Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “It’s one of the duke’s arias. I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t seem to get it right. Maestro Rocatti has been unable to direct me. I thought perhaps you would do me the honor of listening…and…” Angeletto dropped his gaze. His nerve seemed to falter, and his voice sank so low that the remainder of his request was inaudible.

  It didn’t matter. I understood. The singer sought advice, even though he was embarrassed about needing it. Based on my knowledge of The False Duke, I thought I could even predict which aria was causing difficulties. “The second act conclusion?” I ventured.

  “Exactly.” Angeletto exhaled in relief and nodded enthusiastically.

  “I’ll be glad to listen to your rendition, but tell me this—is Signor Rocatti unable to help you because he is so busy or…on some other account?”

  Angeletto gave me a curious look. After satisfying himself that Gussie and his apprentice were consumed in conversation at the other end of the spacious studio, he replied, “Maestro Rocatti has written a wonderful score. The False Duke proves his talent as a composer beyond a doubt, but our director is a master of the violin, not the voice. Actually, as a singing tutor, he is worse than useless. And then,” the singer interrupted himself for a dramatic roll of the eyes, “Signor Rocatti seems to spend a good deal of time in Oriana’s dressing room—purely to insure the success of the production, of course. The rest of us can only thank good fortune that Signor Balbi has been allowed to conduct many of the rehearsals.”

  “Balbi is also a violinist,” I put in quickly.

  “But Balbi has obviously managed to absorb the elements of vocal technique during his long tenure as head of the San Marco orchestra. He’s offered many helpful suggestions, but I’ve still been unable to bring this one aria up to my standards. It just seems…wrong.” He shrugged and added as an afterthought, “Signor Balbi tells me that he has also composed an opera.”

  “Yes. Prometheus.” I was surprised at how remote the entire notion of Balbi’s masterpiece seemed. Had it only been a few weeks since I’d begged Maestro Torani to consider changing the performance schedule? I continued, “Signor Balbi’s opera was originally scheduled to open the fall season, but that was before I discovered The False Duke.”

  “You discovered our opera?” His gaze widened.

  “Yes. Who else?” I was unable to keep a faint tone of rebuke from my tone. “Rocatti handed me the first few pages of the score during a concert we were both attending. Let me tell you, I had to do a quite a bit of convincing to persuade Maestro Torani to accept it.”

  “Somehow, I thought it must have been the other way around.…Oh, well. Signor Balbi speaks very highly of you, particularly of your ability to unravel a knotty musical problem. In fact it was his idea that I consult you.” His tone grew tentative again. “I realize this could be awkward…since Signor Passoni has banned you from the theater.”

  Gussie and his apprentice boy wandered over. My brother-in-law clutched a fistful of brushes and a smelly cleaning rag. He shook his brushes at Angeletto. “The Savio has no power here, my friend. You are free to raise the roof with your song—if you can.”

  Angeletto caught my eye and smiled.

  “Very well, then.” I took my seat again. I settled back, crossing one knee over the other. “I’m ready. Let me hear it.”

  Angeletto practically flew back to the dais. From that miniature stage, he warmed his throat with a few scales and vocalises. After a delicate cough behind his hand, he stretched tall, threw a commanding gaze over his audience of three, and commenced. Singing as if his life depended on it, the talented castrato rushed through the first section that established the melody without seeming to pause for breath. During the embellishments, he battered the studio’s stone walls with immense, swelling notes and overwrought fioritura. Even the strains of the relatively quiet close were annihilating in volume.

  Gussie’s young helper had watched the performance with saucer-shaped eyes and open mouth, as entranced with the singer as Titolino had always been with the exotic animals at the annual Carnival menagerie. The boy broke into wild applause the second that Angeletto closed his mouth, though he quickly dropped his hands when he realized his master and I weren’t following suit.

  My brother-in-law snorted out a chuckle. “Paolo has never been to the opera. He had no idea a man could make a sound like that.” Gussie then dismissed his apprentice with an indulgent ruffle of his wiry black hair, and the boy started down the iron staircase that spiraled downward from a hole in the floor behind us.

  “Paolo,” Gussie called after him. “Fetch three—no, four—chocolates from the café. And take care that you don’t spill any on your way back.”

  Ah, chocolate. Didn’t I say that Gussie was the best friend a man could have?

  I turned my attention back to Angeletto, whose rounded chest was still heaving in an effort to replace the air in his lungs. I crossed the floor to the dais, tinglingly aware of his intense scrutiny. It made me rather uncomfortable. I knew a performer’s mentality inside and out—he was hoping that I could work a miracle when all I could really do was offer observations and suggestions.

  “Well?” Angeletto wheezed, raising a hand in an unconsciously graceful gesture.

  “I stand in awe of your technique,” I replied. “But its very power is where you’re going wrong. Though written in heroic style, the piece is actually meant to be light and tuneful. The composer”—I couldn’t bring myself to say Rocatti, but neither was I ready to openly attribute the work to Vivaldi—“is having a joke on the audience, making a playful jab at staid conventions. The aria and accompanying action must be delicately handled if it’s not to become preposterous.”

  He regarded me sidelong. “Do you really think so? Maestro Rocatti doesn’t conduct it that way. He doesn’t seem to find any humor in it at all. For that matter, neither does Signor Balbi.”

  What to say to that? I shuffled my feet, pursed my lips. “Perhaps the director has other things on his mind,” I finally replied. “If you sing the aria as I’m going to ask you to, you may remind him of the charm of the piece.”

  Angeletto made a willing pupil. While Gussie drifted back across the studio to study his sketches, I instructed the singer to ascend the opening strains gently and to sound each note with equal attention as the melody unfolded. I listened to his efforts, pacing to and fro with my eyes on the paint-pocked stone floor. Without the accompaniment of a harpsichord, the notes poured out of his throat in a solitary stream that allowed me to instantly spot the deficiencies. His original tutor must have schooled in him in nothing but embellishment, so determined was Angeletto to add trills and tremolos at every opportunity. Neapolitans! They wouldn’t recognize moderation if it smacked them across the face and challenged them to a duel.

  “My dear Signor Vanini—” I halted my pacing, raised a forefinger.

  “Carlo,” he urged.

  “All right—then I am Tito.” I smiled to take the sting from my next words: “For the moment, you must forget what your maestro in Naples taught you.”

  His handsome face registered sudden desolation. His frame sagged like a fallen soufflé. “You must not ask me to forget Maestro Belcredi. It’s…impossible.”

  “Not the man.” I sighed inwardly. I could well understand loyalty to one’s first teacher, but we had work to do if the aria was to be a success. “Just his love of fioritura. If you value my expertise, tamp it down to almost nothing. Pretend that you’re a young student again, only beginning to learn the piece. Sing it simply, cleanly.”

  After a bemused nod, Angeletto struggled to do as I requested. We worked through several repetitions, and with each one, he improved. I was amused to see Gussie keeping a rapt eye on the performance as he pretended to sort brushes into stoneware jars. I wondered if this morning’s posing session had changed my brother-in-law’s mind about the singer’s sex.

  I still found i
t extremely doubtful that Carlo Vanini could be a woman who was hoodwinking a great many people with the full awareness of her nearest and dearest. But I granted that it was within the realm of possibility, perhaps with an element of coercion involved. I wouldn’t put much past Signora Vanini, as cunning a Neapolitan as I’d ever seen. Not all families were honest and loving. I’d encountered a few scoundrels who’d hand their sisters over to Barbary corsairs if they could come out a zecchino ahead.

  I also realized that I might never be certain which sex claimed Angeletto; I’d actually ceased to ponder the matter, except for how it might possibly be linked to the angel cards that had been so pointedly brought to my attention. Man or woman, Carlo Vanini—Angeletto—had been the target of vicious gossip. Was he also a target of someone who wished to make him a decoy for Torani’s murderer? Someone who would love to see Messer Grande haul him away in chains? Or, almost unthinkable, was this gentle singer actually a killer?

  Over a pot of chocolate ably fetched by Paolo, I tossed questions at Angeletto in a way I hoped would seem like idle chatter. We sat alone at one of Gussie’s cleaner work tables—my helpful brother-in-law had found urgent business for himself and Paolo downstairs.

  “How are you getting along with your fellow singers?” I began. “Before the Savio showed me the door, I cautioned the company about minding its manners, but jealousy does sometimes take hold.”

  Angeletto pursed his lips in an expression of delicate disgust. “You’re speaking of Majorano.”

  I nodded, taking a sip of my frothy bittersweet brew. “Our proud primo uomo has become accustomed to the top role—and to the acclaim that comes with it. Standing in another performer’s shadow is not in his repertoire. He might try to…stir up trouble in some fashion.”

  “Set your mind at ease, Tito. I’ve already been warned about Majorano’s bag of tricks. He can spread his coins far and wide, buy as much applause as he wants, but I will win the audience’s favor honestly.” Angeletto drew himself up, suddenly appearing as regal as the Doge in his purple robes and pearl-studded cornu hat. “I charmed Naples and Milan the minute I hit my top note. Venice will be no different.”

  “Majorano has more in that bag than hiring a claque. I’d watch what you eat and drink at the theater, keep an eye on your wardrobe. You don’t want to find yourself suddenly taken ill or your tunic slipping down around your knees at a crucial juncture.” I waved my hand in a vague circle. “That is…if Majorano has shown animosity of that magnitude.”

  Angeletto winked. “The poor fellow is practically sweating animosity, but Maria Luisa looks after all that. Perhaps you’ve wondered why she insists on keeping all of my sisters and twin cousins near.”

  “It is unusual to travel with such a large entourage.” I thought back to the purses I’d emptied hiring coaches and drivers. The Vanini traveling expenses must rival an army’s.

  Across the table, my companion took a gulp of chocolate and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It was the first boorish gesture he’d displayed in my presence. He replied with a grin, “Besides seeing to my costumes and wigs, my sisters are…what you Venetians would call my bravos.”

  I chuckled into my cup. “Don’t tell me those girls carry stilettos.”

  “No stilettos. But they all know how to keep their eyes open. If they felt I was in danger, their screams could be heard from one end of your piazza to the other.”

  “And what…danger…are they keeping their eyes open for, exactly?”

  He gave a casual shrug, still grinning.

  I pressed on. “Are they on the alert for someone intent on undermining your performance, or for someone who means to expose your secrets?”

  Angeletto clamped his lips together. His expression suddenly registered a mix of confusion and alarm.

  “Perhaps it’s time to settle the prevailing rumors, my friend. You must have heard them. Maria Luisa told me they’d wounded you to the core.” I sent him a level look. “Tell me, am I addressing Carlo or Carla?”

  The singer’s fist closed tightly around his pottery cup. A flush rose to his cheeks, eclipsing the pink of his rouge. “You surprise me, Tito,” he finally said. “I didn’t expect that question. You are such a capable voice tutor, I’d almost forgotten your reputation for ferreting out information.”

  “Will you answer?” I reached across the table to lay my fingers on his arm. “You have my word that I won’t reveal anything that doesn’t bear directly on Maestro Torani’s murder.”

  “How could that ridiculous tittle-tattle have anything to do with the murder?” He adjusted his position, a move that served to place his arm beyond my reach. “I’m the only one it wounds.”

  “Simply state the truth, and let me be the judge of its relevance.” I briefly considered telling Angeletto that Girolamo Grillo, the chief purveyor of the rumors, had charmed his way into the Ca’Passoni on the fatal night, even attacked me in the very room where Torani was later killed. But why? The scheming charlatan had been cleared of suspicion. Andrea had assured me that Grillo had run straight to the bed of his favorite whore once he’d vaulted through that window. His time was accounted for. He had witnesses to prove it. Besides, he’d left the island and wouldn’t be returning.

  Angeletto had turned his face away to gaze at Gussie’s empty easel. One slender hand covered his cheek.

  “Well?” I asked gently.

  He turned back, slowly, as if his movements were restrained by invisible cords. “I wish you would simply accept me as the singer Angeletto,” he murmured, “and consider the matter of Carlo or Carla closed.” He dropped his protective hand. His tone was rueful. There was more he wanted to share—I was certain—but something prevented him.

  “You’ve just trusted me with your most precious possession, your voice. Why can’t you trust me one step farther?”

  “My dear Tito…” Angeletto replied with strained courtesy, rising. “The matters you wish me to speak about are not entirely my own, and I don’t have leave to share them.”

  I stood, too. “Does Maria Luisa share them?”

  He gave a shudder, then looked around the sunny studio as if searching for his cloak. “I must go. Forgive me…I appreciate your advice, but really—”

  “No, no. Wait.” I couldn’t let my fish slip off the line that easily. “It is you who must forgive me. I’m prying inexcusably. It’s just that I loved Maestro Torani just as you must have loved Maestro Belcredi.…”

  The singer shot me a startled look.

  “Please, calm yourself.” I extended my palm. My tone was pleading. “Do sit down. I won’t ask about you or your family, just several questions that might help me find justice for the man who made my career. Wouldn’t you want the same for Maestro Belcredi—if he had died by a killer’s hand instead of the cholera?”

  “I can tell you this much.” Angeletto sank down and managed a weak smile. “Whatever Maria Luisa has told you, you can take it with a grain of salt. She’s a troublesome creature, prone to exaggeration. But you must understand, her life has not unfolded as she wished. We’ve all had to learn to put up with her ill humor.”

  He finished on a deep breath that caused his torso to appear even more rounded beneath his fitted coat and festoons of lace. I honestly tried not to notice.

  The inhalation became a yawn. Behind his hand, Angeletto said. “Excuse me. I’ve not been sleeping well…but about Maria Luisa, she’s had many disappointments.”

  “An unhappy betrothment?” A stab in the dark.

  “No, nothing of that sort.”

  I suddenly recalled Maria Luisa’s skill at the Savio’s harpsichord. “Perhaps your sister had a musical calling that was never allowed a full flowering.”

  “In deference to my talents, you mean?” He cocked a plucked eyebrow.

  I nodded. I’d seen many a boy pushed ahead of his more talented sister. In music, as in
most things, males drew the inside track. What was a castrato, after all, but an improved version of a female soprano? Perhaps a festering jealousy, hatred even, lay beneath Maria Luisa’s careful management of her brother’s career. Perhaps she longed for revenge. But surely she wouldn’t want to see him accused of a murder he didn’t commit—only a monster could wish for that—and Maria Luisa did not strike me as so thoroughly evil. Anyway, it was a castrato who had delivered the last angel card, not a woman.

  The singer continued, “Maria Luisa has more talent in one little finger than I possess in total, but circumstances prevented her from becoming a performer.”

  Despite my promise, I again nibbled at the bounds of dangerous inquiry. “I don’t suppose you mean to explain more fully?”

  He shook his head firmly, gazing into his cooling chocolate as if the dark liquid were the most interesting sight he’d ever encountered.

  “I understand. It’s a brother’s duty to keep his sisters’ secrets.”

  His long eyelashes flicked up. “You sound as if you’ve had experience with sisters.”

  “You met my older sister at the Savio’s ill-fated reception. She is Signor Rumbolt’s wife, Annetta. Perhaps she was presented as Anna Maria.”

  “I do recall her—a quiet beauty. She seemed quite keen to see The False Duke.” Angeletto took a quick measure of my face, then asked in a curious tone. “Have you another sister?”

  I considered evading the question—my sister Grisella’s monstrous secrets must certainly overshadow any that Maria Luisa was hiding. Instead I merely replied, “We had a younger sister. She died several years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  I nodded, aware that the light in the studio was changing. It must be nearing noon, for the sun had moved to blaze through a high window at the peak of the far wall. “Carlo, I have just one more question. Quite simple and above-board,” I hastened to add.