2 - Painted Veil (4 page)

Carpani handed her the helmet with a sharp nod. As he passed in front of me on the way back to his notebook, he muttered under his breath. Several phrases carried: “What can you expect if you deal with Jews? Cut-throat dogs the lot of them.”

“Signor Florio?” Torani asked with a tentative smile. “Will these arrangements be suitable?”

The haughty
castrato
glanced at his manager, who still clutched the thick contract in his sinewy hands. After receiving a judicious nod, Florio acquiesced with surprising cheerfulness and moved to his rehearsal mark as if nothing remotely unpleasant had just occurred. It was as if he had been playing the scene for dramatic effect, just a bit of fun to enliven an otherwise boring rehearsal.

“Tito?” At least Torani had the grace to ask my permission, even if the alteration was a foregone conclusion. I agreed with a great show of amiability, sternly reminding myself that one costume was not worth getting upset about. After all, I had other things to think about. I had a wandering painter to find.

Chapter 4

True to his word, Torani released me with plenty of time left in the day to search for Luca Cavalieri. The theater sat at the confluence of two narrow canals, midway between the Piazza and the Rialto. Of all the open spaces in the city, only the vast square before the glittering, domed Basilica and its soaring bell tower enjoyed the designation of Piazza. Any other square, no matter how many homes and shops might enclose it or how grand a church might adorn it, was only a
campo
. Along with the Doge’s palace and the Senate’s headquarters, the Piazza San Marco boasted a number of cafes and taverns, but I remembered Luca mentioning a favorite drinking spot in the warren of alleys and
campi
that made up the commercial district of the Rialto.

I went out by the stage door and turned left toward the marketplace to look for the tavern called The Four Winds. After enduring several weeks of cool, rainy days, the populace welcomed the sun with buoyant spirits. The porters and messengers who haunted gondola landings hoping to pick up a bit of work had rolled up their sleeves and lounged against bridge railings with their faces turned up to the clear, azure sky. Gondoliers without fares sang snatches of tunes or bantered with water girls who passed by swinging their hips, shouldering wooden yokes with copper buckets suspended from each end. All along the narrow walkway by the canal, people loitered in shop doorways, too infatuated with the gentle sun and the warm, southern breeze to go inside and see to their work.

Presently, the pavement dumped me onto a broad
campo
with an ornately sculpted well at one end. The water girls clustered around its steps, drawing up bucket after slopping bucket. As an island surrounded by the undrinkable salt water of the lagoon, Venice relies on these public wells for its cooking and drinking water. The incomparably pure, sweet water is a gift of the sky and untouched by human hands. It comes from rain that falls into grills set in the paving stones and filters through a bed of sand into the deep, cool cisterns that underlie every
campo
. Throwing refuse into a well is punished as a major crime; even habitually neglecting to replace the wooden cover can earn someone a hefty fine. Every
campo
has a troupe of girls who earn their bread by delivering their liquid cargo to neighboring houses and shops. Four
lire
buys a daily supply of water for the month and releases a housewife, or her maid, from the never-ending chore of water hauling.

Expecting to find The Four Winds on the opposite side of the
campo
, I skirted around the water carriers, likewise the woodmen offering bundles of kindling for stove fuel. Halfway across, a crowd gathering before the church steps blocked my way. A mustachioed man in a coat of balding purple velvet was clambering onto an upended barrel with the help of several women. The speaker was short, potbellied, and totally unprepossessing, but his voice had a commanding ring.

“Come one, come all,” he shouted from his makeshift rostrum. “Prepare to be amazed. See the marvel that has thrilled princes and sovereigns throughout the length and breadth of Italy.”

The showman had the swarthy complexion and jet black hair of a Sicilian but spoke in the Venetian dialect. He had chosen his place with care. The wide arch of the church’s paneled doors provided an impressive backdrop, and a shaft of sunlight threw his dramatic gestures into full illumination. By contrast, most of his onlookers stood in the shadow of a tall building to the left of the church. I had no time for this mountebank, but the swelling crowd herded me inexorably toward him. I ended up in a raised doorway with a good view of the speaker, but on the opposite side of the square from where I wanted to be.

Glancing around the
campo
, I saw only one person who was familiar to me. On the fringe at the other side of the crowd stood a tall Englishman I had met at one of Count Monteverde’s tedious dinners. The man’s name escaped me, but I couldn’t fail to remember his face. His open, good-natured countenance under a shock of untidily arranged blond hair had made a sharp contrast to the elaborate curls and weary, dissipated features of the other guests at table that afternoon.

The showman was exhibiting a white dove, holding the bird aloft on an uplifted wrist. At a chirp from a tin whistle, the dove flew in an arc just over the heads of the crowd and landed on his opposite wrist. Two chirps and the dove reversed the procedure. The crowd watched intently, but I suspected that the bird would have to demonstrate fancier tricks than this to hold their interest. The showman did not disappoint. In eloquent phrases, he described his feathered companion’s chief talent: fortune telling. Despite my errand, I was intrigued. I didn’t believe his spiel for a minute, but I was curious to see how he was going to convince the onlookers to part with their hard-earned money.

With the dove on his shoulder, the man held up a ring the size of a dinner plate with a flat disk inside. The disk was rigged so that a tap from the bird’s beak would make it spin. One side was white, the other black. This was the meat of the routine: for one
soldo
, anyone could ask the bird a question that would be answered by a spin of the disk. If the disk came to rest on the white side, the answer was
yes
. Black signified
no
.

A man immediately stepped forward to test the bird’s skill. I thought his southern face very like the showman’s, only thinner and younger. A brother, or perhaps a son? He tossed a coin in a basket held by one of the women. “Is my name Giovanni Goretti?” he asked with a wide grin. When the disk came up black, he registered a look of studied astonishment. “What a marvelous thing. The bird knew I was trying to trick him. Goretti is my cousin; I am Pietro Batista.”

People nudged each other and muttered excitedly. No matter what common sense must be telling them, most of the crowd appeared ready to believe that this ordinary bird could answer their heartfelt questions. Was it the appeal of a tantalizing mystery that promised to enliven a humdrum day? Or perhaps an ancient, primitive way of thinking that we’re all prey to given the right circumstances? I didn’t have the answers, but there was no doubt in my mind that the showman was manipulating the crowd as surely as he did his trained bird.

A careworn woman lugging a bundled infant could hardly wait to add her coin to the basket. “My baby has an ailing chest. He coughs all the time. Will he get well?” She had to raise her voice and repeat her question over the cries of “poverino” and “Dio santo” from the sympathetic crowd. The bird man held up his hand for quiet and twisted his head to give the dove a questioning look. Apparently satisfied that the bird understood the question, he lifted the ring to shoulder level. The dove’s sleek, snowy neck stretched out to give the disk a sharp peck. The disk was a blur of gray as it spun, but the mother’s anxious face broke into a smile as it came to rest white side forward. Wild applause and whistles of admiration broke out. The showman had his audience in the palm of his hand.

I glanced at the big Englishman across the square. Somehow I thought a member of his stolid race would be immune to such foolery, but he was applauding as loudly as the credulous Venetians.

Something else caught my eye. The man who had asked the first question was weaving in and out of the thickest part of the crowd. A knot of dandies in silk coats and gold-trimmed hats pushed one of their number forward to ask a question, and the prowling rogue pressed himself into their midst. Laughing, the chosen fop rolled his eyes to let his friends know that the game was beneath him and drawled toward the dove, “Master Fowl, will I find luck at the faro table tonight?” When the disk turned up black, he shook his fist at the bird in a gesture of mock revenge.

The crowd roared. Many hands competed to offer coins, and people in the rear shoved to the front so they could take a turn. No one paid any attention to the arm that was diving in and out of pockets like a slippery eel. I grunted in realization. So this was the real game. The fortune telling dove was just a bit of side business to draw a crowd and keep them amused so the showman’s confederate could separate Venetians from their pocket money.

Remembering my original reason for visiting the
campo
, I stepped off the doorway stoop and began to shoulder my way through the crowd. People pushed back with groans and curses, but I was determined to get to the tavern. After throwing a few rough elbows, I made it to the fringe on the other side just as the pilfering henchman made a dive for the Englishman’s pocket. The rogue had a quick arm, but my arm was longer.

“No, you don’t,” I shouted as I grabbed his wrist and shook it to make him drop the purse of clinking coins.

His quarry wheeled around with a bewildered look but had the dexterity to catch his purse before it hit the ground. The pickpocket bent to my restraining hand and gave my thumb a vicious bite. Dropping his wrist with a squeal of pain, I unwillingly allowed the rogue to disappear into the dense mob before either of us could lay another hand on him.

As we put a few paces between ourselves and the crowd that was still enthralled with the magical bird, the Englishman hastened to wrap his handkerchief around my bleeding thumb. “I say, that’s a nasty bite. We must get it seen to.”

“Take no heed of it. It will be all right. At least the villain didn’t get your money.”

“Precious little he would find in my purse.” The blond haystack shook as he laughed, then eyes of the clearest blue gave my face a second look. “I know you, you’re Tito Amato, that singing fellow. We met at the house of that disgusting Count. And I went to see you at the opera last month. Damn fine show. I don’t know how you do it. Doesn’t your throat get tired singing all those notes?”

“I manage.” His laugh was infectious and I found myself chuckling, too. “You must be more careful. There are many in Venice who live by duping the unwary, especially foreigners.”

“Yes.” He sighed. “I should know better by now. Since my arrival, I’ve sprung several traps baited for fools. Your Count of Monteverde set one for me.”

“Don’t call him my Count. I barely know him and have no intention of extending our acquaintance. What happened?”

“In short, the man is a scoundrel. He cheats his own guests at the card table. After losing forty
zecchini
I could ill afford, I saw what he was up to and threw the cards in his face. He ran for his sword, shouting a hundred dire threats, but one of his friends held him around the waist so I could get out of the house.”

“Fortunate for you. He is known as an accomplished swordsman.”

His blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t credit fortune for my escape. The Count had no intention of fighting. If he has a reputation, it must have been made in his youth. Now, he’s much too proud of his handsome cheeks to risk a scar.”

With a formal bow, I said, “As a citizen of the Republic, I offer my apologies for any Venetian vices you have encountered. Please believe that we are not all thieves, Signor…” I faltered for a moment. “Pray forgive me, I have forgotten your name.”

“Augustus Rumbolt, at your service.” He pumped my arm in the English fashion and clapped a meaty hand on my shoulder. “But you must call me Gussie. All my friends do."

The Englishman with the funny name insisted on buying me a glass of wine, but first he jerked his head toward the disreputable showman. “Shouldn’t we do something to break that up?”

“He won’t last long. I don’t imagine he obtained a license for his charade.” Even as I spoke, the church doors parted and the mountebank turned with a startled look on his dark face. “See, the noise has drawn the attention of the priests. They will soon shut him down.”

My new friend steered me toward the nearest tavern. Its painted sign depicted Aeolus blowing spiraling gusts of wind to the four points of the compass. I had found Luca’s favorite haunt. Tucked between an apothecary shop and a draper’s, it was better than most others in appearance and social degree. The tavern keeper, a sharp-eyed fellow clad in bright yellow breeches, stood outside his door watching the priests reprimand the crowd for letting themselves be taken in by humbug.

The barman stood aside to let us pass. When he noticed the bloody cloth wrapped around my hand, the worthy man insisted on seating us at a table and fetching a balm and clean cloth to dress my wound. I took the opportunity to inquire about the theater’s missing painter.

“Luca Cavalieri? He’s in here almost every day,” the tavern keeper answered. “Where’s he been?”

“That is what everyone at the theater is asking. Luca didn’t report for work yesterday. Or this morning, either. When did you last see him?”

“Must have been day before yesterday. Yes, I believe it was.” He scratched his stubbled chin. “Luca had his dinner here. He ordered a roast capon.”

“Did he dine alone?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know any particular friends of his who might know where he’s gone?”

At Gussie’s nod, the barman refilled our glasses and stood pulling a napkin through his hands in a thoughtful manner. Finally, he said, “Luca seems to know a lot of people. He always has a good word for everyone. But the only ones I see him in serious conversation with are other theater folk. You must know them. One is called Aldo.”

I nodded. “Anyone else?”

“Luca occasionally drinks with a wellborn gentleman. Don’t recall ever hearing his name.”

“A patrician?”

“Acts like one.” He sniffed. “Won’t sit in my chair without wiping the seat with his handkerchief. Always wrinkles his nose like he smells burnt cabbage.”

His apt description brought only one individual to mind: Signor Morelli, the Ministro charged with squeezing a profit out of the theater. That fastidious nobleman seemed an unlikely drinking companion for the free-living scene painter.

After the tavern keeper left us to attend to other customers, Gussie questioned me about my small mystery. Notwithstanding his peculiar accent, the Englishman spoke excellent schoolbook Italian. If he failed to comprehend a term exclusive to Venice, I was able to supply the meaning from the language of the mainland or from my meager stock of English. So, with just a few linguistic fits and starts, I explained the mission that Torani had placed on my shoulders. Gussie was immediately intrigued.