6 - Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “I’ve been a little busy, Tedi.” I sighed and gave my buckled shoes a long look—scuffed—they needed Benito’s hand. Raising my chin, I asked, “Where? Where has Grillo been holding court?”

  “The Café Sultana on the piazza.” Her reply formed a clear call to duty.

  I made my bow, boarded my waiting gondola, and directed the boatman toward the heart of Venice.

  ***

  Grillo wasn’t hard to find. The great campanile was just tolling the nona, the noon bell, when I entered the colonnade running alongside the Procuratie Nuove. The Café Sultana was halfway along the vaulted walkway. A few patrons were braving the cool, overcast day at outdoor tables nudging into the vast square. I didn’t linger to watch them sip at small cups of black coffee or nibble at pastries. Knowing that my quarry enjoyed his creature comforts, I pushed through glass doors fogged with the warmth of cooking and the breaths of shouting waiters and chattering patrons.

  I spotted Grillo immediately. He occupied a corner table by the window. A woman known for circulating about the piazza, ostensibly selling balms and scents but really selling herself, sat close beside him. Her satin-clad arm stretched upon his shoulder; her lacey cuff tickled his neck. A quartet of richly dressed fops filled out the table, English by the look of their excessively high wigs topped by oddly undersized tricornes. I’d have to remember to ask Gussie why his young countrymen had suddenly surrendered their taste and good sense to the most ridiculous of fashions. They were all staring down at the white tablecloth as if it held a map to buried treasure.

  What was Grillo up to? I stepped closer to the table and saw that the cups and plates had been pushed aside to accommodate twenty to thirty brightly colored tiles. He shifted the tiles with quick, swinging arm movements, like a trickster running a shell game and daring a punter to follow where the walnut landed. Then, with two fingers pressed to each temple, Grillo appeared to study the numbers and symbols painted on the tiles. He murmured something, and his onlookers leaned forward so as not to miss a word. His tomfoolery reminded me uncomfortably of my wife’s study of her cards. Though Liya wasn’t out to cheat anyone, I’d wager my last zecchino that Grillo was.

  I announced my presence with a small cough.

  The charlatan looked up with a smile that quickly faded. Displaying near miraculous dexterity, Grillo swept up his tiles and extricated himself from his companion’s embrace. He swiped a green cloak off a peg and made for the exit. If a waiter bearing a tray piled with dirty crockery hadn’t chosen that moment to block my path, I would have been right on Grillo’s heels. Delayed, I reached the open piazza only to find it thronged with promenaders of every complexion, class, age, and sex. At least it was not yet Carnival—very few wore mask and costume. Black tabarros, shawls, and cloaks were the order of the day.

  Grillo’s cloak was a bright jade, the color of the lagoon on a perfect, sun-kissed summer day, and lined with equally bright yellow. With the superior height of a eunuch, I should be able to spot it easily. I craned my neck and caught a flash of green fabric snapping in the breeze. Grillo was moving quickly, heading for the passage under the clock tower that led to the Merceria. If he reached that busy shopping thoroughfare, I stood a good chance of losing him.

  I pushed through the crowd, crossing the long shadow cast by the free-standing campanile. The bell tower’s massive presence soared above the piazza, dwarfing the domes of the Basilica and making the humans on the paving stones seem like ants. I was losing Grillo. I broke into an outright run, drawing a squawk from a lady’s maid toting her mistress’ lapdog and nearly toppling a peasant boy in wooden clogs.

  My lungs were burning when I finally made it to the other side of the square. I caught up to Grillo just as he ducked into the shadowy tunnel under the clock. He was making a play of sauntering casually along, as if he had nothing better to do than find another café in which to take coffee and conduct business. I put on a final burst of speed and clutched the collar of his green cloak.

  “You may unhand me, Signor Amato,” he said, once he’d recovered from his surprise. “I have no intention of running.”

  “Five minutes ago you were determined to avoid me.”

  The villain shrugged. “I suppose I must face you at some point—it may as well be now.”

  As best I could in the dim passage, I looked the man up and down. His loosely arranged hair was dark, cheeks olive, and eyes a lustrous black. His green cloak and claret-colored jacket suited his complexion perfectly. The man was of Spanish ancestry, I’d be bound. As I sensed no muscles tensing to flee, I released his collar.

  “Let’s find a more private place,” I said, aware of the steady stream of humanity headed toward the Rialto via the cramped confines of the Merceria.

  He nodded and we walked shoulder to shoulder in tense silence until we found a quiet alley beside the modest church of San Zulian.

  “What do you mean by spreading rumors about Angeletto?” I began without preamble or politeness.

  “Everyone loves a bit of gossip,” Grillo shot back smoothly.

  “Your kind of gossip sets in people’s ears like plaster—impossible to remove. Plus, it’s all lies.”

  He burst out laughing. “Lies is it? Are you so sure? The singer called Angeletto has many talents beyond music, Signor Amato. Think about it—how much do you really know about Angeletto?”

  “I know your deliberate gossip is wronging more than a fine young singer. It’s threatening the San Marco opera house and everyone in it. If the theater is ruined, hundreds will be without jobs—not just the musicians, but scene shifters, seamstresses, candle tenders, ticket takers, grappa sellers. Everybody right down to the old prompter who has whispered singers’ forgotten lines for the past forty years.”

  “And your job, too. Right?” He smirked. “Just when you’ve managed to put old Torani out to pasture. That’s what really has you steaming, isn’t it?”

  I felt my face grow hot with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maestro Torani is getting better by the day. He’ll be back at the helm in a matter of weeks.”

  “Perhaps. You would know better than I.” Grillo propped a shoulder against the church’s polished stone wall. “But I don’t enjoy being called a liar. I have a certain reputation to uphold, especially as a devoted admirer of the fair sex. If Angeletto is merely a boy who’s lost his chestnuts, I end up looking like a fool.”

  I grabbed his collar again and pulled his smooth cheeks close to mine. “I don’t care what you look like. I want you to shut your mouth. Better than that, I want you out of Venice for the run of The False Duke.”

  “Exile, eh?” His breath was hot on my face.

  “Temporarily.”

  He splayed his hand on my chest and pushed me away. Silent for a moment, Grillo seemed to be sizing me up. Then, with an oily smile: “Are you about to make me an offer?”

  Well, what else could I do? I had no bravos at my disposal to intimidate Grillo. If my brother Alessandro were in Venice, he would have known how to put the fear of the Devil in him, but Alessandro was far away in Constantinople. “All right,” I grumbled. “Just tell me—what will it take to end this farce? How much has Lorenzo Caprioli paid you?”

  Grillo raised his eyebrows. His mouth twitched. I thought he was going to laugh again, but he merely answered. “Fifteen ducats.”

  The purse the Savio had given me was still weighing my pocket down. I poured most of the coins into my palm, counted them, and sealed the bargain with Grillo.

  “Tonight, you’ll be resting your head on the mainland,” I observed, experiencing a hollow, sinking feeling. The roof tiles over my front door were hanging by a thread, and I’d just bartered away my best hope for a repair.

  “As you wish, Signor Amato.” The schemer had the gall to make me a fine bow before sauntering down the alley and turning out of sight.

  I’d nearly ma
de it back across the piazza before it occurred to me that my transaction with Grillo had proceeded much too smoothly. While I had no bravos, Caprioli certainly did. If ordering them to ram an old man’s gondola didn’t prick the impresario’s conscience, what would stop him from making Grillo pay dearly and painfully for his disobedience? And Caprioli wouldn’t forget during the few short weeks that Grillo stayed out of Venice. That self-anointed great lover and cabalist would return to the city as soon as The False Duke had completed its run, perhaps sooner if he thought he could get away with it.

  Grillo didn’t strike me as a man of courage, yet he’d quickly agreed to my demands. Had I again misconstrued what lay before my eyes? I pondered that question until I reached the Teatro San Marco and was swept into another contentious rehearsal.

  ***

  The tower where I’d caught up with Grillo houses an ornate, blue-and-gold clock that displays a uniquely Venetian motto: “I number only happy hours.” Those happy hours had been in short supply of late, but that evening I enjoyed a few of them in the company of my family. Tucked away on the north side of the island, far from the tensions of the theater and the growing uproar on the piazza, my home in the Cannaregio was a beacon of serenity.

  Over a late dinner of roast chicken, boiled musetto salami, and creamy polenta, Liya and Annetta demanded to know everything about our new castrato star. My sister, Gussie, and their three youngsters were joining us at table. Gussie had told Annetta just enough about Angeletto to whet her appetite for more.

  “What do you want to know?” I asked, glad to see a sparkle in my sister’s eyes. Annetta had suffered a bout of melancholia after five-year-old Isabella’s birth and had never fully returned to her old self. My fearless playmate and fierce protector during our motherless childhood had grown quiet and distant. Her buoyant prettiness had also faded, rather like a once bright banner that had waved in the sun and sea breeze until the colors were barely visible among its tatters.

  Annetta swallowed a bite of salami. “Does he sing better than Majorano?”

  “Not better, but differently.” I thought back to the concert in Milan. “Where Majorano strives to stir his listeners with extravagant technique and chivalrous deportment, Angeletto seems more intent on pleasing himself. I’ve never met an artist who seems to enjoy his own singing so intensely. Of course, an audience responds in kind.”

  “But his voice? What does it sound like?” Annetta pressed.

  “Light and flexible, but also capable of great emotion. Angeletto can produce a sob of fury or a tremolo of ecstasy with equal ease.”

  Gussie held up his glass, and Benito hurried to fill it from the carafe on the sideboard. “That should please Signor Rocatti,” Gussie said after a sip of Montepulciano. “Has he been around to the theater to hear the celebrated Angeletto sing his False Duke?”

  “Angeletto hasn’t started rehearsal yet.” I abandoned my fork and sat back with a huff. “It seems that he requires rest from his journey.”

  Yesterday, I’d stopped in at the Ca’Passoni to pay my compliments. While Angeletto reclined on a chaise, eyes closed, his lovely face as still as a death mask, Maria Luisa had laid down the law. Her brother would attend the reception tomorrow night, but under no circumstances was I to expect him to entertain. He would begin rehearsals the following day. Time was of the essence, but this hard-driving woman knew she held the whip hand. What was I going to do? Send Angeletto packing? Not with all Venice in eager anticipation of hearing the latest rage. Not with the tyrant Beatrice enthralled with having the sensation of the hour in residence at the Ca’Passoni.

  “Besides,” I continued on a sigh, “Rocatti has dropped by the theater only twice, and only for a few minutes. He claims that his duties at the Pieta allow him little free time.”

  Gussie raised his eyebrows. One of them was smudged with blue paint, a sure sign he’d come straight from his studio. He asked, “Won’t Rocatti be leading the orchestra on opening night? I thought that was the drill at the opera house. The composer conducts the first three performances at least.”

  I shook my head. “For some reason, Rocatti seems content to leave that to me.” I shrugged. “Perhaps the sheer size of the San Marco intimidates him. The Pieta’s theater is not nearly so grand—little bigger than a stage for marionettes really.”

  Matteo and Titolino had been having their own whispered conversation at the other end of the table. Now my adopted son spoke up. “Are Majorano and Angeletto enemies, Papa? Like Hector and Achilles?” The boys had been studying Homer’s account of the Trojan War at school.

  An image sprang to mind: my two stars taking up broadswords, dueling to the death, and the victor dragging the body of his slain rival around the theater from the back of his chariot. To my surprise, I heard myself giggle like an overexcited schoolboy. I shook my head and wiped my palm across my forehead. I was the one who needed a good rest, not Angeletto.

  Fortunately, Liya answered for me. “I wouldn’t call them enemies, Titolino, but they do compete for the audience’s affection. Both singers want to be the best.”

  “Why can’t they both be the best?” That was Matteo.

  I smiled without mirth. “It just doesn’t work that way. The people watching the opera decide who rules the stage, and there can only be one ruler. It’s rather like being anointed as a king or prince. Here in Venice, we never have more than one Doge, do we?”

  The boy cocked his head. “I guess not. But they could fight, couldn’t—”

  “That’s enough for now.” Gussie cut Matteo off. My brother-in-law had correctly sensed that I was growing weary of opera talk and knew the boys’ questions could go on forever. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Tito. Did the theater’s mouser ever have those kittens?”

  Isabella bounced up and down in the seat next to her father, clapping her hands. “Zio Tito—a kitten. You promised me a kitten.”

  I spooned some polenta onto my plate. A wisp of steam curled from the serving bowl. “So I did. I’d almost forgotten with all that’s been going on.”

  “Are they borned yet?” Isabella asked under the indulgent gazes of both parents.

  “Yes, and fine kittens they are. Three turned out gray like Isis, and one is black with white paws and whiskers. You may have your choice.”

  “Tomorrow?” she asked with a squeal.

  “Oh, no,” Liya put in. “They’re much too young—just babies.”

  I nodded at Isabella. “Aldo is looking after them until they’re old enough to leave their mother.”

  “When, Zio Tito? When can I come get my kitten?” The girl regarded me with huge, solemn eyes.

  I thought for a moment. “Can you count to four?”

  That exact number of fat fingers immediately waved in the air across the table.

  “Good. Exactly four weeks from now, have your father bring you to the theater and I’ll let you choose your kitten.”

  Her brother Matteo pulled a face. “That’s a whole month,” he taunted with a mouthful of polenta.

  “It is not,” Isabella yelled.

  “Oh, yes it is. Four weeks is the same as a month.”

  Childish arguments and parental admonitions reigned until I rose and tapped on my glass with a knife.

  “I have another surprise. For the adults, at least.” I turned to my sister. “Do you still have the special gown you used to wear to the San Marco when I was singing—the crimson with the gold embroidery?”

  “Yes.” Annetta’s expression was puzzled. “Why?”

  Liya sent me a knowing wink. I’d already let her in on the news that the Savio had agreed to a reception at the Ca’Passoni.

  I grinned broadly. “Because, dear sister, tomorrow evening we’re all going to a party, and you’ll be one of the first women in Venice to meet Angeletto.”

  While my family erupted into happy, anticipatory chatter, I stretched my a
rms over my head and gave a mighty yawn.

  Chapter Nine

  We were early. Night had barely unfolded her star-silvered mantle when our gondola drew up to the water entrance of the Ca’Passoni. A calm silence reigned, broken only by the dip of our oars in the dark water streaked by the flaming reflections from the portico lamps. The Savio’s palace rose lofty and majestic—waiting, it seemed, for the arrival of a much grander party than ours.

  As the gondolier fastened his mooring rope, a pair of liveried servants broke away from their posts flanking the bronze entry doors and skittered down the marble steps to assist the ladies to disembark.

  Annetta had indeed worn her crimson gown, now swathed in a black lace zendale against the nocturnal coolness. Liya, who usually dressed for utmost practicality, had also fussed. When I’d first met her, she had been employed in making headdresses and helmets for the theater. For tonight, she had put her sewing skills back to work. Her chignon of thick dark hair was embellished by a tiny, pearl-studded cap sporting an ostrich plume, and her fine neck and shoulders were set off by snow-white ruffles atop a silver-embroidered, cobalt-blue bodice. We passed through the foyer and into the salon unannounced. Frescos vaulted above us, punctuated by hanging chandeliers fashioned of yellow and pink Murano glass. The wide, empty expanse of mosaic floor shone in the glow of wax tapers and their hundred mirrored reflections.

  My wife clutched my arm and leaned close. The scent of orange-blossoms brought an involuntary smile to my lips.

  “Everything will go perfectly,” Liya warmly advised. “No one would dare make trouble on such a dignified occasion.”

  “Did you consult your cards?” I whispered back, not certain whether I was teasing or not.

  A rare expression flickered in her face. So rare it took me a moment recognize it: bewilderment. “They told me nothing,” Liya replied in a flat voice. “I’m speaking from my heart, and it is telling you not to worry.”