1 - Interrupted Aria

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Had Adelina told Viviani of her plans?” I asked the music teacher.

  “Yes. A few days before she died she told him that she would be leaving after Juno’s run and requested that Caterina be designated prima donna. He wasn’t so upset about losing Adelina—that didn’t surprise her, she’d felt his ardor was cooling—but he refused to allow her to dictate her replacement.”

  Crivelli nodded. “Viviani is a man who likes to keep a firm hold on the reins.”

  I was puzzled. “If Viviani was ready for Adelina to leave San Stefano, why have her killed? Why not let her quietly retire to her villa on the Brenta?”

  Conti hesitated and his mouth rounded to refrain his annoying whine, but a plaintive look from Caterina persuaded him to give me an answer.

  “You must promise, all of you. You never heard this from me. Remember, this man is on the Board of Governors at this institution.” As we silently nodded, he continued in low tones. “Adelina had a reserve plan. If Viviani wouldn’t promote Caterina for love, perhaps he could be coerced by fear.”

  “What could possibly cause a powerful patrician like Domenico Viviani to fear Adelina?” I wondered.

  Conti shook his head. “That I cannot tell you.” He held up his hand to forestall Caterina. “No, my dear, I simply don’t know. You can’t expect me to tell what I don’t know. All I can say is that Adelina Belluna seemed very sure that her wishes would prevail.”

  Crivelli and I left Caterina and her doting teacher to their private conversation and strolled down the wide hallway toward the Mendicanti’s main entrance. On our left, dappled sunshine came from the tall windows covered with grillwork. The buzz of schoolgirls reciting lessons came from the classrooms on our right.

  “An unexpected turn,” the old castrato was saying.

  “Not so unexpected for you, I think.”

  He allowed himself an indulgent smile. “I confess I suspected something of the sort. There were rumors of a child back in the days when Adelina and I sang on the provincial circuit. When Caterina suddenly appeared at the theater, hired over a score of more able and experienced sopranos and unrelentingly fussed over by our leading lady, my old brain went to work.”

  He paused and asked thoughtfully, “What direction does this send our quest?”

  “I don’t really know. Caterina’s revelation is not the only complication.” I gave him a brief review of the attack at the Colleoni statue and my intention to pay a call on Messer Grande.

  “I don’t envy you that call, but I do agree with your brother. We need to organize our forces, have a council of war, so to speak. If you can find out what the chief of police intends to do with Felice, at least we’ll know how much time we have. When can we.…”

  He was interrupted by a friendly greeting. A stout nun in a white robe and black wimple glided out of a nearby classroom. She raised her palms to Crivelli’s wrinkled face, and his expression changed from surprise to delight. They immediately dived into a stream of amicable chatter.

  Edging down the hall to give Crivelli and the nun some privacy, I soon reached the foyer. This space was capped with a domed ceiling and embellished with niches containing statues set around the walls. I was admiring a graceful statue of Cecilia, the patron saint of music, when the opening chords of a Handel organ concerto rumbled out from the chapel that lay at a right angle to the stone-flagged passage. I hadn’t thought about meeting my father on this visit to the asylum, but there he was, working at his keyboard, surrounded by the towering pipes of his beloved instrument.

  I pressed myself against the paneled oak of one of the open doors. The chapel was lit by vertical slits of yellow glass. Dust motes floated in the heavy, golden air and seemed to condense around my father’s profiled head. He bent his arched nose to the keys, completely engrossed by the music. And beautiful music it was. I marveled as his hands skimmed over the keyboard and stop knobs while his feet darted over the pedals below. I’d almost forgotten how truly talented he was.

  Then I realized that I hadn’t seen Father for several days. He usually left before I awoke in the morning, and he was either out of the house or in bed by the time I returned from the theater. After the debacle of opening night, he had not returned to see me in The Revenge of Juno. I wondered if I should make my presence known. Would he leave the organ, happy to see me? Could I tell him what happened last night? Could we talk over family matters? He really ought to be told that, even now, Alessandro was out searching for a monk who might hold the cure to Grisella’s illness.

  I was still wondering when Crivelli called my name. My friend must have had a pleasant visit with the nun. He was smiling broadly and making one of his old-fashioned, courtly gestures toward the door. “Come along, Tito. The sun rides high in the sky and our dinner awaits.”

  I looked at his kindly old face and then back at the swaying figure on the organ bench. “I’m coming,” I said, and hurried across the foyer.

  Chapter 17

  My city was devoted to opera. Every Venetian considered himself an expert on singing and was as critical in his judgment as he was generous with his advice. I had to appreciate the spirit, but crossing the Piazza San Marco on my way to confront the chief of police, I would rather have been left alone.

  Gray skies had replaced the sun of the morning; the smell of distant rain filled the air. A gusty wind whirled scraps of paper around the piazza and made me draw my cloak tightly around my throat. Despite the change in the weather, the carnival atmosphere still reigned. It was the tenth of December and the merrymakers were determined to make the most of their last few days before the Christmas novena. From December sixteenth through Christmas Day, masking and other carnival entertainments were forbidden. After the holiday, the fun would begin anew and continue until the beginning of Lent.

  I had made my way down the Mercerie unnoticed. The shops lining that market thoroughfare displayed an enticing array of rich fabrics, glassware, and caged birds that tended to monopolize the attention of passers-by. I wasn’t recognized until I passed under the archway of the clock tower that stands at the north side of the piazza. I cursed my lack of foresight. If I had stuck a mask in my coat pocket before leaving home, I could have conducted my errand anonymously. As it was, I was hailed every few steps.

  I’m sure that many castrati welcomed the attention, but even if I hadn’t been nervous about the upcoming interview, it would have perturbed me. It was unsettling to hear every loafer on the piazza casually referring to me as “the new castrato, the eunuch that is causing a sensation at the San Stefano.” The whole business made me feel threatened in some undefined way. I had no knowledge of their most intimate parts. Why should they be discussing mine? As much as I loved delighting audiences at the theater, I wished they could forget who and what I was when I wanted to take a walk or transact some personal business.

  As I hurried along the arched colonnade of the Procuratie, I’m afraid my admirers that day found me cool and impatient to say the least. As soon as I spied an entry door into the long office-filled building where Messer Grande kept his headquarters, I dived through it. The uniformed guards at the door would keep any riff-raff from following me into the building.

  I took a moment to get my bearings. Although carnival gaiety ruled a few steps away, the Procuratie was full of pale clerks with serious expressions managing the business of the Republic. The business of Venice was just that: business. Although my city called herself a republic and held elections to fill the offices of Doge and Senator, she was in fact a trading corporation run by a few hundred noble families whose only goal was their own enrichment through commerce. All government functions were subservient to the needs of the corporation. Any crime, be it violent, immoral, or bloodlessly fraudulent, which threatened to derange the well-oiled gears of the business machine, eventually came up before the State Inquisitors.

  The Inquisitors were a triumvirate that capped the apex of Venice’s pyramid of authority. By tradition, the Doge shoul
d have occupied that place, but over the years, the dreaded Tribunal had usurped the power of that office and reduced the Doge to a colorful figurehead trotted out for pageants and other state occasions. The fact that the present Doge was a feeble old man taken with frequent spells of fever had applied the finishing touch to the shift of power.

  I stopped a clerk who looked a bit friendlier than the others and asked where I could find Messer Grande. The clerk’s features briefly registered curiosity as he handed me off to a wary-eyed guard who led me up staircases and down paneled hallways. By the time sweat had broken out on my forehead and my stomach had become a rolling, twisting mass, the guard stopped in an anteroom before a heavy door with a brass nameplate. The reception desk was piled with tidy stacks of paper but devoid of clerical staff. The guard shifted from foot to foot and gazed hopefully down the long hallway we had just traversed. Finally, he ordered me to wait, knocked just below the brightly polished nameplate, and was admitted.

  I had no idea what arguments I would use with the chief. I was still searching for inspiration that refused to come. I ran my finger around the inside of my damp neckband and straightened the lace. This was as bad as being pushed on stage not knowing which aria I was supposed to sing. I took a few deep breaths and reminded myself that in moments of crisis I had always been able to summon up enough nerve to save the day.

  The door opened and my heart jumped. The guard waved me inside. “Messer Grande will see you now.”

  I entered a book-lined office dominated by a shining expanse of desk. Two carved griffins with folded wings supported the writing surface and seemed to guard the red-robed man seated in a deep chair behind it. I was in the presence of Ludovico Cello—Messer Grande—the State Inquisitors’ chief agent. He was making a pyramid of his hands, and the tips of his long, spidery fingers rested just under his bulbous nose. This fleshy process was marked by a deep, neat scar in the exact shape of the crescent moon. I found myself staring at the scar as a rugged young constable slid a chair behind my knees and pushed down on my shoulders.

  Moving only his lips, Messer Grande spoke without preamble, “What brings such a delicate nightingale out on such a blustery day? Have you come to favor us with a song, Signor Amato?”

  I tore my gaze from the crescent scar and focused on the chief’s half-closed, almost dreamy dark eyes. “Signore, I have come to speak on behalf of my friend, Felice Ravello. He has been unjustly accused of the murder of Adelina Belluna.”

  The figure across the huge desk remained motionless and silent. The young constable settled himself at a small desk in an alcove and began to whittle on the tip of a pen. He interrupted his work on the quill long enough to send me a few surreptitious, loathing glances.

  “Adelina’s maid must have been mistaken,” I continued. “Felice is not a murderer.”

  Messer Grande stirred. His long fingers shuffled through a stack of papers under a glass paperweight, plucked one out, and sailed it across the desk toward me. “The maid has signed an affidavit detailing the events of that night.

  “Let me summarize. After La Belluna leaves the dressing room to attend to her duties on stage, the maid is alone on the third floor. During Act One, she spends the time darning several of her mistress’ stockings. The wine decanter is on the dressing table, in plain sight. When her mistress and Signorina Testi come up together, the younger singer goes directly to her chamber. La Belluna and her maid soon join her. Sent next door to retrieve some face paint, the maid observes Ravello handling Signora Belluna’s wine decanter. Before Act Two, La Belluna drinks several glasses, becomes feverish with a horrible pain in her stomach, and dies. Your friend runs when confronted, and in his pocket is an empty vial of the sort used to hold poisons.”

  “I can explain the vial. It was for his throat. Felice’s voice had deepened and he was unable to sing. He was gargling water with a few drops of belladonna to ease the inflammation of his vocal cords and regain his soprano.” Did I hear a tiny snigger of disgust from the constable’s alcove?

  “It seems he had another use for it, also.” Messer Grande settled back to his former position.

  “Perhaps Adelina wasn’t poisoned at all. She may have died of natural causes.”

  “I have questioned the lady’s personal physician and the doctor who was called backstage to examine her on the night of her death. La Belluna was in excellent health until she drank the tainted wine. The sudden gastric distress points directly to a deadly substance present in the decanter,” he said with finality.

  It was my turn to remain silent. My mind reached for more arguments as the scratchy whisper of the constable’s pen filled the room.

  “Tell me this,” I said after a moment. “Why would Felice want to poison Adelina? He barely knew her.”

  “It is not my job to plumb his mind. It is enough to know that he emptied the vial into the decanter and the woman is dead.” He shrugged his shoulders in the age-old Italian manner.

  “But still, there has to be a powerful motive behind such a deed.”

  Messer Grande pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, now…since you mention it.” He snatched a few more papers from the stack, read, and nodded. “His fellow orchestra musicians all agree that the deceased made a figure of fun out of Signor Ravello a few days before the murder. When he chanced to trip over…what is it?” He held a paper at arm’s length. “A spear, yes, some sort of theatrical prop that the deceased had left lying around. The musicians swear under oath that he took her unkind laughter to heart and remained quite angry with her.”

  “But he wouldn’t kill her. Anyway, she had apologized, and the incident was a trifle that would have been soon forgotten.”

  “These things do fester in the mind, especially a mind already distressed. Had he not had a recent blow to his emotional state?”

  The chief’s black eyes were hard and wide open now. Their gaze riveted me to the back of my chair. How could he know about my rebuff of Felice’s declaration of love? Could his covert spy network see through the walls of my bedroom? I found myself becoming entranced by the crescent-shaped scar, but managed to shake my head negatively.

  The marble-hard eyes narrowed again. “But you just said the fellow had lost his voice. How distressing for him…to realize that he had lost the seat of his manhood for…nothing.”

  “Oh yes, of course he was upset about that, but the decline in his voice had begun many months ago. It could not have led him to kill Adelina. I know Felice. He is not a violent man. You have to believe me.”

  “Who else is there to speak for his character?”

  “Besides me and my family, there is no one. Felice is a stranger to Venice.”

  The chief stood up and put his fingertips on the desk. Leaning forward to give his words emphasis, he said, “Exactly. A stranger, a foreigner, comes to Venice and kills one of our most beloved singers. The only person to step forward to defend him is one of his fellow eunuchs. There are those who would have had him strangled days ago.”

  I sprang from my chair. “Is one of those His Excellency, Domenico Viviani?”

  “Ah, the songbird ruffles his feathers.” Messer Grande gave me a wolfish grin. “Is it not natural for Signor Viviani to be interested in seeing justice done? After all, the murder occurred at his theater. His prima donna, who also happened to be his mistress, was poisoned. Why should he not be anxious for the murderer to be punished?”

  “I don’t know.” I was hesitating, unsure how much to reveal to the man who wove the fabric of Felice’s fate with those powerful, spidery fingers.

  “Indeed? I think you know more about your patron’s dealings with his leading lady than you are willing to admit. I can’t blame you. To cast suspicion on Viviani would be to bite the hand that feeds you.” He regarded me inquisitively. When I didn’t answer, he strolled to the window that overlooked the piazza and stared down at the humanity on the pavement with a proprietary air. Someone or something must have caught his eye. He called t
he constable to the window and pointed toward the south side of the square. With a comprehending nod, the junior officer went out by a small door between the bookshelves. Some unsuspecting individual enjoying a marionette show or flirting with his lady would soon be set upon by sbirri and dragged to the prison behind the Doge’s palace.

  I gathered my courage. As I did on stage, I lifted my chest and put force behind my voice. “Signore, you asked about my patron. Whether Adelina’s murderer is of the highest nobility or is a beggar from the back calli, it makes no difference to me. I only ask that you grant me time to discover the truth and bring the real killer to you.”

  “I have no time for fantastical solutions.” He remained at the window and spoke over his shoulder. “But I am a reasonable man. I don’t want to deliver an innocent up for execution. For the next five days, Carnival has everyone’s attention. After that, there will be no more distractions to prevent me discharging my responsibility to the Republic.”

  My heart soared. Could I be hearing him right? Was he giving Felice a reprieve?

  “Do you understand, Signor Songbird? If I don’t have hard evidence that someone else murdered Adelina Belluna by five days hence, Felice Ravello will be delivered to the Secretary to the Tribunal so the Inquisitors can hear the case and pass sentence.”

  Chapter 18

  After that night’s performance, I battled lashing rain all the way from the stage door to the Campo dei Polli. I had the good luck to snare a covered gondola, but I was still cold and wet when I sat down at the dining room table with Annetta and Alessandro to preside over what Crivelli had called our council of war. The old castrato had promised to join us as soon as he could. He had been delayed by some eager well-wishers from his native city of Bolzano. After enjoying the opera, they had descended on his dressing room and were determined to reminisce about old acquaintances.