barely hear.
“And unlike the others, Fortunata has written several times since you’ve been back in Venice.”
“Warning me that Mama and Papa aren’t ready to see me.”
“That was months ago. I would expect your father to have mellowed by now. Pincas was never a man to hold a grudge.”
After a moment, Liya nodded and snuggled closer. Sleep claimed us almost immediately.
***
The next morning, after a breakfast that involved more conversation than sustenance, we both set off before ten o’clock. I watched Liya start down the pavement to the nearby ghetto, head held high, dark hair covered by her finest zendale worked in cream-colored silk. Though her neat boots covered the stones in resolute strides, I had noted the quiver of her cheek as she bade me good-by. I sent up a small prayer to the Blessed Mother. Surely Our Lady could spare a moment to look in on the ghetto, heathen as it was.
Luigi, my gondolier, had his boat waiting at the quay just a stone’s throw from my house. The man was suitably apologetic about deserting me the night before, so I allowed him to set off for the theater after only a token remonstrance. As he rowed, I buried my chin in the collar of my cloak that Benito had reinforced with a woolen muffler. It was a raw morning on the canals. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and the clouds were winning.
At the theater, I found Maestro Torani adamant that Armida continue as scheduled. His wrinkled face held a somber expression, and wisps of steel-gray hair wreathed his shiny scalp. As the singers gathered, our director paced the stage in aimless circles with head hung low and hands clasped behind his back. Every few moments, he stopped to give the scarred boards a pensive stare. I thought he was giving a wonderful impression of a dog who’d forgotten where he’d hidden his bone.
Our prima donna arrived in a whirl of silk skirts, ermine-lined cloak, and penetrating French scent. As her maid collected her things, Vittoria protested that reopening the theater the night after the grisly tragedy seemed disrespectful, if not outright impious.
Emilio, who rarely had a good word for anyone or anything, spread his arms and addressed the empty catwalks above the stage. “Since when is a common whore worthy of respect?”
Ignoring the castrato’s remark, Torani rounded on Vittoria with a scowl. “This new opera has been commissioned by the bigwigs on the subscribers’ board.” He swept an arm toward the orderly ranks of boxes where those very bigwigs would sit whenever our company got back to business. “If they find a dark theater where they expect grand spectacle, they’ll decamp to the San Moise or the San Benedetto. Or find some other distraction altogether.”
Or find a reason to change the theater management, I thought sourly. The hands that fed us were attached to notoriously fickle patrons.
Vittoria licked her full lips. She patted upswept curls that were already perfection. She knew, as we all did, that the San Benedetto had recently acquired a young female soprano who was attracting a great deal of attention. Our lovely but aging star sent Torani a sweet smile. “You know best, Maestro. I’ll be happy to sing tonight if you wish it.”
I thought there might be more to Maestro Torani’s decision. As I’d disembarked at the water gate, I’d recognized a familiar figure striding over the bridge that led away from the theater. “Has Signor Lazarini been bending your ear?”
Before Torani could answer, Emilio shot back, “And what if he has? Lazarini’s men have to eat. If there’s no performance, they won’t be paid.”
I nodded, noting Torani’s abashed countenance. Lazarini was a powerful man in theater circles; he managed claques for Emilio Strada and many other popular singers. Where I trusted the audience to reward my performance as they saw fit, some of my colleagues took out insurance in the form of professional applauders. The going rate for
“And unlike the others, Fortunata has written several times since you’ve been back in Venice.”
“Warning me that Mama and Papa aren’t ready to see me.”
“That was months ago. I would expect your father to have mellowed by now. Pincas was never a man to hold a grudge.”
After a moment, Liya nodded and snuggled closer. Sleep claimed us almost immediately.
***
The next morning, after a breakfast that involved more conversation than sustenance, we both set off before ten o’clock. I watched Liya start down the pavement to the nearby ghetto, head held high, dark hair covered by her finest zendale worked in cream-colored silk. Though her neat boots covered the stones in resolute strides, I had noted the quiver of her cheek as she bade me good-by. I sent up a small prayer to the Blessed Mother. Surely Our Lady could spare a moment to look in on the ghetto, heathen as it was.
Luigi, my gondolier, had his boat waiting at the quay just a stone’s throw from my house. The man was suitably apologetic about deserting me the night before, so I allowed him to set off for the theater after only a token remonstrance. As he rowed, I buried my chin in the collar of my cloak that Benito had reinforced with a woolen muffler. It was a raw morning on the canals. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds, and the clouds were winning.
At the theater, I found Maestro Torani adamant that Armida continue as scheduled. His wrinkled face held a somber expression, and wisps of steel-gray hair wreathed his shiny scalp. As the singers gathered, our director paced the stage in aimless circles with head hung low and hands clasped behind his back. Every few moments, he stopped to give the scarred boards a pensive stare. I thought he was giving a wonderful impression of a dog who’d forgotten where he’d hidden his bone.
Our prima donna arrived in a whirl of silk skirts, ermine-lined cloak, and penetrating French scent. As her maid collected her things, Vittoria protested that reopening the theater the night after the grisly tragedy seemed disrespectful, if not outright impious.
Emilio, who rarely had a good word for anyone or anything, spread his arms and addressed the empty catwalks above the stage. “Since when is a common whore worthy of respect?”
Ignoring the castrato’s remark, Torani rounded on Vittoria with a scowl. “This new opera has been commissioned by the bigwigs on the subscribers’ board.” He swept an arm toward the orderly ranks of boxes where those very bigwigs would sit whenever our company got back to business. “If they find a dark theater where they expect grand spectacle, they’ll decamp to the San Moise or the San Benedetto. Or find some other distraction altogether.”
Or find a reason to change the theater management, I thought sourly. The hands that fed us were attached to notoriously fickle patrons.
Vittoria licked her full lips. She patted upswept curls that were already perfection. She knew, as we all did, that the San Benedetto had recently acquired a young female soprano who was attracting a great deal of attention. Our lovely but aging star sent Torani a sweet smile. “You know best, Maestro. I’ll be happy to sing tonight if you wish it.”
I thought there might be more to Maestro Torani’s decision. As I’d disembarked at the water gate, I’d recognized a familiar figure striding over the bridge that led away from the theater. “Has Signor Lazarini been bending your ear?”
Before Torani could answer, Emilio shot back, “And what if he has? Lazarini’s men have to eat. If there’s no performance, they won’t be paid.”
I nodded, noting Torani’s abashed countenance. Lazarini was a powerful man in theater circles; he managed claques for Emilio Strada and many other popular singers. Where I trusted the audience to reward my performance as they saw fit, some of my colleagues took out insurance in the form of professional applauders. The going rate for
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