continued the director with heavy-handed sarcasm.
“You’re not,” said Crivelli, affable despite Torani’s baiting. “Some workmen rousted me out of my comfortable place and now I’m ready to hear Tito sing.”
I was surprised at how confident I felt. Orlando’s compositions had been easy to follow and reminiscent of the operas of Handel that we had studied and performed at San Remo. With music in hand, I stepped forward and nodded to Orlando at the harpsichord. My first aria was a lusty hunting song, all flash and bravura. There had been only a few lines to memorize. “Into the woods I go alone, trusty spear by my side” was repeated over and over and interspersed with references to Arcas’ bravery and the general savageness of bears. Audiences of the day did not attend the opera for the poetry or the storyline. I sang with feeling and was delighted that my voice remained in good form.
Torani listened intently with half-closed eyelids but gave no sign of what he was thinking. Before I had come to the middle section, which slowed the tempo down a good deal, Crivelli was smiling broadly and I knew I had his approval. Caterina’s thin face registered surprise. And did I detect a little jealousy? As I sang the repeat with my hastily worked up embellishments, Orlando looked surprised as well. He shouldn’t have been. Singers were required to be the equal of any musician at composition. During the repeat of an aria, the audience expected the singer to build on the original melody with his own vocal ornamentation, the more ornate the better. The maestros at San Remo had excelled at teaching this skill and I was determined to do them proud.
As I sounded my final, extended trill and Orlando’s hands fell silent on the keyboard, we all turned to the unexpected sound of one man’s measured applause. I had no trouble recognizing the man who strode on stage with Adelina following behind him like a creeping shadow. It was Domenico Viviani, the noble dancer who had whirled through the exuberant furlana the night before. I also noted several of the same, sizable bravos waiting on their master in the shadows on the floor of the theater.
“I see my money has not been wasted. The impresarios were right about you, Amato.” Viviani’s rumbling voice filled the theater. What a basso he could have made if the circumstances of his birth had been different.
I saw I was expected to pay my respects. I began with a low bow. “Excellency, you honor me with your compliment and.…”
With the heedless impatience of a man accustomed to dominating every social exchange, he cut my pleasantries short as he came to stand in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Forget the pretty phrases, just put my opera house back on top. For too long, people have been favoring the San Moise or the Teatro Grimani. The Venetians are like a flock of geese. One sees a new bauble and they all gather around honking and chattering until a new spectacle catches their eye. You’re the new bauble. Keep them dazzled and coming back night after night until the San Stefano is the only place that the fashionable nitwits even think of coming.”
I gathered my shattered wits and gave another small bow. “Excellency, I will endeavor to be the diamond that makes the San Stefano the crowning glory of Venice.”
Viviani snorted with laughter. “Pleasingly said.” He stepped back and inspected me from head to toe with a leisurely, calculating gaze. I trembled inside like a young girl promenading on the piazza with her governess while a bunch of hot-blooded louts made insolent remarks.
“Your pretty face will bring them in,” he said at last, “but remember, your pretty singing must keep them coming back. Maestro Torani, I think we have finally found a castrato who can complement our most beautiful jewel.” He gestured toward Adelina, who preened unblushingly before the rest of the company.
The director wiped the sweat off his dome-shaped forehead with
“You’re not,” said Crivelli, affable despite Torani’s baiting. “Some workmen rousted me out of my comfortable place and now I’m ready to hear Tito sing.”
I was surprised at how confident I felt. Orlando’s compositions had been easy to follow and reminiscent of the operas of Handel that we had studied and performed at San Remo. With music in hand, I stepped forward and nodded to Orlando at the harpsichord. My first aria was a lusty hunting song, all flash and bravura. There had been only a few lines to memorize. “Into the woods I go alone, trusty spear by my side” was repeated over and over and interspersed with references to Arcas’ bravery and the general savageness of bears. Audiences of the day did not attend the opera for the poetry or the storyline. I sang with feeling and was delighted that my voice remained in good form.
Torani listened intently with half-closed eyelids but gave no sign of what he was thinking. Before I had come to the middle section, which slowed the tempo down a good deal, Crivelli was smiling broadly and I knew I had his approval. Caterina’s thin face registered surprise. And did I detect a little jealousy? As I sang the repeat with my hastily worked up embellishments, Orlando looked surprised as well. He shouldn’t have been. Singers were required to be the equal of any musician at composition. During the repeat of an aria, the audience expected the singer to build on the original melody with his own vocal ornamentation, the more ornate the better. The maestros at San Remo had excelled at teaching this skill and I was determined to do them proud.
As I sounded my final, extended trill and Orlando’s hands fell silent on the keyboard, we all turned to the unexpected sound of one man’s measured applause. I had no trouble recognizing the man who strode on stage with Adelina following behind him like a creeping shadow. It was Domenico Viviani, the noble dancer who had whirled through the exuberant furlana the night before. I also noted several of the same, sizable bravos waiting on their master in the shadows on the floor of the theater.
“I see my money has not been wasted. The impresarios were right about you, Amato.” Viviani’s rumbling voice filled the theater. What a basso he could have made if the circumstances of his birth had been different.
I saw I was expected to pay my respects. I began with a low bow. “Excellency, you honor me with your compliment and.…”
With the heedless impatience of a man accustomed to dominating every social exchange, he cut my pleasantries short as he came to stand in front of me with his hands on his hips. “Forget the pretty phrases, just put my opera house back on top. For too long, people have been favoring the San Moise or the Teatro Grimani. The Venetians are like a flock of geese. One sees a new bauble and they all gather around honking and chattering until a new spectacle catches their eye. You’re the new bauble. Keep them dazzled and coming back night after night until the San Stefano is the only place that the fashionable nitwits even think of coming.”
I gathered my shattered wits and gave another small bow. “Excellency, I will endeavor to be the diamond that makes the San Stefano the crowning glory of Venice.”
Viviani snorted with laughter. “Pleasingly said.” He stepped back and inspected me from head to toe with a leisurely, calculating gaze. I trembled inside like a young girl promenading on the piazza with her governess while a bunch of hot-blooded louts made insolent remarks.
“Your pretty face will bring them in,” he said at last, “but remember, your pretty singing must keep them coming back. Maestro Torani, I think we have finally found a castrato who can complement our most beautiful jewel.” He gestured toward Adelina, who preened unblushingly before the rest of the company.
The director wiped the sweat off his dome-shaped forehead with
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