“Testing the air. It’s something my sailor brother taught me.”
“I’ve never met this brother. A sailor, eh? Is he anywhere near as handsome as you?”
“Alessandro is the handsomer brother by far,” I answered, feeling a blush rise to my cheeks. “At least his wife, Zuhal, would tell you so. You’re unlikely to meet either since they live in Constantinople.”
“Ah, well.” She tossed her head. “The air smells the same as the canal to me—like the inside of a refuse barrel. What does your nose make of it?”
“We’re going to have buckets of rain, probably by nightfall.”
She clapped her hands together. “Favoloso! My prayers have been answered—and so quickly.”
“You’ve come from church?” I couldn’t keep the skeptical tone from my voice.
“No, silly. I went to Mass this morning. This afternoon, I’ve been dining with dear Montague. You know how it is with those elderly English lords—one hour at table followed by one between the sheets—if you delay bed until after the opera, they fall asleep on you. I think it’s the pounds of roast beef they put away.”
I hadn’t known, but now I did. Vittoria was nothing if not forthright.
“Why do you want it to rain?” I asked as we passed through double doors into the back foyer.
“The house has been off these past few nights. Since bad weather always brings them out in droves, lighting a candle for rain was the least I could do. I mean, it wouldn’t do to pray for snow. That would be silly. We won’t have snow until Christmas, if then.”
“I see. You’re not expecting a miracle, just a little help.”
She nodded brightly, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like to travel the road of life as Vittoria Busanti. With this popular prima donna, it was all lovely gowns, gratifying applause, rich protectors. Pleasure was easily within her reach, and she grabbed for it daily, heedless of accident, illness, or the possibility of losing her voice. How pleasant and natural that life must be—a veritable Garden of Eden.
I traveled a road fraught with anxiety, never able to forget the unknown misfortunes the morrow might produce. Apparently Zulietta Giardino’s path had been more like mine. She had well understood that a courtesan’s career was short and had mapped out a plan that would carry her into a happy, secure future. Until the killer with the malevolent gaze put an end to her. A sudden chill ran over me, and I shook my head. Save the detection for later, I told myself. In a moment, you’ll have a new opera to learn.
In the auditorium, Vittoria and I found the benches neatly arranged and the main chandelier lowered so that workmen could replace the spent tapers. As we neared the stage, I noted that Maestro Torani’s expression was heavy and sour. Emilio was bending his ear about a recent favorable mention in the Gazzetta Veneta. Holding the paper at arm’s length, the castrato read, “Our delightful Emiliano continues to amaze us with a throat as tuneful as Apollo’s lyre…”
Behind Emilio’s back, Rosa Tiretta, our conniving little contralto, was mimicking his self-congratulatory monologue for the amusement of the scene shifters and prop boys. Rosa played soubrette roles as if she’d been born to them. She wasn’t a beauty, but she had learned to sing while maintaining a pleasant smile, never distorting her face as some were forced to. When Torani saw Vittoria and me mounting the stairs that curved around one side of the orchestra pit, a flash of relief streaked across his countenance. For interrupting Emilio, it seemed our lateness would be forgiven.
“Ah, we’re all here. At last. Come along, you two, so we can commence.” Torani clapped his hands several times, then twisted his neck from side to side. “If Romeo hasn’t wandered off. Where can the boy have got to? He was just here.”
“Probably still at dinner,” Vittoria murmured. Our young basso, Romeo Battaglia, might have a belly to rival a Spanish friar, but his voice was clear, sweet, and as mellow as mulled wine. With his vast vocal compass and eager manner, Romeo could interpret roles that varied from a lovesick shepherd to an angry Jupiter hurling thunderbolts.
“I’m here, Maestro.” Romeo’s sleepy head popped up from a first-tier box. Despite his size, he easily vaulted the railing with jacket and wig in hand. “Just catching forty winks.”
“Poor little boy…” Vittoria’s whisper took on a tinge of spleen, “has to save his strength, you know.”
“You’re very cross all of a sudden.” I sent the soprano a questioning look. Our prima donna generally displayed a sweet disposition, especially after she’d spent a lazy afternoon in a rich man’s bed. “Is something wrong?”
“Not yet. Just wait…” A frown from Torani silenced Vittoria’s revelation, but as Romeo plodded across the stage she rolled her eyes.
I wasn’t mystified for long. Once the entire company had assembled, Maestro Torani announced the title of our next production: The Labors of Hercules. With Romeo to take the title role. Somehow Vittoria had known, or at least suspected, but the rest of the company was visibly startled. Emilio’s jaw dropped. Mine also. We castrati were the first men of the company, the kings of vocal ornamentation, the heroes of brilliant sentiment, the major reason people flocked to the opera. In casting a basso as primo uomo, our maestro was not just breaking tradition; he was shredding it into tiny pieces, throwing it in the fire, and stomping on the ashes.
A basso in the lead—castrati relegated to secondary roles? Unheard of!
I closed my mouth with a hard gulp, barely aware that Vittoria had laid a sympathetic hand on my arm or that Rosa was stifling nervous giggles. Were my cheeks turning red? Did I grow rigid with humiliation? Emilio certainly did. He was still as stone except for opening and closing his mouth like a fish hauled from the water and tossed on the quay. Strangled, wordless outrage belched forth with each parting of his lips. By contrast, Romeo was expressing befuddled exclamations of surprise and gratitude.
Ignoring Romeo, Torani snatched off his tie-wig and beat it against his thigh. He looked from me to Emilio and back again. “Not a word, not one word! I’ve found the perfect drama, spent four months putting it to music, and by a stroke of happy luck, the company possesses the perfect singer—with the perfect amount of flesh—to take the principal role. If any man disagrees, let him take his objections and yell them down the nearest privy hole.”
I nodded slowly, struggling to master my emotions and find the bright side of this unexpected development. The audience might be intrigued by the novelty of a basso as Hercules; anything that would pump up box office receipts would benefit us all.
Also, being assigned a lesser role would allow me more time and energy to search for Zulietta’s killer. Perhaps Torani’s new opera wouldn’t work out badly after all. I gathered myself up with dignity. “Maestro, I’m certain we can all put partisan feelings aside and enter into the spirit of this extraordinary production.”
Vittoria seconded my statement, an act all the more admirable because the casting on the distaff side had also been turned upside down. For once, Rosa had been given billing above Vittoria. Perhaps our prima donna had more depth than it often seemed.
Torani sent a small bow toward Vittoria and me, then clapped his hands at a theater lackey who sprinted into the wings. After a moment, the man returned pushing a wheeled cart stacked with musical scores. As Torani began distributing the hand-copied music, he said, “The orchestral players are due any minute. I’ll start with Romeo and the rest of you can be studying your parts.”
Rosa practically skipped forward to grab her thick score. Romeo followed, still wearing an expression of happy disbelief. Emilio stepped back as the other secondary players crowded around the cart. I wondered if my fellow castrato would cause a scene by refusing his role, but I wouldn’t be onstage to find out.
I accepted the score that Maestro Torani handed me along with instructions to report to the costume workshop and was soon barreling alon
g a back corridor with the music for Hyllus, son of Hercules, tucked under my arm.
Like Vittoria, my old friend Madame Dumas didn’t seem surprised that the company pecking order had been turned topsy-turvy. Perhaps her clue had been the fur skins ordered to swathe Hercules’ torso; they were considerably in excess of the yardage that either Emilio or I would have required. Many hands prepared an opera: copyists, scene painters, machinists, costumers, and more. Torani must have threatened all those who knew about the casting with dire punishment if they opened their mouths.
An apologetic Madame Dumas tut-tutted over my demotion. Shaking her silver-crowned head, she assured me that Maestro Torani must be a fool to cast “that great ox with the foghorn voice” over her favorite castrato.
“Don’t worry, Signor Amato.” The seamstress stroked a bolt of rich brown velvet leaning against the worktable. “I’ll cut your cape from this fabric—there’s none finer in the entire city. Line it with turquoise silk from Lyon, I will. And your waistcoat, it will be embroidered with so many gold threads it will shine in pitch darkness. Romeo may have more notes to sing, but you will be the chief ornament of Hercules.”
I took her blue-veined hand and gave it a grateful kiss. “I can only hope the fickle public will be as loathe to forget me as you are.”
“They’ll never forget you—don’t trouble your head for one minute.” She moved to grasp the bolt of velvet and tried to muscle it onto the worktable. A pair of assistant seamstresses came running to help, but she waved them back. “I’m the only one who will touch the cloth for Signor Amato’s costume. Every stitch will be mine and mine alone.”
“There’s no reason why the wearer of the costume can’t touch it, is there?” Madame Dumas was a sterling needlewoman, but her pipestem arms weren’t up to the task of readying the fabric for the cutting shears that hung from her waist. I lifted the heavy bolt onto the smooth pine tabletop. It unrolled in a stream of rich chocolate highlighted with caramel where the velvet nap caught the light. When the tail end had slipped from the bolt, I planted the wooden pole on the floor as if I held the lance of a knight errant.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Madame was bursting with pride, no doubt envisioning the eventual garment.
“Lovely,” I agreed. “I’ll have to be in my best voice to do your work justice.”
In response, the old seamstress cast her eyes down and blushed like a girl of sixteen. Not for the first time, I imagined the charm and esprit Madame Dumas must have displayed as a young Parisienne of the last century.
“This is a useful item,” I said, admiring the slender pole of polished wood that had held the fabric. It sported a small lever about two thirds along its length to keep the velvet from dragging on the floor and getting dirty. A leather strap affixed with a nail could be fastened around the roll to keep the fabric tightly wound. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything like this in your workroom before.”
She winked. “I found it gathering dust backstage—it and its mate. They’re probably meant for one of the cloud machines, but they fit my purpose so well, I carried them back here. You won’t tell on me, will you?”
“Your secret is safe with me, Madame. Now…” I threw my arms out to both sides and stood straight and tall. “Don’t you have some measurements to take?”
Cackling a laugh, she fiddled with the instruments on her belt, and soon her tape was making its customary perambulations around my person. I took the opportunity to give some thought to the remainder of the afternoon. Maestro Torani wouldn’t be rehearsing my new part until tomorrow morning. Once Madame was done with me, I would be at my leisure until I must dress for that night’s performance of Armida. Should I have Luigi row me over to Murano so I could run down Alessio’s drunken gondolier? Or should I try to locate Pamarino?
The weather made my mind up for me. When I opened the stage door, all was gray: the damp-slick stones of the alleyway, the leaden sky, the scudding clouds. The looming storm had swallowed the sun.
I turned and ran up to my dressing room, taking the stairs two at a time. Benito had not yet arrived, but he always kept an extra pair of boots, as well as a waxed cloak and beaver hat stashed in the wardrobe. I donned these, thought about a muff he’d also tucked on a shelf, but left it behind. Then I set off for Zulietta’s casino. Having Luigi row me over to Murano with a blow coming would be foolhardy, but if Sary could tell me where to find Pamarino, my next several hours would not be wasted.
***
“I’m sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs—right next to the pissoir.” Pamarino curled his thick lips in a frown. He wore his blue jacket with the silver epaulets and buttons, but the metal showed signs of tarnish and his thick brown wig was in dire need of a hairdresser’s services. As before, his droll appearance was at odds with his well-spoken conversation.
“Not a pleasant situation,” I replied over the hum of voices in the rough café Sary had directed me to. The place had a slanted ceiling and the sour smell of spilled wine and unwashed working men.
“No.” The tone of that simple word implied that the proprietor of the brothel that housed his sister had greatly underestimated Pamarino’s importance and would suffer for his impertinence in the future. Very proud, this little man, this toy soldier. And yet, under the bluster, I thought I could detect a faint note of resignation.
“Why aren’t you staying at your mistress’ casino?”
Pamarino shrugged glumly.
“Sary told me it will be several weeks before the household goods go to auction and the place is shut up for good.”
“I’m better off where I am,” he snapped, but his lips began to quiver and his eyes became glossy.
I understood. The same aching grief that had sent him roaming the theater corridors must have been overwhelming in the close confines of the casino. At every creak of the stairs, his heart must have made a sudden leap, hoping against hope that his beloved mistress would somehow appear. Her possessions scattered throughout the apartment—a favorite book on a tabletop, a lone glove forgotten behind a sofa cushion—all must have been torture.
I’d found Pamarino’s café on a narrow canal tucked between the waterfront and the Arsenale, Venice’s great shipyard. Every forlorn man who lacks a kitchen, or a woman to tend one, frequents some local café that becomes his sitting room as much as his source of meals. Two soldi tendered for a tiny cup of black coffee secures a table and as many gazettes as a man could read in an hour or an afternoon. I had already supplied Pamarino with more than coffee. He was spooning his way through a large bowl of polenta and crisp minnows. To show his thanks, he was putting up with my questions.
“Can your sister not arrange better accommodations for you?”
“The scoundrel who employs Estrella says the cupboard is sufficient, and my sister is not in a position to argue. Whores of her variety are thick on the ground—she could be replaced in a heartbeat. No, she only gabbled some nonsense about the cupboard being a perfect fit as she made me a bed of musty blankets that would insult a stray dog.”
I nodded slowly and took a sip of cheap, sour wine. One look at the food-stained tabletop had put me off the idea of sharing Pamarino’s meal, and I had carefully wiped my tin cup before allowing the waiter to slop his inferior vintage into it. With a burning throat, I asked, “Are you searching for work?”
He nodded. “I offered myself at Estrella’s place. While the men are waiting their turns, I thought I could act the fool for their amusement. You might be surprised to learn I can make people laugh. In between turning handsprings, I recite bawdy poems—throw out a few vulgar witticisms.”
“Do you, now?”
“Oh, yes. Over the years, I must have collected thousands.” His tone was solemn as an owl, until he dropped his spoon, shook his shoulders, and threw his head back. When he brought it forward, his face was split by an idiotic grin. He could have been
the twin of the dwarf Liya and I had watched on the Piazza. In a crude singsong voice, he uttered:
There was a young lad from Trevise,
Who would come whenever he’d sneeze.
To the druggist he went, laying down his last cent,
Said, “a barrel of snuff if you please.”
I chuckled with what I hoped was a look of commendation on my face. “The proprietor refused to hire you? I can scarcely believe it.”
“Turned me down flat as a pancake. It was only through Estrella’s pleading that I came by a temporary bed in that establishment. Her employer fears the bad luck I might bring, you see.” Pamarino took up his spoon and slurped a generous mouthful of stew. He continued in a tone curiously devoid of emotion. “There are many who believe that my mother must have lain with a goblin or forest folletto. How else to explain the birth of a monster such as I? My ties to the goblin world lump me in with thieves and knaves and other evil folk. Why…I might even possess the secrets of the evil eye or the art of poisoning. I’m obviously a dangerous man.” He waggled a finger. “You had better be careful around me, Signor Amato.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I replied with a smile. “I’m well acquainted with the ridiculous assumptions people make based on appearance alone.”
His glance flicked over me. “Yes, you would be.”
“But I don’t understand why you are depending on your sister’s charity. I thought your mistress left you well provided for.” I continued in response to his lifted eyebrow. “Sary told me about the bequests you both received.”
Pamarino’s demeanor changed again. He pulled his chin and sent me a concentrated glare. If that wasn’t the evil eye, it could pass for a good likeness. “I wonder why my situation should concern you in the slightest.”
“Indulge me,” I answered in a neutral tone.
We locked gazes for a moment. Outside, the storm had blown in, and the rain that beaded along the overhanging portico fell to the pavement in a steady patter. Pamarino sighed. “I put my mistress’ money aside should times grow even worse. In my experience, misfortune is always followed by more of the same…’
5 - Her Deadly Mischief Page 18
