3 - Cruel Music

by Beverle Graves Myers

Chapter Sixteen

  The natural joy of a child yet to be saddled with the world’s woes is one of life’s everyday miracles. As I opened the door to the crowded cookshop, little Tito reminded me that such happiness still existed. He shot out from behind the counter in the depths of the shop, encircled my waist in a bear hug, and insisted I pick him up so he could gabble his news directly into my ear.

  “Arruffato wasn’t a boy.”

  “Arru…” I started questioningly. “Oh, your spider friend.”

  Tito nodded, eyes as bright and shiny as buttons. “He was a girl. And he…I mean, she had babies. More than I can count.”

  “Well, this I must see. Will you show me?”

  “I can’t. They’re gone. Nonna Maddelena says they crawled away to find new homes.”

  “Yes, all gone, but maybe one of their children will come back to visit someday.” Maddelena straightened from wiping one of the few empty tables and took little Tito from my arms. She smelled of spices and roasting meat. Smiling, she sent the boy to the kitchen with a playful swat on the seat of his breeches. “Go back to your games, little one, let Signor Amato take a breath.”

  “Oh, he’s all right,” I replied.

  “But you’ll want to talk with your friend.” The proprietor of the cookshop nodded sagely. “How did you know that Liya had sent him here? Have you been to the theater?”

  “No, I haven’t seen Liya for several days.” I removed my tricorne and scanned the faces of the working men who were filling their bellies with a late dinner. “My friend, did you say?”

  “Back there.” She flicked her rag toward a table wedged in a nook between the stairs and the serving counter.

  A man sat with his back toward us, assiduously plying knife and fork. I stared at his bulky shoulders and untidy queue of blond hair in disbelief.

  “Gussie,” I shouted.

  My brother-in-law almost knocked his bench over in his rush to greet me. The next few moments passed in a blur of embracing, back slapping, and competing questions. Once settled in the secluded nook, we conversed in whispers too low to be heard over the clatter of cutlery and buzz of louder voices.

  I started with a sad recitation of Benito’s condition, but interrupted myself when Maddelena brought food and drink. For a few moments, I fell on my plate like a man who hadn’t seen food for two days.

  “Don’t they feed you at that splendid villa?” Gussie asked, accepting Maddelena’s offer of more macaroni.

  “I thought performing as the cardinal’s lap dog had destroyed my appetite,” I replied, “but suddenly I’m ravenous.” Between bites, I went on to apprise Gussie of all that had happened since I’d sailed from Venice.

  He listened with few interruptions but wrinkled his brow so many times that I feared it would settle into permanent creases. Furtive murder and papal intrigue were well outside his honest, straightforward way of thinking. By the time I had succeeded in explaining why it was so important that I discover Gemma’s killer, we had demolished a stewed chicken, two huge bowls of buttered macaroni, and a bottle of Frascati.

  With a welcome belch, I pushed my empty plate aside and asked, “But Gussie, why have you journeyed to Rome? I thought you were occupied with a large commission.”

  “Annetta was worried,” he explained. “She called at the Roman post every day, expecting a letter. When none came, she imagined every sort of dire possibility. I told her you could take care of yourself, but she gave me no peace.”

  “What about the paintings for the Duke of…whatever he is?”

  “Richmond. He’ll just have to wait. If truth be told…” Gussie sent me a severe glance, tapping his fork against the china. “I was getting worried, too.”

  “Your letter kept growing fatter and fatter. I should have sent it days ago, but I was worried about prying eyes.” I patted the bundle of clothing on the bench beside me. “It will be in here, but it contains little I haven’t just told.”

  Gussie nodded, breaking off a hunk of bread to soak up the remains of the garlic-drenched butter. “Alessandro wanted me to come, too. He was almost as insistent as Annetta.”

  “You’ve been allowed to see him?”

  “His warden has been most cooperative—for a price, of course. Venetian civil servants elevate the practice of bribery to a high art. Five soldi would have bought a ten-minute conversation through a grating with a jailer stationed near enough to hear every word, so I gave a zecchino to gain entrance to Alessandro’s cell for a more private conversation. For ten more I could have ordered us a meal of boiled beef and decent bread. I was even quoted prices for importing various grades of whores.”

  “How does Alessandro fare?” I planted my elbows on the table, steeling myself for the worst.

  “Remarkably fine. His bruises are fading, and he seems in good spirits.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but somewhat surprised, I’ll admit. Surely Alessandro is aware of the punishment meted out to convicted salt smugglers.” Goosebumps popped out on my arms. The thought of my brother swinging from a gibbet on the Piazzetta chilled me to the depths of my soul.

  Gussie followed the bread with a thoughtful sip from his glass. “I can’t quite make him out. Everyone in Venice walks in fear of offending the Tribunal of State Inquisitors, but when I talk to Alessandro about his situation, he simply waves his hand as if Senator Montorio is nothing more than an obnoxious mosquito. Alessandro is keeping something up his sleeve, Tito…or I’m a Dutchman.”

  “What could it be?”

  “I cannot imagine, but I will tell you this—besides coming to Rome, there was one other task Alessandro set for me. He wrote a nice, fat letter of his own, addressed to a Turkish gentleman in Constantinople. He said it concerned business matters too important to consign to the post.”

  “Venice and Constantinople have shared a reliable mail route for well over a century.”

  “I know, but that wasn’t good enough for Alessandro. He had me locate one of his military friends who is attached to a swift galley that was preparing to set sail for the Ottoman port. The man promised to deliver the letter personally, as soon as his ship dropped anchor. He was greatly exercised by Alessandro’s arrest. Called it ‘a shocking example of despotism.’”

  I nodded. It was heartening to know that some fellow Venetians recognized the injustice. Perhaps I’d not been so alone as I’d felt these past weeks. “When did the galley sail?”

  “Two days after you left Venice.” Gussie did some counting on his fingers. “That would be January eighth.”

  “Did you notice the name on the letter?”

  “I committed it to memory—Yusuf Ali Muhammad. Alessandro’s friend said the address was in a neighborhood that shared a wall with the gardens of the Topkapi Palace—not a shabby place by the sound of it. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  I shook my head. “Alessandro has been very close-mouthed about his Turkish doings. Did he send a letter for me?”

  “I’m afraid you will have to make do with me as messenger. I’m to ask if you remember the opera that opened last year’s carnival season.”

  “How could I forget? It was Antonio e Cesare. Scalzi and I shared the lead roles. In the middle of the first act, he refused to join me on stage unless he received a substantial raise in salary.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Maestro Torani signaled me to play for time. I sang almost every aria I knew before Scalzi deigned to appear. Why? What does that old business have to do with our current difficulties?”

  “That is what Alessandro was so anxious that I tell you— you’re to play for time as best you know how.”

  “What?” I stared at Gussie in blank astonishment.

  My brother-in-law spread his hands. “That’s all I know. Alessandro said, ‘Tell Tito to humor the Montorio brothers, ke
ep himself safe, and pray that Pope Clement hangs on for another few weeks.’”

  The cookshop had cleared out. The citizens of the Trastevere had consumed their dinners and settled down for the siesta that cuts the daily activities of this southern city into two distinct halves. Maddelena, ignoring little Tito’s vigorous objections, had also taken the boy upstairs for his siesta. It was a good time to examine the package I’d carried away from the hospital.

  While Gussie conveyed our soiled dishes to the counter, I sawed at Sister Regina’s knots with my dagger. The nun had used Benito’s relatively clean waistcoat to wrap his bloodied shirt, breeches, and jacket crusted with dirt and filth. These surrounded Benito’s underclothes and the shoes that he always kept as scrupulously polished as my own. I ran my thumb over their scarred leather with a sigh.

  My search of Benito’s pockets was halted by the sudden appearance of Liya coming through the kitchen door and tossing her cloak on the counter.

  Gussie had already explained how he had come to Maddelena’s cookshop. After securing lodging in a corner of the Trastevere that catered to artists, he had quickly located the Villa Fabiani, but not knowing my situation, he hesitated to present himself at the door. Summoning his utmost powers of deduction, he decided that I might have made myself known at Rome’s foremost opera house. Liya had spotted him immediately.

  “So you found each other. Good.” Her white teeth gleamed in a smile; her black hair shone under a white lace cap. “What is this?” She picked up one of Benito’s torn stockings and drew it through her hands. “Are you going into the rag business, Tito?”

  I allowed Gussie to tell the story of the malevolent drayman’s cart while I mined Benito’s pockets. My manservant never liked to be without, so I brought out quite a few treasures: watch; purse; filigreed case containing a stubby pencil, several of my visiting cards, and a scrap of blank paper; comb; small ball of string; a half-eaten biscuit wrapped in a handkerchief; and a fresh tin of violet pastilles. Tucked in the lid of the oval tin was a scrawled note: a sweet token for my love—G. Guido had evidently discovered Benito’s taste for candy.

  Pressing herself onto the bench beside me, Liya stroked my hair and kissed my cheek. “Oh Tito, I’m so sorry…poor little Benito.”

  I saw Gussie bite the inside of his lip at the intimate gesture. My friend and brother-in-law was guarding his countenance more carefully than usual, but I could see that he was not entirely happy that I was involved with Liya again. Gussie had been at my side when I first wooed her and had sympathetically endured all my moaning over her loss.

  Lining the items up on the table before me, I studied them closely, hoping to find a clue to tell me why my manservant had been attacked. I shook my head. There was nothing that shouldn’t be there, but…several things were missing. I tore through the garments again, coming up with nothing more than a quantity of lint.

  “What is it, Tito?” Gussie asked.

  “The letters. I sent Benito out to deliver two letters to a singer bound for Venice—a letter of introduction to Maestro Torani and the letter to be delivered to your hand.”

  “Perhaps Benito had already been to Tucci’s place and was on his way back,” Liya offered.

  “There wasn’t time. Besides, someone who witnessed the attack told me that Benito was walking downhill, towards the Tiber bridge.”

  “He might have encountered this Tucci fellow on the street—a coincidental meeting.” Gussie raised a hopeful smile.

  “Unlikely,” I replied, “but the next time I’m able to shake Rossobelli off my coattails, I’ll seek Signor Tucci out and ask him.”

  “Let me, Tito. Tucci rarely goes a day without appearing at the theater.” Liya followed her words by slipping her hand over mine, but I paid it no heed.

  I was thinking back to the scene in my room: sealing the letters, consigning them to Benito. He had been clutching the letters as he went through the door. My manservant had a way of infusing even the most mundane activity with high drama. When encountering someone in the corridors or on the stairs who could give him directions to the Piazza D’Espagna, Benito would have cast himself in the role of royal courier and carried the letters as if they held state secrets. I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

  “Tito?” Gussie and Liya cried in unison.

  “How could I have been so careless?” Words tumbled from my lips. “I should have made sure Benito tucked those letters away, warned him more sternly. No, I should have delivered them myself. Thanks to me, Benito is hovering at death’s door and whoever has Gussie’s letter might as well have been taking notes on my every move.”

  We digested this development and the possibilities it raised in silence. Muffled thumps and squeals from the upper floor told us that little Tito had finished his nap. Liya fixed her dark eyes on mine. “Would it cheer you up to hear that I have a plan to penetrate the Palazzo Pompetti?”

  I nodded. “At least I would be taking the lead instead of letting other people push me hither and yon.”

  “Tomorrow night, then. Can you get away from the villa?”

  “I’ll find a way.” I caught sight of Gussie’s raised eyebrows. “Can we all go?”

  “No, sorry. I secured an invitation from Lady Mary with some difficulty—for myself and one other only.” Liya turned to Gussie with a stiff smile. “But we will dress here. You can help me get Tito properly turned out.”

  “Won’t my usual court attire do?” I asked.

  She shook her head, cultivating an air of mystery. “Be here at seven, both of you.”

  “But—? What are you planning?”

  “Just be here, caro.”

  Studiously silent, Gussie busied himself with flicking crumbs from his waistcoat. Just as well. I very much doubted that I would want to hear what was running through his mind.

  ***

  Back in my room at the Villa Fabiani, a fire had been laid, but it still awaited the touch of a taper. So did the lamps. Never had my chamber seemed so dark and cold. Not ready to face preparing for the evening without Benito, I stepped out onto the balcony and wondered what Abate Lenci had made of our interrupted conversation. At least I could be sure that he had nothing to do with the attack on Benito: even if he had noticed the letters my manservant carried, there had been no time for Lenci to arrange to steal them. He had appeared at my door only a minute or so after Benito had walked through it.

  I sighed; time was wasting and I must make myself ready. Cardinal Fabiani had planned an excursion to the Capranica, an opera house that rivaled the Argentina. Just he and I. The official reason for the cardinal’s invitation was to hear my critique of the production, but I believed that Fabiani really wanted to enjoy the opera without the need to entertain guests who would rather chat than listen. Stepping back into the sitting room, I was surprised to hear someone moving about in my bed chamber.

  I approached gingerly and peered around the doorway.

  In the shadows, a stocky figure hunched over my wash stand. Crossing to the bedroom window on noiseless cat feet, I threw back the drape. The dim twilight revealed Guido, mouth frozen in a wide circle, clutching a steaming pitcher.

  “Ah, Signore. You startled me.” The footman recovered himself to bow respectfully. “I’ve brought some warm water, and I’ll have your fire going in a moment.”

  “Of course, thank you.” I sank down on the window seat, feeling more than a little foolish.

  Guido continued his work with an industrious air, fetching my dressing gown, arranging my brushes, and laying out soap and towels.

  I removed my jacket and began to untie my shirt. The day’s exertions had left me feeling sticky and grimy. When Guido left to fetch a taper, I made a beeline for the wash basin, soaped up a cloth, and reveled in the touch of the warm water bathing my skin.

  “Which suit of clothing will you be wanting, Sign
ore?” The footman had reappeared to light the lamps.

  “I can take care of that, Guido. You can go now—no need to play valet.”

  “Abate Rossobelli has given me leave to assist you with whatever you need.” He drew himself up, chin elevated at a sharp angle. “I may only be a footman, but I’ve watched the valets often enough. There’s nothing they do that I can’t.”

  “Are you sure? It means more work for you.”

  “A man in my position has few ways to improve himself, Signore.”

  I searched his young, stubborn face and understood. To move up the servant ranks, a footman must acquire new skills. If Guido didn’t take advantage of opportunities as they presented themselves, he could end up like Roberto, still minding the door and running the halls with a bent back and creaky knees.

  “All right, Guido. Benito’s duties are now yours. You can start by handing me that towel.”

  He complied with a grateful bow and said, “Now, I don’t suppose you will be requiring a shave?”

  “No,” I answered dryly.

  “Then which suit?”

  I made my choice, and Guido proceeded to fit me out for the evening. Touched by his determined but clumsy efforts to handle powder and paint, I tried to forget that I didn’t particularly care for the man. I sensed a hot temper behind his carefully molded smile, and I could easily picture him in the middle of one of the street fights that I had seen break out over nothing more than an unconsidered glance or chance rubbing of shoulders. Where Venetians of the lower classes confined themselves to wild outbursts of invective, Romans quickly advanced to blows or the brandishing of the wicked little knives that both men and women kept about their persons.

  But Benito had taken this coarse Roman to his heart; for my manservant’s sake, I tried to be accommodating. “Were you able to spend much time at the hospital?” I asked as Guido draped my shoulders to protect my jacket from the final dusting of wig powder.

  “A few minutes only. I don’t know if Benito could hear me, but I knelt at his bedside and made him a solemn promise.”