2 - Painted Veil Read Online Free PDF Page A

known to overturn her chamber pot on the brawlers in the pit.
    I turned my attention back to the stage. After some work on his intonation, Niccolo finally managed to produce a rendition of the aria that satisfied Maestro Torani. The director released him and announced a scene from Act One. That was my call. I left Signor Carpani to his notes and ducked under the Doge’s box and through a door that led backstage. The scene we were to rehearse took place in Caesar’s encampment. A military tent of yellow and blue striped silk was planned for upper stage right. For now, the stagehands were positioning a pair of benches to denote its place. A row of officer’s tents that was supposed to stretch into the distance on the backdrop existed only in the mind of the missing Luca Cavalieri.
    As I came through the wings, Florio approached from the back corridor. He was flanked by his manservant and his manager, Ivo Peschi. Ivo looked after the star’s travel arrangements and business interests. He was a middle-aged man with a blue-gray wig that stood up like a brush and ended in a rat’s tail tied with a limp bow. His creased face wore a frown. Florio’s valet, a wispy fellow with a perpetually hangdog appearance, carried Caesar’s battle helmet as if it were a tureen of hot soup. Except for the colors of the plumes, the helmet was a duplicate of the one Benito had deposited in my dressing room earlier that morning. I sighed. Something told me that not much singing would be accomplished in what was left of the morning.
    Florio and I came out of the shadowed wings and stepped into the glow of the footlamps at the same time. Torani, manfully trying to ignore the obvious, was ready with stage directions.
    “Ah, Signor Florio, if you would be so good. As the curtain rises, Caesar stands before the entrance of his tent. In a short recitative, he voices his suspicions of Ptolemy’s scheming character, then sings his aria vowing to frustrate the prince’s evil designs.” Torani indicated Florio’s mark with a determined smile, but the singer didn’t budge.
    A flurry of low, excited whispers swirled behind me. In the wings opposite, workmen laid down their tools and moved closer to the stage. The old theater hands could smell a scene brewing and didn’t want to miss any of the action.
    Florio wore a coat of plum-colored taffeta. Though the day was not particularly cool, he had wrapped a long scarf of yellow silk several times around his throat. As usual, he stood with one foot turned out to show off a muscular calf encased in an immaculate white stocking. All eyes were on his colorful figure as he faced Torani’s wilting smile.
    “The aria will have to wait, Maestro.”
    “Wait? But our rehearsal schedule is particularly tight today.” Torani’s smile disappeared completely.
    “I have discovered an unfortunate matter which requires immediate attention.” Florio indicated the plumed confection in his valet’s hands. “My man tells me that Caesar and Ptolemy’s battle helmets are virtually identical.”
    “Are they now?” Torani said slowly, before turning to me with an apologetic look. “Could we have a look at yours, Tito?”
    Someone must have alerted Benito. He was already bringing my headgear onto the stage.
    “Look, Signor Florio, the colors are different. The helmets match your costumes. The audience will have no difficulty in telling your characters apart,” Torani observed.
    “That is not the issue. Ivo?” Florio sniffed delicately and took out a handkerchief that he waved toward his manager before pressing the linen square to his temple.
    Ivo Peschi launched into a diatribe more worthy of a court advocate than a singer’s nursemaid. “I have Il Florino’s contract here,” he said, unfolding a bulky sheaf of paper that he had been harboring in an inside pocket. “It clearly states that his ‘helmets, swords, and similar accoutrements will not be eclipsed in majesty or dignity by those of any other