5 - Her Deadly Mischief (26 page)

“No…listen.” I leaned out over the water, rocking the boat. Faintly, as if from a great distance, I heard a high, thin cry. Had I only imagined it? No, it came again: “Papa! Papa!”

“There, Luigi!” I pointed to a house of stone and cracking plaster halfway back the way we had come. Its lower windows were barred with iron, but a balcony jutted out from the floor above. “You must go back.”

I lived in anguish as Luigi completed his turn, not an easy matter in such a narrow canal. By the time we reached the building, the other pair of gondolas had caught up with us. Making certain Messer Grande could see me, I put a finger to my lips. With the other hand I pointed to the balcony. I sang one more refrain.

“Papa! Help me, Papa!” I recognized Titolino’s boyish treble in the terrified cry.

Messer Grande’s boatman rowed to the foot of a stairway leading to a barred, grilled door. The chief constable disembarked with a leap. As he pounded on the boards with a closed fist, the shutters of the balcony window crashed open. A wailing Titolino pitched onto the narrow, railed perch, struggling in the grasp of a black-haired woman in a flowing scarlet gown. Estrella!

Pamarino’s foul sister wasn’t going to let Titolino escape without a fight. In helpless frustration, I watched as she laced her hands around his slender neck and bent her strength to choking the life out of him.

Messer Grande also saw what was happening. He bellowed a command to release the boy in the name of the Doge. That absolute authority must have given Estrella pause. She loosened her grasp just long enough for Titolino to twist free and scramble over the railing. There the boy crouched, bare toes fighting to hang onto their grip, one arm curling around the iron railing.

“Jump, Titolino,” I shouted. Luigi and others echoed my urging.

He shook his head wildly, pale face a mask of terror.

Behind him, Estrella had regained her courage and was attempting to tear Titolino’s arm from the railing.

Panic bubbled up in my throat. Titolino was afraid to jump because he didn’t know how to swim. I’d always meant to take him out to the Lido and teach him as Alessandro had taught me, but I’d never made the time. If he didn’t jump now, Estrella would soon have him in her power once again.

I tore out of my cloak. Locking my gaze on the boy’s, I motioned him toward me with both hands. “Jump, son. Don’t be afraid—I won’t let you drown. Just let go and I’ll get you out of water.”

It worked. My brave Titolino pushed away from the balcony. As he hurtled toward the canal, Estrella was left holding the sleeve to his little blue jacket.

A splash sounded on my left hand. I dove toward it, and my fingertips connected with the remaining portion of the jacket. Though the boy screamed and flailed arms and legs, I managed to pull him into my grasp and guide his arms around my neck. Luigi was leaning toward us, tipping the boat, practically laying out over the black water. With a mammoth frog kick, I delivered Titolino to his arms and safety.

But Estrella wasn’t done with us. She beat angry fists on the balcony railing, rained curses down upon us. Despite the freezing water, I actually smiled. What could the whore accomplish with her ranting? In a moment, Messer Grande would be breaking down her door and arresting her for kidnapping.

The next moment seemed to unfold at half speed. Still gripping the railing, Estrella jumped up and down in fury. Her loose, shiny gown made scarlet waves around her knees as the balcony’s floorboards protested with sharp creaks. Suddenly, the woman seemed off kilter. Her screams changed from anger to fright. She struggled to stay upright, but her feet were sliding out from under her. One end of the derelict balcony was pulling away from the wall!

An instant later, Estrella, boards, and iron railing crashed onto the prow of Luigi’s gondola. A long dark shape flew toward me. A sliver of the broken boat? Luigi’s oar? It caught me just below my chin.

My head snapped back as my throat exploded in pain. High above, stars that hadn’t been there before dipped and danced.

I floundered desperately, gagging and gulping for breath, clawing at my neck. I felt something snap, but a mouthful of icy water swamped my lungs and sent me under. As the dark water closed over my head and the stars went out, all I knew was…oblivion.

Epilogue

“Papa, a woman and a man wearing a funny old suit came to see Mama. They want to see you, too.” Titolino hovered in the doorway of my study. When he saw me set my staves and quill aside, he rushed over to the harpsichord, giggling and out of breath.

The boy’s ordeal had left him withdrawn and fidgety for several weeks. There had been a few particularly bad nights when he’d awakened in wordless, screaming panic and I’d carried him to our bed to nestle in warm security between Liya and me. As more weeks passed, it seemed that Titolino might forget the incident and return to his carefree days of play. But certain worries continued to nag. I once caught him regarding the canal outside our house with a grave stare that sent chills down my spine. As with other matters, time would tell whether the dwarf’s abominable deed would mark the boy as he grew to manhood.

I shook off my gloomy thoughts. Just then, Titolino was a happy, excited seven-year-old. Wintery sunlight streaming through the tall, leaded windows made a checkerboard pattern on the floor, and he was making a game of hopping from one bright square to another. Suddenly recalling his mission, he bounded over and tugged at my sleeve. “Hurry, Papa. We’re going to have cake! Mama sent Benito to fetch it from the baker’s.”

I nodded vigorously. Searching among my scattered papers for the cap to the inkwell, I wondered about the identity of the visitors who merited a special cake. Unfortunately, I was not able to ask Titolino. The injury that had sent me to the
bottom of
the black canal had played havoc with my throat. With some painful straining, I could manage a hoarse whisper, but I seldom bothered. I had been advised to maintain total silence. At least for a while.

Singing was out of the question, of course. I’d consulted every respected physician in Venice and had been subjected to bleeding, poultices, and plastering in turn. “Pack his neck with ice,” one doctor had said. “Wrap it in warm flannel,” prescribed another. Nothing seemed to help. I’d banished them all when one ancient physician with snuff crusted on his nose had painted the inside of my throat with a concoction that smelled and tasted of rotten eggs.

Finally, my friend Andrea had suspended his constabulary duties and traveled to Bologna to bring back an esteemed professor of medicine from the university there. After practically climbing down my throat with his mirrors and instruments, this wise scholar had offered the best advice yet: refrain from using my voice entirely and it would return with the warm breezes of spring. Most importantly, Liya, my resident herbalist, concurred. Both declined to predict whether my healed throat would be capable of producing stageworthy singing. I waited in optimistic hope.

My colleagues at the opera house reacted much as I expected. Maestro Torani stopped by several times a week, brimming with fatherly concern. He’d found a libretto that he’d always meant to set to music—the story of an Indian queen whose land was invaded by Alexander the Great—and encouraged me to try my hand at composing. I enjoyed the challenge. I don’t know if my efforts showed any real promise, but at least the composing kept me from being restless and bored.

Torani wasn’t the only one to offer support. Vittoria loaned me some of her vocal students. Their fees kept the household coffers from going totally dry, and our lessons were only slightly inconvenient, as I had to deliver my directions and criticisms in writing. In my absence from the stage, Emilio had once again secured lead roles at the opera house. He didn’t visit, instead sending me a bouquet of roses that I took to express gratitude rather than condolence.

“Papa, can’t you hurry?” Titolino’s voice squeaked in anticipation.

Nodding, I took his proffered hand. Why was I woolgathering when mysterious guests and cake awaited? I let the boy lead me downstairs to the salon where I found Pincas Del’Vecchio enjoying a glass of my best Montepulciano and Fortunata admiring a piece of Liya’s needlework.

“My boy.” Pincas rose, crossed the floor, and kissed my cheeks. “Forgive us for not coming sooner.”

Before he could step back, Fortunata embraced us both in an enthusiastic tangle of arms. She whispered in my ear, “
I
wanted to come last week.”

After returning their greetings, I gestured for all to be seated near the warmth of the fire. Benito arrived bearing a splendid
panforte
, a thin wheel of heaven bursting with walnuts, dried fruit, spices, and honey, dusted with a sugar topping. For a few minutes, conversation gave way to the clinking of forks on china.

“Your son is a brave boy.” Pincas spoke to me, but nodded toward Titolino, who was wheedling his mother for a second slice of cake. “Liya told us how Titolino wiggled out of the cords the dwarf had tied around his wrists and ankles, then broke out of the locked wardrobe when he heard you singing. To treat a child so cruelly! A lead ball in the heart was too easy a death for Pamarino.”

I nodded in agreement. I would have loved to see the dwarf face the hangman. Yes, he had been born with a deplorable condition and had been forced to endure society’s ridicule, but such circumstances don’t justify murder. A man is nothing but a beast if he allows revenge to rule his heart. I could only console myself with the knowledge that his sister Estrella had been arrested and would soon face trial.

Hearing his name, Titolino had come over to Pincas. He looked his grandfather solemnly in the eye and wiped cake crumbs from his jaw with the back of his hand. “Do you want to hear our song? It goes like this.” Without waiting for a reply, he launched directly into a rendition that melded both the firefly’s and toad’s parts.

Once the boy had finished, Pincas applauded, then ruffled Titolino’s hair. “And you weren’t going to let that terrible woman stop you from escaping, were you?”

“She tried to stuff me back in the wardrobe, but I rolled under the bed. I found a hatpin under there, and when I saw her bare feet on the other side, I poked the pin in her toes and rolled toward the window and busted right through.” Titolino’s eyes glittered with more than excitement. His tone had climbed to a shrill pitch.

As I reached out to pat his shoulder, my gaze caught Liya’s. She was ahead of me, as usual. She had cut another slice of
panforte
. Calling Titolino over to the sofa, she made a place between herself and Fortunata. The boy happily turned his attention to his extra treat while surrounded by doting mother and fascinated young aunt.

Pincas spoke again, more quietly. “The boy isn’t the only brave one. You put yourself in harm’s way, both at the Basilica and in the Arsenale district. It makes me think of the young singer who braved a fire to rescue two of my precious daughters.” He made a blunt gesture toward the three on the sofa. “Do you realize none of them would be alive if it weren’t for you?”

I shrugged, opening my mouth to say I knew not what, but Pincas forestalled me with a hand on my arm. “No. I’m not trying to tempt you to speak. I’m apologizing for the times I should have found more courage. I’m also giving you my word that I will never disappear from Liya’s or my grandson’s life again.” He shook his head gravely. “No matter what anyone says.”

I put one hand over his and squeezed. After many years, all was understood between me and my father-in-law, spoken or unspoken.

Benito broke the moment by coming to refill our wine glasses. Pincas wiped something from the corner of his eye, then crossed to warm his backside at the fire. As he summoned Titolino to question him about his lessons, I sank back against the chair cushions and touched my fingers to the small lump of the amulet bag. It had been the miracle that saved me. That terrible night, in my frantic struggle beneath the water, its cord had snapped from my neck, allowing the red bag to float to the surface. It had been the only thing to mark my location. Luigi would never have found me without it.

Liya and I saw her family out together. With a catch of longing in her voice, my wife reminded them that our door would always be open for a visit. I seconded her invitation by bowing to Pincas and kissing Fortunata’s hand. With my arm around Liya’s waist, we stood on the pavement watching them retreat toward the lofty buildings of the ghetto. We stood there even after they’d turned a corner. It was Titolino’s voice that called us back inside where I slowly climbed the stairs to my study, playing with a new melody for the Indian queen’s aria in my head.

Author’s Note

Over the centuries, dwarfs have inspired amazement, fear, fascination, laughter, and ridicule. The eunuch singers that represented the unique musical and cultural phenomenon of the castrati aroused similar emotions. Tito’s real-life counterparts were angels to some, monsters to others. Both Tito and Pamarino would have been considered extraordinary characters in eighteenth-century society, and I found the parallels between these two marginalized groups interesting.

Though the operatic castrati were created by a surgeon’s blade—
made freaks
in the parlance of traditional sideshows—they shared the life of a vagabond performer with many little people who earned a living by making a spectacle of their own bodies. Just as the entire Tito Amato mystery series puts a human face on the castrati, I hope this particular volume will do the same for historic dwarfs. Those interested in the social history of dwarfs may consult Betty M. Adelson and Julia Rotta’s
The Lives of Dwarfs: Their Journey from Public Curiosity toward Social Liberation
(Rutgers University Press, 2005).

A few other matters raised in
Her Deadly Mischief
may be of interest: We would call Zenobio’s “petal-scope” a kaleidoscope. Its real inventor was Scotsman David Brewster who named and patented the device in 1816. Though there is no historical precedent, it made sense to me that a creative Murano glassmaker could have developed something similar and never received formal credit.

Also regarding the glass industry, most of the material on Venice’s treatment of the rogue glassmakers comes out of my research on the so-called War of the Mirrors, which set Venice against French authorities who attracted a group of Murano artisans to Paris in the seventeenth century. Venice sent clandestine agents to terrorize the workers; several were poisoned to death. Their wives who remained in Venice were threatened or actually imprisoned to force the glass masters’ return. It was not an isolated incident.

Clara, the rhinoceros who fascinates Titolino in Chapter Seventeen, was a wildly popular attraction of the era. In her journeys across Europe and Britain, she stopped in Venice in 1751 and became the subject of several famous paintings by Pietro Longhi. To fit the needs of this novel, I’ve taken the liberty of moving her visit back to 1742. For interested readers, I recommend this charming account of Clara’s travels:
Clara’s Grand Tour: Travels with a Rhinoceros in Eighteenth-Century Europe
by Glynis Ridley (Atlantic Monthly Press, 2004).

As usual, most of my research was conducted with the assistance of the Louisville Free Public Library. I consulted books from their collection, obtained hard-to-find volumes by interlibrary loan, and delved deep into Internet resources linked to their website. Going some years back, I can also say there would be no Tito Amato if it weren’t for the library. My mother introduced me to the Crescent Hill branch at an early age, and I have a very clear memory of checking out my first Agatha Christie mystery at age nine. A list of library books that have provided at least a crumb of inspiration for the Tito Amato mysteries would fill a volume of their own. I extend my heartfelt appreciation to all the staff, especially at the Highlands-Shelby Park branch, who’ve fielded my questions and requests over the years.

In closing, I wish to express my thanks to everyone who helped bring
Her Deadly Mischief
to completion. My wonderful husband, Lawrence, tops the list. This installment of the Tito Amato mysteries reached the page with more gnashing of teeth than usual; without my husband’s kind and patient support, it might never have reached it at all.

I am also grateful to the following: Joanne Dobson and Kit Ehrman for valuable comments on the manuscript, my agent Ashley Grayson for his friendly encouragement, Tara Maginnis for advice on eighteenth-century dress, my editor Barbara Peters for her wise and welcome guidance, and all the members of the Ohio River Valley Chapter of Sisters in Crime for their unflagging enthusiasm and support.

For the use of teachers, librarians, and book clubs, a Readers’ Guide is available for each novel in the series. These may be obtained by contacting the author through her website
at www.beverlegravesmyers.com.