2 - Painted Veil (3 page)

Torani turned and deposited his cup on the desk top with such force that the handle snapped and chocolate splashed over the jumbled papers. He grabbed a few sheets, moved them to safety, and dabbed at the muddy rivulets with his handkerchief. I offered him mine, but he shook his head and sat back down behind the writing table with a profound sigh.

“You see how it is here. Morelli’s long-nosed clerk is choking the life out of me. It was a black day when Morelli hired that clerk away from Probate Court. Carpani insists that I account for every
soldo
in the most excruciating detail. He’s suffocating me with piles of lists and requisitions. What’s worse, his meddling is keeping me from my real work. I haven’t even had time to block out the scene we are to rehearse today.” He put his hands together in a prayerful position. “I don’t have time to run from pillar to post to look for Luca. Please, Tito, you can do this. You uncovered a murderer for us once before. Finding a scene painter who’s decided he needs a holiday should be child’s play.”

I hesitated. “Perhaps something’s happened to Luca. He might be in a hospital, unable to tell anyone who he is.”

Torani shook his head quickly. “Do give me some credit. That was one of the first things I checked. No, Luca’s inconstant ways have made him forget he’s a working man. You find him, and I’ll make sure he never forgets again.”

“Then why not send Aldo, Maestro? He knows Luca much better than I do.”

Torani gave me a long look over the tips of his fingers, then said, “I’ve already quizzed Aldo. He knows nothing and is busy with his other duties. You are the one I want for this job. I trust you, Tito. We’ve weathered many storms here at the San Marco and you’ve always done everything I’ve asked of you. I know this is different than my usual requests, but finding Luca would be a great help to this theater. And to me personally.”

I squirmed in my chair, remembering the vow I had made in my dressing room only minutes before. Tracking Luca down shouldn’t be too difficult. The man was known for his artistic talents, not restraint in the face of Venice’s many temptations. Balls, all-night gambling, rich food and drink, and the more private pleasures that could be found in dim
casini
all over the city: Luca had fallen victim to each of these on many occasions. I was sure to find him in one of his haunts, already regretting a two-day bout of Venetian excess and ready to return to his canvas.

“All right,” I answered, only dimly aware of how easily I’d been herded to that decision. “I’ll do as you ask, Maestro, but you’ll have to see that I get out of rehearsal in good time. And I’ll need Luca’s address.”

Torani’s pinched face relaxed. He smiled and rubbed his hands like a hungry man about to carve a mouthwatering joint of beef. He hastened to give me the details he had gleaned about the last time Luca was seen. These were sparse in the extreme. A little after nine on the evening before last, Luca had given his assistants their leave and bidden them a cheery goodnight. They expected to see him the next morning at their usual time. A few minutes later, Aldo asked Luca to go have a drink with him, but the painter declined, saying he had a few more things to do. When Aldo returned to finish locking up, Luca was gone and hadn’t been seen since.

“One more thing, Tito,” the director said as he tore a scrap of paper from a sheet on his desk and wrote out Luca’s address. “You must be discreet. Signor Carpani hasn’t realized that the work on the sets has been delayed. I’m praying you can get Luca back to the theater before he finds out.”

Chapter 3

Signor Carpani was annoyed. Not only had rehearsal started at quarter of eleven instead of half past ten, but Torani immediately undertook to drill Niccolo, our Neapolitan tenor, leaving the other singers free to lounge in the green room downstairs or watch Niccolo’s struggles from the floor of the auditorium. Unfamiliar as he was with the often inscrutable workings of an opera company, Carpani raised an objection.

“Maestro, can’t these other singers be given something to do?” The clerk’s high, nasal voice carried from the floor of the auditorium up to the figures on the stage.

Torani turned and answered with a fixed smile, “Do, Signor Carpani? I don’t understand. They are doing what they need to be doing.”

“But they are wasting time. Signor Florio is holed up in his dressing room complaining of a headache. Signor Amato is sitting here with his feet up. And I have just come from downstairs. One of the women is knitting.” He made this last observation in astonished tones more appropriate to announce that the bronze horses above the doors of the Basilica San Marco had jumped from their perch and were galloping around the Piazza.

“I suppose filing wills and court documents didn’t prepare you for theater work.” A pent-up sigh escaped the director’s lips. “But you must understand, Signor Carpani, singers can’t sing all day. Their throats won’t take it. I’ll get to the others in due time. Meanwhile they may study their music, learn Niccolo’s aria along with him, or simply rest their voices.”

Carpani harrumphed, and his shoulders gave a frustrated twist. He might have gone on, but Torani had already snapped his fingers and commanded Niccolo to “take it from the beginning, once more,
con molto spirito
.” As the tenor complied and filled the auditorium with a martial tune, the wiry black-clad clerk prowled back and forth with his hands behind his back. After a few minutes, he settled into a chair with a lap desk balanced on his knees and a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his long nose. Copious notes poured from his quill. I was glad he had chosen a seat far enough from mine to make conversation inconvenient.

Niccolo’s aria was melodic and rousing, and the tenor managed to produce a few interesting embellishments, but my mind began to wander on the third run-through. I stretched my arms above my head, stifled a yawn, and looked around the opera house, my second home. Carpani and I were sitting on the floor of the auditorium, facing the stage. Its elegant proscenium arch was formed by double columns on each side and above by symmetrical swags of plasterwork which met at a huge cartouche bearing the lion of St. Mark. The orchestra pit, set slightly lower than the rest of the auditorium, curved out from the stage and was connected to it by a short flight of stairs at each end. The auditorium itself was embraced by a horseshoe of luxuriously appointed boxes rising tier upon tier. The wealthy aristocrats and merchants who engaged these boxes for the season gazed down on the stage and also had a bird’s eye view of the populace who could afford only a
soldo
or two for their night at the opera. Those striving to sound elegant would use the French term and say that the poor watched the opera from the
parterre
, but most Venetians used the more descriptive word—the pit.

The theater had recently ordered benches so the rabble could sit rather than stand or mill about. Backless and roughly made, the benches had been designed to be moved aside for cleaning. That morning they were stacked against the walls; Carpani and I had settled in comfortable chairs borrowed from an unlocked box.

During performances, I’d learned to keep a sharp eye on the pit. Especially the gondoliers. No one enjoyed the opera as enthusiastically as Venice’s boatmen. They didn’t simply listen; they strained forward, swaying to the tune and drinking the music in with every pore. If they were pleased, applause was nothing. They stomped, yelled, and demanded endless encores. But if we failed to entertain, out came the hard candle stubs and soft tomatoes. Even the most talented singers among us soon grew adept at ducking.

Of course, in song as in dining, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, so it was inevitable that fistfights between the supporters of rival singers would break out. Then the beautifully dressed aristocrats would show their true colors. With card games and intimate suppers abandoned, hisses and catcalls would spill out of the boxes. One great lady had even been known to overturn her chamber pot on the brawlers in the pit.

I turned my attention back to the stage. After some work on his intonation, Niccolo finally managed to produce a rendition of the aria that satisfied Maestro Torani. The director released him and announced a scene from Act One. That was my call. I left Signor Carpani to his notes and ducked under the Doge’s box and through a door that led backstage. The scene we were to rehearse took place in Caesar’s encampment. A military tent of yellow and blue striped silk was planned for upper stage right. For now, the stagehands were positioning a pair of benches to denote its place. A row of officer’s tents that was supposed to stretch into the distance on the backdrop existed only in the mind of the missing Luca Cavalieri.

As I came through the wings, Florio approached from the back corridor. He was flanked by his manservant and his manager, Ivo Peschi. Ivo looked after the star’s travel arrangements and business interests. He was a middle-aged man with a blue-gray wig that stood up like a brush and ended in a rat’s tail tied with a limp bow. His creased face wore a frown. Florio’s valet, a wispy fellow with a perpetually hangdog appearance, carried Caesar’s battle helmet as if it were a tureen of hot soup. Except for the colors of the plumes, the helmet was a duplicate of the one Benito had deposited in my dressing room earlier that morning. I sighed. Something told me that not much singing would be accomplished in what was left of the morning.

Florio and I came out of the shadowed wings and stepped into the glow of the footlamps at the same time. Torani, manfully trying to ignore the obvious, was ready with stage directions.

“Ah, Signor Florio, if you would be so good. As the curtain rises, Caesar stands before the entrance of his tent. In a short recitative, he voices his suspicions of Ptolemy’s scheming character, then sings his aria vowing to frustrate the prince’s evil designs.” Torani indicated Florio’s mark with a determined smile, but the singer didn’t budge.

A flurry of low, excited whispers swirled behind me. In the wings opposite, workmen laid down their tools and moved closer to the stage. The old theater hands could smell a scene brewing and didn’t want to miss any of the action.

Florio wore a coat of plum-colored taffeta. Though the day was not particularly cool, he had wrapped a long scarf of yellow silk several times around his throat. As usual, he stood with one foot turned out to show off a muscular calf encased in an immaculate white stocking. All eyes were on his colorful figure as he faced Torani’s wilting smile.

“The aria will have to wait, Maestro.”

“Wait? But our rehearsal schedule is particularly tight today.” Torani’s smile disappeared completely.

“I have discovered an unfortunate matter which requires immediate attention.” Florio indicated the plumed confection in his valet’s hands. “My man tells me that Caesar and Ptolemy’s battle helmets are virtually identical.”

“Are they now?” Torani said slowly, before turning to me with an apologetic look. “Could we have a look at yours, Tito?”

Someone must have alerted Benito. He was already bringing my headgear onto the stage.

“Look, Signor Florio, the colors are different. The helmets match your costumes. The audience will have no difficulty in telling your characters apart,” Torani observed.

“That is not the issue. Ivo?” Florio sniffed delicately and took out a handkerchief that he waved toward his manager before pressing the linen square to his temple.

Ivo Peschi launched into a diatribe more worthy of a court advocate than a singer’s nursemaid. “I have Il Florino’s contract here,” he said, unfolding a bulky sheaf of paper that he had been harboring in an inside pocket. “It clearly states that his ‘helmets, swords, and similar accoutrements will not be eclipsed in majesty or dignity by those of any other player.’”

Torani nodded as the recitation of clauses and stipulations droned on. Finally, the manager stopped to draw a breath.

“Well, what would you like me to do, Signore?” Torani addressed the singer.

Florio measured my height with his gaze, then came to stand right in front of me. He put his hand flat to the top of his head and kept it level as he moved it toward mine. His bejeweled fingers stopped in the middle of my forehead. “You are at least two inches taller than I am,” he said accusingly. Then to Torani, “I’ll need five or six inches added to my helmet. More plumes, taller plumes. Blue ones, I think. Blue always shows up well under the lamps.”

Torani’s face was turning red, but he kept his voice even. “Certainly. We’ll just order another one. There’s still plenty of time. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Now, let’s get back…”

A shrill voice interrupted. “No, Maestro, absolutely not. Those helmets have been bought and paid for. They cost four ducats each.” Signor Carpani ascended to the stage, shaking his finger at Torani like a nursemaid admonishing a naughty child. “Further expenditure is out of the question.”

Florio whirled furiously. “What? Is my contract not to be honored? Am I to be treated like some unknown, some unknown…” He flapped his handkerchief uncertainly, then caught sight of Niccolo. “Like some unknown
tenor
?”

“There is no money in the budget for further costuming. The helmet will have to be worn as is, by Signor Florio or someone else,” Carpani replied firmly.

The singer’s jaw dropped. “I was employed to bring the highest level of distinction to this production. The Savio assured me that only an artist of my caliber could make this opera an occasion fit for the marriage of the Doge’s daughter. Are you telling me my services are no longer required?”

Carpani shrugged, Torani mopped his perspiring brow, and Ivo Peschi shuffled papers. The wings and the catwalks above were filled with stage crew regarding the impasse with mounting excitement. Then, there came a shifting movement in a group upstage and a slender, skirted figure pushed through the workmen. I recognized Liya Del’Vecchio, a daughter of the Jewish family that crafted headdresses and masks for several theaters in the city.

Many of my countrymen favored a singularly Venetian type of beauty: dainty features, hair bleached to a red-gold, form sleek and plump as a sparrow, manner demure yet accommodating. There was something in that, but Liya, with her exotic looks and forthright demeanor, attracted me more than any other woman I’d met at the theater. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It didn’t hurt that the Jewess displayed a fertile intelligence behind her quick tongue—I found women who offered only flirtation and gossip as tedious as a concert on a poorly tuned violin. To my sorrow, I had to admit that Liya had never been particularly attentive to me, but nevertheless I had always followed her doings with the greatest interest. What was she up to now?

Seemingly calm and unaffected by the tense atmosphere and numerous pairs of staring eyes, Liya crossed the wide stage. Her dress was drab and utilitarian, but her fine dark hair was done up in plaits wound with a red scarf and held in place by an array of gold pins. The striding heels of her neat boots resounded through the silent theater. She ignored Florio, spared a brief glance for the feathered helmet in his manservant’s arms, then greeted Torani with a graceful nod. Before taking my helmet from Benito, her expressive black eyes sent my valet a decidedly irritated look.

“There’s no need to order a new helmet, Maestro. I can make an adjustment to Signor Amato’s,” she said, carrying my helmet over to Torani. “You see where these ostrich plumes are tacked down. I can remove the feathers and replace them with a row of dyed horsehair. That would remove about six inches of height from Ptolemy’s helmet and make Caesar’s appear taller by comparison.”

“Horsehair?” I spoke for the first time. Horsehair was a poor material for a principal singer. The trainbearers and spear carriers had to make do with those common bristles, but must I? Had my value sunk that low?

“Yes. We have some back at the shop. I’ll bleach the hair and get a sample of your costume fabric from Madame Dumas. After it’s dyed, the crest of horsehair will match your costume and stand up about so.” She ran her hand over the top of the helmet. “I can make it look right.”

I was seething. I kept telling myself that it was only a helmet and it shouldn’t matter so much, but it did. Florio already had the lion’s share of the crowd-pleasing arias and I had been left with precious little music that would stir the gondoliers and their followers. Did the expensive star have to upstage my wardrobe as well? I realized that my answer lay in the question itself. Too many ducats had been spent to bring Florio to Venice and too many people were anticipating his performance for me to imagine that his contract stipulations would be ignored. If Torani did not indulge Florio’s vanity, then Ministro Morelli or his superior, the Savio, would find a director who would. I swallowed hard. I saw I would have to accept the change, but nothing could make me like it.

Carpani adjusted his spectacles and inspected the helmet as if he had just been appointed Savio in charge of millinery. “You won’t be paid any more,” he cautioned the seamstress. “In fact, since you are replacing valuable ostrich plumes with an inferior material, the theater should request a partial refund.”

“The replacement will involve a good deal of labor.” The girl spoke as firmly to Carpani as the clerk had to Florio. “My mother and I can ill afford the time. We have a large order of masks to finish for the new comedy at the Teatro Sant’Angelo.” Carpani frowned as the girl went on. “But because this theater has been such a loyal customer, we will undertake the job at no extra charge.”

Torani spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Surely, Signorina Del’Vecchio presents the perfect solution. Let’s have her take this cursed helmet back to her shop and get on with rehearsal.”