1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Lupo eyed the garment doubtfully. The old servant was playing valet to rig me out in splendor for my visit to the Palazzo Viviani. The meager wardrobe I had brought with me from Naples was in a sad state of repair. My salary from the opera house, even after the Conservatorio San Remo had its cut and I gave Annetta something for the household, was more than sufficient to order some shirts, but I just hadn’t had the time. While Lupo dabbed at my waistcoat with a smelly cleaning fluid, I finished washing and slipped into the shirt. Alessandro had lent me a fresh neckcloth with a fall of fine ruffles, and Crivelli had insisted that I tuck his gold watch into my fob pocket. “A token to bring you luck,” he had said. With these treasures and my own dress coat of ivory silk bordered in gold trim, I felt ready to hold my own in Elisabetta’s salon.

  One finishing touch remained; Annetta was carrying it in on a wooden stand. To call on the wife of one of Venice’s wealthiest aristocrats, my own short curls must be hidden under a fashionable wig. I much preferred to wear my own hair. Wigs were hot and made my head itch. When I had to wear one on stage, the theater supplied whatever was necessary. Consequently, Annetta had been forced to raid Father’s stock of headgear. She had chosen a parruca with high curls in front and a little silk bag to gather the tail at the back of my neck.

  As Lupo took my shoes down to the kitchen for a final shine, Annetta sat me down before my mirror and went to work. She rubbed fragrant pomade into my scalp and pulled it through to the ends of my own hair, then brushed it all as flat as possible.

  “Annetta, do you think Father goes to the Ridotto?” I asked her reflection in the mirror.

  “Probably, everyone goes there at some time or another.”

  “No. I mean does he frequent the place? Spend a lot of money at the tables?”

  “Why?”

  I told my sister about the masked figure I had followed around the gaming establishment the night before. “The more I think about it, I’m sure it was Father. The man must have lost over a hundred zecchini.”

  Annetta wrinkled her forehead. “Impossible. Father keeps the household on a strict budget, but he always has money to give me at the end of the week. We’ve always had all we need. With you and Alessandro contributing, we can even afford a few luxuries. I’d say our family lives better than most.”

  “That’s because of your hard work and your eye for a bargain.”

  She chuckled as she positioned the wig on my head. “That may be so, but we wouldn’t have anything if Father was a regular at the Ridotto. Anyone with good sense knows that gamblers lose more than they win.”

  Her disbelief challenged my suspicions. The masked figure had lost quite a stack of coins. That was more gold than an organ master at a convent asylum would see in a month. After he was played out, the man had gone to Viviani. Was he begging a new stake? My patron didn’t strike me as the charitable type. Perhaps the man had been demanding payment for services rendered?

  Annetta handed me a cone of stiff paper to cover my face. The wig had been powdered on its stand but needed a final touch-up. The cone prevented powder from getting up my nose and all over my face. As my sister held my silk coat, Lupo returned with my shoes. He had polished the leather to a high gloss. I fastened the shoes with buckles I had shined myself. With my ensemble complete, I was ready to make my appearance at the Palazzo Viviani and see what I could find out about jealous wives, affronted family retainers, and missing books.

  The early afternoon sun had not brought much warmth to the Campo dei Polli. Frost still covered the north side of the leafless tree, and the women who came to draw water from the central well covered their winter-reddened cheeks with flannel scarves. I spotted my knife grinder right away. A cart like his was an unusual sight for a Sunday afternoon. I decided he had only one disguise or perhaps was more interested in keeping warm than cultivating an authentic air. He was sitting dejectedly on a low stool beside his cart practically hugging a scaldino to his chest. Dog my steps if you like, I thought. I saw no reason to make a secret of my visit to the palazzo.

  Though I was bundled in a heavy cloak and carried a muff to warm my fingers, I decided not to walk, but to take a gondola and arrive at the palazzo in high style. My boatman threaded through the narrow, crooked canals of the Cannaregio and soon propelled his craft into the choppy, jade-green water of the Grand Canal. As we approached the pale, stately palace, I glimpsed several waterways that led into the warehouse area of the Viviani compound. I nodded to see that two of them were barred by gates of latticed iron.

  I disembarked at the arched portico which led up to the sculptured bronze doors, the doors Bondini had driven us away from on the night of the Juno reception. This time I was admitted and my card was carried away on a silver salver. In a moment I was following a footman clad in the pink Viviani livery up the grand staircase. We passed between marble columns topped by caryatids and crossed the central reception salon where Adelina and I had sung our first duet. It was hard to believe only two weeks had passed since that night.

  Signora Viviani’s suite ran the length of the south, and warmest, side of the vast residence. The other Viviani brothers and assorted family members must occupy smaller suites of rooms according to their rank and importance in the family business. Venetian aristocrats tended to maintain close family ties. Only one son of each generation was delegated to marry and carry on the family line. His brothers were expected to set personal ambition aside and devote themselves to the interests of the married brother while the daughters of the house were farmed out to suitable husbands or convents.

  It was not always the eldest brother chosen to be the head of the family. Domenico Viviani was the middle of three. The eldest, Carlo, had shown academic promise at the Jesuit school, but his father had forbidden him to continue his studies at the University of Padua, preferring that his son learn the art of statecraft by accompanying an elderly senator in his governmental duties. Unfortunately, the bookish Carlo didn’t have a taste for La Serenissima’s cutthroat brand of politics and, even now, could often be found with his weak eyes glued to a volume at a bookshop on the Mercerie.

  After the disappointment of the scholarly Carlo, Domenico must have seemed like the answer to a father’s prayer. Clever, ruthless, and competitive, the second son wore the mantle of the Viviani clan as if it had been tailored especially for him. The destiny of the family was further assured by the lack of leadership shown by Claudio, the youngest son. As a youth, this princeling had shown no interest in study or politics but instead concentrated on acquiring mistresses and dressing exquisitely. Thus, both brothers accepted Domenico’s rule without the type of sibling strife that had destroyed many a Venetian dynasty, and the Viviani fortunes prospered as a result.

  The footman abandoned me in Signora Viviani’s antechamber, an ice-cold room containing only a few woolen tapestries on the walls and an oversize console table holding a bronze bust of a particularly ill-disposed Viviani. I had plenty of time to ponder what might have given the gentleman his bilious demeanor. They left me there in frozen solitude for over half an hour.

  At last the squat, black-clad figure of Signora Albrimani appeared. This day, Elisabetta Viviani’s sister and companion was all politeness and showed none of the fiery temperament we had witnessed in her attack on Adelina. Signora Albrimani ushered me into a warm, well-furnished chamber. Elisabetta was trading small talk with a group of ladies gathered before a crackling fireplace. I didn’t see any sign of Benito, the Signora’s cavaliere servante.

  “Sister, the castrato from San Stefano has come,” Signora Albrimani announced.

  I winced at the lady’s choice of introduction but nevertheless approached the mistress of the palazzo with a smile and made a deep bow.

  Elisabetta took no notice of me, engaged as she was in listening to an indecent tale about the papal nuncio and a certain senator’s wife. I stood and waited, my fingers still numb with cold, then joined self-consciously in the general laughter that greeted the end
of the tale.

  Signora Albrimani tucked a shawl around her sister’s shoulders and drew a silver flask and tumbler within her reach. “Do you want the castrato to sing now?”

  Elisabetta glanced in my direction and gestured for me to move closer. She looked weary and her skin had a waxen quality. Her voice was flat, and she seemed to need to search for a word before she spoke it.

  “You must make the best of my clavier,” she said, waving a hand toward the instrument. “It’s in abysmal condition, but you could perhaps try it.”

  “Good lady, I would be delighted to sing for you,” I answered with another small bow, “but my fingers are frozen to the bone and my throat is chilled. I beg you to let me warm myself before your fire before I attempt a song.”

  She inclined her head vaguely and seemed on the verge of forgetting my presence entirely. I added quickly, “I want you to hear my voice as it was when I last performed here.” She looked puzzled, but I had her attention again. “Do you remember my duet with Adelina Belluna?”

  Elisabetta narrowed her eyes, but her smile was serene and untroubled. “Of course, Domenico arranged the party to introduce the new opera. That was the night I spilled wine on my favorite gown. You sang with the poor woman who was killed at the opera house.”

  “Yes. She is greatly missed by all of us at the theater.”

  “You are not the only ones,” Elisabetta sighed. “She was one of the best singers the San Stefano ever had. What a pity.”

  I nodded. “All Venice is mourning La Belluna’s death. Her voice seemed heaven sent and her beauty made her a modern-day Venus.”

  Signora Albrimani resumed fussing with her sister’s shawl. As she bent to rearrange the folds of her stiff gown, the older woman directed an ugly scowl my way.

  I proceeded in a different vein, as if I were relating insignificant gossip. “Messer Grande has a man in custody, but he has not been charged with the murder. They say his guilt is much in doubt.”

  Pasting a neutral expression on my face, I watched Elisabetta’s features. As I discussed Adelina’s death, I was searching for signs of rancor, triumph, jealousy, any telltale emotion that would hint at her involvement in the murder. I observed only mild curiosity. The soprano’s death seemed to have made little impression on this pampered woman.

  “Is it true?” she asked, unconcerned as ever. “We heard the culprit would go to the executioner before the close of Carnival.”

  A footman bearing a tray entered and deposited coffee and sweet biscuits on a table at Elisabetta’s side. My noble hostess set her sister to the task of dispensing refreshments and directed me toward the clavier with an imperious gesture. “A song, Signore. Sing something lively while we have our coffee.”

  I played her wretched little clavier, starting with some light, Neapolitan arias that had been popular in that city before I sailed for Venice. The Signora and her ladies never interrupted their activities for a moment but nibbled, chattered, and clinked coffee cups throughout my performance. I felt my throat grow tight and dry with vexation. Why had I thought a simple musico would be received with dignity and treated with respect? In this exalted household, I was nothing more than a talented servant, a trick pony who could be commanded to provide an interlude of pleasant diversion.

  Under these odious conditions, I soon lost patience. I gave them a few more arias, then stood up. The ladies rewarded me with a scattering of delicate applause.

  “An astonishing voice, truly inconceivable,” a woman in lavender silk declaimed.

  “A marvel,” her friend agreed, then added with a giggle, “what a pity he is ruined for the work nature intended for a man.”

  “He is not a man. He is a creature made to infuse our souls with pure beauty,” sighed an overwrought young lady by the fireplace.

  “And what a deliciously handsome creature,” added a stout matron as she popped a teacake in her overlarge mouth.

  Elisabetta set her cup on the table and sank into the depths of her high-backed chair. Her eyes had taken on the glassy stare I had noticed the night of the duet. She favored me with a vague smile and said, “Very entertaining, Signore. We are looking forward to your next opera.” She turned back to her guests as a footman materialized at my shoulder. That was it. There were no words of thanks or goodbye, just her patrician way of saying: You’ve done your turn. Now you may leave us.

  Simmering with anger and humiliation, I followed the footman’s floating strides down the wide staircase and across terrazzo floors until the huge bronze doors were in sight. More lackeys appeared bearing my cloak and hat. The tall doors were creaking open when a slight figure dashed out of a side passageway.

  “That’s all right, I’ll finish seeing him out.” Elisabetta’s castrato attendant pulled me aside and sent my footman floating back into the marble recesses of the palazzo.

  Benito was shorter than I was and made with more delicate bones. I found his grip disconcertingly powerful for one so small and decorative in his person. He pulled me into a small chapel with gilded walls and an ornately carved altarpiece. Candles flickered before statues of Our Lady and St. Mark and threw eerie shadows in all directions. The room held just enough pews to accommodate the family members who lived in this communal residence. Their velvet cushions looked as if they had never been sat on.

  “Did you find my lady talkative today?” Benito asked without preamble.

  “Not especially so.”

  He cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive canary. “Perhaps I can tell you what you want to know.”

  I hesitated, fingering the brim of my tricorne. No doubt this cavaliere servante knew a good bit about the Viviani establishment, but I feared that every question I asked would be instantly reported back to Elisabetta, or someone else.

  “Ah, you are shy.” He released my arm and smoothed the fabric of my sleeve. “If you think I cannot keep a secret, you are wrong. I can serve your purposes and not be disloyal to my mistress. Being many things to many people is my stock in trade, you know.”

  “You were at the theater the night Adelina Belluna died,” I said, still reticent.

  He nodded. “It was also the night of your renowned debut.”

  “Well, yes.” I decided to plunge in. Felice’s cause could not be served by being overcautious. “Did Signora Viviani go backstage that night?”

  “No, I am sure she did not. The men left the box during the ballet, but my lady was feeling tired. She received a few friends in our box. She called for some brandy and something to eat, nothing heavy, just a light sweet. She was quite overcome by your last aria.” He paused and bit his lower lip. “We all were. Until we heard of La Belluna’s tragedy, the talk was of nothing but you.”

  “Did Signora Albrimani remain in the box as well?”

  He rolled his expressive eyes. “She was glued to her sister’s side as always.”

  “I’ve wondered why she is called Signora Albrimani. She wears widow’s weeds but carries her maiden name.”

  “There are only the two Albrimani sisters. The younger, prettier one was married into the Viviani clan, an attempt at a power alliance that went awry.” He gave a pretty shrug. “The other was married off to a distant cousin who was in financial difficulties. The poor man tried, but her face at table every day and her body between the sheets every night was more than he could bear. He died young and the widow was stashed here.”

  “Does she still have contact with the Albrimani?”

  “I think they’ve forgotten she still exists. She has no money of her own and goes out only when my lady ventures forth. Despite the petty disruptions she causes, Signora Albrimani has no more independent existence than her sister’s lap dog.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose neither sister had any regard for Adelina Belluna?”

  He laughed: a tinkling, bell-like sound. “My lady adored La Belluna. And was heartily grateful to her.”

  “Really? I thought there must be some
jealousy, at least some bad feelings.”

  He drew me over to a pew, and we perched on its pristine velvet cushion. “My lady does not enjoy the physical side of marriage. I am no expert on the female interior.” He gave the word an odd emphasis and continued in an arch whisper. “But she tells me that the aperture which should easily swallow its male counterpart is tight shut and gives her pain if she tries to insert so much as her little finger.”

  “I see,” I said and began to understand. If Elisabetta suffered during the act of love, any woman who diverted her husband’s sexual appetites would be a welcome relief, not a rival.

  Benito continued. “Of course, some pain connected with the act of love can be delicious, but I suppose it’s all a matter of taste.”

  “But the public shame. All Venice knew of the liaison between Domenico Viviani and La Belluna. Sitting in the patron’s box at the opera and knowing everyone was whispering and watching her reaction when Adelina was on stage must have tortured your mistress.”

  The little castrato giggled. “My lady is always so full of brandy, she hardly knows where she is much less who is looking at her or talking about her.”

  As I sat silently, trying to digest all the new information, Benito abandoned his coy role for a more direct approach. I caught my breath as he ran his fingers down the front of my waistcoat toward the place where the surgeon had robbed me. He stretched his slender neck to put his mouth next to my ear.

  “Tonight I dine at her table, but I am ready to sup at yours anytime you would care to send for me.”

  I shrank back from him in slow motion and made my voice remain calm and steady. “I’m indebted to you for all you’ve told me, but my desires lie in other quarters.”

  He gave me a pert smile. “Perhaps you will change your mind. I know you would if you would just give me a chance.”

  I winced inwardly, suddenly reminded of a similar conversation I’d had with Felice. “I must ask you one last question,” I said, my back pressing so hard against the cushioned pew I thought I might overturn it. “Have you seen anyone bring a thick, red leather folio into this house? Or such a book anywhere about? Just in the last day or two?”