1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  Benito denied all knowledge of red leather books, but admitted he had little interaction with anyone in the house outside of Elisabetta’s circle. With a wink and a conspiratorial smile, he let me out through the big bronze doors that shut behind me with an unequivocal thud. As soon as I stepped into the sunny Venetian afternoon I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath. The breeze off the lagoon was crisp and cold but far preferable to the tainted atmosphere in that palace of pride and secrecy.

  I decided to walk home and headed for the Ponte delle Guglie, the bridge that would take me back to the Cannaregio, the neighborhood I understood. Industrious housewives leaning from balconies to shake tablecloths free of crumbs, young couples braving the chill to take a Sunday stroll by the canal, even the mongrel dogs hanging around the poultry shop: all comforted me and reminded me why I had returned to the city of my birth.

  Chapter 22

  It was almost dark and growing colder when I entered the Campo dei Polli. Searching my pockets, I found I had forgotten my house key in the bustle of preparing for my visit to Elisabetta’s salon. A pull on the bell cord brought Lupo to the door. Silently, our stooped servant shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the sitting room. I heard Father’s voice rumbling through the closed door, then Alessandro, angry and frustrated.

  I went in. Father and Alessandro turned toward me with startled looks. Annetta was standing by the stove in the corner, twisting a damp handkerchief in her hands.

  “Tito!” my father bellowed. “Did you know about this, too?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This mad monk who has invaded my home. This Brother Mark.”

  I looked to Alessandro for a clue on how to answer. My brother threw up his hands and said, “Brother Mark just left. He came to talk with Grisella, and Father practically threw him out of the house.”

  “The monk has no business here. And no right to question my daughter without my knowledge or consent. If I had only known you were planning such a farce, I would never have allowed him to perform the exorcism.”

  Alessandro whirled around and spoke to me instead of Father. “You’d think he’d be grateful for Brother Mark’s help. No one else has been able to do anything for the girl.”

  Father grabbed Alessandro’s shoulder. “Grateful?” he thundered. “Why should I be grateful to a stranger for pushing in where he is not wanted. And how has he helped? He’s just sent your sister to her room with the worst fit she’s had in weeks.”

  “Grisella got upset because you started shouting, Father,” said Annetta hoarsely. “She likes Brother Mark. She trusts him. He won her over when he promised to help get Felice out of the guardhouse.”

  “Felice again,” Father interrupted with a snort of disgust. “I’m getting a little tired of hearing about Felice. Why is everyone in this house so agitated about the arrest of one worthless eunuch?”

  My brother and sister stared at Father with open mouths, then cautiously slid their gazes toward me.

  “Is it only Felice who is worthless, Father? Or did you mean to include all of us?” I asked tartly.

  “Oh, you know what I mean. Felice was washed up before he began. His voice is spent. He can’t compose and he’s no master of the keyboard. What else but singing is a cripple like him good for? The devil can take him as far as I’m concerned.” Father threw himself into a chair and crossed his arms in a belligerent gesture.

  No one said anything for a long moment. Father must have begun to feel he was a bit harsh on my kind for he spoke again, in a mellower tone. “Tito, boy, don’t compare yourself to Felice. Your situation is completely different. You have a magnificent voice. As you become known throughout the musical world, you will be able to demand handsome sums. Opera houses all over Italy will be at your mercy. You will make us all rich.”

  I watched Father actually rub his hands together like King Midas in his counting house. “So it comes down to this,” I said. “You think a pair of golden vocal cords is all that I am and all I will ever be.”

  Father opened his mouth to speak. I’ll never know whether he meant to refute me or agree with me because I had heard enough. Shivering with anger, I raced upstairs, threw Father’s wig on his bed, then shut myself into my room. I sank down on Felice’s cot and hugged his pillow to my chest.

  What was I, after all? A monstrosity to some, an angel to others; did anyone believe I was simply Tito Amato, a man no better or worse than any other? If my own father couldn’t see beyond my altered form, what attitude could I hope for from strangers? I pounded the pillow with my fist, sick to death of being defined by what I lacked.

  And yet, there was another feeling stirring within me, something I was just beginning to acknowledge.

  A marvelous thing happened when I heard my own voice resonate through the theater. When I saw Venetians of all ranks shushing their companions and leaning forward to hear me sing, my joy threatened to carry me right up to the rafters. I wanted to take that joy and send it right back to the audience in song. When I hit the notes squarely, projected the melody to every corner of the auditorium, and enhanced the composer’s creation with wonderful ornamentation of my own, nothing on earth seemed better. Sometimes I even astonished myself.

  A knock at the door interrupted my musings. That would be Annetta. Even my sister who knew me better than anyone else in the world, except perhaps Felice, refused to see me as the man I was. To her I would always be the motherless boy whom she had pledged to nurture and protect.

  But it wasn’t Annetta. When I answered the knock, my brother’s tall form filled the doorway. He brushed past me and shut the door with a well-aimed shove of his boot. “At least there’s some good news,” he said with a grin.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  He waved an impatient hand as if to dismiss the unpleasant episode in the sitting room. “Before Father came home, Brother Mark told us he got in the guardhouse to see Felice. My idea worked.”

  Alessandro, no doubt inspired by Berta’s excellent bread, had suggested that Berta and Grisella make up another batch of frittelle and fry some with a note tucked deep in the middle of the pastry. They made enough to give the guards a generous portion and, in case the jailers were greedy, they positioned the all-important message-bearing pastries at the very bottom of the basket. Apparently Felice had eaten his way through the stack of frittelle and received the message that he should request the sacrament of confession from Brother Mark.

  I clutched my brother’s arm. “What did he say? How is Felice?”

  Alessandro smiled uncertainly. “The good monk has visited Felice several times. He reports that he is healthy in body but dangerously low in spirits.”

  “Naturally. In such an unbearable situation, how could Felice fail to be despondent? If only I could speak with him. I know I could give him some courage, plus find out what he was doing in Adelina’s dressing room on the night of her death. I’m sure he must have an innocent explanation.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Brother Mark wants you to visit the guardhouse with him. He says you must hear what Felice has to say. You are the only one who can make sense of it.”

  “When? How?”

  “He will come to collect you here at the house. Tomorrow, around noon.”

  I smacked my forehead. “Torani has called a rehearsal for tomorrow morning. He wants to try out Orlando’s new opera.”

  “Do you have to be there?”

  “Yes. If I want a job after Christmas, I do.” I thought quickly. “Perhaps I could pretend to strain my voice or be coming down with inflammation of the tonsils. Torani wouldn’t have me push my voice too hard. He still needs me for three more performances of Juno.”

  Alessandro nodded. “You’ll just have to get away.”

  “I will, without fail, but what if Brother Mark won’t wait?”

  Alessandro curved his lips as I imagined he must when confronting a merchant bent on cheating him out of his f
air profit. “He’ll wait. I’ll see to that. You just get back here as soon as you can. He’ll bring some Dominican robes for you. He plans to pass you off as a young probationer who is serving as his assistant.”

  “Now that’s one role I’ve never thought of playing. Brother Tito? No, of course not. Perhaps I’ll be Brother Theodore and stand by Brother Mark as the columns of Saint Theodore and Saint Mark stand together beside the Doge’s palace.” I sketched a clumsy cross in the air over my brother’s head. “Bless you, my son.”

  Alessandro cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “I think you had better keep quiet and do as Brother Mark tells you. And be sure to keep your hood drawn forward. For all we know, Felice’s jailer may be an opera lover and watch you from the pit every night.”

  “I’ll do whatever is necessary,” I replied in a more serious vein. “I only wish our meeting could be tonight. The time is growing short. Today is Sunday, so the theater is dark. That leaves three days. Wednesday marks the last performance of Juno and the end of Carnival. If I haven’t delivered Adelina’s murderer to Messer Grande by Thursday morning, he will move against Felice.” My voice rose and my anxiety grew with every word I spoke.

  My brother laid a calming hand on my arm. Again we went over the possible suspects and what we knew of their motives and movements. Again we came up with more questions than answers. Alessandro asked me how I intended to spend that night. I told him about the unexpected invitation from Signora Veniero but expressed doubt about keeping the appointment.

  Alessandro gave a low whistle and his brown eyes sparkled. “One of Venice’s most renowned beauties requests your presence and you’re thinking of not going? Are you daft?” Before I could answer, he continued in an abashed tone, “Oh, I see, you probably can’t.…”

  I stopped him with a rapid shake of my head. “That’s not it. I feel sure the lady could inspire me to give a good performance. It’s just that…well, it doesn’t seem right that I should enjoy myself while Felice is in such distress.”

  “But there’s nothing you can do for Felice tonight. Nothing at all. If it will make you feel any better, I’ll go down to the wharves and see if I can pick up any helpful information.”

  “What do you hope to find there?”

  “I know a tavern where Domenico’s agents and brokers do their drinking. Several Viviani ships are in port now so there should be plenty of his crew trying to drink the tavern dry.”

  “What would underlings like that know of their master’s private business?”

  “Gossip is rife in the business of trade. A clever merchant always keeps an ear open to pick up hints of brewing trouble. Every man’s misery represents someone else’s profit.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. If Adelina knew something, chances were good that others would have caught a whiff of something rotten in the Viviani enterprise. “Perhaps I should go with you?” I asked.

  “Oh, no.” Alessandro nearly choked with laughter.

  “Why?” I asked, slightly affronted. “I could play the part of a seaman. I have before, on stage.”

  My brother spread his hands. “Where I’m going you would stand out like a lighthouse beacon. Besides your voice and your beardless face, you have this distinctive manner about you…no, not womanish, just more graceful, more dramatic than the rest of us. It really is best if I go alone.” He smiled to show that I should take no offence. To my surprise, I didn’t.

  With Alessandro on his way to the wharves, Annetta tending Grisella, and Father off on his own business, I had no more excuses to stop me from meeting Signora Veniero. I divested myself of the formal garments I’d worn to the palazzo and washed the pomade from my hair. After putting on a clean shirt and my favorite soft wool breeches, I left the house and walked slowly toward the canal. I looked around for one of my shadows and was surprised and intrigued that neither was in evidence. Not too far down the pavement, I found a gondola and set off for La Giudecca. That island, separated from Venice by a thin strand of lagoon, was famous for its palaces, gardens, and houses of pleasure.

  Every nobleman, and some of their wives, had a casino on this island or in the warren of allies and canals near San Marco. A casino was a set of rooms, usually in a larger house on a discreet calle, where the owner could relax away from the forced, public gaiety of the piazza and the strained formality of the palazzi. Most casini were beautifully appointed and attended by loyal, unfailingly circumspect retainers. Luxury and comfort were the only standards allowed.

  Following Signora Veniero’s instructions, I struck eastward from the gondola mooring by San’Eufemia and soon came to a campo set about with a number of middle-class houses. I could see nothing out of the ordinary. The campo could have been lifted from my own dull neighborhood. But still, I detected a clandestine atmosphere hovering along with the gray plaits of chimney smoke that made me proceed warily and muffle my footsteps. At the far side of the square, a short flight of damp stairs led to a closely barred door with a grill positioned squarely at eye level. As directed, I gave three quick taps and was instantly admitted by a female servant who reminded me of our Berta. Before shuffling down a dark hallway, she motioned me into a sitting room furnished with pillow-laden sofas, a dainty harpsichord, and a small table set for two. Through a half-open door in the far wall, I glimpsed a bed hung with damask curtains. On my left, my lovely hostess was regarding me gravely with her back to the fire.

  I crossed to her side and pressed her hand to my lips. She was wearing a quilted dress of rose red topped by a fichu of silk gauze. Seemingly arranged in haste, the gauze barely covered the swelling of her bosom where the dress opened in front. Her hair cascaded over her shoulders in a fall of loose curls. Ear buttons studded with brilliant gems were her only decoration.

  “Signora, you do me a great honor,” I said, as I raised my eyes from her hand to meet her emerald gaze.

  Her crooked smile spread slowly across her face. “Leonora. We are no longer Signor Amato and Signora Veniero, but Tito and Leonora.”

  My heart was racing and my mouth was dry, but I steadied myself to follow her lead and play the adoring cavalier. By entrusting the fortunes of this night to this accomplished beauty, I hoped both of us would end up feeling the adventure had been a success.

  We sat down to dinner at the little table where the food had been kept warm by being set on silver boxes filled with hot water. Leonora served me with her own hands. I was heartily surprised to be waited on by a patrician lady, but she smiled and bantered as if nothing extraordinary was occurring. As we feasted on glazed duck and rice flavored with saffron, she told me the highlights of her life up to this point.

  Like most girls of wealthy families, she had been shut in a convent for her education and protection until she reached seventeen. Her family had arranged her marriage to Pietro Veniero, then the commander of a navy galley, while she was still at the convent school. Before the ceremony, she had laid eyes on her betrothed only twice. Three days after the priest said the words that would link the fate and finances of their respective families forever, the commander returned to his fleet and Leonora joined the ranks of young, pleasure-loving Venetian matrons. Tender feelings didn’t enter into the relationship. Everyone knew that the nobility married to produce heirs who would contribute to the mutual good of their names and properties. In public the couple followed the necessary formalities, in private they tended their own pursuits. Leonora was fortunate to have a particularly indulgent spouse. Even in these profligate times, there were many husbands who would not tolerate a wife’s romantic intrigues—despite their own secret amours.

  Then it was my turn. She begged me to tell of all my experiences, and the good vintage of champagne I drank throughout dinner loosened my tongue. I found myself telling far too many stories about the Conservatorio San Remo, my brother and sisters, and, finally, Adelina’s murder and the galling arrest of Felice. Leonora asked a number of questions about my efforts to free my friend. Her sympathy to Felice’s plight made
me adore her all the more.

  Near the end of the meal, she took the lid off one small dish, as yet untouched. Inside nestled a dozen oysters clinging to their pearly gray shells. She drizzled juice from a cut lemon over the lot and speared one of the mollusks on a silver skewer. Leaning over the table so that the ends of her fichu nearly trailed in the serving dishes, she held the oyster to my lips.

  I slid the tasty morsel off its skewer and had to smile. “Did you think I would be needing some help then?”

  “A little extra help never hurt anyone,” she said, skewering an oyster for herself. “Man or woman.”

  We lingered over the business of the oysters. To serve me the last one, she dispensed with the skewer and brought it to my mouth with her own beautiful lips. The sweetness of that concoction warmed me from head to toe. I rose and covered her face with kisses. She returned my passion for a moment, then wiggled away. When I took her hands to pull her in the direction of the bedroom, she shook her head and put her hands on either side of my face.

  “I know,” she said breathlessly. “Sing for me, Tito.”

  “Sing? I didn’t come here to sing for you.”

  “I don’t want you to sing like you’re on the stage. I want to hear something soft and sweet…a song no one else has heard from you.” She thought for a moment. “Do you know any lullabies?”

  “Lullabies?”

  “The songs that mothers sing to put their babies to sleep.”

  “I know what a lullaby is. I’m just wondering why you want to hear one.”

  She didn’t enlighten me, just smiled her crooked smile and led me over to the harpsichord. “Go on. Put your hands on the keyboard. Just play.”

  I did as I was told. With Leonora standing close behind me, I closed my eyes and played a few chords. My training at San Remo had not included songs for infants, but a memory from my days before the conservatorio floated lazily to the top of my mind. It was of my mother singing an old folk song by my bedside. I hadn’t thought of that scene for many years, but once the song was in my head, the words and notes flooded effortlessly back. With Leonora swaying in time to the simple tune, I sang of starry nights, parted lovers, and the moon’s magic glow.