6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (6 page)

Another day passed, and at long last, our carriage reached Mestre, the mainland port across the lagoon from Venice. Though the sun had dipped behind the low hills and the dockmen were straggling towards tavern or home, we managed to locate a boat with two oars and two sails whose owner agreed to ferry us across. After an hour fighting the uncooperative tide, we landed at the San Girolamo quay at the tip of the Cannaregio.

Night had fallen with a vengeance—moonless, heavily misted, without form or shape except for the globes of light surrounding the landing lamps. Benito roused a porter to unload our luggage, and soon Gussie had set off down the fog-blanketed canal in a gondola with a lanterns hung at prow and stern.

My house was closer. I walked along the pavement by the canal, careful to keep within arm’s length of the hushed houses that sheltered Venice’s more modest citizens: artisans, shopkeepers, clerks, and fishermen. Most houses were dark—their inhabitants rose early—but a few still showed ladders of lamplight filtering through their shutters. Benito and the porter with his cart followed behind me, the noise of its trundling wheels muffled by the fog.

Blind to my usual landmarks, I came upon the familiar door before I expected it.

Chilly fingers of mist brushed my cheeks as I stepped back to survey my home’s fuzzed outlines. I’d bought the three-story stucco house with the iron balconies and enclosed garden when my boyhood home on the Campo di Polli had become too small for my growing family—back when I was paid twice what I’d offered Angeletto. Though we were comfortable here, I knew that many needed repairs were hiding under the blanket of fog, waiting for better times. These days my property was considerably grander than my purse.

But I was home! Putting money worries aside, I hastened to unlock the door. Warmth enveloped me the moment I crossed the threshold into the tiled foyer. I took a moment to breath it in. Behind me, Benito shifted our bags, paid the porter, then softly closed and latched the door. I tossed him my hat and stepped into the archway that led to the sitting room.

Liya sat at the table in a canopy of light from a branching candelabrum. The rest of the room was as dark as pitch. The olive skin of her smooth cheeks and forehead shone in the candles’ golden glow, as did the unbound black tresses covering her shoulders like a shawl. My wife had spread her cards out before her in the pattern of a Greek cross, but they lay forgotten.

Liya had fallen asleep. Her generous lips were parted, and one cheek rested on a propped up hand. It didn’t surprise me that I’d caught her drowsing. Before I’d left for Milan, I’d noticed a certain listlessness in Liya’s manner and smudges of sleeplessness beneath her eyes. Was it the continuing tensions with her Ghetto family that bothered her? Or perhaps something she’d seen in the cards that she was keeping to herself?

I cleared my throat. Liya’s eyelids flew open, and she ran to me with her hair streaming behind. For a moment we bubbled with laughter, questions, and overlapping replies. Then we fell silent, entwined in each other’s arms. Now I was really home, my nose filled with the scent of orange blossoms from her skin and hair.

Benito hovered in the foyer. He knew my moods well enough to realize that someone else would be undressing me that night, but his years in service had accustomed him to ask, “Will you require me, Master?”

There was only one thing I required.

I dismissed Benito to his bed, and Liya and I went happily to ours.

Chapter Six

The next morning, after a hasty breakfast of bread and fruit, I set off for the Teatro San Marco on my own. The sky above was an even gray, as opalescent as the inside of an oyster shell, and the air was as moist as could be without actually raining.

Once at the theater, I shook my damp cloak in the deserted lobby and pushed through the swinging double door padded with crimson velvet. Within the cavernous, horseshoe-shaped auditorium, five tiers of boxes rose into gloom. On the sloping floor, the empty gondoliers’ benches sketched a murky herringbone pattern. Down front, on the distant stage, the glow from footlights and wing lights illuminated two figures against a familiar backdrop: a landscape of wooded, rocky hills that seemed to disappear into a cerulean sky streaming with clouds so fluffy they’d put Heaven to shame.

Despite the pastoral scene, I sensed a roiling unease in my theatrical home, as if those snow-white clouds concealed a rumble of distant thunder. Once I’d reached the stage, I understood why. Giuseppe Balbi, our violinist turned composer, was knee-deep in argument with the singer Majorano. Balbi was actually shaking his instrument as if he meant to use it as a club.

The violinist was a smallish man, with a doughy, rounded face that usually displayed an affable expression, and slender, delicately boned hands that could mark the orchestra’s time signatures with inspiring flourishes. I was surprised to find him in such a rage.

Balbi yelled at Majorano, “What in the seventh circle of Hell is wrong with you? When did you become such a prize ass?”

The singer was staring daggers at Balbi, lips clamped together, arms stiff at his sides. Then Majorano caught sight of me and burst out, “Tito, Signor Balbi insists that I act like a bumpkin. A clod!”

“No, no…like this.” Balbi whipped his fiddle under his chin and played a few bars of the huntsman’s showpiece aria from
The Duke
. “There, that is how it’s done. You are not a clod,” Balbi retorted, “but you must attack the tune with a jaunty flair. You must give a sense of the absurd idea that a huntsman is going to live in a palace.” Balbi appeared calmer, but his tone was as starchy as his wide white collar. He sent me a pleading look from protuberant gray eyes. “Am I not right, Tito?”

Before I could reply, Majorano crossed his arms and assumed an expression of wounded vanity. Ah, our noble young star was resisting the role of a peasant. I’d feared this. But why was Balbi conducting rehearsal? Where was Maestro Torani?

I jumped when someone tapped my shoulder. Aldo, the stage manager, had crept up behind me on the felt-soled boots he wore so as not to make noise during performances. “The old man’s been waiting for you—wants to see you right away. He’s on the boil about something.”

I advised Balbi and Majorano to take a break—as far away from each other as possible. As the violinist repaired to the orchestra pit and the singer to his dressing room, I turned my attention to Aldo. Bullet-headed, stocky, and overbearing by nature, the stage manager had the Herculean task of keeping everything backstage running smoothly. Aldo and I had fought a few spectacular battles over the years but had lately settled into an indifferent truce.

“What’s the latest crisis?” I asked, not overly concerned. Preparing an opera always amounted to one calamity after another. It was the cursed way of the theater.

“Maestro Torani didn’t bother to tell me.” Aldo shrugged, then jerked his shirtsleeves up over muscular forearms. “But I’m sure you’ll soon know all about it.”

Did I detect a note of resentment? Aldo made no secret of his belief that retired singers should buy a villa in the country and leave theater business to men with cooler heads.

Like a pair of stags about to lock horns, the stage manager and I exchanged a pointed glare before I went in search of Torani.

***

The maestro opened his office door with a moody, heavy-lidded look. Venice’s damp gloom seemed to have penetrated every nook and cranny, throwing the glass-fronted cabinets and shelves that lined the walls into shadow. Tedi Dall’Agata, the company’s prima donna, stood at the diamond-paned windows, gazing out at the light rain stippling the stuccoed walls of the building across the narrow canal. As always, Tedi wore a gown the color of a delphinium blossom. She’d lived long enough to be confident about what suited her, no matter what the reigning fashion dictated. Today the poor light dulled her favorite blue to a color more appropriate for mourning, and her expression followed suit.

Tedi—Teodora on the playbill, but Tedi backstage—was a handsome woman who hid her forty-odd years well. I knew that the maestro and his prima donna had formed an unlikely liaison—so did Aldo, no hiding anything from that busybody—but I wasn’t sure how many of our other notoriously self-involved singers were party to that knowledge. Though Tedi and Torani took obvious pleasure in each other’s company, they’d been cautious about keeping to their defined roles of dignified maestro and formidable prima donna within the theater.

In response to my cheerful greeting, the soprano turned away from the window. It was early, so I wasn’t surprised to see Tedi’s golden, silver-threaded hair simply dressed, her earlobes naked of their signature sapphires, and her cheeks only lightly powdered and rouged. But something untoward was going on. I could feel it. I slid my fingers into my jacket pocket and patted the portfolio that housed Angeletto’s contract. That should cheer both Tedi and Torani.

“Hello, Tito.” Tedi’s
buongiorno
had never been briefer.

“Chocolate, Tito?” Torani indicated the fat-bodied pewter pot and mismatched cups and saucers. “I believe it’s still warm. If not, I’ll have Aldo fetch another.”

“Yes, thank you.” I never refused chocolate. My brother Alessandro teased that I was as besotted with the frothy brew as Turkish natives were with their black poppy juice.

“My dear?” The maestro sent Tedi a bracing smile.

She shook her head.

“At least come sit.” He removed Isis, the gray theater cat, from a wooden chair which he slid across the terrazzo floor.

Uncharacteristically obedient, Tedi sank down with a rustle of blue silk. I took my usual chair in front of the maestro’s cluttered desk, which was presided over by a large plaster bust of Minerva. St. Cecelia, the patron saint of music, would have been more appropriate for an opera director, but Minerva, the ancient goddess of wisdom, she was.

Torani poured me a cup of fragrant chocolate, still tolerably warm, then topped off his own and settled into his high-backed leather chair across the desk. Its surface was piled high with loose sheets of music. A spherical paperweight of multi-colored millefiori glass usually held the scores in place. I’d always loved that piece, a rare and precious bibelot bestowed on Torani by an appreciative Doge, but today I didn’t see it among the dirty crockery fighting for space with bottles of dried ink and the feathery detritus of spent quills.

“Have you been down to the piazza?” the maestro asked after a deep swallow. “Or stopped in at Peretti’s?”

“No, I stayed abed past my usual time, then walked straight here. Why?” I barely touched my lips to the bittersweet drink, wondering what was wrong. Torani should be hectoring me with questions about my journey to Milan.

Instead he said, “Castrato fever is sweeping through Venice, Tito. At every café and coffee house, men who haven’t the ears to distinguish one tune from another are disputing the merits of Angeletto, Emiliano, and Majorano. Women can’t wait to experience the latest thrill.”

“Did you say Angeletto?”

He gave a short nod.

My mouth dropped open. “Since when?”

Torani slid his wig from his head and slapped it on his desk. He massaged the scab where the roof tile had grazed him—a jagged, wine-dark streak. “Since yesterday morning—since the
Gazzetta Veneta
announced Angeletto would sing at the San Marco. The journal praised him to the skies, made the young man sound like the second coming of Farinelli.”

“But that’s impossible! I did engage Angeletto, but I returned home only late last night and I’ve spoken to no one outside my own household.” I probed my pocket for the leather portfolio, flipped it open, and handed over Angeletto’s signed contract.

“My spectacles. Damnable things…never where I left them.” Torani continued to grumble, patting papers, grabbing his wig’s long plait and flinging the offending headpiece toward the wide window sill. Tedi caught the wig on the fly, then rose to retrieve his spectacles from where they perched on Minerva’s crested helmet.

“The light is better by the window,” she suggested.

Torani shambled over and began to read.

I said, “I still don’t understand. I’m certain Gussie wouldn’t say a word about Angeletto. Besides, he returned to the city with me only last night.” I chewed on a knuckle, thinking furiously. “I suppose a man on horseback could have beaten us back to Venice, but—”

“Don’t torture the facts for an explanation, Tito.” Tedi’s face darkened. She wrung Torani’s discarded wig like a vindictive laundress. “Beatrice Passoni is the one to blame. She just couldn’t wait until your return—until announcements could be made in formal and correct fashion. No, the little wench had to waggle her tongue far and wide, bragging how she’d persuaded—no—commanded the Teatro San Marco to hire her precious Angeletto. She’s the very soul of indiscretion. Blasted wench!”

“Take care, my dear.” Torani clucked his tongue, busily scrutinizing the document I’d envisioned handing over amidst general gaiety and shared congratulations. “The Savio would have your head if he knew you’d called his daughter such.”

Tedi muttered an oath as she plopped down in her seat.

I asked, “How could Beatrice be so certain that I’d be able to engage—ouch!”

Isis was digging her unsheathed claws into the brass buckles that cinched my breeches’ cuff. She meowed complainingly when I nudged her away. The poor thing was heavily pregnant. We’d have kittens any day now. Again. She stalked away with belly dragging the floor and tail held aloft like a shepherd’s crook.

Tedi continued, cheeks flushed. “Have any of young Beatrice’s desires ever been thwarted? She wants Angeletto carried into Venice trussed up like a suckling pig on a silver platter, thus she believes it must come to pass—a gift from Papa.”

Tedi’s theory did make a certain sense, and it struck me why the soprano was so upset. Like Angeletto, Tedi sprang from common stock, but there’d been no mentor like Angeletto’s Maestro Belcredi in Tedi’s life. She’d elbowed her way into the opera house and up to prima donna on her own, depending on no one and nothing besides her own vocal talent and natural musicianship.

At the window, Torani uttered a deep sigh. He removed his spectacles and spun them by a wire earpiece. “This contract appears ironclad, Tito. Did an advocate draw it up?”

“No, Angeletto’s manager…er…his sister.”

“Well, which was it?” Torani snapped. “His manager or his sister?”

“His manager and his sister are one in the same: Maria Luisa Vanini.” I was beginning to feel as bewildered as I’d been in last night’s fog. I set my cup down with a rattle. Chocolate slopped over the rim. “Are you considering breaking the contract, Maestro? Haven’t I done exactly as you wanted? I procured Angeletto, and I tell you, his voice is a wonder. All Venice will fall in love with him.”

I smiled, my spirits buoyed up by my own words. “Don’t you see? With Angeletto heading our cast, Lorenzo Caprioli will find the shoe on the other foot. Why, it may be a blessing that the news leaked out. As excitement builds, our subscribers will come flocking back. There’ll be a run on the box office. The Teatro Grimani’s boxes will be dark. Its pit deserted. The gondoliers will fill our benches.”

I trailed off as a sidelong glance passed between Torani and Tedi.

The maestro pursed his lips, then said, “Tell him, my dear.”

Tedi shifted uneasily, stretching her torso and swan-like neck. Even this gesture of discomfort was beguiling, marked by a seasoned performer’s grace. It was easy to see how Teodora Dall’Agata had managed to enjoy the stay at the pinnacle for more years than most prima donnas.

“Tito,” she began, “Are you acquainted with Girolamo Grillo?”

“Only by reputation.” Tedi had named one of Venice’s more notorious rakes. Springing from uncertain origins, perhaps as low as the son of a whore and a gondolier, Grillo had managed to inveigle his way into society by presenting himself as a master of some highly secretive cabbalistic oracle. Gifted with a darkly handsome face, a fine set of shoulders, a knack for witty discourse, and a nature both forthright and daring, Grillo was a welcome guest at several aristocratic dining tables. He was rumored to be as adept in female seduction as he was in collecting gullible patrician benefactors.

Tedi cleared her throat delicately. “Last night, I was invited to sing at a reception at the Palazzo Renier—a welcome for all the families returning from their summer villas on the mainland. It was quite lovely, a brilliant assembly. After I’d done my turn, Senator Renier encouraged me to mingle with his guests and have my fill of food and wine. The true nobility are admirable in that regard—it’s the newly made aristocrats, the ones who’ve bought their way into the Golden Book, that shuttle you off with small thanks and a few coins pressed into your palm.”

I nodded, recalling the many times I’d been hustled out the side door like the tinsmith or the knife grinder. Tedi stared into space, stroking Torani’s wig as if it were a small lap dog. I prodded, “You were speaking of Grillo, Tedi.”

“Yes.” Her focus snapped back to me. “I came upon him regaling a few friends in a secluded alcove. One of the younger Renier brothers—Dionisio, I believe—took my elbow and drew me into the circle. ‘You’ll want to hear this,’ he said.

“Well, I knew it had something to do with a woman. The leers and the coarse laughter told me that much. Grillo lounged on the velvet-cushioned window seat, the arrogant brute, and described the seduction of a reluctant young woman. Teasing her with stolen, playful kisses. Tempting her to meet him in a secluded
casino
. Then, once she was in his power, nuzzling the maiden breasts that made such a delicious mouthful. Stroking the silken skin of her thighs above her ribbon garters. I won’t go on. You can fill in the rest. The important thing is that this assignation occurred just last month. In Milan.”