2 - Painted Veil Read Online Free PDF

player.’”
    Torani nodded as the recitation of clauses and stipulations droned on. Finally, the manager stopped to draw a breath.
    “Well, what would you like me to do, Signore?” Torani addressed the singer.
    Florio measured my height with his gaze, then came to stand right in front of me. He put his hand flat to the top of his head and kept it level as he moved it toward mine. His bejeweled fingers stopped in the middle of my forehead. “You are at least two inches taller than I am,” he said accusingly. Then to Torani, “I’ll need five or six inches added to my helmet. More plumes, taller plumes. Blue ones, I think. Blue always shows up well under the lamps.”
    Torani’s face was turning red, but he kept his voice even. “Certainly. We’ll just order another one. There’s still plenty of time. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Now, let’s get back…”
    A shrill voice interrupted. “No, Maestro, absolutely not. Those helmets have been bought and paid for. They cost four ducats each.” Signor Carpani ascended to the stage, shaking his finger at Torani like a nursemaid admonishing a naughty child. “Further expenditure is out of the question.”
    Florio whirled furiously. “What? Is my contract not to be honored? Am I to be treated like some unknown, some unknown…” He flapped his handkerchief uncertainly, then caught sight of Niccolo. “Like some unknown
tenor
?”
    “There is no money in the budget for further costuming. The helmet will have to be worn as is, by Signor Florio or someone else,” Carpani replied firmly.
    The singer’s jaw dropped. “I was employed to bring the highest level of distinction to this production. The Savio assured me that only an artist of my caliber could make this opera an occasion fit for the marriage of the Doge’s daughter. Are you telling me my services are no longer required?”
    Carpani shrugged, Torani mopped his perspiring brow, and Ivo Peschi shuffled papers. The wings and the catwalks above were filled with stage crew regarding the impasse with mounting excitement. Then, there came a shifting movement in a group upstage and a slender, skirted figure pushed through the workmen. I recognized Liya Del’Vecchio, a daughter of the Jewish family that crafted headdresses and masks for several theaters in the city.
    Many of my countrymen favored a singularly Venetian type of beauty: dainty features, hair bleached to a red-gold, form sleek and plump as a sparrow, manner demure yet accommodating. There was something in that, but Liya, with her exotic looks and forthright demeanor, attracted me more than any other woman I’d met at the theater. Or anywhere else, for that matter. It didn’t hurt that the Jewess displayed a fertile intelligence behind her quick tongue—I found women who offered only flirtation and gossip as tedious as a concert on a poorly tuned violin. To my sorrow, I had to admit that Liya had never been particularly attentive to me, but nevertheless I had always followed her doings with the greatest interest. What was she up to now?
    Seemingly calm and unaffected by the tense atmosphere and numerous pairs of staring eyes, Liya crossed the wide stage. Her dress was drab and utilitarian, but her fine dark hair was done up in plaits wound with a red scarf and held in place by an array of gold pins. The striding heels of her neat boots resounded through the silent theater. She ignored Florio, spared a brief glance for the feathered helmet in his manservant’s arms, then greeted Torani with a graceful nod. Before taking my helmet from Benito, her expressive black eyes sent my valet a decidedly irritated look.
    “There’s no need to order a new helmet, Maestro. I can make an adjustment to Signor Amato’s,” she said, carrying my helmet over to Torani. “You see where these ostrich plumes are tacked down. I can remove the feathers and replace them with a row of dyed horsehair. That would remove about six inches of height from Ptolemy’s helmet and