5 - Her Deadly Mischief (18 page)

“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 wig, 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-f 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.

Torani surveyed us with a cool eye. “Good people, this is Domenico Scalzi—he goes by the stage name of Majorano. He is going to sing Emilio’s role and I expect—”

“Where
is
Emilio?” Vittoria broke in.

Our maestro threw up his hands. “Who knows? The traitor threw his new part in my face and walked out earlier this afternoon. For all I care, the great Emiliano and his ‘Apollo’s lyre of a throat’ could have fallen headfirst into the canal. It was a precious piece of luck that Majorano was in town and at liberty.”

“But,” the prima donna wailed at the top of her lungs, “this is a catastrophe. We’ve had no rehearsal together. This new man hasn’t even had time to learn where he stands onstage.”

“Now, now,” Torani began, radiating a stalwart calm, “if you’ll just—”

But Majorano darted around Torani and took charge. The young castrato grasped Vittoria’s hand in both of his. He brought it to his lips. “Signora, calm yourself. I’ve had the pleasure of watching
Armida
several times since I arrived, and Maestro Torani has been drilling me for hours. Thank the good Lord, I learn quickly. With the generous consideration you and the rest of this excellent company will extend, I am certain everything will go smoothly.”

He followed his words with what I was already thinking of as
The Smile
. Vittoria responded with a glowing smile of her own.

The performance proceeded better than might be expected. For the subdued, rain-chilled audience, this handsome boy served as a spring tonic. The meat of an opera lay in the individual arias crafted to exhibit each singer’s art and virtuosity, and Majorano had those qualities in plenty. He attacked allegro passages with fire and rendered the legato with fine sentiment and judicious embellishments.

Emilio’s claque, unexpectedly robbed of their object of purchased admiration, hardly knew what to do. During the first act, they offered Majorano scattered, tepid applause. During the interval, their leader, Lazarini, must have struck a new deal. Throughout the remainder of the evening, the tempestuous Majorano was greeted with cheers worthy of an established star.

During my silent moments of Act Two, I couldn’t help sneaking a few peeks toward the Albergati box. I expected to see Maria brokenhearted over Emilio’s absence, or perhaps stiff with anger if she had heard about the demotion that precipitated his walkout. But no. I saw no tears or sign of upset. Each time Majorano flashed
The Smile
, Maria melted like a wax taper left out in the summer sun. By Act Three, she would be his slave.

Madame Dumas was mistaken about the audience not forgetting me. As I had long suspected, all that mattered in the opera house was a passing good voice, a handsome face, and above all, novelty.

***

Several hours later, the Crusaders with their pasteboard lances had overrun Jerusalem and the sorceress Armida had been forcibly converted to the Christian faith. The good people of Venice drifted away to their next pleasurable pursuit, and I was bathing my face at the washbowl in my dressing room. A knock sounded at the door. Benito sprang to answer it. Whispers were exchanged. Footsteps crossed the floor. With my face in a towel, I heard Messer Grande’s deep tones.

“I sent your man downstairs for a while. I hope I’ve not overstepped my bounds.”

“Not at all.” I tossed the towel away and slipped into my dressing gown. “But if you have something momentous to impart, I assure you that Benito can be as discreet as I.”

“Not terribly momentous, but I wager you’ll be interested all the same.” His eyes crinkled with good cheer. “There’ll be no more robberies in the San Polo district. We have the gang of thieves and their chief in custody.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t you want to know the ringleader’s name?”

“By all means, but I don’t expect I’ll recognize it.” I inclined my head with a smile. “Very few thieves run in my circle.”

“Does the name Aram Pardo ring any bells for you?”

My knees went mushy and I sank to the sofa. “Aram is married to Zulietta Giardino’s sister.”

Messer Grande nodded, adjusting the folds of his voluminous red robe. He gestured to the small bench in front of my dressing table, the only other seat in the room. “May I?”

“Of course. Please—But you must tell me—how did you catch Aram?”

“It turned out to be a simple investigation. The ghetto connection was obvious days ago—some of the householders had recognized their goods in others’ homes—all obtained from one particular shop on the Campo Nuovo.”

“Aram’s?”

“Yes. Pardo protested that he’d acquired his stock in good faith. With the innocent look of a babe, he asked how he could possibly be expected to know where a painting or sofa or piece of silver had been before it turned up at his shop. Everyone, according to him, brings their items in with the same poor-mouthed stories—‘This has been in my family for generations, Signore, but I must have money.’”