“My boy,” Torani burst out when I reached them. “I couldn’t stay away. No, don’t fuss.” He resisted my efforts to take his stick and transfer his arm to mine. “With the San Marco on the verge of such a great success, how could you expect me to stay abed like a lazy Calabrian?”
“But, Maestro, you’re not well.”
“I’m fine, fine. Ah, our host…”
Signor Passoni strode up, overflowing with dignity and concern. He beckoned his major domo, and together they supported Torani to a seat on the front row of gilt chairs that footmen were assembling in a half-circle around the harpsichord.
Before I could say a word, Tedi spread her hands. “I tried to keep him down, Tito—I really did. While I’d gone to the bodega to fetch some supper, the old fool made his valet send for Peppino and his gondola, then dress him in his best suit. Rinaldo was waiting on the doorstep when I returned—he actually threatened to lock me out of the house if I didn’t go along with him.”
I sighed. “Maestro does insist on being in the middle of things.”
“Not just that. Rinaldo intends to buttonhole all of the influential Senators he can find—”
“And extol the San Marco’s virtues against the Teatro Grimani’s?” I finished.
“Exactly.”
“That seems like a tactic of desperation,” I said dubiously. “I was intending to let the music speak for itself.”
Tedi didn’t answer but raised her eyebrows at someone behind me. It was Balbi, doughy cheeks bunched in a frown. “Is Maestro Torani all right?” the violinist asked with obvious concern.
“He’s weak. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”
Tedi chimed in, “And I’m going to get him home as soon as I can.”
“Where are you off to?” I asked.
Balbi rolled his eyes with an air of patient suffering. “Supper,” he said. “We’ve been offered a meal in the kitchen while the principal entertainment proceeds.”
I sent him on his way with the advice to eat a bellyful and make sure he and his men drank their share of the Ca’Passoni’s good wine. Then, the Savio’s major domo sounded a small gong beside the gallery stairs, summoning the guests to be seated. This pompous household official appeared vexed by Torani’s unexpected presence. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he was forced to formulate a new seating arrangement.
Certainly Torani, as the longtime director of the opera house, must be seated on the first row, but how near the center, and did that courtesy extend to his mistress? And should the maestro push Angeletto, the honored guest of the house, one seat over from the center? That would put his poorly dressed sister one row back.
And what on earth to do with Tito Amato, the present director, since he wouldn’t be playing the harpsichord after all?
Oh, dear. Beads of sweat trickled down the major domo’s forehead. He wrung his hands.
I finally ended up on the second row, directly behind Signora Passoni, who sat with Franco on her right and Maestro Torani on her left. My family was relegated to the pigeon loft, the twelfth and last row. They would see very little over the wigs and stiff ostrich plumes in front of them, but at least they could hear. Tedi had been consigned I knew not where.
Now, I thought, as I squirmed on the padded-silk chair. Now we will see what Venice thinks of The False Duke.
Chapter Ten
Rocatti and Oriana crossed the expanse from the foyer. The lovely Oriana fairly floated, smiling with every muscle of her face, keenly aware of making the correct impression. At her elbow, one step behind, the young composer kept his eyes glued to the harpsichord, either unwilling or unable to meet the gaze of the audience.
They took their places. Garbed in an elaborate gown of violet silk, with her fair hair immaculately coiffed, the tiny Oriana resembled the French fashion doll on perpetual display in the window of the exclusive dressmaker’s establishment on the Merceria. She clasped a sheaf of music in her small hands, not because she required it, but because she’d decided she looked quite fetching holding the music at a gracefully curved arm’s length.
Rocatti struck the keys and they were off. The little soprano sang with a voice to rival Angeletto’s, and the composer accompanied her with fire and force. The first aria was so sweet, so full of the milkmaid’s longing, that many listeners were moved to tears. The second was lilting and jocular, ending with a glorious note that seemed to stretch to infinity. Though I’d repeatedly schooled Oriana in the technique for this very aria, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
And then there were the inevitable encores. Before Oriana’s last note died away, I knew we had a triumph.
“Astonishing. Marvelous. A miracle,” I’d been hearing people exclaim behind me. “This new opera will be something to see,” they murmured from every quarter. “Do we still have our box at the San Marco?”
Along with almost everyone else, I sprang to my feet, applauding and nodding appreciatively.
Torani didn’t rise, but sat erect, pounding the tiled floor with the stick planted between his feet. His benevolent gaze beamed on one and all.
Once a mass of white blooms had been pushed into Oriana’s arms, once Rocatti had risen to take his bows, once the general tumult had died down and the audience had again seated themselves, Torani pushed himself up on his stick. Polite clapping followed the old man as he limped to the harpsichord and turned to face the assembly. He raised his hand for silence and then proclaimed in a stage voice that belied his fragile appearance, “My good people, tonight you have witnessed a taste of Heaven. When The False Duke opens, you may banquet on its many beauties—banquet to your fill. Anyone who misses it will be most unfortunate indeed, as I predict our new opera will eclipse anything else presented this season.”
The maestro bobbed his head so deeply, he was almost taking a bow himself. “Though I can’t claim to have composed this treasure, I can take credit for discovering the opera and its young composer. Thank the Blessed Virgin, I found it in time to replace the gruel we were going to make do with.”
What? My jaw dropped and hung open. Torani taking credit for discovering The False Duke? When I had taken so many pains to persuade him to even consider mounting the opera? And then brought it to near fruition through hours of rehearsal and staging? I almost cried aloud—No!
Torani rambled on as he returned to his seat: “It is my considered opinion that nothing this fine has been heard since Maestro Vivaldi’s days. Rocatti may even be the better composer: in addition to capturing your heart, he can make you laugh.”
Like two puppets controlled by one wire, Signora Passoni and Franco swiveled to face each other. They exchanged an enigmatic look.
After Torani had eased himself down, he leaned close to Signora Passoni and spoke more quietly: “Did you hear the whispers of Vivaldi, my dear signora?” The old maestro’s jaws stretched in his wolf grin. “If anyone were to notice, I expect it would be you.”
Signora Passoni’s cheeks flamed as if she’d been slapped. She jumped up, one hand to her flat bosom. She took a few steps, and her reticule bag fell to the floor with a clunk. Franco trailed behind her, inquiring in a stage whisper that seemed to be directed to anyone and everyone except his lady, “Cara, are you ill? Do you have a faint coming on? May I get your smelling box?”
I rose, pushed the signora’s empty chair away, and retrieved the bag. It wasn’t the velvet trifle I expected; it weighed my palm down as if it were filled with pebbles. Signora Passoni obviously carried more than a female’s usual mirror, comb, scent bottle, and snuffbox. I caught up to Franco and handed him the bag. He stowed it his pocket with a quick nod of thanks.
A violin flourish sounded from the gallery and a cheerful gavotte reeled through the smoke-hazed air; Balbi and his men had ascended the narrow staircase during the applause. As the salon took up its chatter once again, I felt compelled to make my own
escape. Perhaps I could face Maestro Torani later, but for now, I didn’t want to even look on him.
“Tito,” I thought I heard Torani call, but I ignored it. I was hot under my clothes and couldn’t catch my breath, as if this crowded space were suffocating me. From a distance, Gussie waved to catch my attention. Beside him, Liya regarded me with an anxious hand to her lips. I shook my head at both of them. I needed to be alone.
Footmen appeared to whisk the chairs away, and the guests were on the move again, processing toward the banqueting hall. To conclude the evening, ices were being served. I pushed the opposite way. A few well-wishers intent on complimenting the performance tugged at my sleeve or planted themselves in front of me. I’m afraid I did little more than murmur excuses and advance toward the foyer. I emerged into its emptiness with a sigh of relief and kept right on walking.
For one wild moment I considered flinging myself into the night, but then the staircase which led down to the Ca’Passoni’s business level beckoned, almost affectionately. It was dark, cool, deserted. I descended a few steps and felt myself slip into blessed invisibility. Ignoring the musty draft, I shrank against the wall, oddly comforted by its cold smoothness.
Why had Torani taken credit for discovering The False Duke? How dare he rip that laurel from my grasp? What else was I to do now that my voice was gone? It was my pumping heart that whispered these questions. Not singing had once been inconceivable. Venice had basked in my voice, as I’d basked in Venetian cheers and applause. And now? I was striving to take on the mantle of my mentor, but how could I become the maestro when Torani failed to acknowledge my worth? Tears stung beneath my eyelids.
I refused to let them flow. Sadness was weakening. If I gave it free rein, it would rush headlong into the hollow dug out by Maestro Torani’s humiliation. I closed my eyes. Breathing deeply, I endeavored to calm my senses and strengthen my will so that I could end the reception and walk out of the Ca’Passoni with head held high.
Eventually a chilled, impassive Tito that I barely knew was ready to return to the salon. I ascended several steps, but paused when I noticed a young maid creeping along the corridor. Her furtive demeanor aroused my curiosity. She wasn’t a serving girl from the kitchen. The black, high-necked bodice and tailed muslin cap atop a coronet of sleek braids marked her as a ladies’ maid, probably from the private family apartments. Keeping against the wall, I mounted several more steps.
From that oblique vantage point, I watched the maid dodge around the guests engaged in conversation in the foyer. In just a few moments, she’d cut Beatrice out of the herd as skillfully as a Bergamese sheep dog.
A folded missive changed hands so quickly I wouldn’t have seen it except for the glaring contrast of white paper against the maid’s black bodice. Beatrice secreted the note in her palm and read it with a slanting, nonchalant gaze before crumpling it in her fist. After a glance around, the little minx hurried toward the back of the palazzo with the maid at her heels. Neither of them saw me in the stairwell as they passed.
Was this the mischief Tedi had feared? Beatrice’s sly mission might well be none of my business, but then again, if it involved Angeletto, it was very much my business.
I followed the girls down the wide corridor, hanging back when they turned and disappeared from sight. After a few seconds, the maid reappeared and looked as if she meant to station herself as a lookout.
I approached, clearing my throat. “Ah, there you are,” I said in a severe tone. “The signora requires you upstairs.” Which signora? Well, it didn’t really matter, did it?
Big brown eyes widened in surprise. Looking back down the empty passage, the maid stammered a few words.
“She’s spilled something on her gown,” I pressed. “She’ll have your head if you don’t hurry.”
The poor girl gathered her skirts and ran for the main stairs.
I dove into the narrower, less resplendent passageway. Moving as quickly and silently as I could, I soon heard muffled voices. A paneled door stood slightly ajar. Through the crack came a young woman’s voice, at once beseeching and fearful, then a man’s deeper rumble. I have an ear for voices—a consequence of my training, I suppose. Beatrice’s was unmistakable. The other I could only guess at, but even so, it dripped into my ears like corrosive acid.
Slowly, barely breathing, I pushed the door open another couple of inches and applied my eye to the slit. The room was laid out similar to the Savio’s study. The large leaded-glass window, set in a deep embrasure, was open to the night air. If I had the geography of the house correct, the window would overlook a narrow strip of well-tended garden. In front of the window, a tripod card table held a squat candle whose wax drips snaked down its heavy bronze stand. Someone had laid out a tableau of playing cards for the solitary game of Patience on the felt tabletop, but the game had been abandoned in mid-play. A green cloak with bright yellow lining was draped over the back of the table’s one chair.
A moan sounded from a shadowy corner well away from the candle’s glow. I craned my neck and saw a couple entangled on a low sofa. The folds of Beatrice’s gown shown golden in the errant rays. It had been pulled up over her white thighs. Her garters were a startling red. What sixteen-year-old girl wears red garters? I thought, apropos of nothing.
“I’m afraid,” the girl was saying. “What if someone comes?”
The man laughed. “I promised your maid a zecchino if she kept the corridor clear—and the back of my hand if she didn’t. You’re safe, my pigeon. Now…”
His arm eeled under the golden skirts. Beatrice responded with a catch of her breath, then arched her back. But her round mouth whispered, “No, no.”
It was the sight of his breeches slipping over his naked buttocks that got my feet moving. I threw the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. The couple sprang from the sofa, clutching clothing, jerking at fastenings.
I drew enough breath to shout, but restrained myself to a raspy whisper. “Signor Grillo, I expected you’d be over on the mainland by now.”
Beatrice crossed her arms over her bosom, as if she’d just realized how low her neckline was. Then, with a strangled cry, she ducked her chin and ran. As she pushed past me in the doorway, she spat out, “I hate you, Tito Amato.” I felt the spray of her spittle on my chin.
She continued running down the passageway and around the corner. I made no attempt to stop her. Beatrice had only been doing what comes naturally to a girl awakening to womanhood.
Grillo was another story entirely.
I stepped into the room, not sure what I intended. Did I mean to send him on his way for good this time? Or to drag him before the Savio by the scuff of his neck?
The attack came so quickly, I was afterwards never wholly able to piece it together. Grillo rushed me, teeth bared icy white against his dark cheeks. He looked so wild, he could have escaped from the madhouse. I jumped sideways, off balance, and upset the tripod table.
The candle stand clattered to the terrazzo floor, and the flame extinguished itself. It was suddenly as dark as the inside of a caulking barrel.
Blinded, I felt the cold blade of a stiletto against my throat.
I had a stiletto, too. At home. I’d failed to change it to the pocket of my dress waistcoat.
Grillo’s blade pricked my skin, and one thought exploded in my brain—I couldn’t die with so much yet undone. I thrust my assailant’s arm upwards, wildly, and snapped my bent knee straight into his crotch. Or so I aimed—Alessandro is the fighter, not me—my blow missed its mark.
Grillo danced away. As I whirled back and forth in the dark, I heard his laugh and then a snort like a boar’s.
My eyes adjusted to the low light filtering through the open door just in time to see him come at me again. He was slicing the stiletto blade in wide arcs, bounding forward, ever forward.
Retreating in undiluted terror, I tumbled backwards over the upturne
d table. The hard floor jarred my bones, but also delivered the heavy square candle stand into my fortunate grasp. I sprang up and swung my new weapon. This time I didn’t miss. A sharp corner caught my assailant’s right temple. Grillo bellowed in pain and clamped a hand to his face.
Feeling triumphant, I tarried in one spot too long. Grillo lunged, and I felt his blade rip across my shirt and graze my chest. The moment it took for me to look down and assure myself I wasn’t mortally wounded gave him the opportunity to escape.
Grillo knocked aside the chair that was still standing. In one smooth motion, he pressed his hands to the broad window sill and leapt through the aperture.
He turned and stuck his head back through, just for an instant. Blood dribbled from a gash beside his right eye. Even so, he wore the wide grin of scoundrel who was delighted with his escapade. Then he disappeared.
Hands clasped to my chest, I stumbled to the window and leaned out. The Savio’s garden appeared deserted. At first I heard nothing, then a muffled splash. I saw only a narrow gravel path, an overturned rose tree in a broken pot, and a balustraded stone railing stretching into the darkness.
***
My wound amounted to little. Being hoodwinked by Grillo stung a hundred times worse.
I withdrew from the card room, found the water closet, and prevailed upon the footman who usually answered the door to bring me clean cloths to wash and bind my chest. In a few minutes, he returned with a soothing balm, as well.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Carlito, Signore.” His fresh, freckled face registered avid curiosity, but he was too well-trained to put any questions to me.
My shirt showed some bloody stains. Dabbing with water only caused them to spread, making it appear as though I’d been run through with a rapier. I shook my head. Benito would insist on consigning the shirt to the trash the minute he saw it. With Carlito’s help, I rearranged my lace cravat so that it covered the worst of the stains. I also buttoned my jacket over my waistcoat. Swiveling back and forth before a cloudy mirror, I decided I could take hasty leave of the palazzo without calling attention to myself.
Whispers of Vivaldi Page 11
