1 - Interrupted Aria (7 page)

“I know some of those girls must be very jealous of you. You have a nice home to come back to at the end of the day, and most of them are orphans. Not only do you have a family, but your father is one of the most important maestros at the school. I’m sure some of the girls do and say things to hurt your feelings, but you can’t let them bother you. Tito and Felice know what I’m talking about.” Annetta prompted us with a raised eyebrow.

“She’s right, Grisella.” Felice took the cue. “We were teased all the time at San Remo. When Tito started getting solo parts in our concerts, little
accidents
started happening.” He grinned up at me. “Remember when that bunch from Genoa locked you in the latrine and old Norvello was going to whip you for being late to rehearsal?”

I could laugh about it years after the fact, but the incident had been no joke to me then. When hundreds of boys of different ages are housed together and kept on a rigid schedule of study and practice, high spirits are bound to get out of hand. The popular maestros tolerated our pranks and tried to provide some play and recreation, but a few seemed to enjoy crushing any sign of misbehavior. Maestro Norvello had been a particularly mirthless stick of a man who had more than once drawn blood from my bottom with his hickory cane.

I finished Felice’s tale. “And you scoured the compound and found me just in time. You even smoothed things over with that old.…” I let the word I had been going to use to describe our most hated maestro hang in the air in deference to Grisella’s young ears.

“And then there was the time you were almost poisoned to death,” Felice continued, rocking back and forth on his stool.

“What happened?” cried Annetta as Grisella pulled her head from our sister’s lap and sat up with a curious expression.

“It wasn’t really that bad,” I explained. “Someone doctored my wine before I went on stage. He wasn’t trying to murder me, just interfere with my singing. He succeeded in that. My throat turned to cotton and my breathing was ragged. I got through the opera somehow, but it definitely wasn’t my best night.”

“Who did that to you?” asked Annetta in shocked tones. She had never competed with another singer for a coveted role and had no idea how cutthroat the process could be. It was no wonder ambition was rampant with the stakes so high. A
castrato
who achieved the highest order of fame could retire a wealthy man in just a few years.

Felice and I glanced at each other. I said, “We never found out for sure.”

In the same breath, Felice replied forcefully, “It had to be that pig of a Calabrian, Bruno Cambiatti. He always hated you.”

“But we never really knew.”

“It never happened again after I dealt with him, did it?” Felice closed his eyes and smiled slyly, like the fox relishing the bunch of grapes in the old fable.

I shook my head as he put his hand over his heart in a mockingly plaintive gesture, and said, “Just a few well placed punches in the fat belly of his.”

Annetta’s eyes widened and I could almost see her readjusting her mental assessment of Felice’s character.

“Oh Tito, you’re far too kind. Bruno’s curls weren’t even ruffled,” Felice finished defensively.

We were each lost in memories for a moment, then Annetta rose and pulled Grisella up after her. “It’s time someone was in her own bed.” Grisella’s dark eyes had turned misty. She allowed herself to be led away, too sleepy or dazed from her elixir to protest.

Felice stretched his long legs and jumped up from the stool to pace the room. Reminiscing about our adventures at San Remo had energized him, while the cozy warmth of Annetta’s armchair was making my eyelids as heavy as Grisella’s.

“So, our gondolier was right about Adelina Belluna and Viviani. Were they really that obvious?” he asked as he paced.

“Oh, you heard that, did you?”

“Most of it, yes.”

“There’s no doubt they are lovers, but she would still be prima donna without that advantage. She couldn’t be anything else. I’ve never met a woman like her…so beautiful and so strong. No wonder half of Venice is at her feet.” Felice’s inquiring look encouraged me to continue. “You must hear her sing, Felice. What skill she brings to that trite score we have to work with. She can shade a note with a hundred different emotions. She infuses the music with such passion.”

I paused on hearing Annetta’s footsteps and husky laugh. She threw herself across her bed with hair and skirts flying and propped her chin up on one hand.

“Is the music the only thing she infuses with passion?” she teased.

“You don’t understand,” I said wearily. “Adelina was so kind to me today, and she certainly didn’t have to be. She was even gracious in the face of Caterina’s malicious remarks. I wish I had just half her composure.”

“Oh, we understand.” Annetta chuckled again. “Is he always this easily infatuated, Felice?”

My friend had stopped pacing and was leaning glumly against a bedpost. The lines of strain I had noticed around his eyes at the beginning of this long day had returned. He kept his gaze on me while he answered Annetta. “Not at all. I’m afraid your brother has never given his affection easily.”

Chapter 7

The day of the reception at the Palazzo Viviani began wet and overcast but ended with a blazing sunset that reflected off the canals in fiery oranges and pinks. Maestro Torani had ended rehearsal early and sent us home on a wave of last-minute instructions and exhortations. As a gondola bore me toward the Campo dei Polli, I wondered if Annetta had started getting ready. Torani had easily secured Viviani’s permission for me to bring my sister to the reception, and Annetta had talked of nothing else for the past two days.

I had originally thought that our group of singers would set out from the theater, but Adelina had announced other plans. To perform at the
palazzo
, she had demanded plenty of time in her own boudoir with the services of her maid and hairdresser at hand. Torani and Orlando had sparred over who would collect Adelina and escort her to the reception. Torani, being the director, won that battle hands down.

I had hardly closed the door of the house behind me before Berta trotted clumsily down the hall.

“Oh, it’s you, Signor Tito,” she said in a worried tone.

“Who were you expecting, Berta?”

“My baby…and your Papa. I have their supper ready, but they don’t come. Every night they are later and later and my little lamb looks so tired.”

After a moment’s puzzlement I realized that she meant Grisella. “I’m sure they will be here soon. Lessons at the Mendicanti must have ended an hour or two ago.”

Berta’s lined face remained full of concern, and she continued to twist the corner of her apron. Before heading back to the kitchen, she gave me a sidelong glance that plainly expressed her lack of confidence in my attempt to reassure her.

I started up the stairs but stopped halfway when Annetta appeared at the top. The golden brown hair which was usually held back from her face in some utilitarian knot was arranged in soft curls piled high on her head. She had left one shiny ringlet loose to flow down her right shoulder. Two combs ornamented with silver butterflies that seemed to tremble on her curls completed the effect. Her gown worried me a bit. It was French brocade the color of a ripe persimmon, but unadorned by any frill other than a row of matching bows that marched from the low bodice to her slim waist. I hadn’t expected to see Annetta in a powdered wig or weighed down by jewels, but I was afraid she would feel out of place among the sumptuously dressed patricians.

In that intuitive way of hers, my sister had read my mind. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “Annetta looks very ordinary. Will she even be admitted to the
palazzo
in that old dress?”

“No, no. I think you look beautiful,” I answered on reflex, then realized I meant every word.

Annetta descended holding her skirts out to each side and swaying to a tune played by invisible musicians. Her brown eyes sparkled with a look far removed from her accustomed, tranquil gaze. It was good to see her happy and excited.

She reached the stair above me. “I know my wardrobe can’t begin to compete with what most of the women will be wearing, but I don’t care. This is my best dress and it will just have to do.” She poked me in the chest with her forefinger for emphasis.

“It will do, beautifully,” I agreed.

“Besides, I’m not going to this reception to impress anyone. I just want to be there, to see what it feels like to be a guest at the fabulous Palazzo Viviani.”

“But we won’t ever get there if I don’t start getting dressed. Where’s Felice?” I asked as I dashed around her and up the stairs.

“He went out to talk to someone about some work, one of Father’s friends. He didn’t know when he’d get back. Don’t take too long, Tito.”

***

The arched entrance to the Palazzo Viviani was ablaze with lantern light and crawling with pink-coated footmen. Gondolas were lined up three abreast waiting for an opening to dart up to the moorings topped with the Viviani crest so they could deliver their passengers. As we disembarked, a footman ran up to ascertain our identities. He passed our names to another pink coat and, before we had begun to mount the stairs to the richly sculpted bronze doors, an austere man with sunken cheeks and flinty eyes sailed down to direct us through one of the smaller archways.

“The musicians will gather in a room down this corridor. Signor Viviani does not want anyone to see you before the entertainment. Afterward you may mingle with the guests as you please.”

Annetta and I quickened our pace to match our guide’s long, smooth strides. His pink livery denoted the status of a servant, but the deferential attitude of the footmen who sprang to open doors and the sudden quieting and lowered eyes of a trio of chattering maids proved that our guide was a man of some authority in the household. As he led us deeply into the sprawling residence, my curious nature prodded me to peer into the rooms with open doors.

Crates were piled high in cavernous chambers while smaller rooms were filled with slanted writing desks and shelves groaning with ledgers. Even at this time of the evening, with a large party going on upstairs, men in canvas aprons were hard at work moving boxes and checking stock. Our somber escort was directing us through the ground-floor business area of the great house to avoid the guests pouring into the reception salon on the second level. According to Venetian custom, the
palazzo
served not only as living space for several generations of the noble family and its servants, but also as the warehouse and headquarters of the family business. Based on the huge amount of goods, it seemed the Viviani business dealings must be quite successful indeed.

We finally stopped before a door attended by a very young footman. Muffled strains of music from a string ensemble floated down a nearby staircase.

Our escort put his hand on the doorknob. “The others have already arrived. Leave your cloaks in here. Someone will call for you shortly.” He opened the door and gave Annetta the smallest of bows, really just a barely perceptible inclination of his head, before he whisked up the stairs.

“Who was our friendly escort?” I asked of the assembled company as we stepped into a small room that was furnished like the antechamber of an advocate’s office.

Torani cleared his throat, his expression more irritated than usual. “That’s Bondini. If he has a first name, I’ve never heard it. Crivelli would probably know it. They both hail from Bolzano, over on the mainland. Bondini is Viviani’s major-domo.”

“And foremost pompous ass,” Orlando broke in.

Torani held up a cautionary hand. “Bondini has day to day charge over all his master’s dealings. He organizes the household staff, decides who will be admitted to Viviani’s suite and takes care of…some of his more personal errands. You don’t want to cross him. I’ve been told he can break an occasional arm if he has to.”

“Well, I say it’s just not right.” Orlando could not keep silent. “He shoves us away from the main entrance and treats us like lepers, as if we are somehow unclean because we perform before an audience.”

Adelina was slumped in a straight-backed armchair with her hand on her forehead. She sighed. “Orlando, please don’t start that again. Domenico, I mean Signor Viviani, is merely trying to whet the crowd’s appetite for our duet. He wants us to make a grand entrance to get everyone’s attention. It makes good sense.”

Torani nodded. “Adelina is right. I’ve been up there. The room is buzzing with talk about
The Revenge of Juno
and our new
castrato
.” He inclined his head to me and seemed to notice Annetta for the first time. “Is this pretty lady your sister?”

“Oh, yes.” I belatedly presented Annetta to each of my colleagues.

Orlando swallowed his resentment and made some pleasant welcoming remarks. Adelina seemed glad of the diversion. She rose and took both Annetta’s hands in hers. “We’re so glad to have Tito with us at the San Stefano. You must come and hear a rehearsal. The opera is finally beginning to come together.”

We were all standing in the middle of the small room, rejoicing over getting through two unhampered days of rehearsing
Juno
, as we had come to call the production. In cheerily decisive tones, Adelina proclaimed that delay and misfortune were finally behind us. I watched Torani’s face. If there had been a brief flicker of unease in his eyes, it vanished almost immediately. He was wallowing in the general self-congratulation when the young footman entered. In a quavering voice, the boy announced, “Signora Maria Grazia Albrimani.”

A rotund stump of a woman in a somber widow’s gown marched through the door. I put her age at less than forty, although her severe dress and heavy facial hair gave her the aura of a more advanced age. Her broad bosom, which supported an ornate crucifix as her only jewelry, rose as she drew herself up and prepared to speak.

“Some of you may know me. I am Signora Viviani’s sister. I have come to view the.…” Her lip curled in a particularly dramatic expression of disgust. “The actress who is bent on embarrassing us all and bringing dishonor to this house.”

I dropped my jaws in mute surprise, unsure of what to do or say until Torani took the lead.

Our director swallowed hard and bowed obsequiously. “Signora, we are simple musicians, here to entertain, not offend.” As he spoke he sidled in front of our little group, perhaps trying to shield Adelina from Signora Albrimani’s wrathful glare.

“The presence of a courtesan is always offensive to ladies of quality and refinement, Signore. When the courtesan parades herself before a good wife that she has wronged, the offense is doubled. No, tripled.”

“Oh dear,” whispered Adelina. Annetta drew close and reached for her hand.

“I have heard all about this La Belluna,” the little woman continued in scathing tones. “Her mother was a common servant in the house of a Turkish trader. Only God himself knows who her father was. She may even have the blood of an infidel in her veins. They say she has had so many lovers that no one in Venice can remember how many men have kept her. And still she makes a brazen display of herself on the stage and uses her whore’s wiles to ensnare more good Christian men. It’s appalling! Venice should follow the example of Rome and forbid women to appear on the stage.”

“Please, Signora.” Beads of sweat were popping out on Torani’s domed forehead. He spread his arms wide, palms facing backward, in a protective gesture that included us all.

“Out of the way, fool. You’re no better than she is, bringing such a wanton woman into this house.” Signora Albrimani pranced deftly around Torani and placed herself squarely in front of Adelina. “Why don’t you take yourself away from here instead of flaunting your shame before everyone?”

Adelina’s cheeks were flushed, and she clutched my sister’s hand so tightly that their arms were trembling in the folds of their skirts, but she kept her voice soft and steady. “I have been invited here to sing by the master of the house and sing I will.”

“Then this is what I think of your singing and this is what the Albrimani family thinks of you.” The undersized virago suddenly bounced onto her tiptoes and slapped Adelina hard across the cheek.

Orlando was the first to move. Cursing and sputtering, he sprang at Signora Albrimani as she stepped back with an unrepentant smirk on her round face. Torani wisely restrained him. Adelina stood as still as a statue, her hand to her cheek, her eyes staring into the middle distance. What was she thinking as Annetta murmured in her ear and tried to draw her away?

As I stood listening to the blood drumming in my ears, the door burst open to admit Bondini and the young footman. The major-domo seized the meaning of our stricken tableau in an instant. In a whispered growl toward the miserable footman, he said, “You should have called for me at once.”

Then, with a bow to the still smirking noblewoman, he said, “Signora Albrimani, your sister is asking for you. She would like you at her side when the entertainment begins.”

Bondini swept a pink-coated arm toward the door. His posture was all deference, but his severe gray eyes gave his words the weight of a command. Signora Albrimani drew a black-lace fan from a pocket in her voluminous skirts and flicked it open with a rebellious snap. She gave each of us a long, challenging look before leaving the room with the small, petulant steps of a child ordered away from a favorite game.

Torani exhaled with an audible rush of air, then grabbed the major-domo’s sleeve. “This is abominable. What right has that loathsome woman to insult Signora Belluna?”

Bondini brushed Torani’s hand off his arm, straightened his sleeve, and directed his answer to Adelina. “Signora, you have my most sincere apology. The master’s sister-in-law has seriously overstepped her bounds. She resides in this household as Signora Viviani’s companion and is charged with helping her sister with a multitude of domestic duties. Unfortunately, the companion casts herself in the role of champion and protector. The lady invents troubles, takes offense at trifles, and is determined to create a crisis at least once a day. I say this in explanation, not to excuse her behavior.”

Adelina listened gravely, her face a lovely, unsmiling mask with a fading splotch of red on one cheek. She broke her stillness with a shudder and nodded at Bondini.

“Can I get you something, Signora? A glass of wine? Brandy?” He kept his eyes on Adelina but snapped his fingers at the footman, who had been hovering anxiously.

“No, Bondini. I don’t need anything. I’ll be fine.” The soprano smoothed her hair, adjusted her glittering necklace, and continued in a firm voice. “Isn’t it about time for the duet?”

Bondini’s expression barely flickered, but I thought I detected relief in Viviani’s right-hand man. It would surely not have gone well for him if he had been forced to report that one of his master’s jewels couldn’t sing because of Signora Albrimani’s outrageous conduct.

Adelina swept through the door and started up the stairs, her head held as regally as the queen of the gods she was to portray. If she had qualms about performing after what had happened, she gave no outward sign. We followed in single file, even the temperamental Orlando humbled and quieted by the soprano’s full measure of grace and dignity.