4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight Read online

  “My music,” the composer stated, proudly facing Octavia, “is quite beyond your reach.”

  While Octavia gazed at her paramour like a dog who’d been kicked by a gentle master, Jean-Louis spread his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “Maestro Weber,” he said smoothly, “I see a possible compromise here. Perhaps our talented hostess could oblige us until a professional singer can be summoned from Venice. Signora Dolfini would sing Irene’s parts in the concert, the professional in the finished production.”

  “Now wait just a minute.” Emilio was on his feet this time. “That means I’ll have to rehearse all my pieces with two different sopranos. That’s double the work. That’s hardly fair. Tito, Romeo, Gabrielle, it will be the same for you. What do you say?”

  I shook my head, scarcely able to believe that we had gone from grieving over a murdered colleague to fussing over casting in the space of a few minutes. But everyone else, even Romeo, felt the need to voice an opinion. In the general squabble that ensued, I was the only one to notice Vincenzo slip quietly from the salon.

  ***

  Several joyless days passed. Inside the villa, rehearsals proceeded. I thought Vincenzo might put a stop to them: each time our paths crossed, his expression had become grimmer. But Octavia was still keen on her concert, and her husband apparently lacked the fortitude for a pitched battle.

  Since Karl was once again Octavia’s “poppet,” I assumed she had forgiven his traitorous remarks on her abilities. Striving to prove him wrong, she set about learning the part of Irene the rejected princess with fierce determination. She also worked through an hour of vocal exercises every morning before rehearsal, particularly concentrating on the rapid execution of allegros, which had been Carmela’s stock-in-trade. I actually had to admire several of her more attractive efforts.

  There was a new constraint among the rest of us. Romeo soldiered on with the role of Bazajet, but his heart wasn’t in it. I felt the same. The workaday camaraderie that greased the company’s relationships had been polluted by suspicion and doubt. Had one of our number harbored a secret hatred for Carmela? If not, who had summoned her to her death?

  Work proceeded in the vineyard as well. With a heroic effort, Ernesto and his pickers got the remaining grapes in before an intermittent drizzle of several days duration set in. The rest of the stomping was a sad affair with none of the carnival atmosphere that usually accompanied the completed grape harvest. As persistently and anonymously as the buzzing of wasps under the eaves, the word went around that the vintage was anticipated to be the poorest in years.

  Word also buzzed through the increasingly jumpy indoor servants, and thence to the company, that Vincenzo and Mayor Bartoli had finished questioning everyone on the estate. They had ascertained that a maid helped Carmela undress and unpin her hair at ten thirty, but despite their continuing efforts, they had turned up no suspects in either murder. On the evening leading up to Carmela’s death, the workers had remained in the vineyard or cantina until the last glimmer of twilight faded. A communal dinner in one of the cleared-out threshing barns followed. With a day of stooping and carrying topped by a heavy meal, almost everyone had returned to their homes well before midnight. They were all accounted for by family and friends; there are no loners in the countryside.

  Only Ernesto, Santini, and a few old graybeards had sat up smoking their pipes and comparing the grapes to those of years past. These men could vouch for each other until half past twelve.

  One bright ray pierced the general gloom: letters. After a particularly gruesome rehearsal, musically speaking, Karl slammed out of the villa for a damp, solitary walk just as I happened upon Giovanni depositing the Post on the round table in the foyer. I scooped up those addressed to me or Gussie, leaving only one thin envelope for Karl. Giovanni immediately ran this out on the portico and hailed our departing maestro, but Karl must have been concentrating on a difficult melody. Instead of returning at the footman’s call, he plowed ahead into the sodden landscape.

  Unable to work outside, Gussie had started painting in the barchessa attached to the east wing of the main house. This farm building had been cleared of animals and plows and other equipment and set up as a studio. I headed there as fast as my feet would fly.

  “I have a surprise,” I sang out, concealing the letters under my jacket as I entered the lofty room lined with bulging hay racks.

  Gussie looked up from his easel. He sat on a three-legged stool surrounded by boards pinned with dozens of sketches. Near at hand, a wooden crate served as a table for his paints and turpentine jars. Someone had done a nice job of clearing the barchessa. Except for a nest of straw in the opposite corner, the packed dirt floor had been swept clean. While my sensitive nose picked up a lingering scent of animal refuse, Gussie didn’t seem to be bothered.

  “Well, man, are you going to keep me in suspense forever?” Gussie brushed an unruly lock of hair from his forehead, at the same time depositing a bright smear of blue.

  “No, but you’ll have to come away from your canvas for a bit.”

  Sighing, he dipped his brush in turpentine and wiped it through a cloth. “I might as well. I’m not making much progress.”

  From my vantage point, in the weak light that Gussie had amplified with myriad candles, I could see only a faint outline of… what? Distant mountains poking into a cloud-swept sky?

  “Oh, don’t look at it. I’m barely started.” He waved a hand toward the rain-spotted windows that topped the hay racks. “My spirits were already low, and now this miserable weather.”

  “These will cheer you up,” I cried as I flashed the folded packets. “One from Annetta, one from Liya, and one from Benito that I’m hoping contains another message from Alessandro.”

  “It’s about time. I was beginning to think everyone had forgotten us.” He made a grab for his letter, and his eyes crinkled with cheer as soon as they lit on Annetta’s writing. In great excitement, he broke the seal. I followed suit with my letter from Liya. A long silence fell as we both lost ourselves in news from home.

  “Your Titolino slipped a lizard in Annetta’s sewing basket,” Gussie said after a moment.

  I chuckled. “They must have heard her scream all the way to the Piazza. Annetta can’t sing a note, but her voice was always twice as loud as mine or Grisella’s.

  “Oh, no,” I continued as I scanned Liya’s lines. “The boys were wrestling and broke the big milk pitcher.”

  Gussie shook his head in wonderment. “They were wrestling on the kitchen table?”

  “She doesn’t say,” I replied distantly, tracing my wife’s closing declaration of love with my forefinger. I could almost feel the smooth flesh of her cheek under my hand, the press of her lips against mine. At that moment, I missed Liya so badly I could have run the forty miles to Mestre, jumped in the lagoon, and swam home.

  “I say, Tito.” Gussie cleared his throat and slipped his letter in his waistcoat. “No matter how they squabble, Liya’s son has been damned good for Matteo. Before Titolino came, Matteo was with women most of the time. Even when you and Liya move house, you’ll still be close by, and they’ll grow up together, testing each other as boys should.”

  “Don’t look for us to be moving any time soon.”

  He cocked his head. “I’m not pushing you out, mind, but I thought you meant to use your earnings from Tamerlano to find a bigger place to live.”

  “I did, but I’ve been thinking. Grisella has been pressing me to confront Jean-Louis, but she’s desperately afraid that he won’t give her up without a fight.” I tapped my last, unopened letter against my palm. “Perhaps the Frenchman can be bought off.”

  “Oh, Tito. No.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve not come up with any other ideas for permanently removing Jean-Louis Chevrier or Fouquet or whatever he chooses to call himself from my sister’s life. He’s a businessman—we shoul
d be able to strike a deal. I just hope it’s one I can afford.”

  Gussie was slowly shaking his head, his jaw set tightly, his lips compressed.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Gussie. It won’t involve your finances. If I can’t stretch to Jean-Louis’ price, I’ll approach Alessandro for it. He’s been doing well these past years.”

  “It’s not that, Tito. You know if you needed money, I’d help you in a heartbeat.”

  “What is it, then?”

  “It’s Grisella. We know she’s not being entirely forthright about her escape from Constantinople.”

  “The other red-haired girl, you mean?”

  “Well, yes, that. And this business of the pasha she’s so afraid of, a Turkish nobleman so enamored that he’d have her followed all over Europe.” Gussie fiddled with his brushes, wiping each one and then tossing the crumpled rag to the floor. As he laid out a clean cloth, he said, “By Jove, her story just doesn’t wash. I know you don’t want to hear it, but I think Grisella is hiding something that may bring trouble on all of us.”

  I shuffled my feet uneasily. Gussie was right about one thing: his doubts were anything but welcome. They too closely mirrored my own. Thoroughly unsettled, I tore into the letter addressed in Benito’s hand. Perhaps it contained some news from Alessandro that could shed light on our quandary.

  As Gussie rearranged the jars and candles on his makeshift table and set up stools for both of us, I read aloud. My manservant’s proud report of smuggling Alessandro’s letter into the Post without our wives being any the wiser was amusing, but neither of us laughed, not with the pages from Constantinople holding who knew what revelations. I spread them in the puddle of candlelight, and we began to read.

  Chapter Eleven

  Constantinople, 2nd September 1740

  Dearest family,

  In my last letter, I spoke of The Red Tulip. I have now gained entry to that establishment, and a more disgraceful sewer of vice I could scarcely imagine. Yes, this is your sailor brother who once boasted he had visited every taverna from Cádiz to Corfu. Before I embraced the way of the Prophet, I did many things that shame me today. I was once as debauched as any of my shipmates. When a towering cliff of water stood over the deck or we lay becalmed, hungry, thirsty, and doubtful over our continued survival, then we entreated our creator with fervent prayers and promises. But when we reached land, God became a stranger once again, and we drank, whored, and gambled as before. Thanks to Zuhal and her family, I am now a changed man. With the noble example of Yusuf Ali as my daily guide, I keep on the straight path as completely as my weak will allows.

  Enough preaching. I know I’m being insufferably tiresome. New converts always are. You want to know what happened at The Red Tulip, and thus I shall proceed.

  Last night, I made my way to the brothel located in an alley that winds off Pera’s Taksim Square. A black eunuch in a ridiculously large turban opened the door. With palms together, he gave my companion a deferential bow of recognition. To gain entrance, I had renewed my acquaintance with a friend from the wild days of my youth: Antonio Fosca. You may remember him, Tito. We used to roam the six quarters of Venice, inventing practical jokes that earned us no end of trouble. You always tried to follow us, but I chased you back home. It was better so.

  We called Antonio “Signor Calamaro” because, like the squid, he always had his hands in numerous enterprises at the same time. The years have not been particularly good to my old friend. After failing to make his fortune in Venice, he traveled to Constantinople, attached himself to the Bailo, and now runs errands for the Venetian Consul. Calamaro is little changed, still charming, handsome, and dangerous to know. The doorkeeper conducted us to an anteroom painted with garish arabesques and invited us to take our ease on a low divan strewn with rugs and pillows. He clapped his hands at another eunuch, and a tray bearing sesame cakes and boza, a weak beer, was set before us. If we wanted something stronger, we would have to pay.

  “My friend and I are not here for refreshment,” said Calamaro. “Send Yanus in at once.”

  The doorkeeper bowed himself out, and the proprietor soon took his place. Yanus was a lithe, middle-aged man dressed in a European suit of plum satin. A snow white wig contrasted with his leathery skin and the dark eyes that darted hither and yon. He assessed my gold watch chain and the silver lace on my tricorne with the practiced squint of a pawnbroker. I was also garbed in Western dress, you see, just for the evening. Zuhal had found my white hose and the garters that held them up most entertaining.

  “Ah, Signor Dolfin,” Yanus said in tones of infinite regret. “We have missed you these past weeks, and now that you again favor us with your company, I must tell you that your favorite companion is indisposed.”

  “No matter. Lali is a cute little thing…” Here Calamaro elbowed me in the ribs. “Her breasts sport tits like thimbles, Alessandro. But tonight, I fancy something different.”

  Yanus nodded. “And your wishes, Signor… Alessandro… Might I have a proper name to call you by?”

  “Let’s just leave it at Alessandro. Show us the best you have and I’ll be satisfied.”

  “Make mine a blonde,” added Calamaro firmly.

  Yanus disappeared behind a latticed screen, and three musicians slowly filed in. They carried fiddle, drum, and tambourine. To preserve the fantasy of the harem, they were all blindfolded. Once they had struck up a tune, Yanus returned with a young dancer.

  The girl was white, probably Circassian or Greek, and her long tresses had been bleached to a pale gold. Yanus had prepared her well. She flashed a smile toward Calamaro and kept her gaze fixed on him as her body moved in a rhythmic pantomime of physical love. By the time she had fallen to her knees and bowed her back so that her hair rippled over the floor like a carpet of ripe wheat, my companion was fairly panting.

  Yanus quoted a price and Calmaro jumped to his feet. As he cupped the girl’s elbow and steered her across the floor, Yanus rubbed his hands and turned to me. He offered another young bud, “just as supple and luscious, only with hair like a raven’s wing.”

  I’d been giving the matter some thought. “In truth,” I said, “I prefer someone more experienced. Bring out the oldest woman you have.”

  Calamaro halted, one foot through the door. Sneering, he said, “The East must have changed you, old friend. In Venice, you were never the mother-loving type.”

  Yanus also wore an expression that suggested my tastes were not as adventuresome as he might have expected. “Are you certain? The very oldest?”

  I answered with a firm nod.

  Yanus once again dove behind the screen. Some minutes later, he reappeared with a woman of perhaps thirty-five. Her soft cheeks carried the impression of bedclothes and her tangled curls had been hastily gathered under a conical cap decorated with pearls and feathers. The rest of her simple costume consisted of rose damask drawers peeking from beneath a gauzy silk smock. As Yanus arranged its folds to best effect, the woman sent me a puzzled smile.

  I didn’t haggle over price, just ordered Yanus to ransack his cellar for a decent Italian wine. He bowed his agreement, not bothering to hide his increasingly speculative expression.

  I followed the woman upstairs to her room. Her name was Sefa, which means pleasure in Turkish. Though obviously surprised to have been summoned, she was determined to please. Murmuring a string of compliments about my person, she removed her cap, shook out curls touched with black henna, and drew back the sheets of the bed she had most certainly just made up. A Western bed. Asking Europeans to take their pleasure on a mat that could be rolled up and stored in a closet was apparently too much authenticity for The Red Tulip.

  I watched as Sefa fetched a silver perfume sprinkler wrought in the shape of the male appendage. With a coy smile, she traced it along the silky outline of her pendulous breasts, then drizzled lilac scent over th
e wrinkled bedclothes. I must have surprised her even more when I begged her to forget all that and simply sit at the foot of the bed.

  Positioning a plump footstool so we could converse on the same level, face to face, I explained that I only wanted to put some questions to her. She made her eyes into slits, accentuating the wrinkles that spread from their corners.

  “Do you know a man named Louis Chevrier?” I began.

  The bright spots burning over her cheekbones told me I’d chosen the right woman, but Sefa merely cleared her throat and said, “Men come and go like leaves blown in the wind. They seldom give a name.”

  “This man would have been a frequent visitor, perhaps an associate of the proprietor.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  I decided to take the plunge. “Chevrier asked my sister to contact him here. It’s been a while, perhaps a year or more. She’s Venetian, but can probably make herself understood in the local dialect and several other languages, as well. She’s very pretty with long red hair. Known for her singing voice. Have you seen anyone of that description?”

  Sefa cocked a graceful eyebrow. “Is that why you asked for me? You wanted to talk to someone who’s been here a long time?”

  I nodded. This was no time for flattery or dissimulation. If I wanted Sefa’s cooperation, I saw I would have to be honest. “My sister’s name is Grisella,” I replied. “She may have been ill.”

  Staring at a rose painted on a wall panel, Sefa worked her jaw back and forth until a knock at the door startled us both. She crossed the room. Shiny black hands handed in a tray with a wine bottle and two glasses. Sefa poured herself a generous portion and drank deeply before handing me a glass. I touched my lips to the rim, but forbore swallowing.

  Instead of returning to the bed, she crossed to a small window and told me I’d made a clever choice. She had belonged to Yanus for so many years that her usefulness has changed from entertaining his clients to training his new girls.