2 - Painted Veil (11 page)

Chapter 11

Leaving Madame Dumas to her damasks and silks, I went to my dressing room to find Gussie sprawling on my sofa with eyes closed and chin nodding into his chest. I was glad to see the big Englishman. In only a few days his cheerful company had filled a hole in my life that I’d been but dimly aware of. Since I wouldn’t be needed on stage until evening, I invited my sleepy friend home to dine.

We hadn’t had an opportunity for a good talk since the discovery of the body. Gussie was brimming with questions, but confined himself to pleasantries until we sat across from each other in a gondola bound for the Cannaregio. “So, Tito, your instincts were right. Luca never made the journey to Germany. All the while we were hunting for him, his body was bobbing around the lagoon.”

I squinted up into the warm, blue sky. “Liya admitted as much when she came to my dressing room the other day.”

“Do you think she suspected that her lover had been murdered?”

“I don’t know.” I thought back to the scene that had occurred in my dressing room the day before the pageant. “But after she’d abandoned the fairy tale that started with his mother’s letter, Liya did seem quite genuine in her plea for news of Luca.”

“Why the sudden change of heart?” Gussie posed the question that had kept me worrying my pillow half the previous night.

I shook my head.

We were approaching the Rialto Bridge, the imposing span that connects the two halves of the city and provides the only means of crossing the Grand Canal on foot. As we neared this busy marketplace, the boat traffic picked up and the surface of the canal leapt with tiny, sun-kissed waves. Under the bridge and around the bend, we’d find the canal that led to the ghetto. One brief detour and I could pose Gussie’s question to Liya herself.

A tingle of excitement drove thoughts of Annetta’s waiting dinner from my head. It must be the lure of a mystery, the beguiling opportunity to cut through a tangled skein of secrets, that made my blood run hot. Surely, it had nothing to do with sitting on the wide window ledge, the Jewess’ skirts nearly touching my knees, my eyes following the curve of her throat as it disappeared beneath her apron. No, I told myself sternly. To remain objective, I would have to keep my distance and banish fantasies about the beautiful Liya to some point in the future when the unhappy details of Luca’s life and death had been fully revealed.

I sat forward, hands on my knees. “Gussie, you have need of a new waistcoat.”

He looked down and smoothed the brocade over his wide midriff. “I thought I had put those gravy stains to rout,” he said impatiently. “Sometimes it is deuced awkward not having a valet. I’ve learned to dress my hair without help, but keeping my waistcoats and my linen clean is a never-ending chore.”

By the time I had given the gondolier new instructions and turned back to face my friend, Gussie was grinning broadly. “Oh, I see. We are visiting the Del’Vecchio establishment.”

“The perfect place to look for a new waistcoat, is it not?”

The
campo
in front of the Del’Vecchio shop was empty except for a few idlers around the steps and one mongrel dog trotting across the bricks with the purposeful air of an urgent canine errand. Most of the ghetto inhabitants were still at table, or perhaps enjoying the little nap that often follows the midday meal.

I pulled the bell outside the shop’s latched door. One of Liya’s young sisters answered the ring. She kept her eyes tightly glued to the floor, giving Gussie and me a perfect view of her shining hair covered by a white cap. While I stated our business, she giggled and fidgeted with her fingers, sneaking several anxious looks toward the curtain at the rear of the shop. It took Gussie’s teasing charm to convince her to escort us up to the family living quarters.

Instead of entering the workroom at the top of the stairs, the girl led us farther down the hall and turned into a cramped chamber that served as both sitting room and dining room.

I met the grandmother’s eyes first. She was sitting in a low chair by the cold stove, wrapped in a flannel coverlet. The old woman was not drowsing that day. Under the wispy topknot held fast by ebony combs, her lined face was alert and intelligent. I’ve been expecting you, her bright eyes seemed to say.

Liya was clearing dirty dishes from the table onto a wooden utility tray. Her eyes also held an easily readable message. If looks could wield palpable force, Gussie and I would have been blown through the back wall of the house into the mattress makers’ courtyard beyond.

Another woman with a tray under her arm appeared at a passage behind the table. I didn’t know her, but she could only be Liya’s mother. Proud and straight, complexion of a more Eastern hue than her daughter’s, she possessed Liya’s firmly chiseled nose and determined chin. Lines surrounded her eyes and fissures cut from her nostrils to the tips of her downturned mouth, but the mother was still a striking woman. And a formidable one.

She eyed us coldly. “Can’t you dandies wait until the shops reopen? We’ve just had our meal and my husband is lying down.”

Liya clapped the crockery on the tray with a sharp clatter. “They are not here to shop, Mother. They are from the theater.”

The older woman approached us. Over her shoulder, she flung at Liya: “Mind the plates, daughter. When you have your own house you may break as many as you please. Until then, you will treat my things with respect.”

To me she aimed a tight, straight smile. “And pray, Signore, what do you do at the theater?”

I made a formal bow, tricorne under my arm. “Forgive me, Signora Del’Vecchio. I am Tito Amato and this is my friend, Augustus Rumbolt. We beg only a few brief moments of Liya’s time.”

“That pretty bow doesn’t answer my question.”

“Oh, Mother. You know that Signor Amato is a singer. You have heard me read his name from the gazettes often enough.” Liya read my reviews? I hadn’t realized that she cared enough to bother.

I suppressed a smile.

Her mother eyed me appraisingly, no blushes on those cheeks. “One of their performing capons, I presume.”

I shrugged. “That is what some say. I call myself a singer, nothing more or less.”

“If you ask me,” she said, hands on hips, “capons are for eating, not for singing.”

Liya groaned, put her tray on the table, and grabbed a shawl from the back of a chair. “Come, Signori. We will walk in the
campo
.”

I heard a soft rustle by the stove. The grandmother was leaning forward in her nest of blankets, intent on absorbing every moment of this unexpected after-dinner drama.

Liya’s mother threw her hands in the air. “Oh, of course. Walk with the fancy gentlemen. Leave the rest of us with the washing up. Anything to get out of chores.” Signora Del’Vecchio’s grating voice carried down the stairwell. She called for her other daughters, drawing out the last syllable of each name. “Mara, Sara. You have work here.”

When we reached the pavement I offered Liya my arm, but she shook her head and kept her arms firmly wrapped in her shawl. She didn’t seem to notice the idlers at the well observing our trio with narrowed eyes. The three of us walked in silence until we reached the opposite side of the square and stopped before a pawnbroker’s shop. The window was a haphazard jumble of goods. Behind the panes of wavy glass, a shiny pair of tall riding boots stood beside a porcelain inkstand that would have been quite elegant if it had not been missing its quill holder. To its side, a silver-handled looking glass leaned against a tower of snuffboxes, while tangled strands of bright beads snaked around the lot. Given pride of place on its own stand was a dress sword in a gadrooned scabbard that had probably graced the costume of some patrician captain until a run of bad luck had sent him to the pawn shop. Liya gazed at the ceremonial weapon as if it were her fondest desire.

“Luca bought a statue here,” she said in a dull, faraway voice, “not long after he had first declared his love.”

Gussie and I shared a quick glance over Liya’s head. I had told my friend about the search of the studio and the rest of my day’s activities during the gondola ride to the ghetto.

“A statue of Venus?” I asked quietly.

Liya’s jaw tightened, but her gaze never wavered from the sword in the window. “Yes, it was a bronze, done in an old-fashioned style and covered with tarnish and grime. Luca said it reminded him of me. I didn’t see the resemblance, but Luca saw with an artist’s eye and he seemed quite taken with it. It was a lovely thing after he had cleaned and polished it.” She sighed heavily. “I was a secret, you see. He would never acknowledge our love to others.”

I said, “At the theater, Luca mostly ignored you.”

“Exactly. It was a sore point between us, the source of many arguments. He kept the Venus in his studio to placate me. He told me, ‘How can my angel of love be far from my thoughts when her likeness watches me work?’”

She swallowed hard, turning to face me. “Have you seen the statue?”

“I’m told it has disappeared.”

She turned back to the shop window and murmured, “Along with everything else.”

I kept quiet, thinking that Liya’s own sorrows might lead her to disclose more than probing questions. But I hadn’t reckoned with her unshakable equanimity. The Jewess’ eyes of liquid jet stared at the sword but silently beheld something far beyond the cast-off valuables on display. The minutes stretched to an uncomfortable length.

Gussie could stand it no longer. His low baritone rumbled, “Perhaps your lover was just trying to protect you. I am only a visitor to your city, but I have been in Venice long enough to realize that a romance between a Christian and a descendant of Abraham would cause great difficulties for both of you.”

Liya tossed her head. “It has happened before.”

“Yes, Signorina,” Gussie said sadly, “but how does it end?”

“Oh, what do you know?” Liya clutched savagely at the ends of her shawl and tipped her chin back to look Gussie in the eye. “You big ox of an
Inglese
. I see your brothers come here and fall in love with the Venetian beauties, but do you marry them? No! When your money runs out, you can’t wait to run home to the rosy-cheeked blondes you left behind. Luca was different. He was an artist, a creator. He had vision and courage. My family’s objections would mean nothing to him.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering how the carefree Luca would have faced all the difficulties such a union would bring. Liya caught sight of my reflection in the window. She whirled, now gulping back tears. “It’s true, Tito. My Luca laughed at tradition, Hebrew or Christian. Venice and all its strangling rules and regulations didn’t suit him any more than it suits me.” At that moment there was something so tragic in her voice that I reached involuntarily for her hand. I pulled back as her tone became flinty again. “Luca wanted us to marry and promised to take me as his wife. He just needed time to overcome some… difficulties. To get enough money for us to go away. If only…” Liya choked on her words, composure dented at last. She whirled and rushed blindly across the
campo
.

We caught up with her outside a barbering establishment a few doors down from her family’s business. The proprietor was just opening his door, putting out a sign that advertised inexpensive but miraculous drops for the cure of toothache. The
campo
was coming back to life after its midday break. The barber and a wandering boy with a basket of lemons on his head were both regarding Liya’s tear-stained cheeks with curiosity. This time she let me slip my hand under her elbow and lead her into a quiet shadow cast by a jutting balcony.

“Liya, at Maestro Torani’s behest, I am searching for Luca’s murderer. Surely, you also want your lover’s killer to face justice. Tell me of these difficulties Luca mentioned and tell me of any enemies he may have had.”

The Jewess bit her lip and searched my eyes with her own. I moved as close to her as I dared. She voiced no objection, in word or gesture. Did I detect a spark of yearning, an impulse to share her anger and grief? The moment passed in the space of a heartbeat. She said, “I’m here because agreeing to walk with you seemed the easiest way to get you out of my house. I’m sorry, Tito, but Luca’s problems are no business of yours and neither are mine.”

“That wasn’t how you felt the last time we spoke.”

“Things are different now,” she replied in a whisper so low I had to strain my ears to hear. “You can’t help me. No one can… so stop trying to bring trouble to my house and don’t come here again unless you intend to buy something,” she finished abruptly and fled for the door of her father’s shop.

Her path led her straight into the arms of her slack-jawed cousin, who had draped himself against the doorjamb. Isacco staggered when she gave him a rough shove. Since Gussie hadn’t noted Isacco’s presence any more than I had, I was left to wonder how long his inquiring face had been peering out of the shop.

***

Back at the Campo dei Polli, the front door of our house swung open before I could fish my key from my pocket. Lupo, our elderly house servant whose bent back and crabbed hands confined him to the duties of minding the door and chasing fluffs of dust with a straw broom, blinked in the bright sunlight. He greeted Gussie and me with a cautionary shake of his wizened head.

“You’d best tread lightly, Signor Tito. Signorina Annetta has been holding your dinner an hour or more. She has already kicked the cat out the back door and yelled at Lucia in the kitchen.”

I groaned. Just what we needed, another unhappy female.

The object of Lupo’s warning came around the corner of the dining room with the sort of look that Medusa must have used to turn her enemies to stone. My sister squared her shoulders and put her hands on her hips.

“So, is the famous singer too busy to come home to dinner on time? Did a throng of your admirers keep you in your dressing room for just one more story, one more pleasantry? Surely, Il Florino has not stolen
all
your following?”

I winced. Annetta certainly knew how to wound me. During the lonely years at my
conservatorio
in Naples, Annetta was the only member of my family who had bothered to keep in contact. My sister and I must have exchanged hundreds of letters full of our dreams, hopes, and youthful secrets. When my training was complete and the tug of remembered people and places—and perhaps the need to impress those who had sent me away—drew me back to Venice, the sister who was so close to me in age and temperament quickly became my most loyal supporter and intimate confidant. Then no woman could match her in charm and generosity, and her delicate diplomacy curtailed many a family argument.