2 - Painted Veil (16 page)

Aldo lived on a little
campo
to the right of a rambling church owned by an order of barefoot friars. His square was treeless and only partially paved. At midsummer it would be uncomfortably hot and dusty. A woman packing an oil jar directed us to the right house, and a few loafing boys gathered to watch me pull the bell cord. The door was opened by a wide-eyed girl of perhaps six years. Her siblings were making a racket in the room behind her.

“Is your papa at home?” I asked.

She eyed us warily, sucked at two of her fingers, and looked as if she might slam the door at any moment.

Gussie smiled and squatted to her level. “Please,
cara
Signorina, your papa?”

Without changing her expression, the girl disappeared into the depths of the house. The door slowly swung shut; our audience of idlers laughed derisively. My eye caught a flurry of movement from a window on an upper story.

“Should we ring again, or go on to the
palazzo
?” Gussie asked.

I reached for the cord. Aldo had avoided me long enough.

Before I could ring, the door opened again. A delicate woman with a pile of untidy hair and shy, downcast eyes met us at the threshold. She balanced a chubby baby surrounded by a sour odor on her aproned hip. “I’m sorry, my husband is not at home.”

“When do you expect him, Signora?”

“I don’t know.” She smiled and looked up at us through thick, coal-black lashes. “Aldo went to Mass early this morning. After that, he had business to take care of… people to see. He will probably be quite late,” she finished softly.

There was no use questioning her further. Gussie and I strolled back across the
campo
with the boys straggling behind us. When we reached the corner of the church, I turned and asked, “Who knows the café under the red awning on the other side of the canal?”

Four voices competed to assure me they knew the very place.

“I will be waiting there for the next two hours. I have a
zecchino
for the first to bring me word that the master of the house which I just visited has stepped over his threshold.”

With whoops of excitement, the boys scurried back to the
campo
.

Gussie grinned. “What luck! I’m glad Aldo wasn’t at home. Taking a glass at a café with you is a much more pleasant prospect than dodging Isabella Morelli’s amorous volleys.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, my friend, but I’ll be drinking alone. You are going to the
palazzo
.”

The Englishman’s stricken face was a sight to see. “Oh no, Tito. I can’t distract Isabella and look around the
palazzo
at the same time.”

“You won’t have to. Put your creative powers to work. Ask Isabella to give you a tour of the place. I’m sure she will if you find the right way to ask her.”

“I don’t even know what to look for.”

“Use your artist’s eyes. Observe everything as if you were going to draw it later. Pay close attention to the unexpected or anything that doesn’t seem to make sense. And try to get Isabella talking about the theater. Luca’s death still has tongues wagging—ask her if she knew him.”

After a few more minutes of persuasion, Gussie trudged off on what he termed his “loathsome errand” and I settled in at the café. I refused to believe that Aldo had roused himself for an early morning Mass. I had not left the theater until an hour after midnight, and the stage manager’s duties would have kept Aldo busy long after the cast had been released. Before long, I fully expected one of the boys to fly around the corner with the news that Aldo had left the house. My intent was to follow the stage manager and learn whatever I could. If I was wrong and Aldo was away from home, at least I would be alerted when he returned. And I would not allow myself to be turned away again.

Chapter 16

There is a blessed sense of release that comes with the completion of a challenging task. Mastering a tricky aria always makes me feel as if I am walking on the clouds, as free ranging as a bird. So does fashioning a clever plan that comes to fruition with every detail realized. Unfortunately, that does not describe my frame of mind as we dined on our roof terrace that Sunday evening. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d felt the elation of an unqualified success. It was beginning to seem as if everything I touched was doomed to frustration and failure.

“Our day a failure? I wouldn’t call it that.” Gussie interrupted himself to take a bite of cold chicken, then continued. “We both found out something of interest. Now we know that Morelli is presenting Venice with a sham of a
palazzo
.”

Annetta left the table and wandered over to the stone parapet that enclosed the open end of our garden terrace and gave a fine view of the neighboring squares. Ever since I had returned home, she had been fussing and driving Benito to distraction over supper preparations, yet her plate of food sat at the end of the table, barely touched. She asked, “Did Signor Morelli attend his wife’s gathering?”

Gussie shot me a quick look before he answered, “No.”

My sister leaned against the railing with arms crossed over her simple dress of russet red, hair wound around her head in the thick braids that Gussie would rather see flowing free. She plucked a blossom from a terra-cotta urn overflowing with pink geraniums. Picking nervously at the petals, she posed another question: “How ever did you manage to get away from Signora Morelli and her guests to explore the
palazzo
?”

“The other guests were all female. I think Signora Morelli wanted to display me to her friends like I was an exotic pet—a trained monkey or something of the sort. When I excused myself to find the water closet, they could hardly follow.”

“Oh, I see. Isabella Morelli thinks she owns you now.”

Gussie pretended not to hear the pique in Annetta’s tone and went on to describe what he’d found. “The sitting room where we were received was set up well enough. It was part of our hostess’ private suite. The furniture was of excellent quality, and the ceiling was frescoed with some lovely clouds that looked as if they’d been freshly painted. But when I looked behind the hangings that hid other rooms outside her suite, all I saw were bare floors, walls discolored by damp, and fallen moldings crumbling into powder.”

“Any furniture or paintings in those rooms?” I asked.

“No. I went through one chamber that opened onto a balcony overlooking the main reception hall on the first level. The hall below was in decent shape, but the chamber leading to the balcony was completely bare. Its walls showed light-colored patches where paintings and mirrors would have once hung, but now… nothing. Mind you, I didn’t have time to look everywhere—the
palazzo
is a sprawling old pile—but the whole place had a musty air of disuse about it.”

“Did any footmen pop up to direct you?”

“The only servant I saw was an ancient crone who brought in a tray of lemonade.”

I rubbed my chin, ignoring the cold fowl and fruit laid out before me. “So Morelli is deceiving Venice with a few showy rooms. He plays the affluent aristocrat, excessively proud of his long pedigree and always careful to echo the dictates of the supreme Tribunal, but he must be nearing the end of his family’s fortune.”

Gussie nodded. “Unless he has a chest of gold ducats hidden away, it looks like there’s not much left.”

From behind me, Annetta asked, “And what of Isabella? Was she wearing jewels? A fine gown?”

I sent Gussie a warning wink, but I needn’t have bothered. For all his naïve charm, Gussie knew a thing or two about the matters that take precedence in the female brain. He affected a disinterested look and said, “She may have worn a small necklace of pearls. I’m not sure. I didn’t notice her gown. I stayed as far away from my hostess as possible. I don’t care for her ways—her smiles have evil designs behind them.”

Though she was out of my sight, I knew Annetta had relaxed. I wasn’t surprised when she returned to the table and began to nibble at a slice of watermelon. “What was the interesting thing you found, Tito?” she asked with a bright smile.

I sighed, “I hardly like to say. I watched Aldo set off for a private meeting with Torani.”

Annetta drew her eyebrows up and spit a watermelon seed into her napkin. “Is that unusual? After all, they work together.”

“I can’t think why they would meet outside the theater. Torani rarely socializes with anyone from the company, certainly not Aldo, and any opera business could be addressed during the long hours we’ve all been putting in at rehearsals.”

“Perhaps it was a chance meeting.”

“No, I’m certain it was prearranged.”

“What happened?”

“I hadn’t been at the café long when the swiftest of the boys came to claim his
zecchino
. I had no problem following Aldo down the wide Fondamenta della Misericordia and over to the Strada Nova. He was not trying to hide his movements… seemed quite full of himself, in fact, calling greetings to acquaintances and swaggering like a man who’d just broken the bank at the Ridotto.”

“Did you mean to overtake him?” That was Gussie, waving a pesky fly away from the melon.

“I did, but I was hanging back to see where he was going. When we neared the Rialto, I thought I should make my move.” I paused, remembering how Aldo had consulted his watch, then increased his pace through the network of mazelike
calli
around the markets. That area is thick with shops and taverns that line some of the narrowest, crookedest streets in the city. Aldo lost me several times, but each time I managed to spot him again as he crossed a square before one of the innumerable churches that also pack the neighborhood.

“Where was he going, Tito?” Annetta asked.

“The quay between the bridge and the German warehouse. When he stepped onto the open pavement, I was just a few steps behind and ready to tap him on the shoulder, but he didn’t hesitate for even an instant. He’d found what he came for.”

Benito chose that moment to come onto the roof and offer us a plate of lemon biscuits and a pot of coffee. He gave a discontented shrug as Gussie and Annetta shook their heads. “Go on, Tito,” Annetta cried. “Was Torani waiting for him?”

“A solitary gondola was bobbing at the quay. Aldo made straight for it and I drew back behind a group of countrywomen arguing about the quickest way to the Piazza. The gondola’s passenger was masked, but he raised his mask for a moment when Aldo stumbled and had to be steadied into the boat.”

“You’re sure it was Torani?”

I nodded ruefully. “Oh yes, I have no doubt that it was Maestro Torani in the gondola. He clearly had business with Aldo that he wanted to discuss in private. But what they talked about—I have no clue.”

Annetta had wandered back to the parapet. “Did you try to follow the boat?”

“Of course, they headed south. I ran along the canal, hoping to pick up an empty gondola, but on such a beautiful day every boat was engaged. I finally lost them near the Palazzo Grimani.”

Gussie shook his head and took his cup to the railing to join Annetta. The sound of their low voices provided a background for my thoughts. Something had just occurred to me—perhaps I had reversed the true situation. Torani’s status led me to assume that the director had called for the meeting, but Aldo could just as well have arranged it for reasons of his own.

Annetta raised her voice. “Tito, leave your gloomy face over there and come look at this amazing sunset.”

We had not had such a celestial display for a long time. Above the slanting rooftops and church spires, a ragged bank of clouds glowed like a crescent of flame. With each passing second, its crimson glory deepened and intensified. Just as it seemed the shining arc would burst and run with molten gold, a cascade of bells rang out across the city and was answered by a murmur from the bell towers on the lagoon islands. The sobbing of the bells sounded a dirge for the flaming cloud. It abruptly grayed and shredded away to the west, leaving us wondering if the sunset we had just witnessed could possibly have been as beautiful as we remembered.

Benito had been hovering around the table, brushing up crumbs and stacking dishes onto a tray. After folding the tablecloth into a neat square, he threw something down on the bare tabletop. “Master, have you seen what is being distributed on the Piazza?”

I crossed the tiles and picked up a slim pamphlet entitled
The Truth of the Villainous Crimes Recently Perpetrated on Our Most Serene and Christian Republic
. It was the type of partisan booklet often printed by those with more money than reason. A quick leaf through the pages made this pamphlet’s intent perfectly clear. In flagrant language that made the article I had read in the gazette seem like a model of subtlety, the anonymous author accused the Jews of a plot to corrupt all the island’s wells and cisterns.

“Where did you get this?”

Benito’s eyes lacked their usual twinkle and his voice was solemn. “On the Mercerie. At a coffeehouse I often visit. Hundreds must have been printed. By the end of the afternoon, everyone in the vicinity of the Piazza seemed to have one in their hands.”

“What were people saying?”

My little manservant shrugged. “All manner of things. Most people laughed and tossed the pamphlet aside, but some discussed it with others and seemed concerned. A few cursed and looked angry enough to throttle the next Hebrew they saw.”

Gussie and Annetta had their heads together, examining the booklet more carefully than I had. My friend gave a low whistle. “Here, Tito, you had better take a look at this.” He handed me the pamphlet with his finger pointing to a long passage.

After exhausting his malicious invective concerning the water supply, the writer turned his attention to another recent crime. The murder of Luca Cavalieri was rehashed and presented as another strategy in the Jews’ scheme to terrorize the city and enslave the Republic to the nation of Abraham. As the writer strove to connect the ruined wells and the painter’s death, he asked: “Will those who crucified our Lord be allowed to murder good citizens one by one as we go about our daily business?” With a duplicitous show of discretion, the writer even alluded to one “I____o D__’V______o, a thieving infidel lately arrived from the free port of Livorno” as the murderous agent. No evidence was given to convince the reader of Isacco’s guilt, but then, there was not one true, undistorted fact in the entire vile publication.

I threw the pamphlet on the table. Disgust and anger gave my voice a sharp edge. “Benito, you should have given me this at once.”

My manservant assumed his most pained, affronted expression. “I didn’t think it would be proper to ruin your supper. After all, what can you do about it? The book is all over Venice by now.”

“Still…” I muttered, trying to find the right words to sooth Benito’s ruffled feathers and explain the sickening uneasiness that was stirring within me.

“Oh, no,” Annetta whispered behind me. She rushed to the railing. “Something has caught fire.”

Beyond the rooftops of the neighboring
campi
, wisps of gray smoke were barely visible against the darkening sky. “Perhaps someone is burning a pile of trash,” Gussie said hopefully. We all nodded, praying the Englishman was correct. But presently, the breeze wafted small pieces of ash to our terrace and the air over a cluster of taller buildings to the west took on a subtle yellow-orange glow. Annetta clutched my arm.

“Oh, Tito,” she said, telling me what I already knew, “it must be in the ghetto.”