2 - Painted Veil (12 page)

When had I first noticed the bitter twist in her smile, the dejected slump as she sat staring into the flames of the sitting room stove? At twenty-five, Annetta was considered a spinster by Venetian standards, and it had been a long time since she’d mentioned the romances and courtships of her friends. Did Annetta despair of finding her own eternal love? Did she blame my brother and me for monopolizing her time and talents? She used to wait up for me until I got home from the theater. We would talk until the embers in the stove grew cold, but I could barely remember our last heart-to-heart conversation. While I had been gallivanting with frivolous friends, my sister had become nearly as distant as a stranger.

“
Beh
, you might as well come and eat, though the polenta is burnt and the meat has simmered ’til it’s dry.”

Annetta’s arms remained at a sharp angle on her hips.

We filed into the dining room and took our seats at the table. The drapes had been thrown back to admit the late-afternoon sunshine that warmed the cloth neatly set with a few pieces of blue and white Chinese porcelain, my long-dead mother’s pride. My father’s portrait above the sideboard gathered a bit of the prevailing light and reflected his austere gaze down upon us. I tried to make amends with my sister by recounting our visit to the ghetto, but Gussie’s smiles and courteous attentions were far more successful at wiping the frown from Annetta’s face.

Benito served our dinner. Since Berta, Lupo’s female counterpart, had succumbed to a fever during the winter, Annetta made do with Lucia, a young girl from the neighborhood who came in for day work of scrubbing and cooking. Benito’s primary duties were to look after my wardrobe and organize my affairs, but he was often pressed into service to perform tasks that were beyond Lupo or Lucia. My mouth watered when my manservant brought in a heavy platter of mutton that had been marinated in wine and simmered in milk laced with ginger and cloves, then followed that with several other dishes. Annetta had exaggerated the dinner’s destruction. The mutton, the creamy polenta, and the leeks that surrounded the meat were all delicious.

Appropriately enough, the principal topic of conversation at table was food. Annetta attributed the flavor of the dishes to the excellent spices procured by our brother Alessandro in foreign ports and told Gussie about Venice’s justly extolled salt marshes that provided a seasoning of unmatched quality. The Englishman countered with tales of his family’s holiday feasts: roast sides of beef dripping with juices, rabbits and wild fowl from his father’s estate, endless kegs of ale, and a curious sounding pudding made with suet, bread crumbs, and fruit. By the time we had moved to the sitting room and Benito had deposited the coffee tray on the round table, my sister had shaken off her annoyance.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Annetta was responding to my musings about Liya’s contradictory behavior concerning her missing lover.

Gussie drew his eyebrows up to meet his tousled locks. “Is it?”

“Of course. The girl is pregnant.” Gussie’s blank look prodded Annetta to tick her points off on her fingers. “First Tito shows up at her workroom asking about Luca’s disappearance, but Liya seems more worried about her family overhearing Luca’s name than about where her lover might have got to. So… to stop Tito’s prying questions, she puts him off with a hastily constructed, far-fetched story.”

Gussie and I both nodded.

“Then,” Annetta continued, holding up a second finger, “sometime before she makes her desperate visit to Tito’s dressing room, Liya discovers her condition. That changes everything. Suddenly, finding the artist so that their plans to marry can go forward becomes her prime consideration. Imagine her disgrace if she turned up pregnant and unmarried, especially in the ghetto. There could be no packing her off to country cousins for Liya’s family. She might have come to you as her last hope, Tito.”

“Something was certainly bothering her that day, and she seemed eager for my help,” I answered. “But why has she pushed me away again?”

“Now that Luca is dead and marriage is out of the question, Liya must find another way out of her dilemma. If I were her, I would try to keep the child a secret as long as possible. That would make your questions more of a hindrance than a help.”

“Bloody Hell, but you Italians are clever,” said Gussie, wide-eyed. “I could have thought all day without hitting on that. Makes Liya’s position a damned sight more ticklish, doesn’t it?” A hangdog look quickly crossed his face. “Oh, forgive my curse, Signorina, I meant no disrespect.”

Annetta snorted with laughter, and I had a glimpse of the old, comfortable days. “You forget that our brother is a sailor. Express yourself any way you wish, dear Augustus. Alessandro has accustomed me to plain speaking and I find I prefer it.”

Gussie continued with a hint of a smile. “I wonder why Liya bothered to invent the story of the trip to Germany in the first place? When Tito starting asking questions about Luca, why not just order him out of her home?”

I took a few sips of Benito’s smooth, sugary brew, then set my coffee down. “I think she was protecting someone, and still is.”

Annetta rose to refill Gussie’s cup. “Someone other than herself, you mean?”

“That has occurred to me. Her cousin Isacco generally accompanies her to the theater, wheeling their cart piled with deliveries. Sometimes he stays outside, but usually he comes in. I’ve seen him all over the theater. He may have gotten wind of her relationship with Luca and taken steps to stop it.”

Gussie narrowed his eyes. “Then Liya thought that Isacco was responsible for Luca’s disappearance? What we now know as his murder?”

“Perhaps, but I see little love lost between Liya and her cousin. If she is shielding anyone, I wager it would be Pincas, her father. He seems like a mild man, but he obviously dotes on his daughters. The fear of losing Liya to a Christian might provoke him to violence.”

Gussie nodded and leaned forward, eyes glittering. “I’m beginning to understand. One of the Jews must have killed Luca—Isacco, Pincas, or someone they hired to scare the artist away from Liya. Perhaps they only set out to threaten him, but Luca refused to give the Jewess up. Or perhaps he fought back so strongly that the violence got out of hand.”

I shook my head. “One piece of the puzzle doesn’t fit, though. Luca’s body was wrapped in a length of cloth that had been stored in a locked workroom across from Luca’s studio. The murderer must have used the cloth to drag the body from the studio, to a waiting boat. None of the Jews would have had access to that bolt of cloth.”

Gussie sat back with a sigh. “I should have known that solution would be too easy.”

I stood up to stretch my back. “The obvious solutions usually are. Besides, this is all idle conjecture. We have no proof that Annetta’s speculations are correct and that Liya is pregnant. Or that anyone besides you and me had discovered her affair with Luca.”

Annetta was tapping a foot on the stool in front of her chair. “Who could have gotten at that cloth, Tito?”

“Besides Madame Dumas, I’m sure that Maestro Torani and Aldo both have keys to the workroom.”

“What about that man with the notebook?” Gussie chimed in. “He seems to have made himself an authority on everything that goes on at the theater.”

“That is certainly true. I wouldn’t be surprised if Carpani didn’t have keys to every door and drawer in the building.

“And then there is this.” I took a folded scarf from my jacket pocket.

“You kept one of the painted veils we found in Luca’s lodging,” said Gussie.

“Yes. I can’t think why, but I am glad I did. If we are to discover who killed the painter, we must learn more about his projects and associations. This is a curious thing. I’d like to know its purpose.”

Annetta rose and took the delicate scarf from me. She squinted at the image, then carried it to the fading light at the window and held it close to her eyes. “This is silk, rather old, but the decoration is not painted on the fabric. There are no brushstrokes and these lines are visible on the backside. What does it represent?”

“Hold it at an angle,” Gussie and I responded in unison.

“Oh yes, it becomes clear. It’s a woman’s face. Whose, I wonder?”

Neither Gussie nor I could hazard a guess. We remained silent, sipping our coffees and pondering the mystery in our own ways. Annetta stared at the scarf thoughtfully. “Let me keep this, Tito. I want to have a better look at it in the morning light.”

I nodded, and, mindful of the gathering shadows, I consulted my watch. “Important as they are, I must put these questions on the shelf for now. Tonight is the first
prova generale
. We will rehearse the opera from start to finish with full costume and scenery changes. It’s likely to be a long night, but you are both welcome to come and watch if you like.”

Annetta begged off. She had sat through a
prova
before and preferred to wait until opening night when the opera would have most of the kinks worked out of it. Gussie was keen, however, and we were searching for our hats when the bell at the front door sounded. Benito had already left for the theater to see to my costumes and Lupo was in the kitchen. Rather than wait for the old man to shuffle to the door, I opened it myself. I saw the back of a young man, a porter by my brief glimpse of his loose linen shirt and rough trousers, running down the
calle
. An envelope of cheap paper lay on the threshold. I carried it back to the sitting room. Annetta was opening the tinderbox to light the lamp.

The three of us bent over the table and examined the envelope’s contents in the circle of yellow lamplight. Venice had numerous gazettes at that time. Most were published weekly, but a few came out daily. All were penned by anonymous scribes. New ones seemed to blossom on every street corner whenever there were rumors that the curious public would pay to peruse and rehash. I had already seen the column that had been neatly cut from one of the dailies. It detailed the recovery of Luca’s body in the most lurid and speculative terms. The information that was new to me had been scrawled across the newsprint in red ink.
Look to the Jews
it exhorted in bold, block style lettering. My friend Gussie had not been the only one to spring to the obvious conclusion.

Chapter 12

Gussie and I made our way back to the Teatro San Marco in the gathering dusk. All about us, Venice bristled with restless energy. Any other year, the lengthening days and warming weather of early June would have signaled the patrician families to move to their mainland villas for the summer. During this
villegiatura
, the Venetian
palazzi
were shut up tight and amusements shifted to rural pursuits. The theaters were forced to close down; not enough paying society remained in the mosquito-ridden city to make an opera or play profitable. Those noblemen who could not afford a country home stayed in Venice, keeping to themselves and, in their shame, wearing masks when they ventured into the streets with the rabble. During previous summers I had been in demand to sing serenades on the terraces of the splendid villas up the river Brenta or on the Terraglio, the highway that led north to Treviso. This summer was starting out differently. The rapidly approaching marriage of the Doge’s daughter had delayed the annual pilgrimage to the mainland and swelled the city’s population with visitors.

It was almost as if it were Carnival, with the dull days of Lent still to come. As our gondolier propelled us down the canals with easy, graceful swings of his oar, I saw messenger boys running about the
calli
delivering notes and parcels, stalls set up to sell trinkets and refreshments, and maskers made anonymous by the all-concealing
bautta
prowling in search of their varied pleasures. Amusement was not the only topic on the citizens’ minds. Passing a
campo
near the heart of the city, I saw a knot of soldiers gathered with torches and placards declaring that they had not been paid for months. Despite their grievance, the men appeared more convivial than angry. With smiling faces, they were slapping each other on the back and raising their bottles in spontaneous toasts. Even so, I expected the
sbirri
would soon be moving in to break up their display.

On the last turn before the theater, a parish church swung into view. It was not the usual time for a service, but the doors were thrown back revealing the yellow glow of wax tapers deep within. The altar candle nesting in its red shade glowed like a flaming ruby, and the pungent smell of incense wafted across the water. A thin stream of petitioners mounted the steps to the church. Were they going to pray, or did they intend to confess their transgressions so that they might begin another evening of debauchery with shriven souls?

In a moment the water-lapped steps of the theater were before us. A flock of gondolas bobbed and creaked at their moorings. I paid our boatman, then hustled Gussie through the brightly lit lobby. There was always a crowd invited to a
prova
, and I didn’t want to be delayed by fawning admirers or self-appointed critics. Once the Englishman was installed in a second tier box with a good view of the stage, I headed for my dressing room.

I stopped at my door but didn’t go in. Across the way, several young dandies garbed in the latest French fashion clustered at Rosa’s open doorway. They appeared supremely interested in whatever transpired within.

“I could have been the next victim!” shrieked a female voice in a dudgeon of high drama.

I approached and peered over the dandies’ shoulders. They declined to spare me more than a brief glance. Rosa sat before her mirror in a dressing gown of green paisley. Its emerald tones set off the golden tips of her brown curls and amplified the sparkle of the diamond necklace adrift on her fleshy bosom. Her maid was attempting to arrange the singer’s hair for the powder, a task made all the more difficult by Rosa’s frequent expansive gestures. Every few moments she twisted to clutch the knee of the gentleman who sat by her dressing table. His wardrobe eclipsed even that of his friends: he was pomaded, powdered, laced, and beribboned like a king’s mistress. I recognized his smooth, heavy-jowled face. His father maintained a box at all of Venice’s popular theaters. Rosa’s admirer was Signor Bassano Gritti, the scion of one of Venice’s foremost families.

Rosa had begun to repeat herself. “I could have become the killer’s next victim. I tell you, Bassano, I could be dead right now.” She grasped her throat at a sudden thought. “What if the murderer returns. I may yet be bludgeoned to death.” Her widened eyes glittered almost as brightly as her diamonds.

One sleeve of Rosa’s dressing gown had slithered down to the elbow, revealing a naked, pink shoulder. Her doting cavalier gave it a clumsy pat and said, “
Carissima
, don’t distress yourself. No harm has come to you and the villain is well away.”

“But we were right here in my dressing room that night—Emma and I. She went to get something and heard an argument coming from the studio corridor. What if she had gone to investigate? What if she had surprised the murderer in the act? What if he finds out we were in the theater and comes back for us?”

Signor Gritti gazed wearily about the room and treated himself to a pinch of snuff. Finally, he drawled, “If he has good sense, he is miles from Venice. Besides, no sane man could harm a vision as lovely as yourself.”

“Ah, but what if he wasn’t a sane man. He might be a madman escaped from the lunatic hospital, or a Turk addled by the fumes of his strange pipe.” She put a small hand to her chest; her breath came in shallow gasps. “Or one of those devilish Jewish beggars bent on Christian slaughter.”

As the overwrought singer threw herself into Signor Gritti’s arms, I looked away to meet another’s eyes. Emma was hovering in the next doorway, twisting a thumbnail between her teeth. She darted back into her dressing room, but I got there before she had time to turn the latch. With no attempt at ceremony, I launched myself through her door and posed my question. “Is Rosa speaking the truth? Did you overhear an argument the night of Luca’s murder?”

The soprano sank down on a backless sofa and covered her eyes with her hand. On a stand behind her, Cleopatra’s cobra-headed crown seemed to menace me with malevolent red eyes. Emma whispered in a heavy voice, “Please, Tito, go away. I have a terrible headache. I’ve sent my maid for some drops.”

I replied gently, “It’s a simple question, old friend. I’ll be glad to go once you’ve answered it.”

Emma sneaked a look at me through spread fingers. “You’re not going to let this rest, are you?” she asked in a more natural tone.

“Not until Luca’s murderer is found.”

Emma dropped her hand to her lap. “It’s bad enough having Messer Grande popping in and out and quizzing everyone. Why do you have to upset us further? You are one of us. You know how difficult it is to keep your nerves in line before a
prova
. You should be encouraging your fellow singers, not harassing us.”

“I wasn’t aware that I was harassing anyone.”

“Well, you’re harassing me. I need to rest and get rid of this headache before I have to sing.”

I tried another tack. “I would rather hear the truth from you than the ravings of an ingénue who fancies herself the queen of the stage.”

Emma’s lips curved in a reluctant smile. “Conceited little trollop, isn’t she. There’s no situation Rosa wouldn’t take advantage of to be the center of attention.” The singer’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, you didn’t hear me say that, Tito.”

I nodded and waited expectantly.

“All right, you may as well know. Rosa is telling the truth. We were talking in her dressing room that night. Rehearsal was long over and we had both discharged our maids. I was more than ready for my supper and kept trying to take my leave, but Rosa was upset. She just wouldn’t be comforted.”

“What had upset her?”

“The usual tale. Her current lover is rumored to have an eye for a ballerina at another theater.”

“Signor Gritti seems attentive enough.”

“Yes, he is dancing his attendance this evening, but he has yet to make arrangements for Rosa to follow him to the country for the summer and has ignored all her hints that he should do so.”

Emma moved to her dressing table and began to apply a thin layer of cream to her cheeks and forehead. She continued, “Rosa was sobbing and moaning. She couldn’t seem to stop crying. I couldn’t leave her like that. Then I remembered the flask of brandy I keep in my trunk, just for emergencies you know. I nipped down the hall to get it and heard voices. I thought everyone had gone so I stepped to the corner where this hallway joins the workroom corridor and listened for a few seconds. Someone was arguing with Luca in his studio.”

“You are sure the voices came from the studio?”

“Yes. That corridor was dark. I suppose Aldo had already extinguished the lamps. The only light came from beneath Luca’s door.”

“Did you hear any of the words?”

“No. Just angry voices.”

I moved behind Emma and studied her expression in the mirror. The flickering oil lamps on either side gave her greased face a look of sickly pallor. “You recognized Luca’s voice?”

“Yes.” The loose skin under her chin quavered.

“And the other voice?”

“I don’t know.”

“Could it have been Aldo’s?”

“I really couldn’t say, Tito.” She dropped her eyes to the sticks of grease paint and pots of lotion on her dressing table. Snatching up a scent bottle, she flicked the amber liquid in the direction of her chest and throat. “I’d like to help you, Tito. I truly would. But all I can say is that the other voice was… muffled.”

I took a shallow breath. The air in the room had suddenly become oppressively sweet. Unless I missed my guess, my friend Emma had just told me her first lie.

***

The
prova
proceeded in the way of all such ordeals. The opera was coming together one moment, falling apart the next. I opened Act One with a lovely aria of sweet running passages accentuated by glances and gestures that perfectly expressed the feeling of the song. It was applauded by all and brought a grin to Torani’s face. But my next performance was flawed with failed high notes and awkward phrasing that Torani’s increasingly strident instructions from the harpsichord in the orchestra pit could not help me correct. Thus it went, scene after scene. Once, after Emma had extended herself to the utmost and exacted more from her aging voice than any director could hope for, Torani left his harpsichord and ascended to the stage with open arms. The flamboyant embrace he bestowed on his perspiring Cleopatra may have been calculated to chide Il Florino.

The unpredictable star was “saving himself,” which meant dawdling in his dressing room, missing cues, and singing half-strength. Florio had once cautioned me: “Don’t let them spoil your voice with overwork, Tito. Never forget that your throat is your most valuable asset and every note chips away at your stock of vocal capital. Once you learn your part, what are these rehearsals good for? For the crew to practice a scene change? For the machinist to time his cues? For us, a
prova
is singing for nothing—a monumental waste of time and voice.”

I didn’t share Florio’s sentiments about rehearsals. I was willing to admit that my part still needed work, but I confess that Torani had less than my full attention. As I waited in the wings or struck a pose on the stage, my mind was on murder—not the staged slaying of Egyptian royalty, but the authentic, grisly death of one of our own company. I was trying to imagine what could have motivated someone to kill the genial scene painter.

While Luca had not exactly been soaked with holy water, his reputation was superior to that of many Venetians. Despite the books Gussie and I had found at his lodging, he had never aroused the ire of the State Inquisitors for dabbling in magical operations. In fact, I’d hardly heard an evil word spoken against the man. He was known as an honest gambler: he didn’t cheat at cards or press friends for loans, and he paid his debts on time. He did sometimes drink to excess but kept his good humor even deep in his cups. The only vice that had ever caused Luca trouble was women. Jealous lovers had set their bravos on him several times, but Luca had survived the beatings with only minor wounds. Could it be that he had run afoul of a man whose honor demanded more than a bloody nose?

I thought back to the information that my manservant had given me. According to Benito, who somehow felt it was his duty to keep abreast of all the shifting relationships within our little world, Luca had dallied with a number of ladies. There had been some ugly talk about a young ballet girl whose mama had put a sudden halt to the budding romance. Though the good woman was bent on saving the girl’s unsoiled treasure for a man with a heavier purse than Luca’s (Benito reckoned that the mother had already lost that battle), I doubted that this affair had anything to do with the painter’s death. The little dancer and her mother were long gone. Since then there had been several singers and a maid or two, but those affairs had all ended amicably.

And then there was Rosa. On that score, Benito agreed with Madame Dumas. They both believed that Luca had never succumbed to Rosa’s charms. By the time the painter had aroused Rosa’s interest, he seemed to have sworn off theater romances. Benito theorized that a secret liaison with a high-placed, married woman was monopolizing Luca’s passions. I knew better. It was an alluring Jewess, not a fashionable
signora
that fascinated the painter. It surprised me that for all his prodigious stock of gossip, my manservant had not known about Luca and Liya. The painter and the Jewess must have been very cautious indeed.

I glanced toward the stage where Florio was serenading Emma’s Cleopatra as a distinctly half-hearted Caesar. The act was almost over, so I set my brain to working out how Liya had managed to get out of the ghetto to visit Luca’s lodging without attracting attention. I was trying to calculate how much it might take to bribe the ghetto guards when an angry snort sounded behind me. The curtain was coming down, and Aldo was looking at his watch in consternation.

“Almost eleven o’clock and two acts to go,” the stage manager complained to no one in particular.

“When do you think we will get out of here?” I asked.

“Do I look like a fortune teller?” he answered, rubbing the back of his thick neck.