6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (13 page)

Assuredly. A wise woman had performed our hand-fasting, because my Liya had years ago embraced the oldest faith of all, the secret worship of the mother goddess in the guise of Diana. My born-Hebrew, ostensibly Christian wife was a true Pagan. In a secluded garden lined with pomegranate trees, the wise woman had bound our forearms with a silver cord and proclaimed us “twined as the vine as long as love doth last.” No matter that the Christian world looked on Liya as my mistress—a castrato is not allowed the sacrament of marriage at any rate—no matter that our upstanding neighbors thought of our household as a dirty nest of theatrical riff-raff. As long as Liya loved me, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

After all, what in Venice wasn’t a masquerade in those decadent days?

Once the boatman had pushed away from the Ghetto landing, I had him row down the Canal Regio to the Grand Canal. After we’d passed under the Rialto Bridge, I directed him into the narrow waterway where the sprawling mass of the Ca’Passoni lay. Three times I ordered him up and down the canal that was barely five feet wide, pausing at certain points before finally sending him back across the city. At Maestro Torani’s landing steps the gondolier accepted his coins with the irreverence of his kind: “Maybe next time the signore will be able to make up his mind.”

At least I’d discovered one thing. The Savio’s garden wall rose sheer from the water without handhold or foothold. A stone railing with urn-shaped balusters topped it. No tree branches or vines dipped to meet the canal. The garden itself, like most in my soil-poor city, was small and narrow. It ran only half the length of the side of the palazzo. The only way in, except through the house, was by an austerely barred gate at the top of a short flight of water-lapped steps. If Grillo—or anyone else—had entered the garden from the canal last night, he’d arrived by boat and someone had raised the gate’s iron bar from the inside. Someone who’d been watching and waiting for him—the pretty maid, I’d be bound. One more thing: if Grillo had scrambled over the wall after our fight, he would have had a thorough dunking in the canal.

At Torani’s lodgings, I was surprised to find the recessed door to the building’s vestibule standing wide open. An untidy, twine-bound pile of musical manuscripts sat on the red and black tiles; the breeze sweeping down the canal ruffled the top pages. A
peota
was tied up at a nearby mooring post, and the cargo boat already held several wooden crates and a large trunk. Wondering what was going on, I trudged up the creaking stairs up to the maestro’s apartments.

Instead of Tedi, it was Peppino who greeted me in the cramped foyer. Torani’s gondolier had traded his boatman’s sash for a canvas apron. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his lank curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Huffing from exertion, holding my aching midsection, I listened to Peppino’s halting explanation.

“Signora Dall’Agata ordered us to pack it all up—at least everything she didn’t take.” He made a vague gesture toward the sitting room where Torani’s valet was pulling books off shelves. Open crates stood ready to receive them. “She hired the boat down below. I don’t know where it’s taking Maestro Torani’s things. A warehouse? Or maybe she’s sold them.” His voice broke with emotion. “The maestro wouldn’t like this…no, not one bit.”

“Where is Signora Dall’Agata?” I asked, irritated by this unexpected development.

Peppino shrugged. “She’s gone.”

“Yes, but where? Her lodgings?”

He shook his head violently. “No, Signor Amato. She ran out several hours ago. Said she had to get over to the mainland and meet the boat to Padua.” His damp brow furrowed. “She spoke of traveling north to take the waters.”

“
Dio mio
!” I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. “She’s left Venice for a spa?” I was growing more disturbed by the second. It appeared that Tedi had taken flight less than a day after Torani’s murder, leaving her lover’s affairs to his pair of servants.

I stepped into the sitting room, momentarily confounded by its emptiness. The striped sofa and chairs and the marble-top table were gone. On the green flocked walls, lighter rectangles showed where paintings and mirrors had been removed. Torani’s manservant was working at the nearly empty shelves. He was sharper than Peppino; his name was Maurino. “What is going on?” I asked him.

“Signor Amato.” Maurino wiped his dusty hands on his apron. He was a small, white-haired, pot-bellied man of sixty years or so. Despite his age he was quite robust, but today Maurino’s shoulders drooped and the wrinkles spreading from his reddened eyes had deepened. The man’s been crying, I thought, and it suddenly struck me that Maurino had served Torani for over ten years, the same amount of time that Benito had been with me.

Grasping his shoulder, I shook my head. “It’s a terrible thing, Maurino. I can’t make sense of it.”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “What is the world coming to—when a man like my master can be beaten down like a mad dog?”

“I mean to find out who did it.” I gave his shoulder another squeeze before dropping my hand. “The killer will be punished, I promise you.”

The old manservant nodded, sadly and without enthusiasm. He’d lived long enough to understand the vagaries of Venetian justice. Wearily he reached for another book.

“Wait,” I said. “Tell me what’s going on here.”

“Signora Dall’Agata has gone. She charged Peppino and me with clearing the apartment, and…” He sighed from the tips of his toes.“When we’re finished, that’s it. We lock the door and go.”

“Is it true she’s set off for a spa?” I still couldn’t credit it.

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“She didn’t say, Signor Amato.”

Damnation! Tedi could be headed practically anywhere. Mineral cures were the latest rage. On every Alpine foothill with a bubbling spring, a hopeful entrepreneur had built a hotel and offered a casino and other amusements to keep the health-seeker content between baths.

“No mention of a town or village?”

He shook his head. “Signora Dall’Agata awoke before dawn—I’m not certain she actually slept. Throughout the morning, she was in a great hurry, giving orders about the maestro’s papers, his belongings. She sold the bedding and furniture to the first Jew who showed up—she accepted his offer without bargaining at all. I’ve never seen the like. And then Signor Passoni came, and she shut them both in the maestro’s study for a long time.”

Signor Passoni? The Savio alla Cultura paying a call on the mistress of a dead opera director? Well, the circumstances of Torani’s death were unusual to say the least.

“I don’t suppose you would know what they discussed?”

“When they came out, Signora Dall’Agata told us that tomorrow Maestro Torani would be given a funeral mass at San Nicoletto and afterward laid to rest in the crypt—in the Passoni family’s own vault. The Savio agreed to bear all expenses of the ceremony.”

“And Tedi won’t be there,” I said faintly, wondering if Liya and I would be welcome in the church founded by the Savio’s illustrious ancestors. Then, as carefully as if I were picking my way across a rain-slick bridge, I said, “I know you for an honorable man, Maurino, always with your master’s best interests at heart. Is it possible you were still caring for him by…ah…”

“Listening at the door?” He raised thick white eyebrows, daring me to criticize.

I wouldn’t think of it—that was precisely what I hoped to hear.

Chapter Thirteen

Maurino pressed a forefinger beside his red-veined nose, then glanced warily over his shoulder. Peppino was shifting valises from the bedroom to the foyer. Maurino called to the gondolier, “Take those down to the boat. I’ll have another crate ready in a few minutes.” As Peppino complied, the manservant rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture of relief. “That will buy us few minutes. A snail moves faster than that facchino.”

“You don’t trust him?”

Maurino crossed his arms. “Peppino is a good lad, if you overlook his laziness. He doesn’t cheat at dice and would never take a
soldo
that wasn’t his. But,” the manservant interrupted himself with a snort, “the poor boy’s tongue is a slave to drink. If you sit Peppino down in a tavern and keep the wine flowing, he’ll spill everything he knows and more.”

I nodded. “What did the Savio and Signora Dall’Agata discuss that you’d rather all Venice didn’t hear?”

Torani’s manservant drummed the fingers of one hand on the back of the other. Several emotions warred on his face. After a momentary struggle, a sorrowful sheepishness took the field. “My master was ruined. He liked to call it ‘a situation of temporary necessitude.’ Penniless, strapped, beggared is what I say.”

I was stunned, jolted. After years of service to the Teatro San Marco, Torani made a handsome salary, nearly as much as the opera’s castrati stars. And he didn’t live high. The maestro was simply too busy to indulge himself in costly travel or luxuries. His new wig was the first he’d had made in years, and he always bought a modest grade of snuff, confining himself to one pound a month. Maintaining his own gondola—until it was smashed—would have been Torani’s most flagrant expense.

“How could this be?” I asked, wondering if Maurino knew Maestro Torani’s business as well as he thought he did.

“Some months ago, my master came to a decision. I don’t know what prompted it. He wasn’t ill. He seemed as vigorous as ever, but he took it into his head to retire to the mainland with Signora Dall’Agata. She argued for staying in Venice. ‘Who wants to stare at a lot of pigs and geese and grapevines all day?’ she said. ‘There would be no amusement whatsoever.’ But it was as if an insect bearing the idea had drilled itself into his brain.” Maurino took up a dust rag and twisted it through his hands. “My master would talk of nothing else. He and Signora Dall’Agata would go to the banks of the River Brenta and live in a villa—not a modest villa, mind you, but an estate as grand as any owned by the families of the Golden Book.”

The manservant regarded me pleadingly. “I ask you, Signor Amato, what made the old man hunger for something so far above his station? It’s just not right.”

I had no idea and told Maurino so. Then I asked. “Is that how Torani paupered himself? Sinking his savings into property that he couldn’t afford?”

“No.” The manservant’s sheepish look became so pronounced and melded so perfectly with his tight white curls, he could have been an old ewe staring over a fence. “One night the maestro happened to enjoy a run of luck at the Ridotto. He doubled his money at the wheel not once, but several times. He was amazed to see his stake end up on the right square time after time. He couldn’t lose! When he came home, quite late, he was so excited I could barely ready him for bed. He vowed to return the next night and repeat his feat. ‘Dame Fortune has taken me under her wing,’ he said. ‘The Blessed Virgin has put a word in her ear, and I’m finally being rewarded for all my years of hard work.’

“My master truly believed he could amass enough ducats to buy the villa he longed for.” Maurino spread his hands. “Of course, the miracle never repeated itself, but Maestro Torani kept trying.”

I felt my heart sink to my knees. I knew this story so well, there was no need for further explanation. My father had also been convinced that he possessed a particular genius for beating the faro bank, and when he played against a banker who used an honest dealer’s box, Papa would manage to win often enough to bolster that conviction to an out-and-out religion. Until his death at the hands of his creditors, he was certain that his last, great triumph—the win that would allow him a life of ease—was just around the next bend.

I hadn’t realized that Maestro Torani had sunk so low. And so quickly. I thought it over while Maurino dusted a few more books and transferred them to the crate.

Because of my father’s actions, I could understand why Torani had kept his gambling from me. But had he also been ashamed to let any of his other friends help him? If so, why? Nearly all my countrymen relished a chancy adventure. Gambling was in our blood. Venice had married her fortune to the sea long ago, as commemorated by the Ascension Day ritual of the Doge casting a golden ring into the Adriatic. Setting out in a ship laden with goods or soldiers was nothing more than a gamble on a grand scale. Fortunes were regularly made, then quickly lost to a tempest or marauding corsairs. Still and all, few Venetians were feckless enough to throw good money after bad at the Ridotto. Though the Republic maintained the gambling house to plump up the state coffers, any sensible man or woman enjoyed a few bets and then proceeded to other pleasures. We left reckless Ridotto gambling to the punters from England or France.

But not Maestro Torani apparently. A lucky wager had actually been misfortune in disguise and made him lose his head. If I believed in demons, I’d think a particularly powerful one had climbed on his back.

I found myself stating the obvious: “If Maestro Torani played, he lost. If he kept losing, he owed money to someone.”

Maurino groaned, very faintly. “He did sell a lot of things.”

I snapped my fingers. “The paperweight he loved so much, the Doge’s gift—it disappeared from his desk at the theater.”

“I know the one. It and many other baubles went to the Ghetto pawn shops—but they didn’t bring in enough. Not by half.”

“Did Signora Dall’Agata and the Savio speak of this while they were closeted in the study?”

Maurino nodded. “She explained about the bravos who’d sent the maestro increasingly violent warnings—his Ridotto losses were the least of it—he’d taken to frequenting a private casino that allowed him to run up a large tally. There were several nasty encounters he’d managed to keep secret. Then one early morning as he returned home, a man in a domino pushed him into a covered passageway and battered him with a cudgel. My poor master lay there for hours—thank Heaven it wasn’t winter—he would have frozen to death. Signora Dall’Agata and I found him only by the grace of God.”

I shook my head. When I’d noticed Torani’s injury that day we’d talked on the Rialto, he fed me a story of a cat dislodging a roof tile. A cat! I’d swallowed the maestro’s lies like an infant licking syrup from a spoon. Dolt that I was!

Maurino continued, “Signora Dall’Agata was frightened out of her wits and scrambled to raise money to pay those money grubbers—sold her jewels, every last one, I believe—but before she could complete the transaction…” His voice faltered.

“The bravos ambushed Peppino and Torani on the canal,” I finished for him.

He nodded, lips set in a tight line.

Scales dropped from my eyes. I became aware of a novel emotion—a pang of guilt over that buffoon, Lorenzo Caprioli. I almost wanted to find him and apologize for my suspicions. Caprioli might be responsible for many foul acts, but he hadn’t scuttled Maestro Torani’s gondola as I’d been convinced.

“Oh, Maurino.” I sighed, sick at heart. “Why did you not tell me of this?”

“I wanted to. Truly. Signora Dall’Agata wouldn’t allow it. She said she had cleared my master’s debts and would see to it that he didn’t run up any more. How could he, anyway? After his dunking in the canal, he was barely strong to walk from his bed to his desk.”

“What did Signor Passoni have to say about the maestro’s misfortunes?”

Maurino grabbed a stout leather-bound volume, blew dust off the top, and swiped his cloth over the cover. He placed the book in the crate and talked as he continued his work. “The Savio was most gracious. I believe he felt some responsibility for the murder, for allowing a killer to invade his palazzo. He offered to take charge of the funeral and told Signora Dall’Agata to refer any of the maestro’s outstanding bills to his own man of business.”

“Generous,” I murmured.

“Yes, in all things.”

“Eh?”

“She asked for something else, in whispers. I couldn’t make it all out, but I think she requested an allowance to put toward her own upkeep.” Maurino turned toward the foyer. Peppino had returned. Quickly, the valet finished, “I believe Signor Passoni accommodated her.”

Maurino beckoned to Peppino. As the two men shifted the heavy crate toward the foyer, I walked over to the window that overlooked the canal. I stood there for a moment wondering and worrying, then pressed my forehead against the cool glass. A gondola slid by, carrying a quartet of English dandies. The boatman was singing for their benefit, an old
barcarola
that resounded off the stones. On the opposite pavement, a girl shading her face with a parasol sent them a saucy wave. As her older companion batted her arm down, one dandy stood up and sketched a shaky bow. Only the steadying grasp of his fellows kept him from falling in the water. Everyone laughed, even the girl’s duenna.

Despite the charming scene, a chill passed over me, and I involuntarily stepped back.

You lose the ones you love, I thought, but life rolls on its way unheeding—a joy, a sorrow, and a mystery.

***

Maurino had one other surprise for me.

When he returned, I again questioned him about Tedi’s hasty exit. He appeared truly bewildered and could offer no explanation, but he did conduct me into the cramped burrow of Maestro Torani’s study. It was a slant-ceilinged room paneled in cream and light green with a frayed rush mat covering the floor. The single wing chair and side table I was accustomed to seeing in the window gable were gone. The writing desk, which was smaller and much neater than Torani’s desk at the theater, was the only piece of furniture remaining.

“Did the Jew not buy the desk?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t fit on his cart—he had it piled to the sky. He’ll return for another load. That letter is addressed to you—Signora Dall’Agata left it.” Maurino indicated an ivory-colored rectangle. It sat exactly in the center of a swath of ragged-edged blotting paper. A bulbous pottery olive-oil lamp held one curling corner in place. There was no inkwell set. It must have gone to the pawn broker along with so many other things.

I reached for the letter.

Tito
, the front read, just
Tito
. It had been addressed in Torani’s acutely sloping hand, folded in quarters, and sealed with a red blob of wax. I stiffened my thumb to remove the seal, but suddenly thought better of it. I glanced up at Maurino. Like the perceptive servant he was, he bowed and left me in privacy.

I stowed the letter in an inside pocket. I’d read it later—when I was ready. Now, I wanted to search the desk away from Maurino’s curious eyes, however loyal they may be. Torani had sold anything that would plump up his pocketbook, but perhaps he’d kept a few treasures of the heart, sentimental relics that might furnish a clue as to who wanted him out of the way.

I poked my long fingers into all of the desk’s little drawers and niches. They’d been emptied of everything except the usual detritus that tends to accumulate—soiled pen wipes, empty ink jars, dunning letters from tailor and wine merchant—but I wasn’t finished. I lifted the blotter, remembering how Torani had concealed Angeletto’s contract in his office at the theater. If luck was with me…yes! My fingers touched something. I withdrew a few crackling sheets. Music!

The light was poor, so I stepped over to the window that overlooked a sunny courtyard filled with drying laundry. I shuffled the papers into two matching piles, an easy task since two different hands were represented. One was full and rounded, the other spidery and slanting. Then I fanned both piles out on the wide window sill.

I was looking at two original compositions.

The one on the right I’d seen before. The composer had handed it to me himself. It was part of Rocatti’s handwritten manuscript for
The False Duke
, actually one of the soprano arias that Oriana had sung at the reception last night.

I frowned as I scrutinized the piece on my left. The paper was older. It had aged to a tannish hue, and the musical notations that danced over the printed staves were slightly faded. Also an original, this score gave evidence of more tentative composition than Rocatti’s. Some notes were crossed out with flurried strokes and others scratched in. Ink blotches smudged the margins. But—I quickly scanned the staves with the tune unreeling in my head—except for a few nuances, the arias were virtually the same.

Whose work was this? Squinting at the slanting letters, I could just make out a signature at the top right-hand corner of the yellowed sheet. A large A followed by a smaller N, then a T. Antonio!

The surname was even lighter, but it began with a large V that sloped to the left like a sail filled with wind, then an I and another V. The rest of the signature thinned out to a wiggly line, but there was only one composer who could have penned this score—Antonio Vivaldi.

What had Maestro Torani whispered to Signora Passoni after the concert? “Don’t you hear the whispers of Vivaldi, my dear?” She’d jumped like she’d been prodded with a hot poker.

Whispers, my left foot. This was a shout of Vivaldi, a fanfare, a blast of trumpets.

I gathered the lot and took off at a run, recalling the bundle of scores I’d seen tied up in the vestibule downstairs. Was there more of this Vivaldi manuscript concealed in that untidy bale?

I clattered down the uncarpeted stairs with my heart in my mouth. The red-and-black-tiles of the vestibule were an empty chessboard. With a frustrated sigh, I stepped outside and looked up and down the thin strip of pavement along the canal. The scores were gone, of course.

And so was the anonymous boat Tedi had hired to carry off Maestro Torani’s personal effects.