Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

  My manservant waited for my response with a winning smile.

  “Twins. Huh. A boy and a girl. So I was right—Carlo is Carlo after all.” I yawned, not bothering to cover my gaping mouth, and moved to the edge of the sofa, more than ready to seek my bed.

  “Wait, Master, there’s more. Much more.” Benito held up a pacifying palm. “The good priest also made a note of their godparents’ names. I managed to track one of them down. Onofrio Ascolo, the godfather, is a baker in the heart of the city. I think you’ll find his story interesting.”

  “I’d better. Otherwise, I may fall asleep right here.” I sat back, stretching forth my legs and crossing one ankle over the other.

  “It is no secret that Carlo Vanini was discovered by Maestro Belcredi in a parish church choir.” Benito cast another glance at his notebook. “That would have been when the twins had reached their tenth year, after the father’s death left the family basically penniless.”

  I nodded slowly. “That’s as Angeletto told us—in Milan the first time we met. Belcredi took the entire Vanini family under his wing.”

  “Yes, but Angeletto passed over several important details.” Benito cocked his head like an inquisitive canary. “Would you like to guess what they are?”

  “Just go on,” I urged with another yawn.

  “Belcredi actually took both twins under his tutelage. The girl displayed a particularly fine voice. Despite her squalid upbringing, she possessed natural intelligence and grace, and she took to the maestro’s musical instruction like a duck to water. The boy also had talent.…” Benito interrupted himself with a wry smile. “At least enough to put an end to his nascent manhood. Once he’d been relieved of his balls, he attacked his lessons with great determination. I suppose he realized that he must succeed as a singer or live the rest of his years as a figure of disdain and pity.

  “And so, for some time, all was well. The girl progressed rapidly, not only in her art, but in her fervent attachment to Maestro Belcredi. She turned into a lovely young woman, and the attraction was apparently mutual—or perhaps Belcredi was simply more interested in caging a songbird who could feather a comfortable nest for his old age. At any rate, by the time she was fifteen, Belcredi had taken her as his wife.”

  I shook my head, picturing Maria Luisa’s scraped back hair and steel spectacles. Lovely? Hardly. Had her early widowhood transformed her into the unattractive woman I was familiar with?

  Benito continued, “Then a series of disastrous events occurred. The twins were giving concerts in noble homes, and though the papal ban prevented the girl from singing on the stage of the opera house, the boy had debuted in secondary roles—always playing female characters, as young castrati in Naples and Rome tend to do. His pure, agile soprano and his coquettish acting brought him quite a bit of attention and welcome monetary rewards. Maestro Belcredi’s investment in the twins was finally coming to fruition.” Benito paused for a sighing breath. “But on the very eve of a pivotal opera premiere, the boy came down with a raging inflammation of the throat. He couldn’t sing a note. What was Belcredi going to do?” My manservant spread his arms. “What would you do, if you were in his place?”

  I leaned forward, all fatigue fled. I was suddenly as alert as if I’d just returned from the coffee house. “Are you telling me that Belcredi sent Maria Luisa to appear in Angeletto’s place?”

  “Something like that.”

  “How could they get away with such an audacious switch?”

  “Remember, the role in question was a female part. Both twins were sopranos, and, as twins, their voices undoubtedly shared a similar range and timbre. The godfather told me that Carlo and Maria Luisa often learned each other’s music, each functioning as the other’s most severe critic. When you consider all that, it really was not such an impossible switch. Onofrio Ascolo was standing in the pit that night. Even knowing the brother and sister since infancy, he did not see the true woman beneath the heavily costumed creature on the stage. He thought he was applauding his godson and didn’t know any different until a few months later—when old Signora Vanini came to him begging a handout, after Maestro Belcredi had died in the cholera epidemic.”

  I rubbed my jaw, consumed by memories from my early career, then I said, “The exhilaration of singing on the stage has no equal. Maria Luisa must have truly relished her moment of triumph.”

  Benito winked. “Her triumph lasted much longer than a moment. Her brother’s lovely soprano never returned. Much like your own injury, the illness left the castrato with a coarse, thick voice that would never again be raised in song.”

  It took a full minute for the implications of Benito’s words to sink through my thick skull. I’d been wrong! Angeletto wasn’t Carlo—Maria Luisa was Carlo.

  I threw my head back. In the shifting shadows on the ceiling, I saw all the hints I’d missed. The down on Maria Luisa’s upper lip, her long arms, her skill on the harpsichord, and so much more. Maria Luisa wasn’t an ugly woman—she was a castrated male. An angry, bitter young man who’d been forced to surrender his name and career to his twin sister after he’d already sacrificed so much.

  “Oh, Benito, what a bird-brained fool I’ve been.” My gaze locked his in a solemn stare. “And I would still be one if you hadn’t discovered the truth. I forgive your desertion, but you should have told me what you intended, you know. The longer you were gone, the more we worried.”

  His expression turned suitably apologetic, but before he could reply, another thought leapt to my lips. “Gussie—how I’ve wronged him. I urged him to use his artist’s eyes, and when he told me what they saw, I refused to credit him. I accused Gussie of seeing only what he wanted to see, while I was the one who was totally blinded by my hopes for The False Duke.”

  “Don’t reproach yourself too much, Master. Angeletto and his brother have perfected their roles through constant practice—their performances had even me stumped for a while—just a little while.” He leaned sideways to cup his hand around a guttering candle, then blew it out. He repeated the process with several others. As the sitting room dimmed, I saw that the grey light of dawn was creeping through the shutters. We’d talked the night through.

  Benito asked, “Now that you know The False Duke is truly false in every regard, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing,” I snapped.

  “You lie. You won’t allow the opera house to continue with this travesty.”

  I pushed to my feet with a sigh. “The Teatro San Marco is no longer my concern, Benito. While you’ve been away, I’ve been reminded of that a hundred times.”

  He also rose. “What is your concern, then?”

  The little castrato had hit the nail squarely on the head. Now that I could neither perform nor move into Maestro Torani’s shoes, what was I going to do? It was altogether possible that I would never see the inside of the Teatro San Marco again. How was I going to provide for my family? How was I going to live my life? Messer Grande had even ordered me away from investigating the murders.

  For a moment, Benito and I faced each other in silence. With an aching heart, I whispered. “I…I don’t know.”

  ***

  In the following days, a sense of futile urgency pervaded all my activities. After taking a dismal inventory of the coins in the household’s strongbox, I made a list of all the students I had once taught and eventually given up so that I could be of more service to Maestro Torani. If I could regain only half of my loyal students, their fees would at least put coal in the stove and food on the table. Liya brought up the possibility of doing some sewing as she’d once done for the opera house, perhaps crafting gowns to be sold from Pincas’ shop. I rejected that suggestion out of hand. I must be the one to support my family. Besides teaching, I must find another position.

  But who would hire me? My name was still tainted with the suspicion of murder and would probably remain so for some
time. Actually, I wasn’t certain I would take work at one of the second or third-rate theaters if it was offered. After being so closely aligned with the best—the Teatro San Marco—it didn’t seem right. I even toyed with the idea of leaving Venice, but no. The very thought made my heart ache. My family would have to be in danger of starving for me to quit my native land.

  I did take time out to pay a call at Messer Grande’s office on the Rialto. Though I thought Angeletto’s secret held no relevance for the solution of Torani and Tedi’s murders, my natural inclination for completeness pushed me to inform Andrea of Benito’s discovery.

  But Messer Grande was out, the sergeant told me. Out, with no estimated time of return.

  Well, I’d tried. There was always tomorrow. Or the next day.

  As it was as beautiful an autumn afternoon as ever occurs in Venice, I headed toward the piazza to mingle with the Carnival crowd. I’d barely stepped from under the clock’s underpass when I spotted Giovanna Passoni and her willful daughter inspecting a barrow of feathered masks and other fripperies. A pair of liveried footmen stood in attendance several yards away.

  Without stopping to consider Andrea’s ban on investigation, or even how I might put questions to the lady in the midst of carnival revelry, I called out, “Signora Passoni.” She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw who had hailed her, her face flushed bright pink. Beside her, Beatrice shuddered and clutched her blue cloak to her chin. Blue, not green! The girl’s face registered a confusion of dislike and alarm. “What do you want, Tito Amato?” Beatrice cried. “Go away!”

  The Passoni footmen sprang to action. One hustled the women toward the shelter of the Basilica. The other planted his six-foot frame in front of me. His livid scowl dared me to try and get around him. “Make tracks,” he ordered. I had no choice but to comply.

  During those days, I also tried to coax Liya into conversation concerning her distress over her cards. She remained close-lipped on the subject; from long experience, I knew that she would only talk when she was ready. On my own, I came to no useful conclusions as to why her mystical faculties had deserted her so suddenly. What did I know of goddesses? Diana had surely never spoken to me, or for that matter had the Blessed Virgin, though I prayed to her nightly. In one wild moment, my thoughts ranged toward the ridiculous, and I imagined these two womanly deities—the ancient goddess of the woodland and the Mother of Our Lord—meeting each other on a garden path in some green and glowing Paradise. Like great ladies promenading on the Riva degli Schiavoni, they would raise the veils of their zendali and acknowledge each other with regal nods. Who would speak first?

  One night, after we’d gone to bed, I made the mistake of repeating this to Liya, who merely gaped and said, “Oh, Tito, you don’t understand at all.” My wife then flipped over and set her face to the wall, taking most of the bedclothes with her.

  I rested on an elbow for a moment, staring at her tangle of jet hair, but she didn’t turn back. Presently she began to snore in little moaning gasps. Fully awake, I slid from under the blankets and donned my dressing gown.

  After wearing out the floor of our chamber with my pacing, I opened the balcony doors and stepped out into the chilly air. Carefully, silently, I shut the doors behind me. Then I did something I hadn’t even attempted for several years.

  I sang. Not an aria I’d learned in the conservatorio or performed on the stage, but the pure and magnificent music I heard in my heart. Though my delivery was halting and my throat’s timbre coarse and heavy sounding—unworthy of being heard by any human creature—my lungs were still capable of putting some power behind the earnest melody. I was absurdly delighted when the breeze took up the strains and seemed to lift them upwards toward the star-strewn sky. Perhaps the Blessed Mother would hear my poor song, understand the grief that gave it life, and bless me with her smile.

  I stood for a moment, gripping the railing, with my face upturned to the stars. To my amazement, I was treated to my melody coming back to me. It was repeated by a single, sweet tenor voice accompanied by a mandolin. Once, then twice, it sounded from the direction of the Canal Regio before floating away forever. The Virgin’s gift? Perhaps. During Carnival there was always a great number of vagrant musicians abroad at all hours of the day and night—but they seldom wandered as far as the Cannaregio.

  The next day, toward evening, a boy from the theater delivered a message that shook me out of my doldrums. The Teatro San Marco was dark that night, for the first time since Tedi’s murder. This I knew because Gussie had broken his resolve. Curious, he and Annetta had attended a performance of The False Duke and mingled with acquaintances backstage. He reported that most of the company had been aghast when the Savio refused to close even one night in respect for the murder of its longtime prima donna, right on the premises, no less. But Gussie also had to admit that the Savio alla Cultura had made a shrewd business decision. The latest scandal had entirely replaced the furor over Angeletto, and Gussie judged that both The False Duke and its star performer were well received.

  It was the star who had sent the message. In the short note, Angeletto begged for my help with another difficult passage.

  I crumpled the page on a rush of anger. Hot blood suddenly coursed through my veins. Yes, I had a few things to say to Angeletto—none of them calculated to perfect that lady’s singing. I tossed the balled-up paper into the waste bucket the maid had left in the hall. Making a quick grab for my cloak, I set off without a word to anyone. What I had to say wouldn’t take long. I would be back in time for supper.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Venice existed in a cold twilight mist. Her humped roof tiles glistened with damp, and the strains of a brass band on the piazza were muted and distant. As I approached the theater where I’d spent so much of my adult life, I shivered within my cloak. I’d come to ask the real Maria Luisa Vanini why she thought she should be allowed to enjoy operatic wealth and fame without making the ultimate sacrifice that had been forced on me and every other castrato who had ever poured out our hearts in song.

  Finding the stage door locked, I thumped on it with the side of my fist. Presently I heard uneven, clumping footsteps approaching from inside. Those couldn’t be Angeletto’s light steps. Before that thought fully formed, a prickling sense of danger shot up my spine. I backed away and was poised to leave when I heard a familiar voice through the stout door planks.

  “Just a moment…having trouble with the bolt.”

  Giuseppe Balbi! Perhaps the violinist had agreed to also assist Angeletto by providing accompaniment for the tutoring session the singer had requested. I relaxed as the door swung inward and Balbi’s slight form appeared. His expression was unusually severe, and I was surprised to see him in performance attire: an immaculate black coat and breeches, white shirt, and neatly folded neckcloth. His own silver-streaked hair was tied back and lightly powdered.

  “How good of you to come, Tito. If you would just step onto the stage…” Balbi’s pale hand sketched an expansive arc. “The opera is about to begin.”

  “Opera?” I asked as I passed Balbi and crossed the dusty boards. I thought Angeletto merely wanted some coaching. My eyebrows pinched together. Did the singer intend to perform an aria fully costumed, implementing his full stage business?

  I stepped onto the glowing stage. Every footlight and wing light had been set aflame, and the scenery for Act Three of The False Duke was in place. The backdrop portrayed a rocky coastline. At its base, a triple series of wide rollers was covered with blue-green fabric that stood in for ocean billows. They would appear quite realistic when in motion, but now the silk lay limp and dusty. The Savio’s triumph, the tall-masted ship that split in two as it foundered on the rocks, dominated the center stage.

  “What’s going on here? Where’s Angeletto?” I asked Balbi as I turned my back on the scenery and gazed out toward the empty auditorium. One fuzzy point of light beamed out of the blackness; three
tapers branched from a candelabrum beside the harpsichord in the orchestra enclosure. Their wicks must have been lit within the past hour. The tapers hadn’t burned long enough to perceptibly reduce their length.

  “Where is Angeletto?” I asked again. My voice sounded hollow, as if I were calling into the mouth of a cave.

  Receiving no answer, I glanced around. Balbi had disappeared. I sighed and stepped closer to the footlights. All was quiet. Not even a mouse’s footfall disturbed the all-encompassing silence, yet my ears relived the waves of cheers and applause that had greeted me in times past. I closed my eyes and tilted my head back. In that instant, I’d just sounded the last note of a spectacular aria, and Maestro Torani was waiting in the wings to gather me into his arms. I could almost feel the weight of a royal cape on my shoulders, an elaborate wig and helmet on my head, a sword in its baldric pulling my shoulder down.

  For what happened next, I have nothing to blame except my own woolgathering and misplaced trust.

  From behind, clattering steps and a blur of motion snapped me back to reality. Something very hard struck the back of my head.

  The last thing I heard was my own hoarse cry of pain as I crumpled to the floor. Stars danced in front of my eyes, then nothing.

  ***

  Music prodded me to consciousness—terrible, terrifying music—a harpsichord being attacked with the frenzy of a demon player. Gradually, I realized that I was on the ship’s deck, ten feet or more above the stage floor. Coarse ropes held me fast against…something. I strained against my bonds but was unable to do more than turn my head from side to side.

  Meanwhile, the music jangled on, faster and faster. With a sickening jolt, I recognized the overture to Prometheus. Its composer, Balbi, must be the demon at the keyboard.

  After shaking off a wave of dizziness, I realized that both of my arms had been stretched painfully back over the ship’s steering wheel and lashed to the wooden spokes. I was upright, but forced up onto my toes with my ankles tied together, with no way to free myself. The mast with its flaccid sail riggings stretched above me into the darkness above the stage.