1 - Interrupted Aria (27 page)

Chapter 29

“We could have the innkeeper announce us,” I ventured as we conferred under the lamp-lit portico of the Crescent Moon.

“That would eliminate the element of surprise,” Alessandro answered. “We need to give Bondini a scare. We’re sure to get more out of him that way.”

The innkeeper turned out to be a pallid copy of his brother. The man answered the door holding a solitary candle. His only apparel was a dirty nightshirt and a limp nightcap pulled down over gray, matted hair. Where the host of the North Star had been sure and decisive, the man who greeted us was uncertain and shiftless. Not surprisingly, his inn was a rundown heap of boards and tiles compared to the neat establishment kept by his brother in Mestre.

We started to explain our mission, talking over each other in our haste. The innkeeper first looked puzzled, then retreated nervously behind his stained counter. He was loath to awaken a paying guest, but Alessandro pressed the urgency of our pursuit and fell just short of claiming that the innkeeper’s brother had personally endorsed our request. Using a delicate balance of guile and intimidation capped by an exchange of small coins, my brother persuaded the Moon’s owner to conduct us upstairs to Bondini’s door.

Alessandro pounded on the planks. From inside we heard a squeal of distress and a frantic scrambling. My brother didn’t hesitate. He drew one knee to his chest and, with a mighty burst of energy, kicked the door open. The innkeeper winced. The last I saw of him was the tail of his nightshirt disappearing around the corner of the drafty hall.

Bondini had one leg out the window. He had thrown his jacket over his nightshirt and clutched a small traveling bag to his chest. By the dim light of the banked fire, we saw our quarry measure the distance to the ground, then search desperately for an alternate escape. Alessandro sprang before Bondini could decide to jump. In less than a minute, my brother had wrestled Viviani’s former steward to the floor and thrown him in a rush-seated chair by the fireplace. Bondini breathed in shallow gasps and trained his icy gaze on me as I closed the window, poked at the coals, and lit the candles on the mantle.

Alessandro slammed the door of the shabby room and threw a long leg over a second wooden chair. He settled himself with determination. Confronting Bondini with an implacable face, he said, “Now we’ll have some answers. Where’s your master gone?”

Bondini buttoned his woolen jacket with skeletal fingers, eyes shifting between Alessandro and me all the while. He finally threw me a controlled snarl. “You have no right to interrogate me,
castrato
.”

“We have every right. Alessandro and I are here as brothers of Grisella Amato. We believe your master took Grisella with him when he fled Venice.”

“Former master. I owe no further allegiance to Domenico Viviani.” Bondini’s lip curled. “And yes, he has your sister. He had me retrieve the little whore from your house myself.”

Alessandro shot up from his chair. “You damned villain. How dare you insult our sister? You’re talking about a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“I’m describing her behavior, not her age,” Bondini spat back.

I stepped between my brother and the former steward. Placing a hand on Alessandro’s shoulder, I whispered, “Sheathe your temper, Brother. We’ll never get the information we need if you beat him senseless.”

Getting a tense nod in reply, I turned to face Bondini. “Why don’t you just tell us the story from the beginning. How did our sister get involved with Viviani?”

The gray wraith in the chair sent us chilling looks but kept his mouth clamped shut.

Calmer now, Alessandro turned slowly and deliberately. He took the poker and worked at the fire. After coaxing a burst of flame from a broken log, he regarded the instrument thoughtfully, then addressed Bondini. “We have a sister in serious trouble and a friend facing execution. Tito here has lost his position at the opera house, and I’m not due to sail with a new cargo until after Christmas. We’re determined to get the information we require, and we’re ready to stay here,
well within Venetian territory
, until we do. Can you say the same?”

We waited. The brewing storm had followed us inland. A steady rain pelted the windowpanes and wind whistled through chinks in the chimney. I knew Alessandro’s anger was as hot as my own, but we forced ourselves to remain silent and wait the villain out.

Finally, Bondini stretched his lips over his teeth in a sickening grin. “Oh, I know where your sister is headed. Let me tell you all about her, then you can decide if you still want her back.”

“Go on,” I ordered between clenched teeth.

“Signor Viviani noticed your sister at the Ascension Day concert last May. The Pieta and the Mendicanti both sent choirs of girls to sing at the Doge’s palace. Grisella stood out like a flaming rose amid a bank of field daisies. Of course, she was a rose in the bud and my former master generally prefers the full blown flower, but he was intrigued, definitely intrigued.” Bondini paused for a malicious chuckle, but resumed his story when Alessandro began twirling the poker in his fingers.

“It was simplicity itself to find out that your sister was not a Mendicanti orphan but the daughter of one of the maestros. His Excellency knew of your father. Isidore Amato is a familiar figure at all the gaming houses. He’s pitiful really…never knows when to quit and always short of funds. My orders were to slip your father a few
zecchini
here and there, monitor his play, and report any heavy losses. It didn’t take long. The more I gave him, the more the fool lost.

“When Isidore had amassed a sizable debt, I cut him off. Viviani let him receive a few threats, then simmer in the stewpot for a while. When His Excellency finally offered him an arrangement, your father was one step away from ending up at the bottom of the lagoon. But he was still at the tables. I think the man would sell his breeches before he’d stop playing.” Bondini couldn’t resist a disdainful smirk.

I thought I might have to restrain Alessandro again, but he just shook his head and said, “And you enjoyed every minute of the intrigue. You’re lower than a sand snake. How do you abide in your skin?”

Bondini sat up a little straighter. “I followed orders. No one in my master’s service was more loyal or fixed in his duty.”

“Just look where your loyalty has brought you. You’re on the run, abandoned by your master to face Messer Grande and the Tribunal.”

Bondini’s face turned even grayer, and he slumped down in the chair. “Leave off the accusations,” I begged my brother. “Let him go on with his tale so we can follow Grisella.” I encouraged our miserable captive. “Go on, Signore. The sooner you finish, the sooner you can get on the road to Bolzano.”

Bondini gulped and continued in a subdued tone. “Signor Viviani offered to pay your father’s debts in return for time alone with Grisella. It was my job to escort her from the Mendicanti to Viviani’s private
casino
. At first the girl was frightened and Isidore had to browbeat her with a combination of threats and bribes, but then there was a surprising change.” Bondini looked up with a trace of wonder in his eyes. “She fell in love with my master. When I came to collect her, she would leap in the gondola. If the boat was slow, she would pummel me with those little fists and tell me to make the boatman row faster.”

I rested my forehead on the mantle, no longer able to look Bondini in the eye. The blood pounded in my temples. I wanted to strangle someone. Bondini? Father? Or the middle-aged libertine who had corrupted my sister? Beside me, Alessandro groaned and murmured, “I don’t understand. Grisella is an innocent, just a child.”

Bondini delivered the next coup with relish. “She
was
an innocent. My master awakened something within her. When I opened the door of the
casino
, the vixen would be in the bedroom on her back before I could even light the candles and lay out my master’s dressing gown.”

Alessandro leapt for Bondini’s chair. He grabbed the collars of his jacket and shook him like a terrier shakes a canal rat. “Where is she? Where has he taken our Grisella?”

“Are you sure you want to find the little whore?”

Alessandro’s hands moved to the steward’s stringy neck. I clutched at my brother’s arm and begged Bondini, “Grisella is our sister and a great wrong has been done to her. Where is she?”

Bondini found a new strength. He broke Alessandro’s grasp and answered so forcefully he sprayed our faces with spittle. “Do you still want her back if I tell you she killed Adelina Belluna to keep her lover’s favor?”

My brother and I stood transfixed. The howling wind and lashing rain outside the window merely echoed the tumult within us. The fear we could barely express to each other had been flung in our faces by Viviani’s noxious henchman. Our poor sister! What madness had Viviani inspired in her?

The creak of the opening door brought us back to life. We looked to find Messer Grande in fur-trimmed cape and traveling boots grinning at us from the doorway. Shadowy figures of
sbirri
filled the hallway behind him. The chief of Venice’s constabulary strolled toward us, pulling off his leather gloves as he crossed the floor. He stopped so close to me that the smell of damp fur forced itself into my nostrils and the moon-shaped scar on his fleshy nose took possession of my gaze.

He smiled as his
sbirri
clamped heavy hands on the terrified Bondini. “I don’t know about the songbird and his brother,” he said, “but I’d be very interested in hearing where Viviani has taken his young mistress.”

Chapter 30

I was back in Venice, looking out over the monastery courtyard and its surrounding neighborhood from my well-used tower perch. The storm of the night before had swept winter back toward the mountains and made way for a few days of mellow, sunny weather that behaved more like September than December. I let the gentle evening breeze ruffle my hair as I watched workmen strolling home for supper and lamps twinkling on behind grilled windows and lace curtains.

The city seemed unusually quiet. With the break in carnival festivities, the only excitement on the piazza was a mild stirring that foreshadowed the approaching Christmas holiday. The little shops were cleaning their display windows and putting up greenery and tinsel; confectioners were firing up their vats to make
mandorlato
, a Christmas treat filled with honey and almonds; and the tolling of church bells rang out at unexpected hours.

A welcome sense of peace pervaded my spirit. Messer Grande had obtained what he sought from Bondini. Though the goals of the chief of police differed markedly from my own, we had reached a surprisingly satisfying agreement. Felice had been set free before Alessandro and I had disembarked at the San Giobbe quay. I had not had a chance to see my friend. Brother Mark had bundled Felice away to the Dominicans’ lagoon monastery for rest and recuperation from his dreadful ordeal. I would visit him in a few days. For now it was enough to know that Felice was safe and would never feel the executioner’s wire tighten around his throat.

The worst part of returning to Venice had been telling Annetta about Grisella’s role in Adelina’s death. My older sister reproached herself again and again for her failure to realize that Grisella was in the clutch of Viviani’s debauchery. I could only remind her that none of us had seen what was practically under our noses.

Small incidents came back to me. Now I understood the puzzled look on Viviani’s face at the
Juno
reception. He thought he had given Torani permission for Grisella to come hear my duet with Adelina and was no doubt intrigued with the idea of his wife and both of his mistresses being in the same room. I surprised him when I introduced Annetta as my sister, but his sharp wits allowed him to recover quickly. I tried to convince myself that no one could be expected to doubt a father’s devotion to his daughter’s welfare, but the thought gave little consolation. Of all my siblings, I should have realized what Father was capable of.

I gripped the stone railing of the parapet and pulled against it to stretch my tired shoulders. I groaned as my legs and buttocks reminded me of last night’s wild ride. My mind was so distracted by my body’s aches that I failed to hear the footsteps creeping up the spiral staircase. My heart leapt to my throat when I heard my father’s voice at the top of the stairs.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere, boy. I ran into old Crivelli at a coffeehouse. He said you might be up here.”

With considerable effort, I forced my hands to stay on the railing and not fly to my father’s throat. He mistook my self-control for sulking. “Tito, it’s time to come home. You shouldn’t be mooning about up here. It’s almost dark. You and Alessandro did all you could to find Grisella. Don’t blame yourself for her faults.”

“Grisella’s faults?”

Father shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, she’s not really a bad girl. At first she wanted to protect her family. And help her father. Of all you children, only my little Grisella truly understands what she owes her father.”

“And what is that?” I asked, wondering what twisted logic he would produce next.

“Obedience. I would have obedience from all my children.”

“Was it by your order that she sailed away with Viviani?”

“That was her own foolishness. I instructed Grisella to do what she must to preserve the family fortunes, but she came to enjoy her task overmuch. Now she’s thrown her lot in with a condemned traitor, and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

I turned to face him squarely. “Do you not reproach yourself at all?”

He stepped toward the railing and gave me a thin smile. “I admit I am addicted to games of chance. I always believe I can charm the lady Fortune over to my side no matter how shabbily she has treated me in the past. I let myself come to a sorry pass this time, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll get these debts paid off and never go over my limit again.”

“And when I was robbed of my manhood, did your gambling debts need to be paid then as well?”

His dark eyes searched my face but showed little surprise at my question. After a pause, he said, “You must understand my plight back then, Tito. I was facing utter ruin. I’d sold or pawned everything of value in the house, but it still wasn’t enough to pay what I owed. I’d borrowed from my associates until they slipped out of the coffeehouse when they saw me enter or crossed the canal rather than meet me on the street. I even went to your Aunt Carlotta, but the old bat only chastised me and sent me away empty handed.”

“So you delivered me to the Neapolitan agents.”

“They were threatening to break my hands. My hands, Tito! Just think. Without my hands I couldn’t play the organ. We would have starved.”

“How much did the agents give you, Father? Two hundred
zecchini
, three hundred?”

He hung his head. “They gave me a stake. I envisioned building it into a great fortune. In the right hands thirty ducats can easily become three hundred or even three thousand. That kind of luck eluded me, but I did make good use of their ducats. I won enough to cover the debts.”

I stared at his lined face. When had he started to look so old? In a strangled whisper I asked, “Thirty ducats? You let them take me for thirty ducats?”

He nodded slowly.

I was stunned, then suddenly blinded by fury. Thirty silver ducats made barely ten gold
zecchini
. Alessandro and I had spent that much on trinkets trying to get information from the Turkish captain at the wharf.

I don’t remember striking my father, but I do remember him holding me at arm’s length with one hand while he wiped blood from his cheek with the other. He was as angry as I was. “Is this how a son repays his father’s love? You should thank me. I did you a favor.”

“A favor?” I screamed.

“Of course. Fame and wealth are within your grasp. I created that stupendous voice of yours when I planted my seed in your mother. I preserved it when I handed your unconscious body to the surgeon. If you had not gone under the knife, you would probably end up living in a garret with a slattern of a wife and ten starving children.”

I jerked away from Father’s grasp. “I could have sung on the stage without the operation.”

“As a tenor perhaps,” he replied, still defiant. “What do they earn? Chicken scratchings! It is only the eunuchs who are handsomely paid. Every time you take your bows with applause ringing in your ears you should be grateful to your father who made it all possible.”

Breathing heavily and barely able to make out his features in the darkness, I faced my father across a stormy gulf of hatred and misunderstanding. It was horrible to think that my destiny had been determined by a roll of the dice or a turn of a card. Black instead of red, a six for a five, those small variations had sealed my fate. Those and my father’s cold heart.

And yet, Adelina had urged me to accept my strange circumstances and even welcome the riches that the cutting had brought to my life. I was beginning to understand her advice. I dwelt in glory before the footlights, and that glory could be mine every night of the rest of my life. How many men could say the same? In my heart, I knew the knife had blessed me even as it robbed me.

With sudden clarity, I realized that my deepest anger did not involve the loss of my manhood. My shoulders slumped and I was able to speak calmly for the first time since Father had joined me on the tower. “It wasn’t the knife that hurt so much.”

“What was it then?”

I took a deep breath. “You sent me away. The men from the
conservatorio
tore me away from everything I knew and everybody I loved. You and my brother and sisters went on as a family and I was condemned to uncaring maestros and endless vocal exercises. If it hadn’t been for Felice I would have died of loneliness.”

Father’s lips parted, but I was never to hear his reply to my heartfelt admission. There was a rush of movement on the staircase and we were suddenly surrounded by three huge bravos in eye masks. They had come for my father. One of the burly attackers pinned my arms behind my back while the others pushed Father to the railing and turned his face this way and that as if making certain of his identity.

Without being told, Father knew why they had descended on us. He babbled about needing more time, about intending to repay their master with interest in just a few days. I cringed to see my dignified parent reduced to sniveling and begging. His whining did him no good; the bravos were deaf to his pleas.

The pair pushed his head over the railing and grabbed his feet. The one restraining my arms must have been the leader. He said, “Our master is at the end of his patience, Amato. He’s waited for his money long enough.”

I heard a weak squeal from the railing that sounded like, “Please, I’ll get the money.”

“You’re tapped out. With Viviani across the sea, you’ll never raise enough to cover your debt.”

My father shrieked in fear. One of his captors pulled his head up so I could hear him clearly. “I’ll get it. My sons have money. They’ll pay you.”

“Yes, yes,” I found myself screaming. “We’ll cover the debt. Let him go.”

The two ruffians suspending Father over the railing looked to their leader. I felt him shake his head. His deep voice rumbled. “Go on. He’s more valuable as a warning. Anyone who thinks he’s going to get away with holding out on our master can take a lesson from Isidore Amato.”

Before the bravos could act, the yellow light of a lantern appeared at the top of the stairs. “What’s going on here?” cried a startled monk.

“Get him out of here,” my captor growled.

One of the men dropped his hold on Father and threw himself at the black-robed Benedictine. The brute and the man of God grappled for an instant, then collapsed in a writhing heap that rolled back down the stairs. The monk’s lantern struck the stone floor with a crash. Oil flamed up at our feet. The lead bravo released me to remove his heavy jacket and throw it on the blaze. His burly ally in mayhem still held my struggling father balanced on his midsection over the parapet’s railing. The bravo’s mouth was agape as his gaze flickered between the man in his hands and his comrade stamping on the flames. I watched in horror as he threw my father’s feet into the air and tipped his body over the railing before joining in the frantic dance on the flames.

I covered the distance to the railing in two long bounds. Father had found a tenuous handhold on the lip of the parapet’s base. He looked up at me as his body dangled in space, three floors above the hard paving stones of the monastery courtyard.

“Tito, Tito.…” His lips contorted in a grotesque smile.

I braced my feet as best I could and leaned over the railing. “Give me your hand, Father. I can pull you up.”

He kicked his legs helplessly and shook his head.

I stretched my arm as far as I dared. “Try, Father. Just try to reach my hand.”

I saw his twisted face relax a second before the two bravos dragged me from the railing. I struggled desperately, but the pair of them overpowered me as if I were a small boy.

Their fellow had dealt with the monk and bounded from the staircase onto the tower. He ran to the parapet, heaved his bulk astride the railing, and aimed a vicious kick downward.

My captors smashed my head against the back wall of the tower and flung me to the floor before the three of them streaked off down the stairs. Zigzags of colored light filled my vision while Father’s final, terrified scream echoed endlessly in my ears. It was several minutes before I could raise myself from the greasy, charred floor.

Trembling, I stumbled to the railing and peered down into the depths of the enclosed courtyard. The twisted body was surrounded by a cluster of well-meaning but totally useless monks. My father was dead.