Читать книгу The Tiepolo mystery - Jo Kilian - Страница 7

CARNIVAL, ANNO 1751

Venetian masquerade was the theme for that evening. It was a grand party, which unfortunately ended bitterly for two poor souls.

Prince-Bishop Carl Phillip von Greiffenclau invited two dozen high-ranking subjects to a lively festival. The highly respected Maestro Giambattista Tiepolo, and his sons, Domenico and Lorenzo, were among the new arrivals from Venice.

Guests were required to wear masks, which they were more than happy to do. Only once a year, a total of four hundred subjects in the prince-bishop’s court were allowed to disguise, unpunished, their origin and rank. Everyone was equal, since nobody knew who was hiding behind a mask. Was it a servant or chambermaid, the prince’s personal physician, the chef or the prince’s favorite muse?

Welcome to the realm of fools!

The banquet hall shimmered in flickering candlelight. The air was stuffy from steaming food and body heat. Wine glasses merrily rang from jovial toasts, laughter echoed, and the daCapo shouts outdid one another.

Signora Platti stood on stage, surrounded by musicians. For a change she was not dressed in an elegant gown, but instead wore a maid costume. At her side, a volunteer hovered behind his mask, posing as an aristocrat and helplessly contesting the commands from his servant, Serpina. He futilely and repeatedly attempted to contradict her, but Serpina’s resolute soprano voice forced him into silence.

“Quiet! Quiet! Serpina rules this house!”

Without giving it a second thought, twenty throats loudly echoed back: “Quiet! Quiet! Serpina rules this house!”

The maid had promoted herself to a mistress, and the master had to obey. Such was the merry opera, La serva padrona, in which a maid outwitted a rich fool into marriage.

Serpina: “Do what I tell you!”

And everyone repeated it so loudly that the cups danced upon the tables and rebellious cannon shots resonated through the halls of the vast residence.

Only one was silent – Maestro Giambattista Tiepolo. Several rooms further down, where the guests of the prince-bishop were dining, he smoked, deep in thought, his cigar. No way would such defiant words ever escape his lips. He pushed the bothersome gondolier mask to the side and scratched his nose and forehead. May fate be merciful. After all, it’s carnival; it was just a drunken servant’s joke, nothing more. Tomorrow everything will be back to normal.

“Why are you looking so serious, father?” Lorenzo, the maestro’s fourteen-year-old son asked. His cheeks were blushed from singing and dancing. Pearls of sweat covered his forehead, black strands hung down over his golden-colored falcon mask.

The maestro gently stroked over his head. “It’s nothing; no need to worry.”

“But father, you can’t fool me. I see it clearly. Something is on your mind.”

His father smiled gratefully at him. “Thank God for your alert observations. It’s really nothing; I just have to get back to work.” He turned and cleared his way through rows of masked people, to escape the reality.

Lorenzo wanted to follow him, but a hand upon his shoulder prevented him.

“He is and will remain a grumpy old man”, Domenico, the maestro’s twenty-four-year-old son, scolded. Contrary to his father, he understood his assigned honor as a duty. He would never dream of leaving the festivities so early.

“Don’t talk about him like that”, Lorenzo countered. “Great works of art are expected of him.”

“You mean of us!” Domenico corrected his brother and tore his own plain white mask off. He wasn’t a fan of carnival or costume parties, and never was; not even in the heart of the carnival, their hometown, Venice. “Without your drawings and my inexpensive paintbrushes, his fame wouldn’t be worth anything.”

“He is the maestro. We can only do what he orders us to do.”

“What is a master worth, without his servants?”

Before Lorenzo could argue, the crowd cut him off!

“Quiet! Contradicting doesn’t count!”

Cristina, the maestro’s favorite model and no less creative muse, emerged from the raging crowd. She headed straight on toward Domenico, who had guessed what was expected of him. He took a step back, to bump into the wide chest of Angelo, Tiepolo’s black servant.

“Step aside!” Domenico ordered, which he immediately did. But it was too late. There was no escape from Cristina’s eager fingers.

“Vieni, balla con me!” Come dance with me!

Between her long black waves of hair, darker than Lorenzo’s, two eyes sparkled; they wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“We aren’t in Venice”, Domenico answered weakly. “What will the noble Gentlemen think of us?”

She threw her mane back into her neck and laughed. “Gentlemen or servants? Nobody cares. We are all equal today.”

“You should do what she wants”, Angelo grumbled, “simply to avoid any more attention.”

He’s right, Lorenzo thought. There was no stopping Cristina when she was in this mood. “Then go, if you value our reputation that much.”

“Should I ask Angelo”, Cristina spewed out, “so that everyone can see how we mingle with savages?”

The servant didn’t blink an eye; he remained still, looking ahead and over all the heads. Although Lorenzo knew the insult wouldn’t go unpunished. Eventually an opportunity would arise; Angelo forgets nothing.

As a last resort, Domenico gave in and allowed Cristina to pull him into the center, where the elegant court servants gathered.

“Do you believe young man”, Angelo asked, “that she will treat him graciously?” A smile crossed his thick lips, crowned by a large distinct nose. The wide forehead blended into copper-colored hair. It was the result of the maestro’s failed attempt in diminishing the court subjects’ fear of the black giant.

“I’m afraid he gets what he deserves.”

“I think she will too.”

It didn’t take longer than a gasp of breath, when a circle formed around the two dancers. Rooting cheers pierced through the ballroom.

“Lift me up”, Lorenzo ordered, and Angelo set him upon his shoulders.

From there, the young Tiepolo had an outlook free of obstruction. What a wonderful inspirational view! Masks – wherever he looked. Smaller ones, for just concealing the eyes, studded with sequins, as well as lavishly decorated facial masks covered with sprouting feathers. Others represented animals like cats, tigers or birds. Some were dressed in black-beaked masks. They prowled around the pest doctor, who was clad in a round hat and a simple flowing garment. He held a cane, in order to keep his distance from ill-stricken souls. Lorenzo felt a chill run down his back.

“Are you frightened, young master?” Angelo asked. He never seemed to miss a thing, despite his long copper-dyed hair hanging down his face. It was his kind of mask, although it was impossible to mistake him for anyone else.

“Pah, never!” Lorenzo lied, aware that he could never fool Angelo. Ever since early childhood, Angelo had stood by his side, played with him, comforted him and protected him. In reality he was more like his big brother, while Domenico worked with his father in the studio.

“I can feel you trembling.”

“You’re mistaken. It’s from joy, not fear.”

“Are you homesick?”

Lorenzo sighed. “I wish mother were here and could celebrate with us. It’s such a splendid fest.”

“I’m sure all her thoughts are with you.”

“And mine with her”, he said quietly and brushed a tear away. “That’s enough now”, he took a deep breath. “I want to have fun. So tell me, what do we do next?” He was in the mood for adventure.

“The pheasant could be tasty.” Hardly an hour passed by without Angelo thinking of food, which was no surprise, since his large muscular body constantly needed sustenance.

“Eighteen dishes and five baskets with the finest confectionery have been passed around”, Lorenzo replied, astonished. “In addition: wine, beer and schnapps. And you’re still not full?”

“I didn’t get a bite.”

“Didn’t anyone serve you in the kitchen?”

“They are afraid of me, young master.”

“How rude!” Determinedly, he pressed his calf into Angelo, who then set him back down. “Wait here; I’ll go get you something.”

“Whatever you say.”

Back on his feet, Lorenzo fought his way between the clapping, singing and swaying guests. This time he wasn’t captivated by the magical costume ball – instead, he was bad-tempered – right down to fury.

“Step aside!” he yelled, without having a clue as to who was behind the French chevalier costume. The next one stood directly in his way, a popular fellow, who wore under his sweaty black hair a frightening dragon mask or some sort of animal with huge nostrils and gaping teeth.

“Where are you heading to, young Tiepolo?”

Lorenzo stopped. “How do you know who I am?” he asked, while grabbing his mask, which he had already pushed up onto his head. “Who are you?”

The dragon removed his mask. It was none other than the master of stucco art – Lombard Antonio Bossi. His father had been regularly meeting the important man, during their recent weeks, concerning the hall’s design. He should be careful.

“Sorry that I didn’t immediately recognize you”, Lorenzo apologized. “My appetite is steering me to the banquet.”

A somewhat stout person stood by Bossi’s side. His ill-fitting Turkish Bork hats, as well as the glued-on blue-black beard, were beginning to lose their hold. No doubt about it; he was Balthasar Neumann, the Würzburg Residence’s building contractor, and according to the prince, the most important commandant of all – especially for Tiepolo.

A rushed, perhaps exaggerated, bow from Lorenzo was meant to make up for his awkwardness. “Greetings, Master Neumann.”

He hardly acknowledged the young boy, for his attention was directed to the guests. Discipline and order were his first priority, making sure no one was getting too carried away. Not far from them, the prince was dining within an elite circle of chosen guests, and Neumann was most certainly one of them. Though not of noble origin, he had been a highly recognized colonel in the struggle before Belgrade, against the Turkish army. In no way was he any less important, since he was the prince’s most valuable servant in this breathtaking building project.

“Where’s your father?” Bossi asked with a thick tongue. “I thought I just saw him.”

“He’s retired for the night. The plans for the great hall have completely occupied his thoughts.”

“He’d be well advised to do so.” Neumann answered unexpectedly, and warned, in a most definite tone, “No way will we risk being tricked by a swindler again.” By that he meant the foxy crook, Visconti, whose reputation was ruined before Tiepolo began his work there. Instead of artistically painting the rooms and ceilings, Visconti hid behind a scaffold and consumed abundant excesses of wine, woman and song. The disgraceful story spread like the speed of wind through the lands, amusing many a gloating soul.

Lorenzo was aware of the high expectations set for Tiepolo. He attempted to appease: “No need for concern. My father will achieve miraculous, innovative masterpieces; I can promise you that. Now please excuse me, my hunger can’t be subdued any longer.”

Just leave as quickly as possible, don’t look back and take more caution. At this party masked gentlemen, disguised as servants, are wandering around.

The long banquet table, set with a variety of food and drinks, looked abandoned, for the distracted guests were intoxicated by Cristina’s permissiveness. Only one of them distanced himself from the commotion. The old court jester, in his common silly green-and-white-striped costume, was decked out in a garland of star-like bells, wrapped around his body and head. Jobless, he wasted away, drunk, in a corner. Lorenzo sympathized with him. What good is a fool among a crowd offools?

When, suddenly, someone grabbed his arm. “Come with me!” Domenico ordered, out of breath and bathed in sweat. “Cristina is steering us all into disaster.”

“Let me go!” Lorenzo squirmed. “Angelo hasn’t had anything to …” But in vain; protesting was a waste of time. Angelo showed up behind Domenico, for he hadn’t taken his eyes off his assigned charge.

“This won’t end well at all”, he said.

“It’s her problem as to how she will explain herself to father. She’s possessed!”

Any further arguments or fighting back was futile. Domenico pulled his brother out of the ballroom, out to the wide empty hallway, where voices faded away and were lost in shadows.

“We can’t just leave her behind”, Lorenzo protested.

Domenico didn’t want to hear another word. “Yes we can.”

Lorenzo glanced back with a pleading look. “Angelo …”

The words sounded like: “Fate will take care of her.”

The further they walked away, the less the noise, till it disappeared into the background. Continuing through the palace’s long dark corridors, they soon lost their bearings. The number of construction sites changed daily, as well as the points of orientation. It didn’t take long till they didn’t have a clue as to where they were.

“Porco Giuda!” Domenico swore – where the devil. “Where are our chambers?”

“We should have taken the other turn”, Angelo answered.

“Why didn’t you say that right away?”

“You took the lead.”

“Guard your tongue!”

Lorenzo didn’t pay any attention to the unusually sharp word exchange between the servant and master. His thoughts were lost in the moonlight behind the window, where snowflakes danced and covered the world in powdery sugar. Peacefully and inviting it lay, this contrast to noise and sticky air in the ballroom.

“Let’s have a snowball fight.”

“Stop talking nonsense!” Domenico said. “Father is awaiting us.”

“Father is engrossed in his plans”, Lorenzo replied.

“Or he has to catch Cristina”, Angelo added.

“You’re all boring”, and with that, Lorenzo took off, through the middle of the corridor, down the next dark alley, around the corner and then another one. Just the light of the moon, streaming in from the windows, showed him the way. An urgent wish to spend the night playing in the snowstorm drove him on. Behind him, Domenico’s calls faded, but Angelo’s heavy steps were close on his heels.

Then finally, after he ran down a narrow staircase to the ground floor, a gust of cold air blew at him. A door stood open. Servants were rushing through, carrying blankets and coats. One of them was even juggling hot stones. When Lorenzo stepped outside into the enchanting night, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

In the torchlight, rows of horse-drawn sleighs were parked in the inner courtyard. In one of the sleighs, six musicians, warmly dressed, were attempting to shield their delicate instruments from snowflakes. It seemed to be a futile undertaking. Within the shortest time, a new layer of snow fell upon violins, oboes and horns, as well as the many heads in this amazing festivity. It goes without saying: it was quite a noble party.

Magnificent glittering garments as well as chest armor were studded with golden and silver decoration. Stunning exotic uniforms from Turkish pashas, Roman emperors or Greek conquerors shone under the flickering torchlight. The faces were masked. Lorenzo believed he recognized one of the costumed warrior as Alexander the Great; in another, Caesar, and in a third warrior the embodiment of Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, combat and art.

But it was the splendidly, beautifully designed sleighs that truly set Lorenzo in awe. They weren’t just simple sleds, constructed in rough uncomfortable woodwork; they were truly masterpieces of carpentry and wrought-iron craftsmanship, depicting scenes like an aggressive ram with curved horns, protecting his master with his body from multiple attacks, an enormous boar with huge tusks, or a deer with enormous antlers. Only one animal was shown as defeated – a brown-spotted jaguar, lying on his back, twisting in pain from an arrow that had pierced its side. Its tongue had flopped out of its mouth, and lay upon its spiky teeth. Its paw, adorned with sharp claws, was raised in a last counter-defense.

What a masterpiece!

“Aren’t you Tiepolo, the maestro’s youngest son?”

The sudden question came from a passenger in a sled, dressed in a costume representing Pallas Athena. In one hand, she held a spear. Upon her head a curved helmet pointed toward the front, and golden armor, with the twisted serpent hair of a Gorgonian, adorned her breast.

Stunned, Lorenzo didn’t know what to do but to bow, and stuttered, “Yes, Your Highness, I’m Lorenzo …”

The goddess laughed. “I’m not a highness, just a countess. Did I confuse you that much?”

Yes she did.

“You are beautiful, almost sinful”, she said, and lifted his chin with her hand. Her piercing Medusa eyes made him shiver.

“It’s not right to compliment me like that”, he answered nervously. “I’m just an honorable prince’s modest servant. You, though, are a goddess.”

She laughed in a refreshingly natural way, “Comme c’est merveilleux! I wish my unfaithful husband used your words and had your irresistible charm.” She stroked his hair. “Oh you, my young beautiful chevalier. I am sure you are a feast for all women’s eyes.”

Now he blushed, and that in the middle of a snowstorm. His throat was dry. It was impossible to utter a word.

And what did she do? She laughed again, not evilly or scornfully; it sounded more like a pleasant cooing, as if her fantasy was filled with a longed-for passion.

To Lorenzo’s rescue, a call echoed across the courtyard, more like a command.

“En selle!” Ready!

A whip crack resounded through the courtyard. The sleigh drivers took their seats in the back of the carriages – young, noble students or officers steered the sleighs with whips, brakes and feet for their passengers.

Lorenzo stepped back, cleared his throat and bowed. “I wish you a pleasant trip.”

“You look a little sad”, the countess said. “How would you like to accompany me?”

He couldn’t believe his ears. “Pardon me countess, what did you say?”

“There’s enough room for both of us, and it’s cozy and warm.”

Lorenzo hesitated. Is he allowed to accept such an invitation? It must be against the prince’s court rules, since so much emphasis was laid upon etiquette and ceremonies.

The whip lashed out again.

“Allez! On y va!” Let’s go!

“Now! Before it’s too late.”

The sled began to move. Lorenzo looked around, still hesitant, but with an increasing desire for adventure. When Angelo and Domenico suddenly came running through the door and into the courtyard, his decision was made.

What the hell?! Damn the etiquette!

He leaped onto the sled, and landed between the countess’s thighs, ignoring the calls from his brother and guardian.

They drove through the gate, out to the large square in front of the residence. The moonlight shone upon the freshly fallen snow. No one dared to get that close to the palace, especially at night, knowing guards would chase them away. And more than ever now, since the sleigh outing was an exception, and no one knew who it was for. Torch fires flickered between the sleds, whips cracked like battle yelling, commands were hollered, while the sleighs carried passengers clad in fearful conqueror costumes.

Only one thing couldn’t be waved away with a flick of a hand: the music. Instead of military marching sounds accompanying the warriors, the small orchestra played gay dance music. What a bizarre scene!

Lorenzo and the countess listened to the carriage drivers’ shouts: “Giddy up! Run!” followed by high whirring whipping sounds and the snorting from horses.

“Are you having fun?” Lorenzo heard from close behind.

He nodded with conviction, not because he had to, but from true enthusiasm. What an adventure! He couldn’t believe he was actually sitting with a real countess in a sleigh; better said, in a wonderful chariot. Behind and in front of them were many other carriages, drawn by terrifying-looking horses. It would have been highly unwise to approach any of them, for they were certainly anything but harmless. They were decorated with bushes, ribbons and other ornaments, so that they could be taken as bears, lions, eagles or swans. What an awesome sight! Never before had he experienced anything like it – not even in Venice, where the epitome of carnivals took place. In Venice, he was only a craftsman’s son, but here he was the protégé of a true countess.

They passed the gardens and a church. Tiny lights, held by curious townspeople, emerged in the dark.

“Grab that basket, in the front of the sleigh”, rang a command in Lorenzo’s ear. He obeyed without questioning. The first thing he found was a hot stone for warming the feet, and then he discovered a smaller basket filled with sweets and fruit.

“What should I do with it?” he asked.

“Throw, of course.”

“Throw? Why?”

The countess took it from his hand and gave the driver a signal. The whip swished and the sled sped up to the front line. Then something unbelievable happened. The countess started to throw things at the Turkish pasha.

“Count Falkenberg, what kind of a lame duck do you think you are?”

He didn’t react angrily. Why, she even laughed and made faces, so that one would think an unruly, impertinent whore had secretly mingled with the high class. And the pasha didn’t bother to draw his crooked Turkish sable for revenge, for he began to throw sweets and fruit as his own ammunition. They flew around Lorenzo’s ears like cannon balls.

“Faster!” The whip obeyed; her new goal was the next sled.

“More!” she encouraged Lorenzo, “give me more”, and once again he passed candies and fruit to her.

Considering the way the countess greeted her new enemy, it was obvious they were dealing with another type of foe. This time no insults were spewed out, but instead a questionable flirt.

“My dear husband”, she purred, “do you dare contest me?” The count, dressed in a Roman emperor costume, was not willing. He listlessly waved her off, and instead provoked the countess by taking a sip of wine.

“Are you chicken? Here, take that!” and a handful of candies flew around his ears.

“You’re making a fool of yourself”, he said indignantly.

She continued to taunt him. “You’re a lying loser!”

He acknowledged her with a haughty laugh. “Charm has never been your best virtue.”

“If you call yourself a real man”, she screamed, “then try at least to challenge me! Or are your aristocratic pants full?”

She burst out into a loud forced laugh.

Lorenzo felt his stomach turn. “Countess, wouldn’t you prefer to choose someone else?” He pointed at the sleds in front and behind them, as well as the many carriages parked along the side of the road. Folks were busy collecting confectionary and fruit and putting them into their bags. Among them, children were throwing snowballs at each other, when suddenly a snowball was tossed in the wrong direction and flew from the midst of the turmoil into the festive parade.

Was it fate? Most likely a catastrophic accident that a snowball landed right smack in the middle of the count’s face. He ordered the sled to an immediate halt.

“Bravo!” the countess applauded. “What a perfect shot.” She ordered her sled to stop as well. Lorenzo jumped off and offered her his helping hand.

Holding his injured eye, the count demanded the whip from his sleigh driver. He then stomped through the snow toward the unfortunate group. “Who did this?!”

They all drew back, no one answered.

“One more time; which one of you attacked me?”

The countess stepped up to the count and tried to calm him down. “It was a dumb coincidence, dear husband; nothing more. Let’s go back, before we lose the others.”

Retreating wasn’t an alternative for the count. His first priority was to get revenge for being humilated. “One last time!” he yelled at the group. “Step up now, and I’ll leave it at a dozen whips.”

That wasn’t such a great bargain for a confession. Just about all of them saved themselves, though, by taking off into the night. Only one boy and a girl didn’t seem to realize how serious the situation was. They continued to throw snow at each other, and frolicked around like two young puppies.

“You there!” he ordered, “come here”, which they did, without expecting a thing.

Perhaps he’s handing out an extra portion of confectionery. Their faces, a bit darker and more ascetic than the locals, beamed with joy. Their clothing looked foreign, not from the local city, but more from the southern region.

Lorenzo thought, they must be travelers or traders or …

“Disrespectful, ungodly brute!” The count scolded and began to beat them with a massive whipping. The children fell crying to the ground, begging for mercy.

“Hold on”, the countess said, grabbing his arm. “You are chastising innocent children.”

“No one is innocent”, and with a hefty shove he pushed her into the snow and continued to whip the children’s bloody backs. “I’ll teach you never again to insult a cultivated nobleman of rank and honor.”

Count Falkenberg, the Turkish pasha, stopped his sled as well and pleaded, “Count de Valois, that’s enough! You’ll kill them!”

A third aristocrat, dressed as Aphrodite or Helena in a magnificent fur, joined them. “Count, get a hold of yourself”, but it was all in vain. “Baroness de Fleury, stick to your lovers. I am just carrying out justice.”

Lorenzo gathered all his courage together, and threw himself at the count’s feet. “Most gracious master and lord, show mercy, for they didn’t know what they were doing.”

“That doesn’t protect them from being punished”, Count de Valois answered. “Move over, before you get the whip too.”

“Master, I beg of you …”

“As you wish!” The whip rose, when suddenly a man and a woman appeared from out of the darkness. They gathered their sobbing children into their arms, while the man demanded an explanation for what was taking place.

“Per amor del cielo! Che cosa è successo?” For God’s sake! What is going on?

Lorenzo recognized his accent. He had guessed their origin correctly. They were from his country, although the man spoke in an unusual dialect. Genoese? Neapolitan? People from there were to be taken seriously, as far as honor and their families were concerned. Special caution was called for.

The man’s face distorted into a bloody rage, and he attacked the count with a short blade in his hand. “Che cosa hai fatto?!” What have you done?!

At first the count was taken completely by surprise and stepped back at the atrocity, till he realized his situation, and changed his stance to attack. The whip flashed through the winter air – three, four, a dozen times. That’s when the sleigh driver leaped to assist his master and helped beat the unfortunate man down.

Lorenzo was breathing heavily, not from pain, but from the weight bearing down on his body. Warm blood dripped on his cheek and eyes. The crying and sobbing from the children penetrated his ears. Finally, something he never would have thought possible, he heard a familiar voice.

“Lorenzo! Where are you?” It was Angelo, his guardian angel and most loyal friend.

He then heard: “Your death – my honor.”