1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “No, no. That doesn’t matter.” She was near tears now. “You must get Felice out of jail. He’s my friend. He doesn’t belong there.”

  Annetta shot Berta a pleading look. Alessandro patted Grisella’s shoulder, saying, “Tito is trying. We’ll all help him. You mustn’t worry yourself about this.”

  Berta forestalled further hysterics from the youngest Amato by placing the frittelle basket firmly in her hands. “You can do something for Signor Felice now. Take these pastries to the guardhouse before they get cold. Try giving some to the guard, he might let you see your friend.”

  Annetta wasted no time in untying her apron and accompanying Grisella on her errand. Berta began gathering the breakfast crockery onto a tray, taking her time to brush every last crumb from the tablecloth. Finally she crossed her arms and pursed her lips.

  “What is it, Berta?” This was Alessandro.

  “Last night was my lamb’s worst spell yet. Your Papa was out. There was only Signorina Annetta and I to manage. It was a frightful fit. We could hardly hold her still. And the curses she yelled at us, Dio mio.” She made a quick sign of the cross. “I thought she would never come out of it.”

  “What set this one off, Berta?” I asked.

  She spread her arms. “Who knows? It seems to take less and less. She had begged to go to work with your Papa so he took her with him for the first time in a week or more. She came back tired and out of sorts, but he said she’d had a good day.” The old servant thought for a moment and continued in a challenging tone. “The doctor came and said more cold baths would be the cure. The man is a fool, learned or not. Something else must be done. I tried to talk to Signor Isidore about it this morning, but he just put me off as he always does.”

  Alessandro stroked his beard. “I have recently heard of a Dominican friar, a very holy man who is said to work wonders in these cases. He lives in a monastery out on one of the lagoon islands. I say it’s time to see what he can do for Grisella.”

  Berta nodded enthusiastically and then gave me a reproachful glare as I raised skeptical protests against what I considered to be absurd superstition. Try as I might, I could not picture a devil residing in my sister’s body.

  But my brother was adamant. “What is the harm in trying an exorcism? This monk is an intelligent, educated man, not some wild-eyed fanatic. Before he entered the monastery, he studied at the University of Padua. If Grisella is bedeviled by some spirit, this worthy man may bring her peace. If not, what harm will have been done?”

  I had to agree with Alessandro’s logic and ended up wishing him luck in finding this monk. After all, what could be lost in trying?

  I was nearly ready to set out for the Procuratie, the vast building that held the offices of Messer Grande and a hundred other Venetian officials, when Lupo brought a note up to my room. This time I had the good sense to send Lupo running after the messenger to confirm that the sender was who he purported to be. At least I could let the events of last night teach me a little caution. The note was from Crivelli, bidding me to meet him at the Mendicanti as soon as possible. He promised someone would be waiting at the orphan asylum to impart information that would be of much interest.

  Chapter 16

  “When I was a girl, all my dreams were centered here in Maestro Conti’s studio. In the other rooms, I scrubbed and mended as I was told to do. Sister Viola taught me to read and write in the schoolroom just down the hall and rapped my knuckles when I couldn’t form the letters to please her. The other girls thought I was just a little drudge who wasn’t pretty or clever enough to be included in their circle. Most of the teachers despaired of my future, if they bothered to think of me at all. But not Maestro Conti.” Caterina put a hand on her old teacher’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  Conti was sitting at his harpsichord with his back to the instrument, wrapped in his black academic gown. He gave Caterina’s hand a responding squeeze. His unhappy, pink face sank into his fleshy chin as Caterina continued. “Everything was different in this room. Maestro Conti believed in me. He helped me uncover my voice like miners dig gold nuggets out of the earth. How many hours I spent daydreaming of singing at the opera and thrilling all of Venice with my voice. Then everyone would be sorry for how they treated me.” She finished with a self-deprecating snort.

  Caterina crossed to the lead-latticed window. Morning light streamed through the panes of wavy glass and fell in buttery pools on the flagstone floor. The soprano’s face was illuminated in every detail. I had never seen her look so pensive and detached.

  “Of course, time has a way of rolling on and outwitting our most cherished plans. Now I sing at the opera every night, but it holds no happiness for me.” Caterina’s eyes grew watery. “I know I’m a competent singer, but I can’t convince myself that I belong there. Don’t you see how frightened I am before I go on stage?”

  She directed the question toward me but continued before I could answer. “The public is waiting out there, beyond the foot lamps. Waiting to sit in judgment. I see their critical eyes stare up at me from the pit and loom over the railings of their boxes. One wrong note, one weak trill and they’ll condemn me. If I’m lucky they’ll be merciful and simply go back to their gambling or romancing; if not, they’ll run me off the stage.”

  Crivelli’s even voice came from the corner where he had found a padded bench. “We all know the pit is full of puny critics who fancy themselves music connoisseurs. We learn to ignore them and concentrate on singing the best we can.”

  Her bony shoulders began to shake. “I can’t do that. I dread their boos and catcalls. It’s practically all I think about.”

  “Why do you go on singing if it makes you so miserable?” I asked.

  “I have to be sensible,” she answered with a sniffle. “I must earn my living, and the opera is the only thing I know. After all, I grew up as an orphan. Who else would support me? I used to wonder if my mother was somewhere in Venice. Every night, before I slept, I’d imagine a beautiful woman in a fur-lined cloak coming to get me and telling me that my being at the Mendicanti was all a horrible mistake. A common fantasy, isn’t it, Maestro?”

  Conti nodded into his chins as Caterina went on. “When I’d grown up a bit and learned more about the ways of the world, I thought it more likely that my mother was a prostitute. Not the sort our noble patron would frequent, but one of the scraggly women you see in doorways, hiding from the sbirri. Now, whenever I go to the basilica and pass a poor crone with her palm out, I think, is she my mother?”

  “You are afraid that will be your fate,” Crivelli commented from the corner.

  Caterina flashed him a relieved smile. “You understand. Yes, I feel compelled to make the audience like me. I have to succeed at all costs. If I don’t, what will become of me?” Her voice wavered. “I’ll end up another toothless beggar asking for alms on the piazza.”

  “Caterina, Caterina,” Conti murmured as he scurried to her side. His black robe billowing behind him made him look like a pink-faced beetle going to rub his student’s hands as tears started down her cheeks.

  I saw where this was leading. Caterina seemed genuinely sorrowful, but I was horrified at where her compulsion to succeed had driven her. “How dare you try to excuse your conduct?” I said viciously.

  She raised her sharp chin and wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks. “Say what you mean, Tito. Please, don’t spare my feelings. I’m not used to that kind of consideration.”

  “As you wish, then. You poisoned Adelina because she stood in your way. You thought that if she were gone, Viviani would give you the leading roles and your future would be assured.”

  My words fell like chimney ash on wet paving stones; they had no effect at all. Conti continued to regard me sadly as he rubbed Caterina’s shoulder. I turned to Crivelli. For once he was silent and inscrutable. Caterina’s disgusted expression deepened, and she finally broke into a bitter chuckle.

  “It’s best you stick to sin
ging, Tito,” she said in a brittle voice. “You make a poor detective.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just this…I would hardly have killed Adelina. She was my mother.”

  I dropped onto one of Maestro Conti’s hard chairs. My accusatory outrage drained away like wine from an overturned glass.

  “So, Caterina,” I said at last, “how is this possible?”

  “I only know what Adelina told me.” She pushed a straggling lock of hair back from her face. “She had me meet her here in Maestro Conti’s studio on the day of Juno’s dress rehearsal and told me she had left me here as a baby. I suppose she didn’t think I would believe her without Maestro’s confirmation. I asked you to meet me here for the same reason.”

  Stone-faced, Caterina drifted over to the harpsichord. She sat down and rested her forehead on one hand as if she were still overcome by the circumstances of her birth. Maestro Conti came to her aid by taking up the tale in his rapid, high-pitched voice.

  “Venice remembers La Belluna as a grand diva, but that was not always the case. Once, she was just a frightened, penniless young girl. With not a mouthful of bread to feed either of them, she consigned her daughter to the nuns of the Mendicanti.”

  “I wonder how easily that decision was made?” Caterina said without raising her head.

  Conti shook his head until his chins quivered. “She never forgot you. When your mother acquired a little money of her own, she sought me out and charged me to look out for you. I was to make sure you had everything you needed and, most importantly, train your voice so that you would never be without a way to make your own living. We met in secret so that I could report on your development.”

  He crossed to the harpsichord and began to stroke Caterina’s hair. “Adelina never missed an opportunity to hear you sing. Once she was established in Venice, she was in the audience for every one of your public performances. We used to have such fond talks about how quickly you progressed.”

  “She paid you to be my friend,” the soprano said, shaking his hand off her head.

  “It started that way.” Conti’s voice broke into a squeak. “But, my dear, you became the daughter I knew I could never have. Watching you grow up became one of my greatest joys.”

  As tears rolled down his pink cheeks, I realized that Maestro Conti was a castrato. Another soul mutilated for music, he had managed to find his niche in life turning orphan girls into piping nightingales.

  Caterina nodded sadly, only partially mollified. She waved a hand to tell him to go on with the story.

  “Adelina was only fifteen when her mother died. The Turkish trader who had sheltered them both turned the daughter out when she refused to take her mother’s place in his bed. Her pretty face and pleasing voice were the only assets she possessed. To keep from starving, she learned to earn a few soldi singing popular airs at festival times. Fortunate for such waifs that Venice has so many holidays!” Conti sighed glumly, eyes still on Caterina. “Adelina was finally taken up by a troupe of entertainers. You all know the type. They throw up a stage of planks and barrels on the piazza, mix some music with some funny business, and pass a hat around for coins.”

  Crivelli rose painfully from his corner bench. “I remember her then. I first saw our unfortunate prima donna at a regatta on the Grand Canal. Her troupe was set up in the Campo San Bartolomeo, not far from the finish line. The crowd was greatly taken with her. Many of the spectators missed the boat races just to hear her sing. Even then, without any formal training, she was magnificent. I knew I would see her at the opera eventually.”

  I tried to picture Adelina as a struggling singer, a young woman about my present age. How hard she must have worked to perfect her craft. In a short space of time, she had somehow mastered the gradual and systematic training that took me eight years to complete. Then I remembered how I last saw her, the lovely face a ghastly blue mask, the vibrant body limp and lifeless, horrible brown liquid dribbling from the lips that had shared so many confidences and given me such heartfelt advice. I shook the gruesome picture from my mind.

  “Adelina told me much of this,” I said impatiently. “Where does Caterina come in?”

  Old Conti wrung his hands nervously. “Adelina attracted a benefactor, a young Hessian count fleeing his duties at a stodgy, northern court. He set her up in comfort and paid for the voice lessons that fashioned her natural talent into a formidable instrument. She was just beginning to be noticed in the opera houses when she became pregnant. Suddenly her lover wanted nothing to do with her or the baby.”

  Caterina spoke through clenched teeth. “Adelina’s handsome count couldn’t get out of Venice fast enough. He went home to an arranged marriage with a moon-faced German princess and was never heard from again. Meanwhile, Adelina’s expanding belly kept her from appearing on the stage. She barely survived until I was born and deposited with the nuns.”

  Crivelli spoke up again. “And then she sang for her supper at every provincial opera house between Parma and Perugia.”

  Caterina crossed the room to the old castrato. “Did you know her then?”

  “Our paths crossed several times.”

  “What was she like, back in those days?” Anger had abandoned Caterina’s face and been replaced with a shining, expectant longing.

  Crivelli took her hands. “There will be many hours for me to share my reminiscences with you. Right now Tito and I are pressed for time. What can you tell us about your mother’s last days that would help us find her killer?”

  “My mother,” Caterina said with a wondering smile. “What incredible words those are. I don’t think I would ever have become used to them.” Her eyes focused dreamily, as if viewing someone invisible to the rest of us, then hardened into sharp points of dark light. “You want to know who poisoned Adelina. So do I. Her killer stole the most precious gift I had ever been given the minute it touched my fingertips. I want him found. I want him punished.”

  She knew something; I could feel it. “What do you think happened, Caterina?”

  “Viviani is behind this somehow,” she flung out. “Like everyone else, I always assumed Adelina used his attachment to ensure her place as prima donna, but that wasn’t her motive. She really didn’t need such craven advantage. Did you know that she’d had offers from half the theaters in Europe?”

  Her sharp chin jerked. “No, she seduced Viviani for my sake. She was determined to see that I was well placed to work toward a successful career. When his passion was new and glowing, when he could deny her nothing, she had him hire me out of the Mendicanti chorus.” Caterina gave an empty laugh. “I thought he chose me because he had admired my voice when he made his rounds with the other Governors. In truth, I don’t think he had ever noticed me.”

  “What makes you suspect him?” I asked.

  “It’s because of opening night, when he came up to our dressing rooms to congratulate us on the opera. Remember how he pulled Adelina close to him, then gave her that vile kiss? Adelina was so angry she was shaking. He threatened her over something.”

  “Over what? Did she tell you?”

  “At first Adelina wouldn’t say. She just called Viviani every name a woman can use to describe a treacherous lover. I had nearly convinced her to confide in me when Torani came in to smooth things over. Then it was time for places and we went down for the second act. You know the rest.”

  I thought for a moment. “How long have you been at the opera?”

  “A year or so. When I started singing at San Stefano, Adelina tried to advise me and give me guidance, but I was too jealous and stiff-necked to listen.”

  “What made Adelina decide to tell you the truth?” I asked. “Why now, after a whole year?”

  “I suppose she couldn’t bear to go on with me treating her as a rival.” Caterina hung her head. “I must have been insufferable, so full of spite.”

  “Don’t blame yourself, dear. You didn’t know.” Conti fussed around the keyboard, s
traightening musical scores.

  I continued. “Did Adelina tell you she was planning to leave the stage?”

  “No.” Caterina’s face showed real surprise. “Why would she leave? Venice adores her.”

  “Adelina was her own harshest critic. She recognized that her voice was slipping, and she was determined to retire before the audiences noticed. She talked vaguely about setting a plan in motion before she left. Any idea what she could have been talking about?”

  Caterina shook her head. Crivelli approached the harpsichord leaning on his silver-headed cane. “Perhaps Maestro Conti can tell us about Adelina’s plan.” My sharp-eyed friend had noticed something in the music teacher’s distracted tidying up that indicted he knew something he would rather not divulge.

  The black gown shook and the little man’s cheeks grew pinker. “Oh, why did all this have to happen? I’m an old man. All I want is to be left alone to teach my students in peace.”

  This time it was Caterina who sped to Conti’s side. “Maestro, if you know anything, you must tell them.”

  “Oh, oh.…” The syllables trailed off into a quavering whine.

  “Please, if you truly love me as a daughter.”

  Conti regarded his longtime pupil with fond eyes. “Oh, all right. Yes, Adelina told me she was planning to retire. Over the years, little by little, she had built up a comfortable nest egg. She had recently purchased a small villa on the mainland, up the River Brenta, and seemed quite ready to give up singing and devote herself to other pursuits. Her last task in Venice was to make sure Caterina would succeed her as prima donna at the San Stefano. She expected Viviani to easily grant this last request.”

  “Was she so sure that I would succeed?” Caterina asked quickly.

  “She was sure of your talent, my dear. If you would allow her, she planned to guide you through the rest of it…the impresarios, the contracts, the intrigues.”