1 - Interrupted Aria by Beverle Graves Myers Page A

figure out how she did it. Her voice was still good, no doubt of that, but I and every other regular operagoer in the room had heard better. Was it the depth of feeling she brought to the character of Juno? On paper the vengeful matriarch of the gods had seemed such a dusty stereotype. But in Adelina’s experienced hands, Juno displayed unexpected dimensions. There was pathos behind the anger. Adelina let the audience experience Juno’s sorrow as she remembered the days when her mighty husband had loved and desired only her. In subtle nuances, she communicated the shame of being rejected for a younger woman time and time again. Her sweet, yet forceful voice and her graceful gestures touched a receptive chord in every listener. The after-dinner napper opened his eyes and sat up straight in his chair with a bemused expression on his face. Ladies who had been busily comparing clothing, jewelry, and seating arrangements gradually fixed their wandering attentions on Adelina. As my singing partner wrung every bit of emotion from our dramatic duet, I saw private sorrows exposed on carefully powdered and rouged faces.
    It was not only the faces of our listeners that betrayed. When the course of the duet allowed me a chance to observe Orlando Martello, I was astonished at the transformation of his face. His hands flew over the keyboard, but his eyes were glued to Adelina. As he watched her bring his notes to life, his entire demeanor softened. I saw no sign of the irritation that so often turned his smiles into sneers. Orlando’s finely shaped lips were parted in a graceful curve that spoke of admiring delight. Even his skin seemed finer, actually glowing. How could one man appear in two such different guises? The coarse-grained hothead that Torani had been forced to restrain just a few moments ago had become a gentle, love-struck swain.
    As I turned my attention back to the audience in time for our final refrain, I noticed that the emerald-green eyes atop the fan had found a new focus. I was surprised to follow their appraising gaze straight to Annetta. As they turned slowly back to me, their owner finally lowered her fan. I had a glimpse of a white, fresh face and a delightful crooked smile before another feminine head topped by a huge round wig bobbed into my line of sight. I was also perplexed to see several glum faces on the front row. Two men who wore silk coats but lacked the sashes, medals, and other trappings of Venetian nobility were whispering to each other and shaking their heads. They both gave me long and particularly pensive looks.
    The duet concluded to great applause, and we were called upon for several encores. When our patron judged our performance to have reached its maximum impact, Domenico Viviani strode forward and kissed Adelina’s hands, then called for a last round of applause for the both of us. Before I knew it, our noble host grasped my elbow and steered me into the crowd to meet those individuals he must have fancied were critical to the success of his operatic endeavor.
    Everywhere I heard myself introduced as “Tito Amato, the immensely talented castrato , newly arrived from Naples.” My discomfort grew with each introduction. Why couldn’t he just describe me as a talented singer?
    I exchanged bows with a dizzying parade of Venetian patricians, churchmen, senators, and foreign princes. At one point I spotted Annetta in the crush of brocade and velvet shoulders. I stretched one long arm, grabbed a handful of skirt, and dragged her into our charmed circle. Before Viviani could make another introduction, I made one of my own.
    “Excellency, allow me to present my sister.”
    “But of course.” He smiled jovially, a sign I took as further proof that he considered the evening a success. Then he directed a questioning gaze right and left.
    Annetta had the look of a startled doe, but I gave her arm a quick, reassuring squeeze. “Your Excellency, my sister, Anna-Maria Amato.” She stepped forward