Beverle Graves Myers [Tito Am Whispers of Vivaldi (epub)

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.Hadn’t Torani just been engaged in a heated argument with a man he’d called his enemy?But the director’s focus had returned to the opera.Torani continued, “Which role would Majorano take in The False Duke—just for discussion’s sake, mind you—the duke or the huntsman?”I replied after a moment of hesitation.“The duke, of course.He has more arias.”Our boat rocked in the wake of a passing charcoal barge as Torani angled forward and tapped my knee.“Too bad you can’t sing the duke, Tito.Sounds like a role tailored expressly for your talents.” He must not have noticed my involuntary grimace or my surly silence, because he went right on tossing concerns into the shimmering air.Tedi Dall’Agata, our prima donna, was nearing the end of her career—could she pull off the young milkmaid? Would Giuseppe Balbi be content with Torani’s promise to hold Prometheus over until the Easter season? We wouldn’t want to lose our reliable lead violinist at this crucial juncture.At last, as our gondola glided down the narrow ribbon of water that led to the theater’s quay, Torani wondered the crucial question aloud, “If I agree to this last-minute switch, would the Savio alla Cultura even allow it?”The boat swayed.With a gentle bump, Peppino had maneuvered us alongside the landing stones.“The only way we’d know is to ask him, Maestro.”“Yes.” Torani blew out a breath and gave me an appraising look.“Well? What do you say?” I prodded, unable to endure his indecision for another moment.“Make up your mind for once and all.You owe me an answer!”He steepled his hands and notched his fingertips under his chin.The ragged gash shone red on his white scalp.Peppino began grumbling under his breath.Finally my mentor uttered the words that set twin chills of delight and apprehension battling for my backbone: “You win, my boy.Your extraordinary duke and his lady milkmaid will have their chance to capture Venice’s heart.I sincerely hope that they—and you—are up to the task.”His jaws split in an uncharacteristically wide grin.“Let me fix things with Balbi—you go and have a talk with the Savio.”Ah, lucky me!I studied my mentor’s expression uneasily.I’d seen that smile before.Despite Torani’s lengthy protest, the old fox was pleased.Delighted, actually.Could it be that my cunning mentor had intended to be talked out of Prometheus all along? Perhaps, thanks to his vast supply of eyes and ears throughout Venice’s musical world, Torani had already known about The False Duke and was curious to see how staunchly I would defend my new opera against his nay-saying.Hmm.Perhaps Torani had also planned for me to be the one to convince the Savio that the change in operas would be a good idea.Chapter ThreeOther cities are built on dry land—terra firma.My ancestors had made their own.Centuries ago they faced the choice of being overrun by Visigoths or fleeing to the relative safety of offshore mud flats.In this enclosed bay of the Adriatic, they drove pinewood piles into the muck, packed them tight to resist the pull of tides, then topped the piles with beams of larch wood.From Istria they fetched dense, pale gray stone to fashion sea-proof foundations for their expanding islets.Dwellings arose, finer and more magnificent with each passing century—and bridges, stately houses of business and government, churches, all interlaced in a pageant of arches, balconies, colonnades, and emerald canals.Having wrested a home from the sea, the Venetians set out to further subdue the waters.In oared triremes and tall-masted sailing ships, they gradually secured a monopoly of Mediterranean and Oriental trade and acquired an empire that stretched from the Levant in the east to the Alps in the west.By my time, much of that had been eaten away.The turn of trade to the rich New World across the Atlantic favored other nations, and perhaps, just perhaps, Venetians had become lazy and complacent.They’d allowed themselves to be suffocated by layers of governmental rules and regulations.Protective, yes.Also stultifying.There were, however, a few men who embodied the vigor and courage of our ancestors.Worthy men who combined a love of learning, a head for business, and a taste for adventure.Thank God, Signor Arcangelo Passoni, the current Savio alla Cultura, was one of these.I first sought Passoni on the Broglio, the arcaded walk across from the Doge’s Palace where Senators and their minions retired to whisper and plot during recesses of the Great Council.The wind had blown up a bit.In the Basin, a forest of masts rose and fell beneath screaming, circling gulls.Discarded gazettes and other trash skidded along the stones between the great columns dedicated to our patron saints.Under the arcade, I pushed through a crowd of Venice’s foremost aristocrats, asking first one and then another about Signor Passoni.“Not here, Signor Amato,” a minor dignitary swathed in his black robe of office advised me.I was still recognized, you see—opera-besotted Venetians never forgot their heroes.The man continued, “They say Signor Passoni has a touch of catarrh.Poor old fellow.He’s missing a fascinating debate on the licensing of caulk purveyors for the shipyards.”Caulk, yes.If our Savio found the subject as engrossing as I did, I suspected I’d find him at home, reading in his library with a cup of chocolate within easy reach.The Ca’Passoni lay in the Dorsodura district across the Grand Canal, and the great clock on the piazza had just struck eleven.I hastened to secure a gondola and present myself before the Savio would have roused himself for his afternoon activities.The footman attending the Ca’Passoni’s water entrance must have found my person and recently engraved card acceptable [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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