2 - Painted Veil, page 8
part #2 of Tito Amato Mystery Series
I awoke to the sound of hushed conversation. Benito was blocking the crack in the door, one foot acting as a doorstop. Though his back was to me, his lilting voice carried: “It is impossible. My master is resting.”
A woman’s voice, softer and barely audible, replied, “I must see him. Please.”
“But what do you want?”
Silence.
Benito again: “You may give me a message for Signor Amato.”
“My business is not with you. It is for your master’s ears alone.”
I raised up on one elbow and tried to chase the fog from my brain. “Who is it, Benito?”
He opened the door another crack, and I saw the strained face of Liya Del’Vecchio. “It’s all right. You may let her in.”
Liya entered with small, uncertain steps. As she turned to see that Benito had shut himself on the other side of the door, the unbound hair streaming from her scarlet kerchief made a black curtain dotted with shimmering raindrops. I pressed my fingers to my temples, disoriented from my sudden waking. Time seemed to have bent itself into a confusing coil, and my familiar room had taken on an air of unreality.
The Jewess drew my dressing table bench close by the sofa and sat down. Her cheeks were haggard, eyes red and swollen. How could her lovely face have changed so much in just a few days?
I forced myself to sit up. “What is it, Liya? Are you ill?”
“No, I’m not ill. It’s just that you are the only one I could think of to come to.” She stared down at her lap. “You were searching for Luca. I must ask… have you found him?”
“You’re asking me about Luca? You told me yourself that he had set off for Germany.”
“I know. I… may have been mistaken.”
“But you said you’d had a letter. You were very sure.”
She still refused to meet my eyes. “I can’t explain. It’s all so complicated. Just tell me, please. Have you found any trace of him?”
“No, I stopped looking when I told Maestro Torani that Luca had taken another job. Are you telling me that I’ve misled my employer?”
She jumped up, overturning the light bench in her haste. “Oh dear, everything I do goes wrong today. Signor Amato, you must believe I never intended to cause you any trouble. Perhaps I should just go.”
“No, don’t go.” I rose from the sofa and righted the bench, now fully alert. “And please, no more Signor Amato. I am simply Tito, and I am at your service. I can see you are troubled. Let me help you.”
“The only way you could help me is to find Luca.” She grimaced, making a fist of her hand and bringing it to her mouth.
“I don’t understand. In your workshop, you practically begged me to leave Luca’s disappearance alone. Now you are asking me to find him?” I shook my head in bewilderment.
“There are many avenues open to you that are closed to me. As a Christian man, you have the liberty to go wherever you like.”
“Yes, I see, but why are you so distressed? Do you think Luca is in trouble?”
“Perhaps, I have no way of knowing…” She let her comment trail off with a helpless shrug and placed her hand on my arm. At the same moment the door burst inward.
Liya’s cousin Isacco stormed into the room with Benito at his heels. “So here you are.” The Jew shook a round, damp box in Liya’s face. “You said you were going to deliver these headpieces, but you didn’t even bother to take them off our cart. I found them under the portico, about to be ruined by the blowing rain.”
Liya’s demeanor turned from lamb to lioness. “I thought you had business of your own to attend to, Isacco. What are you doing following me around?”
“You obviously need someone to look after you.” The Jew showed his prominent teeth in an unpleasant grin. “You should know better than to be alone with this man in his dressing room. These opera people do nothing but gossip. You wouldn’t want to disgrace your reputation, would you?” he finished nastily.
“Just leave me alone,” Liya said in a weary tone. “As usual, you have it all wrong. Besides, this is only Signor Amato. No one could possibly object to my speaking with him.”
Isacco threw me a brief, contemptuous look. “Even if he is a capon, you shouldn’t be here. You’re coming with me now.” His hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
“Just a minute.” I squeezed the Jew’s damp shoulder in a firm grasp. “This is my dressing room and Liya is welcome to speak with me at any time. You are the intruder here, Signore.”
Isacco dropped his cousin’s arm and turned to me with a pugnacious scowl.
I kept my grip on his shoulder. My jaw tightened. Isacco clenched his right fist, eyes narrowed. The air around us shuddered with tension. I didn’t want a fight, but I refused to be the first to back down.
Liya gave an audible sigh and shook her head, sending ripples through the shimmering curtain of jet black hair. She pushed Isacco’s fist down, shoved me aside with a flat hand to my chest, and strode to the door. I heard her hoarse whisper as she passed: “Men! You are all useless.”
Once Isacco had retreated to the hallway and Benito had locked my door, I sat my manservant down on the bench that Liya had just graced. “Benito, it’s time to dip into your store of gossip. I need to know every scrap of talk you have ever heard about Luca Cavalieri.”
***
The next day brought gray skies, but despite the threat of rain, the entire city turned out to welcome the Croatian bridegroom. Seats for the public ran along the parallel lengths of the Doge’s palace and the Broglio. The benches were stacked nearly as high as the tops of the columns and descended to the pavement in shaky stairsteps. Even so, they couldn’t accommodate the huge mass of people congregating on the Piazzetta that opened onto the Molo at the water’s edge. Before I took my place with the other singers, I searched the mob for Annetta and Gussie. To no avail.
Even during Carnival, I’d never seen this space so crowded. Latecomers shoved their way onto the benches, attempting to displace those who’d already claimed good seats. The inevitable fights broke out, but the dense crowd kept the sbirri from intervening. Every bridge and staircase was packed. A few youngsters even tried to climb the flagpoles for a better view.
The Doge, his family, and his closest advisors occupied a canopied platform that had been erected between the columns of Saint Mark and Saint Theodore. These soaring pillars of granite looked out over the basin that the bridegroom’s ship would soon traverse. As I followed Torani toward our makeshift stage on the Molo, I spotted the Savio alla Cultura mounting the steps to the Doge’s platform. Signor Morelli followed, strutting like a peacock with feathers in full array. They trod a thick red carpet that covered the platform and descended between a double wall of gaily uniformed soldiers to make a crimson path to the stone steps of the jetty.
On the water, the basin presented a spectacular display. Military contingents with full-bellied sails and banners flapping in the breeze were tacking back and forth, narrowly avoiding the barges of the nobility that were decorated with family pennants and flowery garlands. Gondolas, sleek and shabby, hugged the stones of the Molo and clogged the mouth of the Grand Canal. Many of the smaller boats were trailing lengths of velvet or silk. These brightly colored trains carried flowers that spread out across the water as the boats progressed. If the day had been fair, with sunlight burnishing the surface of the water to its most beautiful shade of jade green, the trailing silks and the multitude of flowers would have transformed the basin into a floating garden. But with the lowering clouds hovering over Venice like an inverted bowl, the choppy, gray water swallowed the blooms almost as soon as they were released.
The bridegroom’s ship sailed into the basin right on schedule. A battery of cannon on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore boomed a welcoming salute. In between thuds, a great cheer arose. It started with the sailors on the boats, rippled over the water, then was taken up by the crowd on the Piazzetta. I looked across the red carpet to the basilica choir’s platform. Their singers’ lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a note for the booming cannons and cheering crowd.
By the time it was our turn to perform, the tall-masted Croatian ship was at the mid-point of her slow, stately passage across the basin. The crowd had quieted considerably. As Torani rose and gave the musicians their cue, a thrill of anticipation swirled around our platform. Emma sang first. She executed her arias with sweetness and virtuosity but received only scattered applause and no cries of “brava.” Torani shrugged helplessly and motioned for me to step forward.
Barely aware of the murmur sweeping through the Piazzetta, I faced the Doge and his retinue. I had prepared several popular arias from operas that the theater had offered during the last Carnival. Since I’d been making enough time for practice, my voice was nearly back to top form. Even my rival Florio had noticed the change and complemented me in rehearsal. I took a breath, anticipating the opening chord. The sea of listeners swam before my eyes.
I was stopped before uttering so much as one note. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Il Florino! Where is Il Florino?” Others took up the cry and it became a chant: “Il Florino, Il Florino, give us the best, Il Florino.”
Torani called for silence, but the frenzied chant drowned him out. The crowd stamped their feet, relentless in their demand for Florio. The fickleness of the public sliced through my heart like a stiletto. Only two months ago, I was the most acclaimed castrato in Venice. Every person on the Piazzetta would have been thrilled for the opportunity to hear me sing without having to lay out money for a ticket to the opera.
In one heartbreaking moment I realized that it would be impossible to perform for this mob that had ears only for the imported soprano. With bile rising in my throat, I turned and walked stiffly back to my seat between Emma and Florio. Kind as always, Emma slipped a comforting hand in mine. I steeled myself to meet the eyes of the castrato who had stolen my public. Expecting a look of gloating triumph, I was astonished to see a tear trickling down Florio’s plump cheek. He sent me a sad smile before moving to strike a majestic posture in the middle of the platform.
How can I describe the intensity of the moment? The nobility under the canopy, the populace crowding the seats and the pavement, even the pigeons lined up on the roof of the palace were absolutely still. It seemed as if the clouds themselves nestled as close to the earth as they dared, just to experience the glory that was Florio.
His first aria was slow and simple, no doubt chosen to demonstrate the quality of Florio’s voice in all its purity. He began with a few soft notes interspersed with frequent pauses, but how artfully those notes were sounded. When our ears had been ravished by the pathos of their limpid beauty, Florio soared up the scale, swelling each tone to an amazing volume. His voice was a palpable force, lifting us to the heights of heaven, supporting us on wings of ethereal perfection. Behind me a woman made a sound that was something between a scream and a sigh. I turned my gaze away from the singer just in time to see several ladies swoon into the arms of their escorts.
Then Florio dropped to his low, mellow register and his voice became a whirlpool, drawing us down in dizzying, seductive swirls, drowning us in irresistible waves of song. Even though I knew what the man was doing, I found myself as overcome as anyone else. I had been taught the same techniques, but Florio was performing them so much better than I had ever dreamed of doing. Get hold of yourself, Tito, I thought. Don’t let jealousy get the upper hand. Listen and learn.
Another scream sounded, this time filled with horror instead of yearning. The pigeons took flight; their wings whirred frantically over my head. An uproar swept through the boats clustered against the Molo steps. Florio kept producing beautiful music, but his eyes flickered from the Doge’s platform toward the water where the banner-draped Croatian vessel was drawing near the jetty. I craned my neck to locate the source of the disturbance.
A swarm of boatmen were poking their oars into a length of scarlet silk trailing one of the larger gondolas. The boat’s owner, a florid-faced gentleman waving his tricorne hat in agitated circles, leaned over the gondolier’s deck and peered into the water with a look of revulsion. I stepped to the edge of our platform. As the gondola bumped against the Molo, the crowd on the stone steps parted. People twisted this way and that, fairly climbing over each other to get away from whatever was tangled in the coil of scarlet silk.
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.”
