Annetta was also doubtful. She believed that Grisella’s fits sprang from emotional turmoil and pointed out that they occurred more frequently when our sister was upset. This observation only inspired Father to grumble about Grisella’s fickle moods and to blame Berta’s coddling and overindulgence. We debated until bedtime, finally agreeing that we should all do our utmost to promote tranquility in the household and particularly try to avoid provoking Grisella’s temper. She should also get as much rest as possible. Over Father’s objections, it was decided to limit her activities at the Mendicanti. He, of course, considered her musical instruction of paramount importance, but the rest of us persuaded him that Grisella’s health should come first. Consulting a priest was left as the option of last resort.
One more incident, painful but necessary to mention, occurred that night. Felice and I had gone up to bed and were in my room discussing the events of the day. I was still in my shirt and breeches, sitting cross-legged on my bed, polishing a shoebuckle with a dab of spit and the corner of my bed sheet. Felice had already changed into his nightshirt; his dark hair was loose and flowing onto his shoulders. He was reclining on his cot, propped up on one elbow.
Like so many nights at the conservatorio, we had shared our opinions on matters great and small and had fallen into a companionable silence. Then Felice abandoned his cot and crossed the floor to climb onto my bed. He reached out and gave my chest a tentative caress.
I stopped my polishing but didn’t look up right away. Finally I said, “I thought we had settled that back in Naples.”
“Loving you will never be settled for me.” He slid his fingers inside my shirt.
“I only agreed for you to come home with me because you promised that my friendship would be enough.” I caught his wrist and gently forced his questing fingers away. “Felice, you know how I feel. You may have been born for the pleasures of your own sex, but I wasn’t.”
“But Tito,” he said, his face full of longing. “Everything in my life is falling apart. My love for you is all I have left. Please, let me show you. Please, just for tonight.”
I sprang from the bed and paced the floor. “I can’t. I won’t pretend something I don’t feel.”
Felice frowned and his eyes hardened. “It’s that woman, isn’t it.”
“What?”
“It’s Adelina. Ever since your first day at the theater you’ve talked of no one else. You praise her looks, her gestures, her singing. You act as if her every word is a precious treasure. She is the only one you want to spend time with. I’ve hardly seen you since we got off the boat.”
“This has nothing to do with Adelina. I’ve been at the theater night and day because Torani has been driving us like galley slaves. Besides, you and I had this discussion many times while we were still in Naples, before I ever met Adelina. Dismiss any thought of love between you and me from your mind because that is not going to happen. You need to find someone who feels the same way you do.”
“No, no.” He was almost crying now. “You could love me if only you would let yourself. You would if she weren’t in the way.”
I shook my head violently, heartily annoyed with Felice for reopening this old quarrel.
From the bed, he stretched a pleading hand toward me. “Tito, please. The only person Adelina really cares about is herself. I’ve loved you for eight years. Forget that cow of a soprano and let me show you.”
My anger flared at his description of Adelina. I grabbed a brush off my dressing table and threw it at him.
Felice dodged the brush and grabbed a shoe to hurl at me. We yelled at each other while he pulled on his breeches, stuffed his naked feet in some boots, and threw his few possessions in a bag.
With a last miserable look, he barged out of my room and ran down the stairs. I went out to the landing in time to hear the street door slam. Damn Felice, anyway. Why couldn’t he understand? I lingered at the top of the stairs, freezing and shivering, for a full quarter of an hour. I almost started after him several times, but finally decided to let time work its calming effect on both of us. I went back to my bed and blew out the candle.
I was poised uneasily between sleep and wakefulness when my bedroom door opened with a soft creak. Felice padded across the floor and sat down on his cot with a ponderous sigh.
“Are you awake, Tito?” The question overflowed with timorous hope.
I rolled over in the darkness. My friend was only a vague shadow.
“Yes,” I breathed.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I don’t know what made me bring that up again. I know how you feel. You have made it plain in the past. I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“Let’s just forget it,” I sighed, mustering a thin, unseen smile. “Get to bed, my friend. We both need some rest. Tomorrow will be another long day.”
Despite my intention, I lay awake for a long time that night. Strong emotions vied with each other in the arena of my weary mind. Anger, disappointment, regret, and frustration clashed and retreated, then regrouped to skirmish again. But none was so strong as the feeling of nameless, floating apprehension. Every time I willed my mind to grasp this foreboding and give it form, I came up with only shreds of guilt as if I had, by returning to Venice, loosened a chain of events that was sure to end in disaster.
Chapter 11
Juno’s opening night finally arrived. Torani had managed to shepherd the disorganized production I’d found on my arrival into a polished opera. When left to his own devices, our little director could find a carpenter’s lost hammer as readily as he could coax a good performance from a hesitant singer. Viviani must have been busy with other matters during the past week; he had made only a few perfunctory visits to the theater. Thus Torani had been free to concentrate his creative energies on refining the opera instead of placating our patron. Juno had flourished as a result.
Felice fulfilled his duties on the violin in an offhand manner. He had taken to frequenting taverns with the other musicians and coming home long after midnight to throw himself onto his cot in a drunken haze. When we found ourselves alone together, he apologized profusely and went out of his way to show me that there would be no repeat of the scene of our last fight.
Adelina had made some friendly overtures toward him, but Felice did not respond in kind. He avoided her company, and I thought I detected a simmering resentment from his place in the orchestra pit when she was on stage. Of all the singers, Felice seemed to get along best with Caterina. Perhaps their mutual dislike of Adelina made them kindred spirits.
Caterina remained a mystery to the rest of us. Her quarrelsome demands had continued unabated until the evening of dress rehearsal, but during that final run-through, she was subdued, even pensive. When Torani directed Madame Dumas to lower the neckline on one of Caterina’s gowns, we all held our breath, then stood amazed as the soprano quietly assisted Madame in making the adjustment. What had happened to our resident gadfly? She sang in the same fresh, spirited voice but regarded the cast and crew with a searching expression as if seeing us for the first time. She reminded me of a plough horse that had worn blinders for years and had them suddenly removed.
Now, the crew was readying the stage for the first act. Already in costume and make-up, I peered through a slit in the heavy curtain that smelled of smoke and mildew and watched Venetians of all ranks pour into the auditorium. The huge chandeliers with three tiers of candles had already been lit and raised above the floor of the pit. There were no seats in this area. The public gave a small coin to stand or mill about. They drank wine or anise-flavored water and argued about the performances until a particularly melodic aria or a favorite singer pulled their attention back to the stage.
The more fortunate patrons enjoyed the opera from boxes that were arranged around the main floor in a vast horseshoe that climbed to five levels. Noble families held keys to their boxes for a season’s time. The finest ones served as miniature salons suitable
for card parties, suppers, love trysts, and a myriad of other social activities. Tickets for the more modest boxes could be obtained for individual performances, at the box office. I knew my family had secured a box to watch my debut. By necessity of our finances, it would be one of those that were the highest and furthermost from the stage. I strained my eyes toward the back of the theater but could not make out any familiar faces.
We had argued over bringing Grisella. Father thought she was too young and directed Annetta to bring her to watch part of the dress rehearsal instead. I had shown my sisters around backstage and tried to answer Grisella’s flood of questions. The little minx seemed to be everywhere at once. She poked into costume trunks, peered into dressing rooms, and lost herself behind flats of scenery. Torani reprimanded her more than once, but Crivelli found her excitement charming. The old castrato took her by the hand and explained the workings of the huge cloud machines and even persuaded the stage crew to give her a ride on one of the flying platforms.
Grisella had been so thrilled with her visit that she begged to accompany the others to opening night. At first Father refused, but the girl had pouted vehemently and cajoled Annetta into taking her part. In the interests of avoiding another of her violent spells, Father finally agreed that Grisella could watch the opera, with the understanding that he would bring her home early if she became overly tired.
I turned my gaze to the boxes that overlooked the stage. The most ornate was decorated with bas-relief cherubs bearing a cartouche of the Viviani crest. Pink-coated footmen were lighting wall lamps and arranging chairs and tables. A hollow-eyed wraith in a pink coat glided to the rail and turned inward to make a final inspection. He waved the footmen away with an imperious gesture. It was Bondini, of course, making sure everything was in readiness for his master’s pleasure.
I felt someone come up close behind me. “What is so interesting out there?” asked Adelina, costumed in her Juno regalia. “What do you see?”
“My future, I think.”
“You are wondering what they will think of you.”
“Yes,” I said, eyeing the noisy crowd. “Will they like me? Or run me off the stage with booing and hissing?”
“You have to believe in yourself, Tito. The stage leaves no room for doubt. You cannot go out there with an attitude that begs the audience to spare you an ear. You must force them to listen, drag them away from their gossip or their supper.”
“And what if I can’t do that?” I whispered, feeling a sudden ripple of tightness across my chest.
“You can and you will. Trust your voice, my friend. It hasn’t failed you yet.” She gave a soft, throaty laugh. “I know great things await you. I just hope that I’m still around to hear the famous singer you will be in five or ten years.”
Her words lifted my heart from the pit of my stomach. As usual, Adelina’s advice was sound. I just had to find the confidence to carry it off.
Behind me, Adelina moved her head to see through the curtain. “It looks like Domenico has brought his full entourage. At least our patron feels sure of a triumph.” She clucked her tongue. “If Venice only knew the real man, no one would give so much as a soldo to see his opera.”
“What are you talking about?”
She curled her lip. “Domenico ordered Torani to convince Beppo’s mother that her son’s death was an accident. An accident that Beppo caused by his own high spirits. She’s a widow who takes in laundry to feed her children. Domenico authorized Torani to give her twenty zecchini.”
“That’s a pitiful sum to keep a family. It won’t last a month.”
“I know. I’m instituting a fund for her. Crivelli has agreed to take charge of the money. Would you care to contribute?”
“Of course,” I replied, glancing back toward our patron’s box. Viviani had arrived. He stood at the railing, a commanding figure surveying the interior of the San Stefano like a general reviewing his troops. Two other men with an obvious family resemblance stood at his side.
“His brothers, Carlo and Claudio,” Adelina informed me. “You hardly ever see them together. Domenico usually has them off tending to his business interests in the East.”
Elisabetta was just entering the box; the jewels at her ears and neck glittered across the width of the stage. The clamor in the pit diminished as all eyes turned to watch Signora Viviani take her seat. She looked tiny and lost in yards of heavy, russet damask. Close behind her were her constant companions: her protective sister, Signora Albrimani; and her deferential castrato. They appeared to spar over who would help the lady arrange her skirts. The castrato finally bumped the sister out of the way and completed the task with fluttering hand movements.
I knew that Adelina had also seen Signora Albrimani when she tightened her grip on my shoulder and hissed, “Insufferable woman.”
“Don’t let her bother you.” I placed my hand on hers. “Surely, she is no threat. She wouldn’t dare make a scene in front of Viviani.”
“It’s not that. It’s her wrongheaded arrogance that infuriates me. She thinks she is protecting her sister. She has no idea.”
I was about to ask her what she meant when my attention was diverted to a party entering one of the second-tier boxes near the stage. Lamplight bounced off golden buttons and epaulets as officers of the Venetian navy held seats for a group of brilliantly dressed women. The women were masked, but something about the neck and shoulders of one in a bright blue gown reminded me of someone.
Adelina saw where I was looking and regarded the box with avid curiosity. Just then, the blue gown removed her mask and cast her inquisitive gaze over the neighboring boxes. I could almost see her green eyes sparkle from where I stood.
“That woman, the one who just unmasked, who is she?” I breathed.
Adelina gave me a sideways smile. “That is Signora Veniero. Her husband is a patrician, and capo di scala of Venice’s naval yard on Cyprus.”
I must have looked blank for she said, “You know, the port commander.”
“Is he there in the box?”
“I don’t see him. He is probably with his fleet. I’m told the Signora prefers to stay in Venice rather than go out to Cyprus on her husband’s tours of duty.”
I responded to Adelina’s amused, questioning look. “I just wondered. I saw her at the Viviani reception.” I was saved from having to elaborate by Torani calling the cast to center stage for last-minute instructions.
It is difficult to describe my performance in Juno; singers are always their own severest critics. My character, Arcas, had only two arias in Act One. The first was rather short and came after one of Adelina’s long bravura pieces, the kind that audiences relish. When her solo was over, the box holders threw flowers and bits of paper with sonnets written on them, and the pit whistled and stomped until she agreed to repeat the aria from the beginning. By the time she had collected her favors and swept offstage, the audience was drifting back to visiting their neighbors and enjoying their suppers. There was only so much attention I could expect from a Venetian audience for whom a night at the opera meant so much more than simply following the music.
My second aria was my chance to shine. It came near the end of the act, after a particularly long and tiresome recitative. By then people were asking each other about the new singer and were ready to listen.
With Adelina’s advice in mind, I struggled to quell my misgivings about my identity as a castrato and concentrated on making Orlando’s music as beautiful as I could. I began with an elegant passage of extended notes followed by several bars of rapid trills. One by one heads turned toward the stage. The hum of activity in the auditorium dwindled and I became aware of an expectant silence. I took a few steps forward and struck a regal pose as I allowed my voice to reach maximum volume. I stole a glance at Viviani; he was nodding approvingly.
The other face I wished to read was easy to find. The lady I now knew as Signora Veniero was leaning forward in her seat, one hand on the box railing a
nd the other on her white bosom. At the emotional peak of the aria, I turned toward her box and made my song an arrow directed to where I judged her heart must lie. As the swelling notes washed over her, she locked her eyes on mine. For one throbbing moment, we were the only ones in the theater, connected by the sensual bond of my ethereal music resonating within her heart. The cadenza came to an end. As I let the last note die away, she touched her fingers to her lips and extended her arm toward me.
I came offstage in a daze. A grinning Torani immediately pushed me back on, and I collected my own share of flowers and sonnets. When I got back to the wings, Adelina was waiting to kiss my cheek. She said, “You felt it, I could tell.”
I knew exactly what she meant: the power of hearing my voice resound throughout the vast theater, knowing every person there was hanging on my every note. The memories of most of my later performances have run together in my mind, but I will never forget that night in Venice.
Adelina and I stayed in the wings to watch Caterina and Crivelli finish the act. As Jupiter, the old castrato had rid himself of his meddlesome wife and was singing the joys of a frolic with the lovely wood nymph. Orlando had written a playful piece that focused more on melodic line than vocal acrobatics, and Crivelli sang it well. Using every bit of stagecraft he had absorbed in his forty-year career, he managed to create the impression of a lusty monarch, though his obviously advanced age gave the scene an ironic twist that went beyond the intention of the poet.
Crivelli was winded when he came offstage. He made a majestic exit, striding tall and proud with two pages carrying his train, but as soon as my friend was out of sight of the audience, he crumpled like a withering flower. He handed the heavy royal robe to Madame Dumas and collapsed in the nearest chair. He put his hands on his knees and leaned forward to breathe more easily.
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