1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Recognize this, Tito?” She held up a small glass box filled with hairpins.

  “Of course, I gave it to you on your tenth birthday. Aunt Carlotta took me down to the market stalls on the Rialto to pick out a present for you. I was so taken with that box. I thought it was made of jewels, not just cheap, colored glass.”

  “I did, too. We used to lie in the sun under my window and use that box to shoot rainbows of light all over the ceiling.”

  “You’ve remembered that all these years?”

  Annetta’s face became grave in the oval mirror. “After you left I had plenty of time to remember,” she whispered softly.

  I hung my head, reminded of the aching homesickness that had plagued me at the conservatorio, but I knew there was no use in recalling past sorrows. I changed the subject to the current state of the household. I was particularly interested in Father’s activities.

  “Father spends most evenings out,” Annetta told me.

  “Where does he go?”

  My sister’s hair crackled as she took an energetic brush to it. “I’ve always thought he had a woman somewhere. It’s been well over ten years since Mother died and I wouldn’t expect him to live like a monk. No other Venetian man would be so virtuous. Come to think of it, even the monks are not so virtuous these days.”

  She gave me a wisp of a smile from the mirror. I tried to return her gaze, but found myself looking down at my hands without anything to say. “Are you surprised that I talk of such things, Brother?” she asked in a low voice.

  “Perhaps. I know that Venetian girls are usually closely sheltered until their marriage.”

  “I suppose I’m not the typical Venetian girl. I’ve been in charge of the household for many years now. After Mother died, Berta was supposed to manage things and chaperone both Grisella and me, but Grisella has been such a handful. She always demanded the lion’s share of Berta’s attention.”

  I was beginning to understand what the past few years must have been like for my sister: too much responsibility and very little amusement. While I had been feeling sorry for myself and struggling with my studies at the conservatorio, I had imagined everything at home staying exactly as I had left it. Now I saw how illogical that thinking had been. Despite the cheerful tone of her letters, my sister had been struggling too. I had a sudden inspiration. I told Annetta about the reception at the Palazzo Viviani.

  “Would you like to go? I don’t see why I can’t get permission from Torani for you to come with us.”

  Annetta turned toward me, face alight. “I would love to see the inside of the palazzo. And hear you sing with Adelina, of course,” she finished lamely.

  We laughed at the same time and launched into gossipy speculation about the notable figures we might see at the reception. I recounted Viviani’s afternoon visit to Adelina’s dressing room, and we both wondered how Signora Viviani and her circle would receive the beautiful soprano.

  A small cough announced the presence of Felice and Grisella at the doorway. The girl held a candlestick. Its flame picked out random highlights in the long, red hair tumbling over her shoulders and illuminated her smooth, peach-tinged cheeks. I was reminded, not for the first time since my return, of what a little beauty Grisella was becoming. She gave me a faint smile and began to move on down the hall.

  Annetta stopped her by calling, “Grisella, come in here for a minute.”

  Grisella, expression now blank, glided into Annetta’s room and sat down on the bed. Our older sister moved to her side. Felice perched on the low footstool by my chair. His legs were so long that it was easy for him to cross his arms over his bent knees and rest his chin on this pile of limbs.

  Annetta pushed a few lustrous strands off Grisella’s moist brow. “Are you all right, little one?”

  “I think I need some of my medicine,” she replied in a small, tight voice.

  “I thought something was wrong when you came back from the Mendicanti this afternoon.” Annetta nodded knowingly. “Was Father hard on you at the concert? Did he embarrass you in front of the other girls?”

  “It wasn’t Father. He said I did all right today.”

  “Then what is it, child?” Annetta gently raised Grisella’s chin and studied her impassive face.

  “Someone made a promise to me. Someone was supposed to be there and never showed up.” The candle flame glinted off her hard, dark eyes. “I waited and waited.”

  I watched uneasily as Grisella’s lips compressed and her grip on the candlestick tightened. Long familiar with our sister’s moods, Annetta was a step ahead of me. She had already retrieved a key from the belt at her waist and was removing a bottle of elixir from a drawer in the table by her bed. Grisella had not yet been totally overtaken by whatever strange force caused her tormenting spells. She allowed Annetta to take the candle from her clenched hand and even helped our sister tip the elixir into her mouth.

  “Not so much, dear,” Annetta cautioned.

  “I know. I’ll be all right now,” whispered Grisella as she laid her head in Annetta’s lap.

  Annetta relaxed back against her pillows and folded her legs under her skirt. Her brown eyes showed the relief of having averted another of Grisella’s spells. Grisella lay motionless as Annetta stroked her hair and gave her some advice about how to get along with the other students.

  “I know some of those girls must be very jealous of you. You have a nice home to come back to at the end of the day, and most of them are orphans. Not only do you have a family, but your father is one of the most important maestros at the school. I’m sure some of the girls do and say things to hurt your feelings, but you can’t let them bother you. Tito and Felice know what I’m talking about.” Annetta prompted us with a raised eyebrow.

  “She’s right, Grisella.” Felice took the cue. “We were teased all the time at San Remo. When Tito started getting solo parts in our concerts, little accidents started happening.” He grinned up at me. “Remember when that bunch from Genoa locked you in the latrine and old Norvello was going to whip you for being late to rehearsal?”

  I could laugh about it years after the fact, but the incident had been no joke to me then. When hundreds of boys of different ages are housed together and kept on a rigid schedule of study and practice, high spirits are bound to get out of hand. The popular maestros tolerated our pranks and tried to provide some play and recreation, but a few seemed to enjoy crushing any sign of misbehavior. Maestro Norvello had been a particularly mirthless stick of a man who had more than once drawn blood from my bottom with his hickory cane.

  I finished Felice’s tale. “And you scoured the compound and found me just in time. You even smoothed things over with that old.…” I let the word I had been going to use to describe our most hated maestro hang in the air in deference to Grisella’s young ears.

  “And then there was the time you were almost poisoned to death,” Felice continued, rocking back and forth on his stool.

  “What happened?” cried Annetta as Grisella pulled her head from our sister’s lap and sat up with a curious expression.

  “It wasn’t really that bad,” I explained. “Someone doctored my wine before I went on stage. He wasn’t trying to murder me, just interfere with my singing. He succeeded in that. My throat turned to cotton and my breathing was ragged. I got through the opera somehow, but it definitely wasn’t my best night.”

  “Who did that to you?” asked Annetta in shocked tones. She had never competed with another singer for a coveted role and had no idea how cutthroat the process could be. It was no wonder ambition was rampant with the stakes so high. A castrato who achieved the highest order of fame could retire a wealthy man in just a few years.

  Felice and I glanced at each other. I said, “We never found out for sure.”

  In the same breath, Felice replied forcefully, “It had to be that pig of a Calabrian, Bruno Cambiatti. He always hated you.”

  “But we never really knew.”


  “It never happened again after I dealt with him, did it?” Felice closed his eyes and smiled slyly, like the fox relishing the bunch of grapes in the old fable.

  I shook my head as he put his hand over his heart in a mockingly plaintive gesture, and said, “Just a few well placed punches in the fat belly of his.”

  Annetta’s eyes widened and I could almost see her readjusting her mental assessment of Felice’s character.

  “Oh Tito, you’re far too kind. Bruno’s curls weren’t even ruffled,” Felice finished defensively.

  We were each lost in memories for a moment, then Annetta rose and pulled Grisella up after her. “It’s time someone was in her own bed.” Grisella’s dark eyes had turned misty. She allowed herself to be led away, too sleepy or dazed from her elixir to protest.

  Felice stretched his long legs and jumped up from the stool to pace the room. Reminiscing about our adventures at San Remo had energized him, while the cozy warmth of Annetta’s armchair was making my eyelids as heavy as Grisella’s.

  “So, our gondolier was right about Adelina Belluna and Viviani. Were they really that obvious?” he asked as he paced.

  “Oh, you heard that, did you?”

  “Most of it, yes.”

  “There’s no doubt they are lovers, but she would still be prima donna without that advantage. She couldn’t be anything else. I’ve never met a woman like her…so beautiful and so strong. No wonder half of Venice is at her feet.” Felice’s inquiring look encouraged me to continue. “You must hear her sing, Felice. What skill she brings to that trite score we have to work with. She can shade a note with a hundred different emotions. She infuses the music with such passion.”

  I paused on hearing Annetta’s footsteps and husky laugh. She threw herself across her bed with hair and skirts flying and propped her chin up on one hand.

  “Is the music the only thing she infuses with passion?” she teased.

  “You don’t understand,” I said wearily. “Adelina was so kind to me today, and she certainly didn’t have to be. She was even gracious in the face of Caterina’s malicious remarks. I wish I had just half her composure.”

  “Oh, we understand.” Annetta chuckled again. “Is he always this easily infatuated, Felice?”

  My friend had stopped pacing and was leaning glumly against a bedpost. The lines of strain I had noticed around his eyes at the beginning of this long day had returned. He kept his gaze on me while he answered Annetta. “Not at all. I’m afraid your brother has never given his affection easily.”

  Chapter 7

  The day of the reception at the Palazzo Viviani began wet and overcast but ended with a blazing sunset that reflected off the canals in fiery oranges and pinks. Maestro Torani had ended rehearsal early and sent us home on a wave of last-minute instructions and exhortations. As a gondola bore me toward the Campo dei Polli, I wondered if Annetta had started getting ready. Torani had easily secured Viviani’s permission for me to bring my sister to the reception, and Annetta had talked of nothing else for the past two days.

  I had originally thought that our group of singers would set out from the theater, but Adelina had announced other plans. To perform at the palazzo, she had demanded plenty of time in her own boudoir with the services of her maid and hairdresser at hand. Torani and Orlando had sparred over who would collect Adelina and escort her to the reception. Torani, being the director, won that battle hands down.

  I had hardly closed the door of the house behind me before Berta trotted clumsily down the hall.

  “Oh, it’s you, Signor Tito,” she said in a worried tone.

  “Who were you expecting, Berta?”

  “My baby…and your Papa. I have their supper ready, but they don’t come. Every night they are later and later and my little lamb looks so tired.”

  After a moment’s puzzlement I realized that she meant Grisella. “I’m sure they will be here soon. Lessons at the Mendicanti must have ended an hour or two ago.”

  Berta’s lined face remained full of concern, and she continued to twist the corner of her apron. Before heading back to the kitchen, she gave me a sidelong glance that plainly expressed her lack of confidence in my attempt to reassure her.

  I started up the stairs but stopped halfway when Annetta appeared at the top. The golden brown hair which was usually held back from her face in some utilitarian knot was arranged in soft curls piled high on her head. She had left one shiny ringlet loose to flow down her right shoulder. Two combs ornamented with silver butterflies that seemed to tremble on her curls completed the effect. Her gown worried me a bit. It was French brocade the color of a ripe persimmon, but unadorned by any frill other than a row of matching bows that marched from the low bodice to her slim waist. I hadn’t expected to see Annetta in a powdered wig or weighed down by jewels, but I was afraid she would feel out of place among the sumptuously dressed patricians.

  In that intuitive way of hers, my sister had read my mind. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Annetta looks very ordinary. Will she even be admitted to the palazzo in that old dress?”

  “No, no. I think you look beautiful,” I answered on reflex, then realized I meant every word.

  Annetta descended holding her skirts out to each side and swaying to a tune played by invisible musicians. Her brown eyes sparkled with a look far removed from her accustomed, tranquil gaze. It was good to see her happy and excited.

  She reached the stair above me. “I know my wardrobe can’t begin to compete with what most of the women will be wearing, but I don’t care. This is my best dress and it will just have to do.” She poked me in the chest with her forefinger for emphasis.

  “It will do, beautifully,” I agreed.

  “Besides, I’m not going to this reception to impress anyone. I just want to be there, to see what it feels like to be a guest at the fabulous Palazzo Viviani.”

  “But we won’t ever get there if I don’t start getting dressed. Where’s Felice?” I asked as I dashed around her and up the stairs.

  “He went out to talk to someone about some work, one of Father’s friends. He didn’t know when he’d get back. Don’t take too long, Tito.”

  ***

  The arched entrance to the Palazzo Viviani was ablaze with lantern light and crawling with pink-coated footmen. Gondolas were lined up three abreast waiting for an opening to dart up to the moorings topped with the Viviani crest so they could deliver their passengers. As we disembarked, a footman ran up to ascertain our identities. He passed our names to another pink coat and, before we had begun to mount the stairs to the richly sculpted bronze doors, an austere man with sunken cheeks and flinty eyes sailed down to direct us through one of the smaller archways.

  “The musicians will gather in a room down this corridor. Signor Viviani does not want anyone to see you before the entertainment. Afterward you may mingle with the guests as you please.”

  Annetta and I quickened our pace to match our guide’s long, smooth strides. His pink livery denoted the status of a servant, but the deferential attitude of the footmen who sprang to open doors and the sudden quieting and lowered eyes of a trio of chattering maids proved that our guide was a man of some authority in the household. As he led us deeply into the sprawling residence, my curious nature prodded me to peer into the rooms with open doors.

  Crates were piled high in cavernous chambers while smaller rooms were filled with slanted writing desks and shelves groaning with ledgers. Even at this time of the evening, with a large party going on upstairs, men in canvas aprons were hard at work moving boxes and checking stock. Our somber escort was directing us through the ground-floor business area of the great house to avoid the guests pouring into the reception salon on the second level. According to Venetian custom, the palazzo served not only as living space for several generations of the noble family and its servants, but also as the warehouse and headquarters of the family business. Based on the huge amount of goods, it seemed the Viviani business
dealings must be quite successful indeed.

  We finally stopped before a door attended by a very young footman. Muffled strains of music from a string ensemble floated down a nearby staircase.

  Our escort put his hand on the doorknob. “The others have already arrived. Leave your cloaks in here. Someone will call for you shortly.” He opened the door and gave Annetta the smallest of bows, really just a barely perceptible inclination of his head, before he whisked up the stairs.

  “Who was our friendly escort?” I asked of the assembled company as we stepped into a small room that was furnished like the antechamber of an advocate’s office.

  Torani cleared his throat, his expression more irritated than usual. “That’s Bondini. If he has a first name, I’ve never heard it. Crivelli would probably know it. They both hail from Bolzano, over on the mainland. Bondini is Viviani’s major-domo.”

  “And foremost pompous ass,” Orlando broke in.

  Torani held up a cautionary hand. “Bondini has day to day charge over all his master’s dealings. He organizes the household staff, decides who will be admitted to Viviani’s suite and takes care of…some of his more personal errands. You don’t want to cross him. I’ve been told he can break an occasional arm if he has to.”

  “Well, I say it’s just not right.” Orlando could not keep silent. “He shoves us away from the main entrance and treats us like lepers, as if we are somehow unclean because we perform before an audience.”

  Adelina was slumped in a straight-backed armchair with her hand on her forehead. She sighed. “Orlando, please don’t start that again. Domenico, I mean Signor Viviani, is merely trying to whet the crowd’s appetite for our duet. He wants us to make a grand entrance to get everyone’s attention. It makes good sense.”