2 - Painted Veil (9 page)

A pair of hearty boatmen jumped down to make splashing grabs for the fabric that roiled and tumbled in the gray-green water. I glimpsed a swollen, pallid hand flung up by the waves. As one of the gondoliers braced himself against the steps and gave the length of red a mighty tug, the body of a man wrapped in a heavy cloth or sack bobbed into view. They rolled him onto the pavement just beneath our platform. The poor creature had drowned, but not during that afternoon’s festivities. He had been in the water more than a few hours. His skin was bloated and bloodless, as white and slick as a porcelain dinner plate. The fish had nibbled at him here and there, but enough of the man’s features remained for me to recognize him. I was staring down into the lifeless face of our missing scene painter, Luca Cavalieri.

Part Two

Fiamma: Flame

Chapter 9

“No, not a drowning.” The doctor sank his chin into the white neckcloth that topped his severe black coat and pursed his lips thoughtfully. “This man had the life choked out of him by human hands.” He poked at Luca’s neck with long, sure fingers. “Here, you see? The cartilage of the larynx is broken and, even with this amount of lividity, the deep bruising around the throat is evident.”

We were gathered around a makeshift bier in a storeroom at the back of the Doge’s palace: the Savio alla Cultura, his Ministro del Teatro, Messer Grande, Maestro Torani, and I. Doctor Gozzi, the Doge’s personal physician, had been summoned to examine the body. When the discovery of Luca’s corpse had threatened to ruin the bridegroom’s reception, the theater’s performance had been swiftly curtailed. To draw attention away from the gruesome sight beneath our platform, the Basilica choir had been ordered back into song while the
sbirri
and the soldiers and a gaggle of minor officials scurried to restore order.

Torani had slipped a hand under my arm as I had pushed through the crowded Piazzetta, so consumed with hurt and shame that I even forgot to look for Annetta and Gussie. I was surprised that the director found me. I was trying to slip away unseen, keeping my chin down and my tricorne low on my forehead. Luca’s corpse had provided a shock, but the more painful blow was the crowd’s refusal to hear me sing. I had been ready to offer them every pleasure my voice could bestow, yet they dismissed me like a clumsy footman who had dropped a tray loaded with the master’s best china. My one thought was to leave the capricious mob to its revelry and get home to my refuge in the Cannaregio, but when Torani begged me to accompany him in his sorrowful duty, I found myself unable to refuse.

They had laid poor Luca out on a rough table. His bloated corpse had been stripped, then covered to the waist with a piece of well-worn canvas. The few dark, curling hairs sprouting from his blanched chest put me in mind of the pin feathers on the carcasses hanging in the window of the poultry shop. Luca’s clothing and a length of dark cloth that had been wound around his legs and entwined with the gondola’s scarlet train made a soggy pile on a barrel next to me at the foot of the table. Wanting to look anywhere but at the wreck of the man who had been so cheerful and charming in life, I squeezed a rivulet of water from a ragged edge of the heavy cloth and spread it out over my palm. It was velvet of a deep purple hue, a finely figured cloth that would once have been high quality.

The Ministro, Signor Morelli, stood at my other side, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief. Cold water had delayed the body’s decay, but the smell was distinctly unpleasant nevertheless. The two palace servants holding lanterns for the doctor were turning a sickly shade of green that I feared mirrored my own color.

The doctor noted Morelli’s squeamishness with a scornful glance. “Once they come out of the water, they do start to stink almost immediately. At least we don’t have maggots to deal with when the lagoon delivers them to us,” the medical man observed with a hint of amused superiority.

Beside me, Morelli swayed slightly and I reached out to steady him. The muscles of his arm could have been tightly coiled springs. I thought he might bolt, but the nobleman kept his place at the table.

“Come, come.” The Savio directed his remark to Messer Grande, that being the title accorded to the chief of Venice’s constabulary. “Let’s get this over with.”

Messer Grande had not been long in his position. The gazettes had reported his appointment only a month or so ago. I couldn’t recall ever laying eyes on him, but then, his was not a memorable face. He was a youngish man of average height, neither fat nor thin, with a narrow, guarded countenance. That day he seemed to wear his red robe of office uneasily. I wondered: could this be his first violent death? His eyes kept flicking from the Savio to the body on the table. As if he had suddenly remembered what his role in the proceedings should be, he asked, “Doctor Gozzi, are you sure this man wasn’t alive when he went in the water?”

“Yes. I’ve been unable to expel any foam or fluid from the lungs. If he were still drawing breath when he went under, he would have inhaled a copious amount of water.”

The new Messer Grande bit his lip and pointed in the general direction of Luca’s head. “And that other wound?”

Turning Luca’s head with difficulty, the doctor motioned with his chin to one of the servants. “Bring the lantern closer.” The man complied with a shaking hand. “Hold the light still, you fool,” the doctor growled, “this one is long past doing damage to anyone.”

Doctor Gozzi’s long fingers ranged over Luca’s matted hair and pressed into the prominence where forehead met temple. The bruising there was very dark and the flesh had been torn; one ragged edge extended across the flattened cheekbone. I had to look away when the doctor began to wiggle the flap of bluish skin back and forth. He said, “The damage to the skull is serious but probably not deadly. It could even have happened in the water… the body being struck by a boat or some debris.”

The doctor paused, considered, then added, “A head wound in a living man bleeds a great deal, but if he was struck before he was strangled, the water’s had ample time to wash any blood away. It’s hard to say whether this injury occurred before or after death.”

With an air of bright finality, Doctor Gozzi put both hands on the table and leaned on his spread fingertips. “Those are my findings as to the cause of death. You will have them in writing tomorrow. Will there be anything else, Excellencies?”

While Messer Grande dredged up a few more questions about the possibility of infectious disease and threats to public health, the Savio drew the rest of us into the hallway outside the storeroom. He directed the servants to hang their lanterns from hooks on the wall and dismissed them back to their regular duties. The Savio was not a young man; he defied his years with the erect bearing of the military commander he had once been. A neat pair of powdered curls sat above each of his tufted ears and a long, leather-wrapped plait of the sort found on campaign wigs hung down his back. He drilled me with hard black eyes dusted by shaggy, trailing eyebrows. I almost wondered if I was expected to salute.

“Torani,” the Savio barked. “What is your capon doing here?”

The director shuffled his feet and replied uneasily, “I thought Signor Amato might be of use. He has a gift for seeing details that others miss.”

“His presence is unnecessary. A waste of his time, in fact. He should be warbling scales somewhere. You have an opera to bring to the stage in one week, I believe.”

“Yes, Excellency. We’re expecting great things from Signor Florio. He’s in particularly good voice. You would have heard one of his arias from
Cesare
if not for the… interruption.” Torani gave the storeroom door an uncomfortable glance.

The Savio ran disparaging eyes over both of us but spoke directly to Torani. “This wedding opera had better be a triumph, Maestro. With its budget swallowing ducats like sweets, your opera house is fast becoming a liability. No one has forgotten the tragedy of La Belluna. Now another murder connected with the theater occurs and that disgusting corpse washes up to embarrass the government on a day that should have found Venice in her glory.”

Torani stared at his shoe buckles. I wanted him to defend us, to remind the Savio that the murder of former
prima donna
Adelina Belluna happened three years ago, before the state appropriated the theater for its own use. The degenerate nobleman who had owned the theater then was long gone; not one of the current company was in any way to blame for that old business. And what about the many evenings of pleasure and distraction the theater provided for the city and its visitors? Why choke at a few ducats when Venice was bent on ending her days as an empire in a protracted, all-consuming carnival whirl?

The Savio again turned his gaze to me. “Besides, Messer Grande will need no assistance in finding the murderer of Luca Cavalieri. I’m sure he will have a man to take before the Tribunal within days. Perhaps within hours. Eh, Morelli?” He clapped the Ministro on the back, but received only a brief nod from behind the linen handkerchief.

Torani took a hard gulp. I had never seen him so full of humble submissiveness. “Surely, Excellency, Messer Grande must concentrate on handling the crowds at the wedding festivities. His
sbirri
must be spread very thin. If we might be allowed to look into this unfortunate matter, I’m sure we could be helpful. Luca was, after all, one of the theater’s own.”

Morelli finally removed the square of linen from his mouth and nose. His aristocratic features bore the stamp of recent shock, but they were rapidly regaining their usual haughty cast. He spat out, “Oh, Torani, do be quiet. You are digging into matters quite beyond your scope.”

“You misunderstand. I am not trying to usurp Messer Grande’s duties.” Torani bowed his head. “I am merely offering the theater’s resources. We could make a thorough inquiry that could relieve…”

“Humph.” The Savio cut Torani’s plea short. “Ottavio—I mean Messer Grande—will direct the investigation. He does not have a great deal of experience, but he knows how to delegate his men and he displays a sharp mind. Always has. Very clever at games, too. Ottavio is my wife’s cousin, you know.” The Savio favored us all with a satisfied smile.

Morelli responded with a dignified nod and addressed Torani. “As Luca’s employer, you were called in only to identify the body for the official record and to contact his next of kin. Does he have any?”

Torani answered after a brief pause. “His mother and father were both actors. The father died some years ago.”

“Is the mother in Venice?”

“No. She has not appeared in Italy for several years. I gather she is much admired in certain German states. I have no idea where she is playing now, but Luca has a brother in Padua. I will send for him.”

The Savio reached into the folds of his robe and brought out several objects. “These belong to him then.”

Gold glinted in the flickering lantern light. Torani held out his hands, glanced at the objects, then passed each one to me. I examined a waterlogged watch that was attached to a beautifully embroidered fob ribbon, several small iron keys, a small case chased with gold filigree that held an ivory pocket comb, and a purse that contained a few coins. There was no snuffbox, but that didn’t surprise me. I had never seen Luca indulge in the weed.

I looked up from the painter’s small legacy to meet the Savio’s stern face. “You two may go,” he said, a commander dismissing his troops. “But Maestro, hear me well, let Signor Morelli be your guide in bringing this opera to completion. If you go over the budget for
Cesare
, it may be your last.”

***

A footman was summoned to guide Torani and me through the maze of storerooms, pantries, and kitchens that supplied the Doge’s table. The bare stone walls and soot-stained ceilings were a world away from the lavish banquet hall where hundreds of guests would soon gather to view the bridegroom and sup off plates of gold and silver.

The servant hurried us through the palace’s main entrance at the Porta Della Carta. The rain that had held off long enough to complete the ceremonial reception of the Croatian delegation had started falling in sheets. The clock on the north side of the Piazza struck seven, but the sky was as black as midnight. A phalanx of footmen stood by with torches, ready to greet the noble guests. The light from the torches and the lamps that hung from the arched colonnade illuminated the walls of pink Verona marble with a rosy glow. The palace was a refuge of warmth and light, but I wasn’t sorry to leave it behind and plunge onto the rain-drenched Piazza.

Torani and I passed under the clock tower and through the archway that leads to the Mercerie. Most of the shops on this mercantile byway had closed for the evening. The director quickened his steps when he spied a lighted portico that displayed a sign bearing a bunch of faded purple grapes.

“I need a drink, Tito. And some company.” He steered me into the tavern’s gloomy interior.

The interconnecting rooms reeked with the smoke of cheap tobacco and the stench of old cooking grease. A pitiful orchestra of several violins and cornets was attempting an off-key dance tune that only heightened the misery of the place. I followed Torani to an alcove well away from the ears of the other patrons, mostly sailors and shop workers eyeing the harlots laughing unconvincingly around a smoldering stove.

The day’s events had unnerved me, and I worried that Gussie and Annetta had been searching for me—just a quick drink to appease my director and I intended to be off. I threw myself down on a backless bench and slumped against the wall. A sticky sensation persuaded me to lean forward on my elbows instead. A girl brought our wine; Torani fell on his glass as if it had come from a cask in one of the Doge’s storerooms.

“The Savio means to shut us down, Tito,” he said after a series of hearty gulps.

“How can he? The Teatro San Marco is Venice’s theater. It’s a source of pride, a boon to the city.”

Torani shook his head. “The Savio doesn’t see it that way. He only sees the figures in the account books. There are other theaters in the city that can keep the populace and the tourists amused. And we are not the only opera house among them. The San Moise has a good company, and the San Cassiano has improved in recent years.”

“So Venice can entertain all she wants as long as a private investor funds the enterprise?”

“Just so. The public wants to see a comedy one night and an opera the next. They don’t care who owns the theater as long as their eyes and ears are satisfied. The government is weary of shouldering the burden.”

Torani ordered more wine and regarded me wryly. “If the San Marco closes, we will all be out of work.”

I nodded, thinking of the multitude of people that earned their bread at the theater. It was not just the musicians, but countless copyists, stagehands, seamstresses, hairdressers, and more. Every task required so many hands. There were even men employed solely to light the candles in the great chandeliers and raise them to the ceiling before performances. All these, and their families, would be hurting if the Savio had his way.