2 - Painted Veil (26 page)

“You might as well tell me. Gussie knows where I am and why I came. You won’t be able to toss me down a hole or into the lagoon without someone being the wiser.”

Torani’s face lost its composure. I watched as his features melted into the suffering rictus portrayed by the traditional mask of tragedy. “My God, boy, you can’t think I did it.” He took a small step toward me and extended a hand. His voice dropped to a wounded whisper. “But you do. You think I killed Luca and pushed you through the trap. How can you possibly have come to that conclusion?”

I retrieved my purse and took out the corner of paper that had Luca’s address written on one side and the remains of Theresa Cavalieri’s on the other. I handed it to him. “Do you remember giving me this?”

He examined both sides closely, then gave me an incredulous look. “You think that because I had a letter from Theresa, I must have killed her son?”

“That was only one of your lies. You said you knew nothing about where Luca’s mother was appearing, then you lied about leaving the theater before Luca was strangled. You were arguing with him. Less than an hour later he was dead.”

The man was weeping now, but I plunged on relentlessly. “The night I was pushed through the trap, you had Emma’s maid call her away so that I would be alone on the stage. You tore your breeches when you squeezed through the tunnel to get behind the draperies to push me.”

Torani was leaning heavily on his desk. He stumbled back a few paces to sink into the chair that faced it. “Tito, you have it all wrong.” He wiped his eyes and stared at me with naked anguish. “How could you think that I would harm you? You, of all people. I treasure you more than any singer I’ve ever had. I couldn’t love you more if you were my own son. You don’t know the whole story.”

I gazed into the eyes that seemed to have aged ten years in the last few moments. I remembered all those times when Torani and I had been connected by the magic of music, thinking with one mind and singing with one voice. I spoke very gently: “Then explain it to me, Maestro.”

Chapter 27

The director bowed his head and covered his eyes with a limp hand. It took several glasses of wine from the decanter on the sideboard before his spate of melancholy retreated. Then, sitting in Torani’s chair and facing him across his desk in the sunny office that I had so rudely invaded, I heard his story.

“It was all so long ago,” he began, “before you were even born. I was an actor playing comedies on a makeshift stage in market squares. Can you imagine me as an Arlecchino hitting my enemies over the head with a wooden sword? No, I thought not. I can hardly believe it myself.” He raised a weak grin. “The boisterous farces of our little company did not suit me at all. I was searching for another position when our manager hired a new Brighella. A more beautiful, vivacious soubrette never graced a stage. Just to look at her took my breath away. It was Theresa, of course.”

Torani fell silent, gazing at the quavering patches of sunlight reflecting off the canal outside his window.

I prompted him. “You fell in love.”

“Oh yes,” he replied in a far-off voice, “for the one and only time in my life. Madly, irrevocably, passionately in love. At first, Theresa seemed to return my feelings. She moved her trunks to my rooms and we were together constantly. I gave no further thought to leaving the company. Then Flavio Cavalieri joined us—he was tall, handsome, the perfect leading man. Theresa was smitten at once. The rest of the story is as big a farce as any we ever played. Within a month, the love of my life married Flavio, and I turned my talents from comedy to opera.”

The gears in my brain were spinning. “Then Luca, could he have been your son?”

Torani shook his head. “Both Luca and his brother Silvio are the very image of Flavio Cavalieri. But I could see Theresa in Luca as well. That smile that made you think of so many delicious opportunities, the graceful way he held his head when he was at his canvas, so many of his ways reminded me of her.”

“What did you and Luca argue about?”

Torani slid his hand under his coat and let it rest on his heart in just the same way that I so often touched my image of Liya. After a moment, the director drew out a folded letter and flattened it on his desk. The letter was missing one corner. He fitted my bit of scorched paper along the jagged edge and invited me to take a closer look. The edges met in a perfect match.

He said, “Theresa and I have kept in contact over the years. When she is hard up or in trouble, she always lets me know. I may be an old fool, but I continue to help her. My heart would never allow me to do otherwise. Apparently, Luca’s heart was made of sterner stuff. Theresa wrote him faithfully, but his replies had dwindled to nothing. It was a great sorrow to her. Luca knew that I was an old friend of Theresa’s—he had asked me for a job on the strength of that association. When I hired him, I told him that I expected him to make a better effort where she was concerned. He promised, but in true Luca fashion, he continued to go his merry way without a thought for his mother. In this letter, Theresa begs me to intercede with Luca on her behalf. Would you like to read it?”

Torani stood up and proffered the letter. I hesitated, then took the worn missive from his hand. The paper was thin and wrinkled from being carried in his pocket for weeks. It was as he said. After reporting a bit of theater gossip, Theresa implored her old lover to encourage her son to mend his relationship with her.

The director continued. “Luca never could stand criticism. I didn’t go to his studio with the idea of starting a fight. I was just trying to make him understand how much his rebuffs hurt his mother, but Luca bridled the minute I mentioned her. I defended Theresa and, before I knew it, we were both shouting. I made a quick retreat—nothing of substance could be accomplished with Luca taking that tone. I went back to my office to write a response to Theresa. I wanted to let her know that I’d tried and would keep trying.”

“You didn’t return to Luca’s studio later that night?”

“No. Why would I?”

“I’ve discovered that Luca was not above blackmailing colleagues, and I know that he was expecting a large sum of money. I thought you might be one of his victims.”

Torani looked at me blankly.

“You are not a man to be bullied, Maestro.”

“That is true. I would never surrender to blackmail, but then, I have no secrets worthy of extortion. My pathetic tale of unrequited love might as well be ancient history. I don’t enjoy talking about the embarrassing shambles of my life, but I can’t imagine Luca thinking I would pay him to keep quiet about Theresa.”

He punctuated his statement with a look that made me shift uneasily in my chair. “You must believe me, Tito,” he went on. “There is no great mystery in my life. And besides, there is no power in earth or heaven that could make me harm Theresa’s child.”

I did believe him. When confronted with such bare, unvarnished emotion, I found it easy to tell the difference between a mask and Torani’s true face. I left the director’s office feeling ashamed and relieved—ashamed that I had doubted the man who had guided me through so many feats of vocal wonder and relieved that I would not be forced to give him up to Messer Grande’s cruel justice.

***

I determined my next course of action after an hour of furious thought over a cup of Peretti’s stimulating brew. I had always known that Luca’s murderer would turn out to be someone who could not simply slip away from our island republic like an anonymous villain of the back streets. The killer had to be a man whose absence would have caused inconvenient speculation. He had tossed Luca’s body in the lagoon and gone about his business, hoping the corpse would never surface. But when the swollen body displayed itself so prominently during the bridegroom’s reception ceremony, the killer’s way of life, his very existence, was threatened. He scrambled to cast suspicion as far away from himself as possible, blaming the Jew who had fought with Luca only moments before his arrival at the studio. How irritating he must have found my refusal to accept Isacco as the real killer. After I’d made the connection between the killer and Dr. Palantinus, irritation turned to murderous rage.

I’d made no progress in identifying my assailant at the theater. Besides Maestro Torani, the clerk Carpani was the only person not accounted for when I’d tumbled into the trap. Small-minded and waspish he might be, but could Carpani possibly possess the arrogance and gall needed to pull off the role of Palantinus? No, it was ridiculous even to consider.

And so, my head wreathed in puzzles, I boarded a gondola for the Grand Canal and was soon installed in the second lady’s sitting room of the day, facing a second charming hostess. This time I was offered lemonade, and a striped tabby draped itself across the mistress’ lap.

Isabella Morelli fluttered a large, painted fan that depicted the mythological coupling of Eros and Psyche in salaciously vivid detail. Tiny beads of sweat gathered above her generous lips. “How hot the afternoons are becoming, Signor Amato. I am inclined to skip tonight’s performance. The opera house will be stifling and I can’t abide the thought of being shut up in that stuffy box for four hours.”

“That would be a pity, Signora. The entire company would miss your gracious presence. I hope you will reconsider. I’m told there will be ices in the refreshment room to provide for a cooling interlude.”

Her fan fluttered violently. “My husband prefers that I stay in our box. He is very conscientious in observing the proprieties.”

“Surely there is nothing improper about enjoying an ice on a warm summer evening.”

“It is not so much the ice that he objects to, though he would not care for one. My husband has schooled himself to keep his natural appetites at bay.”

“What is it, then?” I asked, keeping my voice as casual as possible.

She narrowed her eyes. “He objects to who I might talk to, what I might say. If I’m kept in our box I’ll have fewer opportunities to embarrass him and his illustrious lineage.”

Could it really be this easy? I had presented myself at the Palazzo Morelli, uninvited and fresh from my enlightening session with Maestro Torani, intent on engaging Isabella in conversation about her husband. The lady had just handed me a beautiful opening, but she snatched it away with her next words. “I really don’t wish to speak of Leonardo Morelli. Why bore ourselves to death?”

She changed her tone with a pert smile. “Tell me why your handsome English friend has not paid another call. When you were announced, I hoped that Signor Rumbolt would be with you. But no, here we are—a lonely woman pining for a bit of harmless flirtation and a
castrato
who is immune to such dalliance.”

I shook my head in deliberate fashion. “I doubt very much that Signor Rumbolt will make a return visit. He has asked my sister Annetta to marry him.”

“I see. Your friend must have an independent streak. Not many
Inglese
venture beyond their borders where matrimony is concerned. I truly wish your sister and Signor Rumbolt the best. Marriage can be a blessing if the parties are united by love.” She touched the rim of her fan to her cheeks. To hide her disappointment? If so, any sorrowful expression had been replaced by a mischievous smile when the fan was lowered. “And what of you, Signor Amato. I find your condition most curious. Tell me, how does a eunuch endure, cut off as you are from the bliss of romance?”

I pondered my response as Isabella grasped the unintended double meaning of her question and tried to drown her bubbling laughter in a gulp of lemonade. Her boldness surprised me. I knew she took delight in overstepping the bounds of polite society, but such a direct inquiry was impudent indeed. Perhaps her upbringing in a privileged caste had left her with the notion that we musicians were little more than amusing servants and thus fair game for any request. Ah well, I thought, if discussing my private life will keep her talking, so be it.

“My surgery did not leave me entirely immune to the desires of the flesh.”

Her cheeks colored and she snapped her fan shut. “Explain this to me,” she commanded abruptly.

“When I am in the presence of a woman whose nature pleases me, I feel the tug of desire much as any man would.” Isabella had pushed the cat off her lap and leaned forward to catch every word. I found myself searching for an explanation sufficiently vague to leave myself some sense of modesty. “But I must harbor my desires carefully or risk not being able to carry them out.”

“Ah,” she breathed, “so the rumors are true. Despite all appearances, your potency was not entirely destroyed.”

It was my turn to ask for an explanation. “Signora?”

She sat back, regarding me appraisingly, tapping the closed fan on her breast. “Is it possible that you don’t realize what a strange effect you create?”

I shrugged dumbly, so she began to instruct me.

“You are beautiful, of course, but powerful, too. Not with the strength of brawn and sinew. Yours is a soft, subtle force. Honey, not beef.”

“Are you talking about my voice?”

“I’m talking about all of you. Your amazing voice is just the most obvious characteristic that sets you apart from the normal run of men. When I watch you move across the stage with those impossibly long strides, then stop and captivate the audience with one of your graceful poses, I fancy you are not of this world. You are intriguing, disturbing almost. You seem to belong to another race of beings altogether.”

“I assure you that I am quite human.”

“Yes, now that we are having this intimate chat, I can see that you are.” Isabella opened her fan and fluttered the bodies of Eros and Psyche into motion. Her manner had changed. Her smile was beginning to resemble the jaws of a hungry tigress. She continued, “Let me satisfy myself on one more point. You are not able to father children, are you?”

“That is true,” I answered slowly, unnerved by her question and by the willful fire that had sprung into her eyes.

She rose with a crisp swish of her satin skirts and moved to the window to draw the drapes. As she returned, she bent over the back of my chair, caressing my ear with her breath. “The sun has moved around to this side of the
palazzo
. It makes the room so hot. Would you not like to move to someplace cooler and more comfortable?” She swept her fan toward a door that could only lead from her private sitting room to her bedchamber. Her sudden desire threw me off balance. I had not foreseen this eventuality at all.

I was saved from my dilemma by the arrival of the footman who had attended Isabella at the theater. He entered the room without a shred of the deference expected in a servant.

Isabella jerked up straight. “Fabrizio, what are you doing here? I didn’t send for you. Withdraw at once.”

Barely sketching a bow, he replied, “Signor Morelli has sent a messenger, my lady. Senator Paolo Rossi is hosting an assembly before tonight’s opera. The master has instructed me to convey you to the Ca’ Rossi in good time. He will meet you there.”

My hostess scowled and balled her hands into fists. “I have not yet decided if I am going out tonight. I have a guest.”

“So I see.” The man’s reply was sharp and cool. “The gondola will be waiting at the front in twenty minutes.” He turned on his heel, then paused at the threshold. “Ah, one more thing. The master directs you to wear your dark gray gown with the high lace collar.”

I expected a scene replete with tears and breakable objects shattering on the walls, but Isabella surprised me again. The color drained from her face and she sank to the floor in a froth of satin. I rushed to her side.

She hadn’t fainted, but some overwhelming emotion robbed her of speech. She simply clutched my arms, shaking, trying to master herself. We must have made a strange sight, clinging to each other like frightened children on the carpet of her white and gold sitting room. When the unhappy noblewoman did speak, her voice was taut and tired. “
Che bastardo
, a more arrogant fool never blighted this earth.”

“Your footman?”

“No, my husband. Fabrizio is just a blockhead that Leonardo hired to run his errands and spy on me. I don’t conform to his standards of wifely behavior, you see. He got me at a bargain, thinking gratitude would bend me to his will. We’ve been at daggers drawn ever since.”