2 - Painted Veil, page 7
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
“It doesn’t surprise me. He is the man of the hour as far as Venice is concerned. When we sing at the pageant that will welcome the bridegroom, more people will turn out to hear Florio than to get a glimpse of the bride or her prince.”
“The much-heralded groom is a prince of Croatia, is he not?”
“Yes, one of a host. That region seems to produce as many princes as our lagoon does fish.”
“What will you be doing in the pageant?”
“Several platforms for musicians will be set up on the Molo near the water’s edge. As the bridegroom’s ship approaches the quay, we will serenade the spectators and the Doge’s court. The Basilica choir is scheduled to sing first. They are to break into a Te Deum as soon as the Croatian ship enters the basin. Then, the singers from this theater will alternate with the girls from the choir of the Pieta.”
“Quite a show by the sound of it.”
“Oh yes, it will be the sort of spectacle that only Venice can mount, complete with a fireworks display after the sun sets. You will have to get a place near our platform so you won’t miss anything. I have an idea—you could take Annetta. I’m sure my sister would appreciate having an escort.”
Gussie readily agreed, then added in a lower voice, “Did you manage to speak to the Jewess?”
“I did,” I answered, glancing over my shoulder. Even whispers tended to carry in the vast, empty auditorium. “Perhaps we need a walk.”
Gussie caught my meaning at once. He swung his legs over the bench and accompanied me into the shadows at the back of the pit. When I judged we were far enough away from idle ears, I told Gussie what I had learned in the ghetto that morning.
“That’s an odd way for Luca to behave, just running away without a word to anyone besides his mistress.”
“Yes, exceptionally odd.”
He swept a few straw-colored locks out of his eyes. “Do you believe her?”
I pictured Liya’s proud, almost aristocratic features, pathetic in their pleading. “I would like to believe her.” I sighed. “But I don’t. Her story just doesn’t make much sense.”
“And yet you repeated it to your director.”
“I told him the Germany trip was only a rumor, yet he chose to take it as gospel. I’m beginning to think that Torani assumed another painter would have to be hired all along.”
“Then why send you out to look for Luca?”
“So he could assure Morelli that he’d at least tried to find his missing employee. I suppose that’s all Torani really wanted—an excuse to replace Luca.” Glancing toward the stage, where one of Luca’s delightful creations was rising toward the flies, I grunted softly. “Whatever that blasted painter’s been up to, he’s out of a job now.”
Believing our little adventure concluded, I shrugged my shoulders and started across the pit, but Gussie halted me, not content to let the matter rest. “Is it true that Luca’s mother is an actress?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never heard Luca, or anyone else, talk about his family.”
“It seems an easy point to verify.”
I grinned. “I think you are beginning to enjoy playing bloodhound.”
“It gives me something to do… something to pass the time. And a mystery is always intriguing.” A somber frown replaced his usual smile. “I envy you, Tito. You’ve found your life’s true calling. Watching you up on stage… you seem so full of life and passion. It’s as if God created you just to sing.”
“Someone created my voice,” I answered quickly, “but I doubt that the deity had anything to do with that horrible business.”
Gussie looked stricken. “By Jove, you must think me very foolish. I didn’t mean, I mean I wasn’t thinking…”
“That’s all right.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ve come to terms with my condition. The sacrifice that turned my throat to gold was thrust upon me, but now I am paid, even feted, for doing what I love. How many men can say the same?”
Aldo’s bellowed call excused me from having to elaborate on my tangled relationship with music. Gussie started back toward his bench, and I mentally girded my loins for the next assault on the finale. I ignored the sounds of stealthy movement that had come from the lowest tier of boxes above us. I decided it must be one of the cleaners or the box office staff sneaking a nap. If someone had been listening, it was really no matter. This time Luca had pushed Torani too far, a new painter would be hired, and that was that.
Emma grimaced when I met her on stage. For the director’s inspection, she had donned Madame Dumas’ conception of Cleopatra’s ceremonial garb. The poor prima donna was so tightly corseted that rolls of flesh spilled over her bodice of pleated linen. A robe trimmed with fur painted to resemble spotted leopard was fastened round her neck with a heavy chain, dragging at her shoulders and further spoiling the image of a sensuous Egyptian princess. While we waited for Torani, Emma drew close and put her mouth to my ear. With the instincts of a seasoned performer, the soprano had divined that the scene was about to undergo a major change.
“Will you take a wager, Tito?”
“On what?” I answered in a whisper.
“Five ducats says that our parts are cut even further.”
“I wouldn’t want to bet against that. If Florio could find a way to sing the entire opera by himself, I’m sure he would.”
Emma snorted as she reached up to adjust Cleopatra’s cobra-headed tiara. The golden snake sported glinting eyes of ruby glass. I found myself wondering if the headdress was another of Liya’s creations.
“Have you heard about his latest foolishness?” Emma asked.
I shook my head and the soprano continued sotto voce. “Florio complains of many ailments, but above all, he fears losing his voice. His imagination has persuaded him that the air of Venice is full of poisonous dampness and that his throat is in peril. For days, he’s had his poor manager combing the city for charms and talismans to protect his precious pipes.”
I chuckled. “What a crazy notion. If the air of Venice is so bad, how has our city managed to produce so many great singers?”
Emma leaned so close I could smell the flowery pomade that kept the curlicues in perfect alignment around her full face. “I’m not sure Florio ever considers other singers. In his mind, Il Florino stands alone.”
The subject of her comment was just coming out of the wings, clutching a musical score and looking inordinately pleased with himself. Torani entered from the other side. They met at centerstage and the score changed hands. The director read it through, silently moving his lips and beating time with an outstretched hand. He pondered for a few moments, then wiped his forehead with the trailing end of his shirtsleeve. He finally nodded to Florio and handed the score down to the rehearsal accompanist at the harpsichord.
Torani clapped his hands. “Attention everyone, the gavotte is coming out. Signor Florio has graciously offered to close Act One with an aria that he has performed to great acclaim in other theaters. You will all hold your last places and the curtain will drop as Signor Florio makes his exit.”
As we found our marks, Emma sent me a wink and a knowing look. The look Niccolo trained on Florio was much more pointed. The tenor had only a few arias in the entire opera and he obviously resented having any of his songs, even an ensemble, taken away for yet another Il Florino triumph. And it would be a triumph. The aria was challenging, loaded with high F’s, and Florio sang it beautifully. There was no denying the purity of his soprano or his command of technique. But despite his performance, the piece had nothing to do with Roman generals or Egyptian royalty. Moreover, the composer’s style was at considerable odds with Maestro Torani’s work. I knew Emma would not offer any criticism. The roll of her eyes at Florio’s last flourish would be the only response she would allow herself. I was debating whether to raise a tactful objection when Niccolo’s voice rang out.
“Forgive me, Maestro, but I must speak. How many arias does that make for Caesar in this act? Four?” Niccolo’s face was red, and try though he might, he was unable to keep his voice level. “There are other characters in this opera. Devoting so much time to one makes nonsense of the story.”
It was a daring comment for a tenor who had little prestige and less following. Niccolo seemed to have lost sight of the rigid vocal hierarchy of the company. His pleasant features were contorted by an angry scowl, and his soulful green eyes were flashing fire.
Florio massaged his temples, then signaled to Ivo Peschi, the manager who seemed to pop up whenever the singer’s dignity was threatened. “What does the story matter?” Ivo barked. “No one comes to the opera for the story. This theater will be full of people who have paid to hear Francesco Florio. The more he sings, the happier they will be.”
“But this is an opera, not a concert,” Niccolo fumed.
Florio puffed out his chest and shook his full, powdered locks. He was ready to enter the fray, but Torani stepped in to prevent further outbursts. “I am still the director of this production, and I have decided that Signor Florio’s aria will close the first act. There need be no more discussion on the subject.” Torani’s commanding presence had resurfaced. The group on the stage stared at him in frozen silence.
“Now, we will go on to the scene that opens Act Two,” Torani continued. Did I detect a note of relief in the director’s voice? Had he doubted his ability to bring the company to heel? Carpani’s nitpicking and Florio’s displays of temperament must be affecting him more than I had thought.
Niccolo hung his head, but his mouth was still set in an angry line. Florio waved Signor Peschi away and fiddled with a number of scarves that he had wound around his throat. Emma’s face had settled back into its usual affable but inscrutable mask. Torani’s eyes ranged over the singers. “Where is Rosa? Madame Dumas should have finished with her by now.”
“I’m here, Maestro, if this insolent fool will just turn loose of my arm.”
Rosa and Carpani came around a flat of painted marble columns. At first glance, I thought they were dancing, so near was Carpani’s shoulder to Rosa’s and so closely did their movements harmonize. But I quickly saw that they were locked in a struggle. The more she tried to pull her wrist from his grasp, the more tightly he held on. The combatants made their way across the stage, Rosa hissing like a cornered cat and Carpani keeping his nose firmly in the air.
A bemused Torani took a few steps to meet them. The clerk flung Rosa’s arm aside. She tossed her head and shook her skirts in a froth of undisguised rage. “What on earth…?” the director began.
“What we have here,” proclaimed a precise, disdainful voice from the wings, “is an outrage.”
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.
