6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (23 page)

I sighed. “How would Angeletto even know Tedi was in the house?”

His shoulders moved in a shrug. “Do you know where she was before she came to my box to find you?”

“No,” I reluctantly admitted, “but I can’t see Tedi being afraid of a mild, gentle soul like Angeletto.”

“Tedi told you that Torani—and now Tedi herself—was harboring a secret that someone was intent on keeping under wraps. Isn’t the singer’s true gender still a mystery? Wouldn’t his career be utterly ruined if he were exposed as a masquerading female?”

“I expect so.”

“A secret worth killing for, eh? Perhaps Signora Dall’Agata was in possession of evidence that would raise a bit of extra cash.”

“What evidence?”

“If I had that information, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He shrugged impatiently. “Just follow me here. Perhaps Tedi approached Angeletto to ask for money to keep her lips sealed.”

“But how much damage could she do? Venice has been arguing over Angeletto’s sex for weeks. That’s what started the riot tonight—scornful shouts accusing him of wearing skirts.”

“Our café and coffee house populace is idle, shiftless, prying, and ruthless. But at the end of the day, gossip is merely gossip. Some might argue that Angeletto has even benefited from all the talk.”

“He didn’t benefit tonight,” I countered.

“That is true. Tonight, rumor inflated to ridicule. But one month ago, who even knew Angeletto’s name? In that light, would you agree that all the speculation is a benefit?”

“Yes,” I admitted grudgingly.

“Now,” Andrea raised a finger. “What if Lorenzo Caprioli, under his standing as manager of the Teatro Grimani, made a formal complaint to the Savio with evidence to back his claim. What if our lovely angel was forced to prove his sex beyond doubt?”

“I suppose it would depend on the outcome of that examination,” I answered wearily. “But really, I just can’t imagine Angeletto standing on the other side of that door, aiming a pistol through the slats, and taking such an accurate shot. I think you should consider further.”

“I have.” My companion took a deep breath. “At the first sign of disturbance in the auditorium, the Savio closed up his box and ordered his family to stay inside. He was spotted in several different locations—the box office, the second and third floor corridors, backstage. He was hectoring anyone and everyone who might have some power to halt the interruption.”

“Did he speak to you?”

Andrea nodded and added in a low, deliberate tone, “We had a brief…conversation.”

I could just picture that conversation. “Was the Savio spotted in the gaming salon?”

“I received no useful information from any of the gamers. If I believe them, not one man or woman lifted their eyes from the tables until you came through yelling at the top of your lungs. No, what I consider interesting is that the occupants of the Passoni box did not stay put as ordered. I was fortunate enough to ask a few questions before the Savio bustled his party away. I discovered that both Franco and Beatrice left the box.”

“Together?”

“They left at different times, and both were gone for twenty minutes at least. A footman stated that the signorina insisted on going to find her father—he accompanied her, but she quickly slipped away from him. Beatrice says that she sought the Savio backstage, but no one recalls seeing her there, not even the observant fellow on the catwalk.

“Now, Franco is a different matter.” Andrea continued stonily, “You’re not forgetting that Signora Passoni’s cavaliere is almost certainly the one who delivered both angel cards.”

“I wouldn’t be likely to forget that.”

“Just so.” He gave a tilting nod. “Signora Passoni reports that she became over warm sitting in the shut-up, curtained box. She sent Franco for an ice.”

“In the middle of a riot?” I asked incredulously.

“Exactly. Franco returned after twenty minutes, desolate that he was unable to obtain her treat.”

“So, where was he?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps outside the attic storeroom, ensuring that Tedi Dall’Agata would never breathe her secret.” He added quietly, “Ah, we’ve arrived at your landing, Tito.”

Franco? I slapped both hands to my brow. Secrets, told and untold, reeled in my brain. The faces of people who kept secrets, people who had the opportunity to kill both Torani and Tedi, joined them in a nonsensical whirl. None of it made sense, and I was loath to leave Andrea’s company until it did.

Yet, the door to the cabin swung open, and the moist night air cooled my cheeks. Andrea’s gondolier extended his hand to help me disembark. Dimly, I heard Andrea bid me goodnight and advise that a brandy might be in order.

I pulled myself together with a jerk. “When will you question Franco and Signora Passoni? Tomorrow? I mean, later today?” It must have been nearly two o’clock.

“That remains to be seen.” Andrea shook his head. “To further interrogate any member of the Passoni household, I must wait upon the Savio’s pleasure. And I warn you, my friend, if Signora Passoni is involved in either murder, on her own or through her loyal cavaliere, she’ll never be punished.”

“You couldn’t arrest her?”

“Think on what you’re saying, man. This is a woman of patrician blood, no matter that she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. The Savio’s family is no less illustrious, and he holds an office of power. No one will want to believe that his wife was involved in a murder.”

“What about Franco?”

He reflected a moment. “Her cavaliere is a tool and nothing more. If Giovanna Passoni prevailed upon Franco to kill Tedi, and I’m unable to bring her to justice, then I would as soon arrest Franco as the pistol that fired the shot.”

I heard the door to my house open. I didn’t want Liya out in the cold damp, but…“What if Signora Passoni took a pistol from her muff and shot someone in the middle of the piazza in the full view of hundreds? Could you arrest her then?”

“The presence of witnesses would certainly make a difference, but her position would still hold sway.” He stretched his legs as best he could within the confines of the cabin. “In that case, the lady would probably end up in the madhouse rather than on the gibbet. Actually, I’m not certain which would be the more unbearable fate.”

“Venetian justice,” I intoned ironically.

“Our justice moves slowly, Tito, but it does move. Sometimes it even moves in the right direction.” His lips stretched in a bitter twist of a smile. “I advise you to remain patient on this score, as well, and leave the solution of these murders to me.”

“But…” I began in protest.

He tapped my knee. “That’s more than advice—it’s an order. Stay out of it. Meanwhile, trust that I’m not giving up. Who knows, I may even catch a stroke of luck.” He dipped his chin. “Now, I really must bid you goodnight.”

I climbed out of the gondola and lingered on the pavement watching the boatman navigate a sharp turn and oar back the way he had come. I didn’t relish telling Liya about Tedi’s murder. The women had not been particularly friendly, but Liya had formed a deep appreciation of Tedi’s talents on the stage and of her loyalty to Maestro Torani. My wife would be disappointed; she would worry.

Padding footsteps sounded behind me. I sighed. “Liya…” I began, turning.

My next words stuck in my throat. It was not my wife, but my grinning manservant who stood in the wedge of light spilling from the door.

Chapter Twenty-three

“Naples smells to high Heaven,” Benito reported, sitting forward and warming his hands above the glowing scaldino. “It’s not just the rotting garbage—it’s the stink of sulphur that hits you in the face every time you open a window or venture into the street.”

I nodded. “The mountain must have been belching while you were there.”

“Just a wisp of black smoke against the blue sky, but somehow it was enough to foul the air.”

I lounged on the sitting room sofa, every bone crying out for rest. Benito sat in the opposite chair, seemingly as fresh as a spring morning. By the wavering candlelight, I noted subtle changes in my manservant as he drew a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through its pages. Benito’s cheeks were tanned and wind roughened. And thinner. The little castrato had lost several pounds of his barely sufficient flesh. Oddly, his acute leanness did not suggest an increased fragility. Benito appeared as strong and pliable as a whip’s braided lash.

We had chewed over my sad news, and I was anxious to hear what had sent my manservant haring off to southern Italy. Since Benito had landed in Naples, his news must concern Angeletto, but that was all I had managed to deduce. “Are you going to keep me in suspense forever?” I asked, none too kindly.

He raised an eyebrow. “I have one simple word for you—
twins.”

“What?”

“Twins,” he articulated even more precisely. “Angeletto and Maria Luisa are twins. I found the record of their baptism at the cathedral. Listen, I copied it down word for word.” He held his notebook close to a candle and read, “I, Giorgio Francesco Bersoglia, archpriest of the Cathedral Church of San Gennaro, have baptized a male and a female, born 22nd of July last at the 3rd hour, to the married couple, Bertraido Vanini of this diocese and Antonia Nardo. The children are given the names of Carlo Gian and Maria Luisa.”

My manservant waited for my response with a winning smile.

“Twins. Huh. A boy and a girl. So I was right—Carlo is Carlo after all.” I yawned, not bothering to cover my gaping mouth, and moved to the edge of the sofa, more than ready to seek my bed.

“Wait, Master, there’s more. Much more.” Benito held up a pacifying palm. “The good priest also made a note of their godparents’ names. I managed to track one of them down. Onofrio Ascolo, the godfather, is a baker in the heart of the city. I think you’ll find his story interesting.”

“I’d better. Otherwise, I may fall asleep right here.” I sat back, stretching forth my legs and crossing one ankle over the other.

“It is no secret that Carlo Vanini was discovered by Maestro Belcredi in a parish church choir.” Benito cast another glance at his notebook. “That would have been when the twins had reached their tenth year, after the father’s death left the family basically penniless.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s as Angeletto told us—in Milan the first time we met. Belcredi took the entire Vanini family under his wing.”

“Yes, but Angeletto passed over several important details.” Benito cocked his head like an inquisitive canary. “Would you like to guess what they are?”

“Just go on,” I urged with another yawn.

“Belcredi actually took both twins under his tutelage. The girl displayed a particularly fine voice. Despite her squalid upbringing, she possessed natural intelligence and grace, and she took to the maestro’s musical instruction like a duck to water. The boy also had talent.…” Benito interrupted himself with a wry smile. “At least enough to put an end to his nascent manhood. Once he’d been relieved of his balls, he attacked his lessons with great determination. I suppose he realized that he must succeed as a singer or live the rest of his years as a figure of disdain and pity.

“And so, for some time, all was well. The girl progressed rapidly, not only in her art, but in her fervent attachment to Maestro Belcredi. She turned into a lovely young woman, and the attraction was apparently mutual—or perhaps Belcredi was simply more interested in caging a songbird who could feather a comfortable nest for his old age. At any rate, by the time she was fifteen, Belcredi had taken her as his wife.”

I shook my head, picturing Maria Luisa’s scraped back hair and steel spectacles. Lovely? Hardly. Had her early widowhood transformed her into the unattractive woman I was familiar with?

Benito continued, “Then a series of disastrous events occurred. The twins were giving concerts in noble homes, and though the papal ban prevented the girl from singing on the stage of the opera house, the boy had debuted in secondary roles—always playing female characters, as young castrati in Naples and Rome tend to do. His pure, agile soprano and his coquettish acting brought him quite a bit of attention and welcome monetary rewards. Maestro Belcredi’s investment in the twins was finally coming to fruition.” Benito paused for a sighing breath. “But on the very eve of a pivotal opera premiere, the boy came down with a raging inflammation of the throat. He couldn’t sing a note. What was Belcredi going to do?” My manservant spread his arms. “What would you do, if you were in his place?”

I leaned forward, all fatigue fled. I was suddenly as alert as if I’d just returned from the coffee house. “Are you telling me that Belcredi sent Maria Luisa to appear in Angeletto’s place?”

“Something like that.”

“How could they get away with such an audacious switch?”

“Remember, the role in question was a female part. Both twins were sopranos, and, as twins, their voices undoubtedly shared a similar range and timbre. The godfather told me that Carlo and Maria Luisa often learned each other’s music, each functioning as the other’s most severe critic. When you consider all that, it really was not such an impossible switch. Onofrio Ascolo was standing in the pit that night. Even knowing the brother and sister since infancy, he did not see the true woman beneath the heavily costumed creature on the stage. He thought he was applauding his godson and didn’t know any different until a few months later—when old Signora Vanini came to him begging a handout, after Maestro Belcredi had died in the cholera epidemic.”

I rubbed my jaw, consumed by memories from my early career, then I said, “The exhilaration of singing on the stage has no equal. Maria Luisa must have truly relished her moment of triumph.”

Benito winked. “Her triumph lasted much longer than a moment. Her brother’s lovely soprano never returned. Much like your own injury, the illness left the castrato with a coarse, thick voice that would never again be raised in song.”

It took a full minute for the implications of Benito’s words to sink through my thick skull. I’d been wrong! Angeletto wasn’t Carlo—Maria Luisa was Carlo.

I threw my head back. In the shifting shadows on the ceiling, I saw all the hints I’d missed. The down on Maria Luisa’s upper lip, her long arms, her skill on the harpsichord, and so much more. Maria Luisa wasn’t an ugly woman—she was a castrated male. An angry, bitter young man who’d been forced to surrender his name and career to his twin sister after he’d already sacrificed so much.

“Oh, Benito, what a bird-brained fool I’ve been.” My gaze locked his in a solemn stare. “And I would still be one if you hadn’t discovered the truth. I forgive your desertion, but you should have told me what you intended, you know. The longer you were gone, the more we worried.”

His expression turned suitably apologetic, but before he could reply, another thought leapt to my lips. “Gussie—how I’ve wronged him. I urged him to use his artist’s eyes, and when he told me what they saw, I refused to credit him. I accused Gussie of seeing only what he wanted to see, while I was the one who was totally blinded by my hopes for
The False Duke
.”

“Don’t reproach yourself too much, Master. Angeletto and his brother have perfected their roles through constant practice—their performances had even me stumped for a while—just a little while.” He leaned sideways to cup his hand around a guttering candle, then blew it out. He repeated the process with several others. As the sitting room dimmed, I saw that the grey light of dawn was creeping through the shutters. We’d talked the night through.

Benito asked, “Now that you know
The False Duke
is truly false in every regard, what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” I snapped.

“You lie. You won’t allow the opera house to continue with this travesty.”

I pushed to my feet with a sigh. “The Teatro San Marco is no longer my concern, Benito. While you’ve been away, I’ve been reminded of that a hundred times.”

He also rose. “What is your concern, then?”

The little castrato had hit the nail squarely on the head. Now that I could neither perform nor move into Maestro Torani’s shoes, what was I going to do? It was altogether possible that I would never see the inside of the Teatro San Marco again. How was I going to provide for my family? How was I going to live my life? Messer Grande had even ordered me away from investigating the murders.

For a moment, Benito and I faced each other in silence. With an aching heart, I whispered. “I…I don’t know.”

***

In the following days, a sense of futile urgency pervaded all my activities. After taking a dismal inventory of the coins in the household’s strongbox, I made a list of all the students I had once taught and eventually given up so that I could be of more service to Maestro Torani. If I could regain only half of my loyal students, their fees would at least put coal in the stove and food on the table. Liya brought up the possibility of doing some sewing as she’d once done for the opera house, perhaps crafting gowns to be sold from Pincas’ shop. I rejected that suggestion out of hand. I must be the one to support my family. Besides teaching, I must find another position.

But who would hire me? My name was still tainted with the suspicion of murder and would probably remain so for some time. Actually, I wasn’t certain I would take work at one of the second or third-rate theaters if it was offered. After being so closely aligned with the best—the Teatro San Marco—it didn’t seem right. I even toyed with the idea of leaving Venice, but no. The very thought made my heart ache. My family would have to be in danger of starving for me to quit my native land.

I did take time out to pay a call at Messer Grande’s office on the Rialto. Though I thought Angeletto’s secret held no relevance for the solution of Torani and Tedi’s murders, my natural inclination for completeness pushed me to inform Andrea of Benito’s discovery.

But Messer Grande was out, the sergeant told me. Out, with no estimated time of return.

Well, I’d tried. There was always tomorrow. Or the next day.

As it was as beautiful an autumn afternoon as ever occurs in Venice, I headed toward the piazza to mingle with the Carnival crowd. I’d barely stepped from under the clock’s underpass when I spotted Giovanna Passoni and her willful daughter inspecting a barrow of feathered masks and other fripperies. A pair of liveried footmen stood in attendance several yards away.

Without stopping to consider Andrea’s ban on investigation, or even how I might put questions to the lady in the midst of carnival revelry, I called out, “Signora Passoni.” She looked over her shoulder, and when she saw who had hailed her, her face flushed bright pink. Beside her, Beatrice shuddered and clutched her blue cloak to her chin. Blue, not green! The girl’s face registered a confusion of dislike and alarm. “What do you want, Tito Amato?” Beatrice cried. “Go away!”

The Passoni footmen sprang to action. One hustled the women toward the shelter of the Basilica. The other planted his six-foot frame in front of me. His livid scowl dared me to try and get around him. “Make tracks,” he ordered. I had no choice but to comply.

During those days, I also tried to coax Liya into conversation concerning her distress over her cards. She remained close-lipped on the subject; from long experience, I knew that she would only talk when she was ready. On my own, I came to no useful conclusions as to why her mystical faculties had deserted her so suddenly. What did I know of goddesses? Diana had surely never spoken to me, or for that matter had the Blessed Virgin, though I prayed to her nightly. In one wild moment, my thoughts ranged toward the ridiculous, and I imagined these two womanly deities—the ancient goddess of the woodland and the Mother of Our Lord—meeting each other on a garden path in some green and glowing Paradise. Like great ladies promenading on the Riva degli Schiavoni, they would raise the veils of their zendali and acknowledge each other with regal nods. Who would speak first?

One night, after we’d gone to bed, I made the mistake of repeating this to Liya, who merely gaped and said, “Oh, Tito, you don’t understand at all.” My wife then flipped over and set her face to the wall, taking most of the bedclothes with her.

I rested on an elbow for a moment, staring at her tangle of jet hair, but she didn’t turn back. Presently she began to snore in little moaning gasps. Fully awake, I slid from under the blankets and donned my dressing gown.

After wearing out the floor of our chamber with my pacing, I opened the balcony doors and stepped out into the chilly air. Carefully, silently, I shut the doors behind me. Then I did something I hadn’t even attempted for several years.

I sang. Not an aria I’d learned in the conservatorio or performed on the stage, but the pure and magnificent music I heard in my heart. Though my delivery was halting and my throat’s timbre coarse and heavy sounding—unworthy of being heard by any human creature—my lungs were still capable of putting some power behind the earnest melody. I was absurdly delighted when the breeze took up the strains and seemed to lift them upwards toward the star-strewn sky. Perhaps the Blessed Mother would hear my poor song, understand the grief that gave it life, and bless me with her smile.

I stood for a moment, gripping the railing, with my face upturned to the stars. To my amazement, I was treated to my melody coming back to me. It was repeated by a single, sweet tenor voice accompanied by a mandolin. Once, then twice, it sounded from the direction of the Canal Regio before floating away forever. The Virgin’s gift? Perhaps. During Carnival there was always a great number of vagrant musicians abroad at all hours of the day and night—but they seldom wandered as far as the Cannaregio.