2 - Painted Veil (19 page)

Gussie tossed his sketchbook aside, sat down, and leaned forward with elbows on his knees. “I’ve spent the day getting to know the Venetian press. Quite a fanciful lot these journalists are—much more interested in ridiculous diversion than useful information. When I started inquiring about having a pamphlet authored, I was besieged by a flurry of would-be essayists and poets who assured me they could turn out any number of words, in any style, on any topic that I cared to name. Veracity never entered the discussion.”

“We agreed that the first step must be to determine who printed the pamphlet.”

“Yes, that was the most troublesome part of the business. In Venice, it seems that every man with an opinion on anything has access to a printing press. But I had a stroke of luck at a coffeehouse that caters to literary men. A playwright scribbling a tragedy among the coffee cups gave me a lead. The ghetto riot had fired his imagination at a time when he had despaired of finding the necessary inspiration to complete his opus. When he heard that I had been in the thick of the event, he questioned me at length and wasn’t loath to share information in return.”

“What did this playwright have to say?”

“More than you want to hear about right now. Sipping coffee all day long had left the man quite talkative. The important thing is that the printer who publishes his plays also printed up the pamphlet.”

“You found him?”

Gussie nodded. “He keeps a little shop off the Mercerie. Not near as helpful as our playwright, though. The printer declined to give me any information about who supplied the manuscript and arranged for the pamphlet’s publication and distribution.”

“He wanted a bribe. I should have warned you. It takes a bit of silver for a foreigner to get anything out of a Venetian. They think all Englishmen are rich.” I gestured to Benito to fetch my purse. “Here,” I croaked, “I’ll give you enough to loosen his tongue.”

Gussie chuckled a bit, holding up his palm to show me the coins were unnecessary. “You are not telling me anything I don’t know. My purse may be light, but I was able to provide the printer with something else of value.”

Benito and I both regarded the big Englishman with undisguised curiosity. Gussie reached for his sketchbook and began to doodle on a blank page. He appeared to be enjoying keeping us in suspense. In a moment, he turned the book toward us. “Who is it?” he asked with a grin.

Benito shook his head in puzzlement, but I recognized the figure at once. With a few quick strokes, Gussie’s pen had exaggerated the haughty smile and all the man’s other identifiable characteristics. The beaklike nose, skinny calves, and ultra-fashionable high heels of his shoes were unmistakable.

“It’s the Croatian bridegroom! What a wicked caricature,” I said in admiration. “How did you catch him so completely?”

“It was the day Luca’s body surfaced. I had plenty of time to observe the prince’s peculiarities as his retinue was detained on the red carpet by the removal of the corpse. Of course, the drawing I did for the printer was more complete.”

“What is the printer going to do with it?”

“Some wit has written a satire on why the daughter of the Doge failed to find a suitable bridegroom among the Venetian aristocracy. The printer was setting the type for the article while we talked. When I offered to barter a drawing of the prince for information, he jumped at the chance to have a free illustration for the piece.”

Gussie turned the sketchbook around. He gave his work a brief, private smile, but then his face darkened. He looked up at me. “Tito, I know who wrote the pamphlet against the Jews. The printer gave me a name. And an address. It’s in the parish of San Barnaba.”

Chapter 20

It was washday at the Amato household. By the time Benito rolled me out of bed, Annetta had been up and about for hours and Lucia was at my door demanding my bed linen. In the kitchen, copper pots rattled and bubbled on the cookstove, and corsets and petticoats hung from dripping clotheslines. Annetta had put old Lupo to work stirring the contents of the largest pot with a long wooden paddle. When I appeared at the door, hoping for some breakfast, he gave me a miserable shake of his head through the coiling mist. There was only one thing for me to do: grab my hat and hurry over to Gussie’s lodging.

Gussie lived a brisk walk away. To stretch his funds, my friend had avoided the houses near the Grand Canal that had been broken up into elegant suites of furnished rooms. He had instead settled on a narrow alley in the Castello where native bachelors who worked at that quarter’s huge shipyard could let rooms at reasonable rates. He had his own entrance from the street, and while the walls of his two meager rooms were unpainted and his shutters were missing half their slats, he possessed a charming little balcony that overlooked a canal and made his lodging pleasantly habitable.

Though the morning was waning, I found my friend in the midst of dressing. “Tito,” he said, throwing the door open with one hand and gathering his hair back with the other. “I trust you slept well. I certainly did. I’m fine as a fiddle and ready to chase down the author of that pamphlet.”

I returned his broad smile and answered in a measured whisper, “I swallowed more smoke than you did, but the night’s rest gave me some relief. If I’m careful, I’ll be able to sing tonight. Have you eaten?”

Gussie answered negatively, intent on restraining his unruly locks long enough to bind them into a black ribbon.

“Then introduce me to the delicacies of this English breakfast that you can’t start the day without. My own kitchen has been turned into a laundry, and I don’t think I can storm San Barnaba on an empty stomach.”

Gussie readily agreed and reached for a waistcoat of canary yellow. He topped that garment with a dark brown coat lined with yellow shaloon that turned back on the sleeves to form deep cuffs dotted with gold buttons. My stomach rumbled while he tarried with his neckcloth, a linen band edged with expensive Alcenon lace if my eyes judged correctly. Not for the first time, I wondered how long the prosperous English family that Gussie was avoiding would allow their son and brother to bide his time in the decadent pleasure capital of Europe. How would my friend react when his family ratcheted up the pressure for him to come home?

Finally pleased with the lay of his neckwear, Gussie ushered me out into the alley and we hurried toward the nearest canal. The day was fine, blessedly warm and dry with stacks of snow- white clouds hanging above the lagoon, but time was at a premium so we took a gondola to the Englishmen’s café.

I was not prepared for the quiet of the place. At any café where Venetians meet, an animated din of talk and laughter engulfs you the moment you step over the threshold. But these English—so restrained, so dour, so unmelodic with their clipped phrases.

Gussie ordered a full breakfast for both of us, then chattered away on inconsequential topics. He pointed out a few men he knew and told an amusing story about a young English lord who had become enamored with a lovely woman he had encountered at the theater. Fascinated by her coquettish charm and longing to see the face that she had kept hidden by a velvet mask, he canvassed his Venetian acquaintances, only to be told that she was a nun of the Santa Clara escaping the confines of the convent for an evening of frivolity.

In deference to my throat, Gussie did not expect more than a nod or low chuckle in response. I found my friend’s company as congenial as always, but confess that my mind began to wander when he launched into a story I had heard once or twice before. My fingers strayed to an inside pocket. I had taken to carrying the Madonna’s veil, the counterfeit that Luca had fashioned after Liya’s profile, as a kind of talisman. Once I had identified his model, I saw that the artist had pictured the details extraordinarily well: the soft hollow of Liya’s neck, the sweep of her cheek, the curve of her lips. To Benito’s great amusement, I made sure that the veil was housed in a pocket over my heart no matter which jacket I wore.

Even as I touched the cloth, I realized the futility of my gesture. When we’d left her uncle’s home, early on the morning after the fire, Liya had seen us to the door with a heartfelt apology for her misplaced accusation and even placed a kiss on my cheek. Still, I knew that the painter owned her heart. Liya had loved Luca enough to deceive her family and defy the age-old prejudices that divide the races. What could I offer to inspire such devotion? Since the
castrati
are unable to father children, the church has denied us the sacrament of marriage. I did know of one fellow
castrato
who had renounced his Catholic faith and married in a Protestant country only to have his wife isolated by scandal and malicious gossip. And then there were other singers who kept their beloveds near them in a state of unsanctioned union, but my brave Liya deserved better.

A waiter appeared and arranged heaping plates before us, but Gussie ignored the steaming eggs and sausages. He was telling me something that had put a serious expression on his usually cheerful face. I immediately banished my unrewarding line of thought and attended to his words.

“I would marry her if she’d have me,” he said, “but there are obstacles to be dealt with.”

“What?” I was momentarily bewildered. Gussie mirrored my thoughts exactly. Had I spoken my reverie aloud? Could the Englishman peer into my soul? Then I noticed the special sparkle that seemed to appear in Gussie’s eyes only when my sister was near.

“Annetta,” I whispered.

“Of course. Who else have we been talking about?”

A glad smile sprang to my lips. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see my sister settled and happy.”

“But would a thick-headed Briton with a negligible income and few prospects make her happy?”

“My dear friend, Annetta enjoys your good humor and common sense as much as I do. She also glows when you walk in the room, a trait I cannot claim. No one I know has ever had such a marked effect on her. I am convinced she would welcome a declaration from you.”

“Do you really think so?” Gussie’s blue eyes were growing misty.

“I know my sister very well. She tries overhard to please those she loves. She will attempt to turn herself into the perfect country squire’s wife if that is what you want.” I chuckled at the thought of Annetta even sitting on a horse, much less riding over fields and jumping streams.

He sat back, drawing a long breath. “That is not what I want at all. Annetta is a Venetian—as full of warmth and beauty as the city itself. I would no sooner have her change as I would leave Italy.”

“Then you do not intend to someday return to England?”

“I do not—at least not to live.” Gussie glanced at his countrymen around us, then spoke slowly and quietly. “In my home, there was so little joy. I think my family and their neighbors must have invented dullness and boredom. They have a cell prepared for me there, in a prison of convention and social obligation. They expect that when I’ve indulged my taste for the Continent, I’ll come docilely home and let them slam the door on my cage. But I will surprise them all. I’m staying on in Venice.”

“Will your income extend to making a home and raising a family?”

He grinned. “I knew the protective brother would show his face soon enough. Actually, I do have a few notions about that. In addition to my aunt’s generosity, my pens and brushes can earn our living. My daubs are not near ready to qualify me for the painter’s academy, but I can always sell drawings and small oils to chaps who want to take a few views of Venice home for the ancestral walls.”

I knew the sort of work he had in mind. “Faded
campi
with picturesque wells. The Basilica and Campanile against a sunset.”

“Exactly. Perhaps I could even sell some caricatures to the gazettes. That printer fellow seemed very pleased with my sketch of the bridegroom. I can toss that sort of thing off before breakfast.”

We applied ourselves to our plates. Gussie tucked into the fried medley with relish, but I couldn’t finish my portion. I was accustomed to much lighter morning fare, and my mind was still more on the veil in my pocket than on the food. We were finishing with sweet tea lightened with heavy cream when Gussie returned to the subject of romance. “I think I am not the only one that Cupid holds in his snare,” he said with the exaggerated wink of a stage Arlecchino.

“Oh, Gussie. I am more than snared—Cupid has made me his slave.” I couldn’t stop the words tumbling from my lips. “The painting of Liya that we saw in Luca’s room haunts my dreams and I can barely spend five minutes without imagining the bliss of joining her on that couch. When I’m dressing for the stage, I think I hear her voice in the hall and run to the door only to end up feeling like a fool when it is someone else. At the last
prova
, I peered past the footlamps into every box and the darkest recesses of the pit, hoping against reason that she had crept in to watch me.”

“She wasn’t there?”

“No, I haven’t set eyes on Liya since the aftermath of the fire.”

Gussie fiddled with a crust of bread, dipping it in and out of a pool of melted butter and orange marmalade. He asked hesitantly, “Suppose Liya would come to return your feelings, how could you turn your dreams into reality? I mean, besides the difficulties of religion, what kind of husband could you be for her?”

I smiled. “You may speak plainly. You wonder if I am useless where the act of love is concerned.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “This practice of putting boys to the knife—it is one Italian custom that troubles me greatly. Your voice is sublime, but at what cost?”

“Love does present certain problems for a
castrato
,” I answered wistfully.

He raised his eyebrows. “I would think so, since the knife struck at the very seat of your manhood.”

I contemplated Gussie in silence. Over the years, I had convinced myself that the true seat of my manhood resided in my head and that my lost flesh was not so very important after all, but I had a eunuch’s reluctance to try explaining this to a whole man. Did Gussie see me as some did—an eternal boy poised on the brink of a boundary I could never cross? Or perhaps as a freakish amalgam of masculine and feminine attributes? No, I knew that wasn’t true. However Gussie saw me, he had treated me with nothing less than the most sincere friendliness and respect since the day I had rescued his purse from the pickpocket. Unlike so many others, Gussie had never regarded me as a mere oddity created to fill opera houses with spectacular song.

I answered softly, surprising myself by loosening sentiments I thought I had chained up long ago. “The surgeon’s knife came nowhere near my heart—that organ craves love and companionship as much as any man’s. Though I may one day be as celebrated as Il Florino, my life will be a tragedy if my heart has no one to cherish.”

“But your bed has not always been empty. I’ve heard a few stories about ladies who have indulged their enthusiasm for Venice’s favorite
castrato
.”

I dismissed whatever gossip he had heard with a wave of my hand. “There are always women who are beguiled by the voice and seduced by the glamour of the stage. They throw flowers and send their footmen to my door with gifts and invitations, but when we meet, they are more curious about the imperfections of my anatomy than what is in my heart. I have learned to bring them physical pleasure, but so far, true love has stayed just beyond my reach.”

“And now you are pining for a peppery Jewess who is in love with a murdered painter and may even be carrying his child,” Gussie observed with concern.

My throat tightened. Suddenly, I wished he had never raised the subject. I took a gulp of tea that had cooled to an unpleasantly tepid state and said, “The refuge of impoverished patricians awaits us, my friend. I think we would do better to spend our time visiting San Barnaba than discussing these vexatious women.”

***

Gussie and I crossed the city’s main canal at the Volta, the bend where the waterway curves sharply back on itself, and had our boatman set us down at the canalside square dominated by the uninspiring façade of the church dedicated to San Barnaba. At the quay, a barge of vegetables wilted in the sun, and a few mongrel dogs sought shade under the portico of a run-down inn.

The address the printer had supplied was down a wretched alley lined with ill-kept houses. The way was narrow and littered with broken roof tiles and moldering refuse. Near the end of the cul-de-sac, we came to the building said to house the author of the pamphlet, one Bernardo Nevi. I was glad Gussie had come with me. It wasn’t physical violence I feared. I simply wanted his earnest goodness at my side when I confronted the foul scoundrel whose words had sparked the fatal riot.

There was no bell cord. We knocked but were acknowledged only by a frowsy-headed woman who peeked curiously from a window in the next house. We knocked a second and third time, increasing the force of our blows. At last the door was opened by a rope pulled from above, and a reedy voice invited us to climb to the second floor.

Awaiting us at the top of the staircase was an old gentleman of venerable countenance and carriage leaning on a simple stick of polished wood. His stringy white hair was rolled onto curling papers and his shirt was covered with a stained, tattered robe of apple-green silk. He said, “Forgive my not coming down, Signori. A few days hence, I will begin my seventy-fifth year. My legs don’t navigate the stairs nearly as well as they used to.”

He led us into a chamber that he had rigged out as a pathetic little drawing room. Gussie and I were directed to two threadbare armchairs while our host settled himself on a wooden stool consisting of a broken-backed chair with the legs cut down. The blinds were closed, throwing everything into a shadowy gloom. At first I thought the old man was trying to keep out the heat but soon saw that the blinds concealed the fact that the windows had no panes. Flies were buzzing around a sticky platter set on a table covered with a patchwork counterpane.