6 - Whispers of Vivaldi Read Online Free Page A

leather cushion. The maestro was finally ready to talk. Excited and impatient, he threw out a string of questions that barely gave me a chance to formulate a reply. Would the highly partisan Venetians swallow an opera by an unknown composer? Would the gondoliers, our staunchest supporters in the cheap seats, think we’d gone mad? Working himself into a lather, Torani whipped off his tricorne, then his wig. When he was truly agitated, the wig always came off.
    I came to full attention, shocked. An ugly gash streaked through the wispy curls that ringed his bald pate. A scab knitted the edges together; the skin around it was red and puckered.
    “Maestro, you’re injured. What happened?”
    Torani attempted a weak smile. “Nothing much. I was standing in the wrong place when a roof tile happened to come loose.”
    “Happened to? Where? When?”
    “Day before yesterday.” He huffed a sigh. “I was minding my own business—just leaving Peretti’s, in fact.” He’d named a coffee house near the theater, a favorite place for musicians to gather and exchange news. “I heard something—probably a cat leaping at a bird—and I looked up just as the damnable tile slid off the eave. It’s really nothing.”
    “Hardly nothing,” I snapped. “It must have bled like a pump faucet.”
    He shook his head. “My old wig took most of the blow.”
    “But, Maestro—”
    He made an impatient gesture. His tone was insistent. “Leave it, Tito. A cat on a roof—that’s all.”
    I found myself turning back toward the Rialto with an uneasy glance. 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