closeted with the box office manager.
Liveried servants whisked up and down the stairway. The curving corridors were a pandemonium of din and feminine conversation. While many of the men remained seated to admire the graceful limbs of the dancers, the women were on the move, shifting from box to box, intent on paying as many social calls as possible. As I threaded my way through panniered skirts of satin and silk, a few ladies recognized me despite my mask and insisted on delivering a compliment on my performance. By thanking them with only a brush of my lips on their hands and moving with determination, I reached La Samsona’s box with a good twenty minutes to spare before I had to return backstage.
A willowy footman in snug, cherry-red livery answered my knock. The box was dim, as the curtains were half-drawn and only one of the wall sconces was aflame. At first the footman attempted to dismiss me with a sneer and a firm shake of his proud head. “My mistress is already engaged.”
I insisted, making my high, melodic voice carry to the woman who occupied a low armchair angled well back from the rail. A man in a devil’s mask sat close at her side. His arm was buried in her skirts up to his elbow. She pushed him away and asked over her shoulder, “Who is it, Lelio?”
I lowered my mask.
“It is S…Signor Tito Amato,” the footman stammered, no longer quite so sure of himself.
It took only a moment for La Samsona to dismiss her companion and welcome me to the seat still warm from his backside. In the midst of exchanging the usual courtesies, she ordered, “Lelio, pour Signor Amato a glass of wine. Fetch some mandorlato . And,” she paused to send me a sidelong, heavy-lidded look, “do close the curtains all the way.”
From a small cabinet, the footman produced a silver dish of almond nougat and two glasses of Cyprus wine. As he deposited these on a tripod table before us, La Samsona leaned over to lay a hand on my sleeve. My nose was assaulted by her heavy scent—attar of roses. I ducked my chin. The long fingers that dug into my forearm sported three huge gemstone rings. I wondered if they were real or paste. I was no jeweler, but they looked damned fine to me. I could say the same of the diamond bracelet encircling the wrist that was decidedly thick and sinewy for my taste. But the lady was speaking, and I had better pay attention.
“…so pleased you’ve given me this opportunity to tell you how much enjoyment your performances have afforded me. Perhaps you’ll allow me to repay you in some small way. I am also famous for certain talents.”
Momentarily speechless, I felt her hand shift from my sleeve to stroke the silk of my breeches. I captured that hand with my own and locked my gaze on eyes as brilliant as the settings of her rings. They shone from a face defined by high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a strong rounded chin decorated with a heart-shaped patch. If La Samsona’s features had not been as perfectly symmetrical as a classical statue, they would have been overwhelming. As it was, they were simply magnificent, the goddess Athena walking among mortals.
I removed the goddess’ roving hand firmly to her lap and said, perhaps a bit too bluntly, “I came to discuss Zulietta Giardino.”
La Samsona sank back against her cushion and rearranged the flowers at her bosom. Their gay colors fought with the multihued beads and spangles encrusting the bodice of her lilac gown. She gazed at me with a thoughtful expression. “Oh, dear, have I got it all wrong? Are you like the lead castrato at the San Benedetto? More fond of boys than women?”
I shook my head. “Believe me, dear lady, I’m only here to ask a few questions regarding your friend Zulietta. She was your friend, was she not?”
Was it my imagination that La Samsona stiffened a bit? She covered whatever emotion my statement produced by reaching for her glass and taking a long drink. “You’re merely indulging an appetite for
Liveried servants whisked up and down the stairway. The curving corridors were a pandemonium of din and feminine conversation. While many of the men remained seated to admire the graceful limbs of the dancers, the women were on the move, shifting from box to box, intent on paying as many social calls as possible. As I threaded my way through panniered skirts of satin and silk, a few ladies recognized me despite my mask and insisted on delivering a compliment on my performance. By thanking them with only a brush of my lips on their hands and moving with determination, I reached La Samsona’s box with a good twenty minutes to spare before I had to return backstage.
A willowy footman in snug, cherry-red livery answered my knock. The box was dim, as the curtains were half-drawn and only one of the wall sconces was aflame. At first the footman attempted to dismiss me with a sneer and a firm shake of his proud head. “My mistress is already engaged.”
I insisted, making my high, melodic voice carry to the woman who occupied a low armchair angled well back from the rail. A man in a devil’s mask sat close at her side. His arm was buried in her skirts up to his elbow. She pushed him away and asked over her shoulder, “Who is it, Lelio?”
I lowered my mask.
“It is S…Signor Tito Amato,” the footman stammered, no longer quite so sure of himself.
It took only a moment for La Samsona to dismiss her companion and welcome me to the seat still warm from his backside. In the midst of exchanging the usual courtesies, she ordered, “Lelio, pour Signor Amato a glass of wine. Fetch some mandorlato . And,” she paused to send me a sidelong, heavy-lidded look, “do close the curtains all the way.”
From a small cabinet, the footman produced a silver dish of almond nougat and two glasses of Cyprus wine. As he deposited these on a tripod table before us, La Samsona leaned over to lay a hand on my sleeve. My nose was assaulted by her heavy scent—attar of roses. I ducked my chin. The long fingers that dug into my forearm sported three huge gemstone rings. I wondered if they were real or paste. I was no jeweler, but they looked damned fine to me. I could say the same of the diamond bracelet encircling the wrist that was decidedly thick and sinewy for my taste. But the lady was speaking, and I had better pay attention.
“…so pleased you’ve given me this opportunity to tell you how much enjoyment your performances have afforded me. Perhaps you’ll allow me to repay you in some small way. I am also famous for certain talents.”
Momentarily speechless, I felt her hand shift from my sleeve to stroke the silk of my breeches. I captured that hand with my own and locked my gaze on eyes as brilliant as the settings of her rings. They shone from a face defined by high cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a strong rounded chin decorated with a heart-shaped patch. If La Samsona’s features had not been as perfectly symmetrical as a classical statue, they would have been overwhelming. As it was, they were simply magnificent, the goddess Athena walking among mortals.
I removed the goddess’ roving hand firmly to her lap and said, perhaps a bit too bluntly, “I came to discuss Zulietta Giardino.”
La Samsona sank back against her cushion and rearranged the flowers at her bosom. Their gay colors fought with the multihued beads and spangles encrusting the bodice of her lilac gown. She gazed at me with a thoughtful expression. “Oh, dear, have I got it all wrong? Are you like the lead castrato at the San Benedetto? More fond of boys than women?”
I shook my head. “Believe me, dear lady, I’m only here to ask a few questions regarding your friend Zulietta. She was your friend, was she not?”
Was it my imagination that La Samsona stiffened a bit? She covered whatever emotion my statement produced by reaching for her glass and taking a long drink. “You’re merely indulging an appetite for
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