1 - Interrupted Aria (8 page)

Chapter 8

Looking back on that night, the performance and its aftermath seem like a blurred jumble of events. The preliminaries flashed by in the space of one nervous heartbeat. As the rest of us waited outside the high, crimson and gold salon, Torani crossed the marble floor to the harpsichord that nearly filled a bay at one end of the long room. He introduced our duet with an icy calm. Then, a bearish Orlando plowed through the salon and took his seat at the keyboard. Adelina and I followed to the fluttering of polite applause. Mild interest registered on the faces of the brilliantly clad patricians seated on the spindly chairs that had been brought forward by the footmen. The less important guests had to make do with standing in small groups or hugging the wall behind the seated nobility.

A few faces amid the crowd leapt out at me as we made our way across the room. Here, a comically tall wig crowned a man who must be struggling with drowsiness brought on by an overgenerous dinner. He could barely keep his heavy-lidded eyes open. And there, an enticing pair of feminine eyes the color of emeralds was peering at me over a skillfully manipulated fan. Domenico Viviani sat directly in front of the harpsichord. His face could have been chiseled from the same marble that graced so many of the surfaces in his
palazzo
. His piercing, brown eyes sent us the message that he was expecting nothing less than perfection. Finally, I caught sight of Annetta’s proudly beaming face over the sea of powdered curls: a steadying sight if there ever was one.

Adelina and I began with a piece of fluff designed to put our listeners in a receptive mood. Then we sang a lengthy duet that Orlando had originally written for Crivelli and Caterina. With less than two days to produce a finished, well-rehearsed piece, Orlando had taken some liberties with the poetry of the libretto and reworked the duet for my character to sing with Adelina. I had been given a generous allowance of vocal leaps and flourishes, even some passages that stretched the flexibility and stamina of my voice to its limit. I realized Orlando must have added these at the last minute, as I knew Crivelli couldn’t sing them anymore. Adelina also had plenty of material to showcase her talents, and she plunged into the music with a spirited gusto that kept the audience enthralled.

I kept trying to figure out how she did it. Her voice was still good, no doubt of that, but I and every other regular operagoer in the room had heard better. Was it the depth of feeling she brought to the character of Juno? On paper the vengeful matriarch of the gods had seemed such a dusty stereotype. But in Adelina’s experienced hands, Juno displayed unexpected dimensions. There was pathos behind the anger. Adelina let the audience experience Juno’s sorrow as she remembered the days when her mighty husband had loved and desired only her. In subtle nuances, she communicated the shame of being rejected for a younger woman time and time again. Her sweet, yet forceful voice and her graceful gestures touched a receptive chord in every listener. The after-dinner napper opened his eyes and sat up straight in his chair with a bemused expression on his face. Ladies who had been busily comparing clothing, jewelry, and seating arrangements gradually fixed their wandering attentions on Adelina. As my singing partner wrung every bit of emotion from our dramatic duet, I saw private sorrows exposed on carefully powdered and rouged faces.

It was not only the faces of our listeners that betrayed. When the course of the duet allowed me a chance to observe Orlando Martello, I was astonished at the transformation of his face. His hands flew over the keyboard, but his eyes were glued to Adelina. As he watched her bring his notes to life, his entire demeanor softened. I saw no sign of the irritation that so often turned his smiles into sneers. Orlando’s finely shaped lips were parted in a graceful curve that spoke of admiring delight. Even his skin seemed finer, actually glowing. How could one man appear in two such different guises? The coarse-grained hothead that Torani had been forced to restrain just a few moments ago had become a gentle, love-struck swain.

As I turned my attention back to the audience in time for our final refrain, I noticed that the emerald-green eyes atop the fan had found a new focus. I was surprised to follow their appraising gaze straight to Annetta. As they turned slowly back to me, their owner finally lowered her fan. I had a glimpse of a white, fresh face and a delightful crooked smile before another feminine head topped by a huge round wig bobbed into my line of sight. I was also perplexed to see several glum faces on the front row. Two men who wore silk coats but lacked the sashes, medals, and other trappings of Venetian nobility were whispering to each other and shaking their heads. They both gave me long and particularly pensive looks.

The duet concluded to great applause, and we were called upon for several encores. When our patron judged our performance to have reached its maximum impact, Domenico Viviani strode forward and kissed Adelina’s hands, then called for a last round of applause for the both of us. Before I knew it, our noble host grasped my elbow and steered me into the crowd to meet those individuals he must have fancied were critical to the success of his operatic endeavor.

Everywhere I heard myself introduced as “Tito Amato, the immensely talented
castrato
, newly arrived from Naples.” My discomfort grew with each introduction. Why couldn’t he just describe me as a talented
singer?

I exchanged bows with a dizzying parade of Venetian patricians, churchmen, senators, and foreign princes. At one point I spotted Annetta in the crush of brocade and velvet shoulders. I stretched one long arm, grabbed a handful of skirt, and dragged her into our charmed circle. Before Viviani could make another introduction, I made one of my own.

“Excellency, allow me to present my sister.”

“But of course.” He smiled jovially, a sign I took as further proof that he considered the evening a success. Then he directed a questioning gaze right and left.

Annetta had the look of a startled doe, but I gave her arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Your Excellency, my sister, Anna-Maria Amato.” She stepped forward and dropped into a shallow curtsy.

Viviani’s smile collapsed and was replaced with a puzzled expression. I wondered anxiously if our patron had forgotten that he had given Torani permission for my sister to attend the reception. But after that instant of hesitation, his gaze roved appraisingly over Annetta’s face and form. Running the back of one hand along her jaw, he said, “A pleasure, my dear. Another pretty face is always welcome at the Palazzo Viviani.” Annetta and I traded amused glances as Viviani hustled me along.

Our last stop was Signora Viviani and her entourage. One of these I had already encountered. The formidable Maria Grazia Albrimani hovered at her sister’s side like an observant watchdog. With her round face and ferocious expression, she reminded me of the temple dogs embroidered on Chinese tapestries that were said to defend their holy masters to their dying breaths. She gave me a stiff smile as we approached. Viviani presented me to his wife, then melted into the crowd after Bondini came up and whispered a few words in his ear.

Elisabetta Viviani was ensconced in a high-backed armchair of figured velvet, one of the few comfortable chairs in the salon. She rested her head on the back of the chair as if her elaborately coifed wig weighed too heavily on her long, fragile neck. Her pale hands, one clutching a lace fan, lay motionless on her lap. The Signora was not a great beauty, but she possessed the polished appearance and haughty indolence that unmistakably marked her as one of the privileged class. In addition to her sister, Signora Viviani was attended by several other ladies of varying ages and by one young man. Or was he? His cheeks were smooth but, on closer inspection, I saw that the youthful blush on those cheeks was cosmetic and that there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Signora Viviani made a languid motion for him to bend close to her and her mouth grazed his ear in a whisper. He responded with a high, delicate laugh that confirmed my suspicion that he was a
castrato
.

“Signor Amato, you have a charming voice,” she said, fixing me with a glassy stare. “You will certainly enliven our opera this winter.”

“You are too kind, Signora,” I replied with a low bow.

“We were getting so tired of it all. Going to the opera every night to see old Crivelli wheeze and totter around the stage. Every new
evirato
that Domenico brings in is always reported to be the brightest and the best, but none of them has had your gift. That one last year!” She turned to her gentleman-in-waiting. “
Caro
, what was his name? You know the one.”

“He called himself Angelino. He liked to boast that his vocal talents could rival the angel choirs of heaven.” Her elegant companion rolled his eyes.

“Oh yes, what conceit he had. I made a joke about him, didn’t I? What was it? I can’t recall.”

“My sweet lady, I’ll never forget it. Instead of the heavenly host, you compared his singing with the screeches of the damned.” Again the high, lilting laugh.

“So I did, so I did.” Signora Viviani tittered behind her fan and her ladies followed suit.

She turned back to me. “But Signor Amato has the voice to the match the praises that are heaped on his name.” Her eyes lost their glassy look and assessed me more keenly. “I predict that the opera will no longer be boring.” She leaned forward and tapped me on the chest with her fan. “And I predict that our passion for good singing will finally be satisfied.”

One of the younger ladies burst into a giggle but quieted abruptly when the old watchdog, Signora Albrimani, shot her a stern glance. The
castrato
on the other side of his lady’s chair began to eye me warily.

Signora Viviani sat back wearily and continued in a vague tone, “You must take a name for the stage. All the singers that aspire to fame come up with something memorable, something that describes their talents.”

“I confess that taking a stage name hasn’t occurred to me,” I replied, considering quickly. “Since the opera hasn’t even opened yet, I think I’d better wait and see what Venice thinks of me.”

As I received only a vacuous stare and a dismissive nod in return, I let myself be displaced by others who were crowding in to pay their respects. I made my way around the perimeter of the salon, looking for Annetta or Adelina. I saw no sign of either. When a footman presented a silver tray laden with glasses, I realized that my throat was bone dry and gratefully took a deep gulp of Viviani’s excellent wine. To escape the crush of the overheated salon, I turned this way and that in search of the supper room. In my haste, I bumped into the owner of the green eyes that had so closely observed my performance.

She raised a delicate eyebrow. “Where are you off to in such a rush, Signore?”

“Please excuse me, Signora. I didn’t mean to run over you. I was looking for the supper room.”

“Does singing give you an appetite then?”

Not knowing quite what to say, I’m afraid I only stared and smiled foolishly.

She continued to regard me inquisitively. I thought she was absolutely extraordinary. Up close, her skin was as pale and perfect as it had seemed from a distance. Her green eyes shone with a lively intelligence that aroused mischievous, incongruous thoughts within me. Unfortunately my tongue remained leaden and mute.

She spoke again, fluttering her open fan on her ivory bosom. “What’s this? Has your beautiful voice deserted you? Are we to come to a standstill so early in our conversation? Surely you know whether singing makes you hungry or not.”

I had an overwhelming desire to impress her, to say something tremendously humorous or charming, but all I could manage was a weak, “Sometimes it does.”

She smiled her crooked smile. “Then I had better leave you to your supper.”

She melted into the crowd as I silently cursed my towering stupidity. I clearly had a lot to learn where the ladies of society were concerned. Directing my unhappy feet to the periphery of the vast salon, I soon found Torani in an adjacent room enjoying a plate of delicacies from a long table laden with silver trays and platters. He clapped me on the shoulder and dabbed his greasy lips with a napkin.

“You and Adelina made quite an impression, Tito. Viviani is well pleased.”

“Yes, we sang well,” I said indifferently, my mind still on the disappointing exchange with the alluring, green-eyed woman.

“You are too modest.” He chuckled and reached toward an epergne filled with chilled quail eggs and spiced olives. “Did you see Bragadin and Steffani? They looked positively worried.”

I could only shake my head in puzzlement.

“Of course, you don’t know who they are. The manager and musical director of the Teatro San Moise, our most serious rival. You have them shaking in their boots.”

I remembered the two thoughtful gentlemen in the front row. Viviani had been showing me off to the competition. “Does this mean that
Juno
will be a success?” I asked.

“It’s a good start. On opening night, the boxes are sure to be filled with the guests who heard you sing tonight. And Viviani’s connections will ensure that word of tonight’s triumph will spread around town throughout the coming week. The cafés and coffeehouses will be buzzing about the new
castrato
at San Stefano. That means the cheap seats in the pit will be sold out, too. No one will want to miss
Juno
.”

“I don’t know if I like the idea of being the talk of Venice.”

“Why?” Torani raised an eyebrow as he sucked on an olive pit. “That’s how a singer’s reputation is made. If you have a successful season here, you can go anywhere you want…Rome, Florence, even London.”

I shook my head. How could a whole man understand what it felt like to be a eunuch, especially with everyone in the Republic of Venice discussing my merits like I was a prize racehorse? I wanted to walk the streets, go into a shop, or have an ice at a café with no one knowing that there was anything remarkable about me. But from now on, everywhere I went, I would always be known as Tito Amato,
castrato
soprano. Since the surgery had been forced on me, my love for music and the joy of using my voice had been shadowed by the knowledge that I had been mutilated for the very thing I loved. Mutilated for the sake of the music. Once I had been master of my voice. Now my voice controlled my life, my very destiny. I had become a slave to the music.