ever heard about Luca Cavalieri.”
***
The next day brought gray skies, but despite the threat of rain, the entire city turned out to welcome the Croatian bridegroom. Seats for the public ran along the parallel lengths of the Doge’s palace and the Broglio. The benches were stacked nearly as high as the tops of the columns and descended to the pavement in shaky stairsteps. Even so, they couldn’t accommodate the huge mass of people congregating on the Piazzetta that opened onto the Molo at the water’s edge. Before I took my place with the other singers, I searched the mob for Annetta and Gussie. To no avail.
Even during Carnival, I’d never seen this space so crowded. Latecomers shoved their way onto the benches, attempting to displace those who’d already claimed good seats. The inevitable fights broke out, but the dense crowd kept the
sbirri
from intervening. Every bridge and staircase was packed. A few youngsters even tried to climb the flagpoles for a better view.
The Doge, his family, and his closest advisors occupied a canopied platform that had been erected between the columns of Saint Mark and Saint Theodore. These soaring pillars of granite looked out over the basin that the bridegroom’s ship would soon traverse. As I followed Torani toward our makeshift stage on the Molo, I spotted the Savio alla Cultura mounting the steps to the Doge’s platform. Signor Morelli followed, strutting like a peacock with feathers in full array. They trod a thick red carpet that covered the platform and descended between a double wall of gaily uniformed soldiers to make a crimson path to the stone steps of the jetty.
On the water, the basin presented a spectacular display. Military contingents with full-bellied sails and banners flapping in the breeze were tacking back and forth, narrowly avoiding the barges of the nobility that were decorated with family pennants and flowery garlands. Gondolas, sleek and shabby, hugged the stones of the Molo and clogged the mouth of the Grand Canal. Many of the smaller boats were trailing lengths of velvet or silk. These brightly colored trains carried flowers that spread out across the water as the boats progressed. If the day had been fair, with sunlight burnishing the surface of the water to its most beautiful shade of jade green, the trailing silks and the multitude of flowers would have transformed the basin into a floating garden. But with the lowering clouds hovering over Venice like an inverted bowl, the choppy, gray water swallowed the blooms almost as soon as they were released.
The bridegroom’s ship sailed into the basin right on schedule. A battery of cannon on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore boomed a welcoming salute. In between thuds, a great cheer arose. It started with the sailors on the boats, rippled over the water, then was taken up by the crowd on the Piazzetta. I looked across the red carpet to the basilica choir’s platform. Their singers’ lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a note for the booming cannons and cheering crowd.
By the time it was our turn to perform, the tall-masted Croatian ship was at the mid-point of her slow, stately passage across the basin. The crowd had quieted considerably. As Torani rose and gave the musicians their cue, a thrill of anticipation swirled around our platform. Emma sang first. She executed her arias with sweetness and virtuosity but received only scattered applause and no cries of “brava.” Torani shrugged helplessly and motioned for me to step forward.
Barely aware of the murmur sweeping through the Piazzetta, I faced the Doge and his retinue. I had prepared several popular arias from operas that the theater had offered during the last Carnival. Since I’d been making enough time for practice, my voice was nearly back to top form. Even my rival Florio had noticed the change and complemented me in rehearsal. I took a breath, anticipating the opening chord. The sea of listeners swam before my eyes.
I was stopped
***
The next day brought gray skies, but despite the threat of rain, the entire city turned out to welcome the Croatian bridegroom. Seats for the public ran along the parallel lengths of the Doge’s palace and the Broglio. The benches were stacked nearly as high as the tops of the columns and descended to the pavement in shaky stairsteps. Even so, they couldn’t accommodate the huge mass of people congregating on the Piazzetta that opened onto the Molo at the water’s edge. Before I took my place with the other singers, I searched the mob for Annetta and Gussie. To no avail.
Even during Carnival, I’d never seen this space so crowded. Latecomers shoved their way onto the benches, attempting to displace those who’d already claimed good seats. The inevitable fights broke out, but the dense crowd kept the
sbirri
from intervening. Every bridge and staircase was packed. A few youngsters even tried to climb the flagpoles for a better view.
The Doge, his family, and his closest advisors occupied a canopied platform that had been erected between the columns of Saint Mark and Saint Theodore. These soaring pillars of granite looked out over the basin that the bridegroom’s ship would soon traverse. As I followed Torani toward our makeshift stage on the Molo, I spotted the Savio alla Cultura mounting the steps to the Doge’s platform. Signor Morelli followed, strutting like a peacock with feathers in full array. They trod a thick red carpet that covered the platform and descended between a double wall of gaily uniformed soldiers to make a crimson path to the stone steps of the jetty.
On the water, the basin presented a spectacular display. Military contingents with full-bellied sails and banners flapping in the breeze were tacking back and forth, narrowly avoiding the barges of the nobility that were decorated with family pennants and flowery garlands. Gondolas, sleek and shabby, hugged the stones of the Molo and clogged the mouth of the Grand Canal. Many of the smaller boats were trailing lengths of velvet or silk. These brightly colored trains carried flowers that spread out across the water as the boats progressed. If the day had been fair, with sunlight burnishing the surface of the water to its most beautiful shade of jade green, the trailing silks and the multitude of flowers would have transformed the basin into a floating garden. But with the lowering clouds hovering over Venice like an inverted bowl, the choppy, gray water swallowed the blooms almost as soon as they were released.
The bridegroom’s ship sailed into the basin right on schedule. A battery of cannon on the island of San Giorgio Maggiore boomed a welcoming salute. In between thuds, a great cheer arose. It started with the sailors on the boats, rippled over the water, then was taken up by the crowd on the Piazzetta. I looked across the red carpet to the basilica choir’s platform. Their singers’ lips were moving, but I couldn’t hear a note for the booming cannons and cheering crowd.
By the time it was our turn to perform, the tall-masted Croatian ship was at the mid-point of her slow, stately passage across the basin. The crowd had quieted considerably. As Torani rose and gave the musicians their cue, a thrill of anticipation swirled around our platform. Emma sang first. She executed her arias with sweetness and virtuosity but received only scattered applause and no cries of “brava.” Torani shrugged helplessly and motioned for me to step forward.
Barely aware of the murmur sweeping through the Piazzetta, I faced the Doge and his retinue. I had prepared several popular arias from operas that the theater had offered during the last Carnival. Since I’d been making enough time for practice, my voice was nearly back to top form. Even my rival Florio had noticed the change and complemented me in rehearsal. I took a breath, anticipating the opening chord. The sea of listeners swam before my eyes.
I was stopped
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