Whispers of Vivaldi by Beverle Graves Myers

Author:Beverle Graves Myers
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2013-12-18T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fourteen

Caprioli slapped me on the back as if we were boon companions, hard enough to make my chest start throbbing again.

“I have to thank you, Tito,” the impresario said with an evil grin. “You’ve given my Venus and Adonis an astounding advantage. If anyone even goes to see…ah, what do you call your opera? I can’t seem to recall.” He touched two fingers to his forehead. “The Pretend Prince? The Counterfeit Count? The Misbegotten Marquis?”

“The False Duke,” Emiliano supplied. The hefty castrato was eating marzipan candy from a tin enameled with flowers and bows. He licked his fingers and held the tin out invitingly. “Tito?”

“Grazie, no.” I could barely contain myself.

“Yes,” a very self-satisfied Caprioli continued. “Anyone who takes a box for The False Duke will see an under-rehearsed mess sung by a second-rate prima donna and a so-called primo uomo with a slit beneath his breeches where his lonely, limp rod should hang. After the audience has a good laugh, they’ll run back to the Teatro Grimani and stay there.”

“The False Duke is a masterly piece of work,” I stated flatly. “Venetians will recognize it for the true jewel it is.” I inhaled deeply, and added in a quiet but firm tone. “They also recognize shit when they see it.”

My insult pricked Caprioli’s bubble of conceit. He bristled, sitting tall and tugging jacket sleeves over food-stained lace cuffs. After a moment he said, “That’s brazen talk for a man who’s one step ahead of Messer Grande’s long reach.”

“You know I didn’t kill Maestro Torani,” I shot back loudly enough for the entire coffee house to hear. I glanced around. No man was making a pretense of reading his paper now.

“Actually, I tend to believe you.” Caprioli paused for a slurp of coffee. “But the Savio obviously doesn’t. He’s put Niccolo Rocatti in charge of The False Duke.”

Rocatti! “Wha—” I began, before I could stop myself. Though Rocatti was the composer of record, I was certain that Signor Passoni would call on Giuseppe Balbi to direct. The violinist was so much more in tune with Teatro San Marco’s ways.

“You haven’t heard?” Caprioli stabbed an elbow on the table and propped his fleshy chin in his hand. “We had it from Majorano, didn’t we, my good Emiliano.”

The castrato nodded, gobbling another marzipan.

“No, I hadn’t heard.” I cleared my throat. “But Rocatti…he is the composer, after all.” I wouldn’t publicly deny Rocatti his laurels until I was certain that he didn’t deserve them. “He should be able to whip The False Duke into shape.”

“Poor Rocatti is a tolerable composer, I’ll grant you that. But a man who finds it difficult to organize the giggling misses at the Pieta won’t be able to bring a rebellious opera company to heel.”

“Rebellious?” I repeated under my breath.

Emiliano slid his candy tin back in a deep pocket. “Majorano isn’t happy—not happy at all.” He paused to suck on his teeth. “Who would be, suddenly forced to play second fiddle to Angeletto? I don’t blame Majorano

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