2 - Painted Veil Read Free

we played out on the theater’s stage.
    Benito passed me a hand mirror, and I turned my head to admire his work. Rehearsal would soon begin. From neighboring dressing rooms, Rosa’s dusky contralto moved up and down the scales, echoed by Niccolo’s mellow tenor. I made a silent vow to my newly coifed reflection as Benito whisked a clothing brush over my shoulders. If any difficulties threatened the upcoming opera, they would not be caused by me. I would imitate Emma Albani and become the soul of congeniality. I would turn a deaf ear to Florio’s pompous pronouncements, reapply myself to my music, and try to regain the confidence of Maestro Torani and my fellow musicians. The great occasion that
Cesare in Egitto
would celebrate demanded no less.

Chapter 2
    I left Benito polishing shoes and started through the maze of corridors that led to the stage. Audiences would be surprised to see how much space lay behind the backdrop that they thought of as the “back” of the theater. The dressing rooms were down a hallway that led to the right, well behind the stage. A larger, intersecting corridor held workshops and studios. With less than two weeks until opening night, this area was bustling. Carpenters were knocking scenery flats together, and machinists were tinkering with the intricate contraptions that brought the eye-popping stage effects to life.
    The project of the morning was nothing less than the River Nile. As described in the libretto, the first act curtain of
Cesare in Egitto
rose on the open-air atrium of a palace outside Alexandria. The contentious brother and sister, Ptolemy played by me and Cleopatra played by Emma, awaited a barge carrying the Roman hero, Julius Caesar. The scene designer had submitted a model depicting a series of columns and arches topped by statues of Egyptian deities. The river appeared through the wide arches as a trio of horizontal waves set before the backdrop. These could be made to simulate the rolling waters of the Nile by a team of burly stagehands turning cranks which slid the waves back and forth. As Caesar, Florio would make his first entrance singing from the prow of a barge bedecked with flags and streamers pulled in on a track behind the waves. For every enthralling but seemingly effortless entrance of this type, there was an army of stagehands straining at ropes, winches, and pulleys in the wings and below stage.
    I paused to stick my head in my favorite workshop: the scene painter’s studio. Luca Cavalieri, the principal artist, always had a vast canvas hanging from the ceiling, covering one entire wall. I loved watching it progress. Luca started with a lightly outlined sketch, painted a rough background, then added layers of perspective to create a vista that seemed to stretch for miles. This morning, the studio was an island of quiet in the backstage sea of banging, clanging activity. The smell of oily paint and pungent turpentine hung in the air, but the huge canvas was untended. Luca was nowhere to be seen.
    An exclamation of disgust floated up from behind a waist-high counter. I investigated. Several of Luca’s assistants were kneeling on the floor throwing dice. They jumped to their feet.
    “Ah, it’s you, Signor Amato,” said the taller one, whose name I could never remember.
    “Yes, just me. You can go back to your game.” I grinned. They were accustomed to my stopping by to admire their work and knew that I, as a singer, had no authority to fuss about their idleness, even if I had been the fussing type. “Where is your master? He is usually up to his elbows in paint by now.”
    The shorter, broader artist rattled the dice before answering with a touch of irritation. “Who knows? Signor Cavalieri keeps his own hours these days.”
    His fellow painter seemed more anxious to defend the studio’s supervisor. “He’ll be strolling in any minute now. You know Master Luca. He’s always busy with something. When he’s intent on a project, he forgets everything