Orlando stomped out of the orchestra pit. “Patricians like Viviani have no idea what is involved in creative inspiration. On opening night, he won’t even realize what he is hearing. He will be holding court in his box and collecting compliments from a bunch of bootlickers. His triumph, but my music.”
Torani shook his head. “That’s the way things are. You must submit to the rules of society or starve.”
“It won’t be like this forever,” Orlando said, setting his jaw and hunching his wide shoulders.
“Are you mad?” Adelina asked incredulously. “Do you think you can sell your compositions from a stall on the street like the roast chestnut man or the fish peddler?”
“I don’t know, but society has to change. Artists are as sick as any man of having a nobleman’s boot on their necks. Someday composers will be at liberty to write what they like and sell their music where they see fit.”
I held my peace and regarded Orlando solemnly; he was spouting dangerous sentiments. We could all end up in trouble if the wrong ears were listening to his tirade.
Our director sighed. “Let’s leave the future in God’s hands. Right now, we need a duet for Tito and Adelina.”
Orlando nodded curtly. With a short bow for Torani and a bitter glance for Adelina, he left us with a promise to produce the duet by tomorrow morning.
Not wasting any time, Torani dismissed Caterina and Crivelli and turned his attention to finding the foreman of the stage crew. If the opera was to be ready on time, there was as much to be done backstage as in rehearsal. Crivelli appeared grateful for the unexpected respite and gave us a friendly wave as he went out the door. Caterina gathered her things and left the theater with many peevish flounces and evil looks directed toward Adelina.
Adelina shook her head as she slipped her arm through mine. “It’s really too bad. Caterina is so obvious in her ambition, in her likes and dislikes. If she could only learn to be more agreeable. There are times when you must hold your emotions in check and pretend affability to further your goals.”
“Your concern for your rival is generous,” I answered. “And a bit surprising. I thought there was bad blood between you.”
“No, Tito, not bad blood. And I don’t consider her a rival.”
I had to admire Adelina’s confidence but wondered if her assurance rested on faith in her theatrical abilities or on Viviani’s obvious preference. Either way, I thought she might be underestimating the threat of Caterina’s potential. Viviani was the type of man who would soon tire of his current favorite and move on to fresher pastures. Without his protection, Adelina would be just one more aging soprano fighting the years for her voice and her looks. Then Caterina’s ability paired with the advantage of youth might carry more weight.
Torani soon put the pair of us to work in earnest. Adelina was to review her third act arias while the director accompanied me through a pastoral air from Act Two. He was objecting to what he called my sobbing Neapolitan intonation when the foreman of the stage crew stepped out of the wings and called to Adelina. “Signora, we’ve been working on the gears that raise and lower this platform. Could you go up and see if it does any better for you?”
Torani pounded a jangling chord on the harpsichord and jumped up. He ascended halfway up the stairs to the stage and addressed the foreman in a snappish tone. “Signora Belluna is busy and so am I. Can’t you fix that thing without interrupting us?”
Adelina joined me and whispered, “We rehearsed my descent from Mt. Olympus at least ten times yesterday. That platform jerked so hard I thought I’d end up going over the side.”
To create the illusion of the goddess Juno descending to earth, Adelina had to climb a ladder-like stair behind the backdrop painted with a distant prospect of Mt. Olympus. Above the view of the audience, she stepped onto a platform disguised as a fluffy cloud, and the massive machinery floated her slowly down and forward as she sang.
The foreman disguised a sigh, attempting to maintain a respectful façade. “My men have been out in the workroom retooling the gears all afternoon. We’ve put them in place, but we can’t complete the job until we see that the apparatus is balanced to Signora Belluna’s height and weight.”
Running a hand through his gray frizz, Torani mounted the last few steps to the stage. I followed his squinting gaze up into the shadowy heights above us, the hanging maze of catwalks, ropes, and pulleys that the audience never sees.
“Is that Beppo up there?” The director had spotted the carpenters’ young apprentice. “Put him on the platform. He’s about Signora Belluna’s size.”
The foreman on the stage looked doubtful, but Torani was insistent. “Use the boy to test the mechanism. All he has to do is stand there and hang on to the railing.”
Adelina went back to her scores and Torani resumed his criticism of my style. “I know the maestros at San Remo favor this lamenting tone, but Venetian audiences demand a more cheerful.…”
Torani stopped short, distracted by a triplet of grating creaks. “Dio mio,” he grumbled. “What now?”
I looked up to see the fluff-covered platform suspended in the air thirty feet or so above center stage. Beppo’s curly head popped over the railing; there was an anxious look on his round face. From the wings, the foreman glared up at the intricate machinery with his hands on his hips.
Without further warning, the front of the apparatus gave way. The apprentice grabbed frantically for a handhold but found only air. He screamed as he plummeted to the stage with a resounding thud.
Everyone in the theater hastened to Beppo’s still form, but the boy was beyond help. His head was twisted back over his shoulder and a dribble of blood stained his chin. I remembered seeing him when I had first entered the theater. The workmen had been shifting flats of scenery behind the rehearsing singers and, with youthful energy and a lively grin, Beppo had run to help. Now Torani was covering the apprentice with a sheet of canvas, and the stagehands were waiting to carry the body away.
Adelina clutched my sleeve, crying “Poor little Beppo” over and over. Still stunned, I put my arm around her waist and tried to find some soothing words, but the soprano refused to be comforted. She tore herself from my grasp and shook me by my shoulders. “Don’t you see, Tito? That could have been me. I should have been the next one to step onto that platform.”
The platform in question sailed slowly down to the stage floor. It landed with a dull clunk, raising a hail of dust. Torani coughed and flapped his shawl to clear the air. We knelt to examine the damage. The foreman twirled the rings that accommodated the ropes supporting the front of the platform. Each ring had been sliced through.
“Look. Someone’s been very clever,” the foreman observed. “These cuts are too thin to be noticed, and the strength of the rings allowed us to haul the platform up without it collapsing.…”
I jumped in. “But Beppo’s added weight caused the ropes to pull out of the rings on the way down.”
The foreman nodded.
“Were any of your men working around this platform this morning?” Torani asked.
“No,” said the foreman. “Everyone was on the other side of the stage, constructing the night sky scenery.”
I thought back to earlier in the afternoon. “After dinner, Crivelli came out from the wings where this platform was sitting. I think he was using its fluff for a pillow. He said some workmen had awakened him.”
“Not my men, we’ve all been out in the workroom since dinner.”
Torani circled the platform like a worried terrier. He barked a list of orders at the foreman: no outsiders allowed around the theater, all equipment to be thoroughly inspected before each use, report any further problems at once, and so on and so on.
Adelina had recovered her composure. She was pale, but spoke firmly. “Signor Torani, who could have done this?”
Torani fingered the end of his scarf. “Probably the same person who made off with the scores and caused our other problems.�
�
“And who could that be?” I cut in quickly.
“My best guess?” Torani frowned into the wings where the workman had laid the canvas-wrapped body. “I think Beppo was an innocent victim of the Albrimani-Viviani feud. Our patron clearly has his heart set on an operatic triumph. He’s handed the Albrimani a perfect opportunity to try to discredit him.”
“But Domenico’s wife is from the Albrimani family. Their alliance was supposed to heal the rift and put an end to this senseless fighting,” Adelina said ruefully.
Torani gave her a pointed look. “My dear, you should know better than anyone else how Domenico Viviani treats his wife. Instead of bringing peace, she has become just one more bone of contention in the ongoing dogfight.”
Adelina had the good grace to blush and drop her gaze. “What are you going to do?” she asked in a shaky whisper.
“I will inform our patron what has happened and handle the matter as he directs.” Torani grimaced. “Then I will make a very uncomfortable visit to Beppo’s mother.”
Adelina looked up with a strained frown. Torani patted one of her small, white hands and continued, “You know, I think our patron already suspects that the San Stefano’s woes are more than simple bad luck. I’m sure he’ll be amenable to posting some of his men on guard around the theater. No one will get inside except those who have a reason to be here.” Torani smiled more kindly. “Don’t worry, my dear, Domenico Viviani will make sure that we’re all safe.”
Chapter 6
The excitement that had buoyed me up over the past two days drained away as soon as Lupo let me in the door that night. The others had tired of waiting and had already gone in to supper. Annetta fetched a fresh plate from the sideboard as I sank into an empty chair. I watched dazedly as she served up a golden mound of Berta’s polenta and topped it with savory bits of fried minnow. I dug in hungrily as both of my sisters peppered me with questions.
“But Tito, did you meet Adelina Belluna?” Grisella’s high, whining voice cut through my exhaustion.
“I met all the principal singers, little one. La Belluna, Caterina Testi, Crivelli,” I answered between mouthfuls of warm, hearty food, “and the patron of the theater, Domenico Viviani.” I washed his name down with a generous swallow of wine. “He will be a hard man to please. He is anticipating a great success with this new opera, but not all his expectations are realistic, especially considering the problems plaguing the production.”
I recounted the tragic incident of the dead apprentice. Annetta’s mother hen instinct surfaced immediately. “Are you in any danger, Tito? Will you have to ride on one of those platforms?”
“Eventually, but don’t worry. The theater will be guarded and we’ll all be on the alert. None of the Albrimani henchmen will be able to get within twenty yards of the San Stefano.”
Felice and Annetta jumped in with more questions, but my father silenced them by clearing his throat and calling for a change of subject. “Caterina Testi,” he said slowly, stroking his chin, “I know her. I didn’t realize she was singing at the San Stefano.”
“She sings the secondary female roles but obviously aspires to much more. She and Adelina have quite a rivalry going on. Crivelli says there’s not a lot Caterina wouldn’t do to push her career forward, but today all I saw was some petty squabbling over stage directions and the like. How do you know her, Father?”
“Oh, she grew up at the Mendicanti. Not much of a keyboard musician as I recall.” My father wrinkled his nose in remembered disgust. Isidore Amato considered the keyboard to be the highest embodiment of musical expression, with his organ in the Mendicanti chapel having the status of a particularly hallowed shrine. For him, no other instrument, including the human voice, could compare.
Annetta passed me some more fish. “Caterina must be talented, though, or she wouldn’t have made it to the opera stage.”
“I suppose.” My father shrugged. “Signor Conti put her on as soloist in a great many of the student concerts a few years ago. She had her admirers, but I thought she was overrated. And a bossy pest. She was always telling someone how a passage should be phrased or a note should be held.”
“That sounds like Caterina, all right,” I said, wondering if my father had been one of those on the receiving end of what Caterina thought was her superior knowledge.
“Yes. She was definitely not well liked and developed a reputation for being difficult to work with. I wonder how she came by the position at the San Stefano?” my father mused vaguely, his interest in Caterina waning.
Annetta had one more comment. “Maybe some of her people had some influence with Viviani to get her hired at the theater.”
My father replied in blunt tones, “She has no people. Like so many of the girls, she was found in a basket outside the gate with a pitiful, begging note pinned to her blanket. ‘I can’t take care of my baby,’ you know the sort of thing. It’s possible the voice maestro, old Conti, spoke to Viviani about her. Conti always seemed to have a tender spot for Caterina, but then, so many of the girls wheedle favors from him. The man’s entirely too soft, no backbone at all. Now that I recall, Caterina still sees him for voice lessons…I wonder what he charges her?” He waved a hand dismissively. “But enough of theater gossip, I’ve had a letter that should interest you all.”
My father waited until we had put our forks down and concentrated our gazes toward his end of the table. Then, breaking into an uncharacteristic grin, he drew a folded paper from his waistcoat pocket. Holding it at arm’s length, he read, “Dearest and Most Beloved Papa.” His grin widened. “I hope this letter finds you and my sisters in good health. Many of our ship’s crew have been laid low by a fever, but I, by the grace of the good Lord, have been spared.”
My father nodded. “Yes, Alessandro always had a good, strong constitution.” He continued reading out loud, “I will be home a few weeks earlier than I expected. Our ship should dock no later than the tenth day of December. As you know, we were bound for the Turkish port of Smyrna, but when we stopped at Crete, we were advised to sell our cargo there as the current troubles in Smyrna would surely prevent us from realizing the best price for our goods.”
Grisella bounced up and down in her chair. “That’s only a week or two away. Will Alessandro bring us presents like he did last time, Papa?”
Over the top of the letter, my father gave Grisella one of his critical looks, the kind of look that had caused many a Mendicanti girl to run to her room sobbing into her handkerchief. “The most precious present you could wish for is your brother’s safe return. Sea journeys can be quite perilous,” he replied sanctimoniously.
Grisella’s smile vanished and she poked glumly at the remnants of her polenta as Annetta cleared her throat. “What are the troubles in Smyrna?” my older sister asked. “Alessandro has traded there successfully many times in the past.”
“He says he dares not write about them, but promises to tell us more when he arrives. I’ll leave the letter here for you all to read.” Father pushed back from the table, looking exasperated, as if we had failed to give Alessandro’s letter the enthusiastic response he thought it deserved. He fired a parting shot on his way out. “Anna-Maria, you must get Alessandro’s room ready for him. The current arrangements are not…suitable.”
These last words had been aimed at Felice, who had slept in Alessandro’s bed last night. My friend had been silent but attentive as I had described my first day at the opera company. Now he ran a hand through his black hair and said, “I never intended to be such a nuisance. Have you got somewhere else you can put me, just for a while?”
Annetta thought for a moment. “There’s an old cot in the storage closet under the roof. We could put it in Tito’s room. If that’s all right with you,” she directed at me. As I nodded, she sprang up to clear the table and said, “I’ll send Lupo up there tomorrow and we’ll get it down for you.”
Felice stacked his dishes and slid them toward my ever busy sister. “
Don’t let me be any more trouble to anyone,” he said. “Tell me where the cot is and I’ll set it up in Tito’s room.”
“There’s no need to do that now.” Annetta gave him a quick smile. “Alessandro’s ship won’t arrive for days.”
“Please, Annetta, let me do this one thing.” He leaned over the table and touched her wrist to give special emphasis to his words. “I feel so useless here, let me fetch the cot.”
“All right, Felice,” my sister answered in a soft voice. “Grisella, take a candle to light the way and show him where the closet is. There’s a trunk with extra blankets in there, too.”
Grisella rolled her eyes and treated us to an irritated sigh of theatrical proportion. “But I want to talk to Tito about the opera.”
Her words gave me a guilty pang. Upon coming home, I had resolved to reacquaint myself with my younger sister but so far I had barely talked with her.
Felice came around to stand behind Grisella and put his hands on her shoulders. With his lips to her ear and his eyes on me, he said in a stage whisper, “I want to hear more about the opera, too. Light my way upstairs and when we come down, I’ll make Tito tell us everything he did today. I’ll wrestle him to the floor and sit on him if I have to.”
Felice’s promise raised a giggle from Grisella. While Berta trundled in to finish clearing the table, the girl happily led Felice in search of the bedding.
***
Annetta had created a snug retreat in her room on the second floor. The focal point was the narrow bed in the corner hung with lavish festoons of fawn-colored velvet and bolstered with pillows of faded tapestry and damask. I gratefully threw myself into a threadbare armchair that had been covered with a throw of the same velvet. Although the rest of the house was chilly, warmth pervaded this room. I soon saw the reason, a scaldino. Venetian women of all ranks are addicted to the scaldino during the winter months. Since our climate is mild eight months of the year, most houses are built without fireplaces and have only one or two stoves. Extra warmth is provided by a glazed ceramic pot filled with glowing charcoal that can be moved from room to room with an attached handle. Annetta’s scaldino had been warming her room all during supper. I toasted my feet beside it while my sister sat at her dressing table and began to remove the pins from her hair. Long, silky strands tumbled down her back, which was turned toward me. I could see her face in the oval mirror.
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