Whispers of Vivaldi (Tito Amato Series)

by Beverle Graves Myers

  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. S
ignor 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.

  “Always a pleasure, Signor Amato,” she said, as the singularly named Franco nodded benignly in the background.

  “You are very kind to play host to Angeletto and his family,” I said.

  “There did turn out to be a few more of them than we’d expected.” She gave me a droll smile. Franco cocked an eyebrow.

  “I hope they’re not causing any trouble.”

  “Not at all—after our major domo put the old mother in her place. Except for the sister who seems to act as emissary for the lot, they mostly stay in their quarters. When I do see our angel duke, he makes a pretty bow, but has little to say. In fact, he acts as if he couldn’t count to five without his mother or sister encouraging him.”

  Our three gazes slid inexorably toward the Savio and Angeletto.

  “Tell me,” Signora Passoni continued in a curiously brittle tone, “will The False Duke be true to his promise?”

  She was asking if the opera would be ready for opening night. Everyone else just assumed the production was proceeding according to plan. I was by no means certain—I had yet to conduct Angeletto’s delayed rehearsals—but I put on a show of bravado. “Of course. The Duke would never let us down, and his premiere will be spectacular.”

  My wife often asserted that words have power in and of themselves. Perhaps saying it would make it so.

  “And my husband’s shipwreck? He talks of nothing else. How does it progress?” The signora removed her fan from the reticule bag hanging from her wrist like a fat sausage in a velvet casing. Wasn’t that Franco’s job to keep up with such sundries as hankies and fans?

  I replied with an enthusiastic nod, “Ziani has outdone himself. The wreck on the rocky coast will be talked about for years to come.” On this point, I could answer quite honestly. Our machinist had started with double the usual amount of thunder and lightning, and then crafted rolling cylinders swathed in billows of silk to represent the waves. Angeletto and Oriana would sing their concluding duet lashed to the mast of a marvelous ship’s deck that would split in two with the release of a hidden lever.

  As pleasant as Signora Passoni’s smile was while conversing with me, it brightened to lighthouse-beam intensity when Signor Rocatti joined us.

  “Niccolo,” she greeted the composer warmly, “what kept you?”

  “Giovanna, I came as soon as the Pieta’s master would give me leave.” He took both of her hands in his and kissed them.

  I glanced at Franco. I thought bestowing kisses was also his job, but the tall eunuch seemed unperturbed.

  Signora Passoni—Giovanna!—tapped her folded fan in her palm. “They work you too hard at the Pieta—it’s criminal. I wish you would let me speak—”

  The handsome young man stopped her with a caress to her bare forearm. “I may be a teacher there, but I’m still learning. I must comply with the discipline of the head maestro.”

  Signora Passoni merely set her lips in a hard line, so I rushed in to fill the silence. “You studied under Maestro Vivaldi, didn’t you? You were one of his few male pupils.”

  Rocatti nodded, smiling. “It was a piece of extraordinary luck that I was born in a time and place to be given that opportunity.”

  “Well, now that you are here”—Signora Passoni put her fan into play again, this time aflutter—“would you at least consent to accompany Oriana Foscari tonight.”

  The composer’s thin face flushed right up to the powdered waves that furrowed back from his smooth brow. His expression sobered. “It will give me gre
at pleasure to hear my music interpreted by Signor Amato.”

  “Oh!” The signora’s fan flew to cover her face for an instant. “You must think me very rude, Signor Amato. Of course you must play the harpsichord for Oriana. It’s been planned.” Lowering the fan to flutter at her flat bosom, she drilled me with the gaze of a patrician accustomed to having her whims carried out. “Unless…you might prefer to take your ease.”

  Rocatti and I traded glances. His was hopeful, buoyant even. Had he become less shy in the aura cast by his patroness?

  I capitulated. Rocatti went to confer with Oriana, and the signora and her cavaliere drifted off into the salon that swirled with a medley of bright silks and satins and froths of lace at necks and elbows. From the gallery above, innocuous but sprightly music rained down on the brilliant assembly. It was a pretty piece, one I was unacquainted with. Perhaps it was one of Balbi’s own compositions.

  I was searching for Liya when a surprise guest was announced.

  “Maestro Rinaldo Torani,” the major domo declaimed above the babble. Then softer: “And Signora Teodora Dall’Agata.”

  I whirled to see the old man advancing, silver-headed stick supporting him on the right, Tedi’s crooked arm on the left. I swallowed over the lump in my throat. Torani looked ancient. His translucent skin was stretched so tight that the bones of his cheeks and scarred forehead stood out in sharp relief. His moss-green taffeta coat hung so loosely from his thin shoulders that he could have been a carnival dummy fashioned of old clothing draped over a pair of crossed sticks.

  I shook my head. The maestro should be home in bed, not hobnobbing with this crowd. What had Tedi been thinking to bring him to the Ca’Passoni?

  A second glance at the soprano showed me that she wore her second-best gown and that her hair had been clumsily arranged with a blue aigrette as its only adornment. The delicate skin under her eyes was bagging, and her cheeks were pale under dots of rouge. Tedi was watching me, too. She launched a pained look. I understood; it hadn’t been Tedi’s idea to attend the reception.