean. Now England and Spain ruled the waves, and Venice, once the mighty queen of the seas, had become a
tawdry harlot, surviving on tourists lured to her nearly endless Carnevale.

“At least you will have my scenes of the estate hanging on your walls in town.” That was Gussie, ever able to find the patch of blue among the storm clouds.

“Ah, yes. Your paintings will be a comfort, but it won’t be like living at the villa. By the middle of October, I’ll have to leave my beloved farm for that den of thieves and murderers.”

Vincenzo seemed determined to ignore the murder that had invaded his Arcadia only the night before, but I couldn’t be so indifferent. “Signor Dolfini, I hope you won’t think me impertinent if I ask a question about the man who was killed here last night.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he inclined his head.

“Has any progress been made in identifying the unfortunate victim?”

“No, and I don’t expect there will be.”

“Why is that?”

“Ernesto had all the workers on the estate file past the body in the ice house. No one recognized him.”

“Did Ernesto give you his pistol? It’s of a rather unusual make.”

“Yes, it’s in my study, awaiting Captain Forti. But I don’t see how it will be of help. It’s obvious what happened.”