Now it was Emilio’s entrance, and the castrato didn’t fare so well. Early on, he snatched a breath in the wrong place that threw him off tempo for several measures.
Karl abruptly stopped playing and the Gecco brothers followed suit. “You know where you went wrong,” the maestro observed in a level tone.
Emilio nodded, cheeks flushing.
“That’s all right. Let’s have it again.” Karl sounded a chord and Emilio returned to the beginning. Better this time, I thought. With proper breathing, Emilio’s small mouth was able to produce tones of mellow, bell-like timbre. Just the thing for his role of Andronicus, the lovesick prince.
He and Grisella were blending their voices in an energetic cadenza when Octavia joined us. She wore a loosely draped morning gown of screaming yellow dotted with red bouquets. If any of our eyes were still bleary from sleep, they were jolted to full wakefulness by one glimpse of our hostess.
“Oh, don’t mind me,” she called gaily as she crossed to a settee near the open loggia doors. “I’ll listen while I work on my stitching over here in the good light. I promise to stay quiet as a mouse.”
Nita followed her mistress, bearing a floor stand topped with an oval tapestry frame. Rehearsal continued over Octavia’s increasingly strident commands: “Set it here. No, not there, you fool. I’ll be too warm. Put it over here. No, this is the spot to catch the breeze—you must move the settee.”
The duet concluded on a subdued note. Before dismissing Grisella and Emilio, Karl mumbled a few obvious corrections. I expected him to mention several others, but something had happened to the composer. As Carmela took her place, Karl leafed through his score distractedly. The adroit master of the company was once more the moody artiste.
At least Carmela was in good voice, and seasoned enough to handle her aria without much direction from Karl. Her bold, vivid soprano was the perfect instrument to convey the frustrations of Irene, the princess of Trebizond who had been callously rejected by Tamerlano. She also showed herself an accomplished actress with artful expressions and sweeping gestures that could have given a deaf man the sense of her words. I rubbed my chin thoughtfully; holding my own would not be easy when I shared the stage with Carmela.
Several times I glanced across the salon toward our hostess. Octavia plied her needle with an air of rampant gentility, but her promise to imitate the house mouse didn’t last long. The concluding note of the aria had barely faded when she popped off the settee.
Octavia’s heels tapped a staccato beat across the floor. “Karl, my lamb, you know I don’t like to interfere, but must Signora Costa be so loud?”
The composer cleared his throat. “It’s an impassioned aria, expressing the anger of a wronged woman.”
“Yes, but for female singers, the common vogue favors more… restraint. The public wants their lovely nightingales to chirp, not shriek. Don’t you agree?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.”
“Charm, Karl, feminine grace.”
The composer steeled himself like a schoolboy expecting to be boxed on the ear. “Carmela is delivering the aria exactly as I asked.”
“Really, now. I understand Venetian audiences just a bit better than you. Vincenzo keeps a box at both the Teatro San Marco and the San Moise. I’ve had my eye on the nobility for years, and I know what will win their approval.”
“Il Gran Tamerlano is not just for Venice. It will open there, to be sure, but soon it will play in London and Paris. They expect fire from all Italian singers, men or women.”
Octavia tapped a furious toe. “London and Paris are nothing to me. I’m mounting this opera for Venice’s benefit. Above all, I’m lending my name to it. Think how humiliated I’ll be if people say Signora Dolfini’s soprano trumpets like an elephant and spreads her jaws as wide as an Egyptian crocodile.”
Carmela had been following this exchange with one hand on the rim of the harpsichord. Octavia’s comparison to wild beasts propelled her away from the instrument. “I’ll have you know that my singing has been praised from Lisbon to St. Petersburg.”
“Perhaps by moonstruck students or rabble who know no better,” Octavia snapped.
“By the Czarina, herself. I was a favorite at her court for months. When I left Russia last spring, Anna Ivanova presented me with a pair of pearl-studded garters and a purse full of rubles.”
The women continued to bicker, yowling like angry cats, Octavia towering over Carmela by a head. Karl’s melancholy face sank lower and lower behind the harpsichord’s music stand, and the rest of the company began to stretch and chat as players tend to do during any rehearsal interruption, however contentious. Jean-Louis left his gazettes and spoke with Grisella in low, intense tones. Was he giving her a personal critique?
I didn’t join in any of their conversations. Carmela’s mention of St. Petersburg forced me to confront something I’d been trying to ignore. I strolled over to the loggia doors and gazed toward the lawn dozing under the gentle autumn sun. The lake beyond twinkled as if diamonds floated on its lazy waters, and the tops of the cypresses waved in the breeze. An idyllic scene. But last night, violence worthy of the most turbulent city had forced its way into this quiet paradise.
We were sure of only one thing concerning the murdered stranger. By virtue of his unique pistol, he had a connection to Russia. Within the space of the morning, I’d heard two women mention their own ties to that distant, northbound country. And one of them was my sister.
Chapter Five
After several more hours, we were released from one of the most grueling rehearsals I had ever endured. Octavia had been called away to tend to household affairs, and Karl had resumed his mantle of director with a vengeance.
Our maestro demanded perfection, not with the strident commands or biting sarcasm of some composers, but with steady encouragement to shift focus and imbue the music with the true expression of the poetry we sang. He was most insistent that the drama not be stifled by ornamentation. An interesting stance, I thought. Usually I was asked to invent as many flowery embellishments as possible.
I taxed my voice to meet Karl’s new challenges and was feeling exceedingly proud of my performance when the composer rose from the harpsichord.
“Very pretty,” he said with a small sigh. “You could easily carry their hearts away.”
I allowed myself no more than a modest nod. Emilio had been watching from the ring of chairs, trying to appear aloof and detached, but his flared jaw revealed his true state of mind. No need to further inflame his jealousy by basking in the composer’s praise.
Karl came to stand in front of me. He thumped on my chest as if he were knocking on a door. “A beautiful instrument you have here. But you forget, Tito. You’re playing a tyrant who has sacked villages and murdered thousands. You’ve callously abandoned your betrothed Irene, and you’re trying to force Asteria to marry you by offering to free her imprisoned father. If she doesn’t comply, you have every intention of cutting off both their heads. I want the audience to hate you—I want you to make them wish they could storm the stage and tear you to bits with their bare hands.”
Emilio broke into a broad grin. Romeo and Carmela traded appalled looks. I couldn’t see Grisella’s reaction; Karl blocked my view.
After a stunned moment I realized that the composer was absolutely correct. In my zeal to make beautiful music, I had sung Tamerlano as a light, roguish villain. I had not yet found the truth of his ruthless character. I gulped and mumbled, “Si, Maestro Weber.”
“Drink deep of Tamerlano,” the composer continued. “Come to know his barbarity, his blood lust—and show these to me after dinner. We will break for now.” After a decisive nod, Karl headed toward the loggia, where Nita was arranging a tray of lemonade and glasses.
I didn’t follow my fellow singers out to partake of refreshment. Karl’s criticism stung all the m
ore for being well-considered, and I needed a moment to soothe my battered pride. I went to our room, hoping to find Gussie, but he wasn’t there. Vincenzo had probably installed him in the vineyard to begin sketching.
I rang for a footman. Giovanni answered my call and didn’t seem surprised when I requested a pot of tea.
“That Maestro Weber, he’s written a throat-scorcher for sure.”
“Indeed,” I replied baldly, then asked, “Giovanni, does the Post stop in the village?”
He nodded. “There’s a Post house and station at the bottom of the hill, just past the church.”
“When you come back with the tea, I’ll have a letter ready. I’d like you to take it into Molina Mori for me.”
A dubious look came over his handsome, young face. “I don’t know if I can get away, Signore. The mistress keeps us all very busy.”
Fortunately, my travels had taught me a thing a two about busy young footmen. “There’s a zecchino in it for you.”
“I’ll manage, then. Happy to be of service, Signore.” Giovanni bowed and withdrew.
I retrieved my writing case from the chest of drawers. I would ponder Tamerlano later; just then I was bursting to write to Alessandro. I scribbled the news of our sister with a stubby quill and enclosed my brother’s letter in a short note addressed to Benito. My manservant would take charge of sending the longer missive on its way to Constantinople. Barring bad weather, it should reach Alessandro in three weeks. I only wished I could be there to see my brother’s face when he realized he’d been fooled over the matter of Grisella’s grave.
Giovanni returned as I was heating wax for the seal. After I’d impressed my ring in the soft blob, the footman took charge of my letter as promised. I bathed my throat with several quick cups of tea and headed for the vineyard to deliver the news to Gussie.
***
“By Jove, but this is wonderful—Grisella alive! Nothing could please Annetta more.” Gussie’s sketching pad lay abandoned on the stone wall that overlooked the vine rows. His blue eyes danced with glee. “You are sure? I mean, this prima donna couldn’t be some sort of imposter, could she? I wouldn’t want to tell Annetta and then have to disappointment her.”
“I’m absolutely certain that Gabrielle Fouquet is my sister Grisella. Beyond that, I’m not sure of anything.” I spoke in low, unforced tones, resting my throat.
Gussie gathered his sticks of chalk into a leather portfolio. “I’ll start a letter immediately. I’ve accomplished enough for the day.”
“Whoa, don’t be so hasty. I’ve already written to Alessandro, but no one in Venice or here at the villa must know.”
Gussie gave me a perturbed stare.
“Grisella made me promise. Apparently this new husband of hers smuggled her out of Turkey one step ahead of a pasha who considers her a stolen piece of personal property. If he suspected she survived the fire and was appearing on the stage, he would be most anxious for her return.”
“Constantinople is a long way away, Tito. And your Grisella is now a married woman. She should have no reason to fear.”
The vineyard was hot; the afternoon sun bore down on men and vines more like July than September. I removed my hat and mopped my forehead with my sleeve. “If Grisella was being truthful, the pasha she fears may be from the Sultan’s inner circle.”
Gussie whistled under his breath. “Your little sister disappeared long before I came to Venice, but I’ve heard all the stories. Never does anything by halves, does she?”
“No, and I don’t suppose she’s much changed. Where this need for secrecy is concerned, I’d like to think her harsh experiences have made her overly cautious and her fears are unfounded, but… I don’t know. The Sultan’s empire stretches from Persia to Algiers and north across the mountains into Europe. Even the eastern coast of the Adriatic is now in Turkish hands. The Ottoman arm has a long reach when you look at it that way.”
“The man with the Russian pistol—you don’t think he could’ve been after Grisella, do you?”
“I can’t imagine that a Turk would send a European to do his dirty work. Or that any gentleman with an ounce of honor would take it on. Besides, we concluded that the stranger must have been expected. That hardly fits the picture of someone snatching Grisella to drag her back to Constantinople.”
Gussie nodded. “It’s more likely that this pasha forgot about your sister once he heard of her death. After all, she’s only one woman, and not exactly fresh—” He stopped short when he caught sight of my dark look. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to disparage her. My unbridled tongue is getting me in trouble, as usual.”
“Don’t worry. You’re only speaking the truth.” I sighed. “But let’s keep this to ourselves. Not even her husband knows her true origin, and that’s the way she wants it for now. We’ll explain to Annetta in good time, after I’ve wrung a few more details out of Grisella.”
“Gabrielle,” he replied, nodding.
“Eh?”
“You had better start thinking of her as Gabrielle, lest you slip and give the game away.”
I put a finger to my lips. I’d heard voices in the distance, and now they were coming closer. Two men rounded the end of the nearest trellis.
“If you would just let me explain, Signore.” Ernesto spoke in plodding, patient tones, but his shoulders balled in tense mounds under his loose, open-weave shirt.
Vincenzo grimaced impatiently. Rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks. His muscular chest was buttoned into a snug waistcoat topped by a neckcloth that was already half-sodden. He’d slung his jacket over his arm. “All right, tell me again.”
“Spring was unusually warm this year, and the buds broke through early. Then we had a hot summer, putting the crop ahead of schedule. These berries have wonderful color, but the flavor lags behind.” The steward plucked several grapes from the bulging purple clusters and offered them to his master. “You try a taste. You must chew the skin thoroughly—the skin tells the tale. These tell me they need to stay on the vine a bit longer.”
They walked toward us, Vincenzo chewing dutifully, Ernesto clasping his hands behind his back. Santini, the peasant who had helped put our carriage back on the road, loped into view and caught up with them in a few strides of his spindly, scarecrow legs.
Vincenzo paused to spit out grape skins. “All right, they could be sweeter. But next door, Luvisi has already started his harvest.”
“Signor Luvisi’s vines are a different variety,” Ernesto explained. “His berries are ready, yours are not. We must remain patient—that’s the key to unlocking the full flavor of any vintage.”
Behind him, Santini nodded his long chin.
Vincenzo mopped his cheeks with a cloth. “But Luvisi is getting ahead of us—”
“With all due respect, Signore.” Ernesto bobbed his head. “The harvesting of grapes is not a race. And if I might be allowed to venture a prediction, I believe we’re in for a cool spell, perhaps even some rain that will delay the harvest even further.”
Santini licked a finger and held it up to catch the breeze. He nodded again.
“Mercy me.” Vincenzo chewed at his lower lip. “Signora Dolfini won’t stand for that. The grapes will have to be in well before her concert. She’s planning a musical evening to show her opera off to the entire neighborhood. She wants the front steps of the villa planked over to make a temporary stage and benches set up in the drive. She won’t appreciate any competition from farm work.”
“And when does the signora plan on holding this concert?”
Vincenzo frowned uncertainly. “She’s told me, but I’m damned if I can recall the date now. I’ll have her speak to you about the arrangements.”
“Si, Signore.” Ernesto bowed stiffly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the boys are cutting hemp in the north field, and I must make sure that the stalks
are properly retted.”
“Yes, I was going to speak to you about that. I rode out that way this morning, and they seemed to be making a fearful mess of it. The crop was still on the ground, lying every which way. That big white dog was walking all over the cut hemp.”
Ernesto cleared his throat, and I caught Santini rolling his eyes before he dipped his gaze to the ground. The man’s tongue might be impaired, but his natural reason was clearly intact.
The steward replied, “The hemp stalks are left in the field for the dew and rain to start breaking down the fibers, but they must be stacked just so or rot will set in.”
“Oh yes, of course. Decidedly so.” Vincenzo nodded as if he had learned the vagaries of hemp farming at his father’s knee. “Go on, Ernesto and see to that, ah… retting.”
As the steward and his silent shadow left the vineyard by a gate in the stone wall, Vincenzo walked over to Gussie and me. “I hope both of you have had a more profitable day than I have.”
Gussie responded by opening his portfolio and spreading his sketches on the sun-drenched wall. In his modest manner, he said, “Mind you, these are only a start. I’ve been working my way around the vineyard, taking in several viewpoints so you could have your choice.”
“Yes. Very nice.” Vincenzo nodded as he inspected each drawing, then picked up several sheets by the corners. “I want you to paint both of these. This one with the hills stretching into the distance and this other that shows the lawn and the north side of the house in the background.” He sighed deeply, raising his gaze to the golden landscape that had inspired Gussie’s pen and chalk. “It will soon be time to return to the city, and I tell you, Signori, I dread it. This is the very meat of existence, living on the land as men were meant to.”
“You prefer the country to the city?” I asked.
Our host nodded vigorously, gesturing to the shimmering fields, the remote hills flaming orange and yellow. “Venice can hardly compare with this. There’s purity and virility in nature, while the city is smelly, dirty, and full of strangers on the prowl for who knows what. It’s not like the old days when the Arsenale was turning out three boats a day and the dock workers were never idle. Now a new vice lurks down every alleyway.”
4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Page 7
