1 - Interrupted Aria Read Online Free PDF Page A

house belonged to him free and clear, inherited from his father, who had been a highly regarded organist before him. My father had given all his children musical instruction, and I could have followed right in his footsteps. My brother Alessandro was the only one of us who hadn’t taken to music. If I had been the one who was practically tone deaf, instead of Alessandro, would he be here now? Would he be the one who would never know what it felt like to be a whole man, the one whose only hope for any crumb of the world’s approval was to sing and strut on the stage proclaiming what a figure of distaste he was to one and all?
    I longed to ask my father these questions but knew that I did not yet have the courage to do so. He had not taken supper with us. After Grisella’s fit, he had called for his bauta, and Lupo had come running with the mask that confers equality on all the men of Venice. A bauta consists of a large, semi-opaque square of fabric that is draped over the head and a mask that covers the eyes and nose. A tricorne hat completes the disguise. In a bauta and long cloak a man is practically anonymous; he could be a commoner or a king. Not surprisingly, it was the favored costume of carnival revelers.
    The longer I stayed in bed, the more tortuous my thoughts grew and the more insistent my qualms about reporting at the opera house became. I finally rolled out of my twisted bedclothes and padded across the cold floor to the window overlooking the campo . I laced my hands together and stretched my arms over my head. The newly risen moon was just past full; its light was bright enough to illuminate the square’s single tree. Why not walk off my restless notions on the pavements of Venice?
    I grabbed the breeches I’d left hanging from the bedpost, dressed hurriedly, then retrieved my cloak and hat from the hallway, where a key to the street door also hung on a peg. The outside air was cool but not uncomfortable. The bright moon in the dome of softly twinkling stars made the campo seem miles removed from my cramped, dusty bedroom. My head suddenly cleared of troublesome thoughts and I felt a tingle of excitement. I was alone in my city, the city of Carnival, and had all night to explore her wonders.
    Keeping to the back calli , using bridges to cross the secondary canals, I moved quickly through the sleeping Cannaregio. Cramped family dwellings seemed to press against my shoulders. Here and there, cats skittered over tile roofs and forgotten laundry billowed from balcony rails like hovering phantoms. I was moving south, heading for the heart of Venice, the Piazza San Marco, where the carnival revelry would be at its peak. It wasn’t long before I noticed that the houses grew larger and were separated by strips of garden protected by grilled gates. An occasional gondola swept by on the canal to my right, but I had no wish to be carried along. I wanted to move my legs and feel my heart pumping.
    The grand houses gradually gave way to a string of shuttered shops, and a few dark figures passed me on the pavement. Rounding a corner, I came upon a brightly lit tavern with patrons spilling out of its open door. The smoky, yellow light surrounded a group of high-spirited Germans, all in costumes and masks. They staggered to the gondola mooring, a boatman offered his craft, and they immediately fell to arguing about the fare. Then, a young girl with the veil of an Arab princess drawn across the lower part of her face stepped out of the tavern and plucked at my cloak. She was peddling a tray of cheap, papier-mâché masks.
    “You must have a mask, Signore. Carnival is no fun in your own face.” Her slanting, dark eyes were bright and playful. I pictured the pretty mouth that must be smiling behind the veil.
    The girl was right. I didn’t want to be the only man on the piazza without a mask.
    She helped me choose a small one, just a feather-tipped band of silver that covered my eyes, and tied it around the back of my head