2 - Painted Veil Read online

  Chapter 2

  I left Benito polishing shoes and started through the maze of corridors that led to the stage. Audiences would be surprised to see how much space lay behind the backdrop that they thought of as the “back” of the theater. The dressing rooms were down a hallway that led to the right, well behind the stage. A larger, intersecting corridor held workshops and studios. With less than two weeks until opening night, this area was bustling. Carpenters were knocking scenery flats together, and machinists were tinkering with the intricate contraptions that brought the eye-popping stage effects to life.

  The project of the morning was nothing less than the River Nile. As described in the libretto, the first act curtain of Cesare in Egitto rose on the open-air atrium of a palace outside Alexandria. The contentious brother and sister, Ptolemy played by me and Cleopatra played by Emma, awaited a barge carrying the Roman hero, Julius Caesar. The scene designer had submitted a model depicting a series of columns and arches topped by statues of Egyptian deities. The river appeared through the wide arches as a trio of horizontal waves set before the backdrop. These could be made to simulate the rolling waters of the Nile by a team of burly stagehands turning cranks which slid the waves back and forth. As Caesar, Florio would make his first entrance singing from the prow of a barge bedecked with flags and streamers pulled in on a track behind the waves. For every enthralling but seemingly effortless entrance of this type, there was an army of stagehands straining at ropes, winches, and pulleys in the wings and below stage.

  I paused to stick my head in my favorite workshop: the scene painter’s studio. Luca Cavalieri, the principal artist, always had a vast canvas hanging from the ceiling, covering one entire wall. I loved watching it progress. Luca started with a lightly outlined sketch, painted a rough background, then added layers of perspective to create a vista that seemed to stretch for miles. This morning, the studio was an island of quiet in the backstage sea of banging, clanging activity. The smell of oily paint and pungent turpentine hung in the air, but the huge canvas was untended. Luca was nowhere to be seen.

  An exclamation of disgust floated up from behind a waist-high counter. I investigated. Several of Luca’s assistants were kneeling on the floor throwing dice. They jumped to their feet.

  “Ah, it’s you, Signor Amato,” said the taller one, whose name I could never remember.

  “Yes, just me. You can go back to your game.” I grinned. They were accustomed to my stopping by to admire their work and knew that I, as a singer, had no authority to fuss about their idleness, even if I had been the fussing type. “Where is your master? He is usually up to his elbows in paint by now.”

  The shorter, broader artist rattled the dice before answering with a touch of irritation. “Who knows? Signor Cavalieri keeps his own hours these days.”

  His fellow painter seemed more anxious to defend the studio’s supervisor. “He’ll be strolling in any minute now. You know Master Luca. He’s always busy with something. When he’s intent on a project, he forgets everything else, even what hour of the day it is.”

  “Does his latest project have a charming smile and a bosom to match?” I jested, but the painters passed a cautionary glance. With elaborate shrugs, they turned their attention back to their game.

  Before I could take a good look at the large canvas and the other half-painted flats leaning against the walls, someone bellowed my name out in the corridor. It was Aldo, the stocky, pugnacious stage manager who did hold authority over the entire backstage crew. Luca’s assistants swept the dice from the floor, jumped up, and reached for paint-stained smocks. I signaled for them to relax and went out to find Aldo pacing the corridor like a racehorse eager for the starting flag. A self-important smile stretched his thin lips across his round, alpine face. With his pale complexion and light brown hair, he appeared more Austrian than Venetian, but I knew his family as long-time residents of the parish next to my own.

  “I’ve wasted ten good minutes looking for you, Amato. Maestro Torani wants a word with you before rehearsal.” Aldo rocked back on his heels and searched my face for signs of the curiosity he thought his message would produce. He was disappointed. As part of my determination to distance myself from my old, careless ways, I was keeping my emotions on a tight rein. The stage manager continued with a scowl, “In his office. Right away.”

  The director’s office lay on the opposite side of the theater. The San Marco was a venerable opera house. It dated to the middle of the last century when it first occurred to a small group of noblemen that people might pay to see the intoxicating new spectacle that combined song, dance, and visual delights. Throughout the years, several families had owned the theater and exploited it to the utmost. When the Senate took over, the roof was leaking, the gilt on the boxes was flaking, and plaster was falling in hunks. Even the boards that floored the stage had warped. During the long-overdue refurbishing, Torani had claimed a quiet corner as far away from hammering, sawing, and vocalizing singers as the layout of the building would allow. The summons to his private sanctum came as a surprise. If Torani had anything to say to a musician in private, he generally used Aldo’s cubbyhole by the stage door.

  To avoid my colleagues gathering on the stage, I crossed behind the blank batten and canvas backdrop that stretched into the yawning gloom above. The hall outside Torani’s office was empty. I rapped on the door. The director didn’t make me wait; the door opened as if he had been standing right beside it. I began to worry. Was I guilty of some unknowing but serious transgression? Had I run afoul of Signor Morelli or the ubiquitous Carpani? I knew Maestro had not summoned me to indulge in social pleasantries. Rinaldo Torani seldom socialized with his musicians. He always said that the director of an opera company could not afford to get involved in personal entanglements with theater employees. He was probably right. I had seen company intrigue scuttle more than one promising career.

  Torani closed the door, careful to make sure that the latch caught. He motioned me to sit, then lowered himself into a high-backed leather chair behind his writing table. An inkwell had overturned, leaving a black stream that meandered over and around wrinkled papers, dirty crockery, and spent quills. He pushed at the debris in a half-hearted attempt to impose order, finally giving up and throwing his heavy-bottomed wig on top of the whole mess. A wig made sense for a man who retained so little of his own hair, but unless he was conducting an opera in front of an audience, our director could never manage to keep one in place for more than a few minutes.

  “How are you this morning, Tito?” he began, running a hand through the frizz that ringed his balding pate.

  “I’m doing well, Maestro.”

  “Finding Ptolemy’s cantabile aria a bit challenging are you?”

  “I’ve been working on it at home. I think you will be pleased.”

  He nodded and shifted his weight in his chair. “How are you getting along with Signor Florio? Not crossing swords too much, I hope.”

  “I find that there are things I can learn from him,” I replied, choosing my words with care.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was some tension between you. Florio can be… a difficult colleague.” The director used soothing tones. He cocked his head. Was he inviting a confidence? Maestro Torani had always reminded me of a determined sheepdog herding an untidy flock of singers and musicians. If we were late to rehearsal, Torani barked in quick, clipped phrases. If we dawdled in learning our words, he snapped at our heels until everyone fell in line. This new show of fatherly concern had me baffled.

  I cleared my throat. “I do wish I had known that Florio would be coming to Venice to head the cast of Cesare before I heard it in the coffeehouse.”

  “Ah, yes. I must apologize for that.” Torani bowed his head. “If you had been in the city I would have made sure you were informed. As it was, the Savio sprang the news on me while you were in a coach on the road between here and Florence. It took but a few hours for all Venice to be buzzing about it.”
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  I spread my hands in a gesture of resignation. “What’s done is of no consequence now. We all know our places and rehearsals for Cesare are progressing.”

  “I detect a note of bitterness, but I can’t blame you. I suppose I’d feel the same if I were in your position.” Torani rose and crossed to a sideboard holding a large pewter pot and some mismatched cups and saucers. “Will you take some chocolate? I have some every morning.”

  I nodded, more bewildered than ever.

  He served me a cup, poured one for himself, then leaned against the front of the writing table with his legs crossed at the ankles. “Florio has been accused of overweening vanity. I’d be foolish to argue against that charge, but it might help you to bear him if you knew something of his background.”

  Torani contemplated the frothy liquid he was swirling in his cup, then continued. “Our new star did not study at a conservatorio as you and most of your fellow singers did. He was trained for the stage by private tutors. The director of a choir in a small chapel outside Bologna discovered Florio’s voice and recommended him to a music enthusiast in that city. That gentleman arranged for his, em…” Torani sent me a quick glance. “…arranged for his surgery, and spared no expense to school him, not only in music, but also in the social graces that a singer moving in exalted circles is expected to possess.”

  “I’ve been told that he was only fourteen when he first sang in public.”

  “True. He was pushed to the stage early, but debuted to unprecedented acclaim. In the span of one evening’s performance he exploded from complete obscurity into the brightest star in the heavens.”

  “Unlike the stars that remain fixed in the night sky, Florio’s fame continues to spread and brighten.”

  Torani nodded. “The man is feted and showered with gifts wherever he appears. In London, the Prince of Wales was so enthralled that he had a medal struck in Florio’s honor, as if he were a general who had just saved the empire.”

  “I’ve heard the story. When some of the courtiers objected, Florio said that when an English general sacrificed as much as he had for his voice, then he would gladly give up his medal.”

  Torani gave a dry chuckle. “Florio has a sharp tongue, but few men could bear such unremitting adulation without it marking their characters for ill. Do you know he doesn’t even have a home? He talks of using his riches to build a palazzo fit for a duke in the Umbrian hills, but he has never stopped traveling long enough to find a suitable estate.”

  I smiled to myself. Here, at last, was something I possessed that my rival did not. My home might lie on an out of the way campo in the Cannaregio, a modest quarter far from the Piazza San Marco with its magnificent Basilica and government buildings, but it suited me well. I had been born in that house, learned to play ball in the square, and had my first music lessons at the parish church down the calle. Since our father died, I had been sharing the house with my brother and sister.

  My sister Annetta was the heart of our small family. She minded the house and was responsible for all our comforts. A mistress of detail, she thought of everything from sprinkling our sheets with lavender water while they dried in the sun to rising at dawn to have her pick of the freshest fish at the pescheria. In age, she stood between my older brother Alessandro and myself. Other matters tended to put her in the middle as well. I admit Annetta was often called on to play the role of peacemaker.

  Alessandro still didn’t know what to make of his eunuch brother. Simply put, we lived in different worlds. My brother was a merchant seaman who hearkened back to previous generations of sturdy adventurers who had made our city-republic the center of Mediterranean trade. He was probably one of the few Venetians who had no use for opera. Alessandro considered music a frivolous career for any man and the doctoring done to preserve my perfect soprano an offense to reason and nature. He refused to believe my protestations that I had made peace with my condition and might even have chosen it if my ten-year-old self could have been granted the wisdom to understand the gains that would spring from the pain and the loss. We had not argued the matter for several months. Alessandro was away on a trading journey, probably haggling over a cartload of goods at some exotic suk even as Maestro Torani regarded me over the rim of his cup.

  The director bit his lower lip. He started to speak, frowned, then said in a rush, “Tito, I must tell you why I called you here. I have a rehearsal to supervise.”

  Finally. “Yes, Maestro?”

  “Have you had a good look at the scenery lately?”

  “I looked in on Luca’s studio this morning. The backdrop for the first act is much the same as it was two days ago.”

  Torani took a sip of chocolate and let it linger in his mouth as if he still had doubts about confiding whatever it was he had on his mind. At last he said, “The work has come to a complete halt. The canvas in the studio should have been ready to fly above the stage days ago. The others are in a similar condition, only partially complete. The background painters have done as much as they can without Signor Cavalieri’s direction.”

  “Where is Luca? Has he fallen ill?”

  “No, he’s not ill. I’ve sent messengers to his lodging. He’s simply disappeared.” Torani leaned toward me. A thin sheen of perspiration had formed on his prominent forehead. “Tito, I need your help. I want you to find Luca Cavalieri and get him back here to finish the sets.”

  His request drew me up in my seat. “Maestro, why do you ask this of me? Luca is a pleasant fellow, but we are hardly friends. I rarely see him outside the theater.”

  Torani ignored my question. “I’ve already made a few inquiries,” he said. “I’ve talked to Luca’s assistants. And Aldo. Sometimes they go to a café or a wineshop after the show.”

  “But, Maestro…”

  The director forged ahead, his eyes intent on mine. “The last time anyone at the theater saw him was night before last. Luca and his two background painters worked late that night. They’ve been tearing through the oil and the candles. I can tell you, Carpani has been on my back about that.”

  Torani turned and deposited his cup on the desk top with such force that the handle snapped and chocolate splashed over the jumbled papers. He grabbed a few sheets, moved them to safety, and dabbed at the muddy rivulets with his handkerchief. I offered him mine, but he shook his head and sat back down behind the writing table with a profound sigh.

  “You see how it is here. Morelli’s long-nosed clerk is choking the life out of me. It was a black day when Morelli hired that clerk away from Probate Court. Carpani insists that I account for every soldo in the most excruciating detail. He’s suffocating me with piles of lists and requisitions. What’s worse, his meddling is keeping me from my real work. I haven’t even had time to block out the scene we are to rehearse today.” He put his hands together in a prayerful position. “I don’t have time to run from pillar to post to look for Luca. Please, Tito, you can do this. You uncovered a murderer for us once before. Finding a scene painter who’s decided he needs a holiday should be child’s play.”

  I hesitated. “Perhaps something’s happened to Luca. He might be in a hospital, unable to tell anyone who he is.”

  Torani shook his head quickly. “Do give me some credit. That was one of the first things I checked. No, Luca’s inconstant ways have made him forget he’s a working man. You find him, and I’ll make sure he never forgets again.”

  “Then why not send Aldo, Maestro? He knows Luca much better than I do.”

  Torani gave me a long look over the tips of his fingers, then said, “I’ve already quizzed Aldo. He knows nothing and is busy with his other duties. You are the one I want for this job. I trust you, Tito. We’ve weathered many storms here at the San Marco and you’ve always done everything I’ve asked of you. I know this is different than my usual requests, but finding Luca would be a great help to this theater. And to me personally.”

  I squirmed in my chair, remembering the vow I had made in my dressing
room only minutes before. Tracking Luca down shouldn’t be too difficult. The man was known for his artistic talents, not restraint in the face of Venice’s many temptations. Balls, all-night gambling, rich food and drink, and the more private pleasures that could be found in dim casini all over the city: Luca had fallen victim to each of these on many occasions. I was sure to find him in one of his haunts, already regretting a two-day bout of Venetian excess and ready to return to his canvas.

  “All right,” I answered, only dimly aware of how easily I’d been herded to that decision. “I’ll do as you ask, Maestro, but you’ll have to see that I get out of rehearsal in good time. And I’ll need Luca’s address.”

  Torani’s pinched face relaxed. He smiled and rubbed his hands like a hungry man about to carve a mouthwatering joint of beef. He hastened to give me the details he had gleaned about the last time Luca was seen. These were sparse in the extreme. A little after nine on the evening before last, Luca had given his assistants their leave and bidden them a cheery goodnight. They expected to see him the next morning at their usual time. A few minutes later, Aldo asked Luca to go have a drink with him, but the painter declined, saying he had a few more things to do. When Aldo returned to finish locking up, Luca was gone and hadn’t been seen since.

  “One more thing, Tito,” the director said as he tore a scrap of paper from a sheet on his desk and wrote out Luca’s address. “You must be discreet. Signor Carpani hasn’t realized that the work on the sets has been delayed. I’m praying you can get Luca back to the theater before he finds out.”

  Chapter 3

  Signor Carpani was annoyed. Not only had rehearsal started at quarter of eleven instead of half past ten, but Torani immediately undertook to drill Niccolo, our Neapolitan tenor, leaving the other singers free to lounge in the green room downstairs or watch Niccolo’s struggles from the floor of the auditorium. Unfamiliar as he was with the often inscrutable workings of an opera company, Carpani raised an objection.