Free 6 - Whispers of Vivaldi by Beverle Graves Myers Page A

was the cursed way of the theater.
    “Maestro Torani didn’t bother to tell me.” Aldo shrugged, then jerked his shirtsleeves up over muscular forearms. “But I’m sure you’ll soon know all about it.”
    Did I detect a note of resentment? Aldo made no secret of his belief that retired singers should buy a villa in the country and leave theater business to men with cooler heads.
    Like a pair of stags about to lock horns, the stage manager and I exchanged a pointed glare before I went in search of Torani.
    ***
    The maestro opened his office door with a moody, heavy-lidded look. Venice’s damp gloom seemed to have penetrated every nook and cranny, throwing the glass-fronted cabinets and shelves that lined the walls into shadow. Tedi Dall’Agata, the company’s prima donna, stood at the diamond-paned windows, gazing out at the light rain stippling the stuccoed walls of the building across the narrow canal. As always, Tedi wore a gown the color of a delphinium blossom. She’d lived long enough to be confident about what suited her, no matter what the reigning fashion dictated. Today the poor light dulled her favorite blue to a color more appropriate for mourning, and her expression followed suit.
    Tedi—Teodora on the playbill, but Tedi backstage—was a handsome woman who hid her forty-odd years well. I knew that the maestro and his prima donna had formed an unlikely liaison—so did Aldo, no hiding anything from that busybody—but I wasn’t sure how many of our other notoriously self-involved singers were party to that knowledge. Though Tedi and Torani took obvious pleasure in each other’s company, they’d been cautious about keeping to their defined roles of dignified maestro and formidable prima donna within the theater.
    In response to my cheerful greeting, the soprano turned away from the window. It was early, so I wasn’t surprised to see Tedi’s golden, silver-threaded hair simply dressed, her earlobes naked of their signature sapphires, and her cheeks only lightly powdered and rouged. But something untoward was going on. I could feel it. I slid my fingers into my jacket pocket and patted the portfolio that housed Angeletto’s contract. That should cheer both Tedi and Torani.
    “Hello, Tito.” Tedi’s buongiorno had never been briefer.
    “Chocolate, Tito?” Torani indicated the fat-bodied pewter pot and mismatched cups and saucers. “I believe it’s still warm. If not, I’ll have Aldo fetch another.”
    “Yes, thank you.” I never refused chocolate. My brother Alessandro teased that I was as besotted with the frothy brew as Turkish natives were with their black poppy juice.
    “My dear?” The maestro sent Tedi a bracing smile.
    She shook her head.
    “At least come sit.” He removed Isis, the gray theater cat, from a wooden chair which he slid across the terrazzo floor.
    Uncharacteristically obedient, Tedi sank down with a rustle of blue silk. I took my usual chair in front of the maestro’s cluttered desk, which was presided over by a large plaster bust of Minerva. St. Cecelia, the patron saint of music, would have been more appropriate for an opera director, but Minerva, the ancient goddess of wisdom, she was.
    Torani poured me a cup of fragrant chocolate, still tolerably warm, then topped off his own and settled into his high-backed leather chair across the desk. Its surface was piled high with loose sheets of music. A spherical paperweight of multi-colored millefiori glass usually held the scores in place. I’d always loved that piece, a rare and precious bibelot bestowed on Torani by an appreciative Doge, but today I didn’t see it among the dirty crockery fighting for space with bottles of dried ink and the feathery detritus of spent quills.
    “Have you been down to the piazza?” the maestro asked after a deep swallow. “Or stopped in at Peretti’s?”
    “No, I stayed abed past my usual time, then walked straight here. Why?” I barely touched my lips to the bittersweet drink,