2 - Painted Veil, page 22
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
Annetta looked up from some sewing she held in her lap. “Instead of chasing after him, why don’t you let Dr. Palantinus come to you?”
“How could we arrange that?” I asked. “By now, everyone knows I am determined to find the truth about Luca’s murder. Palantinus would be a fool to deliver himself to me.”
“A fox gets hungry,” my sister replied. “Offer something tempting and he may wiggle out of his burrow and draw near to investigate. Think, what does this man crave?”
“That’s easy,” said Gussie. “He wants converts to the Brotherhood. Palantinus has a nose for gentlemen who are addicted to magic and have purses generous enough to accommodate his initiation fees. If we could serve up a rich foreigner who has a yearning to be amazed by the impossible, but who…? We know that Palantinus has ties to the opera house. He surely knows Tito and has probably seen me. I don’t know anyone I could ask to play such a role. Do you?” He looked from Annetta to me.
“If only our brother Alessandro were in Venice—he would relish this hunt. I can think of no one else.” Annetta sighed and shook her head, as did I.
I set my chocolate down and opened one of the morning gazettes that Lupo had stacked on the table before me. An announcement in L’Osservatore jumped out at me. “Wait a minute. Tonight is the masked ball at the Teatro San Benedetto. While the court is dining in state at the Doge’s palace, the rest of Venice will be pursuing pleasure at the ball. People have been talking about it for weeks. Everyone will be there, all masked and costumed in anonymity. What better conditions for recruiting could Palantinus ask for?”
“What do we do?” Gussie hurried to the table to scan the gazette.
“We disguise ourselves. Why not? We can play this game as well as anyone, only it will be more than idle adventure that we are after.”
Gussie got into the spirit of the enterprise immediately. “I must have a fantastic costume—a Moor or a turbaned dervish. But I’ll be sure to show my own gold-braided coat beneath the robes and flash my purse at all the stalls.”
“There will be faro tables, too.” Annetta’s eyes glittered with excitement. “You must play a bit, rashly enough to convince everyone that you have more money than sense.”
“And are on the lookout for a soothsayer or a cabalist to help you spend it,” I added.
We made our plans as the sun climbed its arc into the cloudless azure sky. Annetta agreed to take charge of finding our disguises. We had one bad moment when we realized that she intended to accompany us. Gussie disapproved. He didn’t want Annetta exposed to any danger. Perhaps knowing his beloved would be mixing in a crowd where all social barriers were down and license was the order of the day also bothered him. I left them to their disagreement and went on an errand of my own—I needed to pay a visit to my neighbor who owned the fruit press.
***
That night at the Teatro San Benedetto, the giddy atmosphere was heightened by the intoxicating effects that disguise never fails to create. Behind the masks, reality retreated and make-believe reigned; tongues were loosened and actions emboldened. We arrived to find the festivities in full swing. From somewhere, Annetta had produced the costume that Gussie had requested—authentic Turkish robes of royal blue silk and a towering turban embellished with glass gems and a rakish egret feather. Thanks to Benito’s artistry, Gussie’s pale skin had taken on a nut-brown tint and his blond hair had been transformed into dark locks straggling from beneath the folds of his turban. A half-mask with a bulbous nose and a spray of black chin whiskers completed his costume. Only Gussie’s commanding height and confident bearing kept him from looking totally ridiculous.
While my friend prowled the theater’s brightly lit auditorium, weaving his way through the dancers and making a great show of wanting his fortune told, I played the role of the slightly tipsy friend urging his English visitor to leave no delight untried. In a tricorne hat with flowing black veil, leather half-mask, and long tabarro, I hoped that I passed for a typical Venetian more interested in seeking amusement than in fussing with an elaborate costume. My sister looked fetching in the ankle-revealing skirts and laced bodice of a rural shepherdess. Masked in the velvet oval of a lady’s moretta, Annetta went about the hall asking everyone who this rich, daft, turbaned Inglese could possibly be.
Gussie and I eventually moved away from the couples flowing through the graceful footwork of galliard and minuet and concentrated on the hucksters plying their wares and services along the corridors of the huge theater. We found a gypsy, or at least a young woman dressed like one of that wandering race, sitting before a silver vessel filled with water covered by a thin film of oil. For a handful of coins the gypsy would light a candle and describe the visions she saw in the swirling, flickering liquid. To cultivate a further air of mystery, she instructed her customer to ask his question through a tin speaking tube that she held to her ear. To answer, she breathed her prophetic message into the same tube and seemed to gauge the length of her response by the look on her customer’s face.
Gussie confounded the young gypsy with one rapid question after another. Remonstrating with her in vile Italian delivered in a booming drawl that I had heard many of his countrymen use, the big Englishman in the fantastical costume managed to draw quite a crowd. “What can you mean?” he asked in a sneering tone. “My father, the old earl, lived to be ninety-two. All my family are long-lived, unless we manage to break our necks on a horse. Ha! What does your bowl tell you about that?”
The soothsayer passed her hands over the shimmering bowl, concentrating as if it were about to reveal next week’s winning lottery numbers. She gave Gussie a pathetic smile and tried to sweeten her response by arranging the scarves over her shoulders in even more wanton disarray. Gussie held the speaking tube to his ear, then shook his head vigorously. “Nonsense, I can’t see anything in that soup kettle and I don’t think you can either.” He whirled away from the table, bright blue sleeves billowing out around him. “Does no one know how to conjure the future?” he cried. “I’m searching for genuine mysteries, not some silly miss playing at gypsy tricks.”
I surveyed the crowd. People nudged each other and dropped their masks to get a better look at the unruly Englishman. Perhaps Gussie was overplaying his part. I was stepping to his side when I felt a tug on my sleeve.
“Don’t run away so fast. I know who you are. Come dance with me.”
I turned to face a woodland nymph draped in a flowing tunic. A garland of tinsel leaves contained her brown curls and a narrow strip of satin with oval holes for the eyes formed her mask. The flimsy satin wasn’t sufficient to conceal her identity. It was Rosa, smiling an invitation and pulling on my arm.
“Tito, the orchestra is wonderful. They are beginning a quadrille. My partner hasn’t arrived and I want to dance. Please?”
Alarmed, I deepened my voice as much as I could. “You mistake me, Signora. I do not know you.”
Rosa snorted with laughter. “Now you disguise your voice! Too late, my soprano friend. I’ve already figured out who you are. Why won’t you dance?” She glanced up and down the corridor filled with exotically dressed merrymakers and elegantly turned out courtesans. “Tell me, are you waiting for a certain someone? Does our castrato have a secret lover?”
Curious eyes turned from Gussie toward me. I couldn’t let the brazen contralto ruin our plans. I shook my head emphatically, bowed, and backed away as quickly as I could. Rosa narrowed her eyes behind the satin mask, fists on her hips in a pose more typical of a fishwife than a leafy sprite.
I caught up with Gussie in a relatively quiet corner of the lobby. He grinned over the scraggly whiskers that Benito had gummed onto his chin. “How am I doing?” he asked in a whisper.
“You have definitely been noticed.”
“By the right person?”
“That remains to be seen. This gathering is a perfect recruiting ground for Dr. Palantinus, but whether he is here or not…?” Deep in thought, I let my words trail off for a moment. “Gussie, we need to make you a more attractive decoy. Palantinus would not be likely to approach you and expound on the secrets of the Seraphim where he is likely to be overheard. Let’s take a turn in the garden.”
Open space is at a premium in our compact island city, but the San Benedetto was lucky enough to possess a long, grassy strip wedged between its east wall and a canal. Gussie and I went out through a side door and started down the meandering gravel path that wound between boxwood hedges studded with potted flowers. The first turning took us to a bench that was already in use. By the light of a few widely spaced torches, we beheld an amorous couple. The man had turned his mask to the side of his head and was fumbling with the fastenings of his lady’s bodice. We decided to walk the other way. The garden was pleasantly cool after the warm stuffiness of the packed theater and would doubtless be filled with other couples later in the evening. For now, the sprightly strains of the musicians, the tables laden with exquisite dishes, and the never-ending fountain of wine that had been set up on the stage were keeping the revelers entertained inside.
We paused by an olive tree at the center of the garden, trying to project an image of outward calm. Presently, a boy painted and dressed as an Ethiopian slave ran up to hand Gussie a note. Without even holding out his hand for a coin, the boy was gone as quickly as he had come. I watched as my friend unfolded the missive and squinted in the dim light.
He read, “Take the little-trod path. At the bottom of the garden, by the lilac trees, a master of mystery and magic awaits you.” Gussie’s jaw tightened. “Is this it? Did Palantinus send this message?”
“There’s only one way to find out. Let’s go.”
We trotted down the path leading to an ancient stand of lilacs. The trees badly needed pruning. Their branches pressed heavily on the stone wall separating the garden from the canal and reached out onto the path with clusters of cone-shaped flowers that brushed our shoulders as we passed. Near the end of their season, the lilacs littered the path with spent flowers and filled the air with a sickeningly sweet odor.
We passed the last glowing torch and were straining to see through the gloom when the outlines of a dark figure became visible at the edge of the little grove. Like me, the figure was draped in black from the brim of his tricorne to the tips of his dress slippers. The space where his face should have been was completely covered by a white mask molded into the form of a beaked monstrosity. The mask’s eyeholes had even been netted to conceal the color of the wearer’s eyes.
My heart raced. I could hear its frantic beat in the recesses of my ears. We might well be standing in the presence of Luca’s murderer. I imagined the masked figure rowing a small boat to the middle of the lagoon and dumping his purple-swathed cargo under the trembling stars. While Gussie cleared his throat and looked the silent apparition up and down, I moved my dagger to my waistband and touched my fingers to Liya’s painted image on the scarf I carried over my heart. For luck, I told myself.
“Well, Signore,” Gussie finally huffed in the manner of a country squire confronting the local poacher. “You have summoned my friend and me with this cryptic billet-doux. What do you have to say for yourself?”
The voice that issued from under the mask was strange and unnerving—low, sibilant, hissing, yet fascinating in a dreadful way. “You are searching for mysteries conducted in the sphere of the celestial,” the shadowy figure intoned.
“Er, well. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“What blessing do you seek? Cure of physical ills, spiritual enlightenment, protection from harm, wealth?”
My friend swallowed and shuffled his feet. The immobile, yet compelling figure was taking the edge off Gussie’s bluster.
“Speak man, my time is not to be wasted.”
Gussie drew a deep breath. “I desire all that and more.”
“Then you are in luck, Signore. I can introduce you to a temple where God’s highest servants submit to the commands of ordinary mortals, where your every wish can be fulfilled.”
“What beings are able to grant such favors?”
The eerie voice deepened, turning from hissing to hollow. “The Holy Seraphim.”
“Seraphim? Angels, do you mean?”
For the first time, the figure showed some movement. His shoulders twisted in what I took to be a hint of irritation, and I had the sense of an ordinary man behind the hideous white mask.
“The Seraphim look on mere angels as men do ants on the pavement. The Golden Seraphim guard the throne of God. They stand at his right and left hands. In days of old they carried coals burning with celestial fire to the lips of the prophets. After years of wandering the East and devoting myself to the study of mystical texts, I have discovered the rites that command the Seraphim to quit their airy abode and heed my will.”
Gussie let his mouth go slack. He feigned a perfect picture of reverent amazement before voicing the question that should provoke our agreed-upon signal to forcibly unmask our quarry. “And whom do we have the honor of addressing, learned Signore?”
The figure drew himself up. The beaked nose pointed first at Gussie, then swiveled in my direction, lingering there for a long moment. The eyeholes above the beak could have been tiny pools of gray fog. Gussie’s feet made a scraping sound on the gravel pathway. I tensed every muscle.
The mask spoke. “I am the Magister of the Temple of the Golden Seraphim. You may call me Dr. Palantinus.”
That was it. I made to spring on the scoundrel in the lilacs and expected Gussie to do the same, but feet were crunching on the path behind me and a feminine voice cried, “There he is, Bassano. There’s Tito. Hold him.” Before I could move, a pair of strong arms pinned me in an encircling grasp from behind. I writhed and struggled, succeeding in merely pushing my mask askew. Blackness surrounded me as I gasped at the air drenched with the stink of rotting flowers. The din of a furious struggle sounded a few paces in front of me, but I could not free myself to help Gussie. In answer to my bellow of rage and frustration, my captor bent backward, lifting my feet off the path, then set me down hard, buckling my knees but somehow righting my mask. I saw a flash of white drapery and Rosa, unmasked and triumphant, stood before me.
“We found you at last, Tito Amato. You’ll learn you can’t ignore me and get away with it.” With a determined flourish, she bobbed to her tiptoes and tore off my tricorne and mask. “Try enjoying the rest of the ball without these.” A rumbling laugh came from her companion applying the bear hug.
I sputtered in fury, frantically trying to look around her into the shadows where Palantinus had been standing. “Rosa! Santo Dio, woman. You don’t know what you’ve done.”
She gave me a coy look as she tucked my hat and mask under her arm. “Surely, a lady is entitled to a little revenge. Just remember this the next time I do you the favor of asking for a dance.”
My arms suddenly freed, I turned to confront the heavy, unmasked face of Bassano Gritti. That patrician stripling simply chuckled and offered Rosa his arm. They strolled back down the pathway leaving me unhurt but seething with anger.
I had no time to deal that pair their just retribution. Where had Gussie and Palantinus got to? I plunged into the thicket of lilacs. In the deep gloom, I could discern nothing but twisted trunks and leafy branches crowding against a wall of blackness where I knew a stone wall existed. Sweeping leaves and flowers away from my face, I fumbled forward. Then, a flash of a glass bauble and a patch of muted blue appeared at a rectangle that seemed somewhat less black than its surroundings. Gussie parted the branches and lumbered toward me.
“He got away, Tito. I had my hands on him, but I couldn’t hold him. He’s not overly strong, but he’s wiry as an eel. There’s an old gate in the wall over there. He had it off the latch and a boat waiting on the canal.”
The unsuccessful hunt concluded, Gussie pulled the whiskers off his chin and removed the turban that was unwinding down his back. He sighed. “I say, feels good to get those off.” He must have had a good look at my face then, for he placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “Save your wrath, Tito. It can’t help us now. We’ll get our fox. We’ll run him down and I’ll personally rip that long-nosed mask off his face.”
Chapter 23
For the next two days, I went out but little. I flopped around the house, fretting over our failure to unmask Palantinus and hatching useless plans to corner him again. When I tired of those futile fantasies, I read his pamphlet over and over until I could stomach his inflammatory accusations no longer. One particular phrase hung in my mind and refused to be forgotten. Palantinus aimed his most emotional invective at “the Hebrew swindlers who would make capons of us all.” Why capons? Was Palantinus referring to the general weakening of the shrinking Venetian Empire? Or was this a more personal issue? Did the man who wrote those words feel that his masculine role had somehow been threatened by a Jew? I stared at the page until the print blurred before my eyes, but no answers were forthcoming. In the end, I threw the pamphlet across the room and myself down on the bench at the harpsichord where I sang furious scales until the cat begged to be let out on the campo and the humans retreated to the farthermost reaches of the house.
On the day of the grand wedding, Annetta begged me to come to the Piazza. Gussie was taking her to view the procession of the bridal party from the palace to the Basilica. I knew that the huge square would be decked with golden hangings and miles of flowered garlands, and I could picture the splendid entourage. Musicians with long trumpets supported by children dressed as cherubs were set to herald the start of the procession. Waves of councilors, guild dignitaries, military commanders, and Savii would march by in dazzling robes and uniforms. Finally, the Doge and his daughter would be borne along the route in separate chairs covered with cloth of gold and canopied by gem-encrusted Burano lace. It would be a magnificent sight, but I wasn’t in the mood for such a display. I bid Annetta and Gussie addio and settled down to examine the project that my neighbor’s fruit press had helped me complete.
