1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  I had an overwhelming desire to impress her, to say something tremendously humorous or charming, but all I could manage was a weak, “Sometimes it does.”

  She smiled her crooked smile. “Then I had better leave you to your supper.”

  She melted into the crowd as I silently cursed my towering stupidity. I clearly had a lot to learn where the ladies of society were concerned. Directing my unhappy feet to the periphery of the vast salon, I soon found Torani in an adjacent room enjoying a plate of delicacies from a long table laden with silver trays and platters. He clapped me on the shoulder and dabbed his greasy lips with a napkin.

  “You and Adelina made quite an impression, Tito. Viviani is well pleased.”

  “Yes, we sang well,” I said indifferently, my mind still on the disappointing exchange with the alluring, green-eyed woman.

  “You are too modest.” He chuckled and reached toward an epergne filled with chilled quail eggs and spiced olives. “Did you see Bragadin and Steffani? They looked positively worried.”

  I could only shake my head in puzzlement.

  “Of course, you don’t know who they are. The manager and musical director of the Teatro San Moise, our most serious rival. You have them shaking in their boots.”

  I remembered the two thoughtful gentlemen in the front row. Viviani had been showing me off to the competition. “Does this mean that Juno will be a success?” I asked.

  “It’s a good start. On opening night, the boxes are sure to be filled with the guests who heard you sing tonight. And Viviani’s connections will ensure that word of tonight’s triumph will spread around town throughout the coming week. The cafés and coffeehouses will be buzzing about the new castrato at San Stefano. That means the cheap seats in the pit will be sold out, too. No one will want to miss Juno.”

  “I don’t know if I like the idea of being the talk of Venice.”

  “Why?” Torani raised an eyebrow as he sucked on an olive pit. “That’s how a singer’s reputation is made. If you have a successful season here, you can go anywhere you want…Rome, Florence, even London.”

  I shook my head. How could a whole man understand what it felt like to be a eunuch, especially with everyone in the Republic of Venice discussing my merits like I was a prize racehorse? I wanted to walk the streets, go into a shop, or have an ice at a café with no one knowing that there was anything remarkable about me. But from now on, everywhere I went, I would always be known as Tito Amato, castrato soprano. Since the surgery had been forced on me, my love for music and the joy of using my voice had been shadowed by the knowledge that I had been mutilated for the very thing I loved. Mutilated for the sake of the music. Once I had been master of my voice. Now my voice controlled my life, my very destiny. I had become a slave to the music.

  Suddenly I was no longer hungry. I only wanted to find Annetta and go home. I bade Torani goodnight and stepped back into the salon. Most of the guests had departed, and I noticed that many of those remaining had overindulged on Viviani’s good wine. I glanced toward the corner where I had talked with Signora Viviani but saw only a tableau of empty chairs. She and her hangers-on had withdrawn to a private area of the sprawling palazzo. I wondered if the castrato who waited on her so devotedly was still at her side and what more personal services she might be requiring of him. Was that what happened to those of us whose voices failed? Somehow I couldn’t see Felice taking that role.

  I found Annetta waiting near the hallway where we had gathered before the duet. “Have you had enough?” I asked with a tight smile.

  She grinned ruefully. “I think so. I’ve had wine spilled on my dress, been quizzed about my lineage by every dowager in the room, and had my bottom fondled by an archbishop.”

  We descended to the little room where we had left our cloaks. There was no sign of the young footman, and the long corridor lay in semi-darkness. Only a few wall lamps threw weak rings of light at wide intervals. The commercial floor of the great house had finally been put to rest for the night.

  The door to the room was standing ajar, and we hesitated when we heard quarrelling voices.

  “Just come to England with me, everything will be different there.” This was a man’s voice, deep and insistent. Surely it belonged to Orlando Martello.

  A feminine voice responded, “Why should I do that? What makes you think I want to leave Venice?”

  “You’re not being treated as you deserve. Your talent is monumental, yet you are forced to put up with Viviani’s insatiable demands. Don’t you see? Just because he owns the theater doesn’t mean he owns us.”

  We heard a heavy sigh. “Orlando, don’t do this.”

  “But Adelina, think of it. A new wind is blowing and it will knock princelings like Viviani down in the dirt. Someday artists like us will be masters of our fate. England is the place to go now.” He paused, then continued with mounting excitement. “Londoners are mad for Italian opera. Handel can’t produce scores fast enough to satisfy them. The theaters there are scrambling to hire Italian singers and composers, offering huge salaries for just one production.”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve heard all of that, but I must stay here. My plans require that I stay in Venice.”

  Orlando’s voice softened. “If you won’t go to London for your profession, then do it for me.”

  “You?” Adelina’s voice held an incredulous note.

  “You must know that I adore you. I’ve loved you for ages. Marry me, Adelina. Marry me and come to England. I promise you will never want for anything.”

  A long silence followed. Annetta made a questioning face and pointed down the corridor to the outside door. We were both in a haste to leave, but I didn’t intend to break in on this unlikely tête-à-tête. Neither could I afford to abandon my second-best, and now only, cloak. Annetta needed her things, too.

  Then we heard Adelina speak in a resolute tone. “Orlando, I’m flattered. I truly am. But I don’t feel the same way and I can’t think of anything I’ve done to give you the impression that I do.”

  “But we could make a brilliant partnership. My music and your voice. Give me a chance. Let me persuade you to change your mind.” Orlando’s voice fell to a murmur.

  Annetta and I still hadn’t moved when Adelina burst from the room, eyes filled with angry tears and mouth set in a look of grim determination. I spoke her name and reached for her arm, but she shook her head and pulled away. We watched her gather her skirts and speed up the stairs in a huff of indignation.

  Orlando stepped into the hallway a second later. His handsome face was a glowering mask of hurt and anger. When he saw Annetta and me standing outside the door, he bowed his head and let his shoulders slump like a great weight had been put on him. Annetta took a step toward him and opened her mouth to speak, but the composer lifted his head and practically scorched us with his gaze. “Vile castrato,” were the only words he spoke before he ran down the long corridor and out into the night.

  Chapter 9

  “At least give it a try, Felice,” I urged my friend over a steaming cup of chocolate. “You would be paid weekly wages for the run of the opera, and you would still be using your musical skills.”

  We were breakfasting at a café on the Piazza San Marco. In summer, we would have been sitting under the arcade, but with winter nudging autumn aside, we were having our chocolate behind glass doors fogged by the breath of shouting waiters and hungry patrons. We were discussing an opportunity at the theater. With opening night only one week away, Torani was scrambling to find musicians for the orchestra.

  “What has happened to the regular violinists?” a reluctant Felice asked.

  “One left for Florence unexpectedly and several others are pleading illness.”

  “That’s an odd coincidence. What do you think is going on?”

  “Torani thinks the Albrimani are behind it. Since Viviani posted guards around the theater, there have been no further incidents of sabotage, but.…”

  �
�That wouldn’t stop someone from getting to the musicians with bribes or threats once they left the building,” Felice finished for me.

  I nodded, toying with my spoon. “Are you afraid for your safety? Is that why you don’t want to join the orchestra?”

  “No. That’s not the reason. You know I’ve always been able to take care of myself.” Felice took a sip of the fragrant chocolate, then confided, “You see, if I take a position as a violinist, I might as well admit I’m giving up on my voice, and I’m not ready to do that. Sometimes my throat surprises me and I can sing like I always did. I start to feel confident again, then my voice breaks without warning. If I could only learn to control it.”

  “Do you still think that is possible, after all the remedies that you have tried?”

  He smiled in a conspiratorial way and leaned over the table. “Someone has let me in on a secret. One of your father’s friends, a much respected teacher at the Ospedale Pieta, an associate of the great Vivaldi himself.”

  I sighed inwardly. The last thing Felice needed was another piece of worthless advice arousing false hopes.

  “It’s so simple, Tito. He thinks my larynx must be congested from straining too hard. It’s the swelling that is causing my voice to break. He recommends belladonna.”

  “What? A poison?”

  “It’s true, Tito. Gargling a small portion every day can shrink the swollen veins around my vocal cords and put my voice on the mend.” My friend nodded emphatically.

  I shook my head. “Felice, you astonish me. Who is talking about danger now? Belladonna can be lethal.”

  “It is toxic—yes—in larger quantities. But I’m talking about a tiny amount. I’m supposed to gargle two drops in a glass of water every day for three weeks and not sing at all during that time.”

  Felice sat back with a triumphant smile on his plain face. I lowered my gaze and frowned at the stains on the tablecloth. We both jumped when a waiter dropped a tray loaded with dishes. I watched a saucer that remained miraculously unbroken careen on its side and come to rest with a clatter by our table.

  “Don’t listen to this man, Felice. Just because he works alongside Vivaldi doesn’t mean he knows what he’s talking about. Don’t start this regimen,” I begged.

  “I started yesterday,” he replied flatly.

  I wanted to argue, to convince my friend it was ridiculous, a folly to continue this risky cure. But just as I started to speak, the hopeful spark in his gentle brown eyes changed my mind. Who was I to ridicule his misplaced confidence? Perhaps Felice needed to make one more attempt to save his career before he could face the sorrow of losing the voice that was his whole life. If I were in his place, I might be clutching at the same slender straw.

  At least I could advise caution. “Promise me that you will be careful. If you start to feel strange, in any way, you must stop taking the drug right away.”

  He nodded slowly. “I will, Tito, I promise.”

  I threw my napkin down and pushed back from the table. “Well, if you are not going to be singing, you might as well be scraping away on a violin. Let’s go tell Maestro Torani he has a new violinist.”

  My lanky friend tore at the remnants of a roll and seemed deep in thought. Then, with a sudden nod of his head, he decided. “All right, I’ll do it. Let’s go.”

  We stood to gather our tricornes and cloaks, and I felt something crunch under my right foot. I looked down. It was the errant saucer. I had ground it to bits.

  ***

  Torani seemed pleased with my addition to the orchestra, but Orlando refused to be impressed. In the days since the reception, the composer had avoided both Adelina and me. He had arrived just in time for rehearsal, attacked the harpsichord with a brooding expression, and hurried off as soon as Torani gave us leave. This morning, he muttered contemptuously as he flung musical scores at the newly hired string and brass players. I left Felice tuning a borrowed instrument and mounted the steps to the stage.

  The San Stefano stage had undergone a wondrous transformation. The painted flats that had been drying in the scene painters’ studio had been moved into place. On my left was a wooded dell with leafy green trees receding into the distance; to the right stretched rolling meadows studded with wildflowers. Center stage, serene and majestic on the backdrop, stood the distant peak of Mt. Olympus. Only a slight gaudy tone to its purple sides spoiled the pastoral landscape. Even now, one of the scenery artists was fetching a ladder and a pot of paint to soften the mountain’s bright hues.

  Crivelli came up behind me. “It’s amazing what they can do with a bit of paint and canvas.”

  I agreed. “This space seems so much larger than it did yesterday.”

  “I think it’s the use of perspective,” the old castrato reflected offhandedly. “These artists have quite a clever bag of tricks. They are masters at illusion.” Then in a very different tone, “Uh oh. Here comes our prima donna-in-waiting.”

  Crivelli tried to duck between the nearest pair of flats, but Caterina was too quick for him. She planted herself directly in his path, ready for battle. Her thin lips were set in a firm line, and a sheen of perspiration covered her forehead despite the coolness of the theater. She shook a sheaf of music in Crivelli’s face.

  “I have to talk to you about our duet from Act One.” Caterina stabbed a finger in the middle of a page. “Here, this measure. You keep coming in too early. You are rushing the music and putting me off tempo.”

  Crivelli took the pages in his pale, blue-veined hands. While he studied the music, the soprano tucked some unruly strands of blond hair behind her ears and tapped her foot impatiently. I puzzled over her exasperating behavior. Why couldn’t she relax? Why couldn’t she discuss a problem without becoming shrill and argumentative? To some extent, I could understand her drive for perfection. In my own work, I had never been satisfied with second rate. Not long after I had realized that music would, by necessity, be my life’s work, I decided that I would never waste my voice. My suffering on its account had made it too precious to give it less than my best. Caterina must have her own reasons which drove her relentless ambition. I was contemplating what these might be when she whirled to face me.

  “And another thing,” she said, eyes blazing. “Tito, when you tried on your costume for Act Three, I could see that the plumes on your helmet were much too long. They’ll be hitting me on the face when we’re on the platform. I can’t sing with your feathers in my mouth.”

  I took a deep breath and made myself reply in the firmly controlled tones I had heard Crivelli use. “I’ll have Madame Dumas take a look at them.”

  “She had better do more than look. That helmet needs fixing. If she were any kind of a seamstress she would have made it right in the first place.”

  Caterina was casting her scorn at the company’s chief costumer, a straight-backed, gray-haired Frenchwoman who insisted on the title of Madame despite her many years in Italy. A more dignified and competent needlewoman could seldom be found. I gave my fellow singer a clumsy pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry over it, Caterina. I’ll see that the helmet is taken care of.”

  The soprano drew away from me as if I had touched her with a red-hot iron. Crivelli and I watched in baffled silence as she tossed her head and hurried across the stage to upbraid Torani for some conjectured misdeed.

  Finally, my old friend shook his head and whispered, more to himself than to me, “What a poor frightened thing she is.”

  ***

  An opera nearing opening night takes on a life of its own. Like a river at floodtide, it overflows the boundaries set by written notes, costumes, scenery, and whatever fancy stage effects the carpenters have devised. As a performer, you are either buoyed by swelling waves that are sure to crest in a stunning achievement or trapped in eddies and currents that will just as surely dash the production on the rocks of dismal failure. Either way, the process becomes inevitable. Despite the pressure from Viviani, the many delays and attempts at in
timidation, and the internal tensions within the company, I sensed that Juno had the momentum of a great success.

  Adelina seemed to share my hope. She started that day’s rehearsal in high spirits. Torani had decided that the myth of Juno’s revenge called for a goddess that was one part queen and one part warrior. Madame Dumas had outdone herself creating a costume that presented Adelina in just that way. The skirt and panniers resembled a court dress but the bodice was constructed of thin, overlapping metal discs that gave the impression of armor and also happened to show off Adelina’s generous bosom to excellent effect. The headdress was a flattering composite of wig and battle helmet. The finishing touch was a tall spear that Adelina brandished when Juno whipped up a windstorm or turned mortals into bears. She delighted in her role as warrior goddess, and spent her time between arias teasing the stage crew with her spear and challenging Crivelli to mock battles.

  Even Orlando absorbed some of the floating optimism.

  He continued to ignore Adelina as much as possible but spoke to the rest of us in less malevolent tones. By dinner, he had coaxed an animated performance from the small orchestra that had begun the morning with a barely meshing, lackluster display. It was when Torani called for a dinner break that an unfortunate incident occurred.

  Over the years, Felice had accustomed himself to his tall height, but he had not yet become master of his lengthening arms and legs. In fact, the movements of these loose, ungainly appendages sometimes gave him the look of a giant marionette. In the general rush to seek food and relaxation, Felice’s legs became tangled with Juno’s spear, Adelina had carelessly abandoned in the orchestra pit. My friend tried to catch himself by grabbing a music stand, but that went flying with sheets of music, more chairs, and Felice himself.

  The crash was tremendous. Every eye in the theater focused on Felice, helpless and ridiculous, his long legs sticking up in the air from the demolished orchestra pit. The worst part was the laughter. Adelina broke the surprised hush with a loud fit of giggles and set the vast, empty theater echoing with laughter. Mine included, I’m ashamed to admit. Felice’s fellow musicians scurried to pick him up and right the chairs and music stands. My poor friend shook his head like a wet dog and looked around in bewilderment. His gaze settled on Adelina, who promptly put her hands over her mouth but failed to stifle her giggles. Felice was still giving her a stony stare as Orlando threw a surprisingly considerate arm around his shoulders and led the musicians off to dinner while making light of the fall and promising that everyone would be on their knees sorting music in time for the afternoon session.