2 - Painted Veil, page 26
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
It was ten the next morning when I rang at the street door, but Emma was still asleep. I told her maid I would wait. The girl conducted me to a charming sitting room done up in rose and yellow striped silk and chased a lazy, fluffy dog off the sofa so I could sit. The sun streaming through lace curtains made a cheerful pattern of light and shadow on the Persian carpet and cushion-laden armchairs. Over the trinkets on the mantelpiece hung a portrait of Emma as a young woman. The artist had painted her in profile, chin raised and lips parted to greet the brilliant adventures that life must surely hold in store for her.
When the subject of the youthful portrait entered the room in a thick dressing gown, it was almost a shock. I was used to seeing my friend after her maid had completed a thorough toilette. Emma’s uncorseted flesh, undressed hair, and blotchy, unpowdered cheeks made her look more like a washerwoman than a prima donna.
“What a surprise, Tito,” she said after sending the maid for chocolate and rolls. “You are always welcome, but you would have found me in a better state if I had known you were coming.”
“It is of no consequence, carissima,” I answered. “We have been friends long enough that we don’t have to stand on ceremony. Besides, I want to talk with you in private, away from the flapping ears at the theater.”
“Go on, then.” She encouraged me with a smile as she installed a wiggling ball of canine fluff on her lap. “Here, the only ears that are flapping are mine. And my precious, sweet Bebe’s, of course.” She applied pecking kisses to Bebe’s pointed ears and was rewarded by the swipe of an enthusiastic pink tongue.
“I was distressed to hear that Maria Banti will replace you for the next season.”
Emma nodded slowly but remained silent.
“I wonder if you have made any plans?”
She frowned, absently running her fingers through Bebe’s yellow fur. “I’m nearing the end of a long road, one I’ve been traveling for many miles. It’s hard to see over the last rise, but I feel sure there will be other paths to take.”
“Do you mean to stop singing, then?”
“Soon, soon. I’m trying to find an impresario to arrange a farewell tour. I envision a series of benefit concerts all over Italy, even Germany perhaps. Then I’ll return to Venice and… do something else. Perhaps I’ll take on a few students.”
I studied her soft, amiable countenance. “You seem remarkably calm about all this. I don’t think I could so easily resign myself to leaving the stage.”
Emma nodded again. She consigned Bebe to the floor and made an eager grab for the chocolate that her maid was delivering on a wheeled cart. “You are only twenty-two, Tito. I’m considerably on the wrong side of forty. I’ve realized that my career has been on borrowed time for several years. I thought I might squeak through another few seasons, but La Banti’s charms have put an end to that. I was disappointed when Torani delivered the news, but I can’t say I was surprised.”
“How did he tell you?”
“Maestro?”
I nodded.
“He tried to be kind, to spare my feelings, but he was adamant. La Banti will star in every opera next season. He didn’t seem happy about it, but…” She finished her sentence with a shrug.
“Did Torani take your part with the Savio? Point out what a splendid run you’ve had in Cesare?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. Maestro Torani has not been as frugal as I have over the years. He is probably not in a position to challenge the Savio.”
“Did Maestro have no roles to offer you?”
“No, but that is for the best. I would never consent to go out as seconda donna.” Emma flashed a brave smile and called for more pastries. She chuckled. “One good thing about retirement—I will no longer have to starve myself to get into the costumes.”
I leaned back into the commodious sofa, wrapped in thought. “You’re not eating,” Emma said, pressing a plate of rolls on me. Bebe immediately jumped on the sofa and focused his beady black eyes on the pastries on my lap.
“I’m considering how to ask my next question.”
“Out with it, Tito.” She paused to lick some sticky icing off her thumb. “I’ll probably tell you what you want to know. At my age, I have no naughty secrets.”
“All right, then. Are you ready to tell me whose voice you heard arguing with Luca the night he was killed?”
She froze with her thumb to her lips. As her hand slowly descended to her lap, she answered stiffly. “I told you that I was too far away to hear plainly. The voice was muffled.”
“I remember what you said. At the time, I was sure that you were shielding someone. We both know who I’m talking about. What reason do you have to protect him now?”
She exhaled wearily. “Tito, you are just like Bebe when he’s found a bone. You worry things to distraction. Luca’s death distressed us all, but it is part of the past. Even Messer Grande has put the matter to rest. Why can’t you be content with that?”
“Messer Grande has been deceived by a master strategist. To cover his guilt, the man who murdered Luca set a mob on an innocent Jew, and now he’s after me.”
“Tito, no.”
“I didn’t imagine the voice that called me to the trap door or the shove that sent me through it. I can’t help but wonder—what would the blackguard do with someone who actually heard his voice?”
Emma bit her lip. Her eyes darted around her comfortable sitting room, then stopped to give me a piercing look. I was an unwelcome whirlwind stirring up dust on her placid road of life. I thought she might ask me to leave, but instead, she composed herself with a long drink of chocolate and called Bebe back to her lap. With her face half buried in his fur, she said, “You think I heard Maestro Torani arguing with Luca.”
I nodded.
“You are right. Their voices were raised. Luca’s sounded angry and defensive. Torani’s less angry but quite severe. Maestro was remonstrating with Luca over something.” She held up a quick hand. “Don’t even ask. I don’t know what it was about. I’m not that much of an eavesdropper.”
Before I could respond, Emma sat up very straight, rearranged her dressing gown and ran her hands through her loose hair. Somehow, the frumpy washerwoman was metamorphosed into the haughtiest of sopranos. “I’ve answered your question, Tito, but I still know something you don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know that Rinaldo Torani is no killer. He could never bash Luca’s skull in. Or try to pitch you to your death on that spear. I know that as surely as I know I’m sitting here having chocolate with you and Bebe.”
“People wear many masks, Emma, especially in these uncertain times. Torani has always kept to himself. How can you be so sure that the man we see at the theater doesn’t have another persona we have not even imagined?”
“Because.” She shrugged and seemed to be struggling to find the right words. “He is… the maestro.”
***
I knew what Emma meant. Though Maestro Torani’s singers knew little about his personal life, we all shared a special bond with our director. In his less pleasant moods, Torani could be sharp with his tongue and exasperating with his demands—a dogged perfectionist, a temperamental tyrant, a songmaster so intent on his unique vision of an aria that his corrections felt like personal attacks. But was it not so with every creative genius?
There were also the wondrous times when he and I had been in perfect accord, when pleasing the maestro meant searching within myself to find a degree of perfection I didn’t know I was capable of. On these occasions, I loved Maestro Torani as I had never been able to love my own father. Could this determined director, by turns severe or inspiring, possibly be the murderous Palantinus? That is what I had resolved to search his office to find out.
It was early in the long, hot afternoon that would end with the next to last staging of Cesare. The initial momentum of the production had flagged. It had been at least a week since any of the performers had come to the theater to soothe their jitters with a little extra rehearsal, and Maestro Torani wasn’t expected until two hours before curtain. Like Aldo drowsing in his cubbyhole near the stage door, the few crew members that were around the theater were relaxing on a long dinner break. Avoiding the backstage area, I slipped along the curving walls of the dark auditorium and crossed to the warren of passages that led to Torani’s office. The director’s door was shut tight, but I took a page from Isacco Del’Vecchio’s book and coaxed the lock open with my small stiletto.
I had no doubt that Maestro Torani was capable of playing the role of Dr. Palantinus. After all, the business at the Temple of the Golden Seraphim was nothing more than a staged performance employing the sort of illusions that he had perfected during his years at the opera house. But even the maestro couldn’t pull the shows off by himself. If he had killed Luca, he would be searching for another experienced hand. I didn’t find Aldo nearly as trustworthy as Benito obviously did. I suspected that Torani’s gondola ride with the stage manager had seen more discussion of flying Seraphim than openings at the Verona opera house.
All things being equal, I wouldn’t have begrudged Torani his Seraphim scheme. The Senate had never paid its artists according to their true worth, and we all knew of countless times when the director had opened his own purse to help a musician who met with illness or misfortune. If Torani chose to replenish his funds with a bit of mystical tomfoolery that harmed no one, I would not condemn him. But murder, scapegoating, the attack on me—these were monstrous acts that couldn’t be forgiven.
So I was looking for something to explain what could have driven the director I respected so much to strangle Luca with his bare hands and heave his body into the lagoon. Given desperate enough circumstances, I believed that anyone was capable of murder. But what were the circumstances in this case? Torani had more than a merely professional connection to Luca and his family. The torn paper with Theresa Cavalieri’s Bremen address on it told me that. More than any other thing, I needed to find the rest of that letter.
I started with the chaos of his desk. I thought it unlikely that Torani would leave any document pertaining to Luca in plain sight, but I couldn’t leave any papers unexamined. After quickly reviewing a portion of a mawkish libretto, a list of operas in consideration for the future repertoire, and what looked like instructions for the tailor concerning a new silk coat, I turned my attention elsewhere.
Glass-fronted cabinets lined the walls, full of scores, bound and unbound. A letter could be tucked in any of these, but one touch sent the dust flying and made me think they hadn’t been disturbed for months. I surveyed the rest of the office. A small chest of drawers under the window behind the desk looked promising. I tried the top drawer. It was unlocked.
I found a worn leather portfolio bulging with documents and spread the pages out on top of the sun-dappled chest. The portfolio failed to yield the letter I sought but did contain a number of other letters that warmed my heart. On sheet after sheet, Torani’s precise hand praised “Emma Albani’s pleasant voice, amiable nature, and accuracy of intonation.” I recognized most of the names on the salutations. They were the most influential impresarios and theater managers from Lisbon to Vienna.
I was bending over, rattling the drawer and rooting for a roll of papers that was caught at the back, when a sudden intake of breath made my own catch in my throat. I whirled quickly, but it was too late to hide. Maestro Torani stood in the half-open doorway, gripping the edge of the door with whitened knuckles.
His mouth was slack with surprise, but his sharp eyes took in the recommendation letters spread out on the chest. He spoke with rigid control. “Emma’s voice is not what it used to be, but conscience and honor oblige me to see that she is looked after.”
Receiving no response from my paralyzed throat, he entered and made a leisurely circuit of the room, straightening a few of his possessions here and there. He stopped at the end of his desk, squarely between the door and my position at the window. He continued with his forebodingly calm tone. “What are you doing here, Tito? Surely you did not break into my office out of concern for our unfortunate prima donna.”
My heart was pounding, but from exhilaration, not fear. Whatever was about to happen, I sensed that the mystery consuming me like a relapsing fever would finally be solved. If I got out of Torani’s office with my skin intact, I would be able to tell Liya who murdered Luca.
“I am doing as you asked, Maestro. I am uncovering Luca’s killer.”
Torani gave me a long, searching look. He said, “I relieve you of that charge, Tito. We no longer need to impress the Savio or anyone else. Maria Banti’s vaulting ambition and mediocre talent will keep the Teatro San Marco open until I’m either in my grave or driven to the madhouse.”
“Then at least allow me to give you a report. I promised that you would be the first to hear what I discovered.”
He slid his wig from his head, tossed it on the desk, and mopped his head with the palm of his hand. “I sincerely wish that I had never involved you in this, Tito. But I suppose there’s no stopping you. Go on. Give me your whole clever theory. Explain what suspicious secret your fancies have convinced you I’m hiding in here.”
“You lied about your whereabouts on the night Luca was killed. You didn’t leave the theater directly after rehearsal. You stayed behind and argued with Luca in his studio. Do you deny it?”
Torani shook his head slightly, his eyes trained intently on mine. I suddenly felt as if we had exchanged roles. For once, I was directing the tune and the maestro had become my songbird. “What was the argument about?” I demanded.
My nightingale refused to warble.
“You might as well tell me. Gussie knows where I am and why I came. You won’t be able to toss me down a hole or into the lagoon without someone being the wiser.”
Torani’s face lost its composure. I watched as his features melted into the suffering rictus portrayed by the traditional mask of tragedy. “My God, boy, you can’t think I did it.” He took a small step toward me and extended a hand. His voice dropped to a wounded whisper. “But you do. You think I killed Luca and pushed you through the trap. How can you possibly have come to that conclusion?”
I retrieved my purse and took out the corner of paper that had Luca’s address written on one side and the remains of Theresa Cavalieri’s on the other. I handed it to him. “Do you remember giving me this?”
He examined both sides closely, then gave me an incredulous look. “You think that because I had a letter from Theresa, I must have killed her son?”
“That was only one of your lies. You said you knew nothing about where Luca’s mother was appearing, then you lied about leaving the theater before Luca was strangled. You were arguing with him. Less than an hour later he was dead.”
The man was weeping now, but I plunged on relentlessly. “The night I was pushed through the trap, you had Emma’s maid call her away so that I would be alone on the stage. You tore your breeches when you squeezed through the tunnel to get behind the draperies to push me.”
Torani was leaning heavily on his desk. He stumbled back a few paces to sink into the chair that faced it. “Tito, you have it all wrong.” He wiped his eyes and stared at me with naked anguish. “How could you think that I would harm you? You, of all people. I treasure you more than any singer I’ve ever had. I couldn’t love you more if you were my own son. You don’t know the whole story.”
I gazed into the eyes that seemed to have aged ten years in the last few moments. I remembered all those times when Torani and I had been connected by the magic of music, thinking with one mind and singing with one voice. I spoke very gently: “Then explain it to me, Maestro.”
Chapter 27
The director bowed his head and covered his eyes with a limp hand. It took several glasses of wine from the decanter on the sideboard before his spate of melancholy retreated. Then, sitting in Torani’s chair and facing him across his desk in the sunny office that I had so rudely invaded, I heard his story.
“It was all so long ago,” he began, “before you were even born. I was an actor playing comedies on a makeshift stage in market squares. Can you imagine me as an Arlecchino hitting my enemies over the head with a wooden sword? No, I thought not. I can hardly believe it myself.” He raised a weak grin. “The boisterous farces of our little company did not suit me at all. I was searching for another position when our manager hired a new Brighella. A more beautiful, vivacious soubrette never graced a stage. Just to look at her took my breath away. It was Theresa, of course.”
Torani fell silent, gazing at the quavering patches of sunlight reflecting off the canal outside his window.
I prompted him. “You fell in love.”
“Oh yes,” he replied in a far-off voice, “for the one and only time in my life. Madly, irrevocably, passionately in love. At first, Theresa seemed to return my feelings. She moved her trunks to my rooms and we were together constantly. I gave no further thought to leaving the company. Then Flavio Cavalieri joined us—he was tall, handsome, the perfect leading man. Theresa was smitten at once. The rest of the story is as big a farce as any we ever played. Within a month, the love of my life married Flavio, and I turned my talents from comedy to opera.”
The gears in my brain were spinning. “Then Luca, could he have been your son?”
Torani shook his head. “Both Luca and his brother Silvio are the very image of Flavio Cavalieri. But I could see Theresa in Luca as well. That smile that made you think of so many delicious opportunities, the graceful way he held his head when he was at his canvas, so many of his ways reminded me of her.”
“What did you and Luca argue about?”
Torani slid his hand under his coat and let it rest on his heart in just the same way that I so often touched my image of Liya. After a moment, the director drew out a folded letter and flattened it on his desk. The letter was missing one corner. He fitted my bit of scorched paper along the jagged edge and invited me to take a closer look. The edges met in a perfect match.
