1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  I paused to choose my words carefully. “I’m only asking for your help…help that could save an innocent man from a gruesome death.”

  “And put me right in his place,” she replied in a harsh whisper. “That young face of yours hides nothing, Tito. When Susannah declared that Adelina had been poisoned, your eyes snapped right to me. You have been following me with that brooding, accusing look ever since.”

  “No, Caterina, you misunderstand. I don’t suspect you. I just want to ask you a few questions about the time you spent with Adelina on opening night.”

  “Liar! You want to throw me to the wolves and rescue Felice. You are just like everyone else. You think I am a throwaway orphan of no account. Wouldn’t you be surprised to learn the truth about me.”

  “Oh? What truth is that?”

  Her mouth softened, but the smiling form it took was as unpleasant as her words. “Why should I help you? You castrati are everyone’s darlings. You have no idea how hard the rest of us have to work to gain the audience’s attention. I think I’ll make you work hard for once.”

  “Adelina didn’t seem to have any trouble holding the public’s attention.” The words were out before I could stop them. Wonderful, I thought, another inquiry halted by my careless tongue.

  The result was not what I expected. Instead of more angry words, the bitter mask dropped from Caterina’s face to reveal honest, deeply felt pain. With a sudden, sweet vulnerability, she twisted around to face me and said, “You have never spoken truer words, Tito.”

  After the curtain calls, I climbed the stairs with an armful of flowers and a heavy heart. I had looked for Crivelli backstage, but he was nowhere to be seen. I had found Torani and Bondini huddled in a quiet recess by the stage door. The director gave me a nod and a quick word complimenting my performance, then resumed his conversation with the ubiquitous Bondini. Viviani’s chief steward must be getting the latest business report. His master would no doubt be pleased. The crowd that night had been as plentiful and as enthusiastic as ever.

  When I threw myself down before my dressing table, my mirror mocked me. It didn’t show the acclaimed singer who had just been cheered into three encores, but a discouraged wretch pulling off his wig and slowly removing his greasepaint.

  Crivelli called from his dressing room, voice brimming with curiosity. “Tito, have you come up? Did you talk to Caterina?”

  “I wouldn’t call it a talk,” I answered. “It was more like the sport of the English ‘milords.’ I pursued her as they do the fox. When I had her cornered, she bared her teeth and slipped away.”

  A disgusted sigh floated over the partition.

  “She hinted at a secret she is keeping,” I continued, “something about her background. She brought it up on her own and almost dared me to discover what it is.”

  “Why don’t you let me try to tame our little fox. She doesn’t envy my voice as she does yours, so I can sidestep all the jealousy that you arouse in her ambitious breast.”

  “Good idea. If Caterina did poison Adelina she would never admit it, but she would be less guarded with you. She might disclose a bit of information that could help us.”

  “Ah, you used the word if.”

  I grunted at my reflection in the mirror. My own hair was flat and damp from the wig I wore on stage, and my face still bore smudges of paint. “I confess that I’m finding it difficult to picture Caterina as a cold-blooded murderer. She seems genuinely shocked by Adelina’s death. But you can’t blame me for leaping to the obvious conclusion.”

  “You’re speaking of the rivalry between the two sopranos?”

  “Of course. Nearly half my life has been spent competing with other singers. I’ve known many a castrato that would practically kill to get a certain role. I don’t see why our female counterparts should be any different.”

  “Practically, that’s the important word. I, too, have witnessed bitter rivalries. Even been the object of some in my younger days. But there is a fathom of difference between wishing your fellow singer would drop dead in the middle of his cadenza and poisoning his wine.”

  “Yes. The risk is great and the rewards fleeting after all.” I splashed cool water over my face and chest and pushed the dividing screen aside as I toweled off.

  Crivelli sat at his dressing table in his shirtsleeves. “Besides,” he said, “I don’t see Caterina as that devious. Her emotions are clearly readable in her face. I have watched her struggle to conceal them, but she is unable to mask her feelings. Anger makes her cheeks flush and her lips compress. Frustration makes her move her shoulders in tight little shrugs. Have you not noticed?”

  “I know that when she dislikes you, you can feel it across the room.”

  “We’ve all felt that at one time or another.”

  “What if she is in love?” I asked. “What does she do then?”

  He considered the question as he rose and pulled on his breeches and finally said, “Now that’s an emotion I have never witnessed in Caterina.”

  Crivelli looked around for his neckband. Without it, his old throat resembled a thick drape of wrinkled cloth. I found the cravat on a pile of white stockings. His hands shook as he fastened the hooks. Perhaps Torani was right. My fellow castrato had enjoyed a long, successful career. He should be ready for a more restful existence.

  I helped him on with his coat of faded blue silk. “I talked with Susannah, also.”

  “Yes?”

  “When Felice was arrested, he did have a vial that could have contained poison in his pocket, but I think he could explain that.”

  Crivelli cocked an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “Felice was taking small amounts of belladonna for his throat,” I told him. “Someone gave him the idea that it could help him regain his voice.”

  The old castrato clucked his tongue. “A dangerous and useless practice. A drop of belladonna might help a singer with a sore throat get through a performance but not someone with Felice’s problem. I’m afraid his vocal cords have toughened and there’s no way to reverse that.”

  “Right now I’m more worried about the lifespan of his neck than the noises it makes.”

  “Naturally,” he said, reaching for his silver-knobbed walking stick. “But do try to get some rest, Tito. You look quite done in. I’m going to see if I can catch our foxy soprano. We’ll compare notes tomorrow.”

  Chapter 14

  For the remainder of the evening, I can only blame callow infatuation and poor judgment.

  After I had put on my street clothes and dressed my hair in a simple plait confined by a black ribbon, I noticed an envelope lying on my floor near the door. The outside was addressed to Signor Amato, and inside were two sheets of fine writing paper. One sheet contained a sonnet written in a delicate, flowery hand. Its playful theme was the sweet release of unrestrained lust. The other sheet contained only two lines:

  I must see you. Meet me by the statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni at a quarter past midnight.

  The signature was blurred as if by too hasty blotting, but I thought I could just make out a Sig. V.

  Signora Veniero! She had not been in the audience that night, but I had spotted her in a second-tier box the evening before. Her brilliant green eyes had connected with mine more than once. I had been longing to have another chance to talk to her but hadn’t known how to arrange a meeting. Now she was contacting me!

  I tore down the stairs and through the darkened theater. A crew of sweepers was clearing the pit of its litter of papers and discarded odds and ends. Torani stood at the door of the box office. He extended a hand toward me as I rushed by. I shouted that I was in a hurry and would talk with him the next day. It was nearly midnight and the Colleoni statue was in the easternmost quarter of the city. I would have to take a gondola and promise the boatman a zecchino if he got me there in time.

  Bartolomeo Colleoni had been one of Venice’s great heroes several centuries back. A condottiere who led mercenary armies a
gainst both the Turks and our old enemies of Milan, he left his considerable fortune to the Republic on the condition that a prominent statue of him astride his favorite steed be erected on the Piazza San Marco. At the valiant general’s demise, his gold was eagerly accepted, but the Senate decided that a monument to a private citizen in the spiritual and political heart of Venice was intolerable. It would represent a dangerous level of individualism in a city-republic that demanded her citizens put the interests of the state above all else. With typical Venetian cunning, the Senate ordered the statue be raised in an out-of-the-way square in front of the Scuola San Marco instead of on the piazza of the great basilica. Thus the letter of the bargain was kept, but the old soldier was denied his cherished tribute.

  With my gondolier pushing the oar as fast as possible, I was at the edge of the city in under a quarter of an hour. I had him set me down under cover of a small bridge at the corner of the square. The night was cold but clear with a magnificent canopy of stars. Lantern posts set at intervals before the shadowy mass of the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo flickered over the smooth paving stones. I was overjoyed to see the deserted campo inhabited only by the fiercely scowling Colleoni on his bronze stallion. I stationed myself by the pedestal of the huge monument and willed myself to enjoy the pins and needles of anticipation that were coursing through my body.

  Exactly on the appointed hour, I saw a gondola with two rowers draw near the quay. A tall, masked woman disembarked and approached the statue with a striding gait. I strained my eyes. Could this bulky woman who walks like a man truly be the object of my infatuation? I asked myself the question a moment too late.

  Behind me, I heard the clatter of boots running on hard paving stones. In front of me, the tall woman threw her cloak off with an impatient gesture and also broke into a run. I ducked around the corner of Colleoni’s pedestal and sprinted for the bridge. My gondola had passed a crowded wineshop on the opposite side of the canal. If I could reach the bridge and yell to attract attention, I might yet have a chance.

  They brought me down before I had got halfway. Tackled from behind, I struck the stones with my forehead and, suddenly, the stars were dancing all around me.

  I must have been in a stupor for only a few minutes, but that was long enough to have been blindfolded, gagged, and had my arms bound tightly behind my back. Through a splitting pain in my head, I judged I was in the bottom of a swift gondola on one of the narrower canals. My captors were silent, but the scrape of their boots and rustle of their garments made me think there were three men besides the boatmen. After a few minutes, our progress slowed and I heard one of the gondoliers give the hoarse cry that warns other traffic that a boat is poised to turn into a wider canal. We shot forward. Now the craft tossed and rocked on the choppier water of a larger channel.

  My head swam and bile rose in my throat, but I willed my stomach to settle and tried to analyze my situation. Was this a kidnapping? A robbery? My small purse was still in my waistcoat pocket; I felt it digging uncomfortably into my lower ribs. I moved slightly to ease my position and instantly received a sharp kick in the back. A rough voice warned me to be still and stay quiet. A heavy cloak descended around me, muffling all sound and concentrating my attention on simply getting enough air to stay conscious.

  Finally the gondola bobbed to a halt and, somewhere very close, iron scraped against stone. Rough hands grabbed me. I was lifted bodily and half dragged, half carried out of the night air. Their message was brief and pointed. I was flung into a hard chair and a voice rasped close to my ear, “You’ve been asking too many questions, castrato. La Belluna’s death is no business of yours. You are to stick to your singing and leave the dead in peace. Understand?”

  Before I could signal a response, I was kicked in the side and grabbed around the throat.

  “Not his neck, you fool. You were warned.” The raspy voice rose in intensity.

  An expletive followed and my head was jerked back by someone yanking my plait.

  “No more questions about La Belluna. Understand?”

  This time I was allowed to nod before a second set of hands forced my chin down. Steel slithered from a scabbard and pressed against the back of my neck. Were they going to kill me after all?

  No, the blade was sawing through my hair, and soon I had lost my plait. The gag was jerked from my mouth and my lifeless hank of hair was stuffed in its place. Strangely gentle hands stroked my thighs and took a firm grasp on the crotch of my breeches.

  “Whatever you have left here, my friend—that’s what you will find in your mouth the next time we meet.”

  Chapter 15

  I awoke the next morning with a knot the size of a walnut on my forehead and bitter anger churning my spirit. I had been dumped, weak and shivering, at the bottom of the calle that led to the Campo dei Polli. As soon as I hit the pavement, I snatched the blindfold from my eyes but glimpsed only an anonymous gondola filled with hulking shapes slipping down the misty canal. Somehow I directed my heavy feet up the calle and fit my key into the front door. Head throbbing and heart still pounding, I climbed the stairs and shut the door of my room against the violence of the night. Without removing so much as my coat, I stretched out on the cool linen sheets and Morpheus, the ancient god of sleep, dealt with me more gently than anyone else had that day.

  The appropriate target for my anger lay in a building with an iron water gate somewhere on one of Venice’s major canals. Lacking the means to narrow my target further, I sat at the breakfast table glumly swirling my coffee and watching the creamy clouds form and billow in my cup. Annetta hovered over my bruised forehead with a bottle of arnica and one of Father’s old handkerchiefs that she was trying unsuccessfully to make into a bandage. After she and Alessandro had absorbed the gist of my midnight adventure, they both pressed me with anxious questions but were getting only curt grunts in response.

  Annetta finally assumed the big sister’s no-nonsense tone that demanded a response. “Are you going to do as the men ordered—drop your efforts to free Felice?”

  I had turned that dilemma over in my mind since winter’s gray dawn had begun poking at my bedroom window. In the weak light, Felice’s empty cot appeared as an indistinct, shadowy mass. By the time it had solidified into a wooden frame topped with a mattress and pillow neatly wrapped in bed linen, I had made up my mind.

  “Would you want me to give it up, Annetta?” I asked. “Could you stand by and simply let cruel Venetian justice take its course?”

  “You know I could not.” Her jaw was firmly set, but she twisted the cloth with worried hands. “Especially since last night’s attack virtually proves Felice’s innocence.”

  “Yes, I thought of that,” I responded. “If Felice murdered Adelina, why would anyone else be interested in stopping my questions?”

  Alessandro had been pacing the room. His long legs, accustomed to ships’ decks and wide-open marketplaces, were uncomfortably confined by our tiny dining room crammed with furniture. He straddled a chair across from me. “You can’t go on blindly asking questions of first one and then another, Tito. That won’t get you anywhere and could be dangerous besides. We need to plan this out, make it an organized investigation.” He gnawed at a callused knuckle. “The main thing is time. How much do we have?”

  “I’m not sure. It has been four days since Adelina’s death.”

  Alessandro considered. “I’m surprised that Messer Grande has held off this long. If he accepts Susannah’s version of her mistress’ death, there should be nothing holding him back from hauling Felice before the State Inquisitors.”

  Annetta brightened. “Maybe Messer Grande is not as convinced of Felice’s guilt as rumor would have it.”

  I saw what my next step would have to be, but didn’t relish the prospect. Venice’s chief of police, one Ludovico Cello by name and Messer Grande by title, was the king spider in a dense web of official peacekeepers, minor authorities, and a cadre of hidden agents dedicated to preservin
g the interests of Venice’s ruling elite by whatever means necessary. The ruthless determination of his informers was legendary. Any sensible citizen would keep far away from Messer Grande and his agents, but to learn the details of Felice’s situation, I would have to confront this spider.

  “I’ll go down to the piazza and see him later today.”

  The words came reluctantly, but I felt better for having said them.

  Alessandro shook his head. If he had meant to oppose my plan, he was interrupted by Berta entering the room with all the officious importance of the Doge’s chief chamberlain.

  “Look what my baby has made,” she said with a beaming smile, “all by herself. Well, with only a little help.”

  Grisella bore a steaming basket. My nose recognized a childhood treat: frittelle, hunks of fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. But the pastries were not meant for us. With a sober expression on her little face, Grisella set the basket on the table, crossed to the linen cupboard, and retrieved a fresh white napkin. With great ceremony, she unfurled the cloth and tucked it around the contents of the basket. Only then did she observe her sister and brothers.

  “Oh, Tito,” she squealed. “What happened to your hair?”

  I gave her a modified version of the night’s activities, but didn’t leave out the essential objective of the attack, which was, of course, to induce me to abandon Felice.

  Grisella’s dark eyes widened. She came close and ran a hand through what was left of my hair. Then she gave my forehead a gentle kiss, no more than the touch of a lark’s wing. As Annetta and Alessandro shared a look of concern, Grisella’s behavior grew more agitated. She grabbed my sleeve and moaned, “This is terrible. This shouldn’t have happened.”

  I tried to downplay my condition and turn her attention to lighter matters. “I don’t mind the short hair, little one. I think I’ll turn Lupo into a fashionable friseur and have him dress my hair in curls every morning.”