1 - Interrupted Aria Read Free Page A

drawing us over the threshold. “Come in, come in. Take off your hats. Hang up your cloaks. There, on those pegs.”
    We crowded into the bare, narrow hall as Annetta pushed her basket and some coins into Lupo’s hands.
    “Go to the apothecary and get Grisella’s elixir. He knows what she needs. And check to see if the baker is still open. Get some cakes if you can. Now that Tito has come, we must celebrate.”
    Lupo gave me a welcoming smile and backed out the door with a small bow to Annetta. Again we heard squealing. This time anger was evident in the shrill cries coming from the floor above.
    “No. No, I won’t. I want to wear that one. Give it here you old cow.” Placating murmurs followed, then a loud slap, running feet, and the slam of a door. Annetta charged up the stairs, bidding us wait in the sitting room.
    We entered to find a small table and a few chairs scattered about on a Persian carpet. An enameled stove containing some dying embers of coal filled one corner, but our chief interest lay in the delicate but well proportioned harpsichord set before the room’s one window. Immediately, Felice took charge of the instrument and began to run through some scales.
    “Come on, Tito, we’ve had no real practice since leaving Naples.”
    We launched into the elementary exercises so routine from our years at the conservatorio . Each session always began in the same way, with basic tasks to warm up the throat muscles followed by more vigorous exercises to build strength and stamina. Castrati are famous for having the small, delicately formed larynx of a woman and the prodigious lung capacity of a man. Hours of daily musical training results in a voice that can span three and one-half octaves, sing the highest and lowest notes with equal ease, and hold those notes for long minutes of swelling ecstasy. All of this, while the castrato soprano maintains control over the most complicated embellishments and plays nimbly up and down cascades and trills that no other singer could possibly produce.
    I had once witnessed a virtuoso performance by the great Farinelli in Naples. During his arias, all eyes were glued to his face and gestures. Hundreds of ears strained to catch every vocal nuance. Some of the women, and even a few of the men, seemed transported by sensation. With their heads tipped back, watching through half-closed eyes, they appeared nothing short of enraptured. After the opera, the man’s coach could hardly move through the streets for the crowds of people pressing in to give him flowers or just touch his sleeve. I saw one woman who cried her love for him over and over. She unlaced her bodice and bared her breasts before she was finally hustled away. But that had been the famed Farinelli. I reminded myself that I was only Tito Amato, a young Venetian of uncertain prospects, singing scales in my sitting room with my friend whose voice couldn’t please a frog.
    Felice fell silent and his roving fingers lit on the accompaniment to one of my arias from the opera that had crowned our student days. I grinned and joined in the melody. Despite our sea journey, my voice was in fine shape and I quickly warmed to the music. I sang the first section as written, then began to add my own embellishments. My throat was nearly bursting with the joy of singing again. I soon left the composer’s intent behind and sounded the notes for their own sake, giving my imagination free rein. Felice gave up trying to follow me on the keyboard. He crossed his arms and nodded his chin in time to my rhythm. When I finally ran out of breath, he gestured to the door. I turned to face four amazed stares. The four broke into applause, and one of the group flew at me and began hugging my neck and covering my cheeks with kisses.
    “Oh Tito, I didn’t know you could sing like that,” came in between enthusiastic embraces.
    “Enough, Grisella. Don’t strangle your brother. Let Tito catch his breath and have a look at you.” Annetta