1 - Interrupted Aria (14 page)

Chapter 14

For the remainder of the evening, I can only blame callow infatuation and poor judgment.

After I had put on my street clothes and dressed my hair in a simple plait confined by a black ribbon, I noticed an envelope lying on my floor near the door. The outside was addressed to Signor Amato, and inside were two sheets of fine writing paper. One sheet contained a sonnet written in a delicate, flowery hand. Its playful theme was the sweet release of unrestrained lust. The other sheet contained only two lines:

I must see you. Meet me by the statue of Bartolomeo Colleoni at a quarter past midnight.

The signature was blurred as if by too hasty blotting, but I thought I could just make out a Sig. V.

Signora Veniero! She had not been in the audience that night, but I had spotted her in a second-tier box the evening before. Her brilliant green eyes had connected with mine more than once. I had been longing to have another chance to talk to her but hadn’t known how to arrange a meeting. Now she was contacting me!

I tore down the stairs and through the darkened theater. A crew of sweepers was clearing the pit of its litter of papers and discarded odds and ends. Torani stood at the door of the box office. He extended a hand toward me as I rushed by. I shouted that I was in a hurry and would talk with him the next day. It was nearly midnight and the Colleoni statue was in the easternmost quarter of the city. I would have to take a gondola and promise the boatman a
zecchino
if he got me there in time.

Bartolomeo Colleoni had been one of Venice’s great heroes several centuries back. A
condottiere
who led mercenary armies against both the Turks and our old enemies of Milan, he left his considerable fortune to the Republic on the condition that a prominent statue of him astride his favorite steed be erected on the Piazza San Marco. At the valiant general’s demise, his gold was eagerly accepted, but the Senate decided that a monument to a private citizen in the spiritual and political heart of Venice was intolerable. It would represent a dangerous level of individualism in a city-republic that demanded her citizens put the interests of the state above all else. With typical Venetian cunning, the Senate ordered the statue be raised in an out-of-the-way square in front of the Scuola San Marco instead of on the piazza of the great basilica. Thus the letter of the bargain was kept, but the old soldier was denied his cherished tribute.

With my gondolier pushing the oar as fast as possible, I was at the edge of the city in under a quarter of an hour. I had him set me down under cover of a small bridge at the corner of the square. The night was cold but clear with a magnificent canopy of stars. Lantern posts set at intervals before the shadowy mass of the church of Santi Giovanni e Paolo flickered over the smooth paving stones. I was overjoyed to see the deserted
campo
inhabited only by the fiercely scowling Colleoni on his bronze stallion. I stationed myself by the pedestal of the huge monument and willed myself to enjoy the pins and needles of anticipation that were coursing through my body.

Exactly on the appointed hour, I saw a gondola with two rowers draw near the quay. A tall, masked woman disembarked and approached the statue with a striding gait. I strained my eyes. Could this bulky woman who walks like a man truly be the object of my infatuation? I asked myself the question a moment too late.

Behind me, I heard the clatter of boots running on hard paving stones. In front of me, the tall woman threw her cloak off with an impatient gesture and also broke into a run. I ducked around the corner of Colleoni’s pedestal and sprinted for the bridge. My gondola had passed a crowded wineshop on the opposite side of the canal. If I could reach the bridge and yell to attract attention, I might yet have a chance.

They brought me down before I had got halfway. Tackled from behind, I struck the stones with my forehead and, suddenly, the stars were dancing all around me.

I must have been in a stupor for only a few minutes, but that was long enough to have been blindfolded, gagged, and had my arms bound tightly behind my back. Through a splitting pain in my head, I judged I was in the bottom of a swift gondola on one of the narrower canals. My captors were silent, but the scrape of their boots and rustle of their garments made me think there were three men besides the boatmen. After a few minutes, our progress slowed and I heard one of the gondoliers give the hoarse cry that warns other traffic that a boat is poised to turn into a wider canal. We shot forward. Now the craft tossed and rocked on the choppier water of a larger channel.

My head swam and bile rose in my throat, but I willed my stomach to settle and tried to analyze my situation. Was this a kidnapping? A robbery? My small purse was still in my waistcoat pocket; I felt it digging uncomfortably into my lower ribs. I moved slightly to ease my position and instantly received a sharp kick in the back. A rough voice warned me to be still and stay quiet. A heavy cloak descended around me, muffling all sound and concentrating my attention on simply getting enough air to stay conscious.

Finally the gondola bobbed to a halt and, somewhere very close, iron scraped against stone. Rough hands grabbed me. I was lifted bodily and half dragged, half carried out of the night air. Their message was brief and pointed. I was flung into a hard chair and a voice rasped close to my ear, “You’ve been asking too many questions,
castrato
. La Belluna’s death is no business of yours. You are to stick to your singing and leave the dead in peace. Understand?”

Before I could signal a response, I was kicked in the side and grabbed around the throat.

“Not his neck, you fool. You were warned.” The raspy voice rose in intensity.

An expletive followed and my head was jerked back by someone yanking my plait.

“No more questions about La Belluna. Understand?”

This time I was allowed to nod before a second set of hands forced my chin down. Steel slithered from a scabbard and pressed against the back of my neck. Were they going to kill me after all?

No, the blade was sawing through my hair, and soon I had lost my plait. The gag was jerked from my mouth and my lifeless hank of hair was stuffed in its place. Strangely gentle hands stroked my thighs and took a firm grasp on the crotch of my breeches.

“Whatever you have left here, my friend—that’s what you will find in your mouth the next time we meet.”

Chapter 15

I awoke the next morning with a knot the size of a walnut on my forehead and bitter anger churning my spirit. I had been dumped, weak and shivering, at the bottom of the
calle
that led to the Campo dei Polli. As soon as I hit the pavement, I snatched the blindfold from my eyes but glimpsed only an anonymous gondola filled with hulking shapes slipping down the misty canal. Somehow I directed my heavy feet up the
calle
and fit my key into the front door. Head throbbing and heart still pounding, I climbed the stairs and shut the door of my room against the violence of the night. Without removing so much as my coat, I stretched out on the cool linen sheets and Morpheus, the ancient god of sleep, dealt with me more gently than anyone else had that day.

The appropriate target for my anger lay in a building with an iron water gate somewhere on one of Venice’s major canals. Lacking the means to narrow my target further, I sat at the breakfast table glumly swirling my coffee and watching the creamy clouds form and billow in my cup. Annetta hovered over my bruised forehead with a bottle of arnica and one of Father’s old handkerchiefs that she was trying unsuccessfully to make into a bandage. After she and Alessandro had absorbed the gist of my midnight adventure, they both pressed me with anxious questions but were getting only curt grunts in response.

Annetta finally assumed the big sister’s no-nonsense tone that demanded a response. “Are you going to do as the men ordered—drop your efforts to free Felice?”

I had turned that dilemma over in my mind since winter’s gray dawn had begun poking at my bedroom window. In the weak light, Felice’s empty cot appeared as an indistinct, shadowy mass. By the time it had solidified into a wooden frame topped with a mattress and pillow neatly wrapped in bed linen, I had made up my mind.

“Would you want me to give it up, Annetta?” I asked. “Could you stand by and simply let cruel Venetian justice take its course?”

“You know I could not.” Her jaw was firmly set, but she twisted the cloth with worried hands. “Especially since last night’s attack virtually proves Felice’s innocence.”

“Yes, I thought of that,” I responded. “If Felice murdered Adelina, why would anyone else be interested in stopping my questions?”

Alessandro had been pacing the room. His long legs, accustomed to ships’ decks and wide-open marketplaces, were uncomfortably confined by our tiny dining room crammed with furniture. He straddled a chair across from me. “You can’t go on blindly asking questions of first one and then another, Tito. That won’t get you anywhere and could be dangerous besides. We need to plan this out, make it an organized investigation.” He gnawed at a callused knuckle. “The main thing is time. How much do we have?”

“I’m not sure. It has been four days since Adelina’s death.”

Alessandro considered. “I’m surprised that Messer Grande has held off this long. If he accepts Susannah’s version of her mistress’ death, there should be nothing holding him back from hauling Felice before the State Inquisitors.”

Annetta brightened. “Maybe Messer Grande is not as convinced of Felice’s guilt as rumor would have it.”

I saw what my next step would have to be, but didn’t relish the prospect. Venice’s chief of police, one Ludovico Cello by name and Messer Grande by title, was the king spider in a dense web of official peacekeepers, minor authorities, and a cadre of hidden agents dedicated to preserving the interests of Venice’s ruling elite by whatever means necessary. The ruthless determination of his informers was legendary. Any sensible citizen would keep far away from Messer Grande and his agents, but to learn the details of Felice’s situation, I would have to confront this spider.

“I’ll go down to the piazza and see him later today.”

The words came reluctantly, but I felt better for having said them.

Alessandro shook his head. If he had meant to oppose my plan, he was interrupted by Berta entering the room with all the officious importance of the Doge’s chief chamberlain.

“Look what my baby has made,” she said with a beaming smile, “all by herself. Well, with only a
little
help.”

Grisella bore a steaming basket. My nose recognized a childhood treat:
frittelle
, hunks of fried dough sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar. But the pastries were not meant for us. With a sober expression on her little face, Grisella set the basket on the table, crossed to the linen cupboard, and retrieved a fresh white napkin. With great ceremony, she unfurled the cloth and tucked it around the contents of the basket. Only then did she observe her sister and brothers.

“Oh, Tito,” she squealed. “What happened to your hair?”

I gave her a modified version of the night’s activities, but didn’t leave out the essential objective of the attack, which was, of course, to induce me to abandon Felice.

Grisella’s dark eyes widened. She came close and ran a hand through what was left of my hair. Then she gave my forehead a gentle kiss, no more than the touch of a lark’s wing. As Annetta and Alessandro shared a look of concern, Grisella’s behavior grew more agitated. She grabbed my sleeve and moaned, “This is terrible. This shouldn’t have happened.”

I tried to downplay my condition and turn her attention to lighter matters. “I don’t mind the short hair, little one. I think I’ll turn Lupo into a fashionable
friseur
and have him dress my hair in curls every morning.”

“No, no. That doesn’t matter.” She was near tears now. “You must get Felice out of jail. He’s my friend. He doesn’t belong there.”

Annetta shot Berta a pleading look. Alessandro patted Grisella’s shoulder, saying, “Tito is trying. We’ll all help him. You mustn’t worry yourself about this.”

Berta forestalled further hysterics from the youngest Amato by placing the
frittelle
basket firmly in her hands. “You can do something for Signor Felice now. Take these pastries to the guardhouse before they get cold. Try giving some to the guard, he might let you see your friend.”

Annetta wasted no time in untying her apron and accompanying Grisella on her errand. Berta began gathering the breakfast crockery onto a tray, taking her time to brush every last crumb from the tablecloth. Finally she crossed her arms and pursed her lips.

“What is it, Berta?” This was Alessandro.

“Last night was my lamb’s worst spell yet. Your Papa was out. There was only Signorina Annetta and I to manage. It was a frightful fit. We could hardly hold her still. And the curses she yelled at us,
Dio mio
.” She made a quick sign of the cross. “I thought she would never come out of it.”

“What set this one off, Berta?” I asked.

She spread her arms. “Who knows? It seems to take less and less. She had begged to go to work with your Papa so he took her with him for the first time in a week or more. She came back tired and out of sorts, but he said she’d had a good day.” The old servant thought for a moment and continued in a challenging tone. “The doctor came and said more cold baths would be the cure. The man is a fool, learned or not. Something else must be done. I tried to talk to Signor Isidore about it this morning, but he just put me off as he always does.”

Alessandro stroked his beard. “I have recently heard of a Dominican friar, a very holy man who is said to work wonders in these cases. He lives in a monastery out on one of the lagoon islands. I say it’s time to see what he can do for Grisella.”

Berta nodded enthusiastically and then gave me a reproachful glare as I raised skeptical protests against what I considered to be absurd superstition. Try as I might, I could not picture a devil residing in my sister’s body.

But my brother was adamant. “What is the harm in trying an exorcism? This monk is an intelligent, educated man, not some wild-eyed fanatic. Before he entered the monastery, he studied at the University of Padua. If Grisella is bedeviled by some spirit, this worthy man may bring her peace. If not, what harm will have been done?”

I had to agree with Alessandro’s logic and ended up wishing him luck in finding this monk. After all, what could be lost in trying?

I was nearly ready to set out for the Procuratie, the vast building that held the offices of Messer Grande and a hundred other Venetian officials, when Lupo brought a note up to my room. This time I had the good sense to send Lupo running after the messenger to confirm that the sender was who he purported to be. At least I could let the events of last night teach me a little caution. The note was from Crivelli, bidding me to meet him at the Mendicanti as soon as possible. He promised someone would be waiting at the orphan asylum to impart information that would be of much interest.