“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.”
Tedi hesitated again.
“Go on,” I muttered through gritted teeth.
“Of course, you’ve guessed. She was a woman from the opera. ‘A trifle,’ said Grillo, ‘who should’ve been flattered.’ Flattered that he’d even bothered with her. Her name was Carla Vanini, and she was hiding a terrible secret—she supported her entire family by pretending to be a castrato singer.” Tedi pressed her lips into a thin line. “I’m sorry, Tito.”
I took a deep breath. I shifted my gaze from Tedi to Torani.
The
maestro didn’t appear nearly as outraged as I expected. In truth, he seemed more exhausted than anything. He studied me solemnly, leaning back against the window sill with arms crossed. “If that story is true,” he said after a moment, “our bacon is well and truly cooked.”
“It’s not true.” The words tore out of me without conscious thought.
“Are you certain?”
“I wouldn’t have engaged Angeletto if I weren’t.” I meant those words. During the journey from Milan, I’d thoroughly dismissed Gussie’s assertions and stuffed them into a cobwebbed niche in a remote corner of my mind.
“All right. I trust your judgment.” Torani nodded deeply, crinkling his eyes. “If you are certain, Girolamo Grillo must be lying. The question is—what are we going to do about it?”
Tedi spoke up in an ominous tone. “The Savio will soon hear of this. He wasn’t at the reception, but word spreads quickly among the foremost families.”
“Let’s see,” I rose and began to pace the small office. “We have a known charlatan and adventurer claiming that he has personally enjoyed Angeletto’s…er…womanly charms. We also have at least one person who would love to see The Duke fall flat on its face.” I whirled around to question Tedi. “Did Grillo make a point of his conquest being the one and the same Angeletto who will soon head our cast?”
“Yes, several times,” said the soprano. “He painted the Teatro San Marco as the butt of a huge jest, and called our new opera an outright farce. His friends were drinking it in.”
“Someone put him up to it, I’ll be bound. Grillo is merely a tool being used to discredit us. We can’t blame Beatrice Passoni. She may have overstepped her bounds where the news of Angeletto’s hiring is concerned, but she certainly didn’t invent this story for Grillo to spread.” I tapped my chin. “We know our enemy, don’t we, Maestro?”
“Lorenzo Caprioli.” Torani made no attempt to cover his contempt in his tone. “Making a puppet of Grillo, using his scandalous escapades as a weapon against us, that would be precisely Caprioli’s style.”
“Exactly.” I nodded slowly.
Tedi regarded me plaintively. “But what do we do, Tito? How can we fight him?” She shot a quick glance at Torani.
Framed by the dark wood of the window embrasure, the maestro seemed to have aged ten years. His expression was perplexed. His head bobbed like a boat on the waves, and the loose folds of his neck trembled as he repeated Tedi’s question, “Yes, Tito, what do we do?”
My gaze slid from one to the other. And back again. Maestro Torani had always provided wise and worldly advice, not only about music, but about the prudent conduct of a castrato who was by his nature detached from conventional society. Angels to some and monsters to others, castrato singers could never slip through a crowd unnoticed. For years the maestro had been at my back, guiding me past the traps of fame and the despair of isolation. Now Torani was begging advice from me. It was an unsettling feeling.
I took a few more fitful paces, then said, “First, we must shut Grillo’s mouth. And quickly.”
“How do you propose to that?” Torani asked.
“I’ll find a way,” I answered quietly.
A knock on the door saved me from further discussion.
“Avanti,” Torani called.
The door creaked open, and Aldo’s head poked through the gap. “Signor Balbi has assembled the orchestra, Maestro. He’s awaiting instructions.”
Torani straightened. “Tell him Tito will be there in a few minutes.”
Ah, yes. We had an opera to rehearse. No matter what other trials lay before us, The Duke had to be ready to open, note perfect, in just over three weeks.
Chapter Seven
As Aldo withdrew, a sudden glimmer of sunlight shot through the churning clouds. Every surface—walls, ceiling, and floors—shimmered in watery light reflected off the canal through the diamond window panes.
The resulting dispersal of gloom seemed to lighten all our moods. Torani reclaimed his wig and kissed Tedi on the cheek. Then the maestro went over to his desk. He pulled out the long middle drawer, but instead of placing Angeletto’s contract inside, he closed it again. He winked, and after folding the papers longwise, tucked them under the blue blotter that was just visible beneath the mess on the desktop.
“We’ll keep the business details to ourselves, Tito. If Majorano finds out how much we’re paying Angeletto, he’ll demand the same.”
Tedi ran her fingers through her loose chignon. She murmured something about having her maid redress her hair before rehearsal, and slipped through the door.
“Walk me out, Tito,” Torani said as he grabbed his cockaded tricorne off a wooden peg.
“You’re not coming to rehearsal?”
He shook his head. “You can handle it; I have business elsewhere. We ran through Scene One yesterday. Except for the duke’s arias, of course—they’ll have to wait for Angeletto’s arrival. When will that be?”
“A day or two, I expect.”
“That will do. I told everyone we’d do Scenes Two and Three today. The copyist is hard at work delivering the scores as we go—faster that way. Now Tito,” he touched my arm, “it’s early days yet, but don’t allow Majorano to go overboard with posture and stance. He still wants to act the prince, even though he’s playing a lowly huntsman.”
I merely rolled my eyes.
As we navigated the maze of corridors that wound from backstage toward the water entrance, I was pleased to see that the maestro seemed to have shaken off his worries. He was the Torani I was accustomed to: aged, yes, but also brisk, confident, anticipating every detail.
“How did you get along with Signor Leone?” Torani trotted along. Tapping his stick no more than every third step, he outpaced me in the narrow passage.
“Leone was very helpful, but I regretted taking his hospitality. His household is so poor.”
“Poor?” Torani guffawed. “My friend Leone keeps a locked chest full of ducats in his storeroom. He insists on saving them for the rainy day that never comes.”
“While his wife and children live little better than paupers?”
“You’ve heard the old proverb about the ant and the grasshopper.” The old man shrugged. “Leone is the industrious one who lays up stores for the lean days of winter.”
“Then who’s the squandering grasshopper?”
“Me, of course.” Torani sighed. “I’ve always been a fool where money is concerned.” His steps slowed and his stick’s taps grew farther apart. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you, Tito.” Tap…tap. “How did you come by Rocatti’s score in the first place?”
The passage widened into the lobby, and I lengthened my strides so that we were walking shoulder to shoulder. “That was a curious thing, Maestro. Rocatti seemed very hesitant when he asked my opinion of the work.”
“Where did he approach you? Peretti’s?”
“No, that was another odd thing. I’d gone to the Ghetto with Liya. While she visited with her mother, I planned to bend Pincas’ ear at his shop.”
A sidelong glance told me Torani understood. As a witness to my family’s tangled history, he knew that Signora Del’Vecchio and I were sworn enemies. I couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as that viper of a woman, and she never tired of telling me—capon, she called me, never Tito—what a poor, damaged scrap of a man I was. Liya’s father, Pincas, was another story. The used clothing dealer and I got along very well.
“Pincas happened to be out,” I continued. “So I strolled up the calle to the Spanish Synagogue where a concert was taking place.”
Torani stopped. He wrinkled his brow. “I know that Christians often attend afternoon lectures and concerts in the Ghetto. But I’ve never heard you mention that particular activity.”
“No. It’s the kind of thing I always mean to do but rarely find the time for.”
/>
“What happened?”
“Not much, really. The Hebrew orchestra was good, but nothing special. During the intermission, a good-looking young gentleman approached me and introduced himself as Niccolo Rocatti. He recognized me from the opera and prevailed on me to take a look at a score.”
Torani leaned on his stick and harrumphed loudly. “I get scores shoved at me every time I sit down at a café. If I reviewed all of them, I’d never get any work done.”
“Yes…” I thought back to the thin-faced man, about my own age. At first I’d taken Rocatti for a fop, but his intelligent, deep-set brown eyes belied the superficiality of his exquisitely curled wig and festoons of Alençon lace.
I went on, “I suppose I accepted the score because the composer wasn’t paying court like the usual lickspittles. Rocatti was shy, almost diffident about what he’d written. He carried only the first scene, pocketed in a tight scroll. Of course, I fell in love with the music. I soon called in at the Pieta, and he gave me the entire score.”
Torani sent me an odd look. “You had no qualms about the way you stumbled on The False Duke?”
“Well…” I chuckled uneasily, then blurted out a question that had been on my mind. “I actually thought you might have known of the opera beforehand and put Rocatti up to following me with it.”
His jaw dropped. “What put that absurd idea into your head, boy?”
“I don’t know, Maestro. Forgive me. These days, I find myself wondering about everything—look how I misjudged Leone’s situation. I’ve been feeling as unsettled as…” I threw up my hands and glanced toward the glassed entry doors, “as unsettled as the skies that can’t decide whether to rain or shine.”
The clouds had opened again. It was pouring.
“Yes.” He consulted his watch, clicked it shut, and shoved it deep in his waistcoat. “I must hurry on.” His tone implied that my suspicion had not only puzzled him, but also wounded his trust.
I accompanied Torani out onto the portico, alarmed that he was taking off in such weather. He waved my concern aside impatiently and snapped his fingers at Peppino. Torani’s off-and-on gondolier had been lounging in a relatively dry corner, swathed in an oilskin cape. Off-and-on, I say, because Peppino was an inveterate loafer. He’d perfected the intertwined arts of doing absolutely nothing and disappearing when any burdensome task loomed before him. I was thoroughly surprised that Peppino had waited instead of seeking the warmth of a nearby tavern. Why the old man put up with him, I never knew.
Whispers of Vivaldi Page 7