“Now I ask that you indulge me—why do you remain so interested in my mistress’ death? You claimed no acquaintance with her. If you had, I would have been aware of it.”
“You’re right. I had no acquaintance with Zulietta Giardino in life. Our bond was forged at the instant of her death. As you know, fate contrived that I be the only witness to her murder.”
The dwarf’s tone grew warmer. “Yes, that was odd, considering how many hundreds of people filled the theater. Given this…this bond you feel, it must drive you wild that her killer escaped before he could be hung.”
“Alessio Pino?”
He inclined his head.
“I’m not at all certain that Alessio is the killer.”
He snorted. “Of course he is. I knew it from the beginning—you were there at the theater when I explained it all to Messer Grande. Unfortunately, no one ever listens to me.” He spread a scowl around the café, as if the bearded dockworkers who made up its patrons were all conspiring to ignore him.
“I was listening to you. You had a lot to say about Alessio that night, but you left out one important part of your mistress’ story.”
“Eh?”
“The wager was not sheer mischief as you described. It was a deliberately mismatched contest, and the foregone victory would play a crucial role in your mistress’ future. She and Alessio planned to use the bounty from La Samsona’s jewel box to travel to America.” This point had been bothering me ever since Liya and I had visited Zulietta’s casino. Pamarino must have been included in the plan. He was too instrumental in Zulietta’s household for her to have kept it from him.
“Oh, that…Sary must have been very talkative.” He sent me a sheepish grin. “You must understand that I was only trying to keep my mistress’ secret. Perhaps it didn’t matter once she was taken from us, but she had been most particular that no one find out about the glassmakers’ planned decampment, so I repeated the wager story as the world was supposed to view it.”
“And how was Alessio supposed to view it?”
“I can’t speak for him—a wolf in a lamb’s skin—that’s what Alessio Pino is. Counterfeit through and through. Fooled my mistress, but he didn’t fool me.”
“But does it strike you as credible that Alessio would become enraged over a wager he helped organize? That was the theory you offered Messer Grande, wasn’t it?”
The dwarf squirmed in his seat. “It was the first thing that popped in my head. In truth, I don’t know what happened to make Alessio furious with my mistress, but something obviously did. I believed she was keen on making a new life in Charles Town, but perhaps she was having second thoughts…” He trailed off, shaking his head in bewilderment.
I sighed, thinking back to the little trunk I’d seen standing by the door of the casino. “Were you and Sary also planning to voyage to America?”
He rolled his eyes. “What would I do in such a savage country? It’s all right for Sary, I suppose. She was born on some wild island across the ocean, so traveling to the Americas would be like a homecoming for her. But, merciful heaven, I have no wish to live so removed from civilization.”
“Your mistress must have been disappointed at the prospect of losing such a loyal servant.”
“It’s true,” he answered sadly. “I served her well over the years, and she begged me to stay on. But crossing the ocean—that I couldn’t do. If only she had lived! My mistress had promised to see me settled in a secure position, you see. She would have, too, with all her influential connections. Damn Alessio Pino! He destroyed my entire life—past, present, and future.”
“Imagine for a moment that Alessio didn’t kill your mistress.”
The dwarf’s brow furrowed, and a suspicious look came into his mud-colored eyes.
“Call it an intellectual exercise—it’s my nature to solve puzzles—I simply can’t help it.”
“I thought it was your nature to make music.”
I shrugged. “My career suits me, but it was not my choice. If I hadn’t been delivered to the surgeon as a boy of ten, who knows what I might have become? Perhaps I would have dedicated myself to justice and reached the rank of Messer Grande.” I finished with an awkward laugh, heartily surprised at the words that had slipped from my lips.
“I see.” Pamarino gave me an appraising look. “All right, if Alessio didn’t murder my mistress, who did?”
“That’s the final question I’m trying to answer, but I must start at the beginning. There are many questions to be asked along the path that leads to truth.”
“I have a feeling that you’re going to pose one to me.”
I nodded. “Consider this—I suspect that the murder was meant to be accomplished behind closed curtains. The killer hadn’t counted on your mistress struggling so hard or pulling the curtain panel down. The masked figure I saw must have intended to get you out of the way, overpower your mistress without anyone the wiser, and leave her body to be found by the next person to enter the box—who should have been Alessio Pino—”
His lips flew open to speak, but I stopped him with a raised palm. “I want you to think back to the corridor outside the box at the opera house—back to the moment you were attacked.”
“All right,” he replied in a rumbling whisper. “What about it?”
“When the killer swept you up and stashed you in the cloakroom, did you smell anything?”
“Are you serious?”
“Very.”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
I wiggled my nose with thumb and forefinger. “Scent. Fragrance. Anything remarkable.”
Pamarino rested his chin on his hands and gazed into the air as if engaging in silent debate. Finally he said, “I was too absorbed with trying to escape to notice much at all. Why on earth do you ask?”
I almost told him. The explanation of La Samsona’s attar of roses was right on the tip of my tongue when something in his manner made me hesitate. Instead, I merely shrugged, saying, “No matter. It was a shot in the dark. Tell me, what are you going to do now?”
He pushed his empty bowl away and removed a silver toothpick from a leather case lodged in his waistcoat. “If no one wants to hear my dirty epigrams, I suppose I’ll go back to acrobatics.”
“Ah, where did you learn your craft?”
Twiddling his pick between his fingers, he sat forward and lowered his voice as if imparting a great secret. “I was born in Puglia to normal-sized parents who worked the land. Peasants. Poor, simple peasants with no way to care for me. Besides my size, my chest was a constant problem. I was always wheezing and coming down with fevers, especially at haying time. My older sister Estrella was the one who looked after me, carrying me on her hip as she went about her chores. Eventually I grew to be such a burden that my parents sold me to a traveling show. My chest liked my new life, though the rest of me didn’t.”
He paused to pick at his teeth. I remained silent, genuinely curious. He went on, “At first, I was exhibited for my oddity. I had only to sit on a stool under a canopy and look at the people looking at me. I soon grew bored with the daily parade of oafs and lumpkins and experimented with some little tricks—walking on my hands, balancing on my upside-down stool, that sort of thing. The father of a family of acrobats noticed my stunts and took me on to train with the rest of his brood. Eventually, I became a performer instead of a sorry object of scrutiny.” He said this last with a proud smile, which quickly turned to a worried frown as he massaged the notch between neck and left shoulder. “I’m not as young as I was. I’ll have to ignore a few aches and pains to return to the craft I know best.”
Nodding, I reached for my tricorne and cloak. The rain had ushered in an early dusk, and the interior of the café was dim. Waiters were circulating with twists of paper, lighting candles stuck in emptied wine bottles. “I wi
sh you luck, my friend. I’m sure you will find several acrobatic troupes in town for Carnevale.” I stood to go, but the little man shot a hand across the table and grasped my forearm.
“Do you claim special acquaintance with any of them? Anyone you could recommend me to?” A desperate light glinted from his eyes.
Our roles had been reversed: now the dwarf wanted something from me. I shook my head regretfully. If I had known an impresario who specialized in carnival entertainers, I would have readily introduced him. But, alas, all my contacts were confined to the musical world. Truly the little man was dogged by misfortune at every turn.
Chapter Thirteen
Venetian rain comes in all degrees of intensity: mists that coat every marble surface in glistening enchantment; brief showers that freshen cisterns along with grimy beggars and perpetual bench warmers; sudden downpours that send men, dogs, and pigeons scurrying for cover. And then there are the incessant, bone-chilling rains that blow in from the north and stall for days as they hammer our clustered rooftops, swell canals, and make silvery lakes of our squares and Piazza. As I left the wretched café, a cold, blowing rain pelted my cheeks and the wind whipped my cloak out behind me. We were in for a northern marauder of several days duration.
As might be expected from a man who lived the bulk of his life out-of-doors, Luigi had recognized the signs before I had. He had attached a felze to provide shelter for the gondola seat, procured some flannel blankets, and donned his oilskin jacket and wide-brimmed hat. Still, by the time we reached the theater landing, I was sneezing into my damp handkerchief and Luigi’s canvas trousers were soaked. His hands, poor man, must have been freezing.
I asked if he wanted to watch the opera; he shook his head apologetically. No matter, Armida was nearing the end of its run and even the most enthusiastic music lovers were anticipating the next production. I suggested that Luigi find a warm tavern and gave him enough coins to provide a seat by the fire and a tankard of mulled wine. “But not so much drink that you forget to return,” I cautioned. “I want to get home in good time tonight.”
He touched his fingers to his brim and poled into the canal’s central channel. Under the driving rain, the water bubbled and steamed like a soup cauldron on the boil.
Thoroughly miserable, worried about my throat and my wandering wife in equal measure, I mounted the streaming stairs and entered the theater. When I reached my dressing room, I discovered that Benito had already arrived and turned my quarters into a warm haven. The portable stove that he used to heat his curling tongs was going full blast, and a pot of throat reviving tea huddled within a quilted hood. Everyday miracles.
Before my manservant could begin fussing, I tossed my dripping cloak and hat on a peg and asked, “Did Liya return before you left home?”
He handed me a cup of tea. “Just before the rain began in earnest, she blew in on a gust of wind—with an armload of packages.”
“Packages? I didn’t know she intended to shop.”
“She had sweets for Titolino, which he tore into immediately, and several tightly wrapped parcels that she insisted on conveying to your chamber unopened.”
I could picture the scene: Benito offering most politely and industriously to unwrap her burdens, perhaps even attempting to pull them from her grasp; Liya flinching away, protesting that she had no need of his help.
“In a good mood was she?”
He shrugged. “As much as ever.”
Not caring for his tone, I buried my nose in my cup and tried to ready my throat for the coming performance. The tea was redolent of ginger, Spanish licorice, and other ingredients known only to Benito. My wife wasn’t the only healer in my household. While Liya had been schooled by the wise women of Monteborgo, Benito had acquired the knack of coddling tetchy windpipes from his years backstage. Perhaps that was part of the problem, I thought, as I took a long soothing swallow: an herbal rivalry. Unfortunately, it would take a much wiser man than I to bring my wife and manservant to a friendly truce.
Eventually, the muscles of my throat began to relax and my nasal passages opened to allow the maximal passage of air. I vocalized a run of notes in the middle range, then jumped up an octave. Yes, I would make it through four acts of Armida whether anyone braved the rain to attend the opera or not. My dressing gown was warming by the stove. Anxious to trade it for my damp garments, I let Benito relieve me of boots, stockings, breeches, and underclothes. He was untying my shirt, when he abruptly dropped the laces and stared in horror.
“What is that hideous thing?” he asked in tones more appropriate to question the appearance of an iceberg in the middle of the lagoon.
“What? This?” I touched the flannel bag Liya had hung around my neck. Was it only this morning? It seemed like days ago.
Benito jumped back. He brandished the hand gesture peasants all over Italy use to ward off evil.
“This is nothing.” I held the bag as far away from my chest as the cord would allow. “Just some tidbits Liya insists I keep about me.”
“It’s the devil’s work! Witchery!”
“Benito!”
“My grandmother warned me about witches’ bags. There’s blood and bone and all manner of foul things in there.” He shuffled farther away.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve examined its contents. This little bag is filled with ordinary items—a sliver of crystal, a dried flower, a lock of hair. Nothing to fear whatsoever.”
He shook his head stubbornly.
I sighed as I released my hold on the amulet. The soft brush of flannel on my skin felt like a renewal of Liya’s insistent cautions. For some reason she believed I was courting danger. Though I saw no possible way this bag or her muttered spells could provide protection, I would keep it around my neck as I’d promised. For her sake.
I pulled my shirt over my head and slipped into my dressing gown without Benito’s assistance. Knotting the silky tie, I addressed him in a firm tone, “What I choose to wear around my neck is not your business. Neither is my wife’s devotion to the Old Religion. If you wish to remain in my employ, you will have to accustom yourself to her ways.”
Benito’s black eyes widened in surprise. I had never spoken to him in that manner, never thrown down such an ultimatum, even when he had taken liberties that would cause most masters to boot him out the kitchen door posthaste. I realized I was holding my breath. How could I get along without Benito? He had been my loyal companion and fussy mother hen through all but a few months of my stage career.
But a man’s wife should come before even the most devoted servant. Shouldn’t she?
Benito lowered his eyes. He turned toward my dressing table. Like an organ master testing his ivory keys, Benito touched his delicate fingers to cream pots, jars, and cotton pads. “Yes, Master,” he murmured. “I understand. Are you ready for your paint, now?”
I sighed, deeply relieved I wouldn’t have to face my manservant’s desertion that night. I took my seat before the mirror. The oil lamps gave my solemn reflection a bilious glow. Like a coward, I closed my eyes as Benito brushed my hair and gathered it under the skullcap that would form a base for my wig. I kept them shut as he applied a warm towel to my face and followed it with smoothing cream, but I couldn’t remain in my self-made cave. My lids flew open as the sponge loaded with greasepaint stroked my cheeks.
With his tongue at the corner of his mouth, forehead creased, Benito was concentrating on blending the rose-tinted alabaster just so. I stopped him by clasping his wrist. “I couldn’t stand to lose either of you,” I whispered.
“I know.” He smiled, crinkling his eyes in his slanted, bright-eyed canary stare. “You mustn’t worry. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m absolutely sure Signora Liya isn’t.”
***
I descended the stairs from the dressing room level beautifully turned out in my soldier’s tunic, frost-white wi
g, and plumed helmet. I only wished that my nerves were as steady as my appearance. Why was my stomach fluttering like a novice singer? I would be singing an opera I knew like the back of my hand to a house that would be half-full at best.
The call boy had only just bellowed the ten-minute warning, so I wasn’t surprised that the entire cast wasn’t down. I spied Romeo sitting deep in the wings amidst barrels of pasteboard swords and spears. Avoiding the white stallion that was doing his best to bite the groom who held his reins, I went over to congratulate Romeo on bagging the plum of Hercules. The basso thanked me modestly, and we talked of company business as the scene-shifters tugged at ropes and scurried up and down ladders. On the other side of the curtain, the orchestra was tuning their instruments and playing snatches of Vittoria’s opening aria. Her clear soprano echoed their efforts as she navigated the stairs sideways, hampered by her wide skirts. The other singers gradually followed, and the dim, scene-crowded wings were soon filled with vocalizing, criticizing, and the usual complaints of stuffy head or mucus on the chest.
And then, suddenly, the congenial chatter faded.
I couldn’t see the back corridor from where Romeo and I sat, but my colleagues’ excited looks indicated that someone or something very surprising was arriving.
Romeo and I jumped up. Without direction from anyone, the performers and stagehands who had scattered over the worn backstage floorboards like pearls from a broken strand now arranged themselves in a neat half circle. Their focus was the long corridor that held workshops and practice rooms. I edged in beside Vittoria.
Maestro Torani advanced in limping strides. Behind him stalked a resplendent creature, a castrato obviously. He was very young and had not yet learned to move his long limbs with grace and elegance, but his wide dark eyes, high cheekbones, and firm jawline made up for any awkwardness. As he reached the wings, he favored us with a smile that beamed with the light of a hundred wax tapers. The audience would be enchanted. He would obviously be performing; he was wearing Emilio’s first-act costume.
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