6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (5 page)

I waited restlessly, between Gussie and Benito, as a dozen or so orchestra musicians took their places on the stage framed by a gilded proscenium arch. The string musicians began tuning their instruments along with the harpsichord, and presently, a person who could only be Angeletto appeared at the edge of the tightly folded velvet curtain.

At last, the object of my quest stood before me, in full view, like a butterfly under a naturalist’s magnifying glass. I narrowed my focus into one gimlet beam, barely breathing.

The singer had come by his stage name honestly. He was the perfect picture of the sort of angel often portrayed in religious paintings, an anomalous being too delicately beautiful to be masculine, too sleekly powerful to be feminine. Anyone who knows the painting of Tobias and the Angel that hangs in the Church of the Madonna dell’Orto will take my meaning precisely. But, I reminded myself with a sigh, Angeletto wasn’t a heavenly creature. He was entirely human, either a male eunuch or a young woman in disguise, and I must decide which.

Angeletto moved to take his place beside the harpsichord. His carriage was stately and proud, as if he owned the stage, or perhaps the entire theater. He was dressed in full formal regalia, face whitened and rouged, starch-white wig curled in front and tied with a black satin bow behind. A patch decorated his right cheekbone—a sign of passion for those who indulge in the language of fashion. Lovely, yes, those bowed lips, delicately arched nose, and rounded chin that nestled in his lace-trimmed cravat. But were they female? Not necessarily.

Besides preserving our soprano voices, the cutting often bestowed other characteristics: tall height, lustrous hair that never went bald, peach-like skin, and a certain refinement in bone structure. It was all rather unpredictable—just as a few unfortunates ended up sounding like croaking frogs at the time when their voices would have naturally broken.

I lowered my gaze from Angeletto’s face to the figure covered by a suit of plum-colored taffeta trimmed in gold lace. I detected an unmistakable fullness of bosom—also not unusual in a castrato. The hours of daily vocalizing during boyhood, when the bones were still flexible, expanded our chest cavities to a noticeable degree.

Surprisingly bewildered, I decided to reserve judgment and concentrate on Angeletto’s singing.

His first selection was a popular aria by Jomelli that I’d also performed in years gone by. It demanded a voice as light and agile as a dancer’s physique, and Angeletto didn’t disappoint. He wove a spell of magic around the first deceptively simple melody, the slower second section, and on through the embellished repeat. Magic, I say, because Angeletto’s flashes of brilliance deafened the audience to his mistakes and imperfections. Not many, too be sure, but naturally I was able to detect them. I found myself planning strategies to help him correct them.

More operatic arias and concert songs followed. After each, the finely dressed Milanese supplied a terrific noise and clapping of hands, then fell eerily silent as their hero opened his mouth to begin again. The sheer stamina of Angeletto’s voice continued to astonish me. He could hold a heartrending, swelling note for what seemed like minutes, without any sign of strain or exhaustion.

If only I could tempt Angeletto into singing
The False Duke
, Caprioli’s schemes for the Teatro Grimani would come to nothing. Venice would be wild for him, and the San Marco’s seats would be full again. Maestro Torani’s worries would melt like an early spring snowfall—how I longed to see the fine old man relieved of his burdens.

With quickening hope, I tore my gaze from the stage to measure my companions’ response.

Gussie was impressed. His blue eyes were as round as saucers. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted in apparent admiration.

I whipped my head around.

Benito’s face was a total blank, and he refused to meet my eye.

At the end of the concert, as the rapid thunder of applause accosted my ears and flowers rained down on the stage, I sealed my conviction that Angeletto was a valid castrato. A woman could never deliver a song with the power Angeletto possessed. After all, that was why the peculiar practice of castrating boy sopranos had gone on for so many years—the preservation of the delicate larynx combined with the astounding size and power of a man’s lungs created a voice that defied earthly laws.

Angels, indeed.

With Gussie and Benito in tow, taking my time to let Angeletto’s well-wishers offer their tributes and clear out, I pushed through the chattering, excited crowd. I shushed Gussie so I could listen to the talk, but I heard no whispers of anything as it shouldn’t be. At last I located the pass door and again plumbed the depths of my purse for more coins to gain entrance to the dressing-room corridor.

A well-dressed woman was just slinking out of a door; she hid her face with her lace shawl as we passed. Now the corridor was deserted.

So certain was my conviction of Angeletto’s masculinity that Gussie’s first words sent me reeling. He said, “A shame about your
Duke
, Tito. It would have been a deuce more entertaining than the usual fare.”

I felt my breath catch. “What do you mean, ‘would have been’?”

“Well, you said you wouldn’t hire Angeletto if the rumors are true, and if Signorina Beatrice doesn’t have her Angeletto, the Savio won’t allow
The False Duke
to proceed.” Gussie regarded me sympathetically. “Isn’t that right?”

I’d raised my hand to pound on Angeletto’s door, actually placed my palm on the paneled wood. Now I let my arm fall, unable to believe what I was hearing. “But I need Angeletto. I must hire him to come to Venice and save the opera house.”

“Oh, Tito, you’re joking. Anyone could see that Angeletto is a woman, even dressed and coiffed as a man. An irresistible beauty, in fact.”

“Gussie, no.” I took a hard gulp. “It’s an illusion. Castrati who sing female roles are drilled in this art. I thought you of all people would see through to the man beneath.”

“What I saw was a woman revealing herself in a hundred little ways. Didn’t you catch those melting glances, the perfection of face and figure?”

I stood quietly stunned. Then I recognized the dreamy look in Gussie’s eyes for what it was. “You fancy him,” I said accusingly.

“Her, Tito.
Her
.” Gussie jutted a belligerent chin. “Angeletto has to be a woman.”

“Has to be? Why?”

“Because…” Gussie shot me a disgusted look. A blush crept up his neck. “Well, hang it all…because I’ve never in my life been attracted to a man.”

Benito had been listening attentively, his birdlike gaze shifting between my face and Gussie’s. Grasping his shoulder, I asked fiercely, “What do you think?”

For once my manservant refused to state an opinion. His eyes clouded, and he answered as if behind an invisible veil, “I think the matter requires further study.”

How absurd. How frustrating. Apparently, Gussie and I each imagined Angeletto to be of the sex we wanted him to be. And Benito’s famed candor had deserted him.

Thoroughly annoyed, my mind in a tumult, I knocked on Angeletto’s dressing room door.

Chapter Five

“
Avanti
,” a woman’s voice shrieked.

We entered to find an antechamber occupied by a hard-eyed woman tending the wig Angeletto had worn for the concert. I put her age at fifty or more. Small hands, as mottled as a quail’s egg, gathered a curl here, snipped an errant lock there. Her flat bosom was encased in a black bodice that had faded to a dusty gray; her white apron was frayed at the hem and none too clean. With one last decisive snip of her scissors, she raised her gaze from the wig stand and pursed her lips.

“Signora Vanini?” I inquired, making my bow. Somewhat pompously, I admit, for I was brimming over with the gravity of my mission.

She nodded and flicked her scissors’ sharp tips at a credenza heaped with flowers and other small tributes. “If you have a present for my son, put it over there. Thank San Gennaro you didn’t come packing flowers.” She slipped a felt bag over the wig and continued in an irritated tone, “What am I supposed to do with flowers, I ask you? Can’t sell them, can’t eat them.”

In the woman’s chopped syllables, I recognized the rude dialect of backstreet Naples. I also recognized something else: her carbuncle eyes glinted with the look of a peasant calculating what use she might make of the three fools Fortune had delivered to her door.

I bristled. Taken for a fawning dolt when I’d traveled all the way to Milan to make a generous offer!

Gussie spoke up hurriedly, “This is Signor Tito Amato—from the Teatro San Marco in Venice.”

“Eh? An opera house?” She rubbed her hands, then hastily crossed them over her apron. Her wrinkled lips smoothed into an ingratiating smile.

“Venice’s foremost opera house,” I answered solemnly.

“You liked my Carlo’s singing, Signore? You think you could use him?”

Signora Vanini certainly wasted no time on going to the heart of the matter. Perhaps negotiations would prove easier than I’d first expected.

“Carlo!” she shrieked.

A rear door opened. Six young women of varying ages spilled though it, all dressed similar to Signora Vanini in shades of brown and gray, all pretty in a modest way. Angeletto followed, wrapped in a trailing banyan of brilliant blue. A soft, turban-like cap of the same hue had replaced the periwig. Now I saw that his own hair fell to his shoulders in chestnut brown ringlets, here and there tinged with gold. I was eager to get a look at his neck—the prominence of his larynx could be revealing—but a length of tightly wrapped toweling prevented me.

Waving her apron and squawking commands, Signora Vanini set the girls to gathering discarded ribbons and buckles, folding garments, and clearing away flowers. They fluttered around the edges of the room like a flock of sparrows. Carlo—Angeletto—was the peacock in their midst.

As I made our introductions, the singer smiled languidly. One hand rested on the toweling at his neck.

“It is a pleasure to know you, Signori,” he whispered. His luminous gaze swept over the three of us, then settled on me. “You are the man who was staring at me before the concert.”

“For good reason. I was very anxious to hear you sing. Your voice came highly recommended.”

“I hope you weren’t disappointed.”

“You were magnificent,” I said simply.

He acknowledged my compliment with a silent bow. From the sidelines, his mother’s ears were practically flapping under her frilled cap. The girls nodded in unison.

I asked, “Where did you study, Signore?”

Angeletto hesitated and his crone of a mother jumped in. “With Belcredi.” Not a shriek this time. More of a cackle. “The famous singing teacher, Belcredi, was my son’s first and last master.”

I gave her a nod. “I met Belcredi when I studied at the Conservatorio San Remo. He had a reputation as a hard taskmaster.”

“That’s as may be.” She squeezed one beady eye shut. “But I’ll tell you this—Belcredi was our miracle—our instrument of God.”

Angeletto finally got his word in: “I could not have been better treated if I were his own son. Maestro Belcredi found me in a church choir where the priest had given me the rudiments of a musical education. He took me away that very day. I was ten years old, and he stood me up on the back of a cart and made me sing all the hymns and songs I’d ever learned. Maestro said I had a perfect ear and perfect larynx. If I would submit to the operation and to his training, I could someday sing on stages and in courts throughout Europe.”

“Your father—he allowed this?”

“Our father was dead, Signore. I’d become the man of the family, and I decided. I submitted to the knife and studied hard. I never shirked my exercises. Meanwhile, Maestro Belcredi gave my mother work as his housekeeper and provided lodging for all of us. He promised to use his influence to secure a place for me at one of the great courts— Vienna or Dresden— but before that could happen…” Angeletto trailed off with a wistful shrug.

“Belcredi died in a cholera epidemic,” I supplied, having had the news from one of my Neapolitan friends nearly a year ago.

The singer nodded.

Gussie stirred, and we exchanged a telling look. If the Vanini family was concealing a secret, how convenient that Angeletto’s teacher was beyond the reach of questions.

“Our continuing tears pay him homage,” Angeletto said quietly, fingering the sash of his banyan. Several of the girls nodded sadly. One sniffed loudly until shushed by Signora Vanini.

Then Benito cleared his throat. Loudly. I took the cue.

“Have you sung in Rome?” I asked Angeletto.

“One season. At the Teatro Argentina.”

“In a female role?”

He nodded. “Maestro Belcredi came to believe that singing the prima donna would make my career.”

For an instant I felt vindicated—Angeletto had passed the dreaded examination!—then I remembered Benito’s account of how to fashion a wax phallus. Nothing was certain. And yet, I just couldn’t convince myself that Angeletto was a woman in the clothing of a man. I truly believed that this singer could be our savior—if he wanted to be.

The room felt hot, close, and crowded, and I was suddenly aware that everyone in it was staring at me, waiting for me to state the purpose of our visit. Gussie’s eyes were soft and wide with concern; Benito’s narrowed. In warning? Was my manservant sending me a silent message?

And Angeletto—though the beautifully molded planes of his face were as placid as a distant mountain slope, I sensed that he was brimming with anticipation.

It was time to throw the dice and see where they landed. On a deep breath, I made one last search of my heart and found no wavering there.

“Signor Vanini,” I said, “I would like to engage you as primo uomo for the autumn season at the Teatro San Marco.”

Angeletto’s glorious smile told me all I needed to know, but he evaded discussing financial matters or making a commitment—in the most gracious manner possible. Whoever had taught him his diction and manners clearly wasn’t his unsophisticated mother. Presently, he put a hand to his forehead and murmured, “Forgive me, Signor Amato. I am very tired. You must take the details of business up with my manager.”

I bowed.

He bowed.

Signora Vanini yelled for reinforcements.

***

Maria Luisa Vanini was clearly not a young woman born to tending hearth and home. I’d seen that the moment she’d passed through the inner door. It wasn’t the luxuriant brown hair tortured into a severe knot. Or the upper lip troubled by the dark down often observed in women of southern climes. Not even the pair of old man’s steel spectacles that sat on the bridge of her gracelessly arched nose. No, it was a particular amalgam of carriage and expression that I knew so well from my years with Liya.

Hardheaded, practical, resourceful.

Those words defined my wife and the qualities that had carried her through a painful break with her Hebrew family after a forbidden romance and an out-of-wedlock child with a long-departed Christian scoundrel. Hardheadedness, particularly, sustained Liya through the self-imposed exile in Monteborgo, the mountain village that clung to the old ways and the ancient gods. I supposed all of those qualities sustained her still. It couldn’t be easy for Liya, living in an unsanctioned marriage with me. The once celebrated Tito Amato. Now a voiceless castrato whose fame and fortune were dwindling away—and whose amorous fervor would never match that of normal men no matter what virilizing potions his skillful wife concocted.

“Your terms—what are they?” Maria Luisa’s matter-of-fact tones stopped my musings in their tracks.

We were alone. The younger girls and their mother had followed Angeletto through the inner door like muddy water swirling down a street drain in the wake of a bright wisp of carnival refuse. Maria Luisa had ordered Gussie and Benito into the corridor.

“Signorina Vanini,” I tightened my back muscles, straightened my shoulders, “the Teatro San Marco offers three thousand silver ducats for the three months of the autumn season and necessary rehearsals.”

“It’s not enough, Signore. My brother supports a large family.”

“Is it necessary that the full complement of sisters accompany him to Venice? How many of you are there, anyway?”

“We are eight. Four sisters and a pair of orphaned cousins—then our mother and myself. Carlo requires our presence.”

“Requires? For what purpose?”

“To ensure his tranquility. If my brother is to sing at his best, he must have adequate rest and well-ordered surroundings. As his family, we are bound to protect him from disquiet and any ignoble sentiment that might disturb his artistic nature.”

Blessed Virgin! A pang of resentment coursed through my gut as I recalled the appalling conditions I’d performed under when my career was just beginning. Drafty dressing rooms, macaroni for dinner day after day, unwashed costumes that stank of sweat and crawled with lice. But Angeletto—
he
required tranquility. Who did this hothouse blossom think he was? The great Farinelli?

Much as I would’ve loved to march straight out of the door, loyalty to the Teatro San Marco kept me rooted to the spot. You must strike a bargain with this sensitive angel’s sister-manager to win the war with Lorenzo Caprioli, I admonished myself.

“In addition to your brother’s fee,’ I said. “I’m also authorized to offer lodging appropriate for a gentleman and his entourage for the run of the contract.” Before I’d set off for Milan, Signor Passoni had expressly ordered me to invite Angeletto—undoubtedly at the tyrant Beatrice’s behest—to stay at the Ca’Passoni. The Savio wouldn’t be expecting such an invasion of Vanini sisters and cousins, but he would be gracious. That was the sort of man he was, and, after all, the Ca’Passoni was a roomy mansion.

I ladled on the honey: “You will be the guests of a high-ranking Venetian aristocrat.”

Maria Luisa dipped her chin and sent me a cool look over her spectacles. “That is only as it should be. You will have to do better on the cash settlement, with at least ten percent due on signing. We have…immediate expenses.”

“Travel?”

“Among other things.”

All right. I was willing to give a little, but I made my tone firm and resolute. There would be no further offers. “Three thousand and five hundred, Signorina.”

“Four thousand. You said yourself that Carlo’s voice is magnificent.”

Ah, Maria Luisa had overheard my conversation with her brother. Did all young woman make a habit of listening at doors these days? At least it told me that this one was sly in addition to calculating and clever.

I shook my head. “While I acknowledge that your brother is an exceptional performer, the Teatro San Marco has many demands on its accounts. You have our final offer. If we cannot engage Angeletto, there are other singers who will fit the role.”

“How many of them are riding a tide of public acclaim as high as Carlo’s? Four thousand is not too much to ask for a voice that will astound Venice as completely as it has Milan.” She smiled, along with a modest flutter of eyelashes. Another woman could have made the gesture flattering, even seductive. Not Maria Luisa Vanini. Coquetry didn’t suit her one whit.

When I failed to respond, she said, grumpily. “Very well. I’ll agree to your terms—if Carlo is allowed to give private concerts in his leisure time and to retain his full compensation for doing so.”

“I have no objection as long as he remains in good voice for performances.”

“Understand this, Signor Amato—” She stabbed the air with a forefinger. “Carlo will sing no more than six full-length performances per week—I won’t have his throat worn down from overuse.”

Ah, Carlo, the delicate flower. Raising an eyebrow, I replied smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of overtaxing him.”

She adjusted her spectacles, then nodded slowly. “When do you propose to begin preparation for the opera?”

Yesterday, I thought, given that the Teatro Grimani had been rehearsing
Venus and Adonis
for well over a week. But I said, “As soon as possible. Perhaps you would allow me to make travel arrangements?”

“I’ll see to it,” Maria Luisa snapped.

Ouch! I inclined my head. “As you wish, Signorina.”

Maria Luisa fetched pen, ink, and paper. Like a man of business, this unusual girl kept a traveling desk at the ready. This she set up on the credenza which the younger girls had cleared of flowers, and within a quarter hour, she’d written out two copies of a contract in a rapid but precise clerical hand.

She handed me the quill. A flush had come to her cheeks, a candid, sweet smile to her lips. At that moment, Maria Luisa looked almost pretty. Unfortunately, not as pretty as her brother.

I returned the smile and signed the documents, silently congratulating myself that my grand scheme for the opera house was coming together at last.

***

Whenever I traveled, it was always the small elements of home that I craved. The next afternoon, as the carriage’s rhythmic rocking and an inn’s roast pork dinner conspired to lull Gussie and Benito to sleep, various scenes popped into my mind. Our dining table set with my mother’s blue and white plates, the ones that seemed to hide a cryptic tale in their Oriental scenes. My adopted son Titolino’s toy soldiers arrayed in mock battle in a sunny corner of the sitting room floor. The potted palm my sailor brother Alessandro had carried back from the Levant as a tender green shoot. Most of all, I looked forward to the scent of Liya’s orange-blossom eau de cologne in the parts of the house she frequented. And the special way she had of hugging me as I came and went. She liked to pass her arms under my jacket, press herself against me, and brush her fingertips along the small of my back.