4 - The Iron Tongue of Midnight

by Beverle Graves Myers

  “I don’t know if I will even be able to sing today,” he announced as he reached toward an epergne heaped with pears and apples and grapes.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  Before answering, my fellow castrato pinched each piece of fruit, selected an apple, and made a face when the first bite was not to his liking. Some castrati took the loss of their manhood in stride, devoting themselves to music and enjoying the riches it could bring. Others harbored a grudge against the world for the rest of their lives. Emilio belonged to the latter group, and I’d never known him to stint his complaints about anything that displeased him.

  “Well,” Emilio finally replied, “up at all hours. Exposed to unconscionable violence. Ordered about by a puffed-up ironmonger. How do you like it? This surely wasn’t what you expected.”

  I shrugged, making short work of my own apple. Between bites, I replied, “Last night was a shock, but I’m eager to get started on Tamerlano. Work is the best antidote, I say. I’ve also been itching to meet this prima donna I’ve heard so much about.” I turned to the Gecco brothers. “Has Madame Fouquet made an appearance?”

  Mario stopped slurping from his cup long enough to answer, “She was the first down. She took her coffee out to the loggia.”

  I bowed to the company and made my way there.

  My first glimpse of Madame Fouquet was of her feet as she reclined on the same long chair that Octavia had graced the night before. The Frenchwoman’s face was hidden by the red-marbled covers of an open book that seemed to absorb every bit of her attention. She did not lower it so much as an inch as I approached, so I took the opportunity to admire the Louis-style heels that emphasized the arch of her dainty feet and the newly fashionable robe à la Polonaise with the coquettish hemline that stopped several inches north of her neatly crossed ankles.

  Neither her husband nor anyone else was around to make introductions, so I cleared my throat. “Madame Fouquet, allow me to present myself. I am Tito Amato.”

  She plopped the book in her lap and answered with a pert grin. “Good morning, Tito.”

  That simple act robbed me of speech. As I stared at the woman before me, my knees went soft as mush and wings fluttered over my heart.

  Bleach had washed the red from the hair that now shown brassy yellow under her lace cap, and her once sylph-like form had widened into the body of a woman. As Carmela had so rudely observed, her corseted bodice did push her pink breasts up like ripe peaches spilling from a basket. But some things hadn’t changed. I would recognize that impudent mouth and the striking angles of her cheekbones anywhere. Yes, I knew the woman laughing at me from behind brilliant dark eyes. I knew her well.

  “Come, sit.” She patted a footstool beside the divan.

  I complied stiffly, still without words.

  She sent me a challenging smile. “Nothing to say? The Tito I remember rarely shut his mouth.”

  “Grisella,” I whispered. The fluttering had moved from my heart to my stomach and was now at war with the sensation of a cherry pit lodged in my throat. My sister who was supposed to be buried in Turkish soil was draped over the divan cushions like a long-legged cat relaxing in a splash of sun. Not dead, no, very much alive.

  She straightened her back and reached out to place a forefinger on my lips. “Not Grisella. As welcome as my real Christian name sounds, I’m Gabrielle Fouquet now, and if I value my safety, must always be.”

  “I don’t understand. We thought you were dead.”

  “Did you now?” She reclined again. Her nostrils flared and her eyes grew round. For the first time, I noticed the bluish smudges beneath them. “Is that why no one ever came looking for me?”

  “No…I mean, we didn’t know. Alessandro just recently found your grave…” I stammered, then fell silent, beset by disturbing memories.

  Grisella had entered the world on a tide of tragedy. Our mother died giving birth to her, and our father never allowed her to forget it. One of my earliest memories was playing with my toy soldiers on the floor of our sitting room. Annetta was at the harpsichord, playing a childish version of a sonata under Father’s formidable supervision, and Alessandro was doing his lessons. When Berta, Grisella’s old nurse, brought her into the room warmed by the fire and bright with lamplight, Father turned his gimlet eye on the toddling child and ordered her taken away. I had cried at his harsh words and even more at the thought of my little sister alone in the darkened nursery, away from the rest of the family. Though she was never really alone, of course. Berta was her one champion, and that good woman fussed over Grisella like an old hen with her last chick.

  Berta’s influence was not all positive, unfortunately. She could never deny Grisella anything that was in her power to give, and a child without limits knows no peace, always wanting more and more. By the time Grisella had turned five, she had perfected crocodile tears and foot stamping to a high art. By seven, her tantrums took a more serious turn. The mildest frustration would cause one shoulder to roll and her head to jerk, seemingly beyond her control. I was away at the conservatorio during the worst of her sufferings, but I remembered Annetta’s despairing letters about Grisella’s odd behavior, especially her tendency to explode in oaths that would make a sailor blush.

  Her shoulder was twitching now, and she clenched her teeth so hard that her jaw muscles bulged. I steeled myself for an outburst, but Grisella merely took a deep breath, brushed her fingers over the striped silk of her gown as if she were removing a fallen hair, and gave her head a small shake.

  “As you can see, I’m very much alive. And thriving, thanks to Jean-Louis.”

  I nodded slowly. It had been almost ten years since I’d last seen my sister. Where should I start? I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Why is there a tombstone with your name on it in Constantinople?”

  “There is someone in that city who thinks I belong to him. It is much better that he believes I’m dead.”

  “Count Vladimir Paninovich?”

  “You’re very well informed.” She raised an eyebrow.

  “Before he found your grave, Alessandro heard about the Russian and the fire that supposedly killed you both. Perhaps Count Paninovich’s death was as much of a sham as yours.”

  She gave a pretty shrug. “Vladimir’s body is in his coffin, while mine holds only a bag of sand. Jean-Louis arranged my… burial. In the fire, the smoke overcame Vladimir quickly, but I wrapped myself in a wet shawl and managed to crawl to a window. I kicked through the lattice and jumped into a fig tree.”

  “With the Russian dead, who is left to lay claim to you?”

  She dropped her gaze and fanned the pages of her book. The flutter made a breeze against my clasped hands. “Vladimir had grown tired of Constantinople. He was homesick for St. Petersburg but could hardly return with an Italian paramour in tow.”

  “According to Alessandro, Count Paninovich was wealthy enough to do as he pleased.”

  “Vladimir had a wife in St. Petersburg. He was married to the Czarina’s cousin, both of them particular favorites of Anna Ivanova.” Her rouged lips formed a salacious sneer. “There was no room for me in that ménage, so Vladimir promised me to a friend. A Turk who had admired me.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Constantinople is a different world, Tito. Without a family to protect her, a woman can simply vanish behind veils and locked doors, entirely at the mercy of the man who keeps her. The more powerful the man, the deeper the dungeon.”

  “This Turk is powerful?”

  “Let’s just say that I was very fortunate to make Jean-Louis’ acquaintance when I did. If he hadn’t come along, I would have disappeared behind the walls of the Sublime Porte forever.” She suddenly looked very tired. “Or found myself in a sack at the bottom of the Bosphorus.”

  I frowned thoughtfully, still barely able to get over the fact th
at I was talking with the sister I hadn’t seen in years. I said, “Carmela told me that Jean-Louis is an impresario.”

  “Jean-Louis has been in the theater since he was a boy. He began as a sceneshifter in Marseille. His star was made one night when the troupe on the bill failed to appear. Marseille isn’t Paris—it’s a rough-and-tumble port full of sailors from all parts of the Mediterranean. If the show disappoints, they don’t throw rotten fruit, they start firing pistols.” She paused to chuckle. “Have you ever played there?”

  I shook my head.

  She narrowed her eyes. “Of course not, Marseille doesn’t possess an opera house that matches your renown.”

  I didn’t like her tone, so I turned the conversation back to her husband. “What happened that night?”

  “Ah, with the management cowering in the wings, my Jean-Louis raised the curtain and rushed onstage. He sang, he danced, he declaimed scenes from popular plays, doing first a man’s part, then a woman’s. The sailors were amused, and from that night forward, Jean-Louis was on the bill. Since then, he’s done a little bit of everything.”

  “What was he doing in Constantinople?”

  “Searching for oriental entertainers. You know the sort—rope dancers, fire walkers, fakirs who pierce their cheeks and lips with needles. But when he heard me sing at one of Vladimir’s musical soirées, he found a way to send me a message. If I could only get away from Vladimir, he would take me back to Europe and put me on the opera stage. My talent could make us both rich.”

  “Then the fire was a godsend for you.”

  Frowning, she tossed her book aside and crossed her arms. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that. I’m happy singing and the stage suits me well. And I’m home… well, almost. Venice is only a day or two away.”

  A smile broke over her face, and I couldn’t help smiling back. Here was my little sister, snatched from the grave. Our shattered family whole at long last. My heart swelled as I slid to my knees and threw my arms around her in an awkward embrace.

  “Oh, Tito,” she whispered, burying her face in my shoulder. “All those terrible years… you have no idea. You won’t tell anyone who I really am, will you? Especially Jean-Louis. He has no idea that you’re my brother.”

  “If you wish,” I replied, my nose full of musky French scent, my eyes full of tears.

  We heard the step on the tiles at the same time. Someone had come onto the loggia. Grisella pulled back in alarm and snatched up her book. I sprang to my feet.

  Carmela moved out of a deep shadow thrown by one of the massive columns that supported the ceiling and the stories above. “Maestro Weber is ready to begin,” she announced, giving us each a penetrating look.

  “Thank you, Carmela.” Grisella rose, tucked her book under her arm, and collected her handkerchief and fan. She swept toward the salon doors without a backward glance.

  I attempted to follow, but Carmela laid a detaining hand on my arm. “You seem very friendly with our prima donna.”

  “It’s fitting to get to know your fellow singers as individuals, not just voices, don’t you think?” I cringed inwardly. Couldn’t I have come up with a less inane excuse for embracing Grisella?

  Carmela snorted. “You’ve made fast work of it, even for a celebrated singer that half the women of Venice would welcome to their beds. Are you still going to claim that you’ve never met her?”

  My mouth went dry and I willed myself to meet Carmela’s gray eyes without flinching. I didn’t fully understand why Grisella was so intent on hiding her true identity, but I was willing to keep her secret until I could learn more. With a broad smile I answered, “Madame Fouquet is a lady completely new to me.”

  ***

  Karl met us with a preoccupied frown. He was in his shirtsleeves with his waistcoat hanging open. I couldn’t help noticing his bloodshot eyes and wine-soaked breath as he directed Carmela and me to take a seat in a ring of sofas and chairs around the harpsichord.

  “We’ll begin with Gabrielle and Emilio,” he said, his German accent seeming even heavier than last night. “The duet from Act Three that we worked on yesterday. But take careful note, Carmela, your aria follows.”

  A sunny corner of the vast cream and gilt salon had been given over to music. A fresco of cherubs bearing mandolins and garlands of flowers made a fitting background for a handsome harpsichord in a richly carved case. Potted palms and vases of end-of-season rose cuttings created the atmosphere of a garden pavilion much more conducive to singing than a dusty rehearsal hall. I could easily become accustomed to this.

  At one side of the harpsichord, the Gecco brothers were coaxing their instruments into proper tune. Mario notched his violin under his chin and drew his bow across the A string, which was just enough off pitch to set my teeth on edge. After tightening the peg, he played a snippet of a popular tune. Lucca’s violoncello echoed him in lower tones.

  Karl handed us our scores for the day’s rehearsal, assured me that I would catch up in no time, then settled himself at the keyboard. He took a deep breath; on exhalation, his shoulders sank away from his ears and he began to smile like a man reaching home after a long journey.

  Grisella and Emilio were already studying their parts. I hoped their scores were neater than mine. My paper held staves of tilting, ragged notes looking as if they had been set down at breakneck speed. When I withdrew my thumb, it was smudged.

  Leaning close, I whispered to Carmela, “I can’t believe it—our maestro wrote these out this morning. He must have been up for hours. Why in Heaven’s name didn’t he have his original manuscript copied into parts before he came to the villa?”

  Touching the satin ribbon that circled her throat, she threw a nervous glance toward Karl and shook her head.

  Romeo was not so prudent. He’d been leaning against a nearby pillar, unashamedly listening. He lumbered over and threw himself on a delicate chair that responded with an ominous creak. “For the same reason he assumed that the man who got his brains bashed in came to steal his music.” Romeo winked and circled his ear with a forefinger. “Our maestro is a genius at composition, but a few tiles seem to have slid off the roof, if you catch my meaning.”

  “He actually believes a copyist would dare publish a composer’s score under his own name?” I was astounded. In our tight-knit world of music, such a crime would be swiftly discovered and that copyist would never work again.

  Romeo shrugged. He started to elaborate, but changed course when Karl sent him a glare from the keyboard. The basso jerked his chin toward Emilio. “Poor fellow. You’ve made him so nervous, it’ll be a wonder if he can get through the song.”

  Emilio did appear ill at ease. Grisella stood by the harpsichord, idly twisting a lock of hair as she waited. But Emilio couldn’t seem to stand still, and his complexion resembled the flesh of a peeled potato.

  “What’s all that about?” I asked Romeo in a whisper. “I’m not doing a thing.”

  “You don’t have to,” he answered in his deep, carrying voice. “Just knowing that everyone will soon compare his voice to yours is enough to make Emilio sweat.”

  Looking alarmed at hearing his name mentioned, my fellow castrato paled even more. I sent him a nod, encouragingly, I hoped.

  “All right, we go?” Karl raised his right hand high, his first two fingers ready to mark the tempo.

  Emilio muttered an indistinguishable reply, chin on his chest.

  The composer’s arm sank. “I know we’ve all had a difficult night, but it is time to put that unpleasantness aside. You are all professionals, so give me professional work.”

  “Of course, Maestro.” Grisella assumed an expression she had inherited from our father, a smile at once virtuous and deprecating to those around her. She then directed a nod toward the entrance, and I turned to see Jean-Louis reply with a tight-lipped grimace. The Frenchman was dressed in
a suit tailored to fit his frame like a second skin. He crossed the salon with a courtier’s glide and settled in a wing chair with a stack of news-gazettes.

  “Emilio?” The composer’s question held a note of impatience.

  The castrato steadied himself and managed a gracious nod.

  “Good, we go. One, two, three—” Karl introduced a swaying meter of three-quarter time. Over the strings and the continuo provided by the harpsichord, Grisella’s voice took flight like a falcon rising on sleek wings.

  All the worries my sister had caused us over the years had made me forget what a truly fine singer she was. Her clear soprano was capable of the most elegant trills and divisions, but that was technique. Above the schooling she’d had as a girl, her singing flowed with a loveliness born of pure instinct.

  I sat forward with my elbows on my knees, drinking it all in and thinking back to the days right before she had disappeared from our lives. Father often set her to vocalizing scales at the battered harpsichord in our sitting room. Under his direction, she sang endless rounds of ascending and descending notes, striving to link them like a string of perfectly matched glass beads. But once her stern taskmaster was out of earshot, she would launch into lilting songs she had heard only from the gondoliers on the canal. She sang them by ear with joyous gusto, never missing a note. I couldn’t have done as well at thirteen, even with my conservatorio training.

  Karl appeared as delighted as I was. Grisella seemed particularly sensitive to the directions he gave with his right hand while he played the continuo with his left. A hint of Karl’s flattened palm and she extended her note; a precise wiggle of his fingers and she adjusted her phrasing accordingly. They made an excellent team: a skilled director and a talented soprano.

  Glancing around to see what Jean-Louis made of Grisella’s performance, I was surprised to see his beaked nose buried in a news-sheet. He must be so accustomed to her singing that it made little impression.