2 - Painted Veil (8 page)

Signor Morelli, the Ministro del Teatro, strode out of the shadows swathed in his
veste patrizia
, a voluminous robe that all nobles were entitled to wear. Judges in their violet and senators in red were a common sight on the Piazza, but the less exalted aristocrats tended to dispense with their stifling black robes whenever possible. Not Morelli—I’d never known him to miss an opportunity to remind his associates of his station. “As if we were likely to forget,” I whispered to myself as everyone on stage gave Morelli the bow or curtsy that was his due.

The Ministro was a bit taller than average and carried himself with dignity. If his shoulders had been wider and less sloping, and if the fingers of one hand had not been nervously drumming against the other, he would have cut an impressive figure. I had often wondered exactly how old he was. His smooth skin showed no wrinkles, but his deep-set brown eyes reflected the doubts and regrets of middle age rather than the optimism of youth. I had heard that his first government post sent him to France when the present King Louis ascended the throne. Morelli had spent several years in Paris as secretary to the Venetian ambassador. That probably placed the Ministro somewhere in my father’s generation.

The unhappy Ministro was stalking back and forth, robes dusting the floor. “I come to the theater to see how rehearsals are progressing and look what I find.” He gestured toward Rosa and curled his lip into a very patrician sneer.

Maestro Torani scratched his head. “Excellency, has Rosa done something she should not have?”

“It is not what she has done, but what she is wearing.”

Hearing a sharp intake of breath, I turned to find Madame Dumas right behind me.

Torani gave Rosa’s costume a brief survey. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said carefully.

“Use your eyes, man. This woman is insufficiently clad. You can see straight through her dress. And underneath, it appears that she is barelegged.” The nobleman made an impatient gesture. “Carpani, take her over in front of that footlamp.”

The clerk reached for Rosa’s arm, but the contralto gave him an evil look and flounced to the front of the stage on her own. As another economizing measure, only a few of the footlamps had been lit. Many women would have quailed under the scrutiny of the theater management, fellow singers, and ogling stagehands, but Rosa was a born performer. She bobbed and twirled, causing her flimsy skirts of russet and lemon yellow to billow around her. The warm glow of the footlamp illuminated the lithe form beneath the transparent layers, and her flesh-colored hose did indeed give the appearance of nakedness.

Niccolo was standing near enough for me to hear his murmur of delight and appreciative whisper: “I’d say that’s a perfect costume for an Egyptian slave girl.” But our
seconda donna
was not posturing for Niccolo. Her performance was aimed at Florio. She need not have made such an effort. Florio was massaging his throat and gazing into the middle distance as if lost in a world of his own thoughts.

Madame Dumas, black-clad figure as upright and unbending as the long sewing shears hanging from her belt, stepped out from behind me. “Maestro, I fashioned the costume that you requested. You asked for an oriental gown that would catch the attention of the young dandies in the boxes.”

“Well, yes,” Torani admitted. “You’ve succeeded admirably in that, but perhaps a bit more fabric would not be amiss.”

“More than a bit.” Signor Morelli swept a wide-sleeved arm toward the now pouting Rosa. “I will not have the females in this production looking like common courtesans. Remember the occasion this opera celebrates. The Doge and his entire family will be in attendance—the bridal couple—senators and their wives.” His thundering voice lowered to a petulant complaint. “Licentious living may be shaking the foundations of our Republic, but, by God, it will not overtake the stage of this theater.”

Maestro Torani knew he was beaten. He ordered petticoats, white stockings, and several fichus of gold lace (all duly noted in Carpani’s notebook). By the time Madame Dumas finished making additions to the female costumes, the audience would see barely a hand’s breadth of skin below the ladies’ throats.

The rehearsal was further delayed so that Torani could take Signor Morelli to his office to smooth the Ministro’s ruffled feathers with whatever beverage he had at hand. The cast began to disperse, some irritated at the interruption, others glad for an opportunity to partake of their own beverage of choice.

Rosa rearranged the sleeves of her costume to emphasize the graceful curves of her white shoulders. She approached Florio and gave one of his neckscarves a playful tug. “Francesco, you have appeared in the finest opera houses of Europe. Surely you can see what a backward attitude Morelli is taking. Can’t you tell him what an audience wants to see in a lady’s costume?” Smiling seductively, she walked her fingers from the end of the scarf up Florio’s chest toward his chin.

Perhaps Rosa was expecting a frank leer, or maybe a bemused grin. She received neither. Florio jumped back more quickly than I had ever seen his bulk move before. He grabbed Rosa’s wrist and flung her arm away from his throat. He addressed the contralto in scornful tones, “What you cover yourself with on stage or off holds no interest for me, Signorina. I advise you to wear the clothing you are given and keep your hands off mine.”

Rosa’s flirtatious charm disintegrated before my eyes. Her smile tightened into a bloodless line while her eyes turned to burning coals. She balled her hands into little fists and stamped her foot like a child in the midst of a tantrum. She practically hissed, “How dare you? You
castrato
, you overgrown boy. Why would I think you know anything about women?”

She would have gone on but for Emma rushing to draw her away. Florio seemed not a bit perturbed by Rosa’s outburst. Ivo Peschi arrived with his master’s crimson cloak, and the singer made a majestic departure through the wings opposite the way Emma had led Rosa.

I went in search of Gussie, fearing he must be bored beyond measure, but my friend met me with a cheerful grin. “I say, Tito,” he practically bubbled, “this opera is turning out to be a lot more interesting than I ever imagined.”

Chapter 8

Over the coming days, the atmosphere of tension that had plagued our early rehearsals gradually dissipated. We all reminded ourselves that Florio’s reign would not last forever. The celebrated singer might have captured Venice, hoisted his standard over the Teatro San Marco, and proceeded to exercise the privileges of a conquering hero. But after the run of the opera he would be marching out again, ready to seize whatever territory his next contract specified.

As life around the theater fell back into its normal rhythm, Torani gathered the orchestra musicians to begin learning their music, and the dance master brought his troupe around to practice the entr’acte ballets. Work on the sets resumed under the brush of a painter hired away from the Teatro San Benedetto. Carpani grumbled at the expense, and Morelli declared he would see that Luca never worked in Venice again, but all in all, the production was coming together.
Cesare in Egitto
was beginning to look like an opera that would admirably enhance the wedding festivities.

One afternoon while Torani was rehearsing the orchestra, I was lying down on the sofa in my dressing room, trying to rest before a run-through of the pageant program that would greet the Croatian bridegroom. The weather had turned foul again. Outside, sheets of rain transformed Venice into a sodden, gray ghost laced with misty ribbons of deserted canals. Benito had fired up his little stove to heat a goffering iron for my neckbands and ruffles. The warmth from the stove, the drumming of the rain on the windowpanes, and the quiet, familiar movements of my manservant conspired to make my eyelids feel like leaded weights. A heavy, dreamless sleep stole upon me.

I awoke to the sound of hushed conversation. Benito was blocking the crack in the door, one foot acting as a doorstop. Though his back was to me, his lilting voice carried: “It is impossible. My master is resting.”

A woman’s voice, softer and barely audible, replied, “I must see him. Please.”

“But what do you want?”

Silence.

Benito again: “You may give me a message for Signor Amato.”

“My business is not with you. It is for your master’s ears alone.”

I raised up on one elbow and tried to chase the fog from my brain. “Who is it, Benito?”

He opened the door another crack, and I saw the strained face of Liya Del’Vecchio. “It’s all right. You may let her in.”

Liya entered with small, uncertain steps. As she turned to see that Benito had shut himself on the other side of the door, the unbound hair streaming from her scarlet kerchief made a black curtain dotted with shimmering raindrops. I pressed my fingers to my temples, disoriented from my sudden waking. Time seemed to have bent itself into a confusing coil, and my familiar room had taken on an air of unreality.

The Jewess drew my dressing table bench close by the sofa and sat down. Her cheeks were haggard, eyes red and swollen. How could her lovely face have changed so much in just a few days?

I forced myself to sit up. “What is it, Liya? Are you ill?”

“No, I’m not ill. It’s just that you are the only one I could think of to come to.” She stared down at her lap. “You were searching for Luca. I must ask… have you found him?”

“You’re asking me about Luca? You told me yourself that he had set off for Germany.”

“I know. I… may have been mistaken.”

“But you said you’d had a letter. You were very sure.”

She still refused to meet my eyes. “I can’t explain. It’s all so complicated. Just tell me, please. Have you found any trace of him?”

“No, I stopped looking when I told Maestro Torani that Luca had taken another job. Are you telling me that I’ve misled my employer?”

She jumped up, overturning the light bench in her haste. “Oh dear, everything I do goes wrong today. Signor Amato, you must believe I never intended to cause you any trouble. Perhaps I should just go.”

“No, don’t go.” I rose from the sofa and righted the bench, now fully alert. “And please, no more Signor Amato. I am simply Tito, and I am at your service. I can see you are troubled. Let me help you.”

“The only way you could help me is to find Luca.” She grimaced, making a fist of her hand and bringing it to her mouth.

“I don’t understand. In your workshop, you practically begged me to leave Luca’s disappearance alone. Now you are asking me to find him?” I shook my head in bewilderment.

“There are many avenues open to you that are closed to me. As a Christian man, you have the liberty to go wherever you like.”

“Yes, I see, but why are you so distressed? Do you think Luca is in trouble?”

“Perhaps, I have no way of knowing…” She let her comment trail off with a helpless shrug and placed her hand on my arm. At the same moment the door burst inward.

Liya’s cousin Isacco stormed into the room with Benito at his heels. “So here you are.” The Jew shook a round, damp box in Liya’s face. “You said you were going to deliver these headpieces, but you didn’t even bother to take them off our cart. I found them under the portico, about to be ruined by the blowing rain.”

Liya’s demeanor turned from lamb to lioness. “I thought you had business of your own to attend to, Isacco. What are you doing following me around?”

“You obviously need someone to look after you.” The Jew showed his prominent teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You should know better than to be alone with this man in his dressing room. These opera people do nothing but gossip. You wouldn’t want to disgrace your reputation, would you?” he finished nastily.

“Just leave me alone,” Liya said in a weary tone. “As usual, you have it all wrong. Besides, this is only Signor Amato. No one could possibly object to my speaking with him.”

Isacco threw me a brief, contemptuous look. “Even if he is a capon, you shouldn’t be here. You’re coming with me now.” His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

“Just a minute.” I squeezed the Jew’s damp shoulder in a firm grasp. “This is my dressing room and Liya is welcome to speak with me at any time. You are the intruder here, Signore.”

Isacco dropped his cousin’s arm and turned to me with a pugnacious scowl.

I kept my grip on his shoulder. My jaw tightened. Isacco clenched his right fist, eyes narrowed. The air around us shuddered with tension. I didn’t want a fight, but I refused to be the first to back down.

Liya gave an audible sigh and shook her head, sending ripples through the shimmering curtain of jet black hair. She pushed Isacco’s fist down, shoved me aside with a flat hand to my chest, and strode to the door. I heard her hoarse whisper as she passed: “Men! You are all useless.”

Once Isacco had retreated to the hallway and Benito had locked my door, I sat my manservant down on the bench that Liya had just graced. “Benito, it’s time to dip into your store of gossip. I need to know every scrap of talk you have ever heard about Luca Cavalieri.”

***

The next day brought gray skies, but despite the threat of rain, the entire city turned out to welcome the Croatian bridegroom. Seats for the public ran along the parallel lengths of the Doge’s palace and the Broglio. The benches were stacked nearly as high as the tops of the columns and descended to the pavement in shaky stairsteps. Even so, they couldn’t accommodate the huge mass of people congregating on the Piazzetta that opened onto the Molo at the water’s edge. Before I took my place with the other singers, I searched the mob for Annetta and Gussie. To no avail.

Even during Carnival, I’d never seen this space so crowded. Latecomers shoved their way onto the benches, attempting to displace those who’d already claimed good seats. The inevitable fights broke out, but the dense crowd kept the
sbirri
from intervening. Every bridge and staircase was packed. A few youngsters even tried to climb the flagpoles for a better view.

The Doge, his family, and his closest advisors occupied a canopied platform that had been erected between the columns of Saint Mark and Saint Theodore. These soaring pillars of granite looked out over the basin that the bridegroom’s ship would soon traverse. As I followed Torani toward our makeshift stage on the Molo, I spotted the Savio alla Cultura mounting the steps to the Doge’s platform. Signor Morelli followed, strutting like a peacock with feathers in full array. They trod a thick red carpet that covered the platform and descended between a double wall of gaily uniformed soldiers to make a crimson path to the stone steps of the jetty.

On the water, the basin presented a spectacular display. Military contingents with full-bellied sails and banners flapping in the breeze were tacking back and forth, narrowly avoiding the barges of the nobility that were decorated with family pennants and flowery garlands. Gondolas, sleek and shabby, hugged the stones of the Molo and clogged the mouth of the Grand Canal. Many of the smaller boats were trailing lengths of velvet or silk. These brightly colored trains carried flowers that spread out across the water as the boats progressed. If the day had been fair, with sunlight burnishing the surface of the water to its most beautiful shade of jade green, the trailing silks and the multitude of flowers would have transformed the basin into a floating garden. But with the lowering clouds hovering over Venice like an inverted bowl, the choppy, gray water swallowed the blooms almost as soon as they were released.

The bridegroom’s ship sailed into the basin right on schedule. A battery of cannon on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore boomed a welcoming salute. In between thuds, a great cheer arose. It started with the sailors on the boats, rippled over the water, then was taken up by the crowd on the Piazzetta. I looked across the red carpet to the basilica choir’s platform. Their singers’ lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a note for the booming cannons and cheering crowd.

By the time it was our turn to perform, the tall-masted Croatian ship was at the mid-point of her slow, stately passage across the basin. The crowd had quieted considerably. As Torani rose and gave the musicians their cue, a thrill of anticipation swirled around our platform. Emma sang first. She executed her arias with sweetness and virtuosity but received only scattered applause and no cries of “brava.” Torani shrugged helplessly and motioned for me to step forward.

Barely aware of the murmur sweeping through the Piazzetta, I faced the Doge and his retinue. I had prepared several popular arias from operas that the theater had offered during the last Carnival. Since I’d been making enough time for practice, my voice was nearly back to top form. Even my rival Florio had noticed the change and complemented me in rehearsal. I took a breath, anticipating the opening chord. The sea of listeners swam before my eyes.

I was stopped before uttering so much as one note. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Il Florino! Where is Il Florino?” Others took up the cry and it became a chant: “Il Florino, Il Florino, give us the best, Il Florino.”

Torani called for silence, but the frenzied chant drowned him out. The crowd stamped their feet, relentless in their demand for Florio. The fickleness of the public sliced through my heart like a stiletto. Only two months ago, I was the most acclaimed
castrato
in Venice. Every person on the Piazzetta would have been thrilled for the opportunity to hear me sing without having to lay out money for a ticket to the opera.

In one heartbreaking moment I realized that it would be impossible to perform for this mob that had ears only for the imported soprano. With bile rising in my throat, I turned and walked stiffly back to my seat between Emma and Florio. Kind as always, Emma slipped a comforting hand in mine. I steeled myself to meet the eyes of the
castrato
who had stolen my public. Expecting a look of gloating triumph, I was astonished to see a tear trickling down Florio’s plump cheek. He sent me a sad smile before moving to strike a majestic posture in the middle of the platform.

How can I describe the intensity of the moment? The nobility under the canopy, the populace crowding the seats and the pavement, even the pigeons lined up on the roof of the palace were absolutely still. It seemed as if the clouds themselves nestled as close to the earth as they dared, just to experience the glory that was Florio.

His first aria was slow and simple, no doubt chosen to demonstrate the quality of Florio’s voice in all its purity. He began with a few soft notes interspersed with frequent pauses, but how artfully those notes were sounded. When our ears had been ravished by the pathos of their limpid beauty, Florio soared up the scale, swelling each tone to an amazing volume. His voice was a palpable force, lifting us to the heights of heaven, supporting us on wings of ethereal perfection. Behind me a woman made a sound that was something between a scream and a sigh. I turned my gaze away from the singer just in time to see several ladies swoon into the arms of their escorts.

Then Florio dropped to his low, mellow register and his voice became a whirlpool, drawing us down in dizzying, seductive swirls, drowning us in irresistible waves of song. Even though I knew what the man was doing, I found myself as overcome as anyone else. I had been taught the same techniques, but Florio was performing them so much better than I had ever dreamed of doing. Get hold of yourself, Tito, I thought. Don’t let jealousy get the upper hand. Listen and learn.

Another scream sounded, this time filled with horror instead of yearning. The pigeons took flight; their wings whirred frantically over my head. An uproar swept through the boats clustered against the Molo steps. Florio kept producing beautiful music, but his eyes flickered from the Doge’s platform toward the water where the banner-draped Croatian vessel was drawing near the jetty. I craned my neck to locate the source of the disturbance.

A swarm of boatmen were poking their oars into a length of scarlet silk trailing one of the larger gondolas. The boat’s owner, a florid-faced gentleman waving his tricorne hat in agitated circles, leaned over the gondolier’s deck and peered into the water with a look of revulsion. I stepped to the edge of our platform. As the gondola bumped against the Molo, the crowd on the stone steps parted. People twisted this way and that, fairly climbing over each other to get away from whatever was tangled in the coil of scarlet silk.