6 - Whispers of Vivaldi (8 page)

Why the callous dismissal?

Very simple. Carnival was coming. Foreigners were already taking up residence in preparation for the famous fete that began on the first Sunday of October, a good four months earlier than in any other city. Cafés were setting out extra tables, shop windows displayed tempting goods, and a gaudy riot of pennants, flags, and posters decorated the piazza. Frivolity and excess filled the air. The sbirri had a host of pickpockets, sandbaggers, fraudsters, and sneak thieves to worry about; they had no time for an operatic feud.

Even when I demanded to be shown into the presence of Messer Grande, the aptly titled chief of the peacekeeping force, I found uninterested ears. Messer Grande had once been my ally in the investigation that led to the loss of my voice. I called him by his Christian name, Andrea, and considered him a friend. But as our work proceeded in different worlds, we had seen less and less of each other, and on this day my old friend seemed preoccupied. Andrea gave me ten minutes to lay out my suspicions.

I wasted no time in blaming Lorenzo Caprioli for Torani’s terrible state. Andrea agreed that there’d been a long-term rivalry between the two theaters, and he could well believe that Caprioli’s latest ambition was to wrest the Senate’s sponsorship away from the Teatro San Marco. But when I pointed out that Caprioli’s brutish sedan bearers could probably row as effectively as they shouldered his chair, Venice’s principal lawman began to shake his head.

“You must listen,” I said, putting passion behind my words. “The announcement about Angeletto’s upcoming arrival has taken the city by storm. The minute he heard the news, Caprioli would have immediately recognized the advantage it gave us—Maestro Torani’s acquisition of such a prize would be sure to raise the Teatro San Marco’s stock with the Senate. In his crude fashion, Caprioli took steps to right the balance. Such a thorough villain would see the attack as merely another move in the game.”

Andrea kept shaking his head. “Tito, Tito,” he murmured as he leaned back in his chair and clicked open a malachite snuff box. I observed my friend while he took his tobacco. The current Messer Grande was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with ruddy cheeks, deep-set brown eyes, and bushy eyebrows that seemed to speak a language of their own. The fleshy platform between thumb and forefinger where he placed his dab of snuff was thick and meaty, leading me to think he had more than a few peasants in his ancestry. But Andrea also came down from a more illustrious line. He’d always worn a heavy crested ring on his left hand, and, after all, a man was not appointed Messer Grande without prominent family ties.

Before he carried the snuff to his nostril, he gave a dry laugh. “Based on your flimsy tale, I would never be able to take Signor Caprioli before the Quarantia Criminale. What have you given me? A swift black gondola. A pair of anonymous bravos. Not many of those in Venice, eh?”

Andrea pinched one nostril closed and inhaled his snuff though the other. After the resulting sneeze, he fixed me with a somber stare. “I often see Maestro Torani prowling the city in the wee hours—completely on his own. Your best course of action, my friend, is to see that he keeps to his fireside where a man of age belongs.”

I shrugged. The maestro was always keyed up after a performance. He liked to call in at the Ridotto for a little faro or relax in a tavern, sometimes with Tedi, sometimes without her. I’d sooner chase a bear out of his lair than order Torani away from his favorite haunts.

Andrea showed me out with a trace of his old friendliness. “At least this gives you a chance to shine, Tito. Yes, I heard about your new appointment. About time isn’t it?” He placed a hand on my back, with just the slightest pressure to ease me through his office door. “When he is well, tell Rinaldo Torani I order him to go straight home after the opera. A man in his bed behind a couple of doors with stout locks isn’t going to be much of a target, is he?

“And, Tito…” Messer Grande peered at me for the space of a long breath. “You’d best be careful, too.”

“To be sure.” I made my bow and left the guardhouse with a new worry burrowing into my soul. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would become a target, but it made perfect sense.

I was in charge of the Teatro San Marco now.

Chapter Eight

I had scarcely three weeks for preparation. Not optimal for a four-act opera, but time enough if I went about it the right way. Unfortunately, by the time Angeletto arrived in Venice, insulated by layers of Vanetti females, battle lines had been drawn. Imaginary lines, but there were so many of them, the San Marco seemed more like an armed camp than an opera house.

The family’s journey from Milan, as arranged by Maria Luisa, took closer to a week than the several days she’d promised. I used the time to accustom the company to
The Duke’s
idiosyncrasies. Ziani, our machinist, voiced loud complaints over having to produce a shipwreck in short time, but once he finished grumbling, he had his men push Prometheus’ rock into a corner of the workroom and started sketching.

The next loudest complaints came from the solo singers, who I now required to sing in chorus, blending their voices and actually cooperating instead of striving to outshine each other. At first, the tenors and basses barely concealed their sneers, and the sopranos complained in whispers behind angrily fluttering fans. Eventually, little by little, my troupe warmed to Rocatti’s new technique.

Majorano presented the worst sticking point. As I’d predicted, the celebrated castrato felt supplanted and dug his heels in at every turn. He actually became something of a troublemaker, whispering against me in the ranks. Then word circulated that Majorano intended to hire a claque—audience members paid to cheer and applaud him and, in turn, to boo and hiss his rival. Rocatti’s opera called for a warm bond of brotherhood to develop between Angeletto as the duke and Majorano as the huntsman. Totally unbelievable if the pair of them were throwing vocal daggers across the stage.

“I think you should arrange something to introduce Majorano and Angeletto,” Torani said when I visited him at his lodgings on the Calle Castangna. “You know, present them as equals.”

“Something?” I repeated wonderingly. Did the maestro think these two huge personalities would become instant comrades over a dish of coffee at Peretti’s?

“A reception. Their first meeting should occur on neutral territory—not the theater.” Torani squirmed on a wide bed hung with green damask draperies, propped up on three fat pillows. His forehead sported a gash on the opposite side from his scabbed wound. Tedi was intent on bathing both with a cloth that smelled of pine spirits. The maestro pushed her hand away with an impatient gesture.

“I don’t suppose your Liya could rise to the occasion?” he asked with raised eyebrows, plucking at the counterpane.

I tried to imagine the opera stars facing each other across my homey sitting room, the Savio and other political luminaries supping on Liya’s plain fare, and Benito in a full-blown lather serving Champagne from a quivering silver tray. An alternative scenario formed in my mind’s eye.

“Perhaps the Savio would agree to host a reception,” I suggested.

Torani and Tedi both nodded enthusiastically.

But then the soprano said, “It’s true that Majorano and Angeletto would both be on their best behavior at the Ca’Passoni, but it would give young Beatrice a golden opportunity to make trouble.”

“What do you think she might do?” I asked.

Shaking her head, Tedi rose with her basin and cloth. “Oh, I don’t know—some nonsense calculated to embarrass all of us.”

“I shouldn’t worry, my dear. Castrati expect young women to make fools of themselves over them—older women, too.” Torani attempted a jocular chuckle. “Am I right, Tito? I’m sure both Angeletto and Majorano know how to handle Beatrice.”

I had to agree. After a few more minutes’ discussion about the guest list, I noticed that the old man was growing weary and took my leave. Tedi saw me out. I missed her at the theater. I’d been counting on her experience to balance Angeletto’s stirring but less practiced gifts, and had been disappointed when she’d withdrawn from the prima donna role. Torani had laid down the law on that one point. He needed Tedi at his bedside. Oriana Foscari, our secunda donna, was reveling in the unexpected opportunity for advancement.

Tedi had made light of it, saying, “It’s for the best. I’d make a poor milkmaid, wondering if everything was all right here. Besides,” she’d laughed, “Isis decided to have her kittens in the box that held my only peasant wig. It’s ruined.”

At the entrance, poised on the red-and-black tiled doorsteps lapped by the canal, I spoke of something else—delicately—as I had no wish to frighten Torani’s good lady. “Nothing…untoward has happened, has it?”

“Untoward? How cryptic you are, Tito. Are you speaking of bravos lurking in the shadows with drawn stilettos? Masked ruffians climbing the vine up to the balcony?” Her forced smile belied the shadows under her blue eyes, the stained bodice, the frowzy bun at the back of her neck. Had Tedi dismissed her maid? “There’s no need to fret,” she continued. “The old fool is going to be just fine.”

Tedi was a brave woman, perhaps a bit too brave. Did I need to remind her of recent events?

She went on, leaning against the door jamb, slender white hand pressed to her cheek. “When I call Rinaldo an old fool, I mean it. He’s managed to cause us a great deal of trouble, but it’s over now. I’ve seen to that.” She finished with a firm nod.

A surprised “Eh?” escaped my lips. Did Tedi have some hold on Lorenzo Caprioli that had escaped my notice? I asked as much.

Tedi let my question float in the air a moment, then said quietly, “You must let a lady have her secrets, Tito.” She blinked anxiously. “If you want to worry about something, worry about Girolamo Grillo. He’s spewing his filth again, even more publicly. I thought you were going to put a stop to it.”

“I’ve been a little busy, Tedi.” I sighed and gave my buckled shoes a long look—scuffed—they needed Benito’s hand. Raising my chin, I asked, “Where? Where has Grillo been holding court?”

“The Café Sultana on the piazza.” Her reply formed a clear call to duty.

I made my bow, boarded my waiting gondola, and directed the boatman toward the heart of Venice.

***

Grillo wasn’t hard to find. The great campanile was just tolling the
nona
, the noon bell, when I entered the colonnade running alongside the Procuratie Nuove. The Café Sultana was halfway along the vaulted walkway. A few patrons were braving the cool, overcast day at outdoor tables nudging into the vast square. I didn’t linger to watch them sip at small cups of black coffee or nibble at pastries. Knowing that my quarry enjoyed his creature comforts, I pushed through glass doors fogged with the warmth of cooking and the breaths of shouting waiters and chattering patrons.

I spotted Grillo immediately. He occupied a corner table by the window. A woman known for circulating about the piazza, ostensibly selling balms and scents but really selling herself, sat close beside him. Her satin-clad arm stretched upon his shoulder; her lacey cuff tickled his neck. A quartet of richly dressed fops filled out the table, English by the look of their excessively high wigs topped by oddly undersized tricornes. I’d have to remember to ask Gussie why his young countrymen had suddenly surrendered their taste and good sense to the most ridiculous of fashions. They were all staring down at the white tablecloth as if it held a map to buried treasure.

What was Grillo up to? I stepped closer to the table and saw that the cups and plates had been pushed aside to accommodate twenty to thirty brightly colored tiles. He shifted the tiles with quick, swinging arm movements, like a trickster running a shell game and daring a punter to follow where the walnut landed. Then, with two fingers pressed to each temple, Grillo appeared to study the numbers and symbols painted on the tiles. He murmured something, and his onlookers leaned forward so as not to miss a word. His tomfoolery reminded me uncomfortably of my wife’s study of her cards. Though Liya wasn’t out to cheat anyone, I’d wager my last zecchino that Grillo was.

I announced my presence with a small cough.

The charlatan looked up with a smile that quickly faded. Displaying near miraculous dexterity, Grillo swept up his tiles and extricated himself from his companion’s embrace. He swiped a green cloak off a peg and made for the exit. If a waiter bearing a tray piled with dirty crockery hadn’t chosen that moment to block my path, I would have been right on Grillo’s heels. Delayed, I reached the open piazza only to find it thronged with promenaders of every complexion, class, age, and sex. At least it was not yet Carnival—very few wore mask and costume. Black
tabarros
, shawls, and cloaks were the order of the day.

Grillo’s cloak was a bright jade, the color of the lagoon on a perfect, sun-kissed summer day, and lined with equally bright yellow. With the superior height of a eunuch, I should be able to spot it easily. I craned my neck and caught a flash of green fabric snapping in the breeze. Grillo was moving quickly, heading for the passage under the clock tower that led to the Merceria. If he reached that busy shopping thoroughfare, I stood a good chance of losing him.

I pushed through the crowd, crossing the long shadow cast by the free-standing campanile. The bell tower’s massive presence soared above the piazza, dwarfing the domes of the Basilica and making the humans on the paving stones seem like ants. I was losing Grillo. I broke into an outright run, drawing a squawk from a lady’s maid toting her mistress’ lapdog and nearly toppling a peasant boy in wooden clogs.

My lungs were burning when I finally made it to the other side of the square. I caught up to Grillo just as he ducked into the shadowy tunnel under the clock. He was making a play of sauntering casually along, as if he had nothing better to do than find another café in which to take coffee and conduct business. I put on a final burst of speed and clutched the collar of his green cloak.

“You may unhand me, Signor Amato,” he said, once he’d recovered from his surprise. “I have no intention of running.”

“Five minutes ago you were determined to avoid me.”

The villain shrugged. “I suppose I must face you at some point—it may as well be now.”

As best I could in the dim passage, I looked the man up and down. His loosely arranged hair was dark, cheeks olive, and eyes a lustrous black. His green cloak and claret-colored jacket suited his complexion perfectly. The man was of Spanish ancestry, I’d be bound. As I sensed no muscles tensing to flee, I released his collar.

“Let’s find a more private place,” I said, aware of the steady stream of humanity headed toward the Rialto via the cramped confines of the Merceria.

He nodded and we walked shoulder to shoulder in tense silence until we found a quiet alley beside the modest church of San Zulian.

“What do you mean by spreading rumors about Angeletto?” I began without preamble or politeness.

“Everyone loves a bit of gossip,” Grillo shot back smoothly.

“Your kind of gossip sets in people’s ears like plaster—impossible to remove. Plus, it’s all lies.”

He burst out laughing. “Lies is it? Are you so sure? The singer called Angeletto has many talents beyond music, Signor Amato. Think about it—how much do you really know about Angeletto?”

“I know your deliberate gossip is wronging more than a fine young singer. It’s threatening the San Marco opera house and everyone in it. If the theater is ruined, hundreds will be without jobs—not just the musicians, but scene shifters, seamstresses, candle tenders, ticket takers, grappa sellers. Everybody right down to the old prompter who has whispered singers’ forgotten lines for the past forty years.”

“And your job, too. Right?” He smirked. “Just when you’ve managed to put old Torani out to pasture. That’s what really has you steaming, isn’t it?”

I felt my face grow hot with anger. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maestro Torani is getting better by the day. He’ll be back at the helm in a matter of weeks.”

“Perhaps. You would know better than I.” Grillo propped a shoulder against the church’s polished stone wall. “But I don’t enjoy being called a liar. I have a certain reputation to uphold, especially as a devoted admirer of the fair sex. If Angeletto
is
merely a boy who’s lost his chestnuts, I end up looking like a fool.”

I grabbed his collar again and pulled his smooth cheeks close to mine. “I don’t care what you look like. I want you to shut your mouth. Better than that, I want you out of Venice for the run of
The False Duke
.”

“Exile, eh?” His breath was hot on my face.

“Temporarily.”

He splayed his hand on my chest and pushed me away. Silent for a moment, Grillo seemed to be sizing me up. Then, with an oily smile: “Are you about to make me an offer?”

Well, what else could I do? I had no bravos at my disposal to intimidate Grillo. If my brother Alessandro were in Venice, he would have known how to put the fear of the Devil in him, but Alessandro was far away in Constantinople. “All right,” I grumbled. “Just tell me—what will it take to end this farce? How much has Lorenzo Caprioli paid you?”

Grillo raised his eyebrows. His mouth twitched. I thought he was going to laugh again, but he merely answered. “Fifteen ducats.”

The purse the Savio had given me was still weighing my pocket down. I poured most of the coins into my palm, counted them, and sealed the bargain with Grillo.

“Tonight, you’ll be resting your head on the mainland,” I observed, experiencing a hollow, sinking feeling. The roof tiles over my front door were hanging by a thread, and I’d just bartered away my best hope for a repair.

“As you wish, Signor Amato.” The schemer had the gall to make me a fine bow before sauntering down the alley and turning out of sight.

I’d nearly made it back across the piazza before it occurred to me that my transaction with Grillo had proceeded much too smoothly. While I had no bravos, Caprioli certainly did. If ordering them to ram an old man’s gondola didn’t prick the impresario’s conscience, what would stop him from making Grillo pay dearly and painfully for his disobedience? And Caprioli wouldn’t forget during the few short weeks that Grillo stayed out of Venice. That self-anointed great lover and cabalist would return to the city as soon as
The False Duke
had completed its run, perhaps sooner if he thought he could get away with it.