and dropped into a shallow curtsy.
Viviani’s smile collapsed and was replaced with a puzzled expression. I wondered anxiously if our patron had forgotten that he had given Torani permission for my sister to attend the reception. But after that instant of hesitation, his gaze roved appraisingly over Annetta’s face and form. Running the back of one hand along her jaw, he said, “A pleasure, my dear. Another pretty face is always welcome at the Palazzo Viviani.” Annetta and I traded amused glances as Viviani hustled me along.
Our last stop was Signora Viviani and her entourage. One of these I had already encountered. The formidable Maria Grazia Albrimani hovered at her sister’s side like an observant watchdog. With her round face and ferocious expression, she reminded me of the temple dogs embroidered on Chinese tapestries that were said to defend their holy masters to their dying breaths. She gave me a stiff smile as we approached. Viviani presented me to his wife, then melted into the crowd after Bondini came up and whispered a few words in his ear.
Elisabetta Viviani was ensconced in a high-backed armchair of figured velvet, one of the few comfortable chairs in the salon. She rested her head on the back of the chair as if her elaborately coifed wig weighed too heavily on her long, fragile neck. Her pale hands, one clutching a lace fan, lay motionless on her lap. The Signora was not a great beauty, but she possessed the polished appearance and haughty indolence that unmistakably marked her as one of the privileged class. In addition to her sister, Signora Viviani was attended by several other ladies of varying ages and by one young man. Or was he? His cheeks were smooth but, on closer inspection, I saw that the youthful blush on those cheeks was cosmetic and that there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Signora Viviani made a languid motion for him to bend close to her and her mouth grazed his ear in a whisper. He responded with a high, delicate laugh that confirmed my suspicion that he was a castrato .
“Signor Amato, you have a charming voice,” she said, fixing me with a glassy stare. “You will certainly enliven our opera this winter.”
“You are too kind, Signora,” I replied with a low bow.
“We were getting so tired of it all. Going to the opera every night to see old Crivelli wheeze and totter around the stage. Every new evirato that Domenico brings in is always reported to be the brightest and the best, but none of them has had your gift. That one last year!” She turned to her gentleman-in-waiting. “ Caro , what was his name? You know the one.”
“He called himself Angelino. He liked to boast that his vocal talents could rival the angel choirs of heaven.” Her elegant companion rolled his eyes.
“Oh yes, what conceit he had. I made a joke about him, didn’t I? What was it? I can’t recall.”
“My sweet lady, I’ll never forget it. Instead of the heavenly host, you compared his singing with the screeches of the damned.” Again the high, lilting laugh.
“So I did, so I did.” Signora Viviani tittered behind her fan and her ladies followed suit.
She turned back to me. “But Signor Amato has the voice to the match the praises that are heaped on his name.” Her eyes lost their glassy look and assessed me more keenly. “I predict that the opera will no longer be boring.” She leaned forward and tapped me on the chest with her fan. “And I predict that our passion for good singing will finally be satisfied.”
One of the younger ladies burst into a giggle but quieted abruptly when the old watchdog, Signora Albrimani, shot her a stern glance. The castrato on the other side of his lady’s chair began to eye me warily.
Signora Viviani sat back wearily and continued in a vague tone, “You must take a name for the stage. All the singers that aspire to fame come up with something memorable, something that describes their talents.”
“I confess that taking a stage name
Viviani’s smile collapsed and was replaced with a puzzled expression. I wondered anxiously if our patron had forgotten that he had given Torani permission for my sister to attend the reception. But after that instant of hesitation, his gaze roved appraisingly over Annetta’s face and form. Running the back of one hand along her jaw, he said, “A pleasure, my dear. Another pretty face is always welcome at the Palazzo Viviani.” Annetta and I traded amused glances as Viviani hustled me along.
Our last stop was Signora Viviani and her entourage. One of these I had already encountered. The formidable Maria Grazia Albrimani hovered at her sister’s side like an observant watchdog. With her round face and ferocious expression, she reminded me of the temple dogs embroidered on Chinese tapestries that were said to defend their holy masters to their dying breaths. She gave me a stiff smile as we approached. Viviani presented me to his wife, then melted into the crowd after Bondini came up and whispered a few words in his ear.
Elisabetta Viviani was ensconced in a high-backed armchair of figured velvet, one of the few comfortable chairs in the salon. She rested her head on the back of the chair as if her elaborately coifed wig weighed too heavily on her long, fragile neck. Her pale hands, one clutching a lace fan, lay motionless on her lap. The Signora was not a great beauty, but she possessed the polished appearance and haughty indolence that unmistakably marked her as one of the privileged class. In addition to her sister, Signora Viviani was attended by several other ladies of varying ages and by one young man. Or was he? His cheeks were smooth but, on closer inspection, I saw that the youthful blush on those cheeks was cosmetic and that there were fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Signora Viviani made a languid motion for him to bend close to her and her mouth grazed his ear in a whisper. He responded with a high, delicate laugh that confirmed my suspicion that he was a castrato .
“Signor Amato, you have a charming voice,” she said, fixing me with a glassy stare. “You will certainly enliven our opera this winter.”
“You are too kind, Signora,” I replied with a low bow.
“We were getting so tired of it all. Going to the opera every night to see old Crivelli wheeze and totter around the stage. Every new evirato that Domenico brings in is always reported to be the brightest and the best, but none of them has had your gift. That one last year!” She turned to her gentleman-in-waiting. “ Caro , what was his name? You know the one.”
“He called himself Angelino. He liked to boast that his vocal talents could rival the angel choirs of heaven.” Her elegant companion rolled his eyes.
“Oh yes, what conceit he had. I made a joke about him, didn’t I? What was it? I can’t recall.”
“My sweet lady, I’ll never forget it. Instead of the heavenly host, you compared his singing with the screeches of the damned.” Again the high, lilting laugh.
“So I did, so I did.” Signora Viviani tittered behind her fan and her ladies followed suit.
She turned back to me. “But Signor Amato has the voice to the match the praises that are heaped on his name.” Her eyes lost their glassy look and assessed me more keenly. “I predict that the opera will no longer be boring.” She leaned forward and tapped me on the chest with her fan. “And I predict that our passion for good singing will finally be satisfied.”
One of the younger ladies burst into a giggle but quieted abruptly when the old watchdog, Signora Albrimani, shot her a stern glance. The castrato on the other side of his lady’s chair began to eye me warily.
Signora Viviani sat back wearily and continued in a vague tone, “You must take a name for the stage. All the singers that aspire to fame come up with something memorable, something that describes their talents.”
“I confess that taking a stage name
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