2 - Painted Veil (2 page)

“The public love it. The last opera that brought the horses and chariots onto the stage packed the pit and the boxes every night.”

“Yes.” I grimaced, recalling the backstage stink and mess. “But the box office can’t bear the cost of such stunts. With the considerable sum paid to engage Il Florino, the Senate has called a halt. Thrift has suddenly come into vogue.”

“Hence Signor Carpani.”

“And Signor Morelli,” I murmured, closing my eyes as Benito began to curl my hair with a wand he had warmed on his little alcohol stove.

The Savio had appointed Leonardo Morelli, a dour patrician, to oversee theater expenditures and curtail waste. The Morelli family had once wielded considerable influence in government circles, but had been knocked down a peg or two when a profligate Morelli lost the family’s Rialto warehouses at the faro table. The new Ministro del Teatro might be short a few ducats, but as a gentleman of standing, he could not be expected to tally the accounts himself. For that, Signor Morelli had recruited an exacting clerk who seemed to revel in figures and ledgers. It took only a few days for Signor Carpani and his notebook to become as much a part of the San Marco as the painted curtain that separated the everyday Venice with all her charms and foibles from the idealized pageants we played out on the theater’s stage.

Benito passed me a hand mirror, and I turned my head to admire his work. Rehearsal would soon begin. From neighboring dressing rooms, Rosa’s dusky contralto moved up and down the scales, echoed by Niccolo’s mellow tenor. I made a silent vow to my newly coifed reflection as Benito whisked a clothing brush over my shoulders. If any difficulties threatened the upcoming opera, they would not be caused by me. I would imitate Emma Albani and become the soul of congeniality. I would turn a deaf ear to Florio’s pompous pronouncements, reapply myself to my music, and try to regain the confidence of Maestro Torani and my fellow musicians. The great occasion that
Cesare in Egitto
would celebrate demanded no less.

Chapter 2

I left Benito polishing shoes and started through the maze of corridors that led to the stage. Audiences would be surprised to see how much space lay behind the backdrop that they thought of as the “back” of the theater. The dressing rooms were down a hallway that led to the right, well behind the stage. A larger, intersecting corridor held workshops and studios. With less than two weeks until opening night, this area was bustling. Carpenters were knocking scenery flats together, and machinists were tinkering with the intricate contraptions that brought the eye-popping stage effects to life.

The project of the morning was nothing less than the River Nile. As described in the libretto, the first act curtain of
Cesare in Egitto
rose on the open-air atrium of a palace outside Alexandria. The contentious brother and sister, Ptolemy played by me and Cleopatra played by Emma, awaited a barge carrying the Roman hero, Julius Caesar. The scene designer had submitted a model depicting a series of columns and arches topped by statues of Egyptian deities. The river appeared through the wide arches as a trio of horizontal waves set before the backdrop. These could be made to simulate the rolling waters of the Nile by a team of burly stagehands turning cranks which slid the waves back and forth. As Caesar, Florio would make his first entrance singing from the prow of a barge bedecked with flags and streamers pulled in on a track behind the waves. For every enthralling but seemingly effortless entrance of this type, there was an army of stagehands straining at ropes, winches, and pulleys in the wings and below stage.

I paused to stick my head in my favorite workshop: the scene painter’s studio. Luca Cavalieri, the principal artist, always had a vast canvas hanging from the ceiling, covering one entire wall. I loved watching it progress. Luca started with a lightly outlined sketch, painted a rough background, then added layers of perspective to create a vista that seemed to stretch for miles. This morning, the studio was an island of quiet in the backstage sea of banging, clanging activity. The smell of oily paint and pungent turpentine hung in the air, but the huge canvas was untended. Luca was nowhere to be seen.

An exclamation of disgust floated up from behind a waist-high counter. I investigated. Several of Luca’s assistants were kneeling on the floor throwing dice. They jumped to their feet.

“Ah, it’s you, Signor Amato,” said the taller one, whose name I could never remember.

“Yes, just me. You can go back to your game.” I grinned. They were accustomed to my stopping by to admire their work and knew that I, as a singer, had no authority to fuss about their idleness, even if I had been the fussing type. “Where is your master? He is usually up to his elbows in paint by now.”

The shorter, broader artist rattled the dice before answering with a touch of irritation. “Who knows? Signor Cavalieri keeps his own hours these days.”

His fellow painter seemed more anxious to defend the studio’s supervisor. “He’ll be strolling in any minute now. You know Master Luca. He’s always busy with something. When he’s intent on a project, he forgets everything else, even what hour of the day it is.”

“Does his latest project have a charming smile and a bosom to match?” I jested, but the painters passed a cautionary glance. With elaborate shrugs, they turned their attention back to their game.

Before I could take a good look at the large canvas and the other half-painted flats leaning against the walls, someone bellowed my name out in the corridor. It was Aldo, the stocky, pugnacious stage manager who did hold authority over the entire backstage crew. Luca’s assistants swept the dice from the floor, jumped up, and reached for paint-stained smocks. I signaled for them to relax and went out to find Aldo pacing the corridor like a racehorse eager for the starting flag. A self-important smile stretched his thin lips across his round, alpine face. With his pale complexion and light brown hair, he appeared more Austrian than Venetian, but I knew his family as long-time residents of the parish next to my own.

“I’ve wasted ten good minutes looking for you, Amato. Maestro Torani wants a word with you before rehearsal.” Aldo rocked back on his heels and searched my face for signs of the curiosity he thought his message would produce. He was disappointed. As part of my determination to distance myself from my old, careless ways, I was keeping my emotions on a tight rein. The stage manager continued with a scowl, “In his office. Right away.”

The director’s office lay on the opposite side of the theater. The San Marco was a venerable opera house. It dated to the middle of the last century when it first occurred to a small group of noblemen that people might pay to see the intoxicating new spectacle that combined song, dance, and visual delights. Throughout the years, several families had owned the theater and exploited it to the utmost. When the Senate took over, the roof was leaking, the gilt on the boxes was flaking, and plaster was falling in hunks. Even the boards that floored the stage had warped. During the long-overdue refurbishing, Torani had claimed a quiet corner as far away from hammering, sawing, and vocalizing singers as the layout of the building would allow. The summons to his private sanctum came as a surprise. If Torani had anything to say to a musician in private, he generally used Aldo’s cubbyhole by the stage door.

To avoid my colleagues gathering on the stage, I crossed behind the blank batten and canvas backdrop that stretched into the yawning gloom above. The hall outside Torani’s office was empty. I rapped on the door. The director didn’t make me wait; the door opened as if he had been standing right beside it. I began to worry. Was I guilty of some unknowing but serious transgression? Had I run afoul of Signor Morelli or the ubiquitous Carpani? I knew Maestro had not summoned me to indulge in social pleasantries. Rinaldo Torani seldom socialized with his musicians. He always said that the director of an opera company could not afford to get involved in personal entanglements with theater employees. He was probably right. I had seen company intrigue scuttle more than one promising career.

Torani closed the door, careful to make sure that the latch caught. He motioned me to sit, then lowered himself into a high-backed leather chair behind his writing table. An inkwell had overturned, leaving a black stream that meandered over and around wrinkled papers, dirty crockery, and spent quills. He pushed at the debris in a half-hearted attempt to impose order, finally giving up and throwing his heavy-bottomed wig on top of the whole mess. A wig made sense for a man who retained so little of his own hair, but unless he was conducting an opera in front of an audience, our director could never manage to keep one in place for more than a few minutes.

“How are you this morning, Tito?” he began, running a hand through the frizz that ringed his balding pate.

“I’m doing well, Maestro.”

“Finding Ptolemy’s cantabile aria a bit challenging are you?”

“I’ve been working on it at home. I think you will be pleased.”

He nodded and shifted his weight in his chair. “How are you getting along with Signor Florio? Not crossing swords too much, I hope.”

“I find that there are things I can learn from him,” I replied, choosing my words with care.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some tension between you. Florio can be… a difficult colleague.” The director used soothing tones. He cocked his head. Was he inviting a confidence? Maestro Torani had always reminded me of a determined sheepdog herding an untidy flock of singers and musicians. If we were late to rehearsal, Torani barked in quick, clipped phrases. If we dawdled in learning our words, he snapped at our heels until everyone fell in line. This new show of fatherly concern had me baffled.

I cleared my throat. “I do wish I had known that Florio would be coming to Venice to head the cast of
Cesare
before I heard it in the coffeehouse.”

“Ah, yes. I must apologize for that.” Torani bowed his head. “If you had been in the city I would have made sure you were informed. As it was, the Savio sprang the news on me while you were in a coach on the road between here and Florence. It took but a few hours for all Venice to be buzzing about it.”

I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation. “What’s done is of no consequence now. We all know our places and rehearsals for
Cesare
are progressing.”

“I detect a note of bitterness, but I can’t blame you. I suppose I’d feel the same if I were in your position.” Torani rose and crossed to a sideboard holding a large pewter pot and some mismatched cups and saucers. “Will you take some chocolate? I have some every morning.”

I nodded, more bewildered than ever.

He served me a cup, poured one for himself, then leaned against the front of the writing table with his legs crossed at the ankles. “Florio has been accused of overweening vanity. I’d be foolish to argue against that charge, but it might help you to bear him if you knew something of his background.”

Torani contemplated the frothy liquid he was swirling in his cup, then continued. “Our new star did not study at a
conservatorio
as you and most of your fellow singers did. He was trained for the stage by private tutors. The director of a choir in a small chapel outside Bologna discovered Florio’s voice and recommended him to a music enthusiast in that city. That gentleman arranged for his, em…” Torani sent me a quick glance. “…arranged for his surgery, and spared no expense to school him, not only in music, but also in the social graces that a singer moving in exalted circles is expected to possess.”

“I’ve been told that he was only fourteen when he first sang in public.”

“True. He was pushed to the stage early, but debuted to unprecedented acclaim. In the span of one evening’s performance he exploded from complete obscurity into the brightest star in the heavens.”

“Unlike the stars that remain fixed in the night sky, Florio’s fame continues to spread and brighten.”

Torani nodded. “The man is feted and showered with gifts wherever he appears. In London, the Prince of Wales was so enthralled that he had a medal struck in Florio’s honor, as if he were a general who had just saved the empire.”

“I’ve heard the story. When some of the courtiers objected, Florio said that when an English general sacrificed as much as he had for his voice, then he would gladly give up his medal.”

Torani gave a dry chuckle. “Florio has a sharp tongue, but few men could bear such unremitting adulation without it marking their characters for ill. Do you know he doesn’t even have a home? He talks of using his riches to build a
palazzo
fit for a duke in the Umbrian hills, but he has never stopped traveling long enough to find a suitable estate.”

I smiled to myself. Here, at last, was something I possessed that my rival did not. My home might lie on an out of the way
campo
in the Cannaregio, a modest quarter far from the Piazza San Marco with its magnificent Basilica and government buildings, but it suited me well. I had been born in that house, learned to play ball in the square, and had my first music lessons at the parish church down the
calle
. Since our father died, I had been sharing the house with my brother and sister.

My sister Annetta was the heart of our small family. She minded the house and was responsible for all our comforts. A mistress of detail, she thought of everything from sprinkling our sheets with lavender water while they dried in the sun to rising at dawn to have her pick of the freshest fish at the
pescheria
. In age, she stood between my older brother Alessandro and myself. Other matters tended to put her in the middle as well. I admit Annetta was often called on to play the role of peacemaker.

Alessandro still didn’t know what to make of his eunuch brother. Simply put, we lived in different worlds. My brother was a merchant seaman who hearkened back to previous generations of sturdy adventurers who had made our city-republic the center of Mediterranean trade. He was probably one of the few Venetians who had no use for opera. Alessandro considered music a frivolous career for any man and the doctoring done to preserve my perfect soprano an offense to reason and nature. He refused to believe my protestations that I had made peace with my condition and might even have chosen it if my ten-year-old self could have been granted the wisdom to understand the gains that would spring from the pain and the loss. We had not argued the matter for several months. Alessandro was away on a trading journey, probably haggling over a cartload of goods at some exotic
suk
even as Maestro Torani regarded me over the rim of his cup.

The director bit his lower lip. He started to speak, frowned, then said in a rush, “Tito, I must tell you why I called you here. I have a rehearsal to supervise.”

Finally. “Yes, Maestro?”

“Have you had a good look at the scenery lately?”

“I looked in on Luca’s studio this morning. The backdrop for the first act is much the same as it was two days ago.”

Torani took a sip of chocolate and let it linger in his mouth as if he still had doubts about confiding whatever it was he had on his mind. At last he said, “The work has come to a complete halt. The canvas in the studio should have been ready to fly above the stage days ago. The others are in a similar condition, only partially complete. The background painters have done as much as they can without Signor Cavalieri’s direction.”

“Where is Luca? Has he fallen ill?”

“No, he’s not ill. I’ve sent messengers to his lodging. He’s simply disappeared.” Torani leaned toward me. A thin sheen of perspiration had formed on his prominent forehead. “Tito, I need your help. I want you to find Luca Cavalieri and get him back here to finish the sets.”

His request drew me up in my seat. “Maestro, why do you ask this of me? Luca is a pleasant fellow, but we are hardly friends. I rarely see him outside the theater.”

Torani ignored my question. “I’ve already made a few inquiries,” he said. “I’ve talked to Luca’s assistants. And Aldo. Sometimes they go to a café or a wineshop after the show.”

“But, Maestro…”

The director forged ahead, his eyes intent on mine. “The last time anyone at the theater saw him was night before last. Luca and his two background painters worked late that night. They’ve been tearing through the oil and the candles. I can tell you, Carpani has been on my back about that.”