5 - Her Deadly Mischief

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “Do you have any further requirements, Master?” he asked in a tight little voice.

  “No, you may retire.”

  Benito touched the glowing candle to an unlit wick, and retreated down the long, dark hall until his light winked out as he turned a corner. I sighed. I could never hope to find a more loyal manservant, but I had to admit that Benito hadn’t taken to the changes in my household as well as I’d hoped.

  “Tito,” Liya continued, stroking my face. “Why won’t you tell me what happened?”

  I took her hand and brushed her fingers against my lips, then told her about the tragedy that had interrupted the opera.

  “Oh, Tito, the poor woman! Who was she?”

  I turned my wife toward the stairs. “Didn’t your cards tell you her name?” I half-teased, trying to lighten the moody atmosphere.

  “You know the limits of their revelations.” She gave my shoulder a playful slap. Good. This was my Liya, not the frightened wraith who had met me at the door.

  As we slowly climbed to the second floor and trod the corridor to our bedroom at the back of the house, I elaborated on the evening’s events, holding nothing back except the sailors who’d been looking for a fight. If Liya had been meant to know about the attack, I reasoned, her cards would have told her. I ended by asking if my wife had ever met Zulietta Giardino.

  “No…Why would you think I knew her? Women of the town rarely cross my path.”

  “Of course not, it’s just that she was raised in the ghetto and appeared to be about your age…” I rubbed my eyes, suddenly reminded how very tired I was. After a mammoth yawn, I murmured, “I suppose she would have been called something else then.”

  “Certainly.” Liya nodded, her face wiped clean of all emotion. “Zuliettas don’t exist in the ghetto.”

  Chapter Four

  We entered our chamber to find a suspicious lump under the bedcovers. I pointed toward it while placing my other forefinger on Liya’s lips. “My dear,” I said in a hearty tone. “If that boy isn’t over his cough soon, we must have Dr. Gozzi bring in his leeches.”

  Liya answered in kind. “You’re absolutely right. I think we should request the doctor’s special leeches. The giant beasts he keeps in tubs in the back room.”

  We crept toward the bed. “Oh, yes. Giant leeches will be just the thing—”

  A sharp squeal emitted from the piled bedclothes, and a black, curly head shot up. “But I am well. I haven’t coughed once tonight.” Titolino stuck out his jaw and crossed his arms in a model of defiance. Only his dark-moon eyes gave his anxiety away.

  His mother ruffled his silken curls. “But you won’t stay well if you’re up at all hours, running barefoot on cold floors.”

  The boy popped to his knees, bouncing gently on the feather-filled mattress. “What hour is it, Mama? Is it past midnight?”

  I took out my watch and clicked it open. “Way past midnight. So far past, it will soon be morning.”

  “I’ve never been up past midnight!” Titolino grinned, wriggling out of his cocoon of bedsheets. The pipestem legs that emerged from his nightshirt seemed to go on forever. The boy must have grown overnight. Standing on the bed, he towered over his mother.

  Liya wrapped her arms around his waist. “Well, I hope you enjoyed it, because you’re going right back to your bed.”

  “No, no. Let me stay up just a little longer.” As he pushed his mother’s arms away, his voice rose to a squeak. He shook his head vigorously. “I’ll be good—”

  Then a telltale cough escaped his lips, and he knew he was beaten. He made his hands into fists and pounded his chest as if to punish that mutinous member.

  Liya resumed her grasp, but Titolino extended his arms toward me. “If I have to go, let Papa take me.”

  I ducked my head, momentarily overcome with sudden emotion. Titolino had only recently begun calling me Papa, and that simple word still sounded more beautiful to my ears than any aria I had ever heard. It had been two years since Liya and I had stood before the wise woman in a garden perfumed with flowers and pomegranate trees. The old woman had pressed our forearms together and wound them with a silver cord. Thus, Liya and I were “twined as the vine as long as love should last.” I intended it to last forever and considered the ceremony as binding as if the pope himself had solemnized our union. In taking Liya as my wife, I had also taken Titolino as my son, well knowing that his father had been one of the most godforsaken rogues my sleuthing had ever unearthed.

  They say, “Blood will out,” but I refused to believe that this innocent child’s fate would be determined by a father who had died before his son took his first breath. Titolino struck me as an exceedingly clever child, and I had pledged myself to set his feet on a path that Liya and I would both be proud of.

  I shouldered in to carry him away, and he scrambled into my arms, climbing my height like a tree. We left the bedchamber singing snatches of a nonsense song. Over many nights of play, we had adapted an old folk song about a toad and a firefly and made it our own. Titolino sang King Toad in a deep croak, I the mischievous firefly in a parody of my crystal clear soprano.

  When I returned, Liya was dabbing her face clean at the washstand. The bedcovers had been pulled back, and the logs in the narrow fireplace hissed and cracked as they settled into glowing embers. I crossed to the table by the dying fire and pulled off my shirt.

  Liya’s tarocchi quartered the mahogany tabletop: a Greek cross of bright, fanciful pasteboards. The cards depicted peasants and kings, monks and nuns, and other figures in the standard suits of coins, cups, batons, and swords. In most people’s hands, these cards represented an evening’s game, a harmless pursuit to fill the time between supper and bed. But Liya used them to delve into the future. I had once described her tarocchi as an unbound picture book, and she’d told me I wasn’t far wrong.

  I couldn’t pretend to understand her cards’ hidden secrets, but I didn’t doubt their existence. The proof lay before me. At one corner was a white horse with a front foot raised. I shook my head, wondering how the cards could possibly know that a horse would provide part of my evening’s excitement. And it wasn’t hard to see where Liya had formed the notion about the fall at the theater.

  In the very center of the cross, a position to which all the other tarocchi pointed, was a card depicting a tower on a rocky crag. The sky behind was a deep, inky black rent by streaks of yellow lightning. One bolt had blown the top from the stone tower; blocks and debris rained down among gobbets of fire. A man and woman flew through the air, their mouths forming silent screams and their fine clothing billowing from the wind created by their fall. I grimaced when I noticed that the female of the pair wore a gown of peacock blue.

  “What are you doing, Tito?” Liya called from the basin, drying her face with a thick towel.

  “Just thinking, my love.”

  “Thinking what?”

  “That perhaps tomorrow you might visit the ghetto and see what you can find out about Zulietta Giardino.”

  “Why, Tito?” Her voice was husky with an emotion I couldn’t identify. Though my back was turned, I sensed her approach. I shivered as she trailed her cool fingers along my bare shoulders. “You know I’m not welcome there, and what does it matter, anyway? This Zulietta has nothing to do with us. Messer Grande should be the one to ask questions.”

  I turned to face her, the card of the lightning-struck tower concealed in my palm. “You know that Messer Grande will be as welcome in the ghetto as a stray cat at the fish market. How much do you think he will really be able to discover?”

  My request did not provoke the flash of anger I feared. Liya’s expression reflected the poignant resignation it often did when her childhood home was mentioned. In addition, I was glad to see the tiniest glimmer of curiosity.

  “But, Tito,” she replied, shaking her he
ad until the dark tendrils of hair danced like undulating snakes. “Why do you ask me this?”

  I raised my hand. “This card found its way into your design as surely as Zulietta’s death found its way into my aria.”

  Liya sent me a dubious glance from under charcoal lashes. “Surely it’s mere happenstance that the woman was killed while you were singing.”

  “Haven’t you always instructed me that there are no true coincidences?”

  She shrugged, but I saw that she regarded the card with a new intensity.

  “Well?” I asked. “What do you say?”

  She tossed her head and threw her towel at the washstand. “I say there will be plenty of time to think about it tomorrow.”

  Once we had slipped beneath the bedclothes, I drew her to me and we snuggled close. I lay on my back with my arm beneath her warm curves, and Liya notched her cheek in the hollow between my shoulder and chest, tickling my chin with her jasmine-scented mane.

  “Tito,” she murmured, “do you think Fortunata would turn me away if I visited Papa’s shop?”

  I stroked Liya’s smooth skin. “I can’t imagine she would. You were always her favorite sister, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, so soft I could barely hear.

  “And unlike the others, Fortunata has written several times since you’ve been back in Venice.”

  “Warning me that Mama and Papa aren’t ready to see me.”

  “That was months ago. I would expect your father to have mellowed by now. Pincas was never a man to hold a grudge.”

  After a moment, Liya nodded and snuggled closer. Sleep claimed us almost immediately.

  ***

  The next morning, after a breakfast that involved more conversation than sustenance, we both set off before ten o’clock. I watched Liya start down the pavement to the nearby ghetto, head held high, dark hair covered by her finest zendale worked in cream-colored silk. Though her neat boots covered the stones in resolute strides, I had noted the quiver of her cheek as she bade me good-by. I sent up a small prayer to the Blessed Mother. Surely Our Lady could spare a moment to look in on the ghetto, heathen as it was.

  Luigi, my gondolier, had his boat waiting at the quay just a stone’s throw from my house. The man was suitably apologetic about deserting me the night before, so I allowed him to set off for the theater after only a token remonstrance. As he rowed, I buried my chin in the collar of my cloak that Benito had reinforced with a woolen muffler. It was a raw morning on the canals. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and the clouds were winning.

  At the theater, I found Maestro Torani adamant that Armida continue as scheduled. His wrinkled face held a somber expression, and wisps of steel-gray hair wreathed his shiny scalp. As the singers gathered, our director paced the stage in aimless circles with head hung low and hands clasped behind his back. Every few moments, he stopped to give the scarred boards a pensive stare. I thought he was giving a wonderful impression of a dog who’d forgotten where he’d hidden his bone.

  Our prima donna arrived in a whirl of silk skirts, ermine-lined cloak, and penetrating French scent. As her maid collected her things, Vittoria protested that reopening the theater the night after the grisly tragedy seemed disrespectful, if not outright impious.

  Emilio, who rarely had a good word for anyone or anything, spread his arms and addressed the empty catwalks above the stage. “Since when is a common whore worthy of respect?”

  Ignoring the castrato’s remark, Torani rounded on Vittoria with a scowl. “This new opera has been commissioned by the bigwigs on the subscribers’ board.” He swept an arm toward the orderly ranks of boxes where those very bigwigs would sit whenever our company got back to business. “If they find a dark theater where they expect grand spectacle, they’ll decamp to the San Moise or the San Benedetto. Or find some other distraction altogether.”

  Or find a reason to change the theater management, I thought sourly. The hands that fed us were attached to notoriously fickle patrons.

  Vittoria licked her full lips. She patted upswept curls that were already perfection. She knew, as we all did, that the San Benedetto had recently acquired a young female soprano who was attracting a great deal of attention. Our lovely but aging star sent Torani a sweet smile. “You know best, Maestro. I’ll be happy to sing tonight if you wish it.”

  I thought there might be more to Maestro Torani’s decision. As I’d disembarked at the water gate, I’d recognized a familiar figure striding over the bridge that led away from the theater. “Has Signor Lazarini been bending your ear?”

  Before Torani could answer, Emilio shot back, “And what if he has? Lazarini’s men have to eat. If there’s no performance, they won’t be paid.”

  I nodded, noting Torani’s abashed countenance. Lazarini was a powerful man in theater circles; he managed claques for Emilio Strada and many other popular singers. Where I trusted the audience to reward my performance as they saw fit, some of my colleagues took out insurance in the form of professional applauders. The going rate for clapping alone was ten soldi a man, while a zecchino purchased enthusiastic cheering and cries of “bravo.” Booing and fisticuffs directed at a rival singer’s partisans could earn much more. Though I detested Lazarini and his crew, I could understand why Emilio would make such arrangements. He was several years older than myself, and though his handsome face still turned heads, his castrato’s physique was slowly turning to fat. I had it on good authority from Benito that Emilio’s manservant laced him into a corset before every performance. More crucially, his silvery soprano had not worn well.

  Vittoria was not feeling as charitable as Torani. Shouting over our maestro’s protests, she upbraided Emilio with the zeal of the sorceress she portrayed in the opera. The castrato responded like the feckless fool he was, and on they went. The other singers, as well as a few stagehands, drifted onstage to view what promised to be a rousing good fight. I confess I was disappointed when Benito appeared at my elbow to deliver the message that Madame Dumas required my presence in her workroom.

  “Tell me what happens,” I whispered, then made my way through the wings and backstage corridors to Madame Dumas’ domain.

  The company’s chief costumer, a dignified, gray-haired Frenchwoman, insisted on the title of Madame despite her many years in Venice. Her habitual frown and slate-hard blue eyes terrified most of the company, but her severe demeanor didn’t put me off. Madame Dumas and I had been through several adventures together; I knew that inside she was as sweet and soft as a cream puff, especially where I was concerned. She met me at the door of her workroom, scissors dangling from a belt at her waist and needles trailing different colors of thread tucked in the bodice of her faded black gown.

  I deposited a peck on her wrinkled cheek. “My angel, you’ve rescued me from the middle of a vicious squabble. Emilio and Vittoria will start drawing blood any moment now.”

  After I’d explained, the seamstress gave a very Gallic snort. “Just let it come out that our righteous prima donna employs her own claque—then we’ll see some real fireworks.”

  My jaw dropped. “Vittoria has a claque? She’s warmly received, to be sure, but I thought that was because the gondoliers love her.”

  Madame Dumas chuckled as she guided me toward the mammoth table tumbled with a wealth of luxurious fabrics and trims. In a corner, a pair of young seamstresses were working around a mannequin that wore one of Vittoria’s costumes. They looked up as if to join our conversation; Madame put them in their place with a fierce look. Then she retrieved my torn tunic and draped it over my shoulders.

  “Vittoria’s cabal is supposed to be a secret,” she mused as her quick hands fluttered over my chest, tucking here and folding there. “Her supporters specialize in making their praise appear absolutely natural.”

  I shook my head. “And that doe-eyed soprano has always swor
n she would never stoop so low.” What other secrets went on in this opera house under my very nose?

  “Hold your arms straight,” Madame Dumas ordered out of one corner of her mouth. She’d stowed her pins on the opposite side. “I need to fit this to you.”

  “Did I do that much damage?”

  “The tear was easily repaired, but the waist needs taking in. It sags where it should fit like a glove. Doesn’t your woman ever feed you?”

  As instructed, I made my torso into a living statue. Fortunately, my lips were allowed to move. “Have you ever seen anything to rival last night’s tragedy?”

  She shrugged as she pinned. “I’m not surprised. These girls of today do not know how to conduct their affairs. In Paris, when I was a young woman, arrangements were made properly. Attorneys made certain the gentleman’s funds were secure and drew up a settlement while his breeches were still buttoned. Imagine staking your future on a wager over a jewel box. It was bound to end in trouble of some kind.”

  “You know about the wager? That business was supposed to be kept quiet.”

  Madame licked her finger and rolled the end of a thread into a knot. “When did Venice ever keep anyone’s secrets? Talk of the whores’ deadly contest has been sweeping the city faster than a sirocco wind. A man on my campo has already set up his own wager—” She paused to whip in a few stitches.

  Tightening my skin away from her needle, I asked, “What sort of wager?”

  “On who will be hung for the murder, of course. Odds are running in favor of the young man, but I laid down a zecchino on La Samsona. And I wasn’t the only one.” She straightened and looked me in the eye. Then a smile that was surely meant to wheedle sprang to her lips; unfortunately, several discolored teeth spoiled the effect. “They say you saw the masked killer, Signor Amato. You’re a clever one. Tell me now, could I be right? I could certainly use the winnings.”