2 - Painted Veil (15 page)

“There is much you don’t know, you Venetians. You look to this ghetto, this pen where you have herded us, and see only a mass of Hebrews. You have no idea, the differences among us.” She sighed wearily. “Tell me, do you know where my family, the Gallicos, hail from?”

I shook my head.

“Barcelona, the most cultured city in Spain. My people were scholars and physicians in the crown’s service. For years of loyalty, my ancestor was made a cavalier with his own coat of arms. We had land, wealth. The Gallicos were a family of note.” As she spoke, Liya’s grandmother slowly uncurled her spine and sat very straight with the bony sweep of her aquiline nose high in the air.

I decided to hazard another question. “Why did your family leave Spain?”

“Leave? As if we were given a choice! We were banished, driven out. Thrown to the wolves by those we served.” The bamboo stick rattled on the tiles. Spittle whitened the corners of her mouth. “It was the Devil’s consort, Queen Isabella, and her Cardinal henchmen. First she banned the Hebrews from our trades, then stole our estates to enrich the royal treasury. When we were nearly starved she gave us all two months to get out of the country or be forcibly baptized into Spain’s accursed religion. My grandfather’s grandfather sold our last possessions for a mulecart and a few provisions, but the bandits on the highway took even those. We were forced to walk, walk through the countryside on bare feet like peasants, all the way to Italy.”

“You amaze me, Signora. Queen Isabella ruled Spain over two hundred years ago, yet you speak as if you witnessed these events.”

The old woman sank back into her nest of shawls and blankets. She answered in a voice heavy with the sorrows of centuries. “In my family, memories live a long time.”

“And the Del’Vecchios—are they also from Spain?”

She barely shook her head. With her chin resting on her chest, she stared into the grate of the stove until I wondered if I should speak again or just creep away. Then she whispered fiercely, “The Del’Vecchios are rag-pickers from Livorno. Before they reached Italy, who knows where they wandered? Germany? Poland? What does it matter? It only matters that my granddaughter is not sacrificed to another Del’Vecchio.”

I leaned forward. “Is that where I come in?”

She withdrew her gaze from the fiery grate and gave me a coy, almost flirtatious smile. “Just so, your cue I believe you call it at your opera. Pincas has it in mind to marry Liya to the son of his cousin. Before that can happen, Isacco Del’Vecchio must be persuaded to leave Venice. You are the man to persuade him.”

I shook my head in bewilderment. Was the old woman more addled than she appeared? What would make Liya’s cousin listen to me?

Signora Gallico had her argument on the tip of her tongue. “You have taken a decided interest in the painter who was killed at the theater.”

“Yes,” I answered cautiously.

“Would it interest you to know that Isacco had made a business partner of him?”

“What sort of business?”

“The details I cannot say, but I do know that Isacco and the painter had joined forces to make money off certain items that the painter provided and Isacco offered to interested customers.”

I must have looked dubious, for she nodded vigorously and tapped my shin with her cane for emphasis. “Yes, it is so. I know what I’m talking about. People forget that I’m here, you see. They are so accustomed to Nonna drowsing by the stove that they look right through me. But I am not always asleep. My body is failing but my ears and eyes are not. Several times, Pincas warned Isacco away from this scheme, whatever it was. Pincas called it a dangerous game, but Isacco wouldn’t listen. The boy just bragged on his cleverness and shook his heavy purse in my son-in-law’s face.”

“Did the painter—Luca Cavalieri—ever come here?”

“No, I never laid eyes on the man, but I heard Isacco speak of him more than once.”

“They were friends?”

She snorted. “Not those two jackals. They needed each other for something, but there was no love lost between them. I knew they would fall out eventually.”

“Are you telling me you think Isacco could have killed Luca?”

She narrowed her eyes and thought for a moment. “I doubt that. Isacco is a physical coward. He would run from violence as fast as his legs could carry him. Greed is that boy’s vice—it will be the death of him one day.”

“Then I don’t understand. How is it that you propose I convince Isacco to leave the city?”

“Isacco and the painter were cheating their customers. They had to be. Isacco knows no other way of doing business, and besides, if the business had been aboveboard, he wouldn’t have extracted a solemn promise of secrecy from Pincas.” She pursed her lips, rocking back and forth from the waist, then continued, “I believe that Isacco and Luca ran afoul of someone who refused to be bilked, and the painter paid the price. Find out what they were up to. If you can convince Isacco that he is also in danger, he’ll run back to Livorno like someone lit a fire under his tail.”

I thought furiously. Luca and Isacco working together, selling something, the old woman said—who would have thought it? I wiped a hand over my forehead, now damp with sweat. Unable to bear the heat of the stove a moment longer, I stood up, paced the room, and found cooler air by the windows. As I watched the rain snake down the glass panes I thought back to that other wet day when Liya had come to my dressing room to beg for my help. She had needed me then. All pride and stiffness thrown aside, she had spoken right to my heart. Now her grandmother was asking for my help.

I turned back to the old woman. “What you have told me is one possible explanation for Luca’s murder, but I can think of several others. It may take some time to discover the truth of the matter.”

“There is no time.” The
signora
worked her mouth anxiously. “I expect Pincas to approach the rabbi about Liya’s marriage before the month is out. If Isacco is still in Venice, he will surely become her husband.”

“And if he flees?”

She smiled broadly over toothless gums. “There is a medical student at Padua. Not a Gallico, but a young man of a good family connected to us by marriage.”

“Your granddaughter does not seem particularly anxious to marry anyone. Why rush her to the altar?”

“Liya has made her choice—whether she realizes it or not.”

I raised my eyebrows in a questioning look but Signora Gallico trained her gaze on the stove. Her voice became weak again. “You must leave an old woman some secrets, my boy. Use your wits to discover what devilment Isacco and the painter were up to. That way, you can find your murderer and chase Isacco away from Venice at the same time.”

Despite Signora Gallico’s reluctance, I wanted to ask more questions about Liya’s situation. After all, the woman was requesting a favor; she should be willing to do me a service in return. But Mara, damp hair now covered by a white cap, emerged from the hallway with the breathless news that her mama was halfway across the
campo
and hurrying toward the shop. Instead of more information, Liya’s grandmother gave me only a quick handclasp and a pleading look before Mara again led me stumbling through the labyrinth of stairs and corridors. Before I knew it, the girl was giving me a playful, conspiratorial wink and shoving me out yet another doorway onto the
campo
. The dripping, dreary walk home provided the perfect setting for moping over the possibility of Liya’s marriage to either of her Hebrew suitors.

Chapter 15

The second
prova
proceeded more smoothly than the first. I was particularly pleased with my performance. If anything, the damp weather had limbered up my vocal cords, allowing me to execute all of my intricate embellishments with ease. There was only one bad moment. Florio must have been feeling bored, or perhaps my voice had improved enough to provoke his jealousy. During my final aria, with our characters of Caesar and Ptolemy facing each other at center stage, Florio sighed with exasperation, rolled his eyes, and turned a petulant face toward the pit, as if to ask the gondoliers who would be sitting there in three nights’ time how much incompetence he could be expected to stand. When he began beating time with his forefingers in the air, suggesting that my rhythm was faulty, I strangled on my notes and erupted with a torrent of angry curses.

Florio met my outburst with a self-satisfied smile and a toss of his powdered curls. Too late I realized that the unpredictable
castrato
had provoked me deliberately, hoping that my anger would ruin my performance. He tricked me that time, but I vowed not to let him unsettle me again. More and more I was convinced that fate had supplied me with this challenger for a reason. Florio was meant to test my mettle. Would I continue to coast along on the natural splendor of my voice, settling for a flashy, crowd-pleasing display that ignored the composer’s intent? Or would I delve into the beauty that could be achieved when the words and music were perfectly matched, when heartfelt sentiment was not overwhelmed by empty ornamentation? I was coming to understand that following Florio’s path meant denying my very soul, at least the part of it that gloried in using the voice that the knife had bestowed on me.

With all the discipline I could muster, I calmed myself and approached the edge of the stage. Torani sat at the harpsichord, mopping his perspiring forehead with the end of his neck scarf. When I asked if we could repeat the scene, the director agreed with a preoccupied air that made me wonder if he had even attended to my fit of irritation.

I pondered Torani’s attitude from the snug warmth of my bed the next morning. It puzzled me that the director had not intervened when Florio’s foolery had commenced; Torani did not usually put up with such offensive behavior. Throughout the
prova
, our director had seemed curiously disconnected. He had guided the orchestra through the recitatives and arias but had addressed few corrections to the singers. The scene changes and other backstage business he had left totally in Aldo’s hands. Was he worrying about with the future of the San Marco company? Had the Savio threatened him with closing the theater again?

With a lazy yawn, I put my questions about Torani aside and thought ahead to the rest of the day. It was Sunday, so there would be no
prova
that night—the final rehearsal was scheduled for tomorrow—but Gussie and I were expected at the Palazzo Morelli in the afternoon. I felt surprisingly fresh for having endured two lengthy rehearsals in as many nights, but I wasn’t at all sure I was ready to face Isabella Morelli’s overripe coquetry.

Benito entered and set a roll and a steaming cup of chocolate at my bedside. With graceful gestures he unfurled a cloth on top of the bedclothes and rearranged my pillows. As I reclined at an angle and bit into the buttery pastry, my manservant flipped through the coats hanging in my wardrobe.

“Which suit will you wear today, Master?”

“Nothing fancy. Just pick out something I would wear to a rehearsal.”

“Master? A plain suit for the
palazzo
? Why not the peach taffeta with the embroidered waistcoat? I have it ready—clean and pressed.” Benito’s lilting voice held a wheedling note.

I smiled, but answered firmly, “No. I don’t want to call attention to myself today. I plan to fade into the background and let Signor Rumbolt take center stage. Get out the green broadcloth.”

Benito retrieved the dark jacket and breeches with unconcealed disdain. As he checked the buttonholes and seams for stray threads, he observed sulkily, “There is no way you could fade into the background—even if you donned a tradesman’s smock.”

“You exaggerate as usual. There are some who find Signor Rumbolt much more interesting than myself. Signora Morelli for one.”

Benito rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh, yes. The
signora
has an eye for a robust male, and her tastes suit my needs admirably. While our English friend amuses the lovely Isabella with sketching and flattering conversation, I will be prowling the
palazzo
.”

“What are you looking for now?”

“Anything that could tell me why an arrogant patrician like Morelli would be drinking in a tavern with a painter of little social standing.” I thought for a moment, sipping the warm chocolate. “Signora Morelli seems quite taken with Gussie as he is, but perhaps I should send you around to his lodging just in case. His mop could benefit from your talented curling wand.”

“Too late, my friend,” Gussie’s voice boomed out as he bounded through my door, all smiles and good humor. “As you requested, I am here and turned out in my best.”

Gussie had outdone himself. The coat that covered his broad shoulders, though cut in the English fashion, was the bright blue of the lagoon on a sunny day, a color that also precisely matched my friend’s eyes. He had polished the coat’s gold buttons to a high luster and found a new pair of stockings to cover the muscular calves that should hold Signora Morelli’s attention for at least a few minutes. Unfortunately, my friend’s unruly yellow hair was springing from his forehead at an odd angle.

“Good, well done,” I told him. “You have me beat this morning. Make yourself comfortable. When Benito is finished with me, perhaps he could give you a few minutes. His combs and brushes can work magic.”

Gussie glanced in the mirror, shrugged, and threw himself in a deep chair by the window. “Why not? I have schooled myself to be the soul of agreeability the whole day through. Just don’t leave me alone with our hostess at the
palazzo
for too long, Tito.”

“You speak as if you were afraid of Signora Morelli.”

“I suppose I am a bit. I fear that she is cleverer than I… at least in the banter of romance.” He gave a mock shudder and continued, “You will owe me an enormous favor for spending the afternoon with such an odious woman.”

I smiled as I had a quick wash at the basin that Benito had filled with hot water. “I wouldn’t call her odious. She is not the first Venetian wife to be a little naughty. Can you really blame her? What must her life be like with Morelli as a husband? That man is trying to single-handedly preserve the atrophied society of our grandfathers’ time.”

As Gussie shook his head in reply, Benito studied something he had removed from the pocket of my broadcloth coat. “Do you need this, Master?”

He handed me a folded slip of paper. The piece had been torn from a larger sheet; the diagonal edge was ragged and uneven. Was it a name and address? The top line read There-, a torn space, then -ieri. On the next line: H-, Bremen. I turned the paper over. The written address on the other side was easily readable. “Oh, yes. This is the address Torani gave me. Remember, Gussie, when we went to Luca’s lodging? I have no further need of it.”

I handed the paper to Benito, who reached to feed it to the flames in the little stove he used to heat his curling wand. The manservant squealed when I whirled around, grabbed his wrist, and ran to the window blowing on the smoking paper.

“What is it?” Benito’s soprano and Gussie’s baritone sounded in a spontaneous duet.

I studied the scorched paper in the patch of sunlight streaming through the narrow panes. The first line could represent Theresa Ballieri, or Dottieri, or any number of other names. But who was the Theresa whose son had just told me that she had a two-month contract to appear in Bremen? Only Theresa Cavalieri, mother of Luca and Silvio.

***

“What does this mean, Tito?” Gussie and I were leaning on the railing of a small wooden bridge that spanned a canal near the Campo dei Polli. The day was mild and the sound of church bells carried on the light breeze. The sun, arching toward its zenith, would soon dry the puddles left by yesterday’s rainstorm. The birds washing their feathers would be the only ones disappointed to see the puddles’ demise. All the people crossing the bridge and strolling the pavement had their faces raised to the clear blue sky, doubtless hoping that we had seen the last of gray days.

I frowned down at the slowly moving green water under the bridge. “It means that Torani, the director I have worked with and trusted for most of the past four years, has something to hide.”

“Because…”

“Because Torani wrote Luca’s address on a corner torn from a larger sheet of paper on his desk. Yet when the Savio asked him how to contact Luca’s family, Torani said he had no idea where the mother was. He acted as if he barely knew who she was.”

“You didn’t notice the back of the paper before?”

“It wouldn’t have meant anything to me if I had. I just learned Luca’s mother’s Christian name and whereabouts at the funeral yesterday morning.”

Gussie regarded me bleakly but didn’t speak.

I drummed my fingers on the smooth wood of the railing. “We need to find out more about everyone’s movements on the night Luca was murdered. Torani said that he left the theater after rehearsal, but Emma heard someone arguing with Luca.”

“I thought she was unable to recognize the voice?”

“So she says, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she weren’t protecting someone.”

“Torani?”

“That would make sense. What would happen to Emma if Torani were arrested? Her voice is beginning to decline and her face is no longer fresh. She and Torani share a comfortable working relationship, but a new director would likely hire a new soprano.”

“But Tito, if Torani had a hand in Luca’s death, why would he ask you to investigate his disappearance in the first place?”

I turned my back to the railing and let the sun warm my face. “I don’t know. I’m still wrestling with the idea that Torani could be capable of bashing Luca’s skull, strangling the life out of him, then dumping his body in the lagoon like a bag of refuse. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t picture it.

“Come on, Gussie, I can’t just stand here. Let’s walk.” I started down the descending arc of the bridge at a fast pace.

Gussie tapped me on the shoulder. “Tito, the Palazzo Morelli is on the Grand Canal. Aren’t we going the wrong way?”

“If we want some answers about who was in the theater during the last hour of Luca’s life, we are going in the right direction.” I paused to bring my friend’s steps in line with my own. “We are going to Aldo’s house. He lives on a
campo
just on the other side of the ghetto.”

“But… the
palazzo
.”

“It’s early yet. There is still plenty of time for you to amuse Signora Morelli. You didn’t forget your sketchbook, did you?”

He patted a pocket, shook his head, and once again fell in behind me as a pair of porters wheeling carts full of crockery and covered dishes nestled in straw took up most of the pavement. A large family followed: a smiling, prosperous papa with a silver-headed walking stick, a mama rigged out in a
zendale
edged with fine lace, and six children in perfect stairsteps whispering and giggling in a train behind them. It was a lovely day for a picnic. I wondered if they would hire a boat to carry them to the public gardens on the Giudecca. With the state wedding close at hand, they would find the park filled with booths selling treats and makeshift stages with clowns and marionette shows to delight the children.

Not everyone milling about in the sunshine shared the family’s holiday spirit. When Gussie and I rounded the tip of the ghetto, we found a crowd gathered at the foot of the north bridge. Most were men who appeared to be shopkeepers or craftsmen, but there were also quite a few women dressed in the modest skirts and shawls of housewives. An air of crisis hung over the group. Angry words floated up from knots of sullen-looking men and a few fists were raised. The Christian guards at the open gates seemed more entertained than threatened by the display.

I approached a slight fellow in a coarse waistcoat and shirtsleeves who was hovering around the edge of the crowd. “What goes on, friend?”

“Haven’t you heard? The Doge’s own well has been poisoned. Someone got to the inner courtyard of the palace. Crept in right under the soldiers’ noses.”

“Then why are people gathering here?”

The man grabbed at the chance to enlighten someone who had not heard the news. “They say the Jews are behind it all. The old people remember when such things happened before. Now the villains are at it again.”

I kept my tone as affable as I could. “Surely not. I thought it was the wet weather that was playing havoc with the wells.”

The man’s lip curled up in disdain. “If you believe that story, you should be listening to fairy tales in the nursery with the other children.”

A red-faced woman with heavy breasts straining at her tightly lapped shawl elbowed the little man aside. “Marcello knows what he says. Already the ghetto pawnshops rob the poor of their heirlooms and make beggars of honest citizens. Now the Hebrews want to steal our water to ruin us entirely.”

“No one is forced to visit the pawnshops,” I countered. “If we didn’t pauper ourselves at the gaming tables, the pawnshops would have no business.”

My adversary rolled up her sleeves and began to move her head from side to side in a show of blowzy belligerence. I shook my head, unsure of what to say to calm her agitation. The man took my silence as an invitation to pipe up again in self-important tones. “Next thing we know, the infidel dogs will be trying to sell us water. You’re not taking their side, are you?”

Gussie tugged at my sleeve. He leaned close. Distress, or perhaps an instinct for self-preservation, moved him to speak in his own tongue. “Tito, I am at your service, but two cannot fight a mob. I suggest we retreat. Now.”

The meaning of half his English words escaped me, but the looks on the faces around us did not. My conversation with Marcello had attracted attention. The crowd was taut with anger, like a drawn bow searching for a target. Gussie was right. A strategic retreat was called for. I made a series of quick half-bows, murmured apologies for my thick head, and soon Gussie and I were hurrying down a side-street, concerned but unharmed.