Whispers of Vivaldi

by Beverle Graves Myers

  My wife had also been delighted with Gussie’s offer to accompany me to Milan. That beautiful pagan never let me set out on a journey without consulting her scrying crystal or the well-worn cards she kept in a sandalwood box. While most people played a pleasant game of tarocchi with the pasteboard rectangles that featured fools, demons, stars, and skeletons, Liya used the cards for a more serious purpose—divination. The night before I set off, she spread her cards on our bed’s blood-red counterpane. With her raven hair rippling down her back, she arranged them again and again, faster and faster, in ever more complicated patterns.

  Liya had seen something in the cards that worried her—something she was either unwilling or unable to explain. All she could offer was a general caution to take special care and avoid risk.

  Though I took Liya’s oracles with a grain of salt, I liked to set her mind at rest when I could. I’d promised that Gussie and I would both be on the alert. With a youth spent tromping over his father’s Northamptonshire estate and galloping horses over field and stream, Gussie was noticeably hardier than either Benito or myself. I admit I also felt more confident with Gussie’s strong right arm at the ready, whether the misfortune Liya divined turned out to be pistol-toting brigands or a slipped carriage axle.

  Gussie and I woke to a fair morning. The rain had washed the skies to a clear, unbounded blue and ushered in the first hint of autumn coolness. Signor Leone, now acquainted with our mission, conducted Gussie and me around the meeting places of Milan’s musical society. Leone was a horn player with no opera-house connections, but he was certain that we would eventually run across news of Angeletto if the singer had remained in town after the performance that Beatrice’s cousin had described.

  We had our first spot of luck at a café spilling out of its dim interior onto a pavement shaded by red-striped awnings. As we sampled saffron-laden risotto served with unfamiliar sausages, I caught snatches of conversation from other tables. Apparently, a public concert was to be held that evening at the residence of Count Firmian, the Austrian governor of Lombardy.

  “—our best chance to hear the musico who’s been causing such a sensation.”

  “Angeletto, you mean?”

  “Yes, naturally. Who else has captured the public’s attention so thoroughly?”

  “Angeletto does sing well. But still,” the original speaker heaved a deep chuckle, “you always feel there’s something missing!” Laughter rumbled from table to table.

  “Missing his chestnuts or not, the women love him.”

  “My wife will insist on going.”

  “My daughter, also. Are any tickets to be had?”

  Though the three of us dawdled long over the good local wine, wagging chins with Leone’s acquaintances, I heard nothing against Angeletto besides more of the inevitable evirato jokes that are always heard in male company. No other innuendo. No real disapproval beyond the fact that the singer was a southerner—Milanese pride was nearly as rampant as Venetian.

  Later that evening, when Gussie, Benito, and I arrived at the Count’s theater at the appointed hour, the only available tickets merely gained admission to stand at the rear of the small auditorium bounded by two tiers of scarlet-draped boxes. More gold coins changed hands before three chairs were added at the end of the first row on the floor—no rough benches for Count Firmian’s patrons. My purse was rapidly growing lighter, but the expense was justified. I needed a good view, and the theater was soon so packed that a king’s ransom couldn’t have bought admittance of any sort.

  I waited restlessly, between Gussie and Benito, as a dozen or so orchestra musicians took their places on the stage framed by a gilded proscenium arch. The string musicians began tuning their instruments along with the harpsichord, and presently, a person who could only be Angeletto appeared at the edge of the tightly folded velvet curtain.

  At last, the object of my quest stood before me, in full view, like a butterfly under a naturalist’s magnifying glass. I narrowed my focus into one gimlet beam, barely breathing.

  The singer had come by his stage name honestly. He was the perfect picture of the sort of angel often portrayed in religious paintings, an anomalous being too delicately beautiful to be masculine, too sleekly powerful to be feminine. Anyone who knows the painting of Tobias and the Angel that hangs in the Church of the Madonna dell’Orto will take my meaning precisely. But, I reminded myself with a sigh, Angeletto wasn’t a heavenly creature. He was entirely human, either a male eunuch or a young woman in disguise, and I must decide which.

  Angeletto moved to take his place beside the harpsichord. His carriage was stately and proud, as if he owned the stage, or perhaps the entire theater. He was dressed in full formal regalia, face whitened and rouged, starch-white wig curled in front and tied with a black satin bow behind. A patch decorated his right cheekbone—a sign of passion for those who indulge in the language of fashion. Lovely, yes, those bowed lips, delicately arched nose, and rounded chin that nestled in his lace-trimmed cravat. But were they female? Not necessarily.

  Besides preserving our soprano voices, the cutting often bestowed other characteristics: tall height, lustrous hair that never went bald, peach-like skin, and a certain refinement in bone structure. It was all rather unpredictable—just as a few unfortunates ended up sounding like croaking frogs at the time when their voices would have naturally broken.

  I lowered my gaze from Angeletto’s face to the figure covered by a suit of plum-colored taffeta trimmed in gold lace. I detected an unmistakable fullness of bosom—also not unusual in a castrato. The hours of daily vocalizing during boyhood, when the bones were still flexible, expanded our chest cavities to a noticeable degree.

  Surprisingly bewildered, I decided to reserve judgment and concentrate on Angeletto’s singing.

  His first selection was a popular aria by Jomelli that I’d also performed in years gone by. It demanded a voice as light and agile as a dancer’s physique, and Angeletto didn’t disappoint. He wove a spell of magic around the first deceptively simple melody, the slower second section, and on through the embellished repeat. Magic, I say, because Angeletto’s flashes of brilliance deafened the audience to his mistakes and imperfections. Not many, too be sure, but naturally I was able to detect them. I found myself planning strategies to help him correct them.

  More operatic arias and concert songs followed. After each, the finely dressed Milanese supplied a terrific noise and clapping of hands, then fell eerily silent as their hero opened his mouth to begin again. The sheer stamina of Angeletto’s voice continued to astonish me. He could hold a heartrending, swelling note for what seemed like minutes, without any sign of strain or exhaustion.

  If only I could tempt Angeletto into singing The False Duke, Caprioli’s schemes for the Teatro Grimani would come to nothing. Venice would be wild for him, and the San Marco’s seats would be full again. Maestro Torani’s worries would melt like an early spring snowfall—how I longed to see the fine old man relieved of his burdens.

  With quickening hope, I tore my gaze from the stage to measure my companions’ response.

  Gussie was impressed. His blue eyes were as round as saucers. His cheeks were flushed, his lips parted in apparent admiration.

  I whipped my head around.

  Benito’s face was a total blank, and he refused to meet my eye.

  At the end of the concert, as the rapid thunder of applause accosted my ears and flowers rained down on the stage, I sealed my conviction that Angeletto was a valid castrato. A woman could never deliver a song with the power Angeletto possessed. After all, that was why the peculiar practice of castrating boy sopranos had gone on for so many years—the preservation of the delicate larynx combined with the astounding size and power of a man’s lungs created a voice that defied earthly laws.

  Angels, indeed.

  With Gussie and Benito in tow, taking my time to let Angeletto’s well-wishers offer their tr
ibutes and clear out, I pushed through the chattering, excited crowd. I shushed Gussie so I could listen to the talk, but I heard no whispers of anything as it shouldn’t be. At last I located the pass door and again plumbed the depths of my purse for more coins to gain entrance to the dressing-room corridor.

  A well-dressed woman was just slinking out of a door; she hid her face with her lace shawl as we passed. Now the corridor was deserted.

  So certain was my conviction of Angeletto’s masculinity that Gussie’s first words sent me reeling. He said, “A shame about your Duke, Tito. It would have been a deuce more entertaining than the usual fare.”

  I felt my breath catch. “What do you mean, ‘would have been’?”

  “Well, you said you wouldn’t hire Angeletto if the rumors are true, and if Signorina Beatrice doesn’t have her Angeletto, the Savio won’t allow The False Duke to proceed.” Gussie regarded me sympathetically. “Isn’t that right?”

  I’d raised my hand to pound on Angeletto’s door, actually placed my palm on the paneled wood. Now I let my arm fall, unable to believe what I was hearing. “But I need Angeletto. I must hire him to come to Venice and save the opera house.”

  “Oh, Tito, you’re joking. Anyone could see that Angeletto is a woman, even dressed and coiffed as a man. An irresistible beauty, in fact.”

  “Gussie, no.” I took a hard gulp. “It’s an illusion. Castrati who sing female roles are drilled in this art. I thought you of all people would see through to the man beneath.”

  “What I saw was a woman revealing herself in a hundred little ways. Didn’t you catch those melting glances, the perfection of face and figure?”

  I stood quietly stunned. Then I recognized the dreamy look in Gussie’s eyes for what it was. “You fancy him,” I said accusingly.

  “Her, Tito. Her.” Gussie jutted a belligerent chin. “Angeletto has to be a woman.”

  “Has to be? Why?”

  “Because…” Gussie shot me a disgusted look. A blush crept up his neck. “Well, hang it all…because I’ve never in my life been attracted to a man.”

  Benito had been listening attentively, his birdlike gaze shifting between my face and Gussie’s. Grasping his shoulder, I asked fiercely, “What do you think?”

  For once my manservant refused to state an opinion. His eyes clouded, and he answered as if behind an invisible veil, “I think the matter requires further study.”

  How absurd. How frustrating. Apparently, Gussie and I each imagined Angeletto to be of the sex we wanted him to be. And Benito’s famed candor had deserted him.

  Thoroughly annoyed, my mind in a tumult, I knocked on Angeletto’s dressing room door.

  Chapter Five

  “Avanti,” a woman’s voice shrieked.

  We entered to find an antechamber occupied by a hard-eyed woman tending the wig Angeletto had worn for the concert. I put her age at fifty or more. Small hands, as mottled as a quail’s egg, gathered a curl here, snipped an errant lock there. Her flat bosom was encased in a black bodice that had faded to a dusty gray; her white apron was frayed at the hem and none too clean. With one last decisive snip of her scissors, she raised her gaze from the wig stand and pursed her lips.

  “Signora Vanini?” I inquired, making my bow. Somewhat pompously, I admit, for I was brimming over with the gravity of my mission.

  She nodded and flicked her scissors’ sharp tips at a credenza heaped with flowers and other small tributes. “If you have a present for my son, put it over there. Thank San Gennaro you didn’t come packing flowers.” She slipped a felt bag over the wig and continued in an irritated tone, “What am I supposed to do with flowers, I ask you? Can’t sell them, can’t eat them.”

  In the woman’s chopped syllables, I recognized the rude dialect of backstreet Naples. I also recognized something else: her carbuncle eyes glinted with the look of a peasant calculating what use she might make of the three fools Fortune had delivered to her door.

  I bristled. Taken for a fawning dolt when I’d traveled all the way to Milan to make a generous offer!

  Gussie spoke up hurriedly, “This is Signor Tito Amato—from the Teatro San Marco in Venice.”

  “Eh? An opera house?” She rubbed her hands, then hastily crossed them over her apron. Her wrinkled lips smoothed into an ingratiating smile.

  “Venice’s foremost opera house,” I answered solemnly.

  “You liked my Carlo’s singing, Signore? You think you could use him?”

  Signora Vanini certainly wasted no time on going to the heart of the matter. Perhaps negotiations would prove easier than I’d first expected.

  “Carlo!” she shrieked.

  A rear door opened. Six young women of varying ages spilled though it, all dressed similar to Signora Vanini in shades of brown and gray, all pretty in a modest way. Angeletto followed, wrapped in a trailing banyan of brilliant blue. A soft, turban-like cap of the same hue had replaced the periwig. Now I saw that his own hair fell to his shoulders in chestnut brown ringlets, here and there tinged with gold. I was eager to get a look at his neck—the prominence of his larynx could be revealing—but a length of tightly wrapped toweling prevented me.

  Waving her apron and squawking commands, Signora Vanini set the girls to gathering discarded ribbons and buckles, folding garments, and clearing away flowers. They fluttered around the edges of the room like a flock of sparrows. Carlo—Angeletto—was the peacock in their midst.

  As I made our introductions, the singer smiled languidly. One hand rested on the toweling at his neck.

  “It is a pleasure to know you, Signori,” he whispered. His luminous gaze swept over the three of us, then settled on me. “You are the man who was staring at me before the concert.”

  “For good reason. I was very anxious to hear you sing. Your voice came highly recommended.”

  “I hope you weren’t disappointed.”

  “You were magnificent,” I said simply.

  He acknowledged my compliment with a silent bow. From the sidelines, his mother’s ears were practically flapping under her frilled cap. The girls nodded in unison.

  I asked, “Where did you study, Signore?”

  Angeletto hesitated and his crone of a mother jumped in. “With Belcredi.” Not a shriek this time. More of a cackle. “The famous singing teacher, Belcredi, was my son’s first and last master.”

  I gave her a nod. “I met Belcredi when I studied at the Conservatorio San Remo. He had a reputation as a hard taskmaster.”

  “That’s as may be.” She squeezed one beady eye shut. “But I’ll tell you this—Belcredi was our miracle—our instrument of God.”

  Angeletto finally got his word in: “I could not have been better treated if I were his own son. Maestro Belcredi found me in a church choir where the priest had given me the rudiments of a musical education. He took me away that very day. I was ten years old, and he stood me up on the back of a cart and made me sing all the hymns and songs I’d ever learned. Maestro said I had a perfect ear and perfect larynx. If I would submit to the operation and to his training, I could someday sing on stages and in courts throughout Europe.”

  “Your father—he allowed this?”

  “Our father was dead, Signore. I’d become the man of the family, and I decided. I submitted to the knife and studied hard. I never shirked my exercises. Meanwhile, Maestro Belcredi gave my mother work as his housekeeper and provided lodging for all of us. He promised to use his influence to secure a place for me at one of the great courts— Vienna or Dresden— but before that could happen…” Angeletto trailed off with a wistful shrug.

  “Belcredi died in a cholera epidemic,” I supplied, having had the news from one of my Neapolitan friends nearly a year ago.

  The singer nodded.

  Gussie stirred, and we exchanged a telling look. If the Vanini family was concealing a secret, how convenient that Angeletto’s te
acher was beyond the reach of questions.

  “Our continuing tears pay him homage,” Angeletto said quietly, fingering the sash of his banyan. Several of the girls nodded sadly. One sniffed loudly until shushed by Signora Vanini.

  Then Benito cleared his throat. Loudly. I took the cue.

  “Have you sung in Rome?” I asked Angeletto.

  “One season. At the Teatro Argentina.”

  “In a female role?”

  He nodded. “Maestro Belcredi came to believe that singing the prima donna would make my career.”

  For an instant I felt vindicated—Angeletto had passed the dreaded examination!—then I remembered Benito’s account of how to fashion a wax phallus. Nothing was certain. And yet, I just couldn’t convince myself that Angeletto was a woman in the clothing of a man. I truly believed that this singer could be our savior—if he wanted to be.

  The room felt hot, close, and crowded, and I was suddenly aware that everyone in it was staring at me, waiting for me to state the purpose of our visit. Gussie’s eyes were soft and wide with concern; Benito’s narrowed. In warning? Was my manservant sending me a silent message?

  And Angeletto—though the beautifully molded planes of his face were as placid as a distant mountain slope, I sensed that he was brimming with anticipation.

  It was time to throw the dice and see where they landed. On a deep breath, I made one last search of my heart and found no wavering there.

  “Signor Vanini,” I said, “I would like to engage you as primo uomo for the autumn season at the Teatro San Marco.”

  Angeletto’s glorious smile told me all I needed to know, but he evaded discussing financial matters or making a commitment—in the most gracious manner possible. Whoever had taught him his diction and manners clearly wasn’t his unsophisticated mother. Presently, he put a hand to his forehead and murmured, “Forgive me, Signor Amato. I am very tired. You must take the details of business up with my manager.”