Free 2 - Painted Veil by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

favored arias and duets above ensemble singing. I was struggling to modulate the force of my voice to blend with the rest of the company, but no one else was bothering. Emma’s clipped, bell-like notes clashed with Rosa’s mellow delivery, while Niccolo and the other supporting singers insisted on increasing their volumes to be heard over everyone else. To top it off, Florio was demonstrating his displeasure by producing reedy, wavering tones that were a parody of his authentic, powerful soprano. Our director had tossed his wig aside some time ago and was tearing at his gray frizz in frustration.
    Torani had accepted my news of Luca’s departure for Germany with more equanimity than I had expected. After an initial exclamation of surprise, he had simply nodded in his staccato fashion and thanked me for my time and trouble. Awkward questions about how I acquired my information never arose. Perhaps Torani had been preoccupied with worry over the finale that his singers were now in process of mangling.
    After a few more ragged choruses, Torani signaled the harpsichordist to be silent and stepped back to glower at the lot of us. I expected a tirade, but the director continued to surprise me. “We will pause for now,” he said with a sigh. “Emma and Rosa, you two report to Madame Dumas. She has costumes ready for fitting. I must ask Signor Florio to grant me a few moments. You others may do as you wish.”
    As Torani and his prize plum of a soprano disappeared into the wings, the stage crew moved in. With so many planned scene changes, Aldo could waste no time. If there was a break in rehearsal, the stage manager directed the crew to run through one of their transformations. The wing flats passed through slits in the stage floor and rested on wheeled trucks which ran in channels below stage. An ingenious series of winches and counterweights allowed one set of flats to be rolled on stage as another receded. When coordinated with the lowering of backdrop and borders, the entire set could be changed in the blink of an eye. Timing was the key; many repetitions were required to make it immaculate. As the stagehands aligned themselves for a drill, I went down to the pit.
    Gussie had been watching the rehearsal from a bench with his feet spread wide apart and elbows on his knees. When he saw me come through the door, he jumped up and began to applaud and shout “Bravo,” stretching out the last syllable, as the English tend to do.
    I shushed him. “Gussie, you shouldn’t be clapping. You have just witnessed a shameful disgrace.”
    “Really?” He sat back down and stretched his legs long, crossing them at the ankles. “It sounded all right to me. But I declare I don’t understand the fuss over this Il Florino. He doesn’t sound any better than the rest of you. In fact, if you ask me, his voice sounds a bit weak and prissy.”
    “Florio wasn’t doing his best. He prefers to sing alone.”
    “Oh, I see.” Gussie wrinkled his brow, making me think that he most certainly did not. I suspected that the manipulative schemes of temperamental stars were well outside his straightforward way of thinking. “Can you credit it?” he continued. “They are selling things with his likeness painted on them.”
    “Things?”
    “All sorts of trinkets. Snuffboxes for gentlemen, fans and garters for the ladies. I saw some at a shop on the Mercerie.”
    “It doesn’t surprise me. He is the man of the hour as far as Venice is concerned. When we sing at the pageant that will welcome the bridegroom, more people will turn out to hear Florio than to get a glimpse of the bride or her prince.”
    “The much-heralded groom is a prince of Croatia, is he not?”
    “Yes, one of a host. That region seems to produce as many princes as our lagoon does fish.”
    “What will you be doing in the pageant?”
    “Several platforms for musicians will be set up on the Molo near the water’s edge. As the bridegroom’s ship approaches the quay, we will