by Gary McAvoy
With Livia ensconced in the suite Hana had arranged for her, she laid out her laptop on the meeting table, prepared it for what she intended to display, then texted Hana and Dominic to join her.
A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door. Opening it, she welcomed them inside.
“First, dear Hana, I must thank you for arranging such a delightful room, and at the Ca’ Sagredo, no less. You do know how to live well!”
“Oh, Livia, it’s the least I could do for your generous time and travel to help us out,” Hana replied. She noticed her friend’s MacBook Pro had a wood panel cover. “What a gorgeous laptop. I didn’t know they came in wood!”
“I had that custom made. It’s African Padauk. I love the warmth wood gives to cold machines. It’s kind of a quirk of mine.
“Now, as to our little mystery,” Livia went on. “I’m certain I’ve come up with the solution. Vivaldi's Scherzo appears to be a relatively normal piece of music, but has subtle eccentricities that are clues to something more for the right audience. I believe he composed his manuscript with what’s known as musical cryptography—the embedding of certain note styles that are covertly intended to convey secret messages.
“As a little background, the practice of musical cryptography dates back to the 9th century, but it wasn’t until the Baroque period when it gained wider acceptance, and the Baroque was very much Vivaldi’s era. Many composers—among them Bach, Brahms, Haydn, Schumann, and perhaps others—are known to have integrated cryptographic motives into certain of their compositions, mainly for fun or as an intimate secretive jest for friends or lovers.
“Looking at your manuscript, it appears as any other piece of standard music might. But, what piqued my interest,” Livia continued, “was the use of the word Tiaseno in the title.”
“I’d wondered about that myself,” Dominic said. “I’ve never seen the word before. Is it a special musical term?”
“No, it isn’t a word. Those are seven frequently used letters in most European languages. Vivaldi was probably counting on a trained cifristo, or cryptologist, being able to recognize it.”
“Ah, so ‘Scherzo’ was to trick most people into thinking it was a joke, while Tiaseno was to signal to those in the know that there was a hidden message?”
“But you’re not a cifristo yourself, Livia,” Hana said. “So how did you figure it out?”
“Well,” Livia replied, “I recognized Tiaseno because the same word appears in the musical code called Solfa Cipher, something I happened upon many years ago inspecting another manuscript. Solfa Cipher maps letters of the alphabet to the steps of a major scale: T-I-A-S-E-N and O is the order of the first seven notes. Vivaldi must have been using an early version of the system.”
“Are you saying there is actually a secret message in this manuscript?” Dominic asked excitedly.
“You’ll see,” Livia said coyly, “but first, to translate the notes back into Italian, we need to know which major scale Vivaldi was using. Fortunately, I think he gave us another clue as part of his ‘joke.’ The manuscript looks like it is in F major, but that didn’t make sense to me because the title is ‘Scherzo Tiaseno in Sol.’ In music, ‘Sol’ means ‘in the key of G’.”
“Wow,” Dominic marveled. “So the key was in the title and is the key to mapping this out. Ingenious!”
Livia reached for a blank sheet of composition paper from her bag. “Exactly. Let me illustrate it for you.” She began laying out the notes.
“You see, if we swap the clef and key signature at the beginning of each line to G major, with one sharp, we should be able to read the correct letters. Look at the message that starts to emerge when I map these onto Vivaldi's manuscript.”
“What about the rest of the alphabet?” Hana asked. “There are only seven notes in a major scale.”
“Yes, in Solfa Cipher, T-I-A-S-E-N-O always appear on the downbeats; the other letters of the alphabet use the same seven notes, but fall in between the beats.”
“That would explain why the bar lines don't match with a normal ¾ scherzo meter,” Hana said. “Vivaldi was showing where to place the beats to extract the message.”
“Right,” Livia confirmed. “The third clue of his musical joke! For example, these notes match the letters R-C-H and U.”
“I can almost make out actual words now,” exclaimed Dominic. “That looks like it could be chiunque trovi…’whoever finds.’ Can you decode the rest of the manuscript?”
Using musical composition software on her laptop, Livia had overlaid Vivaldi’s staffs, clefs, and notes from the image Hana had sent her, which then assigned each note its appropriate scale degree. The result on the laptop display produced a four-line stanza in what appeared to be a continuous string of Italian words:
“Extracting the Italian took a bit of careful parsing,” she noted, “but after determining the proper word endings, when it was finished a coherent message emerged.”
chiunque trovi questo messaggio
deve causare questa pratica
cessare con tutta la dovuta fretta ma
essere cauti nello sforzo
“Then it was just a matter of converting the Italian into English.” She read aloud the translated version:
whoever finds this message
must cause this practice to
cease with all due haste but
be cautious in the endeavor
“Brilliant!” said Hana, ever the puzzle fan. “This is amazing work, Livia.”
“As I said, I’ve had a little experience with it. And since the music itself represented nothing of what we would normally expect to be from the hand of Vivaldi, that’s what led me to thoughts of steganographic cryptography—information hidden inside other information.
“No one knows the origin of the Solfa Cipher,” she added, “but I am wondering if Maestro Vivaldi may have actually been the inventor. This is the earliest use of it I have ever seen. And I believe he left us one more clue in the manuscript. The key of G in Italian is Sol, but the other key, F major is…”
“…It's Fa!” Hana said jubilantly. “Of course: Sol and Fa!”
Astonished by the outcome, Dominic shook his head in admiration. He had one last question.
“So, this accounts for being page two of Vivaldi’s original score, but where is page one? This secondary translation relies completely on whatever came before it.”
“Hopefully your contessa might shed some light on that,” Livia said. “I’m so looking forward to meeting her. This is the most fun I’ve had in ages.”
Chapter 7
As the water taxi navigated between the pali da casada, the colorful striped gondola poles at the entrance to Palazzo Grimaldi, Dominic shouldered Livia Gallo’s laptop bag and stood firmly to steady both her and Hana as the boatman attached the mooring lines to the cleats on the narrow dock.
Dominic disembarked first, then held out a hand to both women as they stepped onto the dock. He paid the driver, then they walked up to the grand doors of the palazzo to announce their arrival.
A few moments later the door was opened by a small and very old butler who introduced himself as Francesco. He led them into the magnificent foyer of the mansion.
“Welcome to Palazzo Grimaldi. The contessa is engaged at the moment but will be down presently. She has asked me to entertain you in the meantime and offer you whatever you might like to drink. Please, follow me into the parlour.”
Despite being several hundred years old, the palazzo was well-maintained and tastefully decorated, with a remarkable abundance of fine oil paintings and tapestries lining the walls, lavish Persian and Oriental rugs on the old wooden floors, exquisite Murano glass chandeliers in all rooms with antique lighting sconces in the hallways, and tall arched windows draped in white sheers giving each room copious yet soft natural light.
The parlour was spacious, with two separate plush seating areas divided by a polished white Fazioli grand piano, the dominant object in the room. Against one s
ide wall was an elaborately carved mahogany bar with a large antique mirror behind it.
“What cocktails may I prepare for you?” Francesco asked. “I am confident we can accommodate every taste.”
After the three guests each gave him their request, Francesco slipped behind the bar to prepare the drinks. As he did so he gave them what sounded like a long-rehearsed, or at least oft-repeated, history of the palace.
“It may please you to know that Charles II, Lord of Monaco, originally built Palazzo Grimaldi in 1578 as a retreat from his principal residence in Monte Carlo. It has been passed down through the Grimaldi family for generations until the contessa’s family acquired it in 1872. The signora was born in this very house and has lived here ever since.
“There are many styles of palazzi on the Grand Canal: Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque, and Neoclassical, the earliest built starting in the 5th century, if you can imagine that. Many are still standing from the earliest periods, though they have been meticulously restored. Palazzo Grimaldi is of the Renaissance period, modeled after classical ancient Roman and Greek forms.”
It was clear the butler had given this talk often, implying the contessa likely had many guests from time to time, and Francesco served as not only bartender but tour guide while the lady of the house was preparing herself for her visitors.
As Francesco distributed each drink from his bar tray, the contessa entered the room, wearing a resplendent Armani light mauve gabardine crew-neck jacket with darted palazzo trousers and chic Ferragamo ballet flats.
“Oh, good evening, everyone. I had a small business matter to attend to, which took longer than I had hoped. I am sorry for having made you wait, an unforgivable breach of courtesy.”
“Not at all, Contessa,” Dominic offered with a smile as they all stood. “Francesco has been keeping us quite entertained by the history of your beautiful palazzo. It is a breathtaking home.”
“You’re too kind, Father...”
“Dominic. Michael Dominic,” he said, reaching out his hand. “And this is my friend and colleague Hana Sinclair, and Dr. Livia Gallo, who just came in from Rome to help us with your Vivaldi manuscript.”
The contessa shook each of their hands, graciously placing her left hand atop each exchange. Francesco stood next to her, a ruby red Negroni resting on his bar tray, which she then reached for. With his duties for the moment complete, he left the parlour.
“A great pleasure meeting you all. Before we begin, would you like to see some of the artwork in my collection? I am very fond of paintings and delight at sharing them.”
“Yes, please,” Livia said enthusiastically. “I, too, am a fan of great art.”
A keen observer, Hana estimated the contessa to be in her eighties, though she maintained herself superbly. Fit, with a lively step, a sharp mind, and exquisite taste in clothing and how to wear it.
She also noticed a sizable ruby ring on the contessa’s left hand when she first embraced them all.
“That is a stunning ruby, Contessa. Is there a story behind it?”
The old woman held up her hand to look at the stone. A look of loving reminiscence crossed her face.
“My husband, Count Durazzo, gave this to me for our engagement. I treasure it every day, and except for cleaning, it has never left my hand. Now, follow me, please.”
As she led them through various rooms on the ground floor of the palazzo, she stopped at various notable paintings she favored in particular, giving a brief background on each one. Raphael, Caravaggio, Tintoretto, Titian… many of Italy’s finest artists were represented in the various rooms of the palazzo.
Finally, she directed their attention to one impressive oil painting over an enormous fireplace in the library: a depiction of the Crucifixion, with bold strokes of the composition having rough edges that swiped back and forth between the agonized Christ figure and terrified observers at the base of the cross. The whole of it depicted the artist’s chiaroscuro contrasts cast in a cold light.
“This piece, Crucifixion with Apostles, has quite a history to it,” she said admiringly. “Originally attributed in 1740 to the eccentric Giovanni Battista Piazzetta, it turns out to have actually been painted by a female Venetian artist named Giulia Lama, a most intelligent, educated woman who was also an accomplished poet with a comprehensive understanding of mathematics and philosophy.
“As a woman in the male-dominated 18th century, her work was sophisticated and highly desirable, but over time had been falsely attributed to her male adversaries—men who simply could not allow a woman, especially one of such unappealing physical appearance, to receive higher commissions than they were getting for their own work.
“As if looks should even have mattered,” she concluded, rolling her eyes with a disparaging wave of her hand.
“Many of Lama’s paintings had been assigned under Piazzetta’s name, and scholars later determined that no less than 26 of her paintings and some 200 drawings had been previously attributed to other well-known artists. A sad reflection of the times, I’m afraid.
“As a matter of fact,” she continued, “Giulia Lama was a very close friend of my ancestor, Antonio Vivaldi. He tutored her in the violin at the orphanage where he taught, and she was an apt pupil, from what I understand. Such a talented woman, treated shamefully by her male counterparts. This painting is among my favorites now for that reason. I only just recently acquired it from a local gallery, and it thrilled me to have discovered her.”
“You have quite the admirable collection here, Contessa,” Hana said appraisingly. “And thank you for enlightening us on Giulia Lama’s background. What terrible challenges she faced. Thank goodness times have changed.”
“They have not changed enough, my dear,” the contessa grumbled, exasperated. “There is still a long way to go.
“But now, let’s discuss Signor Vivaldi’s manuscript, shall we?”
While the others followed the contessa down the hall and into the parlour, Hana hung back, taking in Giulia Lama’s painting for a few moments longer. Inspired by it, she reached for her phone, taking a photo of it to admire later.
Chapter 8
The contessa led them back to the parlour, where Francesco was again behind the bar, ready to refresh everyone’s cocktail. As he did so, Dominic began the discussion.
“As you know, Contessa, I met with Paulo Manetti at the Marciana Library, where he presented me with what appears to be a secondary page of your Vivaldi manuscript. By any chance, might you know where the first page is?”
“Why, yes, it’s in my safe, along with other music and letters from the maestro. Would you like to see those, Father?”
Dominic was suddenly exhilarated, not just at potentially finding page one of the manuscript, but having the chance to see other letters of Vivaldi’s.
“Gentile Signora, I would love nothing better! Thank you for so generously offering.”
“Of course, it is my pleasure. I shall return in a moment,” she said, turning to leave the room.
Livia’s eyes shone brightly as well. “I can’t believe my good fortune taking part in this! I am indebted to you both for inviting me, and cannot wait to transcribe Vivaldi’s first page, much less hold his original letters in my own hands.”
“To be on the safe side,” Dominic said, “it’s best if I handle them with conservation gloves and share them with you that way. Our hands accrue natural oils which can damage old papers.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew his pair of white gloves, sliding his hands into each one.
A few minutes later the contessa returned carrying a large black portfolio box. Setting it on the expansive inlaid-leather sofa table in front of Dominic, she took a seat next to him and opened the case.
“These manuscripts have been in my family since around 1780, initially acquired by my great-great-great-great-grandfather-in-law, Count Giacomo Durazzo, from a Venetian senator, who bought them from Vivaldi’s brother after the maestro died.”
Dominic noted that e
ach document had been wisely inserted into its own acid-free Mylar sleeve, consistent with exacting archival methods, making handling of the manuscripts that much safer. No gloves were needed.
The first one he picked up was a one-page letter in Vivaldi’s hand dated 1735 and addressed to Alvise Pisani, the ruling Doge of Venice. Dominic read it aloud to the others, translating from the Italian. It seemed to be a heated correspondence concerning the city’s Sumptuary law.
Dominic explained. “During the Renaissance, Venice was such a commercial powerhouse that the more well-heeled merchants and nobles spent a great deal of their wealth on excessive vanity luxuries: food, drink, conspicuous styles of dress, adornments to their palazzos and even their gondolas. Patrician women in particular were singled out for their ostentatious fashions, and the law came down especially hard on them. It restricted even courtesans from wearing pearls, as just one example.
“That’s where Carnivale came in handy, a time during which sumptuary laws were suspended and people could dress as they pleased. The custom of wearing masks, in fact, hid a person’s station in life, so nobles could mix with commoners and no one was the wiser.
“In this letter, it seems Signor Vivaldi was venting his opposition to the law for various reasons. An interesting but unremarkable specimen.” He held it up for Livia to take, fulfilling her desire to hold one of the maestro’s letters.
Dominic flipped through the rest of the material in the portfolio until he came to several musical scores. Peering closely at each one—thrilled at the privilege of being able to do so—he sought out that singular page one that would match the other manuscript they had already seen.
And then he saw it. He took in a sharp breath.
“Here it is! Found it.”
Signed by Vivaldi himself, and bearing the same folded and crumpled appearance as the second page but flattened in its sleeve, he handed it to Livia to examine. Her eyes shone as she held it.