2 - Painted Veil (20 page)

Signor Nevi received us with the open delight of a child, never once inquiring as to the purpose of our visit. When his polite compliments ascertained that I sang at the Teatro San Marco, he regaled us with meandering tales about the operas he had attended forty years ago. His aspect was one of exquisite gentleness, and the appalling conditions of his lodging filled me with pity. Faced with this frail gentleman in place of the vicious rogue I had expected, I hardly knew how to proceed. When I finally worked up the courage to ask about the pamphlet, Signor Nevi began beating his fist on his breast like a penitent at Mass.

“Woe to my household—I have nothing to offer you. Not a grain of rice or a crust of bread. The pittance the government allows me wouldn’t keep a cat alive.”

“We require nothing, Signore. Only tell us what you know of this pamphlet accusing the Jews.”

Signor Nevi sucked his lower lip in a pout. “In the old days my guests and I would talk for hours over the cups.”

I sent Gussie a pointed look. Perhaps this disgraced Barnabotti nobleman was more cunning than he appeared. Gussie had also taken Signor Nevi’s meaning. The Englishman excused himself, clattered down the stairs, and soon returned with a jug of
refosco
and an armload of bread and cheese.

The food and wine made Signor Nevi as pliant as a kitten. He drew his stool up to the table, cut off a hunk of cheese, and declared himself entirely at our service to speak of any topic we wished.

I asked, “Three days ago, a pamphlet appeared on the Piazza—
The Truth of the Villainous Crimes Recently Perpetrated on Our Most Serene and Christian Republic
. What can you tell us about it?”

“I remember it well—quite a lengthy ramble. It took me nearly three hours to copy.”

“Copy?”

“I write a fine hand. Before my family’s ruin, I was drilled in letters at the best boarding school in Padua. I earn an occasional
zecchino
copying letters and bits of verse for men who lack an artistic script or have a reason to conceal their own hand.”

“So you did not compose the piece?”

The old man gave a musical laugh. “Me? I never fancied myself an author—haven’t the wit. But if I should ever dabble with the notion of being a literary man, I would turn to poetry, not political diatribe.”

I regarded him steadily, rearranging the pieces of the puzzle I had begun to construct in my mind. “Someone brought you the manuscript of the pamphlet and hired you to copy it. Were you also paid to deliver your copy to the printer?”

“Yes, and to arrange for its distribution.” His mouth twisted into a rueful scowl. “It was a full day’s work for these tired old eyes and legs, and the compensation not overgenerous. But it gave me something to keep the landlady quiet for another month or so.”

It was time to strike at the heart of the matter. “Who was this tightpurse who bought your services?” I asked.

“Now that is an interesting question. I’m not sure I should try to answer it. If I tell you what I know, you will think I am only playing a foolish game.”

Gussie hastened to fill Signor Nevi’s winecup. “Let us judge the folly of your response.”

“Well… the man calls himself Dr. Palantinus.”

“Palantinus. Dr. Palantinus.” I slid the vaguely Latin name around my tongue. “It sounds like the title of a charlatan.”

“That’s a fair assessment of my benefactor.” The nobleman gave the last word an ironic twist. “Only he would probably call himself a Grand Magister. In this quarter, he is known for hiring people to sell his herbal concoctions. I’m told his aphrodisiac elixir fetches a good price. It is supposed to come from a recipe handed down from King Solomon himself.” Signor Nevi thought a moment, then added, “Of course, his tablets and elixirs are just trifles for Palantinus. He is the head man at the Mystical Temple of the Brotherhood of the Golden Seraphim.”

“The golden what?” I asked.

“The Golden Seraphim. Palantinus claims he has these celestial beings at his command. For a price, the members of the Brotherhood can partake of the rituals and ask the spirits questions.”

Gussie threw me a bemused look. I told him, “Venice has several such societies devoted to separating superstitious fools from their money, but I’ve never heard of this one.”

Signor Nevi chuckled. “Palantinus shrouds the Seraphim in great secrecy. The
brothers
may be fools, but their leader is not. The more obscure and mysterious the society, the more he can charge for admission. He specializes in recruiting wealthy foreigners but does not turn away Venetians who are able to pay. I don’t suppose you boys would be interested?” He gazed at us hopefully.

“How much does Dr. Palantinus require?” Gussie asked.

The nobleman named a sum that was more than the total I had received for all my engagements during the past year.

We both gulped and shook our heads.

Signor Nevi shrugged. “Forgive me. My lot of poverty compelled me to ask. Palantinus offers five
zecchini
for a successful referral.”

“What result did Dr. Palantinus hope to achieve with the publication of the pamphlet?” I asked.

“That I cannot say. He did not deign to share his thoughts with me, though he was most particular that I copy his words exactly and hung over my shoulder to assure himself that I executed my task faithfully. Several times I invited him to sit, but I fear my humble furnishings did not suit him.” Here Signor Nevi broke off and used a blue-veined finger to poke an escaping wad of stuffing back into the arm of Gussie’s chair.

“What does this Dr. Palantinus look like?”

“Ah, have I not said? He always wears a dark
bauta
over his head and covers his face with a white mask—a bird-beaked mask like the old plague doctors used to wear. Trying to work with that disquieting spectacle stalking round my chamber was something I won’t soon forget.”

“Has no one seen his face?” asked Gussie.

“No one that I know of.”

I sighed in frustration. “Was he tall or short? Fat or lean?”

Signor Nevi screwed up his wrinkled face in thought. He answered slowly. “Not so tall as either of you, but not so very short either. As to his constitution, it’s so difficult to say. Palantinus kept a light cloak wrapped close around him, and with the folds of the
bauta
about his shoulders…” The nobleman trailed off and shook his head.

Try as we might, we were not able to gather any identifying characteristics of the personality behind the vile pamphlet. The harder we pressed Signor Nevi for specific details, the fuzzier the old man’s memory became. He appeared relieved when we ran out of questions, and though he overwhelmed us with courtesies as he hobbled out on the landing to see us on our way, his strained face told me that he was glad to see our backsides headed down the stairs. I expected that the coins I had left on the corner of his table would lighten his mood.

Halfway down to the street door, I felt compelled to look back up at the affable aristocrat who had sunk so low. “Signor Nevi, did you read the contents of Dr. Palantinus’ manuscript?”

“Of course, how could I transpose the words to a new sheet if I did not read them?”

“Do you agree with the sentiments he expressed?”

He shook his head. “I can’t say that I do. I thought it was all rubbish concocted by a bitter mind.”

“Then, have you heard that the words you copied incited a riot that left one Hebrew dead and burned an entire family out of their home?”

His smile faded and he sank lower on his stick. “Do not mock me, young
signore
. I pray that you are never in my unhappy situation, but if fortune does desert you, ask yourself how quickly you would abandon your principles to put food in your belly.”

Chapter 21

Gussie and I traversed the alley in silence and quitted the miserable parish of San Barnaba as fast as our feet would carry us. When we reached the other side of the canal, we went our separate ways to learn what we could about the mysterious figure that Signor Nevi had described. I stopped in at my coffeehouse, made the rounds of taverns, and even went down to the wharf to inquire of a few of my brother’s seagoing associates. I kept my questions as discreet as possible. If my suspicions were correct, the man who posed as Dr. Palantinus had already murdered one man and accused another to cover his tracks.

Only a few men, and no women, had even heard of Palantinus. That few connected his name with alchemy and conjuring but had no idea of where he might be found. After wearing the soles of my boots thin, I knew no more than I had when I’d left San Barnaba and still had several long-postponed errands to perform. In quick succession, I made a purchase at a chemist’s shop, did the same at a draper’s, and looked in on a housewife of my
campo
who kept a small press to squeeze the juice from apples and other fruit. There, I sought a favor that was readily granted and was also cajoled into accepting several bottles of blackberry cordial. I handed these to Annetta as I stepped over our threshold.

“Where have you been?” she wailed. “Benito is beside himself. He’s commandeered my stove to brew your tea and keep your bath water warm, and here you drag in like a foot soldier at the end of a forced march. You’re exhausted.”

I yawned and stretched in agreement. My whisper came out like a dry croak. “I could do with a nap before the opera.”

“Tito, look.” She pointed to the clock on the dining room sideboard. “It’s almost time for you to leave for the theater.”

Annetta was right. After wandering in so many useless circles in pursuit of Luca’s murderer, I believed that Signor Nevi had finally set my feet on the right path. In my zeal to follow the old Barnabotti’s lead to Dr. Palantinus, I had neglected my responsibilities to the opera. When I had to perform, I usually rested during the afternoon and arrived at the theater with plenty of time to warm up my voice and prepare for my role. But here I was, on the evening of Venice’s most anticipated premiere, rushing around like a nervous neophyte before his first student concert. Benito fussed and poured tea while Annetta played some scales on the harpsichord in the sitting room. I followed her lead, bathing my throat with the warm liquid, controlling my breathing, and deploying every trick I’d ever learned for singing with an ailing throat. Little by little, the tightness and pain receded and our little house rang with the light, clear notes of my authentic soprano. All too soon, Annetta embraced me with a whispered reminder that she and Gussie would be watching from a fourth tier box, and Benito bundled me out the door to race to the theater.

I wish I could remember that night as an unmitigated triumph, but it was not to be. As expected, the house was bursting to capacity. All the noble boxes were filled, and for once, none of their curtains were drawn to facilitate gaming or romancing. The gondoliers had taken possession of the first few rows of the pit. Behind them, the rest of the populace was wedged in so tightly that even the fruit and
grappa
sellers were unable to squeeze through. Despite the presence of the Doge and his family in the royal box, the crowd showed no more decorum than it ever did. Each time Florio came on stage, such a din of exclamation and applause greeted him that he could hardly be heard. The men of his claque were certainly earning their pay, but they weren’t the only ones clapping. The noise didn’t seem to bother Florio. He absorbed the adulation like it was the breath of life, and when the audience’s enthusiasm drowned out his magnificent arias, he simply repeated them until there was enough silence for his voice to carry throughout the auditorium.

I made it through the first act, but at an excruciating price. My throat was on fire. After every passage, I had to fight a compelling urge to cough and swallow. It was an ordeal to keep to the melodic line, impossible to add ornamentation. At first the audience didn’t seem to notice. They were so intent on Florio that we other singers went largely unheeded. It was during the second act that the booing began.

Florio and I were the only singers on stage. My character of Ptolemy was called upon to mount Cleopatra’s curving staircase, deliver a short recitative, then sing a cantabile aria with Caesar listening in from a hiding place behind a pillar. It was a slow, sweet melody, the kind of thing I usually excelled at. I did manage to form perfect notes, but my voice had lost its strength. The crowd grew restless; they wanted more of Florio’s vocal acrobatics. The gondoliers began to stamp their feet, and the rest of the house, from the highest boxes to the grimy recesses of the pit, followed suit.

I strained my lungs to the utmost and beseeched the crowd with my gestures, but it did no good. My position on the staircase gave me a clear line of sight out into the auditorium. Faces full of derision and ridicule swam in the rippling air above the heat of the footlamps. Ugly, gaping mouths booed and called for me to quit the stage. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I, Tito Amato, the
castrato
whose voice had charmed thousands, was being hissed. Suddenly, the staircase no longer provided a firm footing. My legs went as limp as strands of spaghetti, my voice faltered to a halt, and I grasped the handrail for support. I had descended a few, shaky steps, intent on reaching the dark sanctuary of the wings, when a marvelous thing occurred.

Florio abandoned his character of Caesar, stepped from behind the pillar, and mounted the stairs. Throwing all dramatic credibility to the winds, he encircled me with his long arms and embraced me for a full minute. I was amazed to feel the dampness of his tears on my cheek. With one hand on my shoulder, he steered me down the stairs to the front of the stage. In the orchestra, the musicians were scratching their heads and fumbling with their music. Torani had his hands poised over the keyboard, his eyes questioning Florio with an anxious gaze. So unprecedented was the star’s behavior that the crowd was stunned into absolute silence. Florio’s womanish speaking voice washed over the now puzzled faces. He chided the audience for their cruelty, praising me as a hero and demanding that they attend to my song.

Torani took the cue. He returned to the opening chords of my aria and I struck a graceful pose. Softly, half-afraid of being booed again, I sounded a few notes, ethereal in the stillness. Unable to attempt throat-scorching embellishments, I strove to move my listeners’ hearts with simple beauty. When it was time for the repeat, Florio joined in. For once, he did not try to outshine me. He gauged his voice to mine and fashioned impromptu harmonies that spurred me to even greater efforts. Together we wove a braid of melodious delight that bound us by song as surely as brothers are bound by blood.

As the last incomparable notes drifted up to the theater’s domed ceiling, the Doge rose from his seat in the royal box. Swathed in a flowing scarlet robe glittering with gold embroidery, his neat wig topped by his single-horned ducal cap, he stared down on the stage like some remote god. When the god smiled and began clapping, the fickle audience followed with more applause and cheers of “bravo” and “bravissimo.” Their admiration barely registered with me; I was caught up in amazement at what Florio and I had achieved. By blending my crippled voice with that of my rival-turned-savior, I had just made some of the most beautiful music of my life.

I tried to hold on to that heartening feeling during the remainder of my increasingly weak performance and needed its warm glow more than ever during the Savio’s obligatory review. After the curtain had come down for the last time, Torani directed the principal singers to line up at the center of the flower-strewn stage. Florio at the head, then Emma, me, Rosa, Niccolo and, lowest in rank, the bass who had sung the part of Caesar’s second-in-command. Then Torani moved aside and awaited the Savio’s comments in a poorly concealed sweat of anticipation.

The Savio had a woman on his arm. Not the statuesque beauty he had squired at the last
prova
, but an older, narrow-shouldered woman with a vacuous smile. From the deference paid to her by Messer Grande and Signor Morelli, I took her to be the Savio’s wife. Morelli’s wife, Isabella, her expansive bosom roped in pearls and her lips decorated with a mischievous smile, brought up the rear of the group.

As the Savio and his party were showering Florio with well-deserved praise, Emma reached for my hand and threw me a pitiful glance. At first I thought she meant to bolster my spirits, then realized that she was seeking comfort from me. Emma had sung well that night, but the soprano was not enjoying the mellow, self-congratulatory exhilaration that should follow a successful performance. Her jaws were clenched tight and the pupils of her eyes resembled hard, black discs. Emma was afraid, close to panic if her vise-like grip on my hand was any indication.

I sought to calm her with a silly quip. “Steady, Cleopatra, there are no asps around here.”

Emma’s eyes widened even further. “Oh, Tito, how I wish it were so.”

The Savio moved down the line and stopped in front of Emma. “A pleasure, as always, dear Signora Albani. You have been so generous to Venice—delighting us with your inimitable song for so many years.”

She dropped into a low curtsey. “As I hope to for many more, Excellency.”

The Savio twisted one of the medals on his jacket and traded sharp glances with Torani over the soprano’s bowed head. He made a sound that was something between a mutter and a clearing of his throat, then abruptly shifted his attention to me.

“You must have been born under a lucky star, Signor Amato.”

“Excellency?”

The Savio smiled with one side of his mouth while Messer Grande glowered darkly at his side. The old military commander continued, “If Signor Florio had not seen fit to intervene on your behalf, your fine costume would be carrying the stains of rotten fruit.”

Messer Grande chimed in. “I hope you have properly thanked Il Florino for pulling your chestnuts out of the fire.”

The remark he had intended as a sanctimonious rebuke must have struck Isabella as irresistibly funny. She erupted into a peal of giggles. Holding her sides, she squealed, “His chestnuts! How amusing. He doesn’t even have any.”

Morelli grimaced and pulled his wife’s arm in a rough grasp. She winced as his long fingers tightened around her elbow. “Excellency, I beg your pardon for my wife’s unbecoming outburst.” He hesitated, shooting Isabella a venomous look. “She is apt to let her high spirits get the better of her.”

The Savio gave Morelli a dignified nod but his eyes were twinkling. He turned back to me. “I’m sure Signor Amato will soon be back to playing the nightingale at full strength. Since the unfortunate business with the painter has been resolved, he’ll have no more distractions standing in the way of his recovery.”

I cleared my throat. “The
business
you refer to was more than just unfortunate, Excellency. It was murder. And no one has been brought to trial for it.”

The twinkle in the Savio’s eyes narrowed to a gimlet gaze that must have once had his subordinates squirming in their boots. “Nevertheless, Signor Cavalieri’s killer was dealt his punishment and the matter is closed.”

“Since when does a frenzied mob take the place of the judicial court?” I sensed my fellow singers drawing away, even Emma. Not one of them wanted to seem to be in support of a troublemaker.

Messer Grande stepped around the Savio and put his weasel-thin face only a few inches from mine. “What are you saying? I am satisfied that the Jew murdered Luca Cavalieri and so is the Tribunal.”

I strove to keep my voice level and my expression benign. “Based on what facts?”

Messer Grande snorted. “Based on the fact that this Jew was known as one of the worst of his whole grasping, thieving tribe. He had been hanging around the theater, obviously making observations toward his personal gain. When he returned under cover of darkness, the painter simply got in the way.”

“Did anyone see Isacco Del’Vecchio here the night of the murder?” Thanks to Pincas, I knew all about Isacco’s activities on the night Luca was murdered, but I doubted that Messer Grande had uncovered that information.

Indeed, my simple question seemed to confound the constabulary chief. He chewed his lip and tapped his opera libretto on his thigh. I glanced at Signor Morelli. He appeared calm—detached, even. It was Torani whose forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat.

The Savio had had enough. With a last irritated “Harumph,” he turned the talk back to arias and roulades. Torani shook his head and wiped his forehead as the remaining members of the cast accepted the Savio’s congratulations with grateful humility. I was sorry to distress the director on his important night, but I couldn’t accept the sorry, speedy solution that Messer Grande had convinced the Tribunal should close the case on Luca’s murder.

Sometimes I wished I were the sort of man who could close his eyes to injustice and just walk away, but I was not. Perhaps I identified with Venice’s victims and discards because the knife had doomed me to live as an outcast of sorts. Or perhaps I was just too fond of truth, as one of my old mentors used to say. But I knew I couldn’t let Isacco continue to take the blame for a murder he didn’t commit. That would dishonor the memories of both Luca and Isacco, and allow a callous killer to roam free. Somewhere the mask of a plague doctor was twisted into a cruel grin, laughing at all of us. I was determined to find the owner of the mask and silence his laughter for good.

I headed for my dressing room with leaden feet. I was tired and discouraged, but at least Annetta and Gussie would greet me with smiles. When I opened my door, I was surprised to see only Benito, laying out a stack of fresh towels.

“Where is my sister? I thought Annetta and Gussie would be waiting for me.”

My manservant fiddled with the jars and tubes on my dressing table. “They would have, Master, but I sent them home.”