1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Their leader was made of sterner fiber. He wasn’t about to let his prize escape so easily. Kicking and splashing, he grabbed my waistcoat and dealt my chin a glancing blow with his other fist. I struck out furiously, trying to push his head under the surface. I made contact, but it was only his drenched wig that came away in my hand. He gave me a triumphant grin. With his longer reach and superior strength, he pressed me under the dark water and kept me there. Lungs bursting, I made a grab for the only thing I could think of. My hand followed his shirt ruffles to his chin, then slid toward his ear. I located the dangling pearl and gave it a violent tug.

  He released me with a mighty yell. I didn’t waste a second. Snatching one huge breath, I dived into blackness and swam up the canal, intent on gaining as much distance from the gondola as possible. The drumming of blood in my ears was the only sound as I cut through the frigid water. When I was finally forced to surface, I saw a bridge flanked by some steps leading to a small quay. I pulled myself up on the stone blocks and teetered to the top, grateful for the solid footing, but knowing it was too soon to rest. Angry shouts in the distance told me I had to keep moving.

  I launched myself down a gloomy calle as fast as my trembling legs could carry me. The smartest strategy would have been to head for the piazza and lose myself in the crowd. But I wasn’t thinking; I was simply reacting. I ran blindly, not even sure of my direction. Every second or third turn, a canal or cul-de-sac would block my way. Then, with my heart pumping a staccato beat, I’d whirl wildly, certain that the marauding dandies would appear at any moment. Gradually I realized that the danger had passed and the fops probably hadn’t chased me any farther than the first bridge.

  I allowed my feet to slow. That’s when I began to shiver.

  Taking stock of my whereabouts, I found myself in a neighborhood unknown to me, surrounded by tightly shuttered houses. Ragged clouds obscured the moon, and lantern posts were few and far between. Dripping wet, my good cloak and one shoe lost to the canal, I trudged down dark calli and over deserted bridges, searching for one of the larger secondary canals that would dump into the Grand Canal. If I could find Venice’s watery backbone, I knew I could find my way back to the Cannaregio.

  The air was colder now and my teeth were chattering. I groaned as I ran a hand through my damp hair. I could bear being mishandled by ignorant fops, but a head cold or sore throat was death to a singer. If I couldn’t find warmth or shelter soon, my engagement at the San Stefano might be over before it began.

  I had nearly lost hope of finding my way when I stumbled onto a small, open square flanked by rambling structures. On the opposite side, a break in the clouds revealed a most welcome sight, the unmistakable, multicolored, polished-stone arch of the church of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. Now I knew where I was. I’d been to Mass at the Miracoli hundreds of times in the old days. My father’s aunt—may the Lord rest that good lady’s soul—had lived in this quarter. As Isidore Amato’s last surviving relative besides his motherless children, Aunt Carlotta had taken it upon herself to guide our spiritual development. Happily, she had ended up indulging us with as many sweets and ices as prayers. My heart sang a silent hymn of thanksgiving to Our Lady and dear Aunt Carlotta as I located the wide pavement of the Strada Nova and trotted toward home, not sorry to be leaving Carnival far behind.

  Chapter 4

  The next morning, Felice and I took a late breakfast of oranges and toasted bread smeared with soft cheese. Annetta joined us, standing at the end of the table to fold some freshly washed linen into a basket. I’d already sounded a few scales in my room and was relieved that my throat seemed no worse for the wear. No one seemed to realize that I’d been out of the house half the night. I decided to keep the distressing incident to myself, at least for now.

  Father had just set off for the Mendicanti with Grisella in tow. Annetta told us Father took the girl to work with him several times a week. She was included in the keyboard lessons that he taught, then joined the other girls for voice lessons.

  “Although you wouldn’t know it from the passages Grisella plays and sings for me.” Annetta shook her head in perplexity as she left her folding to gather dirty dishes onto a tray. “She just doesn’t seem to make any progress. Sometimes, I don’t think she’s even interested in music. If she would just work at it, she could have a very pretty voice. Maybe even better than her brother’s.” Annetta gave me a teasing smile, licked orange juice off her fingers, and headed toward the kitchen with the tray balanced on her hip.

  At Annetta’s insistence, Father planned to return home in the afternoon and collect Felice before going to his daily coffeehouse gathering. Throughout our meal, my friend vacillated between sunny anticipation and panicky foreboding at the thought of meeting the Venetian musicians. I watched as he moodily chased bread crumbs around the tablecloth with a flicking forefinger. Felice’s thick hair was still damp from his morning wash and fell in curls over his forehead. With his flushed cheeks, he would have looked the picture of health and happiness except for the strain evident in his eyes.

  With a tight smile, he brushed the crumbs into his napkin and raised his chin to meet my gaze. “When will you leave for the theater, Tito?”

  “Soon. I don’t know what time the company usually gathers and I don’t want to be late.”

  His shoulders drooped. “I’m happy for you, but I can’t pretend I don’t envy you, too. To have your opportunity, to sing on stage again, sure of my voice, that would be the answer to all my prayers.”

  I started to reassure him but couldn’t make my tongue dance through the oft-repeated words of encouragement. With a sorrowful pang, I realized that even I had come to doubt whether his voice could return to its former glory. “Good luck with Father,” I blurted awkwardly as I stood up and straightened my waistcoat. “I’ll tell you all about the opera when I get back.”

  As I settled my second-best cloak on my shoulders, the house was caught up in a whirl of morning chores. Annetta had gone up to make the beds, Lupo had donned a leather apron to mend a loose tread on the stairs, and the yeasty smell from the kitchen told me Berta was baking bread. I opened the door and stepped out onto the square. Venice greeted me with a morning sky as hard and smooth as blue enamel, unsoftened by even a wisp of cloud. To get to the theater near the Rialto Bridge, I had to cover much the same route I had taken last night. This time I was in a hurry to reach my destination, so I boarded a gondola.

  By the light of day, the buildings that had seemed so anonymous and threatening in the shadows of last night took on a more human air. Shutters were thrown open to entice the sun’s warmth into autumn-cool rooms, and housewives were calling down to the water girls who bore shoulder yokes balanced with jugs at either end. Everyone was astir. As my gondola made its way down the Canal Regio that gave the district its name, I saw shopkeepers sweeping their steps, setting out barrows, and building pyramids of everything from cabbages to boots.

  I had asked my boatman to point out the Palazzo Viviani. He gave me the high sign as he propelled the gondola into the choppier waters of the Grand Canal. I gazed up at a wall of marble rising straight up from the water’s edge. Along its front, at least ten freshly painted gondolas bobbed at their mooring posts. Pointed arches ascended in levels to a delicate rampart of marble tracery encircling the roof. I looked back as we swept down the canal and saw those gilded cupolas that my gondolier of the day before had told me cost the Viviani so many ducats. Of a distinctly Turkish style, they clashed with the gothic structures below. Just as in the palaces of Naples, I noted that wealth did not necessarily buy good taste.

  A parade of other palaces lined the wide canal; many were not in as good repair as the Palazzo Viviani. It grieved me to see sadly faded façades, pitted marble, and foundations frayed by years of creeping tides. Finally, I settled back into the gondola’s cushions, half closed my eye, and allowed the stately buildings to glide by in a blur of pomp and splendor. Then I saw my city as she had been in her glory
years. Suddenly I felt every inch a Venetian despite my long stay in the south.

  I disembarked near the Rialto Bridge, the span that presides over Venice’s busiest commercial district. I hit the pavement with a bounce in my step, but my feet grew leaden as I neared the San Stefano. My moment of truth was at hand. In the blink of an eye, I would turn from student to employed singer in the service of a renowned opera company. There would be no more teachers to turn to if something went wrong, no more time to polish my skills. As a newcomer, I would be billed as uomo secondo, the second male singer. Soon every operagoer in Venice, which meant practically every living Venetian, would know me as a castrato singer. I couldn’t help thinking of other paths my life might have taken, but I could harbor no illusions about becoming anything other than what I was. What else was a eunuch to do but sing?

  My reluctant steps finally reached the theater. The playbill outside announced an upcoming opera with music by a composer unknown to me, but the subject of the libretto was familiar mythological territory. It was the story of Juno’s revenge on the wayward nymph Callisto. The queen of the gods was bent on punishing Callisto for catching the eye of her eternally amorous husband, Jupiter. Such exploits of pagan gods and ancient heroes were the popular themes of the day. As I entered the deserted lobby and crossed to the rear of the darkened theater, I discovered the company in the midst of rehearsal.

  Two women and an elderly man stood on stage while workmen stacked pieces of scenery behind them. The younger of the women was arguing vehemently with a short, balding man in the orchestra pit. I took him to be the director. Another man, broad shouldered and handsome, sat at the harpsichord with his head in his hands. He suddenly burst out with whispered invectives seemingly directed at no one in particular. A medley of hammering, sawing, and clanging coming from the wings provided background noise for this little drama. I decided to keep to the shadows and wait for a pause in the action before making my presence known.

  “She’s doing it on purpose, calling attention to herself,” screamed the younger woman with untidy blond hair escaping its pins in lank tendrils. She pointed a stabbing finger at the darker, older soprano.

  “But what is she doing, Caterina? I don’t see her doing anything except standing in her place,” the director replied wearily.

  “When I begin my aria, she starts smiling and swaying her hips toward the audience. She’s taking their eyes off me, distracting them at my most dramatic moment.” Caterina, whose family name I was to learn was Testi, thrust her sharply pointed chin in the air and crossed her arms decisively. “I won’t sing with that mischief going on.”

  The director turned to the object of Caterina’s spite and spread his arms in supplication. “Adelina, during this passage you and Crivelli simply stand at your places upstage. No movement is needed. You understand, my dear.”

  So this was Adelina Belluna, or La Belluna as the populace of Venice called her. We had heard of her exploits as far away as Naples. She was tall for an Italian woman and emphasized her height with a proud, straight back and a gracefully carried head topped with chestnut brown hair that was quite elaborately coifed for such an early hour. The color of her bottle green dress set off her creamy skin while the cut of the panniered skirt exactly balanced her wide shoulders and deep bosom. When she marched to the front of the stage, I found myself retreating a step.

  Ignoring her rival, who was still glaring venomously, Adelina smiled sweetly. “I’m only being true to my character, Signor Torani. Juno has to be seductive. She is vying with Callisto for the affections of her husband Jupiter.”

  “And she is so good at being seductive,” hissed the younger woman.

  The composer at the harpsichord groaned.

  “Caterina, please.” The director audibly winced. Torani, Adelina had called him. He shifted nervously from foot to foot and adjusted his waistcoat and jacket. Beads of sweat appeared on his high, domed forehead ringed with frizzled, gray curls. I watched as he tried to placate first Caterina, then Adelina, and ended up driving both of them from the stage in twin rages of frustration. After a short, indecisive pause, he followed Adelina, voicing continuing pleas and protests.

  Suddenly, I realized that I was being observed as well. Crivelli, the old castrato who was singing the role of Jupiter, stared at me from the back of the stage with a half smile.

  He stretched a long arm toward me. “I think our young Arcas has finally arrived.”

  Puzzled, I stepped awkwardly from the shadows. “I’m Tito Amato, I was supposed to report here, but I wasn’t sure of the time. I arrived from Naples yesterday.”

  Still smiling, the tall eunuch came off the stage to join me. “I know who you are. Arcas is the name of Callisto’s son, the one Juno turns into a bear. It’s the part you will be playing in the opera.”

  “Of course, I see what you mean now.” I wondered if I looked as much a fool as I felt.

  He shrugged. “I suggest that we take some refreshment. Torani will be more than a few minutes sorting things out with our good ladies.”

  Crivelli spoke with old-fashioned manners and moved with a slow, deliberate grace. As he guided me to a small doorway behind a draped curtain, he called to the composer, “Orlando, come meet our new colleague.”

  The three of us moved below stage level to an oddly shaped room that seemed to have too many corners. The room contained a table with a stained top and a few dilapidated chairs. Crivelli poured some weak wine from a bottle that stood on the window ledge. The glasses were chipped and smudged, but he served us as if we were in the grand salon of one of the finest palaces I had passed on my way to the theater. He made introductions with another flourish.

  “Signor Amato, your reputation precedes you. They say you are a fine, intelligent young man, so you have no doubt guessed our identities, but allow me to make formal introductions. I am Anton Crivelli, one of your fellow singers, and this is Orlando Martello. Orlando hails from Rome but has graced Venice with his talents for several years now. He’s the composer of the work you saw us rehearsing.”

  The handsome composer ground his teeth and muttered. “That wasn’t a rehearsal. It was a shouting match.”

  Crivelli pursed his lips. “Perhaps the arrival of the new addition to our company will help rehearsals run smoothly again.”

  “Something had better help. My opera will be a disaster if these problems keep mounting up.” Orlando turned to me with flushed cheeks. “It’s been one thing after another. Last week a ream of scores that the copyist had just delivered went missing. One minute the boxes were sitting in the orchestra pit, the next thing I knew they were gone and had to be recopied. That set rehearsals back two days.”

  Crivelli nodded. “I feared that trick would drive Torani into apoplexy.”

  Orlando’s chest heaved in a great sigh. “And Caterina’s bickering interrupts nearly every practice. The woman can’t let anything pass. She cares more about where Adelina is standing or what she is wearing than my composition.” He spread his hands. “My sublime composition! I ask you, isn’t that why we are all here?”

  “How long has the rivalry between Caterina and Adelina been going on?” I asked, surprised that the director was not more adept in handling squabbles between temperamental singers.

  Crivelli lowered his voice. “Adelina Belluna has been the prima donna here for ten years or more, since before the Viviani family bought the theater. Other female singers have come and gone, but none captured the public’s heart like Adelina.”

  “None has been able to sing like Adelina,” put in the composer. “She’s in a class by herself.”

  Crivelli continued with a shrug. “Most have realized they cannot hope to best Adelina either in talent or personal attractiveness and they have moved on without starting a major rivalry. But Caterina is different. Her voice can compete with Adelina’s. And since she came here last year, she has shown herself to be incredibly tenacious about getting what she wants.”

  O
rlando Martello worked his gracefully formed lips into an unattractive sneer and made a rude gesture while whispering Caterina’s name.

  “No, Orlando.” The older man raised flowing white eyebrows. “As a musician, you must admit that Caterina has considerable talent. She certainly isn’t beautiful and her manner isn’t pleasing, but she can sing. Sometimes the tone of her voice and her phrasing sound just like Adelina’s when she was younger.”

  “If so, that is only because she is copying the techniques of a singer greater than herself.”

  “No, these are instinctive abilities. Adelina has recognized this, too. Just as she recognizes that her voice is slipping bit by bit. The audience hasn’t caught on, but her throat is showing its mortality. A singer knows when the hourglass is running out. I believe that’s why Adelina has been so uncharacteristically difficult these days.”

  “Watch what you say, old man.” The composer splashed more wine in his glass and drank a hurried, angry gulp. “You have little room to criticize, especially with this young voice fresh from the conservatorio ready to show what he can do.” Orlando stood up and glared at both of us before swaggering from the room.

  I took a sip of wine, trying to find some words to assure Crivelli that I had not come back to Venice to knock him out of his place. But before I could speak, he put a considerate hand on my arm and gazed at me with weary brown eyes. “Tito, I’ve been around a long time. I started as a chapel singer at the Basilica San Marco when I was just eight years old. We were still singing Monteverdi’s music then…it seems a hundred years ago. I know my present limitations and, if the talk I have heard is true, I can guess at your great potential. I have always surrendered myself to what fate has offered me and tried to make the best of any situation. That is why I suffer the arrogance of that young pup.” He jutted his chin toward the door Martello had just slammed shut. “I’ve tried to make a friend of him, hoping he will take pity on my poor old throat and write notes I can sing or, at least, ones that won’t make me sound too bad.”