I bowed.
He bowed.
Signora Vanini yelled for reinforcements.
***
Maria Luisa Vanini was clearly not a young woman born to tending hearth and home. I’d seen that the moment she’d passed through the inner door. It wasn’t the luxuriant brown hair tortured into a severe knot. Or the upper lip troubled by the dark down often observed in women of southern climes. Not even the pair of old man’s steel spectacles that sat on the bridge of her gracelessly arched nose. No, it was a particular amalgam of carriage and expression that I knew so well from my years with Liya.
Hardheaded, practical, resourceful.
Those words defined my wife and the qualities that had carried her through a painful break with her Hebrew family after a forbidden romance and an out-of-wedlock child with a long-departed Christian scoundrel. Hardheadedness, particularly, sustained Liya through the self-imposed exile in Monteborgo, the mountain village that clung to the old ways and the ancient gods. I supposed all of those qualities sustained her still. It couldn’t be easy for Liya, living in an unsanctioned marriage with me. The once celebrated Tito Amato. Now a voiceless castrato whose fame and fortune were dwindling away—and whose amorous fervor would never match that of normal men no matter what virilizing potions his skillful wife concocted.
“Your terms—what are they?” Maria Luisa’s matter-of-fact tones stopped my musings in their tracks.
We were alone. The younger girls and their mother had followed Angeletto through the inner door like muddy water swirling down a street drain in the wake of a bright wisp of carnival refuse. Maria Luisa had ordered Gussie and Benito into the corridor.
“Signorina Vanini,” I tightened my back muscles, straightened my shoulders, “the Teatro San Marco offers three thousand silver ducats for the three months of the autumn season and necessary rehearsals.”
“It’s not enough, Signore. My brother supports a large family.”
“Is it necessary that the full complement of sisters accompany him to Venice? How many of you are there, anyway?”
“We are eight. Four sisters and a pair of orphaned cousins—then our mother and myself. Carlo requires our presence.”
“Requires? For what purpose?”
“To ensure his tranquility. If my brother is to sing at his best, he must have adequate rest and well-ordered surroundings. As his family, we are bound to protect him from disquiet and any ignoble sentiment that might disturb his artistic nature.”
Blessed Virgin! A pang of resentment coursed through my gut as I recalled the appalling conditions I’d performed under when my career was just beginning. Drafty dressing rooms, macaroni for dinner day after day, unwashed costumes that stank of sweat and crawled with lice. But Angeletto—he required tranquility. Who did this hothouse blossom think he was? The great Farinelli?
Much as I would’ve loved to march straight out of the door, loyalty to the Teatro San Marco kept me rooted to the spot. You must strike a bargain with this sensitive angel’s sister-manager to win the war with Lorenzo Caprioli, I admonished myself.
“In addition to your brother’s fee,’ I said. “I’m also authorized to offer lodging appropriate for a gentleman and his entourage for the run of the contract.” Before I’d set off for Milan, Signor Passoni had expressly ordered me to invite Angeletto—undoubtedly at the tyrant Beatrice’s behest—to stay at the Ca’Passoni. The Savio wouldn’t be expecting such an invasion of Vanini sisters and cousins, but he would be gracious. That was the sort of man he was, and, after all, the Ca’Passoni was a roomy mansion.
I ladled on the honey: “You will be the guests of a high-ranking Venetian aristocrat.”
Maria Luisa dipped her chin and sent me a cool look over her spectacles. “That is only as it should be. You will have to do better on the cash settlement, with at least ten percent due on signing. We have…immediate expenses.”
“Travel?”
“Among other things.”
All right. I was willing to give a little, but I made my tone firm and resolute. There would be no further offers. “Three thousand and five hundred, Signorina.”
“Four thousand. You said yourself that Carlo’s voice is magnificent.”
Ah, Maria Luisa had overheard my conversation with her brother. Did all young woman make a habit of listening at doors these days? At least it told me that this one was sly in addition to calculating and clever.
I shook my head. “While I acknowledge that your brother is an exceptional performer, the Teatro San Marco has many demands on its accounts. You have our final offer. If we cannot engage Angeletto, there are other singers who will fit the role.”
“How many of them are riding a tide of public acclaim as high as Carlo’s? Four thousand is not too much to ask for a voice that will astound Venice as completely as it has Milan.” She smiled, along with a modest flutter of eyelashes. Another woman could have made the gesture flattering, even seductive. Not Maria Luisa Vanini. Coquetry didn’t suit her one whit.
When I failed to respond, she said, grumpily. “Very well. I’ll agree to your terms—if Carlo is allowed to give private concerts in his leisure time and to retain his full compensation for doing so.”
“I have no objection as long as he remains in good voice for performances.”
“Understand this, Signor Amato—” She stabbed the air with a forefinger. “Carlo will sing no more than six full-length performances per week—I won’t have his throat worn down from overuse.”
Ah, Carlo, the delicate flower. Raising an eyebrow, I replied smoothly, “I wouldn’t dream of overtaxing him.”
She adjusted her spectacles, then nodded slowly. “When do you propose to begin preparation for the opera?”
Yesterday, I thought, given that the Teatro Grimani had been rehearsing Venus and Adonis for well over a week. But I said, “As soon as possible. Perhaps you would allow me to make travel arrangements?”
“I’ll see to it,” Maria Luisa snapped.
Ouch! I inclined my head. “As you wish, Signorina.”
Maria Luisa fetched pen, ink, and paper. Like a man of business, this unusual girl kept a traveling desk at the ready. This she set up on the credenza which the younger girls had cleared of flowers, and within a quarter hour, she’d written out two copies of a contract in a rapid but precise clerical hand.
She handed me the quill. A flush had come to her cheeks, a candid, sweet smile to her lips. At that moment, Maria Luisa looked almost pretty. Unfortunately, not as pretty as her brother.
I returned the smile and signed the documents, silently congratulating myself that my grand scheme for the opera house was coming together at last.
***
Whenever I traveled, it was always the small elements of home that I craved. The next afternoon, as the carriage’s rhythmic rocking and an inn’s roast pork dinner conspired to lull Gussie and Benito to sleep, various scenes popped into my mind. Our dining table set with my mother’s blue and white plates, the ones that seemed to hide a cryptic tale in their Oriental scenes. My adopted son Titolino’s toy soldiers arrayed in mock battle in a sunny corner of the sitting room floor. The potted palm my sailor brother Alessandro had carried back from the Levant as a tender green shoot. Most of all, I looked forward to the scent of Liya’s orange-blossom eau de cologne in the parts of the house she frequented. And the special way she had of hugging me as I came and went. She liked to pass her arms under my jacket, press herself against me, and brush her fingertips along the small of my back.
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.
Whispers of Vivaldi (Tito Amato Series) Page 6