4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight
Read 4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Online
Authors: Beverle Graves Myers
Tags: #rt, #gvpl, #Mystery & Detective, #Historical, #Fiction, #Opera/ Italy/ 18th century/ Fiction
The Iron Tongue of Midnight
A Tito Amato Mystery
Beverle Graves Myers
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright © 2008 by Beverle Grave Myers
First E-book Edition 2012
ISBN: 9781615951406 epub
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.
Poisoned Pen Press
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Contents
Tito Amato, well-known singer
Annetta Amato Rumbolt, His sister
Augustus(Gussie)Rumbolt, Her husband, an artist
The opera company
Karl Johann Weber, A German composer
Gabrielle Fouquet, French soprano
Jean-Louis Fouquet, Her husband and manager
Emilio Strada, A castrato
Romeo Battaglia, A basso
Carmela Costa, A soprano
Mario and Lucca Gecco, Accompanists
The Villa Dolfini and environs
Vincenzo Dolfini, The master
Octavia Dolfini, His wife
Nita, The housekeeper
Giovanni and others, Footmen
Alphonso, Vincenzo’s valet
Ernesto Verdi, The steward
Pia Verdi, His wife
Manuel and Basilio, Their sons
Signor Luvisi, The nearest neighbor
Captain Forti, The high constable
Mayor Bartoli, Padre Romano, Local officials
Constantinople
Alessandro Amato, Tito’s brother
Zuhal, His wife
Yusuf Ali Muhammad, His father-in-law
Sebboy, A white eunuch
Yanus, Proprietor of a brothel
Sefa, Danika, Women of the brothel
Count Vladimir Paninovich, A Russian nobleman
My eyes smoldered. My brow wrinkled. Curling my lip in a sneer, I raised my chin and crossed my arms in a gesture of implacable fury.
Gussie turned his gaze from the autumn landscape speeding past the carriage window and regarded me with the bemused grin he usually reserved for Matteo and Titolino’s childish capers. The light carriage we’d hired after disembarking from the river barge at Padua was so cramped that our knees nearly touched.
“Tito?” he asked. “What the deuce are you doing?”
“Practicing,” I replied across the small space. “If I’m going to make a convincing Tamerlano, I must cultivate a fierce demeanor.”
“Will you be able to sing with that scowl on your face?”
I cleared my throat, took a deep breath, and attempted a run that ended in a high C. The demands of technique pulled my lips into an angelic oval of silvery sound. “It’s no use.” I sighed in disgust. “I’ll have to convey the tyrant’s cruel nature by gesture alone.”
“I’m sure you will manage. But I must say, this Tamerlano fellow isn’t really in your line. You sang a splendid Apollo in your last opera at the San Marco, and no one can touch you as a noble prince. But Tito Amato as a lustful, pillaging Mongol conqueror?” Gussie shook his head, releasing a lock of wayward blond hair from its queue at the back of his neck. “I can’t quite twist my brain around it. Why do you think Maestro Weber is so insistent that you sing the part?”
In his frank, good-humored way, my friend and brother-in-law had given voice to the very question I’d been trying to avoid. Ever since I’d received the invitation to sing the lead role in a new opera by Karl Johann Weber, I’d been wondering why the German had chosen me. I’d barely heard of the man, and what little I knew gave me pause. Italian opera was the rage of Europe, and composers of all nations flocked to our musical capitals to imbibe the art from its source. If memory served, this Weber was a Saxon who had come to grief over a duel with a fellow composer. At the Teatro Ducale in Milan. Or had it been Torino? Whichever, Maestro Weber had scampered back over the Alps and gone to ground for several years. Now, it appeared, he was making a comeback.
That was another odd thing. Venice was fertile ground for relaunching a career, but a man who wanted to make a splash should be calling on theater managers, engaging practice rooms, making the rounds of coffee houses that cater to musicians, in short, conducting himself in a manner that would whet the public’s appetite for his new opera. Maestro Weber had taken the opposite tack. Instead of displaying himself about town, he was completing the score for
Il Gran Tamerlano
deep in the countryside.
Octavia Dolfini, the wife of a wealthy Venetian iron merchant, was playing Lady Bountiful to Weber’s production. Like every other household that could afford to quit our mosquito-ridden island for the warm months, Octavia and her husband kept a villa on Terrafirma, the mainland. It was a note from Signora Dolfini that had summoned me to begin rehearsal, and I had agreed mainly because the signora had also been eager to hire my brother-in-law.
Vincenzo Dolfini, the master of the villa, had conceived a fancy for a series of scenic views of his rural property: picturesque gardens, a groom holding the reins of a prize stallion, grinning peasants bringing in the grape harvest. The sort of fashionable daubs Gussie could toss off in his sleep. As Signora Dolfini’s flowery letter of invitation had put it: What a happy coincidence that the painter Augustus Rumbolt is married to the sister of Venice’s most renowned singer.
Gussie and I had debated the matter for several days. My first inclination had been to refuse; I could easily find more suitable work that did not involve traveling to such an out-of-the-way spot. Gussie’s excitement overcame my reluctance. For once, he did not have a string of commissions waiting, and since my unorthodox marriage, our shared house on the Campo dei Polli was not a pleasant place to be at liberty. My darling, but stubborn wife Liya and my sweet sister Annetta differed considerably in their philosophy concerning household management. I’m being gracious. In truth, the female members of our household were at each other like a cat and dog stuffed in a knapsack.
Signora Dolfini had also sweetened her invitation with liberal financial arrangements. Thanks to the public’s insatiable appetite for male sopranos, my career had advanced nicely over the years. Even so, the pay offered for
Tamerlano
nearly made me blush. It was enough to offset the inconvenience of travel and still provide a tidy sum to put toward the purchase of a large home for my new family. Gussie, too, was quite happy with his promised compensation. Thus contracts were exchanged, and we found ourselves jolting along a rutted lane toward a villa situated in the first risings of the Euganean Hills south of Padua.
On this mellow, late September afternoon, the fields spread out in a harlequin patchwork of amber and gold. Wooded streams and single files of sentinel elms separated the barley from the wheat. In the distance, a range of dark hills folded into billowing white clouds. Gussie had just raised his hand to point out a flock of sheep when an ominous crack burst forth from the undercarriage. The top-heavy vehicle lurched violently, throwing me into the corner and upending Gussie on top of me. Above the pounding of hooves and squealing of the brake, I heard the driver calming his team with deep, caressing tones. He knew his business. After a skid of only a moment’s duration, the carriage rattled to a halt.
A fog of road dust filled the interior. Groaning, I struggled to free my right arm. “Are you hurt?” I cried.
Gussie braced himself against the sharply-tilted carriage frame and inched his bulk back onto the slick leather cushion. Once upright, he gave his nose an exploratory pinch and wiggle, then withdrew his hand, tentatively, as if he expected to find it covered in blood. No trace of crimson was in evidence. “I’ll do.” He shrugged. “You?”
I probed my ribs. They were tender, perhaps bruised, but a deep intake of breath told me I would still be able to sing. I nodded. “What happened?”
Before he could hazard a guess, the driver’s goggle-eyed face popped through the window that framed the tips of the trees across the road. “Are you injured, Signori?”
“We’re all right,” I replied. “Did we lose a wheel?”
“
Si
, we snapped a linch-pin. The wheel shot off and skittered clean away.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Not without the wheel. And not without some help.”
“We can—”
The carriage creaked in another lurch. Gussie and I grabbed for a handhold. “Stay put,” the driver said. “I must see to the horses.”
He jumped away. I heard his feet hit the ground and the sounds of horses being soothed and unhitched. Then, proceeding with care, Gussie and I clambered out to view the damage for ourselves.
The carriage was skewed across the lane with its right front axle dug into the soft dirt. The wheel that should have capped it was nowhere to be seen. It could have been worse; at least, the axle hadn’t snapped. Yet I feared we were in for either a long walk or a long wait.
Gussie’s immediate concern was his paint and canvases. If they were ruined, replacements could not easily be found in this rustic paradise. With a leg up from a tall back wheel, he pawed among the trunks and boxes lashed to the top of the carriage. After testing ropes and retying several loose knots, he climbed down and planted himself in the middle of the lane. I could sense his mounting frustration as he peered down the tree-canopied corridor and slapped his tricorne against his thigh.
With his haystack of fair hair and his ruddy English cheeks, Gussie could have been any one of the droves of young Englishmen who made Italy the highlight of their Grand Tours. In fact, he had landed in our ancient, decaying republic on just such an edifying journey some years ago. He always said he decided to stay in Venice the minute he saw the jade waters of the lagoon meet the shimmery blue of the sky. Perhaps. I chose to believe that my sister was more instrumental in seducing Gussie away from the country of his birth than our watery landscape.
“Any idea how far it is to the villa?” My brother-in-law directed this question to the driver who had returned from tying his horses under a gold-leafed elm.
“The Dolfini place is three miles. The village of Molina Mori another mile beyond, more or less. You two young fellows could walk, but with some luck, you won’t have to.” The driver opened a trunk bolted to the undercarriage and rummaged in its depths. Several tools hit the dirt with a clang. “Yes, here we have it.” With a wide grin, he produced a new linch-pin.
“Don’t suppose you have a spare wheel hiding in there, too?” I asked.
“Our wheel must be somewhere.” He raised his eyebrows and searched the air with the expectant look of a confirmed optimist. Dame Fortune answered his call in a surprisingly deep voice.
“Here’s your wheel. Still serviceable it is—not a spoke broken.” A compact, broad-shouldered man of fifty or so spoke from the top of the bank that defined the lane’s right-hand boundary. His weather-beaten face and loden jacket marked him as a countryman, but his pose outlined by the slanting rays of the afternoon sun was as regal as the towering elms that surrounded us. Guiding the wheel with one hand, he descended the mossy slope and cleared the drainage ditch with a sure-footed leap.
“We’ll have you back on your way in no time. Then maybe the villa will go off the boil for a bit.” He transferred his burden to the driver, but spoke to me. Doffing his wide-brimmed hat, he inclined from the waist and continued, “The mistress won’t rest until her company of singers is complete, and the master is champing at the bit to have his vineyard painted while the grapes are still on the vine.”
“You know who we are?”
His mouth pursed in a twitch as he ran his gaze over my beardless face and gangly limbs: the tell-tale signs of the surgery that had prevented my angelic voice from deepening with maturity. Of course. This confirmed rustic handled animals of all kinds. He might not know me by sight, but he would recognize a gelding when he saw one.
“Up at the house, the names of Signor Amato and Signor Rumbolt are on everyone’s lips. They expected you would arrive today.”
Gussie came around the back of the carriage. “This must be Dolfini land, then. Who are you?”
“Ah,
scusi
. I am Ernesto Verdi, Signor Dolfini’s steward.” The newcomer sketched another bow, then waved his hat toward the top of the bank. “But you are mistaken in thinking that this is Signor Dolfini’s meadow. My master’s estate lies a mile distant as the crow flies, more by way of the road. It is Signor Luvisi who owns this land.”
Our driver’s craggy face registered surprise. “You’re either very brave or outright foolhardy to tramp over Luvisi land.”
The steward replied smoothly, “Signor Luvisi won’t mind—we have an understanding. We’ve been chasing Bettina. If she gets loose this time of year, she always runs straight for his grove of oaks.”
It transpired that Bettina was an old sow with a long memory and a keen appetite for acorns. She had been duly captured before damage had come to the neighbor’s grove, and the search party had been heading back across the fields when they saw our wheel bounce over the bank.
After a brief conversation with the driver, Ernesto called to a sturdy boy atop the bank. “Manuel, take Bettina back to her pen.”
“But Papa…” Cheeks flushing, he ran a hand through crisp dark curls and answered with the obstinacy of a youth ripe for any distraction from everyday chores. “She’s bucking and digging in with her feet. Send Santini back with Bettina. I can help you fix the gentlemen’s carriage.”
Ernesto squared his shoulders impatiently. “Do as I say, boy. Keep a tight grip on the sow’s lead and Zuzu will drive her along.”
A shaggy mountain of a dog with white fur and bright black eyes appeared at the boy’s side.
“Eh, Zuzu.” Ernesto grinned. “Run them both home. There’s a good girl.”
At her name, the dog gave a few deep barks and butted the boy’s thigh with her muzzle.
Manuel was outgunned and he knew it. After a subdued “
Si
, Papa,” the boy slunk away with a rebellious pout. Zuzu made a fluffy white shadow.
Beside the sagging carriage, our driver had knelt to run his hands over the scarred wheel and test the new linch-pin. Gussie shrugged out of his jacket and hung it on a handy branch, eager to add his strength to the task of lifting the axle.
Ernesto stopped him. “I must not allow it, Signor Rumbolt. The master would never forgive me if I allowed you to risk your gifted hands in such labor. Leave this to Santini and me.”
Santini turned out to be an elongated gawk with dirt on his chin and a matted mane of graying brown hair. His slack-jawed expression and ungainly scramble down the bank did little to inspire confidence, but he and Ernesto made a good team. With the ease of long association, they bent to their repairs as skillfully as a pair of cartwrights.
Leaving the countrymen to their work, Gussie and I crossed the lane and rested our backsides on a wooden fence. The neat trellis posts of a vineyard stretched behind us, bearing a sea of leaves and tendrils. We remained silent for a while, inhaling the perfume of ripening grapes and listening to the rustle of their foliage in the dry breeze. Eventually, I was moved to speak about another problem that our journey was allowing us to avoid.
“Do you think we did the right thing, Gussie? Not telling Annetta before we left?”
He recrossed his legs and shot me an uncomfortable glance. “Circumstances left us no choice. Annetta hasn’t been herself since Isabella’s birth.”
A familiar wave of guilt washed over me. “It was a poor time for me to bring Liya and her son into our household. Two women with opposing temperaments, a new baby, three boisterous children. What could I have been thinking?”
“You were thinking that your years of loneliness were over and that you’d found the family you always wanted.” Gussie raised a shadow of a smile. “You can’t blame yourself for Annetta’s moody ways.”