2 - Painted Veil (7 page)

She shushed me with a quick glance at the woman drowsing across the room. In sharp, jabbing whispers, she said, “Tell Maestro that Luca has gone. He found a better job and he’s left Venice. He’s sorry… but he had to go. That’s all. You can say that without mentioning me.”

“Left Venice? Without packing up his things? Where has he gone in such a rush?”

She chewed on a thumbnail, regarding me with eyes as hard as obsidian. “He will send for his things. He had a letter from his mother. She’s an actress. Did you know?” I shook my head and Liya went on in a fierce whisper. “Luca’s mother has been touring the German courts. She found work for him. A wonderful position, she wrote, but he must drop everything and come at once.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes. Luca must be well over the mountains by now.” Her words tumbled from her mouth so quickly, she was almost stammering. “I’m sure he is. He sent me word from the road. I had a message just yesterday. The theater will have to find another painter.”

I nodded doubtfully, thoroughly puzzled. What job could be so pressing that a man couldn’t take an extra hour to pack his clothing, speak with his housekeeper, and send a note to Maestro Torani?

Squeals of laughter resounded up the stairs and roused the sleeping woman by the window. Liya grabbed my wrist, pressing her fingers into my flesh. I felt her warm breath close to my ear. “Signor Amato, I beg you. Luca has gone to Germany. Tell Maestro Torani, but leave me out of it. You must promise.”

Liya’s face was just inches from mine. Her mouth trembled; her eyes were pleading. “Please,” she breathed.

How could I withstand such a heartfelt request? “I promise,” I whispered, just as Pincas came around the doorway carrying Fortunata in one arm and waving a bedraggled cloth doll with the other.

Benito and I took leave of the sunny workroom. Forgetting about the low stairwell, I managed to give my forehead a sharp bump on a crossbeam. I was picking my way through the deserted shop, rubbing my throbbing head, when Benito’s high-pitched voice sang out from behind. “Master, you should have let me know that you were looking for Luca Cavalieri. I could have told you a thing or two about that young rake.”

We both jumped at the rattling cascade made by hundreds of buttons hitting the flagstone floor. A long face with a clenched jaw and startled eyes popped up from behind a showcase devoted to trays of jewelry and other small items. Cousin Isacco was in for a time-consuming cleanup.

Chapter 7

Instead of the typical exit aria that gives the hero an opportunity to sweep offstage to enthusiastic applause, Maestro Torani decided to end the first act of
Cesare
with an ensemble finale. The tune was an agreeable gavotte, but unfortunately we were all accustomed to the prevailing fashion that favored arias and duets above ensemble singing. I was struggling to modulate the force of my voice to blend with the rest of the company, but no one else was bothering. Emma’s clipped, bell-like notes clashed with Rosa’s mellow delivery, while Niccolo and the other supporting singers insisted on increasing their volumes to be heard over everyone else. To top it off, Florio was demonstrating his displeasure by producing reedy, wavering tones that were a parody of his authentic, powerful soprano. Our director had tossed his wig aside some time ago and was tearing at his gray frizz in frustration.

Torani had accepted my news of Luca’s departure for Germany with more equanimity than I had expected. After an initial exclamation of surprise, he had simply nodded in his staccato fashion and thanked me for my time and trouble. Awkward questions about how I acquired my information never arose. Perhaps Torani had been preoccupied with worry over the finale that his singers were now in process of mangling.

After a few more ragged choruses, Torani signaled the harpsichordist to be silent and stepped back to glower at the lot of us. I expected a tirade, but the director continued to surprise me. “We will pause for now,” he said with a sigh. “Emma and Rosa, you two report to Madame Dumas. She has costumes ready for fitting. I must ask Signor Florio to grant me a few moments. You others may do as you wish.”

As Torani and his prize plum of a soprano disappeared into the wings, the stage crew moved in. With so many planned scene changes, Aldo could waste no time. If there was a break in rehearsal, the stage manager directed the crew to run through one of their transformations. The wing flats passed through slits in the stage floor and rested on wheeled trucks which ran in channels below stage. An ingenious series of winches and counterweights allowed one set of flats to be rolled on stage as another receded. When coordinated with the lowering of backdrop and borders, the entire set could be changed in the blink of an eye. Timing was the key; many repetitions were required to make it immaculate. As the stagehands aligned themselves for a drill, I went down to the pit.

Gussie had been watching the rehearsal from a bench with his feet spread wide apart and elbows on his knees. When he saw me come through the door, he jumped up and began to applaud and shout “Bravo,” stretching out the last syllable, as the English tend to do.

I shushed him. “Gussie, you shouldn’t be clapping. You have just witnessed a shameful disgrace.”

“Really?” He sat back down and stretched his legs long, crossing them at the ankles. “It sounded all right to me. But I declare I don’t understand the fuss over this Il Florino. He doesn’t sound any better than the rest of you. In fact, if you ask me, his voice sounds a bit weak and prissy.”

“Florio wasn’t doing his best. He prefers to sing alone.”

“Oh, I see.” Gussie wrinkled his brow, making me think that he most certainly did not. I suspected that the manipulative schemes of temperamental stars were well outside his straightforward way of thinking. “Can you credit it?” he continued. “They are selling things with his likeness painted on them.”

“Things?”

“All sorts of trinkets. Snuffboxes for gentlemen, fans and garters for the ladies. I saw some at a shop on the Mercerie.”

“It doesn’t surprise me. He is the man of the hour as far as Venice is concerned. When we sing at the pageant that will welcome the bridegroom, more people will turn out to hear Florio than to get a glimpse of the bride or her prince.”

“The much-heralded groom is a prince of Croatia, is he not?”

“Yes, one of a host. That region seems to produce as many princes as our lagoon does fish.”

“What will you be doing in the pageant?”

“Several platforms for musicians will be set up on the Molo near the water’s edge. As the bridegroom’s ship approaches the quay, we will serenade the spectators and the Doge’s court. The Basilica choir is scheduled to sing first. They are to break into a Te Deum as soon as the Croatian ship enters the basin. Then, the singers from this theater will alternate with the girls from the choir of the Pieta.”

“Quite a show by the sound of it.”

“Oh yes, it will be the sort of spectacle that only Venice can mount, complete with a fireworks display after the sun sets. You will have to get a place near our platform so you won’t miss anything. I have an idea—you could take Annetta. I’m sure my sister would appreciate having an escort.”

Gussie readily agreed, then added in a lower voice, “Did you manage to speak to the Jewess?”

“I did,” I answered, glancing over my shoulder. Even whispers tended to carry in the vast, empty auditorium. “Perhaps we need a walk.”

Gussie caught my meaning at once. He swung his legs over the bench and accompanied me into the shadows at the back of the pit. When I judged we were far enough away from idle ears, I told Gussie what I had learned in the ghetto that morning.

“That’s an odd way for Luca to behave, just running away without a word to anyone besides his mistress.”

“Yes, exceptionally odd.”

He swept a few straw-colored locks out of his eyes. “Do you believe her?”

I pictured Liya’s proud, almost aristocratic features, pathetic in their pleading. “I would like to believe her.” I sighed. “But I don’t. Her story just doesn’t make much sense.”

“And yet you repeated it to your director.”

“I told him the Germany trip was only a rumor, yet he chose to take it as gospel. I’m beginning to think that Torani assumed another painter would have to be hired all along.”

“Then why send you out to look for Luca?”

“So he could assure Morelli that he’d at least tried to find his missing employee. I suppose that’s all Torani really wanted—an excuse to replace Luca.” Glancing toward the stage, where one of Luca’s delightful creations was rising toward the flies, I grunted softly. “Whatever that blasted painter’s been up to, he’s out of a job now.”

Believing our little adventure concluded, I shrugged my shoulders and started across the pit, but Gussie halted me, not content to let the matter rest. “Is it true that Luca’s mother is an actress?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never heard Luca, or anyone else, talk about his family.”

“It seems an easy point to verify.”

I grinned. “I think you are beginning to enjoy playing bloodhound.”

“It gives me something to do… something to pass the time. And a mystery is always intriguing.” A somber frown replaced his usual smile. “I envy you, Tito. You’ve found your life’s true calling. Watching you up on stage… you seem so full of life and passion. It’s as if God created you just to sing.”

“Someone created my voice,” I answered quickly, “but I doubt that the deity had anything to do with that horrible business.”

Gussie looked stricken. “By Jove, you must think me very foolish. I didn’t mean, I mean I wasn’t thinking…”

“That’s all right.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve come to terms with my condition. The sacrifice that turned my throat to gold was thrust upon me, but now I am paid, even feted, for doing what I love. How many men can say the same?”

Aldo’s bellowed call excused me from having to elaborate on my tangled relationship with music. Gussie started back toward his bench, and I mentally girded my loins for the next assault on the finale. I ignored the sounds of stealthy movement that had come from the lowest tier of boxes above us. I decided it must be one of the cleaners or the box office staff sneaking a nap. If someone had been listening, it was really no matter. This time Luca had pushed Torani too far, a new painter would be hired, and that was that.

Emma grimaced when I met her on stage. For the director’s inspection, she had donned Madame Dumas’ conception of Cleopatra’s ceremonial garb. The poor
prima donna
was so tightly corseted that rolls of flesh spilled over her bodice of pleated linen. A robe trimmed with fur painted to resemble spotted leopard was fastened round her neck with a heavy chain, dragging at her shoulders and further spoiling the image of a sensuous Egyptian princess. While we waited for Torani, Emma drew close and put her mouth to my ear. With the instincts of a seasoned performer, the soprano had divined that the scene was about to undergo a major change.

“Will you take a wager, Tito?”

“On what?” I answered in a whisper.

“Five ducats says that our parts are cut even further.”

“I wouldn’t want to bet against that. If Florio could find a way to sing the entire opera by himself, I’m sure he would.”

Emma snorted as she reached up to adjust Cleopatra’s cobra-headed tiara. The golden snake sported glinting eyes of ruby glass. I found myself wondering if the headdress was another of Liya’s creations.

“Have you heard about his latest foolishness?” Emma asked.

I shook my head and the soprano continued
sotto voce
. “Florio complains of many ailments, but above all, he fears losing his voice. His imagination has persuaded him that the air of Venice is full of poisonous dampness and that his throat is in peril. For days, he’s had his poor manager combing the city for charms and talismans to protect his precious pipes.”

I chuckled. “What a crazy notion. If the air of Venice is so bad, how has our city managed to produce so many great singers?”

Emma leaned so close I could smell the flowery pomade that kept the curlicues in perfect alignment around her full face. “I’m not sure Florio ever considers other singers. In his mind, Il Florino stands alone.”

The subject of her comment was just coming out of the wings, clutching a musical score and looking inordinately pleased with himself. Torani entered from the other side. They met at centerstage and the score changed hands. The director read it through, silently moving his lips and beating time with an outstretched hand. He pondered for a few moments, then wiped his forehead with the trailing end of his shirtsleeve. He finally nodded to Florio and handed the score down to the rehearsal accompanist at the harpsichord.

Torani clapped his hands. “Attention everyone, the gavotte is coming out. Signor Florio has graciously offered to close Act One with an aria that he has performed to great acclaim in other theaters. You will all hold your last places and the curtain will drop as Signor Florio makes his exit.”

As we found our marks, Emma sent me a wink and a knowing look. The look Niccolo trained on Florio was much more pointed. The tenor had only a few arias in the entire opera and he obviously resented having any of his songs, even an ensemble, taken away for yet another Il Florino triumph. And it would be a triumph. The aria was challenging, loaded with high F’s, and Florio sang it beautifully. There was no denying the purity of his soprano or his command of technique. But despite his performance, the piece had nothing to do with Roman generals or Egyptian royalty. Moreover, the composer’s style was at considerable odds with Maestro Torani’s work. I knew Emma would not offer any criticism. The roll of her eyes at Florio’s last flourish would be the only response she would allow herself. I was debating whether to raise a tactful objection when Niccolo’s voice rang out.

“Forgive me, Maestro, but I must speak. How many arias does that make for Caesar in this act? Four?” Niccolo’s face was red, and try though he might, he was unable to keep his voice level. “There are other characters in this opera. Devoting so much time to one makes nonsense of the story.”

It was a daring comment for a tenor who had little prestige and less following. Niccolo seemed to have lost sight of the rigid vocal hierarchy of the company. His pleasant features were contorted by an angry scowl, and his soulful green eyes were flashing fire.

Florio massaged his temples, then signaled to Ivo Peschi, the manager who seemed to pop up whenever the singer’s dignity was threatened. “What does the story matter?” Ivo barked. “No one comes to the opera for the story. This theater will be full of people who have paid to hear Francesco Florio. The more he sings, the happier they will be.”

“But this is an opera, not a concert,” Niccolo fumed.

Florio puffed out his chest and shook his full, powdered locks. He was ready to enter the fray, but Torani stepped in to prevent further outbursts. “I am still the director of this production, and I have decided that Signor Florio’s aria will close the first act. There need be no more discussion on the subject.” Torani’s commanding presence had resurfaced. The group on the stage stared at him in frozen silence.

“Now, we will go on to the scene that opens Act Two,” Torani continued. Did I detect a note of relief in the director’s voice? Had he doubted his ability to bring the company to heel? Carpani’s nitpicking and Florio’s displays of temperament must be affecting him more than I had thought.

Niccolo hung his head, but his mouth was still set in an angry line. Florio waved Signor Peschi away and fiddled with a number of scarves that he had wound around his throat. Emma’s face had settled back into its usual affable but inscrutable mask. Torani’s eyes ranged over the singers. “Where is Rosa? Madame Dumas should have finished with her by now.”

“I’m here, Maestro, if this insolent fool will just turn loose of my arm.”

Rosa and Carpani came around a flat of painted marble columns. At first glance, I thought they were dancing, so near was Carpani’s shoulder to Rosa’s and so closely did their movements harmonize. But I quickly saw that they were locked in a struggle. The more she tried to pull her wrist from his grasp, the more tightly he held on. The combatants made their way across the stage, Rosa hissing like a cornered cat and Carpani keeping his nose firmly in the air.

A bemused Torani took a few steps to meet them. The clerk flung Rosa’s arm aside. She tossed her head and shook her skirts in a froth of undisguised rage. “What on earth…?” the director began.

“What we have here,” proclaimed a precise, disdainful voice from the wings, “is an outrage.”