Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

I found myself turning back toward the Rialto with an uneasy glance. Hadn’t Torani just been engaged in a heated argument with a man he’d called his enemy?

  But the director’s focus had returned to the opera. Torani continued, “Which role would Majorano take in The False Duke—just for discussion’s sake, mind you—the duke or the huntsman?”

  I replied after a moment of hesitation. “The duke, of course. He has more arias.”

  Our boat rocked in the wake of a passing charcoal barge as Torani angled forward and tapped my knee. “Too bad you can’t sing the duke, Tito. Sounds like a role tailored expressly for your talents.” He must not have noticed my involuntary grimace or my surly silence, because he went right on tossing concerns into the shimmering air.

  Tedi Dall’Agata, our prima donna, was nearing the end of her career—could she pull off the young milkmaid? Would Giuseppe Balbi be content with Torani’s promise to hold Prometheus over until the Easter season? We wouldn’t want to lose our reliable lead violinist at this crucial juncture.

  At last, as our gondola glided down the narrow ribbon of water that led to the theater’s quay, Torani wondered the crucial question aloud, “If I agree to this last-minute switch, would the Savio alla Cultura even allow it?”

  The boat swayed. With a gentle bump, Peppino had maneuvered us alongside the landing stones.

  “The only way we’d know is to ask him, Maestro.”

  “Yes.” Torani blew out a breath and gave me an appraising look.

  “Well? What do you say?” I prodded, unable to endure his indecision for another moment. “Make up your mind for once and all. You owe me an answer!”

  He steepled his hands and notched his fingertips under his chin. The ragged gash shone red on his white scalp. Peppino began grumbling under his breath.

  Finally my mentor uttered the words that set twin chills of delight and apprehension battling for my backbone: “You win, my boy. Your extraordinary duke and his lady milkmaid will have their chance to capture Venice’s heart. I sincerely hope that they—and you—are up to the task.”

  His jaws split in an uncharacteristically wide grin. “Let me fix things with Balbi—you go and have a talk with the Savio.”

  Ah, lucky me!

  I studied my mentor’s expression uneasily. I’d seen that smile before. Despite Torani’s lengthy protest, the old fox was pleased. Delighted, actually.

  Could it be that my cunning mentor had intended to be talked out of Prometheus all along? Perhaps, thanks to his vast supply of eyes and ears throughout Venice’s musical world, Torani had already known about The False Duke and was curious to see how staunchly I would defend my new opera against his nay-saying. Hmm. Perhaps Torani had also planned for me to be the one to convince the Savio that the change in operas would be a good idea.

  Chapter Three

  Other cities are built on dry land—terra firma. My ancestors had made their own.

  Centuries ago they faced the choice of being overrun by Visigoths or fleeing to the relative safety of offshore mud flats. In this enclosed bay of the Adriatic, they drove pinewood piles into the muck, packed them tight to resist the pull of tides, then topped the piles with beams of larch wood. From Istria they fetched dense, pale gray stone to fashion sea-proof foundations for their expanding islets. Dwellings arose, finer and more magnificent with each passing century—and bridges, stately houses of business and government, churches, all interlaced in a pageant of arches, balconies, colonnades, and emerald canals.

  Having wrested a home from the sea, the Venetians set out to further subdue the waters. In oared triremes and tall-masted sailing ships, they gradually secured a monopoly of Mediterranean and Oriental trade and acquired an empire that stretched from the Levant in the east to the Alps in the west. By my time, much of that had been eaten away. The turn of trade to the rich New World across the Atlantic favored other nations, and perhaps, just perhaps, Venetians had become lazy and complacent. They’d allowed themselves to be suffocated by layers of governmental rules and regulations. Protective, yes. Also stultifying.

  There were, however, a few men who embodied the vigor and courage of our ancestors. Worthy men who combined a love of learning, a head for business, and a taste for adventure. Thank God, Signor Arcangelo Passoni, the current Savio alla Cultura, was one of these.

  I first sought Passoni on the Broglio, the arcaded walk across from the Doge’s Palace where Senators and their minions retired to whisper and plot during recesses of the Great Council. The wind had blown up a bit. In the Basin, a forest of masts rose and fell beneath screaming, circling gulls. Discarded gazettes and other trash skidded along the stones between the great columns dedicated to our patron saints. Under the arcade, I pushed through a crowd of Venice’s foremost aristocrats, asking first one and then another about Signor Passoni.

  “Not here, Signor Amato,” a minor dignitary swathed in his black robe of office advised me. I was still recognized, you see—opera-besotted Venetians never forgot their heroes. The man continued, “They say Signor Passoni has a touch of catarrh. Poor old fellow. He’s missing a fascinating debate on the licensing of caulk purveyors for the shipyards.”

  Caulk, yes. If our Savio found the subject as engrossing as I did, I suspected I’d find him at home, reading in his library with a cup of chocolate within easy reach. The Ca’Passoni lay in the Dorsodura district across the Grand Canal, and the great clock on the piazza had just struck eleven. I hastened to secure a gondola and present myself before the Savio would have roused himself for his afternoon activities.

  The footman attending the Ca’Passoni’s water entrance must have found my person and recently engraved card acceptable. With barely a trace of the haughtiness that servants of noble houses so often absorb from their masters, the liveried youth led me across the foyer and deep into the great palazzo.

  Despite the marble floors displaying an endless pattern of varicolored squares and diamonds, and the elegant silk-damask wall panels framing gilded mirrors, the Ca’Passoni oozed a subtle shabbiness. Many of the plastered acanthus scrolls above the archways had lost a few leaves. And then there was the whiff of rotting damp emanating from a stairwell that led down to the business floor of the house where boats had once entered the water gate with loads of spices and other fine goods. I supposed the smell signified little.

  Like the society around us, Venice’s famed stone foundations are crumbling. Every family, rich or poor, fights the damp.

  At last the footman ushered me into the Savio’s study, which turned out to be a cozy room lit by large leaded-glass windows overlooking a canal. As I’d thought, the illustrious gentleman was taking his ease without a trace of catarrh.

  Signor Passoni sat in a patch of sunlight, legs stretched long and crossed at the ankles, reading an octavo volume with the aid of spectacles. He’d not yet suffered the attentions of his valet or hairdresser; silver hair streamed loose over the shoulders of a bright blue paislied robe with folds hanging softly about an untucked linen shirt and breeches that molded muscular thighs. Not a young man, the Savio, but one still full of life and energy.

  He received me well, putting his book aside, half-rising from his upholstered armchair and motioning me to sit in its mate. “Tito, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

  I made my bow. “Excuse the intrusion, Excellency. Maestro Torani has sent me. We have a…a proposition for you.”

  Signor Passoni removed his spectacles. His blue eyes crinkled with cheerful curiosity. “A proposition—delightful—just the thing to enliven a dull morning. But first—will you take chocolate? Coffee?”

  I declined and took my seat. Best to get right to it. “Excellency, Maestro Torani and I would like to cancel Prometheus in favor of a different opera.”

  Signor Passoni drew himself up, mildly astonished. “At this late date?”

  I nodded, summoning courage. I admit I’d come to the Savio with
my ears laid back like a donkey expecting the lash. With fellow musicians, my innate confidence was undisturbed. Not so with aristocrats whose family names had been entered in Venice’s Golden Book centuries before. Though my singing career—and certain more clandestine activities—had often put me in the company of those with wealth and breeding, this magnificent palazzo reminded me that I was really only a simple musico, the son of an organist who’d barely kept meat on our table.

  “Why, Tito?” he asked, expression still affable. “Why this change? Have you run into difficulty with one of the singers? Or have the machines proved too complex?”

  “No, nothing like that.” I leaned forward. “Excellency, how would you like to double the San Marco’s box-office receipts?”

  My words came out with too much force, more like a pistol shot than the intriguing question I’d meant to pose. My flustered gaze bounced off the shelves of leather-bound books, the glass-fronted cabinets displaying a number of model ships.

  Passoni saw my distress. His slender hand made a flourish, graceful despite its knotted bones. I wondered how he slid his rings, one a heavy gold signet and the other a pyramid-shaped emerald, over those knuckles. “Please continue,” he said quietly, “any increase in receipts would be a most welcome eventuality. Explain how this might be achieved.”

  Describing the great pleasure I took in Rocatti’s score put me back in my element. I explained how opera had a strange and beautiful life of its own that must be continuously fed by the new, the novel. I predicted how completely the public would be won over by The False Duke—how the line at the box office would stretch around the campo.

  Passoni began to nod when I stressed that an opera weighed down by antiquated ideas could never reach the stars. I was encouraged, but sensed an unstated reservation hovering behind Passoni’s bland expression.

  “Excellency,” I asked, “perhaps you find the subject of a peasant taking on the authority of his master too freethinking?”

  Passoni chuckled. “The story’s political philosophy is pure nonsense—a bumpkin could never fool a duke’s courtiers. And how long would a duke live in a hut before he grew sick and tired of dirt and smoke and turnips for dinner? Tell me, is this poetic composer a very young man?”

  “In his twenties, I believe.” Believe? I was merely guessing. In truth, I knew very little of Rocatti beyond what his music told me.

  “It would take a man without much experience of the world to come up with such silliness. If a thing isn’t rational, you see, it can’t exist. Therefore, it’s nonsense.” Passoni reached for the book he’d abandoned on my arrival and held it up like a priest displaying Holy Writ. “To keep my wits sharp, I read the learned philosophers and contemplate their tenets. I’m not worried that anyone would take this opera’s politics seriously. My concern is whether this particular nonsense will fill the theater’s boxes and benches.”

  He sent me a pointed look. “That’s where the rub is, eh Tito? The box office.”

  “I believe its profits will surpass every opera of the past few seasons.” There was that “believe” again. My statement was actually more of a desperate hope.

  Passoni leaned forward, elbows on knees, one hand still clutching the leather-bound volume. “I want to help your theater, I truly do. Unlike some, I can’t work up any great enthusiasm for the Teatro Grimani becoming Venice’s flagship opera house.”

  Unlike some. I gulped. So Caprioli’s machinations had come this far, had they?

  Passoni smiled reassuringly. “Don’t worry. A few Senators are crying for an end to ‘Maestro Rinaldo Torani’s money pit,’ but I’ve convinced the majority that Venice needs the Teatro San Marco. Torani can always be trusted to present operas of the highest dignity and taste—amusements we can rely on to impress our perpetual throng of foreign visitors. The Grimani is another netful of fish. It always seems to have a whiff of the risqué about it. Perhaps it’s those bold young women they use as attendants.…” He trailed off, shook his head and eased back. “More to the point, Torani’s account books always tally. I wouldn’t trust Lorenzo Caprioli an inch in that regard. He’s as slimy as a rotting eel.”

  I nodded slowly. A lot was riding on Rocatti’s opera. On me. I sat tall. “Do we have your permission to proceed with The False Duke, Excellency?”

  “I don’t know.” Passoni shifted in his chair, toyed with his signet ring. “Won’t a change send the company scrambling to be ready?”

  “We can manage it.”

  “Hmm…what special effects does your new opera include?” With a definite sparkle, his gaze darted to the cabinet which held his models. Now I saw not all were ships. There were also intricate models of bridges and windmills. The Savio must be an engineer at heart.

  The Duke, as I’d mentally shortened the title, didn’t have elaborate scenic illusions written into the libretto. But if a few machines were all that stood between Passoni’s yes and no…I thought quickly. “To be sure, Excellency. A fearful windstorm tears through the forest in Act Two.”

  “Thunder and lightning?”

  I nodded enthusiastically.

  “Could we have a shipwreck, too? I’ve always longed to see a galleon capsize down on stage.”

  I froze in mid-nod. The Savio’s suggestion struck me speechless. Had I not just explained that the opera’s setting was a mountainous duchy with rolling forests and castles clinging to steep peaks?

  “Well…perhaps we could work in a flooded stream.”

  Passoni pulled a frown. Shook his head.

  “But Excellency, the sea is miles away. The libretto has nothing to do with ships.”

  He pondered a moment, fingering his chin, then said brightly, “I have the perfect thing. The hero and his lady could sail away to the New World and crash on the rocky coast of—what do the English call that place?—Virginia? Yes, Virginia. That would make a magnificent finale, don’t you think?”

  “I…don’t know.” I wanted to shriek. A stunt like that could destroy the reality and humor I loved about The Duke.

  “The wreck is no more ridiculous than the rest of the story.” Passoni’s gaze narrowed. “And it would mean so much to me.” His mellow voice suddenly rasped like a steel point splitting satin. “I would view it as a personal favor.”

  No longer the dilettante lingering in his library with cups of chocolate and volumes of philosophy, the Savio showed himself as the merchant-aristocrat shrewd and clever enough to be appointed one of Venice’s “wise men.” Savio alla Cultura—the wise man who oversaw the regulation and licensing of the entire array of Venice’s cultural activities. Not only the opera, but printing, bookbinding, play houses, news gazettes, and more.

  I inhaled deeply. A hasty compromise was in order. I could only hope that the beauty of the rest of the opera would balance out this absurd plot alteration.

  “Excellency,” I replied with a respectful nod, “your pleasure is my command. I will see that The False Duke is changed to include your shipwreck—not just a run-of-the-mill illusion, mind, but the biggest and best. Our machinist—Signor Ziani—has been begging for a new challenge.” And will probably kill me for promising one of this magnitude, I thought.

  “Delightful.” The Savio grinned. His shoulders shuddered under the silk of his dressing gown. “It will be hard to wait. I’ll be on pins and needles.”

  “Then may I inform Maestro Torani that we have your formal permission to proceed?”

  He opened his mouth, but before he could speak a word, the door opened and a young woman entered in a whirl of pink skirts and lace-frothed petticoats. She was the very picture of a Venetian beauty—a plump little sparrow with white shoulders and a barely restrained profusion of red-gold curls. She ran across the study, encircled Passoni’s neck in a hug, and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Papa, no. Don’t give Tito your promise about the opera just yet.”

  My heart sank as I rose to
make my bow. Two more seconds and the Savio’s approval would have been mine. Two seconds.

  Passoni laughed and swung the girl around onto his lap. “Little minx. Were you listening at the door again?”

  “Papa, how would I ever know anything if I didn’t?” They both laughed uproariously while I remained standing, tricorne under my arm, a smile plastered over my disappointment.

  The Savio introduced his daughter, Beatrice, but I already knew who she was. I’d seen her in his second-tier box at the theater, sitting at the railing beside her father while the faded Signora Passoni and her devoted cavaliere servente watched from the back seats. The signora was known as a woman of impeccable dignity and virtue, unfortunately weakened by intermittent bouts of ill health. The presence of her cavaliere was in perfect keeping with the practices of Venetian society. Every married woman of status had her personal Sir Galahad, a “friend of the house,” who kept her company while her husband was engaged in his own amusements. How much, and in what precise manner, these companions profited by the relationship was entirely up to the woman.

  But back to Beatrice. My long-distance view from the stage hadn’t prepared me for the sheer sparkle of the girl. Beatrice was a fresh breeze on a muggy day. A gulp of chilled limonata on a parched throat.

  Passoni stroked errant curls from her cheeks. “Now, my pet, tell us why I should not grant Signor Amato’s request.”

  “I’ve had a letter from Cousin Amalia. She attended an opera—part of some civic celebration in Milan—that absolutely astounded her. She shivered, she wept. She swooned so completely that Uncle Ludovico had to send their footman for a vinaigrette of smelling salts.”

  “Your cousin is prone to faints, I think.”

  “Oh, Papa. Amalia wasn’t the only one. Many ladies, even several of the gentlemen, fainted from sheer pleasure.”

  “Who wrote this opera that produced such a shocking result, Carissima?”

  “Signor Sanmartini, I think, but that’s not the important part.”