6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (9 page)

Grillo didn’t strike me as a man of courage, yet he’d quickly agreed to my demands. Had I again misconstrued what lay before my eyes? I pondered that question until I reached the Teatro San Marco and was swept into another contentious rehearsal.

***

The tower where I’d caught up with Grillo houses an ornate, blue-and-gold clock that displays a uniquely Venetian motto: “I number only happy hours.” Those happy hours had been in short supply of late, but that evening I enjoyed a few of them in the company of my family. Tucked away on the north side of the island, far from the tensions of the theater and the growing uproar on the piazza, my home in the Cannaregio was a beacon of serenity.

Over a late dinner of roast chicken, boiled musetto salami, and creamy polenta, Liya and Annetta demanded to know everything about our new castrato star. My sister, Gussie, and their three youngsters were joining us at table. Gussie had told Annetta just enough about Angeletto to whet her appetite for more.

“What do you want to know?” I asked, glad to see a sparkle in my sister’s eyes. Annetta had suffered a bout of melancholia after five-year-old Isabella’s birth and had never fully returned to her old self. My fearless playmate and fierce protector during our motherless childhood had grown quiet and distant. Her buoyant prettiness had also faded, rather like a once bright banner that had waved in the sun and sea breeze until the colors were barely visible among its tatters.

Annetta swallowed a bite of salami. “Does he sing better than Majorano?”

“Not better, but differently.” I thought back to the concert in Milan. “Where Majorano strives to stir his listeners with extravagant technique and chivalrous deportment, Angeletto seems more intent on pleasing himself. I’ve never met an artist who seems to enjoy his own singing so intensely. Of course, an audience responds in kind.”

“But his voice? What does it sound like?” Annetta pressed.

“Light and flexible, but also capable of great emotion. Angeletto can produce a sob of fury or a tremolo of ecstasy with equal ease.”

Gussie held up his glass, and Benito hurried to fill it from the carafe on the sideboard. “That should please Signor Rocatti,” Gussie said after a sip of Montepulciano. “Has he been around to the theater to hear the celebrated Angeletto sing his
False Duke
?”

“Angeletto hasn’t started rehearsal yet.” I abandoned my fork and sat back with a huff. “It seems that he requires rest from his journey.”

Yesterday, I’d stopped in at the Ca’Passoni to pay my compliments. While Angeletto reclined on a chaise, eyes closed, his lovely face as still as a death mask, Maria Luisa had laid down the law. Her brother would attend the reception tomorrow night, but under no circumstances was I to expect him to entertain. He would begin rehearsals the following day. Time was of the essence, but this hard-driving woman knew she held the whip hand. What was I going to do? Send Angeletto packing? Not with all Venice in eager anticipation of hearing the latest rage. Not with the tyrant Beatrice enthralled with having the sensation of the hour in residence at the Ca’Passoni.

“Besides,” I continued on a sigh, “Rocatti has dropped by the theater only twice, and only for a few minutes. He claims that his duties at the Pieta allow him little free time.”

Gussie raised his eyebrows. One of them was smudged with blue paint, a sure sign he’d come straight from his studio. He asked, “Won’t Rocatti be leading the orchestra on opening night? I thought that was the drill at the opera house. The composer conducts the first three performances at least.”

I shook my head. “For some reason, Rocatti seems content to leave that to me.” I shrugged. “Perhaps the sheer size of the San Marco intimidates him. The Pieta’s theater is not nearly so grand—little bigger than a stage for marionettes really.”

Matteo and Titolino had been having their own whispered conversation at the other end of the table. Now my adopted son spoke up. “Are Majorano and Angeletto enemies, Papa? Like Hector and Achilles?” The boys had been studying Homer’s account of the Trojan War at school.

An image sprang to mind: my two stars taking up broadswords, dueling to the death, and the victor dragging the body of his slain rival around the theater from the back of his chariot. To my surprise, I heard myself giggle like an overexcited schoolboy. I shook my head and wiped my palm across my forehead. I was the one who needed a good rest, not Angeletto.

Fortunately, Liya answered for me. “I wouldn’t call them enemies, Titolino, but they do compete for the audience’s affection. Both singers want to be the best.”

“Why can’t they both be the best?” That was Matteo.

I smiled without mirth. “It just doesn’t work that way. The people watching the opera decide who rules the stage, and there can only be one ruler. It’s rather like being anointed as a king or prince. Here in Venice, we never have more than one Doge, do we?”

The boy cocked his head. “I guess not. But they
could
fight, couldn’t—”

“That’s enough for now.” Gussie cut Matteo off. My brother-in-law had correctly sensed that I was growing weary of opera talk and knew the boys’ questions could go on forever. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Tito. Did the theater’s mouser ever have those kittens?”

Isabella bounced up and down in the seat next to her father, clapping her hands. “Zio Tito—a kitten. You promised me a kitten.”

I spooned some polenta onto my plate. A wisp of steam curled from the serving bowl. “So I did. I’d almost forgotten with all that’s been going on.”

“Are they borned yet?” Isabella asked under the indulgent gazes of both parents.

“Yes, and fine kittens they are. Three turned out gray like Isis, and one is black with white paws and whiskers. You may have your choice.”

“Tomorrow?” she asked with a squeal.

“Oh, no,” Liya put in. “They’re much too young—just babies.”

I nodded at Isabella. “Aldo is looking after them until they’re old enough to leave their mother.”

“When, Zio Tito? When can I come get my kitten?” The girl regarded me with huge, solemn eyes.

I thought for a moment. “Can you count to four?”

That exact number of fat fingers immediately waved in the air across the table.

“Good. Exactly four weeks from now, have your father bring you to the theater and I’ll let you choose your kitten.”

Her brother Matteo pulled a face. “That’s a whole month,” he taunted with a mouthful of polenta.

“It is not,” Isabella yelled.

“Oh, yes it is. Four weeks is the same as a month.”

Childish arguments and parental admonitions reigned until I rose and tapped on my glass with a knife.

“I have another surprise. For the adults, at least.” I turned to my sister. “Do you still have the special gown you used to wear to the San Marco when I was singing—the crimson with the gold embroidery?”

“Yes.” Annetta’s expression was puzzled. “Why?”

Liya sent me a knowing wink. I’d already let her in on the news that the Savio had agreed to a reception at the Ca’Passoni.

I grinned broadly. “Because, dear sister, tomorrow evening we’re all going to a party, and you’ll be one of the first women in Venice to meet Angeletto.”

While my family erupted into happy, anticipatory chatter, I stretched my arms over my head and gave a mighty yawn.

Chapter Nine

We were early. Night had barely unfolded her star-silvered mantle when our gondola drew up to the water entrance of the Ca’Passoni. A calm silence reigned, broken only by the dip of our oars in the dark water streaked by the flaming reflections from the portico lamps. The Savio’s palace rose lofty and majestic—waiting, it seemed, for the arrival of a much grander party than ours.

As the gondolier fastened his mooring rope, a pair of liveried servants broke away from their posts flanking the bronze entry doors and skittered down the marble steps to assist the ladies to disembark.

Annetta had indeed worn her crimson gown, now swathed in a black lace
zendale
against the nocturnal coolness. Liya, who usually dressed for utmost practicality, had also fussed. When I’d first met her, she had been employed in making headdresses and helmets for the theater. For tonight, she had put her sewing skills back to work. Her chignon of thick dark hair was embellished by a tiny, pearl-studded cap sporting an ostrich plume, and her fine neck and shoulders were set off by snow-white ruffles atop a silver-embroidered, cobalt-blue bodice. We passed through the foyer and into the salon unannounced. Frescos vaulted above us, punctuated by hanging chandeliers fashioned of yellow and pink Murano glass. The wide, empty expanse of mosaic floor shone in the glow of wax tapers and their hundred mirrored reflections.

My wife clutched my arm and leaned close. The scent of orange-blossoms brought an involuntary smile to my lips.

“Everything will go perfectly,” Liya warmly advised. “No one would dare make trouble on such a dignified occasion.”

“Did you consult your cards?” I whispered back, not certain whether I was teasing or not.

A rare expression flickered in her face. So rare it took me a moment recognize it: bewilderment. “They told me nothing,” Liya replied in a flat voice. “I’m speaking from my heart, and it is telling you not to worry.”

I marveled at that organ’s optimism. My own heart subscribed to a cardinal rule of the theater: If something can go wrong, it absolutely will. And at the worst possible moment.

A harpsichord sounded above, and on its heels, the A string of a violin. I looked up. A gallery overhung the far end of the salon. A small orchestra consisting of the theater’s best musicians had assembled there. Giuseppe Balbi was tuning his instrument, broad face and fluffy wig appearing top-heavy on his slender form. He saw me, too, and greeted my party with a flourish of his bow. I saluted him with a wave. Good old Balbi. I knew I could count on him to do the Teatro San Marco proud.

An open stairway dropped from the gallery level, railed with gilt, and guarded by a matched pair of torch-bearing caryatids. Across the salon, at a square angle, an archway led to the banqueting hall. That room was alive with maids and footmen ferrying trays and covered serving dishes to a linen-draped table that must have been yards long. The smells wafting into the salon made my mouth water. Prawns in butter and venison tarts, if I didn’t miss my guess.

Gussie and Annetta had been admiring a second harpsichord, a pretty thing enameled in red with ebony keys, with Flemish paper decorating the keywell and lid. This beauty stood in the corner beside the descending stairway. I would play the instrument later in the evening to accompany the planned entertainment. As Gussie and Annetta strolled back over, my brother-in-law posed a question: “I say, Tito, are we going to hear Angeletto tonight?”

“No, Maestro Torani suggested that I have Oriana Foscari sing several of the milkmaid’s arias.”

“Deuced shame, if you ask me.” Gussie traded a sour look with Annetta.

“It’s only good business,” a new voice spoke up.

I turned to see Maria Luisa Vanini at my elbow, wearing a gown the color of smoke. A plain linen fichu was wound round her neck and pinned high on her bosom. Her spectacles were in place, and her hair arranged in the same knot she’d worn in Milan.

“Would you buy the cow once you’ve had the milk for free?” she continued in response to Gussie’s puzzled look. “Tickets! Box office! When my brother sings in Venice for the first time, people will have paid for the privilege of hearing him.”

“She does make a point,” I observed airily, and then made introductions among the ladies.

Liya nodded approvingly. “You look after your brother’s monetary interests.”

“I look after all my brother’s interests,” Maria Luisa replied smoothly. Her eyes narrowed to slits behind her glasses and took in the entire group, perhaps all of Venice. “And a pox on those who attempt to cross us.”

Though there’d been no humor behind her words, Gussie chuckled faintly. I bit my lip to keep from shooting back a reply. It could be worse. Maria Luisa could be dragging her crone of a mother and all the young sisters and cousins in her wake.

She nodded from me to the harpsichord in the corner. “Maestro, have you tested the instrument?”

Maestro? Torani was the maestro, not me.

I shrugged. “It’s fine, I’m sure. Signor Passoni hosts many musical evenings. In a house like this, no instrument would be allowed to go out of tune.”

“A house like this—you mean a house built on a veritable cistern? With damp seeping into its foundation stones and mist burrowing through its window frames?” She went on in a thin, precise voice, “Nothing plays havoc with a keyboard more quickly than damp. You are now the opera director, are you not? It’s your responsibility to see that all is well.”

She was correct—damned troublesome woman.

I followed her across the salon. Maria Luisa’s back was ramrod straight, and her uncommonly long arms dangled at her side—like a spider’s legs, I thought unkindly. I also wondered why the woman was so concerned about the tuning of an instrument that would not be accompanying her brother.

I’d brushed aside the skirts of my brocade jacket and half-lowered myself to the harpsichord’s bench when an idea struck me. I straightened and gestured to the keyboard as if I were offering this testy woman a lavish gift. “Please, Signorina. You do the honors.”

Maria Luisa’s expression registered surprise, but she did as I asked. After sounding a few tentative chords, she launched into a Bach prelude. It was a perfect piece to test the entire keyboard, filled with arpeggios and complex harmonies, all within range of her long reach. Interesting…brother Angeletto wasn’t the only accomplished musician in the Vanini family.

Though the harpsichord was in perfect tune, Maria Luisa kept playing as she made room for me on the bench and said, “I want to speak to you before the guests start arriving.”

“Yes?” I sank down. We were shoulder to shoulder. A presentiment of trouble fluttered in my belly.

She started on a deep breath. “When we came to Venice, I expected my brother to be courteously received.”

“And has he not?”

“Scathing accusations have reached our ears. Evil gossip.” Her fingers hit the keys like little hammers. “People are saying that Carlo is a cheat—a woman wearing breeches—only pretending to be a castrato soprano.”

“I’ve heard the same,” I admitted.

Her hands fell away from the keys and she turned to regard me with a vengeful gaze. “You have no idea of the pain these gossiping tongues have caused my brother.”

Without naming Girolamo Grillo, I assured Maria Luisa that I’d induced the source of the unfortunate rumors to leave Venice. She countered by pointing out the obvious: once a titillating story is loosed, there’s no containing it.

“How could you let this happen?” she asked angrily. In vain I sketched the rivalry between the two opera houses, the lengths that Lorenzo Caprioli would go to in order to insure that his Teatro Grimani came out on top. Maria Luisa wasn’t mollified.

“What else can you possibly expect me to do?” My store of patience and tact was rapidly dwindling.

“You must raise Carlo’s salary to compensate for his embarrassment and suffering.”

I could scarcely believe the woman. “Is that your answer to every stone in your brother’s path—money?”

“He is due—”

I rose, dismissing further discussion. “Carlo is due nothing more than his contract stipulates—and you can tell him this for me—now that he has become
Angeletto
, he will learn to deal with fame and all of its trappings or end up one very unhappy man.”

I made my bow to the simmering Maria Luisa. Heart hammering under my ribs, I took long steps toward the foyer where activity was picking up. It must have been getting close to eight o’clock. Up in the gallery, Balbi and his musicians were lowering their talents to play a tinkling minuet, the sort of innocuous, background drivel they could play in their sleep. Outside, gondolas would be lining up at the mooring posts. The reception would soon begin in earnest.

Gussie intercepted me. “Something wrong, Tito?”

“Merely the small coin of theater life.” I shook my head. “How is Annetta faring?”

“She’s getting her bearings. Look.” He pointed. “She and Liya are talking to the star of the hour.”

I followed Gussie’s pointing finger. In the foyer, a beautifully turned out Angeletto was being put through his paces like a trained bear at Carnival. He was giving my sister and my wife a low, graceful bow. Ah, he was kissing Annetta’s hand.

Gussie harrumphed. “Damn counterfeit peacock,” he muttered. “What makes these women think that this creature walks on water?”

“Hush,” I cautioned under my breath. Whatever Angeletto might be, and however indulged by family and admirers, he knew how to flatter a woman. I could make out Annetta’s blush and radiant smile from where we stood ten yards away. It was good to see her excited over something. Liya appeared similarly charmed, though she wasn’t blushing.

If Angeletto was the star of this menagerie, his keeper was the Savio. Signor Passoni drifted from group to group, passing a word here, nodding there. The foyer was becoming quite crowded with people who tarried determinedly hoping to be presented to the divine creature. Searching for evidence of Grillo’s gossip, I did see a few skewed glances and several curled lips, but no one turned down the opportunity to meet the singer. By some criteria which was lost on me, the Savio selected which guest would have that privilege. With great ceremony, Passoni conducted his chosen one to Angeletto, who invariably greeted the newcomer with another bow and a slight, patient smile.

But where was Majorano? The occasion that was meant to present these two singers on an equal footing was in danger of becoming a solo tour de force for Angeletto. I tried to imagine what our princely young star had in mind, then chuckled. I’d wager Majorano was waiting until the guests had all arrived so that he could make a grand entrance.

While Gussie succumbed to the temptations of the dining table and our ladies found acquaintances to converse with, I strolled through the knots of guests filtering into the salon. Each was announced by Signor Passoni’s major domo, an old fellow whose livery was resplendent with golden epaulettes and yards of braid. The guests were an odd mixture of elegantly outfitted aristocrats; smug, black-clad clerks who ranked high enough in the complicated routine of government to grace a reception hosted by one of the ruling families; a few bishops and monseigneurs; and a sprinkling of well-known theatrical performers. The latter were immediately recognizable, even if I hadn’t known most of them; by virtue of their glittering finery and dramatic gestures, the performers stood out so much more vividly than anyone else.

The Savio had even invited a few shabby-looking literary men: poets, playwrights, and journalists. Nothing spreads news of a triumph like a cleverly wielded pen. And since the Savio all Cultura had oversight of Venice’s news-gazettes as well as its theaters, we could count on a favorable report.

Pushing the carnival season, a few guests were wearing masks or dominos: no fancy costumes as would soon be seen, merely molded half-masks that covered the eyes and nose; or on the women, the disguising velvet ovals peculiar to Venice. One of the maskers particularly caught my eye. The fellow was flitting around the salon’s perimeter, pausing in shadowed corners, and often turning to admire a painting or ornamental mirror, as if he desired to escape notice. His mask of smooth white leather rose to meet the forehead seam of his powdered wig, and because one hand continuously played about his chin, I was unable to see more than a square inch of his face.
But there was something about his tight, turquoise breeches and that narrow gait.…

The sight of young Beatrice interrupted my train of thought. I’d wondered when she would make her appearance. The girl wore a billowing yellow gown too sallow for her complexion and too low-cut for her tender years. Its skirt rose and fell as she floated about like a tropical bird moving from branch to branch, and she was constantly smoothing it down with her hands. When she drew near, I overheard her describing the Vanini family’s arrival at the palazzo, then giving a recitation of the foods Angeletto seemed to favor. Both gentlemen and ladies deserted disgruntled partners to attend to her. I shook my head—not at Beatrice’s girlish antics, but at the fact that anyone actually cared to learn what the singer preferred for breakfast.

When I turned my attention back to the skulking masked man, he was gone.

It was time to pay my respects to our hostess, now my confidential patroness thanks to the weasel-skin purse of coins delivered by Franco before I’d left for Milan. Signora Passoni and her cavaliere stood well away from Angeletto and his growing circle of admirers. Neither altogether in the foyer nor in the salon, they seemed more observers than part and parcel of the reception. I’d always felt rather sorry for this woman who stood so completely in the shadows thrown by her brightly shining husband and daughter. I’d spent her coins to enhance
The False Duke
, and I hoped she would be happy with the results.

The signora—I don’t think I’d ever heard her Christian name—had passed her fortieth name day, but she’d maintained a trim waist. Unfortunately however, the contours of her bosom resembled a pair of squashed panini. Her pleasant face was neither overly painted nor decorated with patches. Above, the soft curls of her formal wig put me in mind of a mound of whipped cream destined for a bowl of strawberries. As I straightened from my bow, she tilted her pointed chin and a smile descended from her crinkled eyes to her rouged lips.