1 - Interrupted Aria (5 page)

As I marveled at his philosophical attitude, the old
castrato
went on. “I’m truly looking forward to hearing what you can do. My career is almost at an end, but yours is just beginning. I wouldn’t be fair if I begrudged you that. It’s the way of the world.”

I smiled at the simple truth of Crivelli’s words. His gracious manner put me at ease, and we drifted into a pleasant discussion about famous singers he had known and how much the opera had changed over the years. He was recounting tales about Adelina Belluna’s great triumphs when one of the stage carpenters stuck his head around the door and told us we were wanted.

A short flight of creaky, winding stairs led up to the stage. The wings were filled with wooden planks, lengths of rope hanging from pulleys, and the towers of scaffolding that would be used to construct the machinery behind the magical stage illusions that audiences had come to expect from an evening at the opera. I knew the myth of Juno and Callisto ended with the nymph and her son ascending to heaven to become the starry constellations of a mother bear and her cub. I wondered how this effect would be accomplished and hoped I’d get a ride on a flying platform out of it. Crivelli ushered me past the domain of the carpenters and onto the stage where the small company had reassembled.

“Signor Tito Amato has arrived from Naples to play our Arcas,” he announced grandly.

The director had thrown a woolen scarf around his neck to fight the draftiness of the large, open theater. He flipped one end of the scarf over his shoulder as he turned to greet me. His careless smile and quick, appraising glance suggested he was trying to determine just how much trouble I would eventually bring him.

“Good, we’ve been expecting you for days. I’m Rinaldo Torani, the director of this madhouse we call an opera company.” He bent to gather some sheets of music from a pile at the front of the stage. “I’ll let the others introduce themselves in good time.”

He waved the courteous introductory words I had been planning to speak aside and shoved the music into my hands. “Time is short, study these arias and be ready to rehearse after the dinner break.” He turned away abruptly and clapped his hands a few times. “Caterina, Crivelli. You’re the ones I need now. Everyone else off stage please.”

I stepped back into the wings and nearly tripped over a piece of lumber. One of the workmen rolled his eyes. The crooked room below stage seemed like a good place to read over my music. I was halfway down the stairs when a soft voice called my name.

“Signor Amato, wait a moment, please.”

I turned to face a welcoming smile and lovely, compelling gray eyes.

“I’m Adelina Belluna. We’re all so grateful you’ve arrived.” She continued, explaining where my dressing room was and apologizing for Torani’s abruptness, but her words did not speak to me as distinctly as her physical presence. She stood a stair or two above and leaned toward me on the banister. We were close enough for me to inhale the spicy, musky fragrance coming from her neck and bosom and to see the tiny web of lines at the corners of her eyes.

She slipped her arm under mine and led me past the stage and up two more flights of stairs to a wide hallway cluttered with old costume trunks and other castoffs from previous productions. A crudely painted chariot hung from the ceiling beams above our heads, and the long wall on our left was covered with the papier-mâché helmets and breastplates of a legion of mythical heroes and spear-carriers. The dressing rooms lay in a line on the opposite side of the hall.

Befitting her place as prima donna, Adelina’s chamber was the largest and the first on the right at the top of the stairs. The door stood open and I glimpsed a comfortable sofa, dressing table, and mounds of petticoats and wig boxes. As senior man of the company, Crivelli should have had the second room, but true to his generous nature, he had given this more comfortable space to Caterina and taken the next room along the hall. His small dressing room connected to my even smaller one by an archway covered with a folding screen. The dancers and any other singers with small parts had to dress in communal rooms on the floor below.

After we had entered my room from the hallway, Adelina ran her fingers along the dusty dressing table in front of the mirror and looked up at the cobweb-covered window in disgust. “This room needs cleaning, it hasn’t been used in a while. Look, somebody’s even taken your chair.”

“It will do for me. You’ve been very kind to help me get settled,” I said, beset by muddled emotions. I dearly wanted her to stay and keep talking, but I knew I had to start learning my arias. I didn’t want to risk disgrace on my first day.

She seemed as reluctant to leave as I was for her to go. As I shuffled the pages in my hand, she dallied around the room continuing to inspect what little there was to see. Finally, she took the scores from my hand and began humming one of the melodies as she laid the sheets of music out on the dressing table.

“Ah, I see Orlando is repeating himself,” she said more to herself than to me. She ran a finger along the lines of black notes tumbling across the page. “He must be running out of ideas. This is very much like an aria he wrote for Angelino last year. I’m beginning to think we singers should give the composers a rest and just write our own music.”

From down the hall, a booming voice suddenly broke the tranquil mood. “Adelina, Adelina, are you up here?”

Adelina’s head jerked up, and color flooded the chest exposed by the low, square neckline of her gown. The soprano checked her reflection in the mirror. Smoothing her hair with one soft, white hand, she gave my arm a quick squeeze with the other. “I’ve got to go now, but welcome and good luck, Tito. I’m looking forward to singing with you.”

She bustled out the door in a rush with a troubled expression on the beautiful face that had been so calm and self-assured only a moment before. Puzzled, I went to see who had caused such a reaction in the woman who I already felt was my friend, but the hallway was empty and all I heard was the click of the bolt on Adelina’s dressing room door dropping into place.

Chapter 5

A long dinner has a way of soothing ruffled tempers and pacifying strained nerves. As afternoon rehearsal opened, the carpenters retired to their workroom to labor over some intricate detail of stage machinery, and the singers went to work in an almost mellow mood. Orlando accompanied Caterina through her opening aria without a breath of whispered criticism or even a scathing tone to his voice. She responded by concentrating on the music and together they worked out several clever embellishments. Prowling the main floor of the theater, Maestro Torani gradually lost a bit of his sour, harried look. He actually smiled a few times. While the others had been enjoying their dinners, I had been singing. With my music prepared, I was free to study the composer and the soprano while they rehearsed.

The first thing I had noticed about Orlando Martello was his exquisite features: darkly arched brows over deep-set brown eyes, a beautifully proportioned nose, and a mouth that wouldn’t have looked out of place on one of Titian’s paintings of Venus. But now I also saw the coarseness of his skin and the oily untidiness of his dark hair gathered back into a greasy bow. Hunched over the keyboard, the thick shoulders jacketed in brown wool seemed overly large for the small, flat hands moving swiftly through the music. His brown bulkiness made me think of a captive bear I had once seen in Naples. The bear’s keeper had made it wear a funny hat and prodded it to beat on a toy harpsichord. The look in the harnessed beast’s eyes had been pitiful to see.

Orlando turned to look my way several times. I could sense hostility, but since we had not met before that day, I was unsure of the cause. I finally decided his animosity must be the aversion a whole man often feels toward a eunuch. That sentiment has always puzzled me. We present no threat to them, and if jealousy lies beneath the hostility, we certainly have more reason to be jealous than they.

I turned my attention to Caterina. As she sang Callisto’s aria declaring her infatuation with Jupiter, she lost the tense, preoccupied look I had noticed earlier. Her voice soared joyfully along the showy passages and managed to shade Orlando’s music with a rich intensity it had not shown in the written score. Caterina would never be called beautiful or even pretty. Her hair was a dull yellow, and its hue did little to improve her equally sallow complexion. But her most unflattering feature by far was the sharp, jutting chin she used to emphasize points when she was correcting others. I found it unusual to see a female singer so careless of her appearance. Even her dress was plain, and ill-fitting besides. The costumers would have quite a time turning Caterina into a nymph lovely enough to seduce the king of the gods.

Torani called my name and motioned me to center stage. I looked around for Crivelli and found him just coming out of the wings with mussed hair, his coat over his arm and waistcoat unbuttoned.

Torani tapped his foot. “Was it a pleasant nap, old man?”

“Very refreshing,” said the elderly singer, with a sweet smile.

“We wouldn’t want to bother you,” continued the director with heavy-handed sarcasm.

“You’re not,” said Crivelli, affable despite Torani’s baiting. “Some workmen rousted me out of my comfortable place and now I’m ready to hear Tito sing.”

I was surprised at how confident I felt. Orlando’s compositions had been easy to follow and reminiscent of the operas of Handel that we had studied and performed at San Remo. With music in hand, I stepped forward and nodded to Orlando at the harpsichord. My first aria was a lusty hunting song, all flash and bravura. There had been only a few lines to memorize. “Into the woods I go alone, trusty spear by my side” was repeated over and over and interspersed with references to Arcas’ bravery and the general savageness of bears. Audiences of the day did not attend the opera for the poetry or the storyline. I sang with feeling and was delighted that my voice remained in good form.

Torani listened intently with half-closed eyelids but gave no sign of what he was thinking. Before I had come to the middle section, which slowed the tempo down a good deal, Crivelli was smiling broadly and I knew I had his approval. Caterina’s thin face registered surprise. And did I detect a little jealousy? As I sang the repeat with my hastily worked up embellishments, Orlando looked surprised as well. He shouldn’t have been. Singers were required to be the equal of any musician at composition. During the repeat of an aria, the audience expected the singer to build on the original melody with his own vocal ornamentation, the more ornate the better. The maestros at San Remo had excelled at teaching this skill and I was determined to do them proud.

As I sounded my final, extended trill and Orlando’s hands fell silent on the keyboard, we all turned to the unexpected sound of one man’s measured applause. I had no trouble recognizing the man who strode on stage with Adelina following behind him like a creeping shadow. It was Domenico Viviani, the noble dancer who had whirled through the exuberant
furlana
the night before. I also noted several of the same, sizable bravos waiting on their master in the shadows on the floor of the theater.

“I see my money has not been wasted. The impresarios were right about you, Amato.” Viviani’s rumbling voice filled the theater. What a
basso
he could have made if the circumstances of his birth had been different.

I saw I was expected to pay my respects. I began with a low bow. “Excellency, you honor me with your compliment and.…”

With the heedless impatience of a man accustomed to dominating every social exchange, he cut my pleasantries short as he came to stand in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Forget the pretty phrases, just put my opera house back on top. For too long, people have been favoring the San Moise or the Teatro Grimani. The Venetians are like a flock of geese. One sees a new bauble and they all gather around honking and chattering until a new spectacle catches their eye. You’re the new bauble. Keep them dazzled and coming back night after night until the San Stefano is the only place that the fashionable nitwits even think of coming.”

I gathered my shattered wits and gave another small bow. “Excellency, I will endeavor to be the diamond that makes the San Stefano the crowning glory of Venice.”

Viviani snorted with laughter. “Pleasingly said.” He stepped back and inspected me from head to toe with a leisurely, calculating gaze. I trembled inside like a young girl promenading on the piazza with her governess while a bunch of hot-blooded louts made insolent remarks.

“Your pretty face will bring them in,” he said at last, “but remember, your pretty singing must keep them coming back. Maestro Torani, I think we have finally found a
castrato
who can complement our most beautiful jewel.” He gestured toward Adelina, who preened unblushingly before the rest of the company.

The director wiped the sweat off his dome-shaped forehead with the end of his scarf, sour expression firmly back in place. Orlando beamed at the self-satisfied Adelina, while Caterina smoldered darkly in the background. Crivelli was also regarding Adelina. I searched his eyes and was puzzled to see only a look of muted, resigned compassion.

Viviani surveyed the wide, empty stage with a frown. In the wings, a few half-painted canvas scenes leaned against a side wall. The backstage area was filled with unfinished towers of machinery that would eventually accomplish miracles of stage magic. Besides my spectacular ascent to the stars, clouds would roll back and forth in the first act, and in the second, Juno would be transported down from the heights of Mt. Olympus to the mortal world represented on stage level.

“Torani, will this opera be ready to open in ten days’ time?” asked the nobleman.

“Yes, Excellency, surely,” said the director, taking another swipe at his damp forehead.

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“We’ve had problems from the very beginning, Excellency. Singers fall ill, carpenters don’t show up for work, scenery is damaged. You don’t know all the things I’ve had to cope with.”

“Why have I not been told of this?”

Torani cleared his throat. “Well, each of the incidents has been fairly minor. Any one of them would be nothing, just the sort of inconvenience that always comes up during preparation for a major production.” He continued in an aggrieved tone, “But this time our luck has been bad all along. I barely get one problem solved when another pops up.”

“Are you sure it is only luck and not a human agent?” asked Viviani thoughtfully.

Torani shrugged and spread his hands.

“Whatever the cause, your job is to solve the problems, and solve them quickly. Work the cast and crew day and night if you have to. I will have a great success, an opera that Venice will talk about for years to come.” Viviani towered implacably over the uneasy little director, but his eyes swept over every one of us.

“I’ve arranged an occasion that should whet Venice’s appetite for this
Revenge of Juno
.” Viviani’s frown turned to an expansive smile. “A reception at the Palazzo Viviani two nights hence. Young Tito will be introduced as the next great
castrato
soprano. He will perform a duet from the opera, the one with the most memorable tune. I want the gondoliers singing it all over Venice by the next morning.”

Torani scratched his chin. “Caterina and Tito have a very moving duet in the third act. They could have it ready by then.”

Viviani’s frown returned. “Not Caterina. This is to be a showcase for my two jewels, Tito and Adelina.”

“But Excellency, their characters don’t have a duet in this opera.”

“What? Why?” thundered Viviani.

“I don’t know. Orlando wrote it.” The little director began to sputter. “Here, Martello, tell Signor Viviani why Juno and Arcas have no duet.”

Orlando rose from the harpsichord and took a deep breath. “The libretto didn’t call for one, Excellency. Those characters aren’t on stage together that much, but there are many other arias and duets which would please your guests. Allow me to choose one.”

“Are you a composer, Signor Martello?” asked Viviani in a soft, steely voice that made me think of the stilettos his men undoubtedly carried under their jackets.

“Of course, Excellency.”

“Then
compose
. Write a new duet for Tito and Adelina. Make it brilliant, something the likes of which Venice has not heard before.”

A stubborn look crept over Orlando’s handsome features. For a moment, I wondered if he were actually going to refuse Viviani’s request.

“Can you do it or not?” The nobleman strode to the edge of the stage and stared down at the composer in the orchestra pit.

“Yes, Excellency, yes, I can do it.” Orlando was fuming, but he stood very still and looked Viviani in the eye.

“Splendid. Start at once. You will accompany the singers at the reception. Torani, I expect you there as well. Your job will be to describe the glories of this new opera to anyone you can buttonhole into listening to you.” Viviani gestured for one of his men to bring his fur-lined cloak and regarded us all gravely. “Let not one of you fail me. You will be sorry if you do.” With a parody of a bow to Adelina, he and his bodyguards swept off stage and out of the theater.

As soon as the nobleman was out of earshot, Orlando gave way to angry ravings. “Just compose a duet, just like that.” Orlando snapped his fingers. “He thinks he can order a composition like he commands his footman to have his gondola brought around to the door.”

Torani shushed the infuriated composer. “You fool! For the love of God, don’t risk letting him hear you. You need Viviani as much as we all do. Where would you be without his patronage?”

Orlando stomped out of the orchestra pit. “Patricians like Viviani have no idea what is involved in creative inspiration. On opening night, he won’t even realize what he is hearing. He will be holding court in his box and collecting compliments from a bunch of bootlickers. His triumph, but
my
music.”

Torani shook his head. “That’s the way things are. You must submit to the rules of society or starve.”

“It won’t be like this forever,” Orlando said, setting his jaw and hunching his wide shoulders.

“Are you mad?” Adelina asked incredulously. “Do you think you can sell your compositions from a stall on the street like the roast chestnut man or the fish peddler?”

“I don’t know, but society has to change. Artists are as sick as any man of having a nobleman’s boot on their necks. Someday composers will be at liberty to write what they like and sell their music where they see fit.”

I held my peace and regarded Orlando solemnly; he was spouting dangerous sentiments. We could all end up in trouble if the wrong ears were listening to his tirade.

Our director sighed. “Let’s leave the future in God’s hands. Right now, we need a duet for Tito and Adelina.”

Orlando nodded curtly. With a short bow for Torani and a bitter glance for Adelina, he left us with a promise to produce the duet by tomorrow morning.

Not wasting any time, Torani dismissed Caterina and Crivelli and turned his attention to finding the foreman of the stage crew. If the opera was to be ready on time, there was as much to be done backstage as in rehearsal. Crivelli appeared grateful for the unexpected respite and gave us a friendly wave as he went out the door. Caterina gathered her things and left the theater with many peevish flounces and evil looks directed toward Adelina.

Adelina shook her head as she slipped her arm through mine. “It’s really too bad. Caterina is so obvious in her ambition, in her likes and dislikes. If she could only learn to be more agreeable. There are times when you must hold your emotions in check and pretend affability to further your goals.”

“Your concern for your rival is generous,” I answered. “And a bit surprising. I thought there was bad blood between you.”

“No, Tito, not bad blood. And I don’t consider her a rival.”

I had to admire Adelina’s confidence but wondered if her assurance rested on faith in her theatrical abilities or on Viviani’s obvious preference. Either way, I thought she might be underestimating the threat of Caterina’s potential. Viviani was the type of man who would soon tire of his current favorite and move on to fresher pastures. Without his protection, Adelina would be just one more aging soprano fighting the years for her voice and her looks. Then Caterina’s ability paired with the advantage of youth might carry more weight.